All the Colors of Darkness

“What is it? Has something happened to Mark? Has there been an accident?”

Annie became aware that work had ceased on and around the stage.

People put down the chairs, plates, tables or whatever they were carrying, sat on the edge and looked toward her and Ross. Winsome had her notebook out. “Do you happen to know if he has any next of kin?” Annie asked.

“My God,” said Ross, “so this is serious?”

“Sir?”

“No. No,” said Ross. “His parents are dead. He did once mention an aunt in Australia, but I don’t think they were at all close. Why?

What—”

Annie turned to face everyone. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” she said, “but it very much seems as if Mark Hardcastle has been found dead in Hindswell Woods.” She turned back to Vernon A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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Ross. “Perhaps you can help us identify the body, sir, after I’ve asked you all a few questions?”

As Annie had expected, a deep hush followed the collective intake of breath at her announcement. Vernon Ross turned pale. “Mark? But how? Why? ”

“We don’t have the answers yet,” said Annie. “That’s partly why I’m here. Did any of you see Mr. Hardcastle today?”

“No. He didn’t come in,” said Ross. “I . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t quite manage to take this in right now.”

“That’s understandable, sir,” Annie said. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No, no. I’ll be all right.” He rubbed the backs of his hands across his eyes and leaned against the edge of the stage. “Please, carry on with your questions. Let’s get this over with.”

“Very well. Excuse me if I sound as if I don’t know what I’m talking about, because so far we’ve got practically nothing to go on. Was Mr. Hardcastle expected in to work today?”

“Well, he said he was going to try and come by. He was going down to London for a couple of days with Derek Wyman, the am dram director.”

“Is Mr. Wyman here today?”

“No. He’s still in London. He’s due back tomorrow.”

“You don’t need him for tonight’s performance, or this afternoon’s?”

“No. Calamity Jane is being put on by the Amateur Operatic Society. They have their own director and cast. Quite separate.” He gestured to his coworkers. “Mark and us are the only ones actually employed by the theater—along with the box office staff, of course.

We’re the only constants, you might say. And everything’s in place for tonight. We can manage without Derek for a couple of nights.”

“So Derek Wyman isn’t employed by the theater, but Mr. Hardcastle was?”

“That’s right. Derek teaches drama at Eastvale Comprehensive.

Amateur dramatics is only his hobby. Mark trained professionally in theatrical costume and set design.”

“Do the actors all have other jobs, like Mr. Wyman?”

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“Yes. It’s an amateur company.”

“I’ll need to talk to Mr. Wyman when he gets back.”

“Of course. Sally in the box office should be able to give you his address.”

“When did Mark Hardcastle go to London?”

“Wednesday.”

“Was he supposed to be back here this morning?”

“He said he was driving back up Thursday afternoon.”

“Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t show up for work today?”

“Not really. As I said, Mark’s our set and costume designer. His job is mostly done by opening night. We’re the ones who do the donkey work. He doesn’t carry lamps and bookcases around the stage—though in all fairness he helps out with the heavy stuff when we need him.

Mostly he creates the vision of the production, the blueprint of how every scene and costume should appear. Along with the director, of course.”

“In this case Derek Wyman?”

“Yes. For some reason, they settled on German Expressionist sets for Othello, so it’s all big, unusual cut-out shapes, light and dark, angles and shadows. Very Nosferatu. That’s why they went to London, why Derek’s still there, actually. There’s a celebration of German Expressionist cinema at the National Film Theatre.”

“Do you know if Mark Hardcastle had a mobile phone?”