Late that afternoon a small group assembled in the City Mortuary for the formal identification of Bonner-Hill’s remains. Out of respect for Mrs. Bonner-Hill, who was coming from an address in Windsor, Cribb had exchanged his boating costume for a borrowed suit. Harriet, her eyes still red from crying, was wrapped in a black shawl. The attendant made the understandable error of supposing her the freshly bereaved widow and was murmuring condolences until Cribb explained that she was there in case Mrs. Bonner-Hill needed support from one of her own sex. With that made clear, the attendant’s conversation switched to horse racing and the entry for the Cesarewitch. A movement outside the door caused him just as suddenly to revert to: “… and so young, and with his whole career ahead of him. He would surely have risen in the University were it not for this. Ah! This must be …” The voice trailed respectfully away.
“Mrs. Bonner-Hill,” announced the man who had pushed open the door.
The young widow was heavily veiled and in deep mourning.
“This is Sergeant Cribb of the police,” explained the attendant. “And Miss Shaw. Sometimes, on occasions such as this, it is helpful if another lady …” He left his sentences unfinished from forbearance, not forgetfulness. Predictably in Oxford, he was a very polished mortuary attendant.
“Jacob Goldstein, manager of the Playhouse at Windsor,” said Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s companion, so young that for a moment it was not clear whether he was referring to somebody else, but as he said no more, the inference was that he had introduced himself. Dark-complexioned, with a handsome, sensitive face, he wore a lightweight black overcoat. The quality of the cloth suggested that the Playhouse did not run at a loss.
“Shall we go through to the …?” the attendant suggested.
“That is why we are here,” said Goldstein. “Are you prepared, my dear?”
Mrs. Bonner-Hill made a small sound of acquiescence from under her veil. They filed into a room without windows. It was cold and smelt of carbolic. The body was on a wooden trolley covered by a grey sheet. First, the attendant drew Mrs. Bonner-Hill to a table at the side of the room. “His clothes,” he whispered, turning over the jacket to reveal the lining. “Are you able to state with certainty …?”
She nodded.
“Was there anything in the pockets?” Cribb inquired.
“A small amount of money and a handkerchief,” confided the attendant. “The practice is to deliver all such things to the executors. The recently bereaved are thus spared the …”
“Shall we do what we came to do?” asked Goldstein, moving towards the trolley. His eagerness to get the formalities over must have been to spare Mrs. Bonner-Hill unnecessary distress, but Harriet could not exclude the thought that there was probably a 7:30 performance at Windsor that evening.
“As you wish. Madam, if you would kindly stand just here …”
Harriet, too, stepped forward, ready to justify her presence.
“You won’t see much through your veil, Melanie,” Goldstein gently pointed out.
Mrs. Bonner-Hill lifted it and revealed a face of unarguable beauty, the more winsome for its tiny indications of strain, the slightly pursed lips, damp eyelashes and just perceptible creasing of the forehead. Her eyes were large and blue and her hair, clustered in natural curls, was so fair that against the veil it could have been white.
“If you’re ready …” said the attendant, taking hold of the edge of the sheet. He peeled it back.
Harriet, poised to cope with an hysterical woman, need not have bothered. The hysterics happened, but their force was directed elsewhere. “Dead!” cried Mrs. Bonner-Hill as if she had not expected it. “My Harry dead! Oh, Jacob, what shall I do?” She clutched Goldstein determinedly round the waist and pressed her face sobbing against his chest. “Widowed, at twenty-six! What will become of me?”
Cribb motioned to the attendant to replace the sheet. They steered the distracted widow into the anteroom and found a chair for her, but she still clung to Goldstein. Harriet decided that Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s suffering was so extreme that nobody could censure her for forwardness in regard to Mr. Goldstein. Circumstances could provide exceptions to polite convention. It was unfortunate that he was not a few years older, an uncle, say, or a friend of her father’s, but she could not be blamed. Her grief might have appeared just a little histrionic, and she was, indeed, an actress, but this was quite outside the repertoire of romantic comedy.
Cribb leaned confidentially towards the attendant. “I believe you make a good, strong cup of tea in these places.”
In ten minutes Mrs. Bonner-Hill had recovered sufficiently to relax her hold on Goldstein and accept the cup which was offered. The theatre manager took out his watch and glanced discreetly at it.
“Your husband owned a property in North Oxford, I understand,” Cribb said to Mrs. Bonner-Hill. Conversation was difficult in these circumstances, but he was not the sort to be inhibited. “It’s a consolation to have somewhere to live. Will you go there for the next few days? There are formalities to attend to, of course. It would be difficult from-where are you residing at present? — Windsor.”
She glanced in Goldstein’s direction. “I had not thought of that.”
“You could put up at a hotel, of course,” Cribb went on. “It might be less distressing for you than your former home.”
“I suppose it might.”
“This young lady, Miss Shaw, is in Oxford for the weekend. I’m arranging for her to take a room in a small hotel in St. Aldate’s. It occurs to me that you might care to join her there. You could take your meals together. At times like this, a little company is a great support.”
“I am not ungrateful, but-”
Goldstein broke in. “Sergeant Cribb is speaking good sense, my dear. I shall not be able to stay overnight and it would be too distressing for you to pass the night in that house in Banbury Road. If Miss Shaw has no objection to the plan, I think you should do as the sergeant suggests.”
“I shall be pleased to help in any way I can,” Harriet offered.
“Things should be completed in a day or two,” said Cribb. “Once the funeral is over and his affairs are tidied up, you’ll be able to resume your normal life, get back on the stage. Good to have something to occupy the mind. Has Mrs. Bonner-Hill performed in your theatre, Mr. Goldstein?”
Goldstein’s cheeks went slightly pinker. “Yes. In several different productions.”
“That’s how you met, I expect,” Cribb went on staunchly. “Looked after your cast as if they were your own family. I’ve a great admiration for the way you theatricals stick together. This lady won’t be short of parts when she returns to the boards, I’ll wager. Are you in anything at the moment, ma’am?”
“No.” Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s hand sought Goldstein’s and held it. “I am between plays.”
“Ah. Shows how wrong it is to jump to conclusions. Seeing Mr. Goldstein here, I supposed you were in the current production at Windsor.”
“We are playing
“Really?” said Cribb. “I thought he disapproved of the theatre.”
“Oh no,” interjected Mrs. Bonner-Hill. “He liked it well enough. He disapproved of my continuing on the stage after we were married, that is all.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
“Disapproved? He forbade you. Issued threats!” said Goldstein. “He would have terminated your career the day he married you if he had got his way. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but it doesn’t show much concern for the theatre to marry one of its most talented young actresses and order her never to go onto a stage again. Like pulling the wings off a butterfly.”
“We had misunderstandings,” explained Mrs. Bonner-Hill unnecessarily. “About a year ago I returned to the stage and Harry moved back into his rooms in Merton. It was a civilized arrangement, with no bitterness on either side. By then we had come to accept that our careers were more important to us than an unfruitful marriage. He sent me money regularly.”
“You will notice the lack of it, then,” said Cribb.
“There is the insurance,” said Mrs. Bonner-Hill, her eyes wider and bluer at this consoling thought. “His life was insured for five thousand pounds. That should be enough to support me whether I return to the stage or not.”
“Insurance?” said Cribb. “Which company insured him, ma’am?”
“The Providential. He made the arrangements a week after we were married. It depressed me somewhat at
