Leave the Grave Green

The cavernous space bustled with activity. Pieces of scenery belonging to more than one production stood side by side in surreal juxtaposition. “Oh,” Gemma said, watching a huge section of stone wall roll easily across the floor, guided by two men in coveralls. “So that’s what Danny meant. Thursdays and Saturdays Sir Gerald conducts Pelleas and Melisande—Fridays and Sundays someone else is doing… what did he say?”

“La Traviata. Look.” Alison pointed across the stage. “There’s Violetta’s ballroom, where she and Alfredo sing their first duet. And there”—she gestured toward the section of stone wall, now slotted neatly into a recess—“that’s part of King Arkel’s castle, from Pelleas.” She looked at Gemma, studied her watch, looked once again at Gemma and said, “There are a few things I simply must see to. Have a look around here, why don’t you, while I get things in hand. After that I’ll try to manage a quarter-hour in the canteen with you.” She was already moving away from Gemma as she finished, the soles of her platform shoes clicking on the wooden floor.

Gemma walked to the lip of the stage and looked out. Before her the tiers of the auditorium rose in baroque splendor, blue velvet accented with gilt. The chandeliers hung from the dome high above her like frosted moons. She imagined all the empty seats filled, and the expectant eyes upon her, waiting for her to open her mouth and sing. Cold crept up her spine and she shivered. Caroline Stowe might look delicate, but to stand on a stage like this and face the crowd required a kind of strength Gemma didn’t possess.

She looked down into the pit and smiled. At least Sir Gerald had some protection, and could turn his back on the audience.

A thread of music came from somewhere, women’s voices carrying a haunting, lilting melody. Gemma turned and walked toward the back of the stage, straining to hear, but the banging and thumping going on around her masked even the sound’s direction. She didn’t notice Alison Douglas’s return until the woman spoke. “Did you see the pit? We jam one hundred nineteen players into that space, if you can imagine that, elbow to—”

Gemma touched her arm. “That music—what is it?”

“What—?” Alison listened for a moment, puzzled, then smiled. “Oh, that. That’s from Lakme, Mallika’s duet with Lakme in the high priest’s garden. One of the girls in Traviata is singing Mallika next month at Covent Garden. I suppose she’s swotting by listening to a recording.” She glanced at her watch, then added, “We can get that cup of tea now, if you like.”

The music faded. As Gemma followed Alison back into the maze of corridors she felt an odd sadness, as if she’d been touched by something beautiful and fleeting. “That opera,” she said to Alison’s back, “does it have a happy ending?”

Alison looked back over her shoulder, her expression amused. “Of course not. Lakme sacrifices herself to protect her lover, in the end.”

The canteen smelled of frying chips. Gemma sat across the table from Alison Douglas, drinking tea strong enough to put fur on her tongue and trying to find a comfortable position for her backside in the molded plastic chair. Around them men and women dressed in perfectly ordinary clothes drank tea and ate sandwiches, but when Gemma caught snippets of conversation it contained such obscure musical and technical terms that it might as well have been a foreign language. She pulled her notebook from her handbag and took another sip of tea, grimacing at the tannin’s bite. “Miss Douglas,” she said as she saw Alison touch the face of her wristwatch with her fingertips, “I appreciate your time. I’ll not take up any more than necessary.”

“I’m not sure I understand how I can help you. I mean, I know about Sir Gerald’s son-in-law. It’s an awful thing to happen, isn’t it?” Her forehead creased as she frowned, and she looked suddenly very young and unsure, like a child encountering tragedy for the first time. “But I can’t see what it has to do with me.”

Gemma flipped open her notebook and uncapped her pen, then laid both casually beside her teacup. “Do you work closely with Sir Gerald?”

“No more so than with any of the conductors”—Alison paused and smiled—“but I enjoy it more. He’s such a dear. Never gets in a tizzy, like some of them.”

Hesitating to admit she didn’t understand how the system worked, Gemma temporized with, “Does he conduct often?”

“More than anyone except our music director.” Alison leaned over the table toward Gemma and lowered her voice. “Did you know that he was offered the position, but declined it? This was all years ago, way before my time, of course. He said he wanted to have more freedom to work with other orchestras, but I think it had something to do with his family. He and Dame Caroline started with the company back at Sadler’s Wells—he would have been the obvious choice.”

“Does Dame Caroline still sing with the company? I would have thought… I mean, she has a grown daughter…”

Alison laughed. “What you mean is that she’s surely past it, right?” She leaned forward again, her animated face revealing how much she enjoyed teaching the uninitiated. “Most sopranos are in their thirties before they really hit their stride. It takes years of work and training to develop a voice, and if they sing too much, too soon, they can do irreparable damage. Many are at the peak of their careers well into their fifties, and a few exceptional singers continue beyond that. Although I must admit, sometimes they look a bit ridiculous playing the ingenue parts when they get really long in the tooth.” She grinned at Gemma, then continued more seriously. “Not that I think that would have happened to Caroline Stowe. I can’t imagine her looking ridiculous at any age.”

“You said ‘would have happened.’ I don’t—”

“She retired. Twenty years ago, when their son died. She never sang publicly again.” Alison had lowered her voice, and although her expression was suitably concerned, she told the story with the relish people usually reserve for someone else’s misfortune. “And she was brilliant. Caroline Stowe might have been one of the most renowned sopranos of our time.” Sounding genuinely regretful, Alison shook her head.

Gemma took a last sip of tea and pushed her cup away as she thought about what she’d heard. “Why the title, then, if she stopped singing?”

“She’s one of the best vocal coaches in the country, if not the world. A lot of the most promising singers in the business have been taught, and are still being taught, by Caroline Stowe. And she’s done a tremendous amount for the company.” Alison gave a wry smile, adding, “She’s a very influential lady.”

“So I understand,” said Gemma, reflecting that it was Dame Caroline’s influence, and Sir Gerald’s, that had dragged the Yard into this investigation in the first place. Seeing Alison straighten up in her chair, Gemma asked, “Do you know what time Sir Gerald left the theater on Thursday evening?”