Alison thought for a moment, wrinkling her forehead. “I really don’t know. I spoke to him in his dressing room just after the performance, around eleven o’clock, but I didn’t stay more than five minutes. Had to meet someone,” she added with a dimple and a lowering of her lashes. “You’ll have to ask Danny. He was on duty that night.”
“Did Sir Gerald seem upset in any way? Anything different about his routine that night?”
“No, not that I can think—” Alison stopped, hand poised over her teacup. “Wait. There was something. Tommy was with him Of course, they’ve known each other practically forever,” she, added quickly, “but we don’t often see Tommy here after a performance, at least not in the conductor’s dressing room.”
Feeling the sense of the interview fast escaping her, Gemma said distinctly, “Who exactly is Tommy?”
Alison smiled. “I forgot you wouldn’t know. Tommy is Tommy Godwin, our Wardrobe Manager. And it’s not that he considers one of his visits akin to a divine blessing, like some costume designers I could name”—she paused and rolled her eyes—“but if he’s here at the theater he’s usually busy with Running Wardrobe.”
“Is he here today?”
“Not that I know of. But I expect you can catch him tomorrow at LB House.” This time Gemma’s bewilderment must have been evident, because before she could form a question, Alison continued. “That’s Lilian Baylis House, in West Hampstead, where we have our Making Wardrobe. Here.” She reached for Gemma’s notebook. “I’ll write down the address and phone number for you.”
A thought occurred to Gemma as she watched Alison write in a looping, schoolgirl hand. “Did you ever meet Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, Connor Swann?”
Alison Douglas flushed. “Once or twice. He came to ENO functions sometimes.” She returned the pen and notebook, then ran her fingers around the neck of her black sweater.
Gemma cocked her head while she considered the woman across the table—attractive, about her own age, and single, if her unadorned left hand and the date she’d alluded to were anything to go by. “Shall I take it he tried to chat you up?”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Alison said, a little apologetically. “You know, you can tell.”
“All flash and no substance?”
Alison shrugged. “I’d say he just liked women… he made you feel special.” She looked up, and for the first time Gemma noticed that her eyes were a light, clear brown. “We’ve all talked about it, of course. You know what the gossip mill’s like. But this is the first time I’ve really let myself think…” She swallowed once, then added slowly. “He was a lovely man. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
The canteen tables were emptying rapidly. Alison looked up and grimaced, then bustled Gemma back into the dark green tunnels. Murmuring an apology, she left Gemma once again in Danny the porter’s domain.
“’Ullo, miss,” said Danny, ever cheerful. “You get what you came for?”
“Not quite.” Gemma smiled at him. “But you may be able to help me.” She pulled her warrant card from her handbag and held the open case where he could see it clearly.
“Crikey!” His eyes widened and he looked her up and down. “You don’t look like a copper.”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, mate,” she said, grinning. Resting her elbows on the counter-sill, she leaned forward earnestly. “Can you tell me what time Sir Gerald signed out last Thursday evening, Danny?”
“Ooh, alibis, is it?” The glee on Danny’s face made him look like an illustration right out of an Enid Blyton novel.
“Routine inquiries just now,” Gemma said, managing to keep a straight face. “We need to know the movements of everyone who might have had contact with Connor Swann the day he died.”
Danny lifted a binder from the top of a stack and opened it at the back, flipping through the last few pages. “Here.” He pointed, holding the page up where Gemma could see. “Midnight on the dot. That’s what I remembered, but I thought you’d want—what is it, corroboration?”
Sir Gerald’s signature suited him, thought Gemma, a comfortable but strong scrawl. “Did he usually stay so long after a performance, Danny?”
“Sometimes.” He glanced at the sheet again. “But he was last out that night. I remember because I wanted to lock up—had a bird waiting in the wings, you might say.” He winked at Gemma. “There was something, though,” he said more hesitantly. “That night… Sir Gerald… well, he was half-cocked, like.”
Gemma couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. “Sir Gerald was drunk?”
Danny ducked his head in embarrassment. “I didn’t really like to say, miss. Sir Gerald always has a kind word for everybody. Not like some.”
“Has this happened before?”
Danny shook his head. “Not so as I can remember. And I’ve been here over a year now.”
Gemma quickly entered Danny’s statement in her notebook, then closed it and returned it to her bag. “Thanks, Danny. You’ve been a great help.”
He passed over the sign-in sheet for her initial, his grin considerably subdued.
“Cheerio, then,” she said as she turned toward the door.
Danny called out to her before she could open it. “There’s one other thing, miss. You know the son-in-law, the one what snuffed it?” He held up his ledger and pointed to an entry near Sir Gerald’s. “He was here that day as well.”
CHAPTER
6
Eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms—and could that possibly be kidneys? Kincaid pushed the questionable items a little to one side with the tip of his fork. Kidneys in steak-and-kidney pie he could manage, but kidneys at breakfast were a bit much. Otherwise the Chequers had done itself proud. Surveying his breakfast laid
