“Back to business, is it, Sergeant?” He drew his brows together in mock disappointment. “Well, if you must, you must. Yes, I popped in for a bit. It’s a new production, and I like to keep an eye on things, make sure one of the principals doesn’t need a nip here or a tuck there.”
“Do you usually drop in on Sir Gerald Asherton after the performance as well?”
“Ah, I see you’ve done your homework, Sergeant.” Godwin smiled at her, looking as delighted as if he were personally responsible for her cleverness. “Gerald was in particularly fine form that night—I thought it only fitting to tell him so.”
Growing increasingly irritated by Tommy Godwin’s manner, Gemma said, “Sir, I’m here because of the death of Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, as you very well know. I understand that you’ve known the family for years, and under the circumstances I think your attitude is a little cavalier, don’t you?”
For an instant he looked at her sharply, his thin face still, then the bright smile fell back into place. “I’m sure I deserve to be taken to task for not expressing the proper regret, Sergeant,” he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I’ve known Gerald and Caroline since we were all in nappies.” Pausing, he raised an eyebrow at Gemma’s look of disbelief. “Well, at least in Julia’s case it’s quite literally true. I was the lowest of the lowly in those days, junior assistant to the women’s costume cutter. Now it takes three years of design school to qualify for that job, but in those days most of us blundered into it. My mother was a dressmaker—I knew a sewing machine inside and out by the time I was ten.”
If that were the case he’d certainly done a good job of acquiring his upper-middle-class veneer, thought Gemma. Her surprise must have shown, because he smiled at her and added, “I had a talent for copying as well, Sergeant, that I’ve put to good use.
“Junior assistant cutters don’t fit the principals’ costumes, but sometimes they are allowed to fit the lesser luminaries, the has-beens and the rising stars. Caro was a fledgling in those days, still too young to have mastered control of that marvelous natural talent, but ripe with potential. Gerald spotted her in the chorus and made her his protegee. He’s thirteen years her elder—did you know that, Sergeant?” Godwin tilted his head and examined her critically, as if making sure he had his pupil’s attention. “He had a reputation to consider, and oh, my, tongues did wag when he married her.”
“But I thought—”
“Oh, no one remembers that now, of course. It was all a very long time ago, my dear, and their titles weren’t even a twinkle in the Queen’s eye.”
The hint of weariness in his voice aroused her curiosity. “Is that how you met Caroline, fitting her costumes?”
“You’re very astute, Sergeant. Caro had married Gerald by that time, and produced Julia. She’d sometimes bring Julia to fittings, to be fussed and cooed over, but even then Julia showed little evidence of being suitably impressed.”
“Impressed by what, Mr. Godwin? I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Music in general, my dear, and in particular the whole tatty, overblown world of opera.” Sliding from the stool, he walked to the window and stood, hands in his pockets, looking down into the street. “It’s like a bug, a virus, and I think some people have a predisposition for catching it. Perhaps it’s genetic.” He turned and looked at her. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
Gemma fingered the costume sketches lying loose on the table, thinking of the chill that had gripped her as she heard
“Certainly not in my case. Although my mother had a fondness for dance bands during the war.” Hands still in his pockets, he did a graceful little box-step, then gave Gemma a sideways glance. “I always imagined I was conceived after a night spent swinging to Glen Miller or Benny Goodman,” he added with a mocking half-smile. “As for Caroline and Gerald, I don’t think it ever occurred to them that Julia wouldn’t speak their language.”
“And Matthew?”
“Ah, well, Matty was a different story all together.” He turned away again as he spoke, then fell silent, gazing out the window.
Why, wondered Gemma, did she meet this stone wall every time she brought up Matthew Asherton? She remembered Vivian Plumley’s words: “We don’t talk about that,” and it seemed to her that twenty years should have provided more solace.
“Nothing was ever the same after Caro left the company,” Godwin said softly. He turned to Gemma. “Isn’t that what they always say, Sergeant, the best times of one’s life are only recognized in retrospect?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. It seems a bit cynical to me.”
“Ah, but you’ve contradicted yourself, Sergeant. I can see you do have an opinion.”
“Mr. Godwin,” Gemma said sharply, “my opinion is not in question here. What did you and Sir Gerald talk about last Thursday night?”
“Just the usual pleasantries. To be honest, I don’t remember. I can’t have been there more than five or ten minutes.” He came back to the stool and leaned against the edge of its seat. “Do take the weight off, Sergeant. You’ll go back to your station and accuse me of dreadful manners.”
Gemma kept firmly to her position, back against the worktable. She was finding this interview difficult enough without conducting the rest of it on a level with Tommy Godwin’s elegant belt buckle. “I’m fine, sir. Did Sir Gerald seem upset or behave in an unusual way?”
Glancing down his long nose, he said with mild sarcasm, “As in dancing about with a lampshade on his head? Really, Sergeant, he seemed quite the ordinary fellow. Still a bit charged up from the performance, but that’s only to be expected.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“We had a drink. But it’s Gerald’s custom to keep a bottle of good single-malt whiskey in his dressing room for visitors, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen him any the worse for it. Thursday night was no exception.”
“And you left the theater after your drink with Sir Gerald, Mr. Godwin?”
