outbreak of hysteria. You know what theatre people are. The butterfly curse, and all that garbage. The obvious explanation is that the thing flew in from outside, got trapped and died, right?’
‘That was my reading of it,’ Ingeborg said.
‘There is another possibility, of course: somebody put it there.’
‘Why?’
‘Out of mischief, or worse.’
‘In what way?’
‘To add to the panic over what happened to Clarion.’
‘Who’d want to do that?’
‘Someone with a grudge against the theatre, or the management, giving the impression the play was cursed.’
She was frowning. ‘Denise, you mean? What would be the point of that?’
‘I don’t know. This is why I’m asking for your thoughts.’
She twisted a coil of blonde hair around her finger and then let it go. ‘If she did, I can’t think why. Damaging Clarion’s face was enough to jinx the production without this extra touch.’
‘Let’s take another option then,’ he said. ‘Someone else planted it.’
She let that sink in before replying, ‘But what for, guv?’
‘To distract us. When a dead butterfly is found, so the legend goes, something bad is about to happen.’
‘Well, it had already. Clarion was in hospital.’
‘This is exactly what I’m getting at, Inge. This wasn’t about Clarion. I don’t think the butterfly was in the dressing room on Monday night. Someone would have noticed. People crowded in there to see if they could help. One of them would have spotted it on the window sill and created more hysteria.’
‘You’re saying it was put there later?’
‘It was Tuesday lunchtime when I was shown around by Titus O’Driscoll. The room wasn’t locked. Anyone could have gone in there late Monday night or Tuesday morning.’
‘Why?’
‘To stoke up superstition. At the time I saw the butterfly and you collected it, we were assuming Denise was still alive.’
For a moment he thought she’d missed the point. Then she took a sharp breath. ‘The butterfly was supposed to be an omen predicting her death?’
He nodded.
She was staring at him. ‘Everyone is meant to think the butterfly curse has struck again – that she was doomed to kill herself.’
She’d got it. But would she go the extra mile?
‘When in fact she didn’t,’ he said. ‘The person who left the butterfly in the number one dressing room murdered her.’
She flicked her hair back from her face as if in denial. ‘That’s a whopping assumption, guv. It opens up all kinds of questions.’
‘Okay. Let’s hear them.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill Denise? She wasn’t unpopular, was she? From all I hear, she was difficult to dislike. And how would they do it? I’ve been backstage as you have, and seen the height of the fly tower. They’d have to persuade her to climb I don’t know how many sections of a vertical iron ladder and jump off. It’s all but impossible.’
‘Back to the drawing board, then,’ he said, not meaning it.
The note of irony caused Ingeborg to reconsider. ‘There may be
He watched her face.
She nodded to give him a shred of credit. ‘If Denise was murdered – and I don’t believe for a moment that she was – it would suit her killer nicely to have everyone assuming she did it because of guilt over Clarion. Case closed. We don’t look at anyone else as a suspect. How convenient for this killer of yours.’
‘This hypothetical killer.’
She smiled. ‘This impossible hypothetical killer.’
‘You’re sounding more and more like Fred Dawkins.’
‘It’s catching.’
‘It’s a peculiar thing,’ he said, ‘Dawkins talks a lot of rubbish but just now he made a remark that for one split- second gave me an idea, and then it was gone. I can’t remember what.’
‘He’s added some experience to the team,’ Ingeborg said. ‘He knows a lot about the theatre.’
‘And dance.’
‘Poetry.’
