He was so intent on watching her that he missed his cue.
“Miles, when you’re absolutely ready,” called Helena. “I appreciate it’s been a long day but I hate to keep everyone waiting longer than necessary.”
“Of course, sorry.” They had cut Eurydice’s scene with Jupiter at the end of the third tableau and had skipped to the flight from Hell, but Public Opinion’s rowing boat was now stuck in the flies, and the orchestra seemed confused about their entry point.
Between the late arrival of two woodwinds and the total disappearance of Jupiter, who had been replaced in the run-through with a hobby horse tipped on its end, Anton Varisich was close to walking out. The sudden noise in the balcony made the conductor cut his orchestra off in mid-note, although someone had trouble stopping, because there was a piercing howl from one of the instruments. For a moment he thought that somebody had thoughtlessly banged the seats up again, and in an afternoon of stops and starts, Varisich’s legendary temper was about to make itself felt.
“
Helena Parole allowed a beat of defiance to pass before complying with the conductor’s request, then made her way to the side of the stage. She had worked with Varisich before and had survived his angry outbursts often enough to know that he was relatively easy to mollify. It was a matter of letting him see that she appreciated the subordination of the stage performance to the music. Text was updated and retranslated at regular intervals, but the music remained sacrosanct. So long as she respected this rule, they would work well together. She tried to imagine a tall glass filled with Glenfiddich, and donned her most quenching smile. Varisich was going to complain about the presence of outsiders at the runthrough, and about the levels of noise they were creating, but now somebody was yelling. On stage, several members of the chorus were pointing into the centre of the building.
It wasn’t until they ran towards the screaming woman in Row A of the upper circle that they looked up and saw the man, now a twisting, bloody blur, flail and fall from the edge of the balcony.
? Full Dark House ?
35
MANIFESTATION OF GUILT
Zachary Darvell’s nose had been pushed into his skull by the fall. His face was a crimson mask. The segmented flesh was efflorescing with bulbous bruises, pink jelly the colour of an infected gum protruding through slashed skin. His jawbone was exposed in a shockingly severe white line. The iron fork was sticking out of his gullet. He looked like a prop demon removed from the set after a particularly arduous run. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle to his body. There was a member of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade in attendance, uselessly armed with a tin box full of crepe bandages, calamine lotion and smelling salts. Barbara Darvell had rushed up from the stage and was cradling her son’s head.
“What happened?” asked Bryant, who had just entered the auditorium in time to hear Juno’s son plummet noisily from the balcony.
“He’s dead.” Barbara Darvell swallowed thickly. “I looked up and saw him. He had his back to me. Someone was standing behind him. A tall man. I could see his arms moving. I couldn’t make sense of it from where I was.” She pointed feebly down at the illuminated set of Hades. Droplets of blood had spattered the artificial carnation that still stuck from Zachary’s jacket lapel.
“What’s that?” Bryant pointed to the fork handle protruding from Darvell’s throat.
“Aristaeus’ fork. It went missing from the prop box.”
“I’ve just been up in the balcony. It’s deserted.” Geoffrey Whittaker dropped to his knees and tried to catch his breath. “Let’s get everyone back to their dressing rooms for a few minutes,” he suggested. “There was no one else up there, no one at all.”
“How do you know?” yelled Barbara Darvell. “How could you look everywhere? We can’t see in this damned gloom!”
“I was in the stairwell and ran in,” Geoffrey explained.
“I certainly didn’t see you,” said Harry.
The assistant’s remark took Whittaker by surprise. “What are you saying?”
“Just that I know who was in the stairwell and you weren’t there.”
Whittaker was angered by the idea of having to defend himself. “If you must know, I’d gone upstairs to get something from my office, and stood at the back of the balcony for a moment. Mr Darvell was sitting in the front row by himself. I left the auditorium and was coming back down the central staircase when I heard a shout and a crash from the floor below. Then I ran down to him. He only just missed landing on that lady over there.” He pointed at Miles Stone’s shocked mother.
“He landed a seat away,” gasped Rachel. “I nearly died.”
“Then the person who pushed Mr Darvell must have passed you on the staircase,” Harry insisted.
“No one passed me.”
“I don’t see how you could have missed him, Geoffrey.”
“My son is dead, could you show some restraint?” cried Barbara Darvell.
“Perhaps we should leave the matter until the police have finished searching the building,” Harry suggested.
“You can manage here, can’t you?” Bryant strode along the row of seats and raced down the stairs to the stage door. There he found Lowe and Crowhurst looking puzzled.
“Has anyone left in the last few minutes?” he asked, trying to get his breath back.
“No, sir. Only the gentleman Mrs Darvell’s son came in with. What’s going on?”
“There’s been another one,” Bryant explained. “You’ll let me know if anyone tries to leave?”
“Of course, sir, I – hang on, that’s the royal entrance.” Beyond them came the muffled slam of a door.
Bryant stuck his head out into the street and saw a broad figure in a shiny black raincoat divorce himself from the shadow of the royal entrance. He turned and saw John May walking from the other direction, towards the stage door.
“John!” he shouted. “That’s our man! Stop him!”
The dark figure started and broke into a run, instantly followed by May. Night had fallen and the blackout was once more in full force. Shaftesbury Avenue, blurred and smeary with rain, was almost deserted as they turned into it.
I’ve got him, thought May, watching the figure ahead as it hit a thicket of parked motorcycles belonging to the army despatch riders. There was something round the man’s neck, a raised collar or hood that obscured his head. He looked to be around six feet tall, but in the gloomy drizzle of the early evening it was hard to make out any further detail. To May’s horror, the raincoated figure vaulted the first motorbike and landed hard on the kick-start, firing up the engine. The army engineers kept their Matchless bikes in racks beside the road, ready to take them to emergencies. May grabbed the nearest machine and mounted it. He knew how to ride, but with the lights of London extinguished and the roads wet, he wasn’t sure whether he would be able to give chase. The engine barked into life on first kick, and he released the handlebar valve lift as he took off, slamming into the road so closely behind his quarry that their wheels almost touched.
The motorcycle in front fishtailed sharply and skittered across the oncoming traffic in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. May felt his back wheel slip as he followed, and was able to keep the bike upright only by hammering his boot along the tarmac and forcing the machine into a vertical position. He concentrated on the black square of the numberplate in front, LR109. The figure hunched low as he throttled up, the engine’s roar deepening as he passed between a pair of unlit taxis. May forged ahead too, trying to draw alongside, but the bike was pushing beyond a safe speed. They passed the side of the London Pavilion and the darkened cinema opposite, hitting the Circus traffic at such speed that buses were forced to brake and swerve. The electric advertising hoardings that had become such an area landmark were extinguished, lending the buildings a drab, derelict air. LR109 cut the wrong way round the boarded-over fountain and shot into Piccadilly with May in pursuit. A policeman, visible only by the white stripes on his cuffs, raised his hands and ran towards them, then backed off when he saw that neither bike was going to stop. The sound of his whistle was quickly lost as the pair raced on past the Royal
