Fault in the Structure

was secured to the back of the stage.’

‘Yes, by a method which, although secure enough in itself, can be untied in a twinkling.’

‘But not by accident, Mr Haynings.’

The porter’s information was a little more helpful, but not much. On the morning of the dress rehearsal quite a number of the cast had turned up at the town hall for various reasons. Mr Farrow was there, fussing about and picking up bits and pieces here and putting them down there and then going back to what he’d first thought of; then there was Mrs Blaine. She had brought young Tom in the car because he had finished his school examinations and she wanted him to help her check something or other in the Council Members’ room to which, of course, she had a key. There was also one of the ladies who spent about an hour sorting over the costumes which were all laid out or hung up in the dressing-rooms and two other ladies were helping her. Mrs Blaine popped on to the stage while he was up the ladder fixing the rope because she had heard somebody trying to play pop music on the harpsichord which, as it was only hired and did not belong to the College or the society, she thought ought to be stopped.

‘No, there’s no reason why any or all of ’em shouldn’t have knowed I was up the ladder, ma’am, and as some on ’em must have seen the rope a-laying on the stage where it had dropped and, what is more, heard me ’phoning Councillor Haynings, my office door being open, the weather being warm and my room small, they could have knowed what I was a-doing of and why I was a-doing of it.’

The harpsichordist? He ‘reckoned as it was the young chap as was with the fellow as was doing the lights’. He had already ‘told ’em both off for misusing of the town hall electricity. Ought to have been at work, and was doing a mike on account they both still worked for Mr Haynings what had also employed ’em in the building trade afore he retired.’

‘What does Miss Cardew do for a living?’ Dame Beatrice asked. ‘Do you happen to know?’

‘Ah, I do. Got her own ladies’ hairdresser’s business in the high street. My missus and my daughter both goes there. She knows how to charge, too!’

‘Do you want me to make a hair appointment for you?’ asked Laura, as they left the town hall.

‘That can wait, and may not be necessary. What do we know of Miss Marigold Tench?’

‘Marigold? She’s on the staff at Cyril Wincott’s school. Teaches French, I believe. Shows off a bit by introducing French phrases into her conversation.’

‘Can you contact the school by telephone?’

‘Yes. They used not to be in the book so that parents and tradespeople couldn’t waste the head’s time by ringing up at inconvenient moments, but now that heads have secretaries to answer the ’phone, the schools are all in the yellow pages. What shall I say?’

‘Are you sufficiently well acquainted with Miss Tench to invite her to tea?’

‘After helping her cope with Melanie and the demon rum, I think I may be.’

In the words of Wodehouse, Marigold turned out to be ‘an upstanding light-heavyweight.’ She had a defiant chin, a compelling eye and a facility for speaking in the French tongue which apparently delighted Celestine who, with beaming face, introduced her into the drawing-room as ‘Mademoiselle Souci Tanche’.

Dame Beatrice cackled greetings in French while Laura stood grinning. Mademoiselle Souci Tanche said that she had spotted that Celestine was a Frenchwoman and that she herself preserved the entente cordiale whenever possible.

‘I suppose,’ said Marigold, at a pause in the tea-time conversation, ‘you’ve asked me here for some reason apart from mes beaux yeux.’

‘Not to beat about the bush,’ replied Laura, ‘they are rather a secondary consideration at the moment.’ She caught her employer’s eye and Dame Beatrice took up the running.

‘I remember you as Lucy Lockit, do I not? she said. ‘A most enjoyable performance until its unfortunate ending.’

‘I had to take on the part at a moment’s notice, so I don’t think I did too badly.’

‘I would have supposed you to have rehearsed for weeks.’

‘Thanks, but no. The girl who had the part – I expect Laura has told you – wasn’t fit to go on.’

‘Dear me!’

‘Yes, got herself plastered. Personally, I don’t think any man’s worth it.’

‘Any man?’

‘Oh, yes. She was immersed enough to confide in me. She was expecting to marry that man who was strangled. Crashaw, you know. They’d had a pretty hectic affair, I gathered, and she confidently expected marriage to come of it before the baby arrived. Lucky for her, as it turned out, that she did get tight, or I might have thought that she’d done Crashaw a mischief. He’d just turned her down, you see. That’s why she got sloshed and smacked his face. His was a very funny accident, though, if you ask me.’

‘Did you leave Miss Cardew in the dressing-room when you went on stage?’

‘Yes, fast asleep and with two of the students who had been in the “ladies of the town” scene to keep an eye on her. I didn’t like the wild way she’d been talking before she fait dormir.’

‘Threats?’

‘Yes, to kill herself. She’s the type to do it, too. I’ll tell you one funny thing, though, which it’s hard to believe, but is perfectly true: Crashaw has left her all his money.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Laura.

‘Ma Blaine and I witnessed the will. It was quite short. He invited us to read it. He said,

“Melanie is going to have my kid. I’ve had two wives, but no kid. I can’t do the obvious thing by her, so, if