‘I took Goldie’s place on stage. We were the same height and dress size. I wore her costumes and wigs, and for a while I managed to fool Sutherland into believing Goldie was still in the show, and therefore still in London. When he realised it was me he’d been watching every night, and not Goldie, he sent me a bouquet of funeral lilies and a card with R.I.P. on it.’
Margot shook her head. ‘He used to stand in the shadows opposite the stage door, and when I came out after a show, he’d strike a match and light his cigarette. He did it to let me know he was watching me. He followed me too. I’d suddenly see him in a crowd on Regent Street, or in Oxford Circus underground station.’ Margot closed her eyes and exhaled loudly. ‘One night, after blitzing the East End, the Luftwaffe dropped incendiary bombs on Fleet Street. Several buildings were on fire, so to keep the roads clear for the fire engines and ambulances the ARP cordoned off the roads around Covent Garden and the Aldwych. There weren’t any buses going west, or north west, and there were long queues of people outside the hotels waiting for taxis, so I started to walk.
‘It was late and I was tired. And, because of the blackout and the streets being thick with smoke, I took a wrong turn. I hadn’t got a clue where I was. I heard footsteps behind me and stopped - and so did they. As I said, it was late and there weren’t many people about, so when I started walking again and I heard the footsteps again, I panicked. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I ended up hiding in a bombed-out builder’s yard.’ Margot glanced at Bill and smiled. ‘Fortunately, when I didn’t arrive home at the usual time, Bill came looking for me on his motorbike. He rode along the bus route, couldn’t find me, so he started looking down side streets. Thank God he got to me before Sutherland did.
‘After that night, none of the dancers were allowed to go out of the theatre on their own. We went out in twos, even in the daytime. It was fine by me. After receiving those lilies, I was terrified to walk in the street in daylight, let alone at night in the blackout, until he was put in prison.’
‘Mr and Mrs Goldman, the owners of the theatre, were they here tonight?’ Sergeant McGann directed the question at Bess.
‘Yes,’ Bess said, ‘but I don’t think Sutherland would have seen them. They were in the ballroom, he was in the public bar.’ Unless he saw them when he came into the ballroom to terrorise me, Bess thought, but she wasn’t going to tell McGann that.
‘Then I don’t think I’ll need to speak to them. If I do, how long are they staying?’
‘They’re going back to London tomorrow.’
Sergeant McGann’s head wobbled from side to side. ‘They’re not important,’ he said, and dismissed them by closing his notebook. ‘Sir Gerald, the man with this Sutherland character is a wealthy land owner by the name of Hawksley. The girl, Katherine, is indeed his daughter. Apart from owning a riding stables and several hundred acres of land, we don’t know much about Sir Gerald. He keeps himself very much to himself.’
‘Some dubious characters visit that big house of his by all accounts,’ Constable Peg said. ‘Come and go at all hours, they do. My in-laws live at Kirby Marlow, where he lives, and--’
‘Rumours and speculation, Constable!’ McGann got to his feet and pulled himself up to his full height - which was on the short side of police requirements and several inches shorter than Frank and Bill - and puffed out his chest. ‘We’re dealing with facts tonight, lad, not village tittle-tattle.’
After putting on his helmet, the sergeant shook Bess’s hand and nodded to Margot, Frank and Bill. ‘We’ll speak to Sir Gerald and Mr Sutherland as soon as possible. ‘Do you want to press charges for any damage Mr Sutherland caused?’
Bess’s heart began to thump in her chest. She didn’t want her shameful secret to come out and if she pressed charges, David Sutherland was bound to make sure it did. She wanted to forget about Sutherland, what happened in London, and what happened tonight. She took a nervous breath and swallowed. In a voice, as normal as she was able, Bess looked across the room. ‘We don’t, do we, Frank?’
Her husband shook his head. ‘No, love.’ He moved to Bess and put a protective arm around her.
‘Then we’ll be on our way. Constable?’ McGann barked. The constable jumped up and followed his superior officer to the door. ‘I’ll let you know of any developments.’
Bess grabbed her coat, pushed her arms down the sleeves, and followed the policemen out.
It had stopped snowing, but was the colder for it. She watched the two men descend the semi-circle of stone steps leading down to the police car, and shivered. The constable took his place behind the steering wheel and the sergeant lifted his hand in a half-salute, half-wave, before opening the passenger door of the car and lowering himself onto the seat. A second later the constable gunned the powerful engine of the black Wolseley into life, pulled away from the verge, and cruised down the drive. The police car was soon out of sight.
Relieved that the police had left, Bess inhaled deeply. The freezing air nipped the back of her nose and throat and she coughed.
