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fort would soften her up a little before each contract negotiation and she had never had the heart to tell him it made no difference to her which part of the train she sat in. But a first-class ticket on a backstage wage must have made quite a hole in Hedley White’s pocket, even if he was in love.
‘You’ll have to tell him, Frank. He’ll be devastated,’ Betty said.
‘He can’t know yet or he’d have been in touch.’
‘If you don’t mind, Sir, I’d like to do that myself,’ Penrose said.
‘Was he coming here to pick her up, or had they arranged to meet somewhere else?’
‘They were meeting in town later on when Hedley finished his afternoon shift. I was going to drop Elspeth off at the theatre, then they were going to the Corner House in Shaftesbury Avenue to have a bite to eat after the show. You’ll tell him gently, Inspector, won’t you? He’ll blame himself when he knows, just like I do. It won’t take him long to realise that if it wasn’t for him Elspeth would never have been on that train at all.’
Quite, thought Penrose, who had no intention of being remotely gentle when he caught up with Hedley White. ‘Do you mind if I use your telephone, Mr Simmons? I’d like to ask one of my colleagues to get over to the theatre and see if they can find the young man before he leaves work. And perhaps you have a home address for him?’
Betty showed Penrose to the telephone and went to get the information he had requested, leaving Josephine alone with Frank Simmons. ‘Try not to blame yourself,’ she said quietly.
‘Even if you’d been waiting on the platform, there was nothing you could have done. I keep wishing that I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get a taxi myself. If I’d kept her talking for longer, perhaps this would never have happened. But we can’t know what fate has waiting for us, Frank. All we can do is make the people we love as happy as possible while we’ve got them, and you did that for Elspeth. She made that clear to me even in the short time I spent with her.’
He smiled at her gratefully. As Penrose returned, the sound of the shop bell reached them from the floor below. ‘That’ll be my 93
Sergeant,’ he said. ‘He’s made it through the traffic at last. We’ll leave you in peace now, but I’ll let you know right away if there’s any news.’
‘You don’t want to speak to me any more?’ asked Simmons, who had been dreading a much tougher round of questioning from the Inspector.
‘No, Sir, not at the moment. We’ve checked with the Coventry Street Lyons and the waitress there has confirmed the details of your delivery. I’ll need to speak to your sister-in-law when she gets here, but that can wait until you’ve had some time to be together.
Have a safe journey, Mrs Simmons. I’ve arranged for a car to pick you up in half an hour now the traffic’s settled down a bit, but if there’s anything else you need just give the Yard a call.’
‘Thank you Inspector, you’ve been very kind,’ said Betty. ‘I’ll tell Alice that I know you’ll catch who did this to us. It won’t give her Elspeth back, but it’ll be some consolation.’
As they took their leave, Penrose wished he shared her confidence. He brought Fallowfield up to date, but the rest of the journey back to St Martin’s Lane was made in silence. For once, Fallowfield’s optimism fell on deaf ears.
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Seven
Theatre is a self-obsessed medium at the best of times, but this was not the best of times. By the time the curtain fell on another packed matinee, news of the murder and its sinister echoes of the play had broken into the little world of the New Theatre, courtesy of young Tommy Forrester and the crisp five-pound note which a far- sighted reporter had seen fit to slip into his pocket. The story reached the auditorium first, as the audience shuffled the lunchtime edition from row to row with a delicious sense of melodrama and no discrimination between fourpenny and shilling seats.
Gradually it filtered backstage, where certain members of the company experienced the uncomfortable sensation of talking about something other than themselves. They dealt with the novelty in different ways and according to type: Aubrey acknowledged the tragedy whilst considering the logistics of extending the run by a week or two; Esme McCracken – incensed at yet more notoriety for the play she so despised – slammed her notebook down in the prompt corner and scribbled furiously throughout the final act, while her second-in-charge left ashen- faced for his evening off; Lydia was shocked to the core, while Marta – with all the empathy expected of a lover – found herself equally horrified; and Terry, who had crept into a box to watch his understudy at work before going into battle with Aubrey, swore at Fleming for a lacklustre opening and went upstairs with an arrogance unusual even for him. Meanwhile, in the foyer, the kiosk attendant was recovering from an unexpected rush on souvenir dolls.
As six o’clock approached, Josephine could think of nothing she needed less than food or gossip. Nevertheless, conscious of a 95
guest’s obligations and resigned to a hefty helping of both, she dressed for dinner and set out for the restaurant, never once allowing her thoughts to linger on the performance that lay just the other side of the meal. Still a little unsteady after the drive back from Hammersmith, she decided to brave the rain and walk the half mile or so to Percy Street, taking pleasure in the distractions of Saturday-night London. The city was at its good-humoured best, the pavements growing steadily more crowded with a tangle of umbrellas and laughter as people emerged from buses and underground stations, determined to enjoy themselves. Gladly, she allowed herself the luxury of joining them, if only for the time it took her to reach a small, unassuming restaurant just off the Tottenham Court Road. The Motley sisters were by no means the only members of their profession for whom it was a favourite haunt: in fact, it was often said that a bomb hurled randomly through the doors of the Eiffel Tower would instantly dim the lights at half the theatres in the West End. Full of gaiety and chatter, the Tower admitted no sign of the jazz-age sophistication which had driven artists into public houses all over the city, and consequently remained the ultimate spot in which to see and be seen, even to eat and drink.
Lettice and Ronnie were already seated at a corner table when Josephine arrived, and she was touched by the concern that replaced their banter as soon as they saw her. Ronnie, who possessed the covetable knack of dealing with head waiters together with a firm belief that bubbles could console as well as cheer, wasted no time in ordering a bottle of Moet and Chandon, while Lettice looked solicitously at her friend. ‘This is hardly the celebration we had planned for you,’ she said, as Josephine sat down next to her. ‘You must have had an awful day.’
The table was for four but it was a smaller party than planned.
Reluctantly, Archie had made his apologies and he and Fallowfield had returned to the Yard. His absence was quickly noted by the Tower’s ubiquitous proprietor, Rudolf Stulik, whose expression of desolation was hardly a good advertisement for the Champagne that brought him to the table.
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‘The Inspector is on his way?’ Stulik asked hopefully in the thick Viennese accent which, along with an impressive moustache and even more impressive waistline, made him a walking cartoon of a
