An Expert in Murder

The rain which had fallen so fiercely in the early part of the evening had finally relented, but it was impossible to avoid the puddles, and the light from the Salisbury’s solid Victorian coach lamps blurred and splintered as his feet disturbed its perfect reflection. He had met Aubrey a few times, mostly at opening nights but more recently during that vicious court case, when Elliott Vintner had accused Josephine of plagiarism in the writing of Richard of Bordeaux, claiming that it echoed the events of his own novel, The White Heart, published twelve years earlier. Aubrey, as the play’s producer, had given evidence on Josephine’s behalf and Penrose had been impressed with his intelligence and sense of justice. His opinion of White’s character would, no doubt, be worth listening to and he might even be able to help the police find the boy. There were men posted wherever White was likely to appear and a description would be out by now in the evening paper, but Elspeth’s young man had so far proved elusive and any other suggestions would be gratefully received.

He announced who he was and the stage doorkeeper – a burly, red-faced man in his late fifties – wasted no time in telephoning up to Bernard Aubrey’s office and handing over the receiver. Penrose came to the point quickly and discreetly, aware that the doorman 125

was giving a display of nonchalance which would never get him a job on the other side of the footlights.

‘Bernard? It’s Archie Penrose. I’m sorry to interrupt you on a Saturday night but I need to talk to you, and the sooner the better.

Is now convenient? It shouldn’t take too long.’

There was a second’s pause while Aubrey blew a lungful of smoke into the air, then Penrose heard his voice, thick and guttural from a lifetime’s devotion to cigarettes. ‘Actually, Archie, it might take longer than you think. I’m glad you’re here because there’s something I need to talk to you about, as well. I was going to come and see you on Monday, but after this terrible business it can’t wait until then. As it is, I’ve got to live with the fact that I’ve left it this long.’ He exhaled again, then continued. ‘I’ve got to be on stage in the second half and I can’t get out of that – there’s no one else here to do it – but I’ll meet you downstairs as soon as we finish. I’m supposed to be taking everyone for a drink, but we can talk privately first. What I have to say might help you. In any case, it will help me.’

‘Then perhaps we could at least make a start now?’ Penrose said, but the line was dead even before he had finished the sentence. Frustrated, but daring to hope that he might at last be getting somewhere, he resigned himself to another agonising wait and walked back down St Martin’s Court.

The Grand Circle Bar was always packed on a sold-out Saturday night. Ronnie, who never allowed even the densest of crowds to stand between her and a large gin, returned triumphant from the bar and passed two tall glasses to Lettice and Josephine before falling heavily into the third herself. ‘Fuck, it’s Fitch,’ she said, as she came up for air. ‘Don’t look round.’

But it was too late. ‘A hundred thousand in a year at the box office!’ cried the critic from the Evening Standard, forcing his way over. ‘Aubrey can afford to go dark for a month and I dare say Inverness has seen a few corks popped of late?’

‘Oh, it’s been nothing but fizz and fun since last February,’ said Josephine, brushing the comment skilfully aside and trying to hide 126

her dislike. ‘I can’t thank you enough for all the reviews, and I do so appreciate it when you include a list of criticisms.’

Over Lettice’s head, Josephine saw Marta appear at the door and make her way through the crowd, drawing some appreciative glances as she did so. ‘I’ve been sent to offer you the chance of some peace and quiet backstage if you don’t want to go back in after the interval,’ she said. ‘Come down to the dressing room.

Once Lydia’s died, we can all have a drink.’

Gratefully, Josephine took the lifeline she was offered. ‘I’ll see you at stage door afterwards,’ she called back over her shoulder, and felt a brief stab of guilt as she saw Fitch take a deep breath, ready to continue.

‘You came just at the right moment,’ she said as they went downstairs. ‘Grovelling really doesn’t suit me, and it’s so hard to fake it well.’

‘Tell me about it. The only row I’ve had with Lydia was when I told her to stop fawning round producers and have faith in her own talent. She looked at me as though I were two days out of a lunatic asylum, then asked me how far that approach had got me in publishing.’ She smiled, and her eyes were filled with a warmth which transformed the dark beauty of her face into something more approachable. ‘That friend of yours has a wicked tongue. It’s one of the things I love most about her.’

Wryly, Josephine raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she’d say much the same about you. She’s right, of course – about the fawning, I mean; I can’t speak for the tongue. Actresses live on goodwill.’

By the time they reached the dressing room, Lydia had returned to the wings ready for her brief appearance in the second act but Josephine felt none of the awkwardness that often comes when mutual friends are thrown together in the absence of the common link. In contrast to their first brief meeting, Marta made conversation easily, avoiding the small change to which strangers often limit themselves and talking animatedly about the last couple of months, but her concerns about Lydia’s future were never far away and Josephine realised that she was genuinely troubled.

‘Is her work a problem for you?’ she asked almost brutally, real-127

ising that Lydia would be back with them in a few moments’ time and the opportunity for confidences would be lost.

‘No, it’s not that. It’s been her life and I’d never ask her to give that up – just the opposite, in fact. What worries me is how she’ll cope if – when – it all dries up. She’s had a couple of knock-backs lately and the harder she pretends to take it all in her stride, the more I know it’s hurting her.’

‘She’s bound to feel unsettled when something like this comes to an end. Long runs are a luxury, but they lull you into a false sense of security and get you out of the habit of moving on. It’ll pass as soon as she gets out on tour and into rehearsals for something new.’

‘Perhaps.’ Marta looked at her as if assessing how direct she could be. ‘Tell me – would you have written a play about Mary Queen of Scots if Lydia hadn’t asked you to?’

‘No, I don’t think I would. I can see why the idea of playing her on stage is attractive, but I’ve never had any real sympathy for the woman.’

Marta nodded. ‘You know, I almost wish you hadn’t done it. We all need something to work towards, and the idea that someone could bring that creature to life has been a dream of hers for years.

Now it’s become a reality and she’ll have done it before the year’s out, and I’m not sure that leaves her anywhere to go. As it is, I keep catching her looking over her shoulder, thinking that the best is behind her.’