An Expert in Murder

Penrose listened intently while Fallowfield recounted Lydia’s impression of events backstage. ‘And you say McCracken gets all this stuff ready?’

‘Her or White, Sir – whoever’s on duty. Why did you ask about her?’

Penrose pointed towards the bunch of letters that he had found in Aubrey’s desk. ‘Those are all from her. From what I can work out, she sees herself as a bit of a playwright. They start off very politely, asking Aubrey if he’d read her work and consider putting it on. Clearly he must have ignored her, because they soon lose their courtesy and start criticising all the work he stages and questioning his judgement. She has a very high opinion of her own talent and not much time for anybody else’s, and she’s particularly vitriolic about Richard of Bordeaux and the money it’s making –

she accuses Aubrey of having no artistic soul, only a commercial one. It’s a wonder he didn’t get rid of her: I’m not sure I’d keep someone on the payroll if they sent me this kind of thing on a reg-145

ular basis. It’s obsessive, to say the least.’ He handed the letters over. ‘They were written over a three-month period, and the latest one’s dated today. She loses it completely at the end, throws in a bit of abuse, then says that Aubrey would be wise to take her more seriously. That could be just a rather extreme way of letting him know he’s missing out on the theatrical event of the decade, or it could be a threat – and judging by what’s happened tonight, I’m inclined to read it as the latter.’

‘Blimey,’ said Fallowfield, glancing through the pile. ‘I see what you mean. She’s got to be up there with White and Simmons.’

‘Yes, particularly after what you’ve just told me about the drinks session after work. I’d put money on his having drunk whatever killed him then.’

‘Me too, Sir. I had a quick look backstage and it’s all still there, the decanter and glass I mean. I’ve put young Armstrong down there until the rest of the team get here to pack it all up. He’s a good lad – always does what he’s told. It’s a pity we didn’t have him outside while White was flogging theatre seats.’

‘That’s good, Bill, thank you. Of course, the world and his wife have walked past that decanter tonight, but McCracken had plenty of time alone with it.’

‘I don’t quite see why she’d kill the Simmons girl, though.’

Penrose thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes, Aubrey’s murder is much easier to understand because he was in a position to make enemies, but Elspeth’s death made a mockery of Richard of Bordeaux and we have all the evidence we need in those letters that McCracken resented that play and despised Josephine. I think we can also safely say that she’s not the most stable of people: I can imagine the person who writes notes like this being so full of spite that it could send her over the edge. There’s an arrogance about them, a vanity that we’ve seen in a lot of criminals. Before this happened, it occurred to me that Elspeth’s death might have been a mistake, that whoever did it had meant to kill Josephine.

Now, I can’t help feeling that what links these murders is more deep-rooted than professional jealousy, but it’s still a possibility that whoever is doing this is doing it to destroy the play. But we’re 146

getting away from this locked door business. Have you spoken to the stage doorman yet?’

‘Yes, and he swears that no one went up or down those stairs except Aubrey, Miss Beaumont and you. By the time the body was found, everyone else – actors and staff alike – had gone out through stage door or were waiting there with you. I gather that’s not unusual. He says no one ever hangs around for long and Aubrey is invariably the last person left in the building.’

‘Then nobody else should know about the murder, at least.

Except one person, of course. So how did that door get locked?’

‘Come with me, Sir, and I’ll show you.’

Penrose looked bewildered as Fallowfield led him out of Aubrey’s office and down the corridor. ‘Have you been reading John Dickson Carr again, Bill?’ he asked.

Fallowfield smiled. ‘It’s not as clever as that, Sir, I’m afraid.

Have you ever noticed that bridge that runs across St Martin’s Court?’

Penrose visualised the passage and immediately realised what Fallowfield was talking about. ‘Of course. It links the New to Wyndham’s. I’d never thought about it before.’

‘Go through that door, Sir, and you’ll be on it. Apparently Aubrey had it built as an extra fire exit for both theatres. We’d have found it soon enough – it’s no secret – but the stage doorman mentioned it and saved us a bit of time.’

Penrose did as he was told and found himself at one end of a small walkway. Moving to the centre of the bridge, he looked down into St Martin’s Court. The rain had started again and the crowds were long gone; stripped of its glitter, the passage that had buzzed with excitement just an hour earlier now looked squalid and depressing. ‘So it’s possible to get up here from Wyndham’s without going anywhere near stage door?’

‘Exactly. Not for every Tom, Dick and Harry, of course, because it goes through to private areas in both theatres, so the general public could only use it in an emergency.’

‘But the people we’re interested in would know about it.’

‘Yes they would. McCracken and White and the rest of the stage 147

crew work in both theatres anyway, so they’d be familiar with the layout and people would expect to see them there. But according to matey on stage door, there’s a lot of mingling among the actors as well. Aubrey employed both casts and they hang around together a lot, have a drink in each other’s dressing rooms – that sort of thing.’

Penrose thought about it. The play at Wyndham’s had run for around another fifteen minutes after the curtain fell on Richard of Bordeaux so, by the time the staff were leaving the New, the passage would have been at its busiest with audiences spilling out to go home or hanging around for autographs. Nobody would find it easy to get through those crowds, particularly actors waylaid by fans, but he had watched most of the Richard cast leave while he was waiting for Aubrey at the stage door, and they had not hung about. It would have been possible for them to get into Wyndham’s and up to this bridge, and so to the door of Aubrey’s office.

Whoever it was stood a chance of being seen through the glass on the walkway, but most people were either looking out for a famous face or walking head-down against the cold; it wasn’t much of a risk, compared with everything else. ‘God, it’s just hopeless,’ he said to Fallowfield. ‘The list is getting longer rather than shorter, and we can’t necessarily eliminate them from Elspeth’s murder, either. Her death occurred just before any of them