paced about as they talked kept everything in motion. From what little he knew of directing, Banks assumed that Conran himself was responsible for this. Occasionally, a member of the audience would shift in his or her seat, and there were quite a few present suffering from coughs and colds, but on the whole most people were attentive. When an actor or actress hesitated over lines, waiting for a prompt, nobody laughed or walked out.
Faith and Teresa were good. They had the poise and the skill to bring off their roles, even if it was difficult to believe in Faith’s masquerade as a man. In their scenes together, though, there was an obvious tension, perhaps because Faith knew who had told Banks about her row with Conran, and Teresa knew who had told him about her jealousy over Caroline Hartley. Ironically, this seemed to give an edge to the performances, especially to Viola’s initial rudeness on their first meeting. The ambiguity of their relationship – Viola, dressed as a man, courting Olivia on her brother’s behalf – soon absorbed Banks. To hear Faith complimenting Teresa’s beauty was an odd thing indeed, but to watch their love blossom was even stranger.
For Banks, this had a dark side, too. He couldn’t help but think of Caroline and Veronica, knowing, as the characters themselves did not, that both Viola and Olivia were female. Maria, the role that Caroline would have played, was an added reminder of the recent tragedy.
During the intermission, Banks felt distracted. He left Sandra chatting with some acquaintances and nipped out on to North Market Street for a cigarette in the icy cold The dim gaslights glinted on the snow and ice, and even as he stood, a gentle snowfall began, flakes drifting down like feathers. He shuddered, flicked his half- smoked cigarette end into a grate and went back inside.
The vague connection between the play and reality was beginning to make Banks feel very uneasy. By the fourth act, his attention began to wander – to thoughts of his recent interviews with Faith and Teresa and the pile of unread paperwork in his in-tray, including a report on the arrest of the vandals that Susan had stayed up half the night to prepare. Then his attention would return to the play in time to hear the Clown and Malvolio chatting about Pythagoras’s opinion of wild fowl, or Sebastian in raptures about the pearl Olivia had given him. He couldn’t maintain lasting concentration. There was something in his mind, a glimmer of an idea, disparate facts coming together, but he couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t see the complete picture yet. There was an element still missing.
By the final act, Banks’s back and buttocks hurt, and he found it difficult to keep still in the hard chair. Surreptitiously, he glanced at his watch. Almost ten. Surely not long to go. Even before he expected it, true identities were revealed, everybody was married off, except for Malvolio, and the Clown began to sing:
Then the music ended and the curtains closed. The audience applauded; the cast appeared to take bows. Soon the formalities were all over and everyone shuffled out of the hall, relieved to be leaving the hard seats.
‘Time for a drink?’ Banks said to Sandra as they fastened their coats on the front steps.
Sandra took his arm. ‘Of course. Champagne. It’s the only civilized thing to do after an evening at the theatre. Except go for dinner.’
‘There aren’t any restaurants open this late. Maybe Gibson’s Fish and-’
Sandra pulled a face and tugged his arm. ‘I’ll settle for a lager and lime and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.’
‘A cheap date,’ Banks said. ‘Now I know why I married you.’
They set off down North Market Street to the Queens’ Arms, which was much closer to the front exit of the community centre than was the usual cast watering-hole out the back, the Crooked Billet.
It was only twenty past ten when they got there, enough time for a couple of pints at least. The pub was quiet at first, but many of the theatre goers following Banks and Sandra seemed to have the same idea about a drink, and it soon got crowded. By then, Banks and Sandra had a small, dimpled, copper-topped table near the fireplace, where they warmed their hands before drinking.
They discussed the play against a background buzz of conversation, but Banks still felt uneasy and found it hard to concentrate. Instead, he couldn’t help but put together what he knew about the Caroline Hartley murder, trying different patterns to see if he could at least discover the shape of the missing piece.
‘Alan?’
‘What? Oh, sorry.’
‘What the hell’s up with you? I asked you twice what you thought about Malvolio.’
Banks sipped some beer and shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. I feel a bit distracted.’
‘There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?’
‘Yes.’
She put her hand on his arm. ‘About the case? It’s only natural, after seeing the play, isn’t it? After all, Caroline Hartley was supposed to be in it.’
‘It’s not just that.’ Banks couldn’t put his thoughts into words. All he could think of was the woman who walked strangely in the snow and Vivaldi’s burial music for a small child. And there was something about the play that snagged on his mind. Not the production details or any particular line, but something else, something obvious that he just couldn’t bring into focus. Faith and Teresa? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he felt not only puzzled but tense, too, the kind of edginess one has before a storm breaks. Often, he knew, that feeling signalled that he was close to solving the case, but there was even more this time, a sense of danger, of evil he had overlooked.
Suddenly he became aware of someone tapping him on the shoulder. It was Marcia Cunningham.
‘Hello, Mr Banks,’ she said. ‘Wondered if I’d find you here.’
‘I’d have thought you’d be at the Crooked Billet with the rest,’ Banks said.
Marcia shook her head. ‘It was all right during rehearsals, but I don’t know if I can handle the first-night post-mortems. Besides, I’m with a friend.’
She introduced Banks to the trim, middle-aged man standing behind her. Albert. There was one more chair at the table, and Banks offered his as well to the two newcomers. They demurred at first, then sat. Banks leaned against the stone fireplace.
‘Last orders!’ called Cyril, the landlord. ‘Last orders, please!’
In the scramble for the bar, Banks managed to get in another round. When he got back to the table Marcia Cunningham was chatting to Sandra.
‘I was just saying to Sandra,’ she repeated, ‘that I was wondering if you’d solved the little mystery of the dress?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The dress, the one with the pieces missing.’
‘I’m sorry, Marcia,’ Banks said, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Marcia frowned. ‘But surely young Susan must have told you?’
‘Whatever it is, I can assure you she didn’t. It was her case, anyway. I’ve been far too preoccupied with the Caroline Hartley murder.’
Marcia shrugged and smiled at Albert. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s very important, really.’
‘Why don’t you tell me anyway?’ Banks asked, realizing he might have been a little abrupt. He remembered what Veronica Shildon had said about people asking doctors for medical advice at cocktail parties. Sometimes being a policeman was much the same; you were never off duty. ‘We’ve caught the vandals, you know,’ he added.
Marcia raised her eyebrows. ‘You have? Have they told you why they did it?’
‘I haven’t had time to read Susan’s report yet. But don’t expect too much. People like that don’t have reasons you and I can fathom.’
‘Oh, I know that, Mr Banks. I was just wondering what they did with the pieces, that’s all.’
Banks frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow.’
Marcia took a sip of mild and launched into her story. Albert sat beside her, still and silent as a faithful retainer. His thin face showed an intricate pattern of pinkish blood vessels just below the skin. He nodded from time to time, as if in support of what Marcia was saying.
‘What do you make of it, then?’ Marcia asked when she’d finished.
Banks looked at Sandra, who shook her head.
‘It’s odd behaviour for vandals, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of any reason-’ Then he suddenly fell silent, and the other images that had been haunting him formed into some kind of order – vague and shadowy as yet, without real substance, but still something resembling a pattern. ‘That’s if…’ he went on after a pause. ‘Look, Marcia, do you still have it, the dress?’
‘Of course. It’s at home.’
‘Could I see it?’
‘Any time you want. There’s nothing more I can do with it.’
‘How about now?’
‘Now? Well, I don’t know… I…’ she looked at Albert, who smiled.
‘Is it really so important, Alan?’ Sandra asked, putting a hand on his arm.
‘It might be,’ he said. ‘I can’t explain yet, but it might be.’
‘All right,’ Marcia said. ‘We were going home in a minute anyway. It’s not far.’
‘My car’s parked behind the station. I’ll give you a lift,’ Banks said. He turned to Sandra. ‘I’ll see you-’
‘No you won’t. I’m coming with you. I’m damned if I’m walking home alone.’
‘All right.’
They grabbed their coats and made for the door.
TWO
What did you think of it?’ James asked Susan after they had carried their drinks to a table for two in the Crooked Billet. His eyes were shining and he seemed to exude a special kind of energy. Susan thought that if she touched him now, she would feel an electric shock like the ones she sometimes got from static.
‘I enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘I thought the cast did a terrific job.’ As soon as she’d spoken she knew she had said the wrong thing, even before James’s eyes lost a little
