Authors: Barry Maitland
“He’s been out all evening with his orderly, Stafford.”
“Exactly. Then one does rather tend to wonder how he managed to enter the sitting-room from stage left, which is the door from the other rooms of the house, instead of downstage right, which is the door from the outside hall.”
Edward seemed untroubled by the producer’s sarcasm. “Oh yes. Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. The other thing?”
“What is that”—he pointed his long forefinger—“in your hand?”
“The book, Stafford.”
“But we were supposed to get rid of our books two weeks ago, weren’t we?”
Quinn shrugged. “I’m nearly there. I’m still a bit weak on act two.”
Nesbit sighed theatrically, and turned as the doors opened and a woman came into the room. “Ruth. This is Detective Sergeant Kathy Kolla, and she wants to speak to you.”
“Ah yes, of course.” The woman flashed a smile at Kathy.
“You knew?” Nesbit snapped, with exaggerated pique. “You knew she was coming? What
is
going on here? Am I the only one who wasn’t informed?”
“Of course not, Stafford,” she replied briskly, clearly used to his tantrums. “Sergeant Kolla phoned me this afternoon . . .”
Her words were cut off by Nesbit, who swept his arm in a wide curve. “No matter! Let’s get on for pity’s sake. We’re going to be here all night at this rate.”
The woman smiled at Kathy and sat down beside her. “Hello,” she whispered, while Edward Quinn started his scene again. “Did you get what you wanted from Edward?” Her eyes sparkled bright and inquisitive through her wire-rimmed glasses.
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Sparkes.”
“Ruth, please.”
“Ruth. Were you at the party they had to celebrate the last performance of
The Lady Vanishes
, last January?”
“Yes, of course.” She glanced up at Nesbit, who was glaring at them pointedly. “Look, let’s go over to the corner. We can talk more easily there.”
They moved out of earshot of the others, and Ruth gave Kathy her version of what had happened during the final rehearsals and the performances of
The Lady
, which corresponded well enough with Quinn’s account.
“It must have been pretty painful,” Kathy said. “Especially for Edward’s wife.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t an uncommon feature of amateur theatre,” Ruth said, with some relish. “There is a sense of . . . bonding, I suppose, with fellow-actors in the excitement of it all, perhaps of normal rules suspended . . . which leads to accidents. Remember poor Simone Signoret in
Room at the Top
. . . And sometimes they aren’t accidents.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, some people are attracted to the theatre for this very reason. Perhaps Zoë was. And then again, some producers have been known to select their cast with an eye to throwing certain people into each other’s arms, so to speak.”
“Why?”
“For the sake of the electricity, the excitement it generates.”
“Stafford Nesbit?”
Ruth looked across the room at him, gesticulating like a conductor in time to the phrases of the pair rehearsing in front of him. “Oh, I never said that, did I?”
“Is he doing it with this one?”
Ruth laughed. “Well, to tell you the truth, this one could really do with a bit of spicing up. I mean,
The Lady
was fun, but this . . .” She shook her head. “Why Stafford chose this play is beyond me. We were going to do
Blithe Spirit
, which he would have done splendidly, and we’d certainly have got reasonable audiences. But then he decided we should get our teeth into a tragedy, and came up with this. Goodness knows how we’ll fill the theatre. I ask you, who in their right mind would put themselves through an evening of gloomy, misogynous rubbish like this?”
Kathy smiled. “You’re involved in ticket sales, are you, Ruth?”
“Yes. I’m in charge of all that.”
“Would you have a list of the people who bought tickets for
The Lady Vanishes?
”
“Oh dear me no. A few people would have written directly to me for tickets, and I suppose I might still have a record of them, but the great majority of tickets were sold by the cast, or through the theatre box office and at the door on the night.”
“I see.”
“You look disappointed. Were you after something in particular?”
“Edward mentioned that Zoë had a new boyfriend, and
obviously I’d like to speak to him. I thought he might have come to see her in the play.”
“Ah!” Ruth Sparkes nodded. “Yes, no one seemed to know who he was. But I doubt if my records could tell you.”
Once more Kathy brought out Gentle’s photograph, again without success. “He looks a nice man,” Ruth said, a little wistfully. “Rather sad.”
“What about the name ‘Gentle,’ or ‘Jordan?’ They mean anything to you?”
“Not offhand. Do you want me to check my books when I get home?”
“Yes. I’d appreciate that.”
The secretary made a note in her diary. There was another bellow from Stafford Nesbit as she replaced it in her handbag, and she rolled her eyes, turning to watch the players. Quinn, the Captain, was speaking to his old nurse.
“Margret, who was the father of your child?”
“Oh, I’ve told you time and time again: it was that scamp Johansson.”
“Are you sure it was he?”
“You’re talking like a child! Of course I’m sure, seeing he was the only one.”
“But was he sure he was the only one? No, he couldn’t be, even though
you
were sure. That’s the difference, you see.”
Stafford Nesbit brought his hand crashing down on to his table. The actors stopped and looked at him.
“Edward, my dear chap, it may come as a shock to learn that Strindberg was not thinking of James Dean when he created the character of the Captain. You are a soldier, a scientist of original opinions, and you are in the process of being driven to the brink of despair and madness by the women who surround you, especially your wife. You can relate to that, can’t you?” There was the faintest snigger from some part of the room. “When I asked for
angst
, I
didn’t mean the moodiness of a sulky teenager, for God’s sake.” Nesbit’s voice rose to a roar. “I want
anguish of the soul
!”
Quinn nodded, unfazed.
“Strindberg didn’t like women?” Kathy whispered to Ruth.
“In the space of three acts, spanning only twenty-four hours,” Ruth muttered dryly, “this admirable Captain is reduced from apparent normality to a gibbering wreck by the fiendish machinations of the wicked women in his household, and in particular his wife, who encourages his doubts over his paternity of their daughter. I mean, it isn’t just implausible, blatantly sexist and thoroughly depressing, it’s also bad theatre. The whole play takes place in this one setting, and most of it is in the form of static dialogues between pairs of characters.”
“Oh, I thought it was a classic.”
“That too,” Ruth sighed. “We’re doomed.”
“I suppose it’ll come right on the night.”
“Oh no, this one is going to be a disaster, I know it. Because we’d agreed to do
Blithe Spirit
this time, we lent all our nineteenth-century costumes to another group, and now we haven’t got a thing, and the first performance is in two and a half weeks. We’re going to have to hire the men’s costumes, but the budget simply won’t run to the women’s costumes as well. We’re going to have to do those ourselves, somehow. I don’t suppose you know a dressmaker, do you, Sergeant? I’m absolutely desperate, I really am.”
“Sorry.” Kathy shook her head. “Anyway, I’d better leave you to it. Good luck.”
Kathy got to her feet. At the door she turned and saw Edward Quinn give her a little nod. She also noticed the young blonde woman, who had been rehearsing when they arrived, glare at her, then look pointedly away. With a jolt Kathy realized where she had seen her face. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the sheaf of photocopied pictures of Gentle’s women and
thumbed rapidly through them until she found her, subject number sixty-two.
She went over to the girl and asked her to step outside with her. There was another, smaller function room on the other side of the landing, deserted, and Kathy switched on the lights and asked the girl to take a seat at the long banquet table set out down the centre of the room.
“What’s your name?” she asked her.
“Bettina,” she replied, a bit sullen, “Bettina Elliott. What’s this all about, then?”
“I just need a few details, Bettina, then I’ll explain. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Address?”
She gave Kathy an address in Shortlands.
“Do you work in town?”
“No. I work for Bromley Council.”
“In Bromley? You don’t take a train to work?”
“No, I take the bus. What is all this, anyway?”
Kathy showed her the photocopy of Gentle’s picture. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
Bettina frowned at it, curling her lip. Her skin wasn’t very good, Kathy saw, her blonde hair crudely cut and in need of a wash.
“Could be. Where was it taken?”
“I don’t know. Can you take a guess? It seems to be through a window, do you see? There’s a bit of the frame.”
“Ye-es. S’pose so.”
“Could it be where you live?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to say, isn’t it? I mean, there’s not much there.”
“No, that’s true. Have you ever been aware of anyone following you home? Or anywhere else come to that.”
“Well . . . not recently. Once, when I was at school . . . but that was years ago.”
“No, this would be more recent.”
Bettina shook her head.
“What about this man? Do you recognize him at all?”
Bettina looked closely at Gentle’s picture, then shook her head again.
“Do you know anyone called ‘Jordan,’ or ‘Gentle?’ ”
“No. Gentle’s a funny name, isn’t it? Is he a murderer or something?”
“No, no. We just have a list of people that we need to eliminate from our inquiries, you know.”
“Oh yeah? But where did you get the picture of me from? Did he have it, this Jordan, or Gentle?”
“Look, this probably isn’t significant at all. But just to be on the safe side, Bettina, it’d be a good idea if you took a few extra precautions. Don’t open your door to strangers after dark, and try to make sure there’s always someone else with you when you go out at night, things like that. Do you live with someone?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “That’s why I joined this lot, isn’t it. Only they’re all too old.” She curled her lip disdainfully.
“Well, as I say, it’s probably nothing, but best to be careful.”
“You going to give me police protection?” She was being sarcastic, but the thought seemed to appeal to her.
Kathy smiled. “I don’t think you’re in that much danger. But if you think of anything, or notice anyone following you or paying you particular attention, get on to me straight away, OK? I’ll give you my phone number.” She wrote on the back of a card and handed it to the girl, who shrugged. “OK. Ta.”
The car park of the pub was deserted when Kathy got downstairs,
but when she drove her car to the entrance, and waited to turn out into the traffic, she was startled to find a car right behind her. It made her realize how jumpy it had made her, seeing another of Gentle’s women.
AS SOON AS SHE
opened the door of her flat, Kathy was hit by the smell. Liver. Liver and onions. And other things. Aunt Mary’s special.
“You remember, do you, dear?”
“Yes, I remember. I haven’t had that since . . . for years.”
“It was your favourite.”
“Was it?”
That wasn’t Kathy’s recollection. The small terrace in Attercliffe used to reek of it. That and Uncle Tom’s foul pipe-tobacco smoke.
“You went out today, then. To the shops.”
“Yes, pet. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of them tubes.”
“Oh, you used the tube?”
“Aye. To Soho.”
“
Soho
? Are you sure?”
“Of course, dear. I know where I went.”
“But . . .”
Why?
For a moment Kathy had a bizarre vision of Uncle Tom sending his elderly wife down to comb the sex-shops of London for some exotic thing they couldn’t find in Sheffield.
“What on earth made you go there?”
“I was interested.”
Interested.
“And what did you think of it?”
“Oh, grand, love. Very nice.”
She’s a public menace
, Kathy thought guiltily.
She probably risks a major traffic accident every time she crosses the street. I’ve been
worrying about the likes of Bettina Elliott when I should have been spending time doing something about this.
AS THEY SAT AT
the table eating their breakfast toast and marmalade the following morning, Kathy said, “I’m sorry I’ve neglected you since you arrived, Mary.” This was the first time she’d ever addressed the older lady without the title “Aunt.” It seemed an important small preliminary to getting things straight. Her aunt seemed not to notice, sipping absently at her cup of PG Tips. She had become calmer during her stay, perhaps more withdrawn.
“I’ve only been in this job two weeks, you see, and I just couldn’t take a day off before now, but I’ve told them I’m not working this weekend, so we can spend time together. Is there anything special you’d like to do? What about the big stores? Shall we go shopping? Mary?”
“Oh . . .” Mary looked out of the window. “Of course, pet, if that’s what you’d like to do.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, not on my account. There’s nothing I want to buy.”
It occurred to Kathy that her aunt might be short of money.
“Well, what about the sights, the places we talked about, the Tower . . .”
“It seems too nice a day to be indoors.”
Kathy sighed, trying to remain calm.
“If you want to go out,” Mary said suddenly, “why don’t you pick somewhere you’d really like to go to? I don’t have anywhere.”
They would have to go
some
where, since the idea of staying at home together, trying to make conversation like this, didn’t bear thinking about. For some reason, Kathy thought of the pagoda at Kew, and said they might take a picnic to the Botanical Gardens. “And on the way,” she added, “I want to call in at my doctor’s.”