‘I signed on for a bit of money, actually. Sunstar pay pretty well, and goodness knows my pay packet needs an uplift now and then. I spend everything I can get on theatre tickets or travelling out to Worton Hall. I’m virtually broke, old top.’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ snapped Posie. ‘And don’t you dare call me “old top” again.’
Mallow ignored her and turned to first Binny, and then McCrae. ‘I say, could you fellas let me go for a bit? It’s the deuce of a thing being held here like a prisoner. I’m not going to run anywhere, I promise you. I’m terribly asthmatic. I can’t run. Even if I wanted to.’
Lovelace seemed to consider this news, then nodded his head.
‘Carry on. Let go of his arms but stand by, Constable. Now, Mr Mallow – about Sunday. Continue, please.’
‘Yes, well. It wasn’t just the money that saw me over at Worton Hall again. Rumour has it that old Langley can’t afford the place for much longer. I intended it to be my last trip out there. Although I wish to goodness I hadn’t gone, actually: everyone was at each other’s throats and the atmosphere was prickly as the proverbial paw-paw. A horrible day.’
He sighed dramatically. ‘I knew the filming was coming to an end, you see, and I wanted to see Miss Hanro again, just one last time. Although I shouldn’t have bothered, should I?’
‘Why not?’ asked Posie.
‘I’ve just learnt from one of the chaps in the crowd that Miss Albanesi herself is going to some fancy party tomorrow at Worton Hall. Apparently Brian Langley wants to make her his new star! Imagine! So I’ll do my utmost to be there for that. Midday sharp, apparently. So I’ll see Silvia Hanro again, after all. Two birds with one stone, and all that.’
‘Even if one of the birds is getting on a bit?’ hissed Posie bitterly, regretting it as soon as the comment had left her lips.
Mallow gave Posie an intrigued look and smiled. ‘Exactly, old top.’
Posie narrowed her eyes and stared hard at Hector. She had known much, much worse, but this man really did take the biscuit. Chief Inspector Lovelace cut in quickly:
‘Actually, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere near Worton Hall tomorrow, my man. In fact, unless you tell me exactly where you’ve been over the last three days, with full and reliable alibis, you’re coming with me, to the cells at New Scotland Yard, at his Majesty’s pleasure. Got it?’
‘But you still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to have done!’
And Posie held back a smile, finding herself unaccountably pleased that Hector Mallow might have to spend a couple of days in the small, bleach-stinking holding cells for male prisoners which ran around the back of Scotland Yard, and which she had had the dubious pleasure of visiting on a couple of memorable occasions. Even if he did have no real reason for being there; even if he was being held on false charges or without evidence. It might take the horrid little man down a peg or two.
But when she looked at Mallow again he was rustling around in his hold-all.
‘Never mind. Don’t tell me. Keep your reasons all to yourself, then. Here you go.’
He brought out a thin blue sheet, similar to a doctor’s prescription page for medicines, and shoved it in front of Inspector Lovelace with a funny little bow and an exaggerated flourish.
‘All yours, Chief Inspector. I’ll think you’ll find that covers the time period in question. Alibi-wise, I mean.’
‘What is it?’ asked Posie sharply.
‘You should have listened carefully to me, old top, shouldn’t you?’ Hector Mallow had swivelled his gaze back to her. ‘Weren’t doing your homework well enough here, were you?’
Posie tamped down her anger, waiting for Lovelace, who was reading and re-reading the same short sheet over and over again. His almost-handsome face was bathed in shadows, and she couldn’t read his expression. In all her time of knowing Richard Lovelace, she had never known him lose his temper. He was always distinctly unruffled. Even now.
Overhead there was a sudden short crack of thunder, clear as a bell this time. Everyone looked up in surprise and a fast wind came up from nowhere, growling around the street corners, cooling everything.
‘If you’d listened to me properly you would have heard me tell you that old Jonesy saved my bacon. When he forced me to leave Isleworth on Sunday I turned tail and trotted back to London. I don’t know if it was the heat or the exertion but just as I was going into my building – I had the key in the door – I had an asthma attack: my worst ever. Fortunately there are some medical fellows living in my building and they rushed me to the Middlesex Hospital, where I recovered. I’ve been there the whole time. I was discharged tonight, in fact, and I came straight here, to see Miss Albanesi.’
Posie stared. It explained the sour-smelling clothes, the bag, the man’s careless attitude to their questions. She turned to the Chief Inspector, whose face, as ever, was neutral.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Mallow,’ he said calmly, handing back the blue paper. ‘The time in question does indeed seem to be covered by these discharge papers.’
Posie noticed that he seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth. He needed to stay calm, though. Fellows such as Hector Mallow were the type to bring a suit for harassment against the police, just to prove a point.
‘My pleasure, Chief Inspector.’
The small man was positively brimming with his own self-worth.
‘I wish you a very pleasant evening,’ Lovelace said firmly, indicating to Binny and McCrae with a quick sweep of his hand that their work here was done. He motioned to Posie and Dolly to get into the car.
Just then the growls of thunder gave way to rain. Big raindrops like pennies started to hit the dusty pavement.
‘Quick, in you get!’ Constable McCrae was holding the door open at the back.
‘What a nasty piece of work. He made my skin crawl,’ muttered the Inspector softly, getting in after Dolly.
‘Hang on.’ Posie had remembered something. It could be something, but it was probably nothing. But worth checking on, regardless.
She turned and saw that Hector Mallow had started to turn back to the theatre, holding his bag up over his head for protection from the rain.
‘Wait!’ she called, running over to the stage door through the rain which was now falling in sheets. She was instantly soaking wet.
‘Mr Mallow!’
He turned, surprised. A gloating smile was on his face again within seconds.
‘Back for more, old top?’
Posie swallowed down the anger. ‘You mentioned that Sunday was a particularly bad day. A prickly atmosphere? Can you tell me exactly what was going on at Worton Hall that made it so bad?’
There was a slight ruckus at the stage door as an older female actress came out, blonde and still beautiful and very glamorous. Some men pushed forwards, proffering flowers. Checking it wasn’t Meggie Albanesi, but keeping an eye on the stage door regardless, Hector Mallow only gave Posie half his attention. He shrugged at her question, as if it was of no importance to him.
‘It started first thing, at coffee time. I was in the Green Room, where the extras hang around. In the corridor, that new fella with only half a face…’
‘You mean Tom Moran?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why do you say “new”?’
‘He’s only been working at Sunstar for a few months, only since this last film started up, actually. Never saw him before.’
‘Oh? I see. Carry on. Please.’
‘Well, he was having a blazing row with a woman. We all heard it. They obviously didn’t realise we could hear everything, but that house has very strange acoustics.’
‘Was he arguing with Silvia Hanro?’
‘No, definitely not. And why would he? Fella like that doesn’t know her from Adam! Wouldn’t hope to get near her!’
‘Of course not. Any idea what the row was about?’
Hector Mallow made a dismissive gesture. ‘I think it was about money. We heard
him shout: “I don’t care! Do you think this means anything to me at all? I’m not giving you a penny!”’
Posie thought quickly. Was someone trying to blackmail Tom Moran about his true identity as Mark Paris? And if so, who?
‘Do you know who the woman was? Or did you hear what she said?’ Posie prayed that Meggie Albanesi would take her time coming out tonight.
‘No idea who she was. I only heard fragments of her conversation, which didn’t make sense. Something like “squalid little carry-on!” We did see the woman, though. She ran past the open Green Room door. I’d never seen her before. She was dark, not beautiful. Thin.’
‘Thank you.’ Posie nodded appreciatively, storing up the information for later. ‘And was there anything else which happened that day?’
‘Oh yes!’ drawled the man with relish. ‘Plenty! Silvia Hanro was not at her finest. Later that morning when we saw her it was obvious she’d been crying, even the Leichner couldn’t disguise her sad puffy eyes. She was all over the place, too: couldn’t remember her lines and had to keep re-doing “takes” again and again. Awful!’
‘Any idea why she was out of sorts?’
The man shook his head. ‘I managed to get up very close to her during the coffee-break, though. I know her ways and where she goes. She was in a thicket of trees behind the dark studio with Brian Langley. Very close together.’
Posie’s brain was racing: had Silvia and Brian resumed their affair?
‘And?’
‘They were arguing, too. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but Brian Langley was irate; I mean worse than usual. He was pipped about something or other. He kept shouting “Pull yourself together,” and “Not now!” and “No way!”’
‘No way?’
Hector Mallow nodded. ‘That’s right. He said it several times. The only thing I really heard at the end was him saying “Over my dead body. Or yours.”’
Posie stopped herself from gasping aloud. ‘You’re sure he said that?’
But she had lost the man’s attention and he surged forwards as a tiny, dark-haired girl stepped out from the dark, grubby doorway towards her adoring fans.
Posie turned back to the police car, soaked, oblivious to the rain and the high winds and the promise of more thunder in the air, thinking through what she had just heard and whether it helped anyone at all.
****
Twenty-One
London was up to her old tricks again. As Posie and Dolly leant out of the window of Posie’s living room, the air outside was tangy with brine, and it smelt as if they were by the sea.
‘It’s a relief, innit? After all that sun.’
Posie nodded.
They sat on the window seat and watched the rain falling heavily on the rooftops opposite, on the thin, dark, dusty street which led up to the British Museum, and they watched the lightning crack the sky apart in furious riots. A cool salty breeze rushed in at them. Dolly was smoking and had been very quiet since they had arrived back at Museum Chambers half an hour before.
‘Can’t say I like the police guard much, lovey. Even if he is a nice lad. Was that your idea? Still think one of us is in danger somehow? You are funny!’
‘Mnnn,’ Posie lied. ‘I might be over-egging it somewhat. But it’s only for tonight.’
Constable McCrae had taken up residence in Alaric’s room, picking his way courteously through stacks of paper and piles of discarded travelling clothes, maps and even a stray dog basket in order to find the bed. He had very properly kept a respectful distance from the two women, and had taken a mug of cocoa and a plate of buttered toast only when Posie had insisted, and he could now be heard flicking through Alaric’s vast collection of travel magazines, with the door only very slightly open.
‘Do you want a slug of whisky in that hot chocolate, Dolls? Help you sleep? It’s been a long day.’
‘Go on then. This is nice, just you and me, Posie. Like back in the old days.’
If truth were told, Posie desperately wanted to be alone. She was bone-tired and her body, wrapped as it was in her comfy blue dressing gown of shot silk, ached all over.
As she made her way over to the drinks cabinet she realised that all she wanted was to think: to try and make sense of the many and varied pieces of information she had heard today about Silvia Hanro and Worton Hall.
She started to pull out bottles and decanters, without paying the least bit of attention to what she was doing.
‘Rats!’ Posie spilled some of the amber-coloured drink all over her hands and sleeve.
‘Here you go.’ She took the drink over to Dolly, who seemed wrapped up in her own thoughts. Posie sat down with her pepped-up drink at the formal dining table, next to the serving hatch of frosted glass which led into her tiny kitchen, and rubbed at her eyes. She winced as the whisky hit her throat and burned.
As she listened to the rain, Posie wondered where Silvia was right now. Had she made it back to Brian Langley and Tom Moran and Worton Hall all ready to wrap up Henry the King at nine tomorrow morning? Or was she still enjoying a night out alone, the freedom of pretending to be someone else? Or had something more sinister befallen her?
Posie shivered and tried to put the thought from her mind: she hadn’t been hired as a watch-dog, after all. She thought fleetingly of the other people she had met for the first time today, too.
Pamela Hanro, the second sister, was undeniably a brave and gutsy woman. But how involved was she in all of this? And had she been the dark woman Hector Mallow had seen arguing with Tom Moran on Sunday at Worton Hall? She was unquestionably ‘dark, not beautiful.’ Pamela undoubtedly knew Tom’s secret; that he was the famous Mark Paris. What other secrets or hidden knowledge did she possess? Was it possible that the blackmail victim had turned blackmailer?
Posie thought also of the beautiful Robbie Fontaine, probably off his head on drugs somewhere right now, and his odd, hostile conduct towards her today. What had been behind that? If anything?
And what of Brian Langley and his many attributes, manners and cheerfulness not among them? Was he still busy on the cutting-room floor, or in that projection room, genuinely worried about Silvia? Worried enough to have called the police.
Posie’s mind flickered briefly over the unwelcome thought of Tom Moran – or Mark Paris – all alone at Worton Hall tonight, he too perhaps out of his mind with worry over where Silvia had got to.
And lastly, her thoughts turned to Hector Mallow. Right now he was sitting in Ciro’s café, making Meggie Albanesi feel uncomfortable…
On top of all of this was the problem of Dolly.
And Alaric…
In fact, when Posie thought about Alaric now, because she was drinking his good, expensive Scotch single malt as a mixer, the same cold feeling was back, worse than ever. She remembered the dream from the morning again, those horrible words:
‘Look, darling, there’s something I need to tell you. Quite urgently.’
‘Bad news? It must be. What is it?’
Posie looked around briefly, to calm herself down. It was an odd thing, and she didn’t think of herself as materialistic, but the apple-green living room always made her feel pleased as a cat.
The room wasn’t furnished in the current chrome-and-glass silliness. It was minimalist and uncluttered; a sanctuary, furnished with just a few personal touches here and there.
A framed Egyptian hieroglyph hung on the wall above the fireplace, between two well-stocked bookcases. A small enamelled console table in the corner displayed a photograph of Posie’s dead brother, Richard, and a more recent addition; a photograph of people raising their glasses in celebration at an engagement party which had taken place earlier that year, in January.
Her engagement party.
Bradley, her daily woman, had been busy and had already set the table for breakfast. Posie stretched and cursed as her leg accidentally brushed against a large silver-and-white cardboard box under the table, causing it to topple over and cascades of white silk and tissue pape
r to fall out.
‘Dash it all.’
She had quite forgotten it was there: a neat, nautical-styled cream wedding outfit made by the House of Harlow, and now stowed away out of sight, gathering dust since she had ordered it months before, with no fixed wedding date being mentioned.
Posie had even been to the local Registry Office, the Camden branch, and filled in the flimsy orange marriage forms and the carbon copies which came with it, thinking they might be needed at any given moment. But now those forms had expired. Of course.
That breath of unease seemed to blow over her again.
‘What’s that?’ trilled Dolly, turning from the window, alert now, seeing the fancy box and recognising the mark of the House of Harlow.
Posie popped a piece of cold toast in her mouth irritably. ‘My wedding outfit,’ she munched, sadly. ‘It was beautiful. I got it a few months ago. I doubt it will even fit me now.’
Dolly came and sat down at the table with a packet of cigarettes, looking very much like a strange and tiny sprite with her weirdly luminous white hair and dark, magical eyes, all at odds among the cool green stillness.
‘What’s really happenin’ with Alaric, lovey?’ she asked gently.
‘I don’t know.’ Posie shrugged. ‘We don’t really make plans, just suggestions. But those suggestions never seem to go anywhere.’
That spilling of confidences, again. At last. But somehow, strangely, it felt good to put a voice to these fears.
‘In my world when a fella says he’ll marry his girl he gets on with it pretty sharply. But we had that great engagement party, and then…nothing. Since he’s been away I’ve been lucky to get one postcard or telegram every couple of weeks. It’s like I don’t exist anymore.’
Posie looked over at the framed hieroglyph, thinking about the time she had met Alaric, on the continent, when everything had seemed so new and glamorous. She thought she might cry: she had never cried in front of Dolly before, and she didn’t fancy starting right now. She rushed on quickly.
‘I think Alaric may have found someone else. I wouldn’t blame him, really. I just feel such an idiot.’
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