Bissell straightened as though pulled up by an invisible wire threaded through his skull and down his spine. His bearing became regal, his posture commanding. Eyes fixed upon someone or something in the corner of the room, he resumed his routine at the invisible barre…
‘Jesus. Talk about creepy. Might as well have whipped out a freakin’ Ouija board and be done with it. Yakking away like that to Baranov. Jesus.’
Markham frowned. He did not like profanity and in normal circumstances would have cut Noakes off at the knees.
But as they sat in the light and airy little hospital café over tea and Wagon Wheels, he was inclined to be lenient.
‘I agree. Mr Baranov’s hold on his disciples appears even more potent now than it was when he was alive.’
‘All that stuff about God’s face and his beard. Jus’ like the Yorkshire Ripper spouting all that BS about having a divine mission… Creepy.’
‘All part of Bissell’s psychosis, Sergeant.’
‘Roger the Dodger was on to him in the end… Reckon that bloke wasn’t such a barm cake after all.’
Coming from Noakes, it was quite a concession.
‘We didn’t get anything new from Bissell, Guv,’ the DS continued with gloomy relish. ‘It was all in his confession.’
‘True. But I’ll be taking a look at this treatment plan,’ Markham tapped a manila folder on the table in front of him, ‘and making my own recommendations.’ He sighed. ‘I owe it to Mr B to see that Eddie Bissell isn’t just left to moulder in the bin.’
Noakes thought privately that if ever there was a case for throwing away the key, this was it. But the guvnor was funny like that. When he got a bee in his bonnet, nothing would budge him. And there was no denying this whole case had got under the boss’s skin.
Truth to tell, he was more than a bit spooked himself. With a pleasurable shudder, he dunked another biscuit.
That animal in the cellars… No-one at the theatre had admitted to knowing anything about it… So where had it come from and how had it got in there?
If it hadn’t attacked Bissell, he would have killed Alexandra Fairlie without a doubt.
Had George Baranov reached out from beyond the grave to save his porcelain princess?
The guvnor’s eyes were remote and he’d hardly touched his grub.
That was the trouble with your high-strung university types. They always let it get to them. P’raps the boss would chill out when they joined the ballet crowd in the pub later. Normally Noakes would’ve run a mile, but it was good community relations. And besides, Olivia would be there…
*
That afternoon in The Grapes, if Markham had not been otherwise engaged placing orders for drinks and food, Noakes’s behaviour would have amused him, the DS listening like a proud stage-parent as Olivia talked shop with Marguerite Aroldingen and the principals, while stagehands made merry in neighbouring booths with the corps and technical staff. A warm family spirit overspread the party as the golden flames of a crackling fire slowly dismembered its stack of logs. Even Ted Murphy wore an air of good cheer, sinking pints with an air of tipsy bonhomie.
None of the women could hold a candle to Olivia, Noakes thought, watching her delicate profile with its otherworldly beauty. Kate Burton looked plain as a pikestaff by the side of her.
Mind you, Burton could almost match Olivia when it came to all this ballet tarradiddle. He yawned surreptitiously. Give it another half hour or so and then he and Doyle could push off to the bar and talk football. Better not stay out too long, though. The missus would be agog to hear all about Bissell and the dancers. He patted his jacket pocket complacently. Just as well he’d remembered to get her those autographs. Had to be worth a few brownie points…
Later, over coffee, his responsibilities as host concluded, Markham listened as the ballet aficionados discussed the company’s Nutcracker.
‘You and Ivan were amazing in that last duet,’ Olivia said shyly to Alexandra Fairlie. ‘The fish dive was spectacular, and I loved the way, at the end, the prince stood in an open arabesque with you balancing on his hips.’
It had certainly been a remarkable performance, Markham reflected. Fairlie’s smile, both bashful and radiant, and her body, high-strung, palpitating with anticipation and romantic sensibility, had conveyed the heroine’s innocent wonderment with stunning panache.
The ballerina, elegant in a sequinned midi-dress, laughed.
‘To tell you the truth, I was thinking so hard about Mr B that I forgot what steps I should be dancing and at one point I had to repeat myself twice. It felt like he had just tapped me on the shoulder to distract me… He always liked teasing us … setting tests, so it was as if he’d come back to play this little mental trick. I could imagine him hovering above me somewhere enjoying the moment, and saying, “How are you going to wriggle out of this?”’
It was the first mention of Baranov, but it was as if the ice had been broken.
‘I kept thinking of him too,’ Plucis admitted. ‘He told me I had to project authority. “Servants look up! Prince is above,” he used to say. “Everything else is beneath. Be light, on the balls of your feet. Let others be stuck on earth. You are a prince. Don’t run around like weightlifter in circus.”’ The Romanian grinned apologetically at his partner. ‘He nagged me to present you beautifully, “like a precious flower”, and keep my tantrums for later. “None of your Jekyll and Hyde, dear.”’
Markham found himself warming to the young dancer. Tonight, the Romanian seemed somehow open and vulnerable, mellowed by the warmth and camaraderie, eager to swap jokes and anecdotes.
Why did I dislike him so much? he wondered.
But deep down he knew the answer.
He’d allowed himself to be blinded by prejudice. Hadn’t looked beneath the surface. It’s why he had never looked closely enough at Bissell…
As though she had mysteriously received permission to name him, the ballet mistress, draped in her characteristic flowing pastels, observed, ‘The lad who did Drosselmeyer was good, but Eddie did it better. Nobody could swirl a magician’s cloak like Eddie.’
‘I’ll never forget the way he held me in that tunnel.’ Fairlie shuddered. ‘It was like a horrible distortion of that pose in Lake – the one where Odette sinks against Siegfried so he can wrap his arms around her and take care of her.’
Aroldingen’s dark eyes flared like anthracite coals.
‘Maybe the signs were there from way back,’ she mused. ‘D’you remember when Isobel danced Odette for ENB and Eddie was Rothbart… The critics said afterwards that she never stopped being terrified of Rothbart, even in the prince’s arms … as if she could sense his presence … always wanting to look into the back corner to see if he was there, spying on them.’
‘Yeah, that was the version where Siegfried pulls off Rothbart’s owl head to reveal a skull of death. Like an omen,’ Fairlie said bleakly. ‘And there was that weird choreography Eddie did for ENB’s touring section – about a witch who traps lovers and changes them into birds… Audiences didn’t like it, so Mr B never took it into the repertory. Eddie was very bitter about that but Mr B said you couldn’t argue with box office…’
For a moment, no-one spoke, the little group staring into the fire as if laid under a spell.
The silence was broken by Olivia.
‘Nutcracker was marvellous,’ she said with obvious sincerity. ‘Your knobbly little boys did a great job as the toy soldiers… I loved the fact that the ballet wasn’t coated with syrup … those sinister bald-stomached rats were so much better than the furry mice you usually see in a traditional show.’
‘Yeah,’ Kate Burton was swift to agree, taking up the conversational baton from Olivia as if they were a well-practised tag team. ‘And it was a brilliant touch turning all the party guests into bats.’
Gradually the tension ebbed. From nearby booths, the sound of laughter rose and fell.
‘The audience really loved it.’ There was relief in Aroldingen’s voice.<
br />
‘At the end, the noise was incredible.’ Plucis sounded awed. ‘It roared up and over us like enormous waves crashing against rocks.’
Markham remembered Eddie Bissell comparing George Baranov to the mighty ocean.
But now the tide had gone out forever.
‘Your stand-in ballerina turned in a tremendous performance,’ he said.
‘Yes … Daria Bessmertnova. I’m not sure we could have salvaged the show without her,’ the ballet mistress concurred. ‘She’s off dancing in Russia now… They’re bound to love her… With those quick-twitch muscles and slender bones, she can achieve feats even the Bolshoi will boggle at!’
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘Brian would have loved her,’ Fairlie said softly. ‘He was a sucker for anyone with feather feet.’
‘Let’s raise a glass to him,’ Plucis said suddenly.
The toast was drunk and then, ‘Now for Mr B.’
‘I feel he’s right here with us.’ Aroldingen gave a shaky laugh. She looked round the little circle. ‘D’you remember what an awkward customer he could be whenever we had dinner with him after a performance?’
‘God yes.’ Plucis laughed. ‘There was that time Brian was in charge of the drink. He brought two or three kinds of wine along. Mr B looked at the bottle. He didn’t taste it, just looked at the bottle and the year, and said, “Well, maybe in a year’s time.” Poor Brian nearly dropped the bottle. So, he brought out the next one and Mr B opened that and tasted it. I guess it was okay.’ The dancer’s expression was affectionate, all hostility gone. ‘When I started out with the company, I couldn’t take my eyes off Mr B’s nose. That nervous twitch of his! Sniffing away non-stop, mouth playing second fiddle to his nose and the cigarettes moving from fingers to mouth to ashtray, non-stop … well, at least until he went on his health kick.’
‘Eddie was right about one thing.’ Fairlie’s gaze was meditative. ‘Mr B will never grow old now… He would’ve hated that… “If I can’t move, I can’t choreograph. I’ll be finished.” That’s what he always used to say, and he meant it.’ Dreamily, she added, ‘I wonder where he is now.’
‘In heaven,’ Aroldingen said firmly. ‘I remember my nephew’s christening. Mr B was his godfather… The priest asked if he wanted a Russian Bible to read a long prayer and Mr B said, “No, no, I know.” So, he started off in Russian, and then suddenly he stopped. It seems that he said one word wrong. He realized his mistake, so he went back to the beginning and started all over again, and went right through to the end. Afterwards the priest said, “What is this? Do you want my job?”’
Another ripple of laughter and another toast.
Sheila Bloom and Isobel Kent were not forgotten. ‘They’re family,’ Fairlie said simply, and in her eyes Markham read absolution for past wrongs.
Finally, George Baranov’s favourite ballerina gave one last pledge.
‘To Roger,’ she said. ‘To our most faithful fan.’
With one voice, they chorused, ‘To Roger.’
It was late when Olivia and Markham finally left the pub hand in hand.
Markham filled his lungs with cold air and looked straight up at the ice blue canopy overhead. The sky was alive with a million quiet stars and a moon frozen like a sylph’s white wing.
‘Mr B, we salute you,’ he said. ‘A memorable final curtain.’
His girlfriend gazed at the stars above.
Final curtain.
Somehow, Mr B, I don’t think so.
THE END
Book 6:
CRIME IN THE
GALLERY
A fiercely addictive crime thriller
Catherine Moloney
For Percy
Prologue
Gemma Clarke was saving the best till last.
With tantalizing deliberation, she walked through all the rooms on the first floor of Bromgrove Art Gallery until she reached the wing devoted to Pre-Modern Art. There the poet’s elaborately calligraphized paean greeted visitors at the entrance to the collection:
Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
And change of my still soul.
But Gemma barely registered the periwigged and powdered notables gazing down at her from their gilded frames; scarcely turned her eyes towards the idealized landscapes, family portraits and ponderous allegories. Instead she forced herself to walk slowly, alert with anticipation as she approached her goal.
And finally, there they were.
Room 9. The Pre-Raphaelites.
Those vast colour-drenched canvases with their strange titanic forms whose impact struck her with a shock to the solar plexus.
With a feeling akin to being in church, Gemma sank onto one of two high-backed pine benches and gazed greedily around her at the jewel-like masterpieces glowing against burgundy silk-clad walls.
Nervously, she smoothed her neat blue skirt and jacket and adjusted her badge. No other security attendant was in sight, owing no doubt to yet another leaving do downstairs in the gallery staff room. But she knew she could only count on a quarter of an hour. Even though Sunday afternoon was generally the gallery’s quietest time, Mr Bramwell, the director, would likely go ballistic if he found out about staff sloping off. What with those demonstrators from the university out the front protesting against ‘Imperialist Art.’ She wasn’t even sure what that meant, only that it had something to do with pictures being racist. There was a little black pageboy in one of the paintings down the corridor . . .
Thoughts of gallery security faded as the painting directly in front of Gemma exerted its familiar hypnotic pull.
In the left foreground was a statuesque woman with alabaster complexion and rippling copper tresses. Clad in sinuous white drapery, its folds pooling at her feet, she held a book in one slender hand while the other lay on a stiffly jointed figure in full armour, the casque drawn back to disclose a pensive face. Behind the couple was a square building with an arched entrance, decorated in gleaming mosaics, like a little church with a tomb inside. The right foreground depicted beautiful gardens with exotic creatures bathed in pearly light, and above them hovered a cluster of angels in pastel robes and swallows diving with mystical intent. In the background was a shimmering golden citadel.
The two figures with their air of grave courtesy fascinated Gemma, as did the strange little building from which they had emerged. Mr Carstone, head of Conservation, had explained the story behind the picture. It was meant to be symbolic, he said. The ethereal lady and the thoughtful gentleman in armour represented a person’s soul leaving the body after death. They were coming out of a mausoleum, not a house, and the angels were directing them towards Heaven, the far-off city. It was called Life and Thought Emerging from the Tomb, he told her, and there were coded messages in it. About resurrection and eternal life.
Gemma wasn’t really interested in all that intellectual stuff, though she liked the way Mr Carstone treated her as an equal and never talked down to her — as though he saw something more in her than just indifferent qualifications and job prospects. Not like some of the other curators who looked through her like she was invisible.
She couldn’t really say why she felt drawn to this one painting more than the rest. Perhaps it was something to do with the way the woman seemed to be looking right out of the canvas directly at Gemma, almost as though she wanted to tell her something.
Or perhaps it was the fact that she looked like Helen Melville, the gallery’s willowy auburn-haired acquisitions officer. Gemma thought wistfully of the young director’s graceful undulations and romantic aura. However hard she tried, however carefully she studied that languid elegance, it was a look that she, with her stubby sandy-haired ordinariness, could never in a million years hope to reproduce.
Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away and looked around her, wave upon wave of intense colour flooding her senses in the half-light like the magic
-lantern images of a trance.
She knew her colleagues scoffed at her fascination with the paintings of Room 9 — their strange archaic themes, medieval heroes and sorceresses. But to her, the pictures spoke of a magical world vibrating with mysterious harmonies for which, did she but possess the key, she could exchange her daily humdrum reality — the crowded terraced house on Bromgrove Rise, her worn-out mum and the three grungy older brothers who somehow seemed to suck up all the oxygen. The knights and ladies, with their queer beckoning eloquence and cryptic gestures, seemed infinitely more vivid — more potent in their suspended animation — than the pallid specimens of humanity who populated everyday life.
The silence of Room 9 lapped about her, enveloping her.
She felt a curious reluctance to move. As though there was a spell laid upon her.
Voices floated up towards her, signalling the end of her reprieve. The shrill giggles of the café staff struck her ears discordantly like a blasphemy. God, that Julie one sounded tipsy.
Gemma sighed. Time to make her way back to Craft and Design on the ground floor. She’d hoped to start the Christmas rotation on Old Masters or Victorians, but her request had met with a level stare from Rebecca Summerson, the haughty blonde facilities manager. ‘Security staff don’t get to choose rotations until completion of their probation period,’ she observed in frigid tones which left Gemma in no doubt that she had committed a major faux pas. ‘Take no notice of that snotty cow,’ her co-worker Barbara said kindly, but Gemma felt nevertheless that she had got off to a bad start.
Tapestries and musty old fabrics just didn’t do it for her, she thought with a last wistful look at the samite-robed figure emerging from the tomb. Still, if she minded her Ps and Qs, she’d get taken on full-time, and in the meantime she’d have a look at the adult education brochures Mr Carstone had given her. Perhaps one day it would be her giving talks to visitors and looking at her wavy-haired heroines whenever she chose. The mere thought was like having a grape when her mouth was dry.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 102