Hywel smiled. ‘Nothing like a murder investigation as an opportunity as far as Georgie’s concerned.’
Alicia gave a harrumph. ‘Well I hope they’ve got their own costumes. I don’t have time to dress anyone new before tomorrow—’ She turned as Sian ran across the stage towards them. ‘Sian,’ she said. ‘Whatever is it?’
Sian was wearing a shapeless grey dress and her face was streaked with tears. ‘Alexei,’ she said. ‘He’s terrified. He says they’re going to arrest him.’ She dashed tears from her eyes. ‘Stefan says they can’t, he says they need more evidence. Someone said there was a row before they went onstage—’
‘Just one of their usual rows.’ Sian’s partner appeared. He was thin, muscular, with short brown hair and a fine-featured face.
‘Stefan, you must tell them—’ Sian turned to him.
‘These police know nothing about the business if they think that’s grounds for arrest,’ he said. His voice was firm.
‘That’s true,’ Alicia said.
‘It was just their way,’ Stefan said. ‘Just how they’d get into the mood before they went on.’
Sian managed a smile, rested her hand on his arm.
He seemed to soften. ‘Sian here has a lost a friend,’ he said, turning to Agatha. ‘It’s the nature of the theatre. We make close friendships very quickly.’
‘Inseparable,’ Alicia agreed. ‘That’s how a company forms.’
‘And she was loved, Cosmina.’ Hywel spoke in warm Welsh tones. ‘She hadn’t been with us long, but we loved her.’
A silence settled over the group. Then, one by one, they drifted away, Alicia back to her costume rail, Hywel to the dressing rooms, Stefan and Sian to the stage door, he with a protective arm around her shoulders.
The stage was empty. Agatha headed for the staircase. She glanced back, aware of movement, and was surprised to see Patrick, standing in the shadows across the stage. He was gazing upwards at the drape rails. Then he took a few steps to the back wall and grabbed one of the ropes from its hooks, and began to unleash it. The rail creaked downwards, its painted scenery swinging wildly, the fairy castle distorted by the motion. Patrick’s gaze was fixed on the rail as it shuddered to stillness. Then, he heaved on the rope and the drape lurched upwards again, back to its place. Patrick looped the rope back to its hook and slipped away.
Way up in the flies, the canvas swung gently. Agatha stared up into the darkness, listening to the soft rhythmic creaking slow to silence.
She went down the stairs.
The noise and chatter of the theatre bar fractured her unease. She wondered at the mid-morning crowd, elbows leaning on the bar, cigarettes between sleepy fingers.
‘Agatha.’ The warm American tones pierced the hubbub. Isabella was seated on a bar stool, a cup of coffee in front of her. Her hair was now pinned up, and her lipstick matched its auburn sheen. ‘I assume you’ve received word of our darling police inspector?’
Agatha blinked at her. ‘I was – I was backstage,’ she began.
‘He sent a messenger. He’s tied up. He’ll meet us at the hotel later on today. Something about a fight in a Soho casino at four o’clock this morning.’ She shrugged. ‘At least I’m free for the day. I’ve heard that the Zoological Society has acquired a cecropia silkmoth.’
‘Ah.’ Agatha surveyed the room, the washed-out crowd, the thin sunlight from the window beyond.
‘So,’ Isabella smiled. ‘It rather suits me that Inspector Joyce has summoned us here only to neglect us. I’ve lost Patrick already. And – between you and me – that’s rather convenient. I was hoping to talk to you in confidence.’
She had added a loose navy jacket to her ensemble, with a bright orange silk scarf draped at her neck. She jumped down from the stool, took Agatha by the arm. ‘Let’s go out to the terrace.’
The morning clouds had lifted. The Embankment sparkled in the spring sunlight. The river was busy with traffic, freight ships pulled by tugboats, sleek sailboats, even a rowing eight, their cox’s light, educated tones caught by the wind.
Isabella turned to Agatha. ‘I asked Patrick to be honest with you,’ she said. ‘I told him, he needs friends at times like this. He said he didn’t want to burden you. But you have to know – Patrick was having an affair with Cosmina. He’s heartbroken.’
Agatha took this in.
Isabella watched the rowing eight disappear upstream. ‘I also know,’ she went on, ‘that there’s very bad feeling in the company. Georgie tries to be fair, but he can’t help paying some of the performers more than others. The two ballet dancers are leaving soon, apparently, trying their luck in New York. And it’s known he favours Alexei too, although they have terrible clashes, major fallings out.’
‘I see,’ Agatha said. ‘And you—’
‘Me?’
‘Georgie—’
‘Oh,’ she gave a nervous smile, a shrug. ‘Georgie and I – we’ve crossed paths before. It’s a small world, show business.’ She turned away, gathered her scarf around her shoulders. She looked back at Agatha. ‘The point is – someone must look after Patrick. He’s a very kind man. Very kind. As you know. But – I worry that he’ll… he really is beside himself. He was just emerging after all that loneliness, after Sylvia’s death. And now this. I don’t know about you, but as far as I’m concerned, if someone was to take away the person I loved most in the whole world, I’d feel nothing but vengeful rage.’ She looked at Agatha. ‘I don’t suppose you know Patrick well enough to have a view—’
‘I have a view on vengeful rage,’ Agatha said.
‘Oh,’ Isabella said, lightly. ‘Your books.’
‘No,’ Agatha said. ‘Not my books. My life.’
Isabella looked at her, a question in her eyes. Then, a shrug, a gathering of orange silk. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve done my duty. I felt you should know. It’s a chilly wind off the river, isn’t it? In any case, that’s it for me. My darling moths call. I might see you later on.’
They left the terrace. Isabella bade her goodbye. With a swish of the central door, she disappeared out into the street.
Agatha thought about her notebooks upstairs in her hotel room. She wondered when she’d be free to go home. She went out to the foyer. She was surprised to see Patrick, sitting in one corner on a low couch. He seemed to have a pack of cards and was turning over a game of some kind.
‘Patience,’ he said, looking up, flicking over a card. ‘Or as our American cousins call it, Solitaire.’
She sat next to him. ‘You don’t seem to be doing too well,’ she said.
He eyed her. ‘You’ve talked to Isabella.’
‘She told me—’
‘She told you I was in love with Cosmina?’
‘Yes. She did.’
He leaned back in his chair. He looked old, shadowed with weariness. ‘It is the truth,’ he said.
Agatha waited. She felt a wave of pity for him, although now his face had tightened, reddened, and his voice was suddenly loud.
‘The man was never worthy of her,’ he said. ‘And now he’s done this.’
‘Alexei?’ She was surprised by his vehemence.
‘Who else?’
‘But—’
‘Strangled, the police are saying. Possibly drugged first, they’re waiting for their test results. It shows all the signs of a rejected lover. He was furious with her, just because she refused to love him—’ He was shouting now, and Marie at the box office was glancing across at them, with a pout of red lipstick under her severe black fringe.
‘Patrick…’ Agatha touched his sleeve, and he breathed, quietened.
‘How did you meet her?’ she asked.
He settled into his chair. ‘It was three months ago now. Three perfect months. Agatha, I’ve never been happier. She made me believe that life was worth living after all. After Sylvia died… it was as if the light had gone out of things. And now…’ He leaned forward, his gaze intense. ‘But you mustn’t think it was a replacement of Sylvia
, oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘Cosmina was like nothing I’d ever known before. So intense, passionate. So beautiful. Her grace, as a dancer… She brought back the joy to life.’
‘How did it start?’
His eyes were bright with remembering. ‘It was a silly thing. I’d gone to see a collection, a chap with an astonishing number of Bronze Age Cretan oil lamps, up the road here. I’d been there for rather a long time and I was tired, so I went to sit down in St James’s Park. February, it was, very chilly. And I was aware of laughter, and there they were, Cosmina and Sian her friend, such good friends they are too… were,’ he corrected himself, and the light died from his eyes.
‘And we got talking, I think I was lighting my pipe and they asked for a match, and Cosmina and I… Well, I’d never done anything of the sort in my life before, but I suggested we go and have a cup of tea, and Sian made her excuses, she had to get back for a rehearsal, but Cosmina agreed, and—’ He focused once more on Agatha, his gaze intense. ‘I know people think it’s one of those things, I’m a good thirty years older than her, silly old widower looking for love. But she was cultured, interested in what I was interested in. Being from Romania, my excavation work appealed to her. She would listen for hours.’ His eyes welled with tears. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.’ He stacked the cards on the table into a neat pile, picked up the box. ‘It’s like the story of the Cilician Pyramus. And like all the best ancient tales, it’s true.’
He put the pack of cards into his pocket, got to his feet. ‘I need a walk. If we’re not required to report to the inspector, I might as well pop into the Antiquaries. They’re displaying the finds from the Qatna digs.’ He offered his arm. ‘Would you like to come too? They’ve found a lion’s head, Mycenaean amber, apparently.’
She allowed him to help her up. ‘I think I must work,’ she said. ‘I hope they’ll let us go home soon.’
He shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, their job is done. Cosmina was frightened of Alexei. She knew they danced well together, but she would say to me, he always wants more. Always wants more. He would get angry with her. It made her life very difficult…’ He turned away, passing his hand across his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, turning back. ‘As I say. A cliché. It doesn’t make me feel less alone.’
Out in the street, he shook her hand, then set off towards Aldwych. She watched him go, turned towards the hotel entrance.
Vengeful rage, she thought, climbing the stairs to her room. But when does that lead to murder?
An image came into her head, of Isabella in the dim light of the butterfly house, a slash of orange scarf against the glass. The caged moths flitting, darting, and Isabella, poised and cool, absorbed in their silvery dance.
CHAPTER FOUR
Agatha sat at the table in her well-appointed room, her notebook in front of her, a pen in her hand. At her elbow lay a fine white china plate, on which were arranged two smoked salmon sandwiches.
‘Lunch, madam,’ the maid had said, appearing with the tray. ‘As you ordered.’
Now she held the thinly cut brown bread in one hand, and flicked through her notes with the other.
‘Reasons for revenge,’ she’d written. ‘A woman who needs to be in control, and who finds she isn’t anymore.’
She took a bite of sandwich.
What if someone really did want to kill a rival?
But wanting to kill, and actually carrying it out…
Is it enough, to be heartbroken?
She leaned back in her chair. The sunshine had lasted into the early afternoon. She looked out at the blue sky, the cheery parasols on the decks of the boats moored on the riverbank.
And if there’s no resolution, she thought. What would it be like, to have life stretching ahead, with no meaning, no joy?
The word, again. Divorce.
A final hammer blow, flattening to nothing all those years of hope and promise.
She finished her sandwich, bent to the page, began to write again. There would be rage, yes. There would be the chaos of rejection. But there would also be a resolution, she thought. For all this talk of real life, of stories with no ending, I will stick to what I know, whatever the critics might say. There will be a conclusion, a solution to the mystery, a murderer unmasked—
There was a loud knock at the door.
‘Yes?’ she turned, as the door edged open. The face that appeared was that of a man, with cropped hair and wide-set brown eyes.
‘Madam,’ he said, and she recognized him from his accent.
‘I am Alexei Fyodor Petrovich.’ He stood tall and upright in the doorway, then ventured a step inside. ‘I am sorry to trouble you, madam,’ he said. ‘They tell me where to find you. I hope I do not get in the way of your writing.’
She murmured words of encouragement, closed her notebook, gestured to the armchair.
He sat down. He was wearing dark red, a shirt that hugged his muscular form, loose-fitting trousers. He took a long breath. ‘Madam, I don’t know who to say these things to. So I think of you. I have a great fear, of police. They will say I killed her. They will say I killed Cosmina.’
She thought about the dance of the night before, their stamping, swirling, defiant grace.
‘We fight,’ he said. ‘All the time, we fight. And yet we dance as one person. This is difficult to explain to police. I know you are an artist. This I explain to you.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Do go on. How did you meet her?’
His gaze went to the window, then back to her. ‘Up there, Leicester Square. A bar up there. I come from Novgorod, the lowlands, where my father was a priest, in the church, like in the times before. Then, I train in Moscow. I dance, I am happy, but then my father is sent away, I have no one, very poor. No food. I get message from my father, he tells me I must leave. Then nothing. No word. So I walk. I walk for miles. So cold. The wind, it makes your fingers burn. Like fire. No skin…’ His words tailed away. He stared at the floor for a while, as if studying the carpet. He looked up. ‘Then, I go to America. Big ship, long time on the sea. New York. But not so good.’ He shook his head. ‘Then, another ship, big ship…’ He swayed on his chair to indicate the movement. ‘And then, London,’ he said, and his face brightened. ‘Here, safe. Here, in the bar. Leicester Square. And there they are, the company. Like finding my family. Sian is there, we talk, she tell me about her friend, about her dancing, her need of a partner. And then later I meet Cosmina.’ He stopped, breathed. ‘And then - Oh, Madam - we dance. How we dance. There is work, there is money. Like I say, like family. But, madam, the fighting. She is selfish, she has a small mind, they say she is narciss… the word – narciss—’
‘Narcissistic?’
A firm nod. ‘Yes. That. The world spin and she is at the centre. The lighting like this, the dress like that, just so, no, too long, too short…’
‘But she could dance,’ Agatha said.
He breathed out. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She could dance.’ He took a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. ‘The minute the lights go down, the curtain comes up, the first notes of music… she is transformed. On stage, I only want to be there. Nowhere else. Off stage… I must get away.’ He took out a cigarette, tapped it on its box. ‘Madam, I have a worry. A big worry. Just before… just before these events – we have a big fight. A big argument. Words are said. Bad words. People hear me.’
‘Which words?’ Agatha watched the cigarette turning round and round between his long, elegant fingers.
He was suddenly still. He looked at her. ‘I say to her – “I wish you were dead.” I say it loud. In English.’
He placed the cigarette on the table.
They were silent, gazing at his cigarette. Then Agatha said, ‘Words aren’t the same as deeds. Wishing someone dead isn’t the same as killing them.’
He looked up at her, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. ‘You are right, madam,’ he said. ‘But will the police understand?’
He picked up the cig
arette, suddenly decisive. ‘Well, what will be will be,’ he said. With one swift movement he was on his feet. He put his hand to his chest. ‘Art can come from this,’ he said. ‘Like Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy. He knew great melancholy, yet on the page it is transformed.’ He stepped towards her, made an elaborate bow. ‘Madam – I thank you. My fears have retreated.’
The door closed softly behind him.
She opened her notebook.
‘Reasons for revenge,’ she read.
Melancholy, transformed on the page.
Or rage.
My character will challenge her rival. She will stand, steadfast and defiant, in the path of the woman who has stolen her lover. She will say to her, ‘If it wasn’t for you, I would be happy.’
‘I wish you were dead,’ she will say.
She looked out of the window. The warmth had brought people outside, enjoying their lunch hours, walking beside the river, their chatter merging with the carriages and birdsong.
She felt as if she was on holiday. She thought of her desk back home in Chelsea. Carlo would have brought post from Sunningdale. It would all be spread out on the desk, ready for her. Editing notes from the publishers, letters from readers, invitations to dinners or to speak at events. There was one she had left unanswered, she remembered, from Wales, Swansea, was it, or Cardiff perhaps; the chairman of some learned society asking if Mrs Christie would do them the honour of addressing their annual meeting…
She would have to decline, politely. Carlo would write, as usual, to let them know that Mrs Christie very rarely agrees to such things. She’s very shy, Carlo would always say, when asked. She’s a writer, she’d say, in explanation, as if it were obvious that being a writer and being shy went together.
Which of course, they do. Isabella might assert that we have much in common, Agatha thought, but when it comes to walking onto a stage to express the truth of one’s emotions, she and I are worlds apart.
She picked up her pen, returned to her notes.
‘A real murder,’ she wrote. ‘A tale of jagged edges and broken hearts. Life, love – and the ending of that love.’
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