She looked at the words on the page, then closed the book.
It was time to meet Inspector Joyce.
*
In the foyer, a short, rather round man in a black suit and stiff white shirt was bustling to and fro carrying a large board.
‘Where should I put it?’ he asked her, as if they’d known each other for years.
‘Put what?’ she said, bewildered.
‘A big sign. Saying “Performance Cancelled”. Where is it to go?’
He continued his fevered pacing. ‘Here?’ he pointed at the main doorway. ‘Or here?’ he indicated the theatre bar. ‘At least get them to have a drink before they drift away unsatisfied.’ He looked at her as if just seeing her. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,’ he said. ‘You’re a friend of Miss Maynard’s, apparently.’
Before she could speak, he went on, ‘I’m Georgie Carmichael. Impresario. I’m the one attempting to manage all this. And I have to say, spectacularly failing.’
‘Mr Carmichael,’ she said. ‘It’s hardly your fault if—’
‘Saffra the Persian Queen,’ he said. ‘I’ve just succeeded in booking them. And now this. An empty auditorium – they’ll never forgive me. And I’m paying them for nothing.’ He thumped the board down next to the box office.
‘Mr Carmichael,’ she said. ‘It’s upside down.’
He glared at it accusingly. ‘So it is.’ He turned back to her. ‘You’re a novelist, so Miss Maynard tells me. Murder stories,’ he added. He tightened his tie at his neck. ‘How very appropriate. Picking up tips, perhaps?’ He flashed her a smile.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t work that way.’
He tucked his thumbs under the lapels of his jacket. He had thinning black hair, combed across his head.
He considered her. ‘You should write a play,’ he said.
‘I have thought of it,’ she said. ‘Although—’
‘Exits and entrances,’ he said. ‘That’s all you need.’
‘Surely there’s more to it than that,’ she said.
He smiled at her. ‘You’d be surprised. You come onstage. You try and do something. Like open a door. Then, you fail. You fall over, or hit yourself on the door. The audience laughs like billy-oh. You get off. End.’
She smiled.
‘Two minutes of perfect drama. And yet the funny thing is,’ he went on, ‘to get it right takes years of practice. Years.’ He bent to the board, frowned at it, turned it the right way up. ‘I told the coppers, can’t we make it part of the billing. Murder mystery variety show. They didn’t see the funny side. And I wasn’t even making a joke.’ He placed the board by the box office. ‘This’ll be the ruin of me,’ he said. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ He raised an imaginary hat, then strode away, out to the bar.
*
She went into the theatre. There was a strange quiet about it, and she wondered where everyone was. She climbed the steps onto the stage, and stood there in the centre.
The empty stalls in the dim light seemed hushed with anticipation. What would it be like, she wondered. To stand here, with all those seats filled, with the dazzle of the spotlights. To step forward. To begin to speak.
And what would I say?
I’d have to be someone. Someone with a reason to speak. A character. Not Agatha Christie, a real person, but someone made up, a fictional being.
What would it be like? To search within oneself. To find another character, a different truth.
She gazed outwards, scanning the seats with their anticipatory blankness. She wandered offstage.
In the wings there was a costume rail, draped with all sorts of clothes. She fingered the silks and feathers, imagining how it would be, to don a new persona and walk out there, into the lights.
There was a noise from the stage. She was hidden from view by the scenery. As she peeked out, she saw Luca Belotti. He was alone, tiptoeing across the stage. He was in white face, with arched black eyebrows painted on, and the round red nose of a clown.
He did a few steps of a dance, a joyful twirl, his face illumined with a smile. A small, neat leap – and then the nose fell from his face and bounced across the floor.
His expression changed to sorrow, his body seemed to deflate, as he dragged himself after the nose. He reached out to pick it up, and slowly, with a melancholic grace, reattached it to his face.
And now happiness returned, the exuberant sparkle of the red-nosed clown. In a series of joyful leaps he exited the stage.
*
Agatha found she was smiling. She remembered his audience yesterday, their delight in his illusions, their laughter and applause.
Georgie Carmichael is right, she thought. It is simple. It just takes years to make it so.
Behind her footsteps, a metallic clunk, a murmuring.
‘What is the use?’ someone was saying.
She turned to see Miss Nethersall arranging the costumes on their rail. ‘I may as well pack these back into their trunks. Our London police force might be the best in the world, but they don’t understand the world of theatre.’ She picked a white tutu from the rail, surveyed it briefly, replaced it. ‘And as for him—’ She jerked her head towards the stalls.
Patrick had come into the auditorium and was standing, blank-faced, staring at the stage.
‘Heartbroken,’ Alicia Nethersall said. ‘I hardly know the man, but I know heartbreak when I see it.’
Agatha crossed the stage, went down the side steps. He turned, slowly, as she joined him.
‘All sham.’ He waved an arm towards the stage. ‘All illusion.’
‘Patrick—’
He stepped up onto the stage. ‘Fairy castles.’ He pointed to the scenery flats stacked against the walls. ‘Happy endings. All make-believe.’
‘Patrick—’ She followed him back onto the stage. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting the inspector.’
‘What can he tell us that we don’t already know?’ His voice echoed through the empty theatre. He was fretful, almost on the point of tears. He shook his head. ‘Last night I was living an illusion.’ His voice was harsh. ‘An illusion that life was full of joy and love and laughter.’ He gazed upwards, towards the backcloth drapes that hung on rails high above them. ‘And then you get up here and find it’s just painted canvas and tricks with mirrors. And as for that—’ He pointed at one of the canvas drapes, which hung crookedly from its horizontal brass pole. ‘Hanging by a thread,’ he said.
She could see the two ropes disappearing upwards into the theatre roof.
Alicia was standing by her rail, watching with maternal concern. ‘We manage,’ she said, gently.
Agatha touched his arm. ‘We must find the inspector,’ she said. ‘And then they’ll let us go home.’
‘That Russian gangster—’ Patrick was still studying the scenery. ‘He’s taking them for fools.’
‘Alexei,’ Alicia said. ‘They’ve been questioning him.’
‘But they’ve let him go.’ Patrick’s tone was incredulous.
Alicia patted his arm. ‘Please try to understand, Mr Standbridge. You can say what you like about Georgie, but he chooses the best. And it takes a certain temperament to want to be the best. Highly strung, that’s what you’d call it. To get to where he is now, Alexei has had to be very, very determined. He’s had a long journey, from poverty to here. He’s devoted to his craft, he is.’ She hung a Harlequin suit back on the rail. ‘Even as we speak,’ she said, ‘he’s out the back, devising a solo dance now he’s without a partner. You’ll see – as soon as we clear the stage, he’ll be here, all on his own, practising and practising. That’s what he’s like.’ She turned to Agatha. ‘You must be the same, with your writing. That’s a craft too, isn’t it? I bet you work and work to get it right.’
‘Well—’ Agatha began.
‘And is your new story another murder mystery?’ Alicia said.
Agatha was gazing at the costume rail. ‘My new story is about love,’ she said. ‘And the mi
stakes people make.’
‘It will be a long story, then,’ Patrick said. He turned away, descended the side steps, Agatha behind him. Alicia arranged the last costume on the rail and followed.
*
The bar was bright after the darkness of the theatre, but almost empty of people. They all three settled at a table. Patrick patted his pockets. ‘My pipe,’ he said. ‘I put it down back there…’ He stumbled to his feet, disappeared back into the theatre.
Alicia surveyed the deserted tables. ‘Poor Georgie,’ she said. ‘It’s another blow to the company. The Welsh tour with all its disasters was bad enough.’
‘What will he do?’
Alicia laughed. ‘Georgie – he’ll be fine. He has this knack you see. He’s really not at all good at understanding the difference between make-believe and real life. And at times like this it really helps.’
Agatha smiled. ‘I can see that,’ she said.
‘That said, if the company doesn’t survive this blow – I might well have to go. A shame,’ she said. ‘I’ve been happy with this lot. But I can’t afford not to work. I know what it is to be poor, how you end up doing anything for money, anything. I’m not going back to that if I can help it.’
‘Back to what, my dear?’ The voice was deep, with a Welsh accent.
Alicia’s face lit up as he approached their table. ‘Hywel,’ she said.
‘Poverty?’ he said. ‘You’ll never be poor again if I can help it.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘Have you got a moment to discuss doublet and hose? Assuming we reopen tomorrow, I need to think about how I’m going to look for that Elizabethan song cycle.’
She smiled, got to her feet. ‘That stuff is all in the trunks next door.’ She turned back to the table. ‘I hope the police release you to get on with your writing, Mrs Christie.’
They went out to the foyer, Alicia petite and cornflower blue against his wide, comforting stride.
A waiter came at last, and Agatha ordered coffee for two. She thought about Alicia’s account of Alexei, his poverty, his determination to dance. She wondered why it had seemed rehearsed.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Patrick reappeared, rather breathless, clutching his pipe. ‘Cosmina used to say that if we ever had a life together, she’d buy me lots of pipes in different colours so that I wouldn’t keep losing them.’ He managed a thin smile as he slumped back in his chair.
The coffee was brought and poured. Agatha was still wondering about this feeling that Alicia was hiding something.
‘Hiding,’ Patrick said, suddenly, as if voicing her thoughts. ‘You’re better off with novels,’ he said. ‘Sitting quietly at your desk, you don’t have to put up with everyone pretending to be something they’re not.’
She looked at him, concerned.
‘Theatre,’ he went on. ‘Just escape.’
‘But Patrick,’ she said. ‘We want to believe it’s true. That’s the fun of it—’
‘Escape,’ he repeated, his tone brittle. He raised his eyes to hers. ‘They were bound together by their talents – but he hated her. Hated her. I told her she should get away, I tried to rescue her. She said to me, “But what can you give me? I need to dance.”’ His eyes blazed at the memory. ‘“I need to dance,” she said to me. And it proved to be the ending of her.’ His face was blank, his gaze steely as he spoke. ‘I couldn’t save her.’ He bowed his head, stared into his coffee cup.
They sat in silence. Agatha tried to find some words of comfort, but none came. Patrick looked up again. ‘And the police,’ he said. ‘We heard they were going to arrest him, as indeed they should. And now it turns that all they did was ask him a few questions and let him go, leaving him free to “practise his solo dance” – that’s how much he ever cared about Cosmina. As soon as she’s no longer with us, he just finds a way to dance alone…’ He had turned, and was now staring fixedly at the theatre doors. ‘I cannot rest, while that man is free.’
‘Patrick – there’s nothing to say he did it.’
‘Who else?’ His eyes were dark with fury.
‘All we know is that they had an argument,’ Agatha said.
He was still facing the theatre doors. ‘Out there on the stage, all by himself, just dancing. That’s all he cares about—’
From within came an unearthly scream. A silence, another scream. Then commotion, doors crashing open, people running, shouting – ‘An ambulance,’ someone yelled in the foyer, ‘Quick, for God’s sake…’
Alicia was standing in the doorway, shivering with shock. ‘It’s – he’s – Alexei…’
Georgie appeared behind her.
‘No breath,’ Alicia was murmuring.
Georgie ran to the bartender, shouting, ‘Telephone, man, for God’s sake – ambulances, now—’
Alicia took Agatha’s arm. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘And you,’ she said to Patrick.
Georgie led the way.
Agatha was on her feet, following, knowing as she went back into the theatre, what she was going to see. She was aware of Patrick beside her.
The stage was bare, apart from one person. Alexei was lying lifeless on the boards, face white, lips blue, a trickle of red from under his head. The brass scenery rail lay across him where it had fallen, crushing his skull. His eyes were open, empty and unseeing.
Agatha looked back towards Patrick. His gaze was fixed on the dead body, steady, expressionless.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘The question is—’ Detective Inspector Joyce paced the floor of the green room, a lit cigar between his fingers. It was a shabby, airless space, with rows of ill-assorted chairs and high narrow windows through which were glimpsed blue strips of fading sky. He surveyed the assembled company, then went on, ‘The question we have to ask is, had the rail been tampered with?’
A curl of cigar smoke drifted across his gaze.
There were glances between the assembled company. Sian was seated on a moss-green armchair, with Stefan perched on one side. A line of wooden chairs had Alicia, Hywel and Luca side by side. Georgie was slumped on a couch of threadbare red velvet. Now, at the inspector’s question, everyone looked at him.
‘It was crooked, that batten,’ Alicia said. ‘We’d remarked on it.’
Georgie turned to the inspector with an exaggerated expression of regret. ‘It is, of course, my responsibility, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We manage with what we’re given in theatre, but often we’re forced to make terrible compromises.’
Agatha was on one of the wooden chairs, watching the pacing inspector, his detective sergeant standing respectfully behind him. Patrick was sitting next to her, rigid and motionless. She remembered his looping the ropes. She thought of him staring upwards at the brass rail. ‘My pipe,’ he’d said, as he’d stumbled back into the theatre, knowing Alexei to be alone.
His face was blank, and she wondered what he was thinking now.
Inspector Joyce paused, mid step. ‘It is the case,’ he said, ‘that we had Mr Petrovich in our sights to arrest for the killing of poor Miss Balan. And now…’ he seemed to be thinking as he spoke – ‘of course, it might well be the case that this was an accident, an extraordinary chain of events in which Mr Petrovich did indeed kill Miss Balan, and now fate has lent a hand in her revenge.’ He faced the company, as if about to take a bow. His cigar had gone out, and he frowned at it.
Georgie spoke with theatrical zeal. ‘Inspector, you may indeed be right. Stranger things have happened. And in our world, anything is possible—’
A flurry of footsteps, and the green room door was flung open. ‘Darlings – they told me—’
Isabella stood in the doorway, posed in her blue and orange silk as if ready for a photograph. ‘How absolutely dreadful. Really, I can’t bear it. That poor, poor man…’
The inspector faced her. ‘Miss Maynard. Do join us,’ he said.
She stepped into the room, draped herself onto an armchair. ‘An accident,’ she said. ‘How terribly ghastly.’
Luca Belotti tilted his hea
d towards her. Sian sat slumped, picking at the frayed green threads of her armchair. Stefan had his arm around her shoulders.
Patrick was looking at Isabella as if trying to recall her name. Once again, Agatha thought about the elaborate patting of his pockets, the search for his pipe; the hatred, the dark fury, the words, ‘I couldn’t save her.’
A police constable appeared in the doorway. ‘Inspector Joyce, sir – we’ve finished on the stage. We’ve moved the – the deceased.’
‘Thank you, Officer.’ The inspector turned to the company. ‘Well, I offer you my thanks and my condolences. We will continue our investigations with the greatest of urgency. And I’m afraid I must insist that you make yourselves available to me and my team in the next few days.’
He went to the door, his sergeant beside him. The company shifted, stirred. The room seemed to breathe again.
Patrick had got to his feet and, taking Agatha’s arm, led her out into the corridor. ‘Inspector—’ he called.
Inspector Joyce turned.
‘Surely,’ Patrick went on. ‘Surely there’s no need for us to be kept prisoner here any further. We all have lives to lead. Mrs Christie here has a book to write.’
Inspector Joyce allowed himself a smile. ‘Ah, Mrs Christie. Yes, you are free to go. We’re doing our duty, keeping an eye on things. Not ruling anything out, of course. But you are all free to go, Professor Standbridge too. Just don’t go leaving the country or anything until our investigation is complete.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Patrick gave a nod of acknowledgement.
Agatha glimpsed Isabella heading out to the foyer area.
The inspector turned to Agatha. ‘I fear that real-life crime is always so much more dull than any of your stories, Mrs Christie.’
Patrick had wandered ahead, and was now in conversation with Isabella, framed by the gilt foyer doors.
The inspector went on. ‘Here we have one action, a terrible crime committed in a moment of anger. And then, who knows? An accident? Or another impulsive act, a crime of passion, a need for revenge? It’s the sort of question I imagine you, in your work, are always raising.’
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