Barnaby, facing the murderer of Esslyn Carmichael, thought yes, he could imagine one or two things more deceitful, actually, but just said, “When did you discover this?”
“Last Saturday afternoon. I’d just got in from being interviewed at the theater. He rang and asked if he could come over. Doris was out shopping, so we had the place to ourselves. He didn’t beat about the bush. Just said he was taking over direction at the Latimer starting with Uncle Vanya, and making an announcement to that effect after the curtain call Monday night. I said it was out of the question, he produced all these figures and said I could either step down or go to prison. I immediately spotted a third alternative, which I lost no time in carrying out. I got the duplicate razor from a shop in Uxbridge on the Monday morning. I knew Deidre’s routine and that everything would have been checked long before the five. Esslyn never touched props, so I knew he wouldn’t be likely to spot the substitution. I simply picked up the original as I went through the wings and, in the interval, took off the tape—”
“Where was this?”
“Well, I popped into the actors’ loo, but Esslyn and his cronies were there. So I just stepped outside the stage door for a minute on my way to the dressing rooms to give them all a rollicking. Then, going back, I made the switch again. It only took a second. I used Doris’s flower knife, it’s very sharp. Simple.”
Harold gave everyone a delighted smile, squinting at each face in turn and gloating a little in his cleverness. His beard had lost its clean, sculptural outline, and now had a disordered, almost herbaceous air.
“I knew, of course, Esslyn hadn’t worked it out all by himself, especially when he owned up to sending that silly book. It was supposed to be a hint, he said. I was involved in ‘fishy’ business, you see. And a cookbook because I was ‘cooking the books.’ Well, really, he could never have thought of anything so subtle to save his life. I knew where that had come from, all right. And all the fifth-column work at rehearsals to make me seem incompetent, so the takeover would be more acceptable.”
The Everards, trying to register self-righteousness and lofty detachment, merely looked as if they wished they were a thousand miles away. The rest of the company expressed surprised disgust, excitement, amusement, and, in two cases (Deidre and Joyce) shades of pity. Troy got up from his position on the steps and crossed the stage. Harold started to speak again.
“You do understand, don’t you, that I had no choice? This”—he made a great open-armed gesture gathering in his actors, the theater, all of the past, and triumphs yet to come—“is my life.”
“Yes,” said Barnaby, “I do see that.”
“Well, I must congratulate you, Tom.” Harold held out his hand briskly. “And I can’t say I’m sorry that all this has been cleared up. No doubt it would have come out sooner or later, but it’s nice to start a new season with a clean slate. And I can assure you no hard feelings—at least on my part. And now, I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me”—the hand returned, unshaken, to his side—“I must get on. We’ve an awful lot to get through tonight. Come along, Deidre. Chop-chop.”
No one moved. Tom Barnaby stood irresolute, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He had arrested many criminals in his time, quite a few of them for murder, but he had never been faced with one who had confessed, offered to shake hands, then turned to go about his business. Or one who was so obviously mad.
“Harold . .
Harold turned, frowning. “You can see I’m tied up here, Barnaby. I’ve been reasonable so far, I’m sure you’ll agree—”
“I want you to come with us.”
“What—now?”
“That’s right, Harold.”
“Out of the question, I’m afraid. I must get Vanya cast tonight.”
Barnaby felt Troy move, and put a restraining hand on the sergeant’s arm. Apart from Barnaby’s own sensibilities, which made dragging a demented, possibly screaming man out of a building and into a car a task he would hardly relish, there was the fact that his wife and daughter were present. Not to mention Deidre, who must have had more than enough of this sort of thing already. Harold was now standing waving his arms about urgently in the center of the stage. No one laughed. Barnaby prayed for inspiration, and caught Joyce’s eye. Her face looked withdrawn, almost alarmed. Barnaby had never seen his “closing in look,” and had no idea how fearsome it could be. He allowed his expression to soften and saw his wife respond, warmth come back into her cheeks. Then he noticed a newspaper lying on her lap, The Stage and Television Today, and silently sent his thanks.
“Harold,” he repeated, moving toward the director, then gently touching his arm. “The press are waiting.” “The press.” Harold repeated the honeyed words, then his brow darkened. “That potbellied idiot from the Echo…”
“No, no. The real press. The Times, The Independent, The Guardian. Michael Billington.”
“Michael Billington.” The blaze of hope in Harold’s eyes dazzled. “Oh, Tom.” Harold placed his hand on the chief inspector’s arm, and Barnaby felt the weight of his exultation. “Is it really true?”
“Yes,” said Barnaby, his voice rough.
“At last! I knew it would come. … I knew they’d remember me.” Harold gazed wildly around. His face was white with triumph, and saliva, like a bunch of tiny crystal grapes, hung on his lips. He allowed Barnaby to take his arm and guide him down the steps leading from the stage. Halfway up the aisle, he stopped. “Will there be pictures, Tom?”
“I … expect so.”
“Do I look all right?”
Barnaby looked away from the shining countenance disfigured by lunacy. “You look fine.”
“I should have my hat!”
Avery got up and collected Harold’s succubus and silently handed it to him. Harold put on the hat at a grotesque angle, the tail hanging over one ear; then, satisfied, continued his progress to the exit.
Troy, a few steps ahead, opened and hooked back one of the double doors and held aside the heavy crimson curtain. Harold paused on the threshold, then turned and stood for a moment to take a last look at his kingdom. He held his head a little to one side and appeared to be listening intently. On his face memory stirred, and an expression of the most intense longing appeared in his crazed eyes. He seemed to hear, from far away, a trumpet call. Then, still touched by the magic of death and dreams, he walked away. The heavy crimson curtain fell, and the rest was silence.
Another Opening, Another Show
Christmas had come and gone, and the weather was far from clement. The woman who climbed out of the shiny blue Metro was wearing a full-length fur coat (beaver) and a silk-lined fur hood. She made her way across the wet pavements to the Far Horizons Travel Agency and gratefully hurried into its warmth. She pushed back the hood as she waited at the counter, revealing soft gray-blue curls, and also removed her gloves. She asked for some cruise brochures and, at the sound of her voice, the agency’s only other customer, a slender girl in black, turned and spoke in some surprise.
“Doris?”
“Kitty—hullo.” Doris Winstanley’s response was a spontaneous smile; then, remembering past circumstances, an embarrassed silence. Kitty was far from embarrassed. She smiled back and asked Doris where on earth she was planning to sail away to.
“I’m not sure. It’s just that all my life I’ve dreamed of going on a cruise. Of course, I never thought I’d have the opportunity.”
“Don’t blame you, Doris. Weather like this. You want to be careful, though.”
“I’m sorry? I’m not sure …”
“Lounge lizards. All those charmers looking round for unattached wealthy ladies.”
“Oh, I’m not at all wealthy,” Doris said quickly. “But I have had a little windfall. So I thought I’d treat myself.”
“Super. Are you going to stay in Causton when you come back?”
“Oh, yes. I have quite a few friends here.” (Indeed, it had surprised her how many people had visited and shown genuine concern
and support over the last few weeks. People who had never showed their faces when Harold was at home.) “And I’m going to let my two spare rooms to students when I come back. I’ve already contacted Brunei. It’ll be lovely to have young people around the place again. My own children are so far away.”
Doris talked on for a few minutes more. She didn’t mind at all Kitty asking questions, or the brazen flavor of her advice. Doris was only grateful that Esslyn’s widow was able to meet her and chat with some degree of kindness. Kitty looked very attractive, and had made no concessions to the weather. Her black suit had a miniskirt, and she seemed to be wearing neither blouse nor jumper beneath the tight-fitting jacket. She was beautifully made up, and had on a little pillbox hat with a black veil that came just to the bridge of her pretty nose and through which her pearly skin gleamed. Doris concluded her ramblings by asking Kitty what she was doing in Far Horizons.
“I’m picking up my plane tickets. I fly to Ottawa on Tuesday. To visit my brother-in-law.” She adjusted the veil with rosy-tipped fingers. “He’s been so kind. They’re very anxious to console me.”
“Oh,” said Doris. There didn’t seem to be much else she could say except, “Have a nice trip.”
“You, too. And watch out for those lizards.” Kitty pushed her ticket into her bag. “Now, I must rush. I’ve got a friend coming at seven, and I want to have a bath. See you.”
Doris reflected for a moment on the unlikeliness of this assurance ever coming to pass, then she collected her pile of brochures and made her way to the Soft Shoe Cafe where she ordered tea and cakes. It was much more comfortable here than at home. There was hardly a stick of furniture in the place at the moment. All the tired, stained, hateful old rubbish of a lifetime had gone to the junkyard, and she would take her time replacing it. She would buy some new things and hunt for little treasures in antique shops. There would be plenty of time. And plenty of money. She had got an awful lot for the Morgan and, to her surprise, a very capable solicitor that Tom Barnaby recommended had sold the business for what seemed to Doris an enormous sum. And of course the house was in her name. Doris smiled, picked up her fork, and plunged it into an eclair.
Avery was cooking supper. They were eating in the kitchen as the surface of the dining-room table had almost disappeared under a large and beautiful working model of the set for Uncle Vanya. Tim had spent the last hour with a flashlight and colored cellophane, experimenting with lighting and making notes. Personally he thought the main room in the composite set looked as if it belonged to a villa in New Orleans rather than one in tum-of-the-century Russia, but there was no denying the close, enervating feel of the place, especially when the jalousies were closed and the light seeped through them and fell in dusty bars across the furniture.
“I hope you understand it’s just scratch.”
‘‘So you keep saying.” Tim transferred his attention to Avery’s garden, wonderfully light and airy, and pictured it under a bright blue sky. Then he went to the larder, chose a bottle of Pedroncelli, and wielded the corkscrew. “What are you scratching, then?”
“Skate.”
Tim poured two glasses of wine and put one by the cooker. Then he picked up Floyd on Fish. “I thought you said he wasn’t sound.”
“One mustn’t be too purist in these matters. Joycey didn’t want to keep it—understandable under the circs— so I took it off her hands. In fact”—he tasted the juices in the pan—“I think this is going to be rather good.”
Silently Avery cursed himself for leaving the book out (it was usually at the back of the dish towel drawer). The last thing he wanted was to remind Tim of the occasion of Esslyn’s death. For Tim had confessed to Avery (and Barnaby, too) that he had known about the plan to unseat Harold from its very emergence—although not about the blackmail. Assured by Esslyn that once he had taken charge, there would be no interference in the area of lighting or design, Tim had seen no reason why his original ideas should not be used in Amadeus, beginning on the first night.
Now, of course, he blamed himself for the outcome. If he had not kept the secret, if he had only told Avery— i.e., the entire company—Esslyn would probably be alive today. For weeks after Harold’s arrest, Tim sat around the house melancholic and racked with guilt. He hardly ate and took no interest in the shop, which, in the pre-Christmas rush, nearly had Avery demented, even though Nicholas gave up his job at the supermarket to help.
On top of this, Avery had his own feelings to cope with. A certain disappointment, for instance, at the realization that Tim’s seemingly brave and generous offer over the lighting had actually carried no risk at all if he knew Harold was to be deposed. But Avery nobly struggled to live with the fact that one small bubble had burst, and continued to cook ravishing meals when he wasn’t scurrying around the shop and catching up on orders till midnight. But now Tim was getting better. Almost his old self. Avery drained his glass and smiled across at his companion.
‘‘Don’t slosh it down like that. It’s a premier cru!”
“How you do go on.” Avery lifted the skate onto an oval dish, and Riley, who had been curled on top of the Bentwood stool like a cushion, leaped (or rather thudded) to the ground. Since Sunny had started visiting the theater on a regular basis, Riley had refused to enter the building and had skulked, wet, shivering, and martyred, in the yard by the trash bins. Avery had not been able to bear this for long, and the cat was now ensconced in the house, stout, comfortable, and living the life to which, in his most far-reaching and secret dreams, he had always believed his name entitled him. Now, he padded over to his plate and attacked the fish with gusto. It was not up to the pheasant Perigord he had had last night, but he was certainly prepared to give it eight out of ten for succulence.
“I’ve made some brown-bread ice cream for pudding.”
“My favorite.”
Avery chopped some parsley over the vegetables. “But I didn’t have time to shop today, so I’m afraid the baby carrots are frozen.”
“My God.” Tim banged down the knife with which he had been slicing a baguette. “And I understood this place had five stars.”
“Not for the food, duckie.” Tim laughed then. The first real laugh Avery had heard for weeks. They started to eat. “How is it?”
“Delicious.”
“What do you think … ?” mumbled Avery.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”
Avery swallowed and drank some more wine. “It’s ambrosial, this stuff. What do you think we ought to give Nico for a going-away present?”
“We’ve already given him The Year of the King. ”
“But that was weeks ago. Now he’s staying on for Vanya, shouldn’t we give him something else?”
“I don’t see why. We hardly see him, what with rehearsals. And Cully.”
“There’s talent, if you like.”
“Terrifying. I thought Nico was good, but she lights up the stage.”
“Tim … you’re not sorry Kitty’s gone?”
“Of course not. Don’t start.”
“I’m not. Truly.”
And, truly, he wasn’t. Avery, having weathered the first really shattering blow to the relationship that was the cornerstone of his existence, now experienced, somewhere unreachably deep within his heart, a safe, abiding peace. He didn’t quite understand this. It wasn’t that he thought that Tim would never stray again. Or even that he might not, on some future occasion, stray himself (although this struck him as incredibly unlikely). Rather, it seemed that his personality had somehow developed an extra dimension where hurts or sharp surprises could be absorbed or even neutralized. Gratitude for this unexpected and surprising state of affairs and for the very fact of his continuing existence, struck him anew, and he smiled.
“What are you beaming at in that fatuous manner?”
“I’m not.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“I was just thinking how nice it was that the good ended happily and the bad unhappily.”
> “I thought that was only in fiction.”
“Not always,” said Avery, and poured some more wine.
“Can you drop me off?”
Barnaby and Troy were about to leave the office. Troy, trench coat tightly belted, a shiny packet of cigarettes to hand, was already anticipating that first cloudy, cool lungful. Barnaby shrugged on his greatcoat, adding, “It’s on your way home.” When his sergeant still did not reply, the chief inspector added, “You can smoke if you like.” Blimey. In my own car. In my own time. Thanks a bloody million. Troy noticed his boss’s eyebrows, which today looked more like used-up shreds of Brillo pads than ever, lift inquiringly.
“Where’s the Orion, sir?”
“Joyce took it in for an MOT.”
“Only I’m not going straight home … calling at the Golden Swans.” More waggling. “It’s a free house,” explained Troy. “Out on the Uxbridge Road.”
“That’s all right by me. I could do with something wet and warm on a night like this.”
“Well …” Red-faced, hanging on to the door handle, Troy elucidated further. “It’s not really a pub—that was just a joke—they’re on the bath, you see.”
Barnaby looked at his sergeant. And saw. “Ah. Sorry, Troy. I’m not usually so slow on the uptake. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, sir.” The younger man made it halfway through the door, then turned and squared up to Barnaby in a manner both awkward and defiant. “I mean, the case is over.”
“Oh, yes, yes. What you do off duty’s your own affair.” Then, when Troy still hovered: “If you’re waiting for my approval, you’ll stand there till daisies grow out of your arse.”
“Good night then, sir.”
“Good night, Sergeant.” As the door closed, Barnaby called, “Give my regards to Maureen.”
That reminded him of the song about Broadway, which reminded him of theaters, which reminded him of the Latimer, which reminded him of Harold, whom he was trying to forget, which he did most of the time, especially once he got into the business of the day. After all, he told himself (yet again), it was just another arrest. A bit out of the ordinary in that it was someone he knew. Also slightly out of the ordinary in that, once Harold had realized that the crème de la crème of British journalism had not gathered to honor him, it had taken three men to hold him down and get him into a cell. Barnaby, for the first time that he could remember in working hours, took the coward’s way out and left them to it. But even in the canteen, he could still hear Harold screaming.
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