Maria laughed. “Only job he could get. He’s not a bad carpenter, but there’s not a lot of demand for his skills elsewhere around here.”
“Did he get along all right with Mark?”
Maria twirled a strand of hair as she thought for a moment. “I guess so. I mean, basically Vernon’s a do-as-you’re-told-and-get-on-with-your-work sort of bloke. Salt of the earth, as they say. He was just uncomfortable sometimes, that’s all.”
“Did Mark make him feel that way?”
“Not deliberately, just by what he was.”
“Can you give me an example? Did Mark tease him or anything like that?”
“No, nothing like that. It was just . . . Like, Mark was a great mimic. He could take off just about anyone. You wouldn’t believe how funny he was when he got going. You should have heard his Kenneth Williams, or seen him do his gay John Wayne or his effeminate Barnsley coal miner. Talk about laugh.”
“Did Vernon find this amusing?”
“No. I think it embarrassed him when Mark started doing his out-rageously gay routines. I mean, most of the time he was just . . . you know . . . ordinary. Well, I don’t mean ordinary, because he was a great bloke, really special, but he didn’t have any affectations or exaggerated mannerisms.”
“I think I understand,” said Annie. “Was Vernon at the theater all Friday afternoon?”
“We all were.”
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“During the Calamity Jane matinee?”
“Yes.”
“But could somebody have slipped away?”
“I suppose so. I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”
“Don’t believe what?”
“That Vernon would hurt Mark. I mean, it’s one thing to be a bit uncomfortable around gays, but quite another to go and kill one.”
Annie wasn’t thinking of Mark, but she didn’t need to tell Maria that. “I’m not suggesting he did,” she said. “We have no evidence so far that Mark did anything other than take his own life. I’m just trying to get everything clear, that’s all. What about the morning? Were you all at work then?”
“We didn’t start until noon.”
So Vernon Ross could have killed Laurence Silbert, Annie thought.
Maybe it was an unlikely scenario, but it was worth keeping in mind.
“What about Derek Wyman?” she asked. “He and Mark went to London together last week.”
“The way I understand it, they really didn’t go together,” said Maria. “Derek told me they were meeting up down there to see some films. He sounded quite excited about it.”
“What did Mark say?”
“I didn’t get to talk to him about it. He was too busy.”
“Did you ever get the feeling that there was anything between Derek Wyman and Mark?”
“Good Lord, no. Derek’s not gay. I can tell you that for sure.”
“How do you know?” Annie asked.
“I can’t really explain it. Gay-dar. No vibe.”
Annie realized that Maria was right. Often a woman could tell. “But they’d never done anything like this before?”
“No. To be honest, it came as quite a surprise to me. I mean, it wasn’t as if they were best of friends or anything.”
“You mean they didn’t get along?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I think Mark just got frustrated with Derek sometimes, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because Derek kept trying to do his job, tell him how the produc-A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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tion should look and all that. I mean, he is the director, but Mark was a professional. He’d done courses and everything. We were lucky to have him here.”
“I thought they were agreed on the German expressionist set?”
“Well, they were. But it was Derek’s idea, and he wasn’t always receptive when Mark brought fresh perspectives to it. It was as if he expected Mark just to do what he was told, to follow the plans, get the sets built and the costumes made and shut up. But that wasn’t Mark’s way. He was really creative, and he saw a production as more of a col-laboration. Between all of us, really. He was always asking our opin-ions on things. The actors, too. Derek just gave orders. I don’t mean to give the impression that they didn’t like each other or anything. I mean, I know they met socially occasionally, too.”
“Artistic differences, then?”
“Yes. And they’re both from working-class backgrounds, you know, only Mark tried to play down his roots—he even talked a bit posh—while Derek, well, he’s one of those blokes who wears his workingman’s club membership card on his sleeve, even though he’s never been to a workingman’s club in his life, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” said Annie. “Did Mark talk about himself much?”
“Sometimes. Not a lot. He was a great listener, though, was Mark.
You could talk to him about anything. When I split up with my boyfriend in February, I must have talked his ear off, but he didn’t complain. And it helped me.”
“You said he’d been a bit strange the past couple of weeks. Do you have any idea why?”
“No. We didn’t really have a chance to get together for a chat or anything during that period, what with one thing and another. Not that he would have told me, anyway.”
“Did he ever tell you if something was bothering him?”
“There were a couple of occasions when he let his guard down.”
She put her hand to her mouth to stif le a giggle. “Usually when we’d had a bit too much to drink.”
“And what did he talk about on these occasions?”
“Oh, you know. Life. His feelings. His ambitions.”
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“Can you tell me more?”
“Well, you know about his background, don’t you? Barnsley and all that?”
“A bit.”
“It was something he was very uncomfortable about. He was an only child, you see, and he didn’t turn out to be exactly the sort of son his father wanted. His father was a miner and very macho, apparently, played rugby and all that. Mark wasn’t very good at sports. Worse, he wasn’t even interested. He did well at school, though.”
“What about his mother?”
“Oh, Mark adored her. That’s one thing he would go on about. But she broke his heart.”
“How?”
“She was so beautiful and so artistic, so sensitive and tender, or so he said. She acted with the am drams, read poetry, took him with her to classical concerts. But his father used to mock everything they liked to do, called Mark a mummy’s boy. It sounds as if he was a drunken brute. In the end, she couldn’t take it anymore, so she left them. Mark was only ten. He was devastated. I don’t think he ever got over it.
Even when he told me about the day she left he was crying.”
Annie could hardly believe it. “She left her son with a brutal, drunken father?”
“I know. It sounds terrible. But there was another man in her life, apparently, and he didn’t want any children hanging around. They ran off to London. I didn’t get the full story, but I know it tore Mark apart. He loved her so much. He couldn’t stop loving her. But he hated her for leaving him. And I think after that he found it really hard to trust anyone, to believe that anyone he started to care about wouldn’t just up and leave him at a moment’s notice. That’s why it was so lovely to see him making a life with Laurence. They moved slowly, mind you, but it seemed to be working.”
“Go on,” said Annie. “What happened after his mother left?”
“Well, Mark was left with his father, who apparently just sank even deeper into the booze and became more and more angry and vicious as time went on. Mark lasted till he was sixteen, then he hit him with an ashtray and ran away from home.”
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“He hit his father with
an ashtray?”
“It was in self-defense. His father beat him regularly, usually with a thick leather belt, Mark said. The kids at school used to tease him and bully him, too, spit on him and call him a sissy. His life was hell. That one time, he told me, it just all came surging up in him and he couldn’t control himself anymore. He lashed out.”
“What happened to his father?”
“Mark didn’t hang around to find out.”
“And he never went back?”
“Never.”
Annie took a moment to digest this. She could see why Maria had not wanted to talk about it in front of the others. If Mark Hardcastle had shown an inclination toward violence, poor anger control, then it certainly supported the theory that he had killed Laurence Silbert in some sort of jealous rage and was then overcome with remorse. The blood-typing that she and Banks had just found out about also agreed with this view.
On the other hand, there was the redemptive image of the relationship that Maria painted, and that Edwina had touched upon the previous evening: Mark loved Laurence Silbert, had practically moved in with him, was making a life with him. Annie knew well enough that the presence of love doesn’t necessarily rule out murder, but she also wanted to believe in the positive view of the two of them.
“He did very well for himself, then,” Annie said. “But it sounds as if he had a lot of inner demons to overcome.”
“And prejudice. Don’t forget that. We might think we’re living in an enlightened society, but as often as not you’ll find it’s only skin-deep, if that. People might know the politically correct responses and attitudes and trot them out as and when required, but it doesn’t mean they believe them, any more than people going to church means they’re really religious and believe in God.”
“I know what you’re saying,” said Annie. “Hypocrisy’s everywhere.
But it doesn’t sound as if Mark suffered a great deal from antigay prejudice here, at the Eastvale Theatre. I mean, you say that Vernon was uncomfortable, but he didn’t actively harass Mark, did he?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to imply that. You’re right. It was a great 1 0 0
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place for him to work. And he had such great ideas. He was going to make so many changes.”
“What do you mean?”
“The theater. Well, you know what it’s like. It’s quite new, and they do the best they can. We get some good acts, but on the theatrical side, well . . . between you and me, the Amateur Dramatic Society and the Amateur Operatic Society aren’t exactly the cream of the crop, are they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they’re amateur. I’m not saying they’re not enthusiastic, even talented, some of them, but it’s just a sideline for them, isn’t it. With people like Mark and me, it’s everything.”
“So what was he going to do?”
“He had a vision of starting the Eastvale Players.”
“A rep company?”
“Not strictly speaking, no, but with some similar elements. It would be made up of some of the best local actors, along with jobbing actors.
The idea was that Eastvale would be their home base, but they’d tour and we’d have reciprocal visits from other groups of players. Mark would be the artistic director and he said he’d put in a good word for me with the board, so I could have the job he’s got now. Had. Like he was grooming me. I mean, I’ve got the qualifications, but it’s not just what’s on paper that counts, is it?”
“This would be a professional company, then?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. They’d be paid and everything.”
“And Vernon?”
“He’d do the same as he’s doing now.”
“But wouldn’t he be upset if you became head of set and costumes?
You’d be his boss then.”
“I don’t see why it should bother him. Vernon’s not ambitious.
He’d still be paid, wouldn’t he? Nothing would change for him.”
How little you know about people, Annie thought. Maria was being rather naive, given that she had mentioned earlier on how Vernon seemed to have problems working with competent women, let alone for one. “What about the amateur groups?” Annie asked.
“They’d do what they were doing before, I suppose, put on plays in the community center and church halls.”
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“And Derek Wyman?”
“He’d still be their director.”
“I know, but it’d be a bit of step down for him, wouldn’t it, after working at the real theater?”
“But it’s not as if it’s his life, is it? Or even his real job. He’s a schoolteacher. The theater’s just a hobby for him.”
Try and tell that to Derek Wyman, Annie thought, remembering her talk with him that morning. “And who was going to finance this little venture?” she asked.
“Laurence Silbert, Mark’s partner, was going to help us get started, then the idea was that it would mostly pay for itself, maybe with a little help from the Arts Council lottery money every once in a while. We were sure the board would go for it. Laurence was on the board, anyway, and he thought he could convince them.”
Vernon Ross had never mentioned this, Annie thought. But he wouldn’t, would he, if it was something that angered him or made him look bad? “Interesting,” she said. “Just how far had all this got?”
“Oh, it was still only in the planning stages,” Maria said. “That’s another reason this is all so tragic. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Now nothing will change. If I want any sort of future in the theater, I’m going to have to look for another job. I don’t even think I have the heart to stay here without Mark being around.”
“You’re young,” said Annie. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Not really,” said Maria. “That was about all I had to say. I can offer you another cup of instant coffee, though, if you want?”
Annie looked at the cracked, stained mug with the gray-brown sludge in the bottom. “No, thanks,” she said, standing up. “I really have to be going. More reports to write. Thanks for your help, anyway.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Maria, seeing her to the door. “Just don’t tell Vernon what I said about him being homophobic and all that. I’m sure he thinks he’s the very model of tolerance.”
“Don’t worry,” said Annie. “I won’t.”
* * *
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E D W I N A’ S S TAT E M E N T hung in the silence ready to burst like a piece of overripe fruit on a tree. Banks had had his suspicions that Silbert was up to something clandestine, but he would have guessed that it was sexual, or perhaps even criminal. Not this. Not espionage. He knew that it changed the whole balance and focus of the case, but it was too early to say exactly how. At least he could start by getting as much information out of Edwina as he could, though she seemed immediately to have regretted her little confidence.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” she said. “It’ll only muddy the waters.”
“On the contrary,” said Banks. “You should have told me the first time we talked to you. It could be important. How long had this been going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“The spying.”
“Oh, all his life. Well, ever since he graduated from university.”
Edwina sighed, sipped her gin and tonic and lit another cigarette.
Banks noticed the yellow stains ingrained in the wrinkles of her fingers. “His father, Cedric, worked for military intelligence during the Second World War. I don’t think he was very good at it, but at least he survived, and he still had the contacts, people he kept in touch with.”
“Did he pursue it as a career?”
“Good Lord, no. Cedric was far too selfish to serve his country for any longer than he had to. He involved himself in a number o
f ill-advised business ventures. One after the other. I’m afraid, Mr. Banks, that charming rogue as he was, my late lamented husband wasn’t much good at anything. His main interests in life were fast cars and even faster women. We stayed together for appearances’ sake, as married couples did then, but God knows how long it would have lasted if it hadn’t been for his accident. The woman he was with walked away without a scratch.” Edwina gazed directly at Banks. “I always hated her for that, you know,” she said. “Not that I wished it had been the other way around. I just wished they had both died.”
She must have noticed Banks’s look of mingled curiosity and horror because she went on quickly. “Oh, I didn’t do it. Really. I didn’t fix the brakes or anything. I wouldn’t know how. Don’t think this is a A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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murder confession. It was just the end of something for me, and it would have been an even more perfect end if his silly little whore had died with him. You can hardly imagine how miserable my existence was then. This was in late October 1956, well before Viva and the swinging sixties. In fact, it was right at the height of the Suez Crisis, and I think Cedric was involved in the oil business then. Suez was the main tanker route, of course. Typical of him to be putting his money in quite the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, things were very difficult all around. The only bright spot in my life was Laurence.”
Banks noticed the tears in her eyes, but with a supreme effort of will she seemed to absorb them back into the ducts. He could feel the sun warm on his cheek and his shirt was sticking to his back. “The spying,” he said gently. “How did that come about?”
“Oh, yes, that. Would you believe it but Dicky Hawkins—an old war colleague of Cedric’s—actually asked me for permission to recruit Laurence? This was in his last year at Cambridge, 1967. He’d shown a remarkable facility for modern languages—German and Russian in particular—and a keen grasp of contemporary politics. He was good at sports, too. Not for Laurence The Beatles, marijuana and revolution. He was about as dyed-in-the-wool blue as you could get. While others kids were out buying Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Laurence was running around the hills playing soldiers with the army cadets and collecting military memorabilia. And he didn’t buy it to sell it to hippies on Carnaby Street later, either. Somehow all that just passed Laurence by.”
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