A Photographic Death

by Judi Culbertson

  “We think she put Caitlin in the stroller.” I hated to correct Jane, but I didn’t want him to think it was something Jane had seen.

  “Did you mention that to your assailant?”

  “No.” In the cold light of the interrogation room, I was embarrassed to tell him I had said that Priscilla had gotten what she deserved.

  He stood up. “Thank you. We’ll take it from here.”

  That was it?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  FROM THE POLICE station we went back to the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, this time to look at playbills.

  “This could be tedious,” I warned, as we sat at a table waiting for the material. “Maybe you’d like to do something else. I hear Anne Hathaway’s Cottage is worth a visit.”

  Jane laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m not letting you out of my sight!”

  “I don’t think anything else will happen.”

  “Mom, he tried to kill you. If I hadn’t been trying to catch up and seen you go in, you wouldn’t be here. I’d be trying to have you—­what’s the word for when they send the bodies home?”

  “Repatriated. And we didn’t even buy travel insurance to cover it. Dad would be furious.”

  “It’s not funny,” she protested. “Imagine if we had come over here to look for Caitlin and you’d been killed instead.”

  When I saw how upset she still was, I reached over and pressed her hand. Even when she was a little girl, Jane rarely cried. She would get angry instead and stamp her foot, her cheeks flaming, eyes squinched in fury. On the occasions when crying was her only option, she would open her mouth and howl. She wasn’t near tears now, but her world had been shaken.

  “It was the last thing I was expecting,” I admitted. “All those quotes from plays seemed so . . . good-­natured.”

  “I don’t get it. I don’t get why he’d want to attack you. It makes no sense.”

  It was a question I had no answer for.

  WE FOUND PRISCILLA Waters’s name listed in several productions in the early 1990s though she never had large roles. She was usually cast as a lady-­in-­waiting or someone’s mother. We made a long list of everyone who had acted in the plays with her. There seemed to be about forty or fifty actors in the company. I thought about listing the production staff as well, but that was Plan B. If none of the actors was still with the company, we could go back and try to find support staff.

  The theater gods were with us. A number of the earlier company remained, and two of the women were in tonight’s production of King Lear.

  “Have you ever seen it?” I asked Jane.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Maybe we can still get tickets. We could talk to those actresses afterward.”

  “Actors, Mom. They call themselves actors now. We don’t have to see the play to talk to them.”

  “I know, but it would be fun. Think how impressed your friends will be when you tell them you saw a Shakespearean play right in Stratford-­upon-­Avon.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “They’ll just die.”

  WHAT CAN YOU say about watching a play in the same theater where it was performed four hundred years earlier? Outside, the lanterns shimmering off cobblestone streets and half-­timbered houses helped to create the mood. Inside the theater the excitement was as intense as if the Bard himself were to appear for a curtain call. King Lear was one of my favorites, and I took it as a good omen that we could see that rather than having to sit through several hours of tomorrow night’s play, The Merry Wives of Windsor.

  The theater was large, though not as large as the Metropolitan Opera House, with deep-­red seats. It had a number of levels like the Met, the tiers protected by wooden spindles. It was not a stretch to imagine the theater looking this way several hundred years ago.

  Marian Baycroft, who played Regan, was a black-­haired woman with artificially rosy cheeks and a way of giving her head a sarcastic toss. She must have started early with the company, I decided; she looked no older than I was. I hoped she was as friendly as everyone else we’d met. Scratch that; everyone but Will’s Boy and DCI Sampson, although the detective wished us no harm. Maybe he was just tired of Americans.

  Jane settled in the velvet seat beside me and watched the play thoughtfully. When she was growing up, Colin and I despaired of her resistance to anything not factual. On one dig, when Colin tried to entertain us by reading C.S. Lewis aloud in the evenings, Jane had refused to be engaged. “They can’t go through a closet to another country,” she declared. “What about customs? Why do they have to go to Narnia anyway? Why can’t they stay home and do stuff?”

  Colin tried to explain the concept of fantasy, but Jane would have none of it. Being Colin, he kept on reading over her protests until she was drawn into the story.

  Thinking about it now, I wondered if it had been related to her own protests against having to travel to so many unfamiliar places while her friends stayed home and built sturdy lives.

  My other children had never taken to reading either, not with my passion for books. Hannah loved stories about animals, and was interested in the Sweet Valley High series when it was passed around her classroom. Jason, close to dyslexia, had avoided books altogether. He loved action movies, as violent as possible, and computer games. Would Caitlin have been the child who loved literature, the one to whom I could have introduced the “Shoe” books of Noel Streatfeild and the fantasies of Ray Bradbury? Would she have been the one always curled up with a book?

  Dangerous thinking. I could not allow myself to give in to imagining a child who filled the gaps left by the others. It was what Hannah had been frightened would happen. My children were my children and I loved them for exactly who they were. Not perfect, but I had never tried to change them into something else.

  I shook off my fantasies about Caitlin and watched Jane. The story was intense and her eyes widened in all the right places. No princesses or talking lions here.

  I was the restless one. I could not get my sore body comfortable in the seat, and watching the play seemed unbearable. All I could think was, This is going to end badly, without distinguishing between the tragedy that would overtake Lear and what would happen to us. Only last night I had been coaxed into an alley and unexpectedly attacked. He had stopped only when Jane appeared and forced him to run off. Was he somewhere nearby waiting to finish what he had started? Did he think I knew a secret he didn’t want anyone else to find out? Perhaps he might even attack Jane to get back at me.

  Unable to relax in my seat, tense and jumpy at every movement in the aisle, I fantasized that we were safely on a plane home.

  I BLINKED—­HAD I been dozing?—­as the overhead lights flashed on and the applause died away. Intermission. ­People around us were rising from their seats and clogging the aisles.

  “Let’s go,” Jane urged.

  “Where?”

  “We can get something to drink.”

  Was it safe? But maybe it wasn’t safe sitting alone in our seats either. I got up and followed Jane. Surely in this crush of bodies nothing could happen.

  Over a glass of Pinot Grigio, I asked, “Did you tell Dad about the attack on me?”

  Jane looked at me for a minute. “No.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why? Why wouldn’t you want him to know?”

  Why wouldn’t I? I decided it was because he would either be too worried, especially about Jane, or his attitude would be, What do you expect? Kick a hornet’s nest and you’ll get stung. But there was more to it. What to do about Caitlin had put us on opposing teams. He might see the attack as an advantage for his side. And if I had died? I saw him in a dark suit, hugging the children to comfort them, feeling as if life had dealt him one more blow.

  He would also hate being identified as the man whose wife had been murdered i
n Shakespeare’s picturesque town. I knew he would mourn my dying so young, perhaps agonize over what might have been in our future. But I was a book he had already read. I couldn’t make him break down and throw himself on the flames.

  I had to be careful not to demonize Colin though. He and Hannah had a right to their reservations.

  “How are we going to approach this actress?” Jane said. “Just walk up to her?”

  “I don’t know. Go backstage and see if she’ll talk to us, I guess. Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Maybe we could send her a note asking to have a drink with us. Say that we’re New York theater lovers. Invite her back to the hotel.”

  “You think she’d come?”

  “For a free drink and admiration? You don’t know theater ­people, Mom.”

  Shrugging, I pulled out the notebook I always carried to keep book information in, removed a page, and waited for Jane to dictate.

  She thought. “Okay. ‘Dear Ms. Baycroft.’ ” She paused. “Uh—­ ‘We’re visiting from New York and a friend suggested we get in touch with you. We’d be pleased if you would join us for a drink at the White Swan after the performance, where we are staying. Sincerely, Jane Fitzhugh and Delhi Laine.’ She’ll be impressed that we’re staying there. Celia Banks was.”

  “I’m impressed that we’re staying there. But—­‘a friend’?”

  “Well . . . we don’t want to frighten her.”

  “Fine. You handle it.”

  “Lighten up, Mom. It’s going to be fine.” Jane took the paper, folded it, and approached an usher with a smile that could charm the stripes off his dress pants.

  “He’s going to take it to her right now,” she reported.

  “Let’s hope she shows.” I still thought that ambushing her at the stage door was the better plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  WHEN WE GOT back to the White Swan, we found that our seats on the couch by the fireplace had been usurped, so we positioned ourselves at a small wooden table where we could watch the door. I ordered my usual cider and Jane, white wine. She saw Marian Baycroft before I did and waved.

  When she came closer to us, smiling expectantly, I saw that with her stage makeup scrubbed off she was at least fifty. Marian had not done a great job cleaning off her greasepaint, though. It stuck in the lines of her forehead, accentuating the creases, and made the crow’s feet around her large brown eyes more noticeable.

  Jane, smiling too, pushed back the third chair.

  “I’m intrigued,” Marian said, unbuttoning her black cloth cape and giving her hair a shake. “Did Leo send you?”

  “I don’t remember who it was exactly,” Jane said smoothly. “We know so many theater folk. Whoever it was got excited when we said we were coming to Stratford, and told us we had to look you up.”

  “Are you in—­”

  “Actually,” I interrupted, “We wanted to ask you about an actress you used to work with. But first things first. What can we get you to drink?”

  She laughed. “A half pint of Guinness would be grand.”

  I raised my hand for the waiter.

  “Your Regan was wonderful,” Jane told her. “I was captivated. It’s not easy to make her as sympathetic as you did.”

  “Why, thank you. Do you act?”

  “No, I’m in finance. But I live in Manhattan and spend my life in the theater. My mother”—­she indicated me—­“lives out on Long Island.”

  This was the girl who scorned anything “not real”?

  Time to get this horse back into its stall.

  But Marian did it for me. “This actress you mentioned—­is she in some kind of trouble?”

  Worse than that. “Her name was Priscilla Waters.”

  “Priscilla? But she died ages ago! How could—­”

  “I know. We’re trying to trace members of her family. For the American branch.”

  I didn’t want to tell her the whole story but didn’t want to lie either. Trying to find her family was not untrue.

  The waiter set down a cardboard coaster with the White Swan logo and placed her beer on it expertly. She reached for the glass. “Have you talked to Nick?”

  Jane and I looked at each other. I took a stab. “Her husband?”

  “Ex-­husband. I don’t even know where he is these days. They were already divorced when she joined the company. Actually I don’t know what his first name is. I meant her son Nick. He’s Nick Clancy.”

  “He’s here in Stratford? Really?”

  “Oh, he’s around. Does odd jobs for the company, props and box office, and does some street theater. Her older boy, I can’t remember his name either, he went off to university and didn’t come back. Nick was the one most affected by the accident.”

  I hadn’t envisioned Priscilla having children. “How old was he when it happened?”

  “Around eleven, I think. Certainly no more than twelve. It hit him badly. He went to live with his father but had a rocky go of it.”

  “We’d love to meet him,” Jane said eagerly. “To let him know he has cousins in the States. They’ll be excited to hear about him too.”

  “Well, he’s always around the theater. Or on Henley Street, dressed as Shakespeare.” The humorous turn-­up of her mouth indicated what she thought of that. “He must be thirty now, but you’d never know it.”

  Oh, my God. Priscilla Waters’s son in a Shakespearean mask? And I had told him she got what she deserved. And called her a bitch.

  “Is he an actor too?” Jane was asking.

  Marian looked heavenward. “Everyone in Stratford is an actor. Every last resident has secret hopes and dreams. But no, Nick will never be any more than a would-­be.”

  I struggled to think of what else we needed to know. “Did they ever find out what happened to Priscilla?”

  “Not as far as I know. They blamed it on wild youngsters who didn’t even know they’d hit someone. Those country roads have no lights at all. But no one knew why she was out in the countryside at night.”

  “Was she a good actor?” Jane asked.

  “She’d only joined the company the year before. She was older than I was and did character bits. It was only my third year; I didn’t have large parts myself.”

  She had nearly finished her beer and flicked her wrist to see her watch.

  “So she had two sons,” I said quickly. “Did she ever say she wanted a daughter?”

  “She may have. ­People always want what they don’t have, don’t you know. My sister had five girls before the boy came along. She said afterward she needn’t have bothered.”

  I laughed. “Would Priscilla have adopted a girl, do you think?”

  “A daughter? Why? She had a hard enough time getting on as it was. There was never enough money for her. She complained about her ex-­husband not paying his fair share. The last thing she would have wanted was another responsibility.” Marian finished her Guinness. “It was all so long ago, but I don’t remember her as a happy person. She was sure she would be happy if only. If only she had better parts, if only she’d meet the perfect man.” She pushed up from the table. “Sorry, I have to run. Say hi to the New York chaps.”

  Then she stopped in the middle of fastening her cape. “I’ll tell you who knows more about Priscilla. Marjory Kingsley. She was her closest friend in the company and I know she’s kept up with the boys. She’s retired, but she volunteers at Anne Hathaway’s Cottage. What’s tomorrow, Saturday? She should definitely be there. If you go, tell her cheerio from me.”

  When we were alone again, Jane said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Nick Clancy.”

  “It all makes sense!” She signaled the waiter to bring her another Chardonnay.

  I finished my cider quickly though I didn’t want another. “Except for Priscilla Waters. There’s no reas
on why she would have taken Caitlin. According to Marian, she was an ambitious actress with two kids to support already. And divorced. Why would she want the extra burden of a two-­year-­old, especially one she’d have to explain? It was too risky, especially with Caitlin’s photo in the papers.”

  “I know. When you put it that way . . .”

  “Priscilla might not be the woman in the photo at all. And—­damn!”

  “What?”

  “We didn’t show Marian my photograph. We should have showed her the photograph.”

  We both looked at the door as if she might miraculously still be there.

  “But look at it from another way,” Jane argued. “Her son Nick has a Shakespeare mask. That’s huge. He might even be that Shakespeare we saw standing on the corner yesterday posing for photos.”

  I nodded. “He didn’t deny she had taken Caitlin. He just got angry.”

  The waiter set down Jane’s wine but she didn’t look at it. “And he sought us out for a reason. Maybe the woman who kidnapped Caitlin was his aunt. Or something.”

  We went on fantasizing—­what else was there to do? “Suppose Pricilla’s husband had always wanted a daughter, and she thought this would bring him back. But instead she dies mysteriously.”

  “And the husband takes Caitlin when he takes Nick,” I suggested.

  “That’s why Nick was so angry with you. His father loved Caitlin and gave him a hard time.”

  “And he wanted to kill me because?”

  “You’re her mother.”

  We had reached the end of the yellow brick road. “But wouldn’t Nick and his brother have told their father where she came from? He probably would have just handed her over to the authorities. Why would he want the responsibility of a strange child?”

  “Yeah.”

  A leaden disappointment fell over the table. It didn’t matter if Priscilla Waters or someone else took Caitlin, or even if we were horribly wrong and my little girl had drowned. She was still lost to us and finding her was as improbable as it had ever been. What we needed to do now was keep out of harm’s way until we left for home Sunday and went back to the way our lives had been. My bruises would heal and we’d be none the worse for our adventure. Jane and I might even stay close. Our family would limp along as before. “Maybe we can leave a little earlier. Tomorrow instead of Sunday.”