Robert said: ‘I hope you’re not too bored with the rehearsal.’ His eyes twinkled behind his glasses.
‘On the contrary, I find it fascinating,’ said Fen, ‘and inconceivable.’
‘Inconceivable?’
‘In this, as in a very few other works of literature, there are things which one can only put down to divine inspiration. Normally one can easily follow the rather laborious and mechanical processes of an author’s thought. It’s the unexpected, inconceivable things which don’t fit into that process, and which yet are absolutely right, that I mean.’
Robert chuckled. ‘Tricks! A bag of tricks solely, I assure you. I’m going to begin on another shortly which I hope will be better – or less bad.’
Fen was pensive. ‘Another?’
‘As soon as I get finished here. And next time it will go on in town, with all the bunting and flags out. I hope and think this will, too. In fact I’m certain of it, now we’ve got this far. Even after years of experience one never quite knows when one’s writing a thing how it will turn out in practice.’ Under the sober indifference of his tone there was a strain of fanaticism which led Fen to ask:
‘Why, chiefly, do you write?’
Robert smiled. ‘For money – and for the sake of showing off; I think that’s why most men, even the very greatest, have written. The Creation of Art’ – he succeeded in making the capitals articulate – ‘is an object which seldom enters into their calculations. Necessarily. Most original artists don’t know what art is, or beauty. They’re almost invariably hopeless critics; writers never know the first thing about music, or musicians about writing, or painters about either, so it can’t be beauty they’re all intent on. That presumably is a sort of incidental occurrence, like the pearl in an oyster.’
There was a fractional pause. Then Fen nodded vigorously. ‘I look forward,’ he said, ‘to Monday night. Are you getting on all right without Yseut?’
Robert looked uncomfortable. ‘Callous as it seems, we’re getting on like wildfire without Yseut. Her habit of unintelligent but persistent criticism was becoming very wearing. I’ve no objection to having my plays criticized, providing it’s along the right lines. But she, dear child, never knew the first thing about plays, and simply slanged anything that offended her commercial-bred prejudices. Slanged publicly and offensively, what’s more. I may say it was getting to be something of a serious problem.’
‘Granted that,’ said Rachel, ‘I think everyone has been making too much of her nuisance-value, particularly since they’ve heard she’s dead. After all, she wasn’t more than one of many tiresome people Providence has seen fit to inflict on the world.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Fen. ‘The forked tail has been overmuch in evidence. It’s been very harassing.’ He sighed. ‘Everyone has been so anxious to tell the police how much they disliked her – to divert suspicion from themselves, I suppose, by a sort of sophisticated double-bluff – that it’s been impossible to sort out any finer and more significant shades of opinion.’
‘Is it usual,’ asked Robert mildly, ‘for the detective to discuss the crime with his suspects in this impartial and informative fashion?’
‘A sine qua non,’ said Fen cheerfully. ‘In the course of the discussion they are supposed to give away their inmost feelings. But do you regard yourself as a suspect?’
‘Well,’ said Robert a trifle vaguely, ‘I suppose I could have rushed out of the lavatory, shot the girl, rushed back again, and re-appeared at the appropriate moment.’
‘I’m sorry to say,’ said Fen, ‘that for reasons which have been discussed, you could have done nothing of the sort. You’re quite cleared from that imputation.’
‘I won’t say I’m relieved, because I never really considered it seriously. But it’s nice to have things cleared up.’ Robert appeared to be filing the matter away in some remote corner of his mind. Rachel said:
‘And what about me? Am I above suspicion too?’
‘That depends,’ Fen replied affably. ‘What were you doing at the time of the crime?’ he apostrophized her sternly.
‘Please, sir, I was at a cinema, brooding over the failings of the male sex.’
‘Oh?’ Fen was surprised. ‘But I expected you to be impeccably vouched for by someone in North Oxford.’
‘My fault,’ said Robert. ‘What with my literal mind and my personal vanity, I couldn’t believe that was only an excuse to get away from me.’
‘The Inspector,’ pursued Rachel, ‘was furiously suspicious about that. What was worse, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what cinema it was – I just went into the first one I came to – or what film was on. I didn’t pay the least attention to it in any case, and I’m not sure I could even say what it was about. The Inspector is obviously one of those people who set out to see a particular film, arrive punctually at the beginning, and pay the closest attention throughout.’
Fen nodded. ‘Personally,’ he said a little absently, ‘I never go to the cinema except to sleep; I find the atmosphere very soporific.’ He gazed about him, seeming to seek admiration and approval for this eccentricity. Then his face clouded slightly, and he added: ‘But I shouldn’t treat your lack of alibi too lightly, if I were you. We know it’s all very human and natural, but the fact remains that you still haven’t got an alibi for the time when murder was committed.’
‘Rebuked,’ said Rachel soberly. ‘Of course you’re right. But is it quite certain that Yseut didn’t commit suicide? I know it seems improbable, but –’
‘Nothing is certain,’ said Fen, ‘until the police make up their minds. They’ll more or less instruct the coroner, he’ll more or less instruct the jury, and unless fresh evidence turns up – there, one way or another, the matter will rest.’
‘But you’re working with the police,’ Rachel insisted. ‘What do you – you personally – think?’
‘I think it was murder,’ said Fen slowly, ‘and I have known for some time who the murderer is.’
Robert contrived to look suitably outraged. ‘Then why on earth,’ he asked, ‘don’t you tell the police and get it over with? Not enough proof?’
‘Not enough incidental proofs, of course. The main fact stands out as plain as daylight. Only one person in this whole wide world could have killed Yseut Haskell. I admit that it depends on the reliability of one witness, but I’ve no reason to suppose that witness anything but reliable on that point.’ His face was grave.
‘Then there’s to be an arrest?’ asked Robert. ‘Why not straight away?’
Fen gestured vaguely. ‘The murderer is a human being, not a cipher, an x, though he’s that till he’s discovered. On the discovery the hunt inevitably slows down. One has been pursuing an electric hare, and on cornering it, one finds it to be a real one. I confess I’m very reluctant –’ He fell silent.
Robert nodded briskly. ‘Understandable,’ he said, ‘if a trifle sentimental. The crime is a sudden, final, unanticipated blow, the detection of the criminal has all the cumulative cruelty of the hunt. Still, murder’s murder.’ He appeared to find comfort in this simple reflection.
Nigel approached with a pint, of beer, which Fen regarded with some dismay. He put it down on the counter and turned his back on it, apparently hoping that by ignoring it he could induce it to disappear. ‘I remember,’ he said vaguely to Robert, ‘something about your going to South America before the war. Was it pleasant?’
Robert seemed a little taken aback. ‘You seem to take a passionate interest in my travels,’ he said drily. ‘Last night it was Egypt. Yes, I’ve been to South America several times – Buenos Aires and Rio mostly.’
‘And with what’ – Fen addressed Nigel sternly – ‘do you associate South America?’
‘Nuts, pampas grass, and Carmen Miranda,’ replied Nigel promptly.
Fen made remote noises indicative of pleasure. ‘Excellent well, i’ faith,’ he said, ‘a splendid index to the journalistic mind. Free association has its uses.’
‘We must be moving,’ said Robert, glancing at his watch. Fen turned his attention reluctantly to his beer, and contrived to swallow it in one gulp, amid a good deal of admiration. ‘I think,’ he said thoughtfully as he put the tankard down, ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Revenons à nos moutons, dear hearts,’ said Robert, ‘we must press on, press on.’ In twos and threes they moved towards the door. The parrot gazed sedately after them.
11. The Questing Beast
And aloof in the roof, beyond the feast,
I heard the squeak of the questing beast,
where it scratched itself in the blank between
the queen’s substance and the queen.
Charles Williams
Jane met them as they trooped in at the stage door. ‘I was just coming to fetch you,’ she said to Fen. ‘There’s a call for you on the phone outside the green room, from a Sir Richard Freeman. He says it’s important and he’s been trying to get you everywhere.’ Fen nodded and bustled away. Nigel went and settled down in the auditorium to watch the remainder of the rehearsal. He was impressed by the business-like air which had come over the production since Tuesday; props were available, the stage was accurately set, the prompter sat in his corner, people were no longer carrying books; moves were contrived with apparent ease, and there were comparatively few interruptions. Nigel regretted that he had not seen the intervening rehearsals and observed the step by step elevation from open play-acting to conviction and realism, the gradual disintegration of the barrier between the actors and the play, the progressive convergence and eventual fusion of real people and fictional people. Certainly the process made one realize the cumulative nervous strain through which actors and actresses have to go up to the first night.
Fen returned and dumped himself down in the next seat. ‘That was Sir Richard,’ he whispered unnecessarily, ‘giving the official view. Apparently they’ve more or less finally plumped for suicide. I was non-committal, but it does give me a rather tiresome responsibility.’
‘By the way,’ said Nigel, ‘what was the result of the autopsy?’
‘Exactly as we expected. Nothing new.’ ‘H’m,’ said Nigel. ‘Then where do we go from here?’
‘We carry on as we were, and get things cleared up as far as possible. After that, God knows. I think I shall have to closet myself with the Professor of Ethical Philosophy in an endeavour to work out the best course of action. – Nigel, what character is that who is walking across the back of the stage?’
‘That’s one of the stage hands.’
‘Oh. – Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, about the Professor of Ethical Philosophy. How in heaven’s name did I come to be talking about him? The man has no sense of responsibility whatever. It’s my belief he’s a bigamist.’
Nigel sighed. ‘You’ve lost the point again, Gervase,’ he said. ‘I asked originally what you were going to do next.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, first I must see this Whitelegge girl, then I must put through a phone call to a friend of mine who used to be on the Secretariat of the League of Nations, and then I must go and talk to the porter at the “Mace and Sceptre”. Did I tell you, by the way, that the police have investigated Yseut’s movements during the hours before she came to the college? Very little of importance. She wrote some letters during the afternoon, had tea in her rooms, went and visited a young man in B.N.C., returned, put through an unidentified phone-call from the “Mace and Sceptre” – procuring a London directory from the porter, by the way, which is why I want to see him – and then apparently went straight to the college.’
‘Is that helpful?’
‘Not particularly. Actually, there’s an outstanding blank in the whole business which I should like to be able to fill in, though I don’t see how I can. If only you hadn’t gone gallivanting up to town,’ he added with mild indignation, ‘you might have been able to help.’
‘I didn’t know there was going to be a murder.’
‘I thought you had intimations – intimations of mortality. But never mind. Is the man who has just fallen down a flight of steps part of the play?’
Nigel listened carefully for a moment, and then said: ‘No.’
The door to the left of the auditorium opened, and Helen slipped out and joined them. ‘A few minutes’ respite,’ she said. ‘Lord, I don’t know my lines in this act. Is this just recreation, or do you hope to find a clue by watching us all?’
‘Idleness merely,’ said Fen. ‘Do you get nervous when it gets close to a first night?’
‘I’m scared out of my wits,’ said Helen. ‘Ordinary first nights are bad enough, but this is something in the way of a national event. Half the London agents, managers and producers will be down, and everyone will be trying to catch their eye. If it wasn’t that Robert has a sort of iron remote-control over the whole business, we should all overplay frightfully.’
‘Would it help you,’ said Fen, ‘if I asked my friend —’ (he gave the name of an actor so celebrated that Helen’s eyes widened) – ‘to come down? He’s looking for someone to play opposite in his next production, and I can see to it that he takes no notice of anyone but you. Besides, I have a hold over him. We were at school together, and he did awful things.’
‘Could you?’ said Helen with as much composure as was possible in the circumstances. ‘I shall be terrified, but one must go through with these things.’
‘He shall be summoned,’ said Fen solemnly, ‘and appear under threat of horrible revelations. And now tell me. Is this girl Jean Whitelegge anywhere about in the theatre?’
‘She should have arrived by now, though I know she said she’d be late this morning. She’ll probably be in the prop room; down the stairs to the left of the stage door.’ Helen glanced momentarily at the stage. ‘God, I’m off!’ She hastily retreated the way she had come, reappearing a moment later on stage to say:
‘I can’t find him anywhere. I’ve looked all over the house, under the – under the – ’ She flicked her fingers in the direction of the prompt corner. ‘Yes?’ she queried; no prompt was forthcoming.
Robert marched irritably down the gangway. ‘Is there no one on the book?’ he asked. ‘Jane! Jane dear!’
There was a subdued scuffling and turning of pages in the prompt corner, into which those on the stage gazed with weary contempt. Eventually a voice announced:
‘Under the floor, on the roof –’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Robert. ‘Do keep on the book, otherwise we waste such a lot of time.’
Jane appeared momentarily. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said, ‘but Michael’s on the book during this scene, because I have to look after the panatrope.’ There ensued a sound of surly argument backstage.
‘Well, I don’t care who does it,’ said Robert, ‘provided somebody’s there. All right, people. On we go.’ The rehearsal proceeded on its way.
Fen stirred uneasily. ‘I must seek out the Whitelegge dame,’ he announced outrageously.
‘Me too?’ asked Nigel.
‘No, thank you, Nigel. This will be delicate and confidential rapprochement. Quite unsuited to one of your frank, open, athletic temperament’ Nigel glared after him as he went.
Fen eventually ran Jean Whitelegge to earth in the green room, where she was sitting alone, reading a copy of Metromania without any particular attention. She was, Fen thought as he introduced himself, pretty obviously distrait. He regarded her with a curiosity befitting the final link in the little complex of motive and passion which had led up to the murder of Yseut, noted that she was plain but not unattractive, quiet but by no means characterless, competent, and, he suspected, a little fanatical about the arts. Her soft brown hair, gently glowing in the morning light, was curled behind her ears, her mouth was carefully rouged, and she wore a plain blue frock designed to fit the needs of one easily conscious that her figure needs no disguising. Fen took a moment to admire her natural, stealthy grace, and to wish that she could order her life more usefully than in performing mechanical
jobs in the theatre.
‘You must forgive my bothering you,’ he said, ‘particularly as I believe the Inspector has been at you earlier on this morning.’ He cautiously assumed a pose of intellectual superiority. ‘But frankly, I don’t think he much knows what he’s about. And besides, I have an insatiable curiosity about these things. Like Webster, I am much possessed by death.’ He introduced the allusion deliberately, and watched with interest to see what reaction it would provoke.
Jean smiled. ‘The skull beneath the skin,’ she said. ‘I’m a little morbid myself.’ Her voice became suddenly guarded. ‘Do ask anything you like.’
‘First of all, then: you took the gun away from Captain Graham’s room?’
He thought he saw a momentary expression of relief in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I went back to borrow it, found he’d gone to bed, and – well, I’m afraid I just took it. I meant to let him know, but I’ve been hopelessly busy, and somehow or other I never got round to it.’
‘And you took it, of course, because you wanted it as a property for Metromania.’
Jean nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right. It’s used in the last act. We did have property guns, of course, but they went to the war effort, and we were told we could borrow any we wanted from the local police.’
‘Why didn’t you do that?’
‘Well, it seems ridiculous, but – you see we did borrow one once before – and – well, we lost it.’
‘Lost it?’
Jean made a helpless gesture. ‘It just disappeared at the end of the week. Things do tend to do that in repertory. If people don’t borrow them, they get covered with a mass of other stuff, and prove impossible to find. Anyway, the result is that the police don’t regard us in the least favourably, and I simply hadn’t the nerve to go to them. Actually,’ she added in a burst of frankness, ‘I didn’t think Peter Graham would lend me the gun, so I just took it.’
The Case of the Gilded Fly Page 16