In her story there are no coincidences, it is all bleakly as it was.
At that stage, the death in Marlborough Street had had some local attention, but not so much as might have been expected because of a death in the Royal family. In any case, it was Rosie’s habit to save up the daily newspapers to read at the weekend, and sometimes the weekend never came.
Her house in Windsor was well known in what might be called Theatre World. Since retiring from the stage, she had converted her parents’ large Victorian house into lodgings for the profession. There were several theatres in Windsor of different ages and sizes, two smaller ones as well as the large, grand Victorian structure which Victoria herself had visited. Touring companies came here and were glad to lodge with Rosie. In addition to Windsor there was a theatre in Slough and another in Woking, and film studios within driving distance. Rosie’s house was rarely empty.
But this travelling company was a surprise even to Rosie.
‘We are the Trojans,’ their leader had announced. ‘And we are always in the wars.’
Rosie looked at the two cars and believed her: their once gleaming paint was battered and scratched and deep in mud. The Trojans themselves were in not much better shape. A little information about them had appeared in that week’s Stage. The troupe was relatively new, having been founded some years earlier by a young woman, Gina Foster, with a small inheritance. They toured the country, working in schools and village halls. They were all young, and all except for the latest recruit, a young woman called Emma Gill, had been Trojans from the beginning. The Stage had praised them as a dedicated, professional group of performers keen to carry the theatre to those who otherwise might not see it. They were all poor; they produced on a shoestring, but enjoyed it, so The Stage said. Gina was the best known among them, with a prize from RADA, some TV work and a season at the National.
‘We need to rest up,’ admitted Gina, who was in charge. ‘This last trip was a toughie. A real two-whisky trip … We rate them that way: two-whisky or three-whisky, according to what we feel in need of.’ She shook her head. ‘This last came close to being a three-whisky trip.’
They were six in all: three men and three women.
Joe, Emma, Shirley, Albert, Gina herself and Pip. Rosie, experienced in these matters and with a good eye, thought that Pip might one day be a man, but as yet was immature.
‘Do you actually drink the whisky?’ she asked as she helped them settle in.
‘Sometimes we do, I promise you.’ Gina laughed. ‘The life we lead, we need it.’
Gina was a large young woman, tall and almost fat, but her face was lovely with big amber eyes and beautiful bones; she wore her hair long and loose, a gleaming golden shower which Rosie, a sharp observer, thought was natural.
Not all the troupe were equally beautiful. Emma and Shirley were almost plain, except during performance when they managed to look both graceful and trim. No mean feat, considering, as Shirley had a large waist and a large nose, while Emma, although not plain, was far too thin. Albert was passable, while Joe had such a lovely voice that nothing else mattered: he beguiled you when he spoke.
Pip was handsome, but Rosie felt that he had not as yet completely joined the human race; there had been a fey quality. She had not seen him since that first day; he was probably one of those people with a trick of disappearing.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable,’ she had said to Gina. ‘You have to share rooms.’
‘We don’t mind. Used to it. Glad to have a roof over our heads. Haven’t always got one. Camp out sometimes on the road.’
‘I’ll leave you to arrange the rooms.’
‘Oh, it’s always the same: Pip and Albert will share and Joe goes in with Shirley.’
‘An item, are they?’
‘Kind of,’ agreed Gina. ‘Comes and goes a bit. Life’s a roundabout, isn’t it? That leaves me with Emma. We’re used to each other and I never annoy Emma. And she never annoys me.’
‘No,’ said Rosie, looking at Gina, masterful and cheerful. ‘ I’m sure not.’ Wouldn’t dare, she thought.
Gina smiled. It was her troupe: she had founded it, financed it (as far as it was financed) and ordered its ways. It was a democracy, all were equal, Gina made that clear. The plays were chosen in a committee on which they all sat and had a voice of the same weight, but it was true that the plays Gina wanted to do were often the ones that were produced. Not always, but as Shirley said to Albert, she is so persuasive. Yes, Albert answered, money does speak, and they had both laughed into their wine, sourish but strong, from Spain.
Life was good – both performers knew that life could produce a nasty surprise whenever it fancied, a bitter nut inside a sweet chocolate coat. But behind them the Trojans had a successful tour in the Midlands, ending with a triumphant week at the Steeple Theatre in Oxfordshire, where they had acted in an abridged version of Macbeth. The Steeple was an old church, now turned to secular use. It was a club for the district as well as a small theatre. Smallness was no problem to the Trojans, who felt at home in it; nor did it matter to the evening audiences who were mostly adult and willing to sit tight. But trouble came with the afternoon school audiences. The children had joined in with enthusiasm, running up to the stage, shouting at Macbeth and warning Lady Macbeth to look out. There was a riot on the stage and in the aisles and over the seats. Joe and Albert settled it, with Gina issuing orders. The audience left in disgrace. The Trojans came straight on to Windsor and Rosie’s establishment, glad of the rest.
The first day was quiet.
The second day was just as quiet; they were settling in, some going this way, some going another, enjoying being alone and not compressed into the troupe. It was lovely being a Trojan even if you were not paid much, but you needed a rest from one another. They drifted apart on purpose.
The third day was the day of the murder.
As yet they had not realized that there had been a murder. They were not readers of newspapers, except The Stage, nor did they listen to the news programmes on the radio: music was all. There was a television set in the large ground-floor sitting room which they were welcome to use, but a travelling life had somehow weaned them off what Shirley called TV, and what Albert, with his tongue in his cheek, called the telly. He had once had a minor part in a long-running soap, and was allowed to be cynical.
‘Don’t you miss it?’ Shirley had asked. She was freer with Albert than the others, who regarded him as a formidable figure. Pip did not, of course, fear to ask questions and even joke at his friend, but then Pip himself had to be treated with care. Liable to explode, was the judgement on Pip. Goes up if pushed.
‘Miss the lolly.’
‘I had a three-liner in Coronation Street once,’ said Shirley. ‘Loved it. Would have gone on for ever. But wasn’t asked back.’
‘Oh, you will be, you’re a natural for the telly.’
‘Think so?’ Shirley looked at him doubtfully; she wondered if it was a compliment. Although Albert was her friend, she had sometimes thought it was because he didn’t admire her skills and she therefore represented no threat. The stage was a dreadfully competitive world. She felt this even with Joe, and she loved Joe. Or she did most of the time. He was marvellous in bed.
The small, early nineteenth-century house in a terrace was much treasured by Charmian, who had refused to move out after her recent marriage to Humphrey. For a short while they had lived in his much larger house, but very soon he agreed to sell and move to the house which Charmian still owned. After all, Humphrey still owned the house in the country which he had inherited.
Charmian opened the door to Rosie, wearing a dark red satin trouser suit.
‘Lovely suit, darling,’ Rosie said as they kissed cheeks. She had only just promoted herself to kissing Charmian, of whom she was in some awe. How much better she dressed since she was married. Of course, she had more money, and money did count. Rosie was a realist.
‘Cold meal,’ said Charmian. She was a good, if simple
cook who knew her limitations. ‘Come and kiss Humphrey.’ She led the way upstairs to the sitting room overlooking the street. On the stairs they met her cat, Muff, who gave them an opaque stare, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming but neutral. ‘He’s opened some champagne. He wants to take you to lunch at the Savoy.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Rosie promptly.
‘I won’t be there.’
‘Well, of course not.’ Their eyes met and both laughed.
‘What’s it all about?’
‘Well, he wants to be an actor.’
Rosie looked thoughtful. The stage, the great profession, she did not joke about. ‘Surely not?’
‘You can’t blame him.’ Charmian was tolerant. ‘ In a way, he’s been an actor all his life; it’s what diplomats and courtiers do.’
‘He has a beautiful voice, of course, and he is very good to look at, but …’
‘I don’t suppose he expects to act, not really, but just to work with the theatre … somehow. You can think of something, Rosie … at the Savoy.’
They were at the head of the stairs when Humphrey appeared, holding a bottle.
As the two women advanced, Rosie murmured: ‘I’m casting for an Ayckbourn play at the Little Theatre. I’ll see.’
‘What are you two women gossiping about?’
‘Don’t be masculine,’ said Charmian. ‘Talking business.’
‘Come on, Rosie, and talk business with me.’ He put his arm round his guest and hugged her.
Charmian had redecorated the room recently in soft sepia and orange, which gave a subtle warmth to a room otherwise lit by the north light, so loved of Victorian builders who feared warm sunlight would bleach the unstable dyes of curtains and carpets. On the wall, facing a pair of windows, she had placed a large gilt-framed looking-glass. A curving sofa was at an angle to the fireplace, while in the corner of the room was a small walnut desk.
‘You’ve got some lovely stuff,’ said Rosie, accepting her champagne. ‘Haven’t seen some of it before. New?’
‘New to us. A very old aunt of Humphrey’s …’ she turned to her husband with an affectionate smile, ‘died and left him her best furniture.’
‘The desk is good, Queen Anne, the best thing we have,’ he said.
Conversation over the pre-dinner drinks was light. Rosie watched and waited. At dinner, she admired the skill with which Charmian steered the conversation.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ Charmian said.
‘Thank goodness, I got fat when I put on The Kitchen and acted in it myself; I had to keep eating.’ Every so often, Rosie, hating retirement, staged a play she admired, producing and directing it and sometimes acting in it as well. There was a tiny theatre down by the old bus station. ‘ But what with my new play and the onset – I call it that, feels like the beginning of an illness – the onset of my new lodgers.’
‘The Trojans?’
‘The same, only six of them, but somehow it feels like more. I suppose it’s because they’ve got into the way of acting about three parts each.’
‘What’s the new play?’ asked Humphrey.
She told him. ‘ The theatre might be sold to a developer and turned into flats if it goes dark for too long. I can always get an audience for an Ayckbourn, you see, and I need the money. I’m not subsidized. Oh, there’s a small local grant, but I have to pay my way, make a profit so I can put on Arthur Miller or one of the newer Americans. Pinter pays, but I can’t keep doing Pinter.’
‘Good phrase,’ said Humphrey, ‘Pinter pays.’ He poured some more wine for them. ‘ I’ve always been interested in the theatre myself. Can’t act, I know that.’
‘You could have done.’
‘Left it too late, but I would like to work in the theatre now I have the time.’
‘There’s no money in it.’
‘Not interested in money.’
‘Lucky you, I have to be.’ She flicked a quick look at Charmian. Am I doing it right? The answer seemed to be yes, so she went on. ‘I could certainly do with help at the Little Ashetree.’ This was the full name of her dear ‘Little Theatre’.
Humphrey leaned forward. ‘Let me give you lunch and talk it over.’
She decided to help him. ‘I have to be in London on Wednesday.’
‘Let’s make it the Savoy.’
‘Lovely.’ She gave her hostess another glance.
‘Sorry I can’t be there,’ said Charmian. ‘ I have my hands full with this new killing, it’s been handed over to me.’
‘Killing?’ said Rosie vaguely.
‘Oh, you never know what’s going on,’ said Charmian, half exasperated, half amused.
‘I suppose I am a bit blinkered.’
‘Shrouded, dear. Muffled.’
‘The theatre is its own world, you know, Charmian. It’s hard to see out of it.’
‘Coffee?’ asked Charmian, leading the way out of the dining room preceded by Muff.
Rosie took her coffee, and cup in hand wandered across to take a closer look at the walnut desk. She liked good furniture and had an appreciative eye.
On the desk was a pile of the line drawings of the dead man. Rosie put down her cup as she stared.
‘What is it?’ Charmian came over. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I’m not sure … it may not be a very good likeness.’
‘His face was …’ Charmian hesitated, ‘damaged. Look again. It’s important.’
Rosie looked; she took a deep breath. ‘It may be the actor called Pip.’ Her ghost was walking, her young soldier had been killed and she had seen his face in the paper. ‘ A hero’s death, killed in the desert.’
‘And who is he?’
‘One of the Trojans.’ Rosie stared at Charmian, all her deep fears coming to the surface. ‘One of the travelling theatre.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘No, I can’t be sure just from this.’
‘Has your Trojan been missing? This man has been dead for some days.’
Rosie swallowed a bitter lump that suddenly arose at the base of her throat. ‘He hasn’t been around,’ she admitted.
Charmian nodded, accepting it. ‘You can have your lunch at the Savoy on Wednesday, but there’s someone else you have to meet tonight.’
Rosie went white; she did not pretend she didn’t understand. She drained her coffee cup, wishing it was full of brandy. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
Humphrey walked to the door. ‘I’m coming with you. I’ll drive.’
Outside the house, a woman was walking up and down. ‘Ah, there you are, damn you.’
‘I can’t talk to you, Miss March.’ Charmian was leading the way to her car, parked in the road. She was angry at seeing Mary there, and determined not to be helpful.
‘Won’t, you mean. That’s why I am here, there is no polite way to get at you.’
Charmian ignored this and nodded towards Rosie and Humphrey. ‘Take no notice.’
Humphrey hesitated.
‘Do take notice,’ said Mary March. ‘ Listen. I want the child. He should not be with his father.’
Charmian pushed her aside, got into the car, the doors closed.
‘Take no notice,’ she said again, anger rising inside her.
Mary hammered on the window. ‘I say it again. He should not be with his father. A lot of use you are.’
Humphrey turned the car at the road junction. He could see Mary March in the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s all that about?’
‘She’s the woman who found the body,’ said Charmian shortly. She did not wish to talk about her but she could see she was going to have to.
‘The body we’re going to look at?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the child?’
‘She found the child too.’
‘Is she mad?’
Charmian considered. ‘I think not.’
‘Not yet perhaps,’ said Humphrey as he turned the corner on to the main road.
Rosie said in a small, quiet voice: �
�I’ve seen her around.’
Humphrey was driving carefully but with some speed. ‘ Who was the chap in the car parked down the road? Was he with her?’
Charmian turned round to look but it was already too late to see down Maid of Honour Row. ‘I didn’t see him.’
‘I don’t think you were meant to,’ said Humphrey drily.
Rosie shivered, she was cold. ‘Whenever I’ve seen her walking around the town she’s been alone. She walks a lot.’ Rosie’s voice tailed off as she began to think of the scene that lay ahead of her.
As a child she had seen her dead grandfather, urged on by her grandmother who saw it as a family duty. She had heard people say that a dead person was ‘ simply not there any longer,’ but she had not found it so. To her then, her grandfather was alarmingly there. Alive he had been a calm, friendly, kind presence; now his face was frozen into severity. How would Pip look?
‘I only saw him once, just for a few minutes, the day the Trojans arrived,’ she said. ‘ Perhaps you should ask their leader, Gina. Or any of them.’
‘We will. Later. If you can make a provisional identification.’
Rosie nodded wordlessly. Why did I come to dinner? she asked herself. Paris may be worth a Mass, but is the Savoy worth a death visit?
Somehow the mild joke cheered her up, and she was able to step out of the car in better spirits.
‘Oh, it’s the hospital.’
Charmian took her arm. ‘Back door. Lift straight to the mortuary.’
Humphrey shook his head. Wrap it up a bit, it said.
‘Up or down?’ Rosie’s voice was unsteady but she tried to keep it light.
‘Down. To the basement.’ Charmian shook her head back at Humphrey. Some things could not be gentled.
They stood in a shabby entrance hall, the floor a dark rubber; there was a wall telephone, and a bleak light in the ceiling. Not welcoming, and not bothering to be.
Charmian picked up the telephone; she dialled, announced herself and said they were on their way down. Then she nodded at Rosie. ‘Come on, love, you have to do this. Do it for Charmian.’
Revengeful Death Page 5