But these were strange times, indeed. That a play should be mounted in Blitz-torn London would have been unthinkable, just two years ago. At first there had been a ban on entertainment; soon, for purposes of morale, the ban was lifted. Younger actors could even seek dispensation from military service, providing they were not out of work for more than two weeks at a time. Few took advantage of this, however—such stars as Lawrence Olivier and Ralph Richardson had answered the call, and set a fine example.
Only at the height of the bombings did the theaters close, and the cinemas never did. And by the end of last year, twenty-four West End theaters were again flourishing. True, the fare tended to be light—revues, revivals, and comedies like the American imports The Man Who Came to Dinner and Arsenic and Old Lace, and Noel Coward’s wonderful Blithe Spirit.
She hoped a murder thriller—one with darkly comic overtones—could find audiences willing to suspend their disbelief in these dark times.
And the moment did seem right for Agatha to get back in the theatrical swing. She adored the theater—going to it, and writing for it; she treasured the respect the playwright was given, and loved being around the larger-than-life characters who flocked to the bright lights of the West End.
Theater was a bug she had caught back in the early twenties, when her sister Madge’s play, The Claimant, was produced in London, and Agatha had attended rehearsals with Madge, thoroughly enjoying this glimpse at the theatrical life. As her work at the hospital allowed, Agatha had attended rehearsals of this new play—she would not admit it to a living soul, but hearing her words spoken aloud, seeing her story brought to life, thrilled her in a way that quite outdistanced the printed page.
And she much preferred adapting her own work to the stage, rather than leaving it to someone else. The compromises that had been required to bring The Murder of Roger Ackroyd to the stage (as Alibi in 1928) troubled her even now—namely, the spinster village gossip who had been youthened into a love interest… for the elderly Poirot, no less!
And yet, for one who had loved attending plays since childhood—to this day she would seek out the scores of musicals she’d seen, to play the tunes on the piano—seeing her “baby” on the boards, even in bastardized form, had been thrilling. The next time, she had written the play herself, so when, about a year ago, Reginald Simpson—who had produced Alibi—inquired into theatrical rights to her nursery-rhyme novel, Agatha had straightened her spine and said, “If anyone is to dramatize it, I’ll have a shot at it first.”
The play had turned out remarkably well, particularly considering the difficulties of the original ending. In the novel, ten people from various walks of life—all guilty of (and unpunished for) a murder—are invited under false pretenses to an island mansion… where one by one, a vengeful murderer among them strikes them down.
She had come up with a new ending that she feared was a cheat, but which everyone assured her was ingenious; and in rehearsal the finale did seem to play very well indeed.
Of course, there was another reason Agatha had turned to writing a new play—a frankly monetary one. Because of wartime restrictions on paper, her publisher was printing only a limited number of copies of her new novels, and she was being encouraged to restrict her literary output somewhat, as well.
This came at a particularly bad moment, because her American royalties were being held up, due to the war, while at the same time, the British government was insisting she pay taxes on those as yet unreceived American funds. Her attorneys were fighting for her—over what seemed clearly, even absurdly a taxation injustice—but at present the threat remained: her income was diminishing while her tax responsibilities soared.
Jumping back into the theatrical soup was a pleasant enough way to generate some earnings. During the Blitz period—at least when the bombs weren’t dropping—the theater was a respite of escape for many Londoners like Agatha, whose letters to her husband, overseas in the Middle East, were filled with reports of new plays, even down to comparing her own opinions with extracts from critics.
And now the first night of her controversially titled new play was only a few days away. At the moment she was seated in the stalls of the St. James Theatre, rather near the front, with the director—Irene Helier—on one side of her, and Irene’s husband, Bertram Morris, the producer, on the other.
A spiral notebook (containing the script and various other materials) open and in her lap, Irene was a strikingly beautiful woman of forty, with dark blue eyes and a pale perfect complexion, formerly an actress herself, whose minimal makeup, short dark hair, and mannish tan blouse and darker brown pants provided a military demeanor clearly designed to keep her femininity at bay while she took command of this little theatrical army.
Her husband, Bertram, was a short, bald, rather round man who had made a star of Irene twenty years ago and a director of her this year. A dapper dresser, Bertram was attired in a dark brown suit with yellow shirt and golden tie; his attire was always so handsome, Agatha felt, one could almost mistake him for handsome.
Almost.
After all, his features were those of a leading man, albeit condemned to that round face. He was a frog who had been kissed back into a prince, only to have the transformation stall, halfway.
The theater’s lights were up, and the bare stage was well illuminated, as well. The naked shabbiness of the undressed stage made a marked contrast with the dignified elegance of the theater itself—dark wood paneling and rounded pillars and arched proscenium around which carved angels flew.
On the other hand, Agatha knew, theater was illusion, and under the seats of this elegant showcase could no doubt be found the hard-crusted corpses of abandoned chewing gum.
Speaking of which, the actress currently on stage, script in hand, was removing hers, delicately, a little embarrassed about it, as a stagehand scurried out to provide a napkin for the gum’s disposal. The stagehand rushed off, like a member of the Unexploded Bomb detail looking for a bucket of water into which to drop an explosive device.
“So sorry,” the actress said, in an alto that had a nice quality, to Agatha’s ears. Chewing gum or not, the young woman possessed a voice with a dignified, even upper-class lilt; of course, she was an actress. Take Bertie, for example—he sounded as if he might have attended Oxford, whereas his father was a Whitechapel butcher, and the school the producer had graduated from was Hard Knocks.
The actress was not young—thirty-odd, Agatha should say—but she was quite attractive, a bright-eyed brunette with a heart-shaped face, Kewpie-doll red-rouged lips and a curvy shape that asserted itself despite a restrained wardrobe: dark gray suit jacket over off-white blouse, lighter gray skirt, brown “tanned” legs (that liquid stockings stuff, Agatha thought).
Standing next to her, making the five-foot-five woman look exceedingly small, was actor Francis L. Sullivan, who (like the young woman) had folded-open script in hand. The rather beefy actor stood a good six feet two, double-chinned and hooded-eyed, not unpleasant-looking, but no leading man.
Larry Sullivan had been the original Poirot in Alibi and had repeated the role in the recent Peril at End House. (Why on earth, Agatha wondered, did producers insist on casting these ponderous overweight figures as her tiny Belgian detective? Charles Laughton’s size in Black Coffee had been exceeded only by his overacting.) Sullivan was not appearing in the current production—Poirot was not a character in this one—and had been called in as a dialogue coach at the last moment.
The female understudy—who would substitute for the crucial roles of Vera and Mrs. Brent—had vacated her duties last week, when she landed a better role in a revue. In normal times, this might have ended up with the understudy finding herself blacklisted in the West End; but everyone knew the difficulties of assembling a qualified cast in wartime.
In particular, good actors were hard to come by—those men who preferred not to go into uniform were required to go out on one or two tours a year for ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association). And pretty young act
resses were much in demand for revues; among the many wartime shortages in London was an undersupply of chorus girls.
Irene’s strong voice—a contralto—came from next to Agatha and echoed through the theater. “Your name, please,” she intoned, the voice of a female God.
Despite this, on the stage, the young woman seemed quite at ease. “Nita Ward,” she said.
On the other side of Agatha, Bertie boomed: “Ah, yes, Miss Ward! So glad you could come.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” Miss Ward said.
Bertie sat forward and spoke to his wife in a whisper. “Take a look at her resume, dear. She has impressive credits.”
Irene glanced sharply at her husband. “Is that what you call them?… Did you invite this one?”
“Well…”
“Is this another of your discoveries, Bertram?”
“Darling… she’s qualified. Please do look at her vita.”
Another sharp look from Irene. “Why should I?… You seem to have examined Nita’s… vita, already.”
Agatha felt that she had suddenly become the net in a tennis match. A grudge match, at that.
A notion, the cattiness of which was worthy of Jane Marple herself, flashed through Agatha’s mind: Perhaps Irene was doomed to such jealousies, since she better than anyone knew how an actress could get ahead in the theatrical world, particularly with this producer….
“You can be impossible, sometimes,” Bertie said, and rose, and shuffled out of the aisle to take a seat elsewhere, nearer to the stage… and to his latest discovery?
Irene, coldly professional, called out, “If you would take it from Act Three, Scene Two…. Larry, you’ll read both Blore and Lombard.”
The young woman was nothing special, but she had a lively quality and did not trip over the words. She was the seventh woman they’d heard read for the understudy part this afternoon, and by some distance the best.
“Her age is about right,” Agatha ventured in a whisper to Irene.
“She’s not bad,” Irene admitted. “She’s a bit short.”
“Oh, I think that’s just Larry. He’s a towering beast, our Larry.”
Irene laughed a little. “Yes… he wouldn’t have been bad as the judge.”
“You have a splendid judge. Larry can be a bit…”
“Bombastic,” Irene said.
“Indeed…. Lovely man, though.”
“Thank you!” Irene called out to the scene. “If you’ll hold up, just a moment, please….” The director looked behind her. “Janet!”
Janet Cummins, an attractive brunette in dark-rimmed glasses, rose from her aisle seat a few rows back and came down to meet Irene. Janet was Bertie’s secretary, but that understated her role: she was a trusted assistant to both Irene and Bertie.
Odd, Agatha observed, that Irene had no jealousy over Janet, who was a fetching, busty, blue-eyed woman in her later twenties, business-like in a navy suit with white blouse.
“Yes, Miss Helier?” Janet asked, dutifully half-kneeling in the aisle, clipboard in hand.
“How many more?”
“We only have three more to see.”
Irene was studying the stage where a friendly Miss Ward and a smiling Larry were conversing softly, pleasantly. “She really isn’t terrible…. I’m going to read her some more.”
Janet nodded, and then looked over at Agatha and whispered across Irene, “Could I have a word, Mrs. Mallowan?”
Agatha said, “Certainly, my dear.”
Faintly irritated, Irene said to the assistant, “Come around and do it, then.”
Janet crossed the row of seats behind them and entered from the aisle, sidling over, and was about to take the seat Bertie had vacated when Agatha rose and met her halfway, to put a few seats between them and Irene.
They sat.
Janet’s eyes were tight behind the lenses. “Mrs. Mallowan, I hate to bother you… I know how you feel about having a fuss made….”
“Go on, my dear.”
Janet seemed hesitant, even nervous, and was searching for words.
Gently Agatha prodded, “What is it, dear? I don’t bite.”
Janet’s smile was embarrassed. “You’ve heard me mention Gordon….”
“Gordon?”
“My husband.”
“Ah! The RAF pilot. Your brave young hero!”
“Well… I think he will be a hero, one day soon. He’s learning to fly Spitfires, right now…. Anyway, he’s such an enormous fan of yours. He’s simply reading your books day and night, just devouring them, and, well, I wondered if you would mind saying hello to him. For me.”
“Why, not at all! Shall we send him a signed book? Where is he stationed, dear?”
“Right here in London. Or that is, out at St. John’s Wood.”
“Oh, how lovely for you to have your man in the military so close by. Are you able to live together?”
“No, unfortunately. He’s billeted near the station. But we see each other frequently.”
Agatha gestured with open palms. “Well, why don’t you invite him down to the theater, some afternoon, if he can get away from his duties? Or perhaps he could come to our opening night, on Friday.”
Janet’s embarrassed smile curdled into mortification. “Actually, I took the liberty… I talked to your friend…. Oh my.”
“Please, Janet. You’re making me out to be an absolute ogre. What is it?”
“Well… he’s here now. Gordon’s here.”
Janet swiveled in her seat and indicated the back of the theater.
There, just inside the lobby, semi-silhouetted by mote-flecked sunlight, stood a young man in RAF blues, cap in both hands figleafed before him, a broad-shouldered sturdy five nine or ten, a boyishly handsome specimen of Britain’s military who might have stepped right off a recruiting poster.
Agatha touched Janet’s hand. “By all means, dear, let’s go back and say hello. I’d be honored to have you introduce me.”
They moved to the rear of the theater, even as the audition continued, Miss Ward’s voice resounding pleasantly through the stalls as she ably traded lines with Larry Sullivan. She was gaining confidence as the audition went on.
Gordon Cummins shifted on his feet, twisting his cap in his hands in anticipation as Agatha and Mrs. Cummins approached. His boyish good looks only improved on closer inspection—blondish brown hair, a fair complexion, wide-set eyes of a striking clear blue-green, like a country brook on a perfect afternoon. His nose was straight and well-formed, his mouth almost feminine in its poised-for-a-kiss sensuality.
Archie, Agatha thought, eyes widening, the sight of the young man hitting like a physical blow, the image of her first husband jumping into her mind in his own RAF uniform, of the last war. I haven’t seen such a handsome young man in uniform since Archie was my…
“Mrs. Christie, this is such an honor,” the young man blurted.
“Gordon,” Janet whispered, scoldingly. “It’s Mrs. Mallowan. I explained that…”
“It’s all right, dear,” Agatha said. “That’s still my name, my professional name.” She glanced toward the stage where the audition remained under way. “Shall we step into the lobby?”
They did.
The young man had a soft voice, a second tenor, and his manners were impeccable; Agatha noticed he wore a Leading Aircraftsman badge, the white badge (or “flash”) of an Officer Trainee on the hat in his hands.
He was quite charming, really, in a naive way. For several minutes he raved on and on about her books, specifically the Poirot novels, and Agatha allowed herself to bask in the adulation. It was as if Archie were standing there praising her work, adoringly interested in her… which in the reality of their marriage had never occurred.
Finally she said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Cummins. Tell me something about yourself.”
“Not much to tell, really,” he said, with a fleeting grin. “My father was a schoolmaster of sorts.”
“That’s sounds… educational.”<
br />
Janet put in, “I’m afraid more so than you know, Mrs. Mallowan. Gordon’s father was rather more a warden than a schoolmaster, I would say—the school was for delinquent boys and girls.”
“Oh,” Agatha said, and frowned sympathetically. “I hope that wasn’t terribly unpleasant for you. Was your father strict, then?”
“By most standards, yes,” the boy said. “But it was good for me. Prepared me for the life I’m leading now.”
Janet, rather proudly, said, “Gordon has something else in common with you, Mrs. Mallowan.”
“Really? What is that, dear?”
“He’s a chemist.”
“Is that right, Mr. Cummins? You do know I work in a pharmacy.”
“I do know,” he said, “that you know your poisons.”
They all laughed. A little.
Shyly, the cadet said, “I can’t say my tour of duty as a chemist is anything to boast about—I trained in a Northampton technical school and worked here in London, as a research chemist.”
“That’s when we met,” Janet explained. “I was already working for Mr. Morris.”
Agatha bestowed on them a smile, one each; then to the young RAF cadet, she asked, “You enjoy the air force?”
“Very much! I’ll be flying a Spitfire soon.”
Janet said, “One of his senior officers—a Schneider Trophy pilot—has personally endorsed Gordon for his commission.”
“How thrilling,” Agatha said. “Do you think you can get a pass to join us on opening night?”
“That would be wonderful. I do so love the book!”
Her smile was apologetic. “Well, the play turns out a little differently…. Why don’t you come in and watch these auditions? We’re finding an understudy for our leading lady.”
Cummins sat toward the back as Agatha returned to Irene’s side, while Janet headed to the stage and the wings, to direct traffic on the auditions. The pert Miss Ward was asked to stay around for a possible callback, and the other actresses read with Larry, none of them terribly good.
A thin blonde actress (who was forty-five if she was a day) was reading when Stephen Glanville strode down the aisle and, with his usual confidence, slid in and over and plopped down next to Agatha.
The London Blitz Murders Page 5