by Anne Morice
‘Do you lower baskets through a trapdoor in the floor?’ I asked Len who was piling hefty looking sandwiches on to a cardboard plate. Before answering, he put the plate on to a bakelite tray and topped off this dainty repast with a mug of murky looking coffee.
‘Not such a bad guess,’ he said, pointing to some double doors in the partition wall. ‘When I said there was no lift, I’d forgotten about this. It was already installed here, one of those dumb waiter things they used to have in the posh houses. It trundles up and down by pulley between here and the bar.’
‘Why does she choose to live this crow’s nest life, anyway? Not for the view, because there isn’t one. So far as outlook goes, we might just as well be in the basement.’
‘You’ll be able to understand better when you begin to get to know her,’ he replied loftily. ‘It’s the isolation which appeals. No chance of strangers bursting in on her. You may not have noticed it, but like a good many brilliant and exceptional people, she’s amazingly shy. Help yourself to whatever you want and I’ll try and join you again when I’ve delivered this.’
The sandwiches were quite as stodgy and tasteless as they looked and, after sampling a couple and wrapping the remains in a paper napkin which I then dropped in the waste paper basket, I decided to keep my appetite intact for an evening at the Green Man. The scene now in progress round Elfrieda’s desk was far more worthy of attention.
About half a dozen more people had congregated there by this time, one of whom in particular caught my attention. Names, all on their own, often conjure up identities to match and, for no better reason than that she was called Melanie, I had pictured a small-boned, winsome creature; sly perhaps, and with a touch of the Pollyanna, but above all ethereal looking. No image could have been further from the reality. She was seated on the corner of Elfrieda’s desk, one leg swinging rhythmically and energetically, as though it was unnatural to her ever to be still, a plumpish, bold looking girl, wearing a massive collection of rings, bangles and beads. She had a round, flattish face, sky blue eyes and brilliant carroty red curls. She was wearing a scarlet frilly dress, a daring manoeuvre which had come off surprisingly well, and she was talking her head off, using a lot of expressive and uninhibited gestures and interspersing her chatter with occasional peals of laughter. Everything about her seemed a trifle overdone and yet there was something essentially good humoured in her personality, even at a distance. She radiated a vitality and cheerfulness which literally lighted up those sombre surroundings.
It evidently affected Elfrieda in the same way, for she was leaning back in her wheelchair, listening to every word, with an expression of amused affectionate tolerance, which quite transformed the normal harsh set of her face. It was not hard to see why the company in general so resented this earthy, alien interloper in their exclusive circle and the easy way in which she monopolised the queen bee.
Probably one of the few to feel no jealousy on this score was Kyril, who now came sidling up to the table and began a slow inspection and appraisal of the sandwiches. In this, as in all his movements, there was a sleepiness more readily associated with the drone than the worker bee, but I knew from experience that, so far as his career was concerned, this was deceptive.
‘So that’s Melanie?’ I asked him, still watching her.
‘Yes, Melanie,’ he replied in a mournful tone, giving the name a French intonation, which made it sound even more spiritual. ‘How much you have learnt already, Tessa! C’est étonnant! Len told you, I suppose?’
‘Yes, and so you are not so étonné, after all? He seems to have quite an obsession about her?’
Kyril gave me a wolfish grin, showing a lot of white, uneven teeth:
‘He is always apprehensive, poor Len. Very sensitive and highly strung, you know. Pauvre garçon.’
‘And has he any reason to be afraid of Melanie?’
‘Perhaps. She is the unknown quantity, you might say. Elfrieda has some strong maternal instincts, I believe, which were stifled until she was quite an old woman. Then she found this great big round shoe and filled it with all her children, making us work hard and come when we were called, but still it was not enough. Some of the children were quite grown up and a few of us were so naughty as to have minds of our own. But now she has found somebody who is very nearly a real daughter to her and that is bound to cause some sparks.’
He spoke so softly that I had difficulty in catching every word, but, as Len had pointed out, the gist was clear enough and I took another, more critical look at the subject of our conversation. It told me nothing, however, because she now had her back to us and was seated at the desk, head bent and bejewelled left arm stretched out across it, as she wrote from Elfrieda’s dictation. All the others had now moved away and Len caught my eye and beckoned me over to join them.
They included a young man and a middle-aged woman, who were introduced to me as Jack Henderson and Jill Sandford, a coincidence which I gathered from Len’s expression merited a trill of amusement, and they were A.S.M. and Stage Manager respectively. What secretly amused me though was how, quite apart from their names, they complemented each other so perfectly. He was a delicate looking boy, with tiny hands and feet, almost girlish in physique, and she was a large, raw-boned muscular looking woman, who looked as though she could have flung him across the room with one hand. They were both friendly, in an offhand, abstracted kind of way and soon left us and went into a private huddle round the sandwich table.
Number three was a sharp featured girl, with beautiful eyes, named Janice, who was also in the cast and finally there was Viola Hopkins, who was at present appearing in two of the current productions and was to play my mother-in-law in the forthcoming one.
Although this was our first personal encounter, I had seen Viola a number of times during her career, which had taken an unusual, although not unique course. In her youth she had possessed neither looks nor ability above the average, she was tall and on the fat side, which was limiting for her and had never been known to give a performance which could be rated higher than competent. Nevertheless, she was consistently in work in supporting roles in rep. and on provincial tours and it was said that most of these came her way because of her ability to get along well with people and to work hard and unselfishly in any part she was offered.
However, after some dozen or fifteen years of this slog, she had turned up at the Rotunda, playing a series of middle-aged and elderly parts, well before her time, and it soon became apparent that this was the niche which had been kept vacant for her and which, with no upsurge of talent, but a great deal of hard-won experience, she was able to fill to perfection. She was now in her fourth successive season there and was in constant demand during the rest of the year in films and television, living proof of Elfrieda’s much quoted genius for bringing out latent or unrecognised talent in those who worked with her.
I was pleased to find that this run of success had not gone to her head. She was unaffectedly friendly and welcoming and further endeared herself by going into transports of praise, on learning where I was staying, for the genius of Mr and Mrs Banks in the matter of dishing up lobster and crab, not to mention my own cleverness in discovering them.
The slightly overpowering sensation of being surrounded by so much plain living and high thinking was agreeably lightened by this descent into the materialist world and I was rather annoyed by Melanie’s choosing this moment to interrupt us. She did not do so rudely, by breaking into our conversation, but stationed herself beside us, making it clear that she did not intend to go away.
‘Something you want, Melanie?’ Viola asked, not unkindly, but with a hint of irritability.
‘Miss Henshaw asked me to give this to Miss Crichton,’ Melanie replied, handing me a sheet of writing paper.
She had quite a pleasant, if over-loud voice, with a slight regional accent and sounded completely self-assured and at ease.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, you see, Miss H
enshaw guessed you’d be looking for digs while you’re down here, so she got me to write out these addresses for you. She said to tell you they’re all places she can recommend personally.’
‘How very thoughtful of her! Thank you.’
‘That’s okay. All part of the Rotunda service,’ Melanie said, the suggestion of pertness in this remark modified, rather than accentuated by the broad wink which accompanied it.
‘It really is most thoughtful and kind,’ I said to Viola, looking down at the three addresses, ‘but oh dear, oh dear!’
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Hard to explain without sounding ungrateful, but I’d rather planned on finding something a little further away from my place of work. I confess to finding something a bit stifling and cradle-to-the-grave about it. No offence meant.’
‘And none taken, my dear, I understand perfectly; but if that’s how you feel you’d better come and share with me. I’ve rented the dinkiest little house, perched high up on the cliff. It’s two miles out from the town and has the most glorious views you’ve ever seen. Green hills at the back and your actual blue sea in front. Some of the time, anyway.’
‘Sounds bliss, but have you got room for me?’
‘Shall have, by the time you come. Lawrence, my current lodger, has a three months’ tour coming up. Anyway, why not come for a drink this evening and see what you think of the place? I can collect you from your pub on my way home.’
‘You are an angel, Viola! It sounds marvellous and it’s terribly kind of you!’
‘Not a bit. I don’t particularly enjoy life in the country on my own and Larry can’t really afford his share of the rent when he’s not using it, so it would be doing us all a good turn. Besides, you may be able to give me a few tips.’
‘Me? Give tips to you?’ I asked in astonishment.
‘Oh, not professional, although I’m sure you could do that too. I was thinking of your secondary activity, your heavy connections with the world of crime.’
‘How ever did you hear about that?’
‘A cousin of yours is an old friend of mine. Toby Crichton.’
‘Yes, I remember now. You were in a play of his about five years ago, weren’t you?’
That’s right. The most lazy, selfish and abominable man who ever lived and I simply adore him.’
‘He simply adores you too,’ I hastened to tell her, although unable to remember whether he did or not. ‘So what tips do you need of a criminal nature?’
‘Oh, nothing complicated. Just the basic rules for committing the perfect murder will do to be going on with.’
Curiously enough, this was by no means the first time I had been asked for this advice and I decided to vary the monotony for myself by giving her a straight answer.
‘There is no universal rule,’ I told her. ‘Everything depends on the personality of the intended victim.’
‘Does it now?’ she asked, looking somewhat taken aback. ‘Why is that?’
‘Well, you see, Viola, most people carry the seeds of their own destruction inside themselves. They drive too fast, or drink too much, or are chronically absent-minded. It could be one of a dozen quite trivial weaknesses and what you have to do is to concentrate on whichever one he or she is most vulnerable to and capitalise on it.’
‘My word!’ Viola said with a laugh no longer quite so merry. ‘So Toby wasn’t joking, after all? I hadn’t expected my innocent little quip to be taken quite so seriously, but I can see that you’re an expert on the subject and I can’t wait to hear more. Not this evening, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Jamie Crowther will be with us and he has a nervous disposition. We don’t want to upset him with this kind of talk, do we? Not if we know what’s good for us.’
I agreed that in these circumstances it would be wiser to postpone further discussion of the subject until we were alone, but in fact she never referred to it again.
FOUR
Until then, my acquaintance with James Crowther had been limited to a very few, very brief and impersonal meetings at first night parties and such-like, but, although there was nothing in his behaviour to bear it out, it had come as no surprise to hear that he was a nervous type. In my experience, nearly all playwrights are martyrs to neurosis in one form or another and some of them run the whole gamut, the claustrophobia no sooner having been brought under control than some blunt and unsympathetic review sets off the suicidal depression.
My cousin Toby, whose annual output averages about half a play and a couple of television scripts, is equally a prey to such moods and obsessions, haunted not only by desperate insecurity about his own work, but by the conviction that even his most obscure rivals will inevitably be recognised as possessing a far greater talent.
Jamie, at this time, was about forty-five, tall and rather stout as well, which was curious considering how much weight punishing exercise he took. He had small, dark, inquisitive eyes and jet black hair which looked as though it had been painted on to his head. His private life verged on the reclusive, but his public one was a matter of intimate knowledge and concern to many thousands on both sides of the Atlantic, who counted it a poor year which went by without at least one new Crowther comedy. In fact, during his association with the Rotunda there had been no less than eight major successes, all of them having transferred to London and Broadway after the Dearehaven season.
They neither were nor aimed to be in any way memorable or profound, but the formula was unbeatable: tautly constructed plots, sharp characterisation, an innate sense of the theatre and the magic gift of being able to make people laugh.
He was also a man of diverse talents, as I now discovered and was currently in the process of re-covering all his dining room chairs in petit point, from a design which he had created himself. For convenience’ sake he kept one canvas permanently at Viola’s cottage, so that he could tear straight into it whenever he called there.
However, the fact that none of this had helped to overcome the insubstantial fears to which people of his calling are so prone was evidenced by the way he instantly started to cross-examine me on Toby’s current activities, whether, in particular, he was at work on a play or, worse still, had one ready to go into production. Having already come under Viola’s influence, I felt it only prudent to reassure him on both counts, explaining that many weeks had passed since Toby had felt inspired to take up his pen for anything more momentous than a letter to the Parish Magazine and, furthermore, was becoming resigned to the fact that his small stock of inspiration had now dried up, leaving him more or less in the position of a sucked orange.
All this cheered Jamie up wonderfully and he then became very buoyant and genial, which one could not help feeling was the role for which Nature had fashioned him, only throwing in the writing talent and its attendant curses as a careless afterthought, for it was plain that, alongside the moody blues, there existed quite another personality which was notable for its enjoyment of the good things of life. The good things on this occasion included half a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the market and it occurred to me that since he was obviously a frequent visitor this must make serious inroads on the housekeeping budget. However, when I mentioned it later to Viola, she assured me that a similar arrangement was in force here as with the needlework and that she received a regular weekly delivery from his own wine merchant.
There being nothing like champagne for making the party go, the three of us soon became very convivial, exchanging theatrical news and gossip, with Viola bringing us up to date on recent developments at the Rotunda and Jamie throwing off a series of hilarious imitations, including a particularly clever one of Elfrieda.
‘Were you ever an actor?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, for a short time. An appallingly bad one too.’
‘Oh no, surely?’
‘Oh yes, indeed, my darling, I have no illusions there. It was valuable experience, as it turned out, but one of the sad truths is that good mimics ar
e not much good for anything else. I could give you a fair impression of any lord or knight you care to name in the part of Hamlet, but I could no more play Hamlet myself than go for a walk on the moon.’
There was no telling whether this was an intentionally malicious observation, but it was certainly wanting in tact, for on the drive up to her cottage Viola had also revealed herself to be an excellent mimic. However, her impersonations, although funny, managed to be kindly and gentle as well, which was certainly not always true of Jamie’s, as he then proceeded to demonstrate, achieving a positive tour de force as he reeled off passages from the Queen Mab speech in three distinct, immediately recognisable styles. He was on the third of these when there was an interruption which abruptly brought the curtain down on this merry scene. Len appeared on the terrace, wearing the mask of tragedy and more or less wringing his hands.
He waved away offers of champagne, saying he preferred beer, if you don’t mind, and sank down into a deck chair.
‘My dear boy, is something the matter?’ Jamie asked, looking up from his tapestry with mild concern.
‘You can say that again! And again! Elfrieda’s had an inspiration.’
‘Oh, that’s nice! And what are we all going to be doing now?’
‘You’re not going to like this, Jamie, but she said I was to be the one to break it to you, so here I am, breaking it.’
‘What am I not going to like?’
‘She wants Melanie to do Rosie.’
‘Rosie? You mean my schoolgirl?’
‘Right.’
‘Am I losing my hearing, or are you actually telling me that she wants Melanie to have the part?’
‘Well, she wants you to hear Melanie read it. I suppose you’d consent to that?’
Then you suppose wrong. Melanie can read it in Sanskrit, standing on her head and dressed up as Charles the Second, for all I care. It won’t do her the slightest good.’