Death in the Spotlight

by Robin Stevens

  Daisy sailed offstage in a cloud of glory. She seemed to hold her head even higher than usual – she really did look like quite a different person. I should never have thought that this beautiful girl, with huge dark eyes and red lips, was my Daisy – not until she wrinkled up her nose at me and hissed, ‘Don’t stare, Hazel! When you do, I’m convinced something’s wrong with me!’

  People never really change, I thought. Not in how they act, not in the way they move without thinking. I drew in my breath and flicked to two particular pages in my notes.

  ‘Hands!’ I whispered to Daisy. ‘The wrong hand! Here, look!’

  ‘You star!’ cried Daisy. ‘And I have new evidence as well. I managed to look at Theresa’s book before I went on and the good news is’ – she lowered her voice and drew closer to me as Lysander came striding by – ‘there is enough time! Quite ages. As soon as we stopped thinking that the murder had to have been committed after a certain moment, everything makes perfect sense. It’s all about entrances and exits! One character is offstage in Act Two long enough for the person playing that part to commit murder, and only one character. Our hypothesis is not just a hypothesis any more.’

  My heart was pounding. It was so impossible. It felt like one of Daisy’s wilder stories. But it was the one solution that made sense of everything that had happened. We had to stop assuming, and think only of the absolute facts.

  ‘Think of those white threads, Hazel, and the footprint! Think of the dress! Really, the answer was staring us in the face all along. Now, my idea from earlier still holds. I think the murderer will try to strike tonight, during the play, and that will give us the final piece of evidence we need to give to the Inspector and solve the case.’

  ‘But what if – what if we can’t stop the next crime?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, then I shall never forgive myself,’ said Daisy briskly. ‘But I should always forgive you. I know you think that every dreadful thing that happens in the world is because you didn’t stop it, but the truth is that dreadful things would happen anyway, even if you had never been born. The excellent fact is that you were born, and that means that you have the chance to make the world a slightly less horrid place. You mustn’t think of all the people who’ve died. Remember all the people who never got murdered because you caught their killers. Well – you and me. Mostly me, really. But, of course, also you.’

  ‘Why do you always ruin the nice things you say?’ I cried.

  ‘Because I’m English,’ said Daisy. ‘I should think you’d understand that by now. Come on, Watson. There’s a murderer to reveal, and the play must go on until that moment. Are you ready?’

  I gulped. ‘Ready,’ I said. ‘I think so, anyway.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Daisy. ‘If you’re not sure, then you’re ready. Constant vigilance, and Detective Society for ever!’

  7

  The play spooled on – and I remember it now less like theatre and more like a talking picture. Everything seemed rather distant, or perhaps that was just my brain. I was trying to see everywhere at once, with the sick, horrible fear that if I closed my eyes and turned away, for even a moment, the blow would fall.

  But Act Two passed (I saw what Daisy meant about timings), then Act Three. Martita was acting with all her might. I really believed she was Juliet, clever, determined, isolated Juliet, planning the most daring trick to escape her fate (I thought Juliet would have been an excellent Detective Society member). I realized then that, truly, the answer had been in front of us all along, in the lines I spoke, and in the character of Juliet and in her clever plan. Romeo ruins it, of course, in the play – but, in real life, our murderer had almost got away with their trick.

  Lysander was a handsome Romeo, but for all that I could not imagine being swept off my feet by him. I remembered how he had grabbed hold of Daisy in the corridor and knew that the true side of him was far nastier than his play-self.

  Daisy nudged me. ‘That’s my sensible Hazel,’ she whispered. For a moment I wondered whether I had said what I was thinking out loud, but then I knew I did not need to.

  Of course, I knew that Daisy was imagining running away to Mantua just like the star-crossed lovers do – but with Juliet, not Romeo. It was a different sort of story to think about, and I could not see how it could end happily. But then I realized that I knew the answer, after all. Miss Crompton and Theresa might look old and rather dumpy, and not at all romantic, but I supposed that once they had been young and perhaps even as pretty as Daisy and Martita. Theirs could not be quite the same as Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy’s life together, for they had to keep putting on a polite pretence of only being partners in business, but all the same they had not managed badly.

  I supposed that was what this case should have shown me: that sometimes the story really being told is not the one you think you are watching.

  Act Four, and Juliet was about to fake her own death. Inigo as Friar Lawrence was striding about on the stage, declaiming mightily. He held up his little vial, so that the lights of the stage sparked off it and threw out green dazzles into the audience.

  Arsenic green, I thought … and I suddenly had a sort of detective premonition. I remembered the basket of props I had seen, and suddenly I realized that I knew what we had been waiting for. This was the final act of the murderer’s plan.

  ‘Daisy!’ I cried. ‘The props!’

  ‘Martita!’ gasped Daisy, spinning round. ‘Martita. Martita!’

  ‘What is it, Daisy?’ asked Martita. She was waiting in the wings, adjusting her skirts and composing her face before she stepped onstage.

  ‘Don’t drink the vial of sleeping potion,’ babbled Daisy. ‘Just pretend! And, er, don’t kiss Lysander, either.’

  ‘Daisy, are you all right?’ asked Martita curiously. ‘You know I have to drink the potion. And Lysander kisses me. It’s part of the play.’

  ‘Um, I know, but please don’t!’ said Daisy. ‘We think – we think some of the props have been tampered with!’

  ‘Please listen to her!’ I agreed. ‘Honestly! I saw someone with them who shouldn’t have had them – I think it was the murderer!’

  Martita stared at us both. I could tell she did not know whether or not to laugh. ‘But—’ she began. ‘I—’

  ‘Juliet!’ hissed Theresa. ‘Get on, silly girl, it’s you!’

  And Martita rushed onto the stage.

  Daisy and I stared at each other. Juliet was speaking with Friar Lawrence. She was taking the bottle. Would she listen to us? What could we do?’

  ‘I know what I told you earlier, but we have to stop the play,’ said Daisy.

  ‘We can’t!’ I said. ‘We won’t be able to prove who did it!’

  ‘Yes, but if we don’t, Martita will actually die!’ said Daisy. ‘That’s far worse.’

  Onstage, Martita held up the bottle, lifted it to her lips – and I saw that she had kept the stopper firmly in place. Not a drop of liquid went into her mouth. Daisy sagged with relief, and Martita slumped onto her bed in Juliet’s play-sleep. Her parents and Nurse gathered round her, weeping, and then it was Romeo’s scene.

  Daisy clutched at me as Lysander went striding past us.

  ‘Lysander!’ she cried. ‘Excuse me – Lysander! Don’t drink the poison!’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Lysander calmly, and pushed by her onto the stage.

  Juliet was taken to her tomb. Paris and his Page followed her, grieving (Daisy freshly made up and in her Page’s jerkin, posing for the audience), and Paris fought with Romeo in the churchyard. In her tomb Juliet lay as still as marble, and Romeo knelt over her. He held out his own bottle – and, once again, glass flashed in the stage lights.

  ‘Daisy!’ I cried. ‘Quick! He’s not going to listen!’

  And, of course, Daisy acted. She threw herself forward onto the stage.

  ‘STOP THE PLAY!’ she shrieked. ‘DON’T DRINK A DROP!’ – just as Lysander threw back his head and drank down the liquid in the little bottle.

>   There was a moment of awed hush. Then, somewhere in the audience, a seat thumped back as someone leaped to their feet.

  ‘CALL AN AMBULANCE!’ screamed Daisy. ‘He’s been poisoned! And STOP THAT WOMAN! Don’t let her leave! SHE’S THE MURDERER!’

  8

  I have never before heard such a noise. It was louder than the roar of hundreds of Deepdean girls rushing out of Prayers, louder even than the hum and buzz of a Hong Kong or London street.

  The roar of 2,000 throats drawing breath together, the hammer blow of 2,000 seats closing in unison – and Daisy’s shout, seemingly echoing through the air as it was taken up by hundreds of voices.

  ‘Stop her! Stop her! Murderer!’

  And, threading through it all, a woman was screaming, far away in the darkness, screaming and screaming in fury. The sound gave me chills all up and down my spine – and so did the scene on the stage.

  Martita had sat up from her play-sleep and was kneeling over Lysander, her long dark hair hanging down around him as she shook him and slapped his face. Lysander’s cheeks had gone a strange grey colour and his whole body twitched.

  I remembered Miss Bell’s body, the way I had touched it and simply known she was dead. I remembered the horror of seeing Mr Curtis convulsing – and I knew then that even though Lysander, like Mr Curtis, was an utterly nasty person, he did not deserve to die. I knew too that there might still be time to save him. So I opened my mouth, stared out into the thick, panicked, heaving darkness and then shouted out a new line, one I had not practised.

  ‘WE NEED A DOCTOR! PLEASE! HELP!’

  It turns out that there are an awful lot of doctors in a London theatre. Five men and one woman came rushing up onto the stage and made a dramatic circle around Lysander, feeling his pulse and paddling their hands over him. Lysander groaned and convulsed.

  ‘Belladonna!’ cried one of them, sniffing the empty vial. ‘It’s belladonna poisoning! This man needs pilocarpine at once!’

  Daisy had run off the stage into the stalls, as had Martita. I turned and raced after them, coming upon them halfway down the aisle, in a crush of people all staring at the woman who had been screaming. She was now quiet, lying on the ground in the grip of none other than a rather flustered, rather annoyed-looking Inspector Priestley.

  ‘Hello!’ said Daisy. ‘How do you always manage to know exactly where you need to be?’

  ‘It’s a skill,’ said the Inspector shortly.

  Inspector Priestley has been at the close of so many of our cases, ready to lay his hands on the murderer and take them safely away. Perhaps that is why he gives me such a calming feeling. Now, even though everyone was shouting and upset, I knew that things would be quite all right in the end.

  I had to look twice at the woman he was holding. She was dark-haired and staidly dressed, with a round, powdered face. I got a shock, because this was the new dresser, the one I had seen hurrying away with the basket of props. How had she managed to appear here? But her pale face was contorted with rage, her mouth open to show cheeks packed with cotton wool. Her dark hair was slipping slightly to one side, its pins losing their grip in her struggle. I could see blonde hair underneath and I knew that furious expression.

  ‘A wig!’ I cried. ‘It’s Rose Tree in disguise!’

  Daisy was glaring at her. ‘An actress by her very nature is a mistress of disguise,’ she said. ‘It’s like Lysander said. Rose has played two parts already, and this is her third.’

  ‘I’m not Rose Tree!’ cried the woman in a Cockney accent. ‘Rose is dead!’

  ‘You aren’t!’ cried Daisy. ‘You’re Susan Brown, also known as Rose Tree, and you have been impersonating Annie Joy. We didn’t see what you were doing at first, but in the end we did. You reckoned without the Detective Society, Rose, and that was your greatest mistake!’

  ‘What’s the Detective Society?’ a woman in the crowd whispered to her husband.

  ‘That’s what the police are calling themselves these days, I should think,’ her husband replied.

  ‘They wish!’ cried Daisy heatedly. ‘Remember that name! One day it will be very famous indeed!’

  And, over the chaos and shouting and shoving, Daisy and I smiled at each other.

  9

  ‘All right,’ said the Inspector. ‘Let us unravel this knot.’

  We were all crammed into Miss Crompton’s office. When I say crammed, I am not exaggerating – there was Miss Crompton herself, Theresa, Martita, Inigo, Simon, Daisy, Uncle Felix, George, Alexander, Aunt Lucy, the Inspector and me. In Miss Crompton’s big mahogany chair sat Rose Tree – in handcuffs.

  She glared around at us, and I could see now that it was Rose. Although her charm was dimmed and her face was rather bedraggled, I recognized the tilt of her little nose, the dimple in her cheek, the curl of her ear.

  I wondered how on earth we had ever been fooled – but then I remembered how Daisy’s costumes had almost tricked me when she practised at the flat, and I realized that it was not so surprising. If Daisy, who I know as well as I know myself, could seem to be a different person, then Rose would have little difficulty pretending to be Annie, a dresser everyone in the company had known for only a few weeks.

  People see what they expect to see, and someone’s personality is as much in the clothes they wear, how they walk and sit and stand, as in their actual features. And when the person Rose had been impersonating was as exaggerated as Annie, with her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes and bright clothes and curly hair, it would have been easy. All Rose needed to do was curl her own fair hair like Annie’s (I ought to have realized from the curling tongs that we found in Annie’s accommodation that Annie’s curls were not natural), and paint her face, and make sure she stood out of bright light. All we had seen was the character of Annie, not Annie herself.

  ‘Is this appropriate for children?’ asked Inigo.

  ‘I should think they ought to be allowed to stay in this case,’ said Miss Crompton. ‘They uncovered the truth, after all.’

  ‘But what about those ones?’ said Inigo, gesturing at Alexander and George. ‘I’m sure I haven’t seen them before.’

  ‘They’re our friends!’ I said quickly. ‘Oh, please let them stay!’

  ‘I certainly have no issue with it, as long as it does not get out to the press,’ said Inspector Priestley. ‘They have all done important detective work.’

  Uncle Felix sighed and screwed his monocle into his eye forcefully. ‘I suppose this is my fault,’ he said. ‘I let them come back here, at great cost, and, although I dislike saying it, they have done me proud.’

  ‘Now,’ said Inspector Priestley, ‘I gather from what you have said that Miss Tree murdered Miss Joy some time during the evening she faked her own disappearance, and assumed her identity. Miss Tree then apparently faked Miss Joy’s fall from Westminster Bridge the next night. I know from speaking to Jim and Theresa that she was hired from an agency yesterday as the new dresser under the name of Nicole Patton. I have made enquiries and discovered that she has been living in a boarding house south of the river for the last few days. But I don’t know exactly how she managed the whole performance, and I would not have put together Rose, Annie and Nicole without Hazel and Daisy’s help.’

  ‘I know how she did it!’ said Daisy. ‘We do, don’t we, Hazel? Oh, isn’t this fun! We’ve got a captive audience and we can finally tell them exactly what happened at the Rue!’

  10

  ‘The one mistake we all made was to assume that nothing could have happened until after the argument between Rose and Martita,’ I said, before Daisy could rush in. ‘We thought that was the last time Rose was seen and heard alive by anyone but her killer – but that wasn’t true at all, because Rose was never killed. After all, how did we know that the body down the well was Rose’s? We all thought it was, because it was wearing a white nightdress and had a cut and bound foot, and because Rose had gone missing. But we heard the coroner say that her face and hands were swollen and unrecognizable because of t
he way she had been stuck upside down in the well. He identified her by her costume, and her general height and weight. He assumed, and so did everyone else.’

  ‘But!’ cried Daisy. ‘What if it wasn’t Rose down the well? What if it was someone else entirely? Annie Joy, the dresser, was similar in build to Rose, and they both had similar-coloured hair. Annie’s was curly – but her curls were ironed in with curlers. Annie wore heavy make-up and gorgeous, colourful clothes – a good actress like Rose could make herself up like her, put on her clothes and fake her way of speaking and moving. Likewise, in one of Rose’s costumes, with her make-up done like Rose’s and her curls waterlogged, she wouldn’t look like Annie Joy any more. She might even be mistaken for Rose Tree.

  ‘But why should Rose need to play such an elaborate trick? Why did she want Annie Joy dead, and why would she fake her own death to do it? Well, we all know that she has a tragic past. Her parents died when Rose was thirteen, in 1927. They died in a boating accident on holiday in Southend, and Rose was discovered by a local girl washed up in a nearby bay, barely alive. Now, this story is supposed to be a very sad one, and for a while we believed that’s what it really was. But again, we realized that there might be another side to the story. What if the tragedy was actually a case of foul play? What if Rose’s parents had been murdered? We found out that Rose’s father had been a reverend, and we assumed that someone must have killed him to cover up some past sin. We knew from the papers that Annie’s family was from Southend, and from Annie’s diary, and from the things she said, we began to wonder whether Annie had been mixed up in what happened. What if she was the girl who had found Rose that day, and what if she knew crucial details about this past crime?