by Eric Brown
‘Please be there,’ she said to herself. ‘Please pick up the phone!’
The dial tone rang and rang, filling her with despair.
If the woman attacked Pamela, then came for her …
She slammed down the receiver and paced to and fro, hardly daring to peer out into the fog-shrouded street as she came to the window again and again.
Five minutes passed, ten …
She moved to the kitchen, took a carving knife from the drawer and returned to the sitting room.
After five minutes she heard the back door open, very carefully, and her heart leapt. The kitchen door stood ajar, and through the gap she made out Pamela creeping across the room and replacing the knife in the drawer.
She didn’t know whether to feel relief or rage.
The kettle bubbled, and in due course Pamela emerged, clutching a mug of tea and smiling breezily as if nothing untoward had happened.
Maria stared at her. ‘I told you,’ she said, ‘not to go out there. I was frightened to death when I realized you’d gone.’ She produced the knife from behind her back. ‘Look, I even armed myself, thinking the woman would attack you and come for me!’
Silently, Pamela moved to the sofa and sat down. She was no longer smiling, and Maria noticed, as the girl set her mug on the sofa’s wide arm, that her hand was shaking.
‘Pamela?’
‘She was there,’ she said in a small voice, ‘staring across at the house when I came out of the passageway further along …’ She gestured vaguely. ‘She saw me and scarpered. I followed her, Maria. She was watching the house. I know it, or else why did she hurry off like that?’
‘Did you get close enough to see …?’
Pamela shook her head. ‘She dived into a car and drove away. She was a long way off.’
‘Could you describe her to the police?’
Pamela chewed her lip. ‘All I could make out was that she was small and wore a raincoat and a hat like a beret.’
Maria crossed the room, sat beside the girl on the sofa and took her hand.
‘No more heroics, oui? I’ll phone the police.’
The girl nodded, and Maria locked and bolted the front and back doors, then crossed to the telephone in the corner of the room.
SEVENTEEN
The rain had blown over by the time Langham and Ralph reached the theatre.
They made their way to Archer Street and a red-brick building guarded by a uniformed constable, his waterproof cape glistening with raindrops.
Ralph showed his accreditation and the bobby nodded. ‘Inspector Mallory said you might be calling by.’
Langham gestured to the door set into the red-brick wall. ‘Is this the only entrance?’
‘From this side it is, sir. There’s a communicating door through to the theatre itself, and a colleague is manning that.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve noticed any suspicious characters loitering around – a small woman with ginger hair, for instance?’
The policeman shook his head. ‘No, sir. No one, other than the actors and such, that is.’
Langham thanked him and pushed through the door. They found themselves in a short, dimly lit corridor. A door stood ajar at the far end, through which Langham made out the raised voices of actors at work.
They slipped into the room and stood unobtrusively against the wall.
A dozen actors sat on straight-backed chairs placed in an oval around the performance area in which Holly Beckwith and a tall Bohemian-looking man strode back and forth, rehearsing a scene.
Langham looked around the room. ‘The killer would be a fool to try anything here,’ he said. ‘There’s safety in numbers. I’m more worried about Beckwith’s vulnerability coming here and leaving. And her appearing in the play.’
‘What d’you reckon? Someone’ll take a pop at her from the stalls?’
Langham shrugged, stuffing his pipe and lighting up. ‘Who knows? The three deaths so far have been along the same lines, but who’s to say the killer would stick to the script? He or she might improvise with a gun, for all we know.’
‘You going to read Beckwith the riot act?’
‘I’ll say. Her life is at stake, that’s for certain. She might have landed a starring part in a West End production and won’t like having to pull out, but she’d like the alternative even less.’ He grunted. ‘The final curtain, as it were.’
Holly Beckwith, clutching a folded play-script, confronted the actor. ‘That’s all very well,’ she declared, ‘but have you for one minute considered your wife’s feelings?’
The director moved around the pair, two fingers pressed to his pursed lips as if examining a work of art. ‘Excellent, darling! Now, James, if you could be a little more earnest in your response.’
The actor nodded. Beckwith repeated her line, and James delivered, ‘I’m sorry, but the only woman I care about is you.’
‘And Holly,’ the director said, ‘when you turn away, raise your hand to your lips as if in shock.’
‘Like this,’ Holly said, obeying the director’s commands.
‘Perfection, darling. Wonderful! Now, from the top of the page, everyone.’
Three other actors stood and took their chalked marks on the bare floorboards. If Beckwith had noticed Langham and Ralph’s arrival, she gave no indication.
Directly across the room, a tall man lounged against the far wall, timing the scene with a stopwatch. To Langham’s right, a small young woman sat on a high stool, going through a script with a red pen. She set it aside, sighed as if monumentally bored, and drew a Pall Mall from its red packet with her lips. She tapped her trouser pocket, looking for matches, then scowled.
Langham left Ralph and moved around the edge of the room. He proffered his box of Swan Vestas, and after a brief glance at him she smiled and accepted a match.
She lit up and frowned at Langham through the smoke. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘You’re an agent?’
He showed his accreditation. ‘Private detective.’
She raised her eyebrows. The woman had short blonde hair and a pale, expressive face. ‘On duty? Or are you a stage-door Johnny come to drool over our leading lady?’ Langham detected just a trace of resentment in her reference to Holly Beckwith.
‘On duty,’ he said. ‘And you?’
She pulled down her rouged lips in a pantomime of gloom. ‘Actress. Understudy. Ever the understudy!’
‘Let me guess,’ he said, smiling. ‘Holly’s role, yes?’
‘Got it in one, Detective. But look at her! How do I match that? She has talent and looks.’ She gazed at Beckwith in a show of abject despair that Langham found almost comical.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure you have talent, and with a wig …’
He watched her, but her expression showed no response other than glum dismissal of his well-meaning words.
He tried to see her as a killer in a ginger wig but failed. She was too pretty, for one thing. The concierge had described Hilary Shaw as being plain.
‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around here recently, acting suspiciously?’ he asked.
‘Other than yourself and your sidekick, you mean?’ She blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling. ‘No, no one.’
‘Or not acting suspiciously? Just hanging around, watching? A small woman in a ginger wig, a purple beret and a blue raincoat?’
‘Again, no. But I’ll tell you if I see her. What has she done, other than committed a crime against good taste?’
Langham smiled. ‘We just want to dismiss her from our enquiries,’ he said non-committally.
She drew on her cigarette as she watched the rehearsal. ‘There have been a few chaps knocking around, showing an interest.’
‘In Beckwith?’
She nodded. ‘Ogling the star.’
‘Strangers, or have you seen them before? And when was this?’
‘Yesterday, a chap in a gabardine looked in, standing just where your mate is.’
‘Could you descr
ibe him?’
The woman frowned, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, no. I don’t take much notice of …’ She stopped herself and looked away. ‘No, I’m sorry. He just watched Holly for a while, then went away.’
Langham wondered if it might have been one of Mallory’s men, checking on the actress’s whereabouts.
‘And the others?’
The actress shrugged. ‘Too numerous to mention. Ask Holly yourself.’
Within the oval of chairs, the director clapped his hands and called out, ‘Let’s leave it there, boys and girls. An hour for lunch. See you all back here at one?’
The woman sighed and jumped down from the stool.
‘Hey, don’t be so glum,’ Langham said. ‘I have a feeling you’re about to get your big break.’
‘In my dreams, buddy,’ she said in a mock American accent, then joined the actors as they drifted towards the exit.
Holly Beckwith looked across the room and her expression of flushed thespian bonhomie faltered and became one of sudden uncertainty.
Langham lifted a hand in laconic greeting.
She switched on a bright smile and crossed to him. ‘Why, Mr Langham … And I see you’ve brought reinforcements,’ she went on as Ralph joined them.
Langham introduced Ralph, who said, ‘Charmed, as they say in the movies.’
‘We’d like a quiet word, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Langham said.
Beckwith gestured to the departing gaggle of actors. ‘I was about to accompany …’
‘How about you join us instead?’ Ralph suggested. ‘I know a cheap Italian place around the corner.’
She looked unsure. Langham said, ‘It is important, Miss Beckwith.’
She sighed. ‘Very well.’
Ralph led them from the building, down the alley and along the street to a small, steamy bistro. Langham was gratified to see the uniformed constable follow them; he stationed himself discreetly across the street as Langham sat down at a window table.
Behind the counter, a coffee machine hissed and steamed like a miniature traction engine, and waiters called back and forth in sing-song Italian.
Beckwith ordered coffee and a slice of gateau, Langham and Ralph coffee and toasted teacakes.
Langham said, ‘I’m sorry. This is going to come as a shock, Miss Beckwith, but George and Hermione Goudge were killed last night.’
In the process of lighting a cigarette, the actress stopped and let her hands fall to the tabletop. ‘Killed?’
‘Murdered,’ Ralph said.
She swallowed. ‘A gentleman from Scotland Yard spoke to me yesterday,’ she said evenly. ‘He told me about Doctor Bryce, and said that I – that everyone who had attended that awful evening …’ She shook her head. ‘He said that we were all in danger.’ She looked from Ralph to Langham. ‘What happened to … to the Goudges?’ she murmured.
‘They were sedated, then had their throats cut,’ Ralph said, clearly intending to shock her.
Her face crumpled and she wept. Ralph found a napkin and offered it to her. She blotted her eyes. ‘I can’t pretend to have liked Hermione, but …’ She shook her head, sniffing and drying her eyes.
Ralph said, ‘The killer means business. The invitations were numbered, remember, along with the chairs.’
Holly Beckwith looked aghast. ‘Bryce, George and Hermione … And I was number four!’
‘The police are doing all they can,’ Ralph said. ‘But you can make their job a lot easier.’
‘Of course, I’ll help in any way I can. What do you need to know, gentlemen?’
The waiter arrived with their coffees, gateau and teacakes.
Langham said, ‘It’s not so much what we need to know as what we want you to do. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid, for your own well-being, you must step down from your role in the play, as of now.’
If anything, Beckwith appeared more shocked at this than on receiving the news of the slaying of the Goudges.
‘Leave the play? But I’ve worked so hard for the part. I couldn’t possibly …’
Startling her, Ralph reached across the table and gripped her fine-boned wrist. ‘Your life’s at stake, for Christ’s sake. We’re dealing with a madman, miss. A cold-blooded lunatic who appears to relish killing his victims.’
She grimaced at the severity of his grip, and he released her arm. She looked from him to Langham, as if pleading. ‘But the police … I have police protection. Surely—?’
Ralph leaned forward, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. ‘The Goudges had police protection, too. The killer worked out how to get at them, even so.’
‘If I hired someone to …’
Langham watched Ralph as he tried not to lose his temper. ‘Do you want to know the grisly details?’ his friend snapped, then continued before she could reply. ‘Very well, then. Here goes. The Goudges were sedated with drugged wine and then, while they were still alive, they were stripped naked and their throats were slashed, from here’– Ralph graphically demonstrated the cut – ‘to here. We’re not only dealing with a killer, miss, but a deranged maniac who’s killed three people so far and won’t stop there, mark my word.’
‘If I were you,’ Langham said, pressing the advantage, ‘I’d go back to the rehearsal rooms with the friendly bobby and tell your director that you’re withdrawing from the play immediately. You have an understudy, so—’
‘Tina?’ The actress laughed. ‘She couldn’t understudy a plank of wood!’
‘That’s really beside the point,’ Langham said. ‘Tell the director that you can’t possibly play the part.’ He reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘And it isn’t as if it’s permanent. Just as soon as all this is cleared up, and the killer is in custody, you can resume the role.’
‘But when might that be?’ she wailed.
Langham stuck out his metaphorical neck. ‘I’d say in a matter of days.’
Holly Beckwith stared at him, her gateau untouched on the plate before her. She shook her head. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ She lodged her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. ‘This is a nightmare!’
‘Indeed, who would do such a thing?’ Langham said. ‘We need to work out who was close to Fenton recently. Intimate with him. It’s someone, obviously, with his interests at heart, for some twisted reason. I know you’ve no doubt been asked this before, but can you think of anyone who might fit the bill?’
She spread her hands helplessly. ‘It’s such a long time since I had anything to do with the vile man.’
‘Have you heard rumours or read anything in the press—?’
‘About?’
Langham shrugged. ‘I don’t know … Fenton’s liaisons, lovers?’
She worried at her bottom lip in furious thought, finally shaking her head. ‘Nothing comes to mind. As I said, I last saw him years ago, before the war.’
Langham nodded. ‘How about his lovers back then? Can you recall their names? There was a woman called Patience or Prudence …’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t recall anyone by that name.’
‘What about other women?’ Ralph said.
‘Well … there were a few girls who were hanging around him at the time I knew him.’
‘Can you recall their names?’ Ralph asked, ready with his pencil and notebook.
‘There was a Felicity … Felicity Smythe, and her set.’
She went on to list five women whom she knew had shown an interest in the artist back in the late thirties, and Ralph took down their names.
Langham said, ‘In the past few weeks, have you happened to set eyes on a small woman with red hair?’
She repeated the description. ‘I really can’t say. That is, not that I noticed. Why, is she—?’
‘There is a possibility that she might be involved,’ he said.
‘No, I recall no one of that description.’
‘Have you noticed anyone else, man or woman, watching you during the past week or so?’ Langham asked. ‘Yesterd
ay, for instance, at rehearsals?’
She smiled. ‘There was a nice man who popped in yesterday morning,’ she said. ‘But he was a police officer checking the security of the place.’
Langham considered something that Beckwith had told him when she’d visited the office – and something Hermione Goudge had mentioned.
‘When you called at the office,’ he said, ‘you said that, back in the thirties, Fenton had had a child.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you know whether it was a boy or a girl?’
She frowned, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. I’m sorry.’
‘I mentioned this to Hermione Goudge yesterday, and she said that she’d heard that the child hadn’t survived. Apparently, according to her, it died in infancy. But is this true – was Hermione correct?’
Beckwith spread her hands. ‘I honestly can’t say.’
Ralph leaned forward. ‘What are you getting at, Don?’
Langham shrugged. ‘A long shot. What if this child, a girl, did survive, despite what Hermione thought?’
Ralph whistled. ‘The red-headed girl?’
Holly Beckwith looked mystified. ‘But what if she did?’
Langham said, ‘It’s a connection with Fenton. Someone intimate with him, who might, in the circumstances, be willing to do his bidding.’
Beckwith pulled a distasteful face and shook her head. ‘But why would his daughter – if she did survive – why would she kill for her dead father? It doesn’t make sense.’
Langham sat back and sipped his coffee. He recalled the trip to Forest Hill the previous day and their interview with Miss Wardley.
‘If not a daughter,’ he went on, ‘then how about a friend, or someone beholden to the artist?’ He withdrew the photograph of Edgar Benedict from his coat pocket and slid it across the table to the actress.
‘Do you recall this fellow from your time at Winterfield in the thirties?’
Without picking it up, she lay a finger on the portrait. ‘Yes, I do recognize him.’
‘Edgar Benedict,’ Langham said. ‘He and Fenton were good friends. Best friends, apparently.’
‘Benedict was always down at Winterfield.’ She looked up at Langham. ‘Not a very nice man, as I recall. But they weren’t best friends – well, I say that … They were best friends at one point, but then they had a big falling out.’
