Cool Repentance

by Antonia Fraser

  But when she opened the door of her suite, she was not alone. There was someone waiting for her. Spike Thompson was sitting there, quite at his ease, in the most comfortable chair in the room, wearing jeans and a blue top which might or might not have been a kind of vest. Through the door, she could see his black leather jacket was laid carefully on the bed -which was very large, a four-poster and advertised as having been occupied by King Charles II on his escape from Worcester. He had not bothered to draw the curtains of the rooms more than half-way.

  'I think you said champagne was your heart's desire.' There was a bottle cooling in a silver container beside him. 'I paid for it in cash, by the way.'

  'Ah. Cash. Now that is serious.'

  'Exactly. Now why don't you take off your clothes, and then take off mine, unless you'd prefer it to be the other way round? I want this to be your treat, starting with the champagne.'

  'If this is to be my treat,' said Jemima thoughtfully, 'I think one or other of us should wear your black leather jacket.'

  In the end it was Spike Thompson who took off the clothes and Jemima Shore who wore the black leather jacket. Spike Thompson also opened the champagne. Neither of them remembered to close the gap in the curtains.

  It was a long time later that Jemima raised her head from Spike's chest, her fingers clutched into the nests of black curly hair. 'Spike?'

  'Mmmmm.' He tightened the grasp of his arm, equally hirsute, about her.

  'There's a light on in the theatre.' 'Fuck the theatre. This is television.'

  Nat Fitzwilliam, when he went back into the Watchtower Theatre, also found someone waiting for him, someone sitting silently in the front row of the stalls.

  'Who is it?' he called from the back of the auditorium. But the figure, apparently gazing fixedly at the empty darkened stage, did not answer. It was very dark and still in the theatre: the lights which Nat had switched on did not illuminate the silent figure where it sat and to Nat, suddenly nervous, it had something of the horrid immobile air of a guy, a guy waiting patiently for the drama to begin.

  'Who are you?' Nat called again, walking quickly forward. 'And how the hell did you get into the theatre?' His voice sounded sharp, even commanding, but he was twisting the ends of his white scarf as he spoke.

  'Oh, I know where the key was left,' said the person suddenly, rising up from the seat, and pulling Nat's white scarf from between his hands. Taking advantage of Nat's surprise, the person most efficiently then placed the scarf round Nat's neck and pulled it tight, tight, till his round eyes began to pop out of his head, and his poor bragging tongue started forth.

  The theatre was quite quiet and no one saw the person who had just murdered Nat Fitzwilliam leave the the Stage Door and go away.

  Nat Fitzwilliam remained sitting, sightless, on the edge of the seat of the stalls where he had fallen, the white scarf twisted round his neck. After a while his body keeled forward and pitched down on to the floor. His body made no sound, resting on the thick theatre carpet. And when the seat, relieved of its burden, clapped back again upright it made no sound either.

  9

  Forbidden Thoughts

  It was Julian Cartwright who broke the news of Nat Fitzwilliam's death to Christabel. He intended to do so with that gentle deference which characterized his treatment of his wife. At the time Christabel was immured alone upstairs in her white bedroom whose windows looked to the sea. She was in that trance-like state half-way between sleep and the anguish of the day in which she might linger for hours if not called by Mrs Blagge.

  When rehearsals began, Christabel's orders had been precise: 'My breakfast tray exactly two and a half hours before rehearsal, darling - not a minute earlier, not a minute later. I like to have a bath, find my face again, recover from those wretched but essential pills. And I want the female Blagge to bring it, no, not you, Blanche darling, no Rina, of course not, and above all not Ketty - the female Blagge is the only one of you who won't talk at that time of day. Silent disapproval is ideal at that time in the morning, because it really is silent."

  Julian Cartwright had not offered to bring the tray himself and thus ran no risk of being repulsed.

  Now he stood beside his wife's large bed, gazing down at her in the semi-darkness. The day was overcast: the sultry night had ended in a small storm and a shower of rain, freshening the heavy green summer garden: so there was no sunlight to eat its way through the chinks in the curtains. All the same Julian could discern the soft contours of his wife's body under the bedclothes; she slept, as she always had, he remembered, well over on the right side of the bed, although there was now no rival occupant to disturb her repose. Had she slept like this too during those years away, those years when - surely her bed then had been all unruly -

  These were forbidden thoughts. Putting them from him, Julian touched Christabel's shoulder lightly.

  She stirred and muttered something like 'Curtains'. Seeing that her eyes were still tightly shut, Julian suddenly bent down and kissed her naked shoulder where he had touched it, as though to soothe the mark away.

  Christabel gave a little cry, opened her eyes, cried out again more strongly, and then stopped. She looked quite frightened as she clutched the white sheet across her breasts, only partly concealed by the white silk nightdress. Julian sat down on the edge of the bed.

  'Darling Christabel, listen to me.' He did not attempt to touch her again.

  'What time is it?' Christabel sat up more fully, and tried to squint at the little lapis lazuli and gold clock on her bedside table. 'What time is it? Have I overslept? Where's Mrs Blagge?'

  'Listen to me, my dearest. The police have telephoned from Larminster. There's been an accident. I want to prepare you.' For once Julian's voice was really low; his tone, as ever, was reasonable.

  He was violently interrupted by screams coming from the landing. The voice was that of Blanche. The cry - 'Mummy, Mummy' - was the same primitive wail which had announced the discovery of Filly Lennox's body on the seashore.

  Blanche came running into the bedroom. She was wearing very tight jeans and a T-shirt, with her fair hair pulled tightly into a ponytail. Julian had an automatic reaction: Blanche shouldn't wear jeans or pull her hair back, even last night's baggy outfit had been better. Then Blanche's story came tumbling out at high speed:

  'He's dead! Murdered! Vandals came in the night! They killed him -and now—' She began to weep copiously, hurling herself across the silk coverlet embroidered with spring of lily of the valley. 'I'll never be an actress now, I know I never will.' As Blanche's weeping turned to howls, Regina's much taller and slimmer figure, also clad in jeans, was seen rather wistfully standing in the bedroom door.

  'Come in, Rina, come in, don't hang about there,' he called out impatiently. 'Mummy's awake. You can see that. Ordinary rules don't apply. Besides—'

  Regina stepped tentatively into the bedroom. Her eyes were full of tears.

  'Oh Daddy,' she began. 'The pity of it—' She stopped as she saw that Julian's arms were struggling with Blanche's prostrate form, half-comforting her, half-trying to lug her off Christabel's bed. Regina too began to cry.

  About the time that Julian Cartwright with the help of Blanche was breaking the news of Nat Fitzwilliam's murder to Christabel, Miss Kettering was performing the same office for the Blagges.

  Mr and Mrs Blagge were together in the main kitchen; Mrs Blagge was setting Christabel's breakfast tray. Ketty watched her sister for a moment in silence.

  'Give over, Katherine,' muttered Mrs Blagge rather irritably. 'Give over watching me, why don't you? Haven't you got any of your own work to do?' Mrs Blagge folded a tiny voile napkin and made it look like a butterfly. 'If I don't call her in good time before rehearsal—'

  'No need to hurry yourself, Rose, no need whatsoever. There won't be any rehearsals from this time forward. Not for Her at any rate. For others more worthy, there will be. After all sin will not triumph.' Ketty's tone was solemn but beneath it, something approaching glee could be
discerned. Mrs Blagge was bent over the fridge, searching out a minute pat of butter.

  'What's that you say, Katherine?'

  'Thought better of it, has she then? No rehearsals? Repented her wicked ways?' If Ketty sounded a note of subdued glee, Mr Blagge was positively jovial.

  'Nat Fitzwilliam, he's dead. Mrs Nixon and Joan found him this morning when they went to clean the theatre. A terrible sight! Strangled with his own scarf. It's all over Larminster. They got the police of course, but he was quite dead. Must have been dead for hours. Somebody must have broken in. May God Have Mercy on His Soul.' Ketty crossed herself.

  Mrs Blagge did likewise. Mr Blagge did not move. Then the jug he was holding crashed to the floor and splintered into fragments as though some unseen force had prised open his fingers. He made no attempt to pick up the pieces.

  'Barry! He was just the same age as our Barry - and now they're both dead - well, at least it's fair - when you think—'

  'We agreed that we'd never talk about that, Jim,' interrupted Mrs Blagge. 'That's forbidden, Jim, to think about that, about those days.' Mr Blagge subsided.

  'Broke in, you said?'

  'Well, they must have broken in, mustn't they?' observed Ketty in a pious voice. 'We are not dealing with the supernatural here, Jim, and he was not likely to have let in his own murderer was he? He was a foolish boy, but he was not that foolish.'

  'So the key wasn't used?' Mr Blagge's voice was hoarse.

  The two women looked at each other; their expressions were unwontedly sympathetic.

  'What's that, then, Jim?'

  Mr Blagge sat down heavily at the kitchen table, the debris of the jug crunching under his feet.

  'Last night. While you, Katherine, were having dinner with them in that arty-crafty place they love so much with the mucked-up food and those two hens who run it, Rose went to call on Father O'Brien and Mrs Lang - I stayed in the car. Then She asked me to fetch her shawl from her dressing-room. Found a teeny weeny draught in the restaurant' - Mr Blagge cruelly imitated Christabel's beguiling tones - 'and of course Mr Julian had first rushed off to look for it. Came back without it. No key to the theatre - forgot about asking for it, in all his hurry to look after Her.

  'So then I was called from the car to make the second visit. The key was produced by Master Nat - he was having dinner there too you know -and into the theatre I go. Very cheeky he was too, when I asked him for the key. Gave him a piece of my mind right back, I did. I wasn't standing for that from young Nat. I don't care who heard me.'

  'Into the theatre, Jim! Why you might have been killed,' gasped Mrs Blagge ignoring the references to Nat's cheekiness. There was something quite self-righteous about her exaggerated anxiety.

  'That is, not into the actual theatre,' Mr Blagge corrected himself carefully, 'through the Stage Door, where I picked up the key of her dressing-room, and ended up with the aforesaid shawl .. . The only thing is ...' he hesitated. 'When I returned the shawl, Mr Julian told me not to bother to give young Nat back the key. I was very glad not to have to hand it back to that cheeky bastard, I can tell you. He'd left the restaurant by that time with the bald actor, the one who plays Sergeant Bartock on telly, and some woman. I saw them crossing the square to the Royal Stag on my way back.

  '"Leave it under the big stone by the dogs' drinking-trough," he said -Mr Julian, that is. "Mr Fitzwilliam will pick it up later. It'll be quite safe." So forth went I out and deposited it, just as he, Mr Julian, had requested.'

  Already there was something about Mr Blagge's words which smacked of the prepared statement.

  'And so you did, Jim?' Mrs Blagge prompted him.

  He nodded.

  'Then you've done nothing to reproach yourself with. Even if it wasn't a break-in. You were just obeying orders. Mr Julian's orders.'

  'Ah, but Rose, anyone could have seen him,' Ketty resumed her most pious voice. 'You must bear that in mind. Anyone could have heard you, Jim, come to think of it.'

  'Heard me! Heard Mr Julian, more like. It was he what was making the arrangements, don't you forget it. A voice like a bull, as She has so often put it—' Mr Blagge now sounded quite agitated.

  'Be that as it may, I prefer to look upon the bright side of things, myself,' Ketty in contrast was all sweetness.

  'And what might that be?'

  'The end of Her return to the stage. No more attention for Her.' Ketty smacked her lips. The gesture appeared to remind her of the need for bodily sustenance in this difficult time. She helped herself most adroitly to a piece of toast from Christabel's tray and buttered it. Mrs Blagge frowned.

  'Let Her sleep,' declared Ketty with confidence as she munched. 'Poor Nat. I remember his mother, Maisie Johnson; I was at school with her. We should have a Mass said for him, Rose, you talk to Father O'Brien about it. Father O'Brien's very interested in everything to do with the theatre - I'm sorry, Jim, I know your opinions, but it's true. They're not all bad people - you should have met some of the ones I met in London -perfect ladies and gentlemen.' Jim Blagge made no comment but looked unconvinced. 'Still, I'd like to see Her face when she hears the news that the production has been cancelled.' Ketty went on cheerfully.

  Miss Kettering was however to be denied that satisfaction.

  The verdict of the Larminster Festival Committee, as represented by Major Cartwright, on the subject of cancellation was clear enough. Major Cartwright's statement, for him, verged on the eloquent.

  'Can't be done. Glad to be shot of the whole business, myself, police crawling all over the place, not as bad as those television johnnies of course, no, nothing could be as bad as that. At least you know where you are with the police, at least the police are doing a job of work.'

  Major Cartwright glared at Gregory Rowan, to whom these remarks were being addressed, as if he might disagree.

  'Oh quite,' responded Gregory earnestly. 'Give me murder and the police over a straightforward television programme any day.'

  'Absolutely, my dear boy, absolutely.' The Major was delighted by this unexpected support. 'You know where the police are, and they know where you are. Whereas television! Tripped over a damn camera myself, the other day, and went for a burton. Good as murder any day, show you the bruises if you like. At least the police never trip you up - it's not their job to do that. All the same' - the Major's expression became more melancholy - 'can't be done. Lots of bookings, local interest, county interest. Insurance wouldn't play for one thing. Have to get another director I suppose and face the music. Godawful play anyway, even with this director, and he was born in Larminster.'

  'There are of course two plays to be considered,' Gregory suggested.

  'That's right. Two godawful plays and we need a new director for both of them,' pondered the Major in a voice of exceptional bad temper. Some sense of Gregory's role in the Festival then appeared to penetrate his consciousness. 'Not yours, old boy,' he added graciously. 'No question of that. Always love your plays. Always have. No! It's all this French Revolutionary nonsense. Historical twaddle. Not my phrase, by the way, but Fitzwilliam's own. The last time I saw him he used that very expression to me - historical twaddle, he said, play only saved by his own first-class production.'

  Gregory, with an air of unruffled good-humour, suggested that far too much twaddle was seen in Britain, both on the stage and above all on television. He pointed out that Boy Greville, a highly experienced director with a particular knowledge of his, Gregory's, work, and a real ability to hunt and destroy twaddle wherever he found it - notably and most urgently in Nat Fitzwilliam's productions - was actually present in Larminster. Might it not be a good idea to employ him? The Major agreed. They parted on terms of the utmost amiability.

  Cy Fredericks, on the telephone to Jemima Shore, began like Major Cartwright by expressing a strong desire to be shot of the whole business - the business in this case being Megalith's involvement in the Larminster Festival.

  'My dear Jem,' he roared indignantly down the telephone, 'they can't keep on dying li
ke this.' Anything that seriously impeded a Megalith programme in the making - that is, one with large sums of money already invested in it - was apt to be regarded by Cy as a deliberate campaign against his own personal survival. Clearly the unscheduled demises of Filumena Lennox and Nat Fitzwilliam fell squarely into this unfortunate category. 'They can't keep on like this and not expect Megalith to pull out. We had a special meeting this afternoon to discuss it all - where were you, by the way Jem, canoodling in Bridset, helping the handsome Spike to despatch his film, if what I hear is correct?'

  'On the contrary, I was helping the Bridset police with their enquiries,' replied Jemima in her coldest voice. 'And so was Spike. We're expecting to be arrested at any moment. Then you'll have to stand bail for us both for the sake of your programme - and as we shall then naturally elope, it could be a very expensive business.' Why was Cy's information service always so tiresomely up to date? She made a mental note to find out who had betrayed her and if it was Cherry, to condemn her to a lifetime of dating eighteen-year-olds.

  'For you, Jem, nothing is too much!' Cy was heavily gallant. 'As for our friend Spike, nothing has been too much for him in the past - the sight of his expenses in Capri on that dreadful deep-sea-diving Axel Munthe film still floats before my eyes on sleepless nights - so I suppose his bail would be merely one more colossal down-payment.' His tone changed. 'Anyway, you will be pleased to know, my dear Jem, that we've decided to go ahead with the programme for the time being. Less emphasis on the production itself. More emphasis on Christabel Herrick's return to the stage on the one hand, colourful local pageantry on the other. In short, we've decided that it would look bad if we pulled out now. We are artistic patrons, Jem, never forget, as well as businessmen. We have hearts as well as pockets, and we are prepared to dip our hands into both.'