‘I haven’t actually said I’ll take this case on, you know,’ she muttered in a low undertone to Dolly as they followed Silvia out of the dressing room. ‘I don’t like this. She isn’t telling me everything and that’s a bad start. I also feel she resents my presence here, too. There are so many layers of deception involved.’
‘Of course there are layers of deception! She’s an actress, darlin’!’ hissed Dolly. ‘But she needs you! What she isn’t sayin’ is that she’s pushin’ thirty, and she’s almost bein’ pushed out of the limelight. There are loads of other actresses muscling in on her crown, and she’s just about clingin’ on for dear life. And Betty Balfour and Meggie Albanesi are just the half of it! She needs to make it to that Wrap Party tomorrow, Posie. Alive.’
‘I quite see that. But it’s not my problem, is it?’ Posie muttered. ‘In fact, I’ve half a mind to leave now.’
‘’Course you won’t, lovey!’ Dolly beamed. She seemed to have recovered her earlier cheer, finger or no severed finger.
‘You’d be daft to go. And stop hangin’ on to that huff. This is the most fun we’ve had in ages!’
****
Six
They emerged squinting out into the bright daylight of the glass-filled corridor. Out here Silvia Hanro seemed completely unreal. Posie tried not to stare too much.
Several glass doors were set in matching pairs along the corridor, leading onto a small paved terrace outside, and then onto a scrubby grass-covered lawn the size of about eight tennis courts, what must once have been formal gardens. It was now an outdoor workshop packed tightly with at least one hundred people, all busy working in the relentless sunshine.
They passed through one of the double glass doors and Silvia stopped on the terrace to put up a small purple Japanese silk parasol. When she spoke it came out muffled through the wraps:
‘Golly! This heat is sweltering. It’s not far. We’re heading up there. To the dark studio.’
Silvia gestured ahead of them to where a cinder path led towards two large temporary-looking buildings with triangular roofs. To the left stretched fields of wheat and what looked like an old, dark farmhouse nestled on the crest of a hill, and away to the right stretched grassy fields and rows and rows of greenhouses for growing vegetables.
On the lawn the noise was immense and Posie remembered what Robbie Fontaine had said about Worton Hall Studios being like a small town. But it felt more like a busy dockyard: cloth-capped carpenters were clustered in islands across the grass, sawing vast timbers into pieces, shouting at each other, and yet more men in blue cambric overalls were busy painting stiff sheets of canvas stage scenery, their faces covered in sweat and dust and daubs of bright paint. A couple of black horses, big as shire horses, were tethered together on the cinder path in a bit of shade cast from a yew tree, waiting patiently, their cart being loaded up with what looked like just-finished stage scenery, huge and cumbersome.
‘My gosh! This is quite some operation! No wonder it’s so expensive,’ Posie muttered to herself, squinting against the harsh sun, despite her hat drawn well-down over her eyes.
There was a sudden hush and all eyes were immediately riveted on Silvia Hanro, whose white coverings and dash of purple parasol stood out ridiculously. Silvia, being big and tall and powerfully built, took large strides, despite the wraps, covering the ground easily.
Posie automatically stepped back behind the girl, not wanting to be noticed and hating the feeling of so many eyes upon her. Yet again she wished she had worn black or brown today, not bright yellow: it was hardly the colour to stay unobtrusive in. Dolly trotted along happily with Silvia, almost running at her side to keep up, either oblivious to the looks or enjoying the attention.
To the left of the lawn, under a small white marquee, a mixed crowd of men and women of all ages hung around listlessly in the heat, sipping tin cups of tea. They all stared over, too. Silvia jabbed her parasol in their direction.
‘The extras have been filming all morning, so they’re having a break just now.’
Picking their way through the groups of people took some doing, and required full attention, and it wasn’t until they had reached the cinder path and the welcome shade of the trees that Posie realised they had acquired quite a little band of followers in their wake.
The pale frizzy-haired woman from the dressing room, Elaine, was looking harried, carrying a big pile of what could have been velvet curtains in her arms. She was clipping along as fast as she could on what looked like eminently unsuitable shoes for a dresser to wear. They were very high, and bright orange. Elaine couldn’t match Silvia’s stride though, and trailed quite a long way behind the star.
The boy from earlier, Sidney, the stringer, was also just behind Posie, much closer, swinging a bag of marbles in one hand and carrying a chalk slate. He was whistling the same snatch of song over and over, quite tunelessly:
‘In and out the dusty bluebells, in and out the dusty bluebells. Who will be my master?’
It was very annoying.
‘Good grief!’ Posie turned and scowled, just about to tell him to be quiet.
But someone else got in first.
‘Put a sock in it, will you, Sidney? I for one would like a spot of peace and quiet before Langley’s onslaught.’
Out of the blue, a tall man with a razor-short blonde haircut drew alongside Posie on her left-hand side. He was wearing blue sunglasses and dressed in what looked like crumpled cricket whites.
The boy immediately stopped whistling and looked cowed.
The man was like some kind of Norse God, a mythical Loki, tanned and fair and with strong, muscular, oiled arms. He smelt strongly of yew and pine trees and mint, and something else, unplaceable; burnt toffee, perhaps, or toast kept on the fire a moment too long.
The man was obviously some kind of crew member and he carried a huge crescent-shaped silver lamp in his arms, with a straw boater hat balanced on top. He radiated presence. Posie found herself taking tiny greedy glimpses at his lovely aquiline-nosed profile.
Silvia turned around a few times from up ahead, saw the Norse God next to Posie, but walked on breezily, not acknowledging him. He overtook their group after a bit and dashed on ahead, disappearing into the doorway of the left-hand building of the pair of studios.
‘Here we are, then,’ said Silvia, half-turning again and indicating in the direction the man had disappeared. ‘The dark studio.’
Up close, the ‘dark studio’ was a flimsy corrugated-iron affair like an airport hangar. A huge chalked-up blackboard outside the building read:
FILMING: HENRY THE KING.
Leads: (1) Miss S. Hanro & (2) Mr R. Fontaine
No alcohol on set at the request of Management.
As they passed inside the vast hangar the darkness hit them, and it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the new, strange light. Posie saw that Dolly was staring around at this strange new world: the immense space with scatterings of wooden stage-scenery; intensely bright lights far over in a corner on the left where they seemed to be heading, where a group of people with cameras and make-up trays and clipboards were thronging, all shouting and clamouring in a mad rush. But it was cool in the dark studio, at least. Thank goodness.
Cooler than they had been used to for days.
Silvia walked on assuredly like a stately galleon. All around her, people were keeping their distance, but dipping and bowing to her in acknowledgement, as if royalty were passing by.
‘GET A MOVE ON, MISS HANRO! WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY!’
Brian Langley’s voice, gritty and shrill at the same time, called out across the studio in a booming fashion and Silvia moved towards the busy arc of light in the corner, where Posie saw that a sort of stage had been set up, brightly lit on all sides by about thirty of the same strange crescent-shaped lamps she had seen the blonde man carrying. A bank of perhaps twenty white-clad men with cameras and tripods were waiting around the stage like shadows, loitering, their cigarettes glowing like will
-o’-the-wisps in the darkness.
Brian Langley appeared out of the gloom, furious, a megaphone in his hands. All eyes in the crowd of people swivelled round towards Silvia, who was shedding her green gown and her pale muslin wraps like a snake shedding its skin in summertime. Brian Langley tapped his wristwatch in an accusing fashion.
‘You’re two minutes late and what with your wretched mysterious appointment this morning we’re all running well behind schedule.’
He scowled critically at his leading lady who was now de-mummified. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, Miss Hanro.’
It was true. The blonde wig was looking decidedly wild now, and despite her best efforts to protect the thick make-up from the heat, Silvia’s black eye kohl was smeared over her nose and the thick orange foundation was looking patchy.
‘What do I pay that dresser for? Isn’t that wretch able to keep you looking as you should?’
Brian Langley was obviously losing his temper, and Elaine had materialised out of the darkness with a frozen expression on her fine-boned face.
‘Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, surely? Elaine can’t help the Leichner dripping, can she?’ Silvia Hanro laughed.
Still Elaine didn’t move, just stood rooted to the spot. She was obviously terrified of Brian Langley. Posie felt a stab of pity for her, regardless of the inappropriate orange shoes.
Meanwhile, quick as a flash, Dolly had thrown off her violet gloves, whisked out of somewhere a tin of Vaseline White Petroleum Jelly and a clean handkerchief and was ministering to Silvia Hanro with lightning speed. Silvia Hanro just stood, letting Dolly fix her up. Within a few seconds everything was good as new.
Brian Langley swallowed down his rage and stared at Dolly.
‘I don’t know who you are, Missie,’ he said, taking a pencil from behind his ear, ‘but you obviously know your stuff. Shame it’s pretty much the last day of filming, otherwise you’d have had a job here. Tell you what, you keep on like that, and I might look to hire you in the future. You keep Miss Hanro looking good this afternoon and you can go and claim a day’s wages in cash over with Reggie, my secretary. You’ll get the same pay as he doles out to the extras. Six-thirty sharp at the upstairs office. Okay?’
He scribbled something on the back of his notepad, ripped it off and thrust it at Dolly, who took the chit and beamed.
‘Thank you, Mr Langley,’ she simpered.
Posie blew out her cheeks, incredulous.
What would Rufus say? Not to mention the fact that it was most likely illegal to pay a married woman for working on a film set; the wretched marriage bar was a blight on almost every profession by now.
But thoughts as to the appropriateness or inappropriateness of Dolly becoming a working woman again for the afternoon flew out of the window as she caught the tail-end of Brian Langley’s next diatribe.
‘Yes. That’s much better. You look much more like Anne Boleyn now.’
Posie gasped. She was stunned at the historical inaccuracy of the thing.
Anne Boleyn!
Silvia Hanro who looked like a strapping blonde Valkyrie in real life was playing petite, dark, foxy-faced Anne Boleyn, Henry the Eighth’s femme-fatale of a second wife!
How ludicrous!
Posie was just about to say Anne Boleyn wasn’t a blonde when she suddenly saw Robbie Fontaine, done up to the nines in rich jewelled velvets and a glittering crown, come prowling down from the stage; his dark eyes roving around, his glimmery smile already fixed in place.
‘Good grief!’ Posie exhaled slowly, incredulous.
Robbie Fontaine looked nothing like a Henry the Eighth should do, with his neat dark looks and his tall, muscular build, rather than the porcine ginger giant he was attempting to play, but before she could think on it anymore, Robbie Fontaine came over and made a big show of kissing Silvia on the mouth, as if they were lovers who couldn’t get enough of each other. Many pairs of eyes swivelled their way. There were several titters.
It was the first time Posie had seen them together.
‘Darling, you look too, too adorable. I love you so much,’ Silvia simpered.
You had to admit, they made a good go of looking like a couple in love. Several of the cameramen were snickering and tut-tutting, but in a good-humoured way, as if they saw such shenanigans often. Posie remembered that Silvia had called the performances both on and off camera as the ‘Robbie and Silvia show’, and Posie saw now that that seemed a fairly accurate description.
‘ON SET! ON SET! NOW!’ roared Brian Langley, raking through his thick hair, holding up his watch. Within seconds everyone had scarpered and the place became silent and even darker than before. People had run off into their positions, leaving Posie and Dolly standing there like idiots, quite alone. Posie strained her eyes through the bank of shadows of cameramen up ahead. She scowled. Where were they supposed to sit? Apparently she needed to watch and observe and, if necessary, protect. Hadn’t Silvia asked for some chairs to be provided?
As if on cue, Elaine the dresser materialised again and Posie and Dolly found themselves being gently guided through the darkness towards the very first row of chairs and tripods set right next to the stage, with a good view, as if at the theatre.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ the little woman whispered, indicating towards where three canvas camping chairs were drawn up.
‘Do sit down. Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your names – school friends of Miss Hanro – isn’t that right? Would you like an afternoon tea? Or more champagne?’
Posie collapsed into one of the uncomfortable chairs, but the sound of a tea cheered her up no end. ‘Oh yes, please, Elaine. Tea sounds good.’
‘Would you like fancy buns, or plain? They’re all made onsite, by the cook. They’re very good.’
‘The lot, please.’
‘Right you are.’
‘STOP THAT BALLY WHISPERING ON THE FRONT ROW!’ screamed Mr Langley. ‘Lights all okay? Action!’
And Silvia shook out her blonde, historically-inaccurate wig and made her entrance. Posie sat watching, half-amused, half-annoyed.
She turned to Elaine, who was still hovering nearby, hands fluttering at her mouth. Was it her imagination or was Elaine staring at Robbie Fontaine, transfixed, a look of adoration on her face? So she was just another of the nation’s womenfolk who had fallen for Robbie Fontaine’s charms.
‘What is this scene?’ Posie butted into the girl’s reverie.
‘It’s the execution,’ Elaine whispered. ‘The one where they use the guillotine. It’s very dramatic.’
‘WHAT?’ hissed Posie, more to herself than at anyone in particular. ‘Anne Boleyn was beheaded, but the guillotine wasn’t invented yet for another two hundred years! Goodness me! What a lot of tosh! What about accuracy?’
‘Oh lovey, do be quiet,’ said Dolly in hushed tones.
‘It’s the movies, darlin’. When it’s this fabulous who cares a jot about accuracy?’
****
Seven
For an hour Posie ate iced halfpenny buns and drank strong China tea out of a tin mug. She was also watching the stage, peering into the light from the darkness, but it struck her there was little to observe.
Brian Langley was simply making Silvia Hanro act out the same scene over and over again: forcing her to cast a sort of dramatic, over-the-top look of repentance towards Robbie Fontaine, all while being pinioned down to the fake guillotine.
‘AGAIN! TAKE SIXTEEN! ACT THIS TIME! COME ON! It’s all about the eyes! Work your magic, Miss Hanro.’
Brian Langley was timing the footage as well as trying to direct the scene in general; holding his watch outstretched in his hand and meticulously checking that the film reels were being run at the same speed. He shouted frequently at his cameramen. It was dull, tedious work and Posie didn’t blame him for being angry most of the time. It looked dashed difficult and it made her feel irritable to even think about it.
&nb
sp; Posie shifted in her chair. She was bored, and the heat from all the lights and their strange carbon stink were making her hot.
Dolly meanwhile was riveted, sat on the edge of her seat and dashing up and down to the stage to fix make-up as and when Brian Langley called her, much like an overactive ball-boy on the tennis courts.
Her eyes having adjusted to the strange working conditions, Posie now knew who were the key members of Brian Langley’s little filming crew. In a way it was like watching a cuckoo-clock do its little performance in slow motion: the same people darting forwards again and again, the same regular, repeated movements; the same haughty shuffle onto the stage by Robbie Fontaine, again and again, always from the left-hand side. It was relentless. And hardly glamorous.
She checked her wristwatch as best she could in the darkness.
Four o’clock.
Posie had had enough. She couldn’t get her notebook out here, so she mentally ticked through the people Silvia Hanro suspected of having written the death threats: the co-star, Robbie Fontaine; the sister, Pamela; the fan, Hector Mallow. Added to these were Posie’s additional suspects, Brian Langley and Tom, the boyfriend.
Of all of these suspected people only two were in the studio right now, and it was ludicrous to think that either of Robbie Fontaine or Brian Langley were in a position to strike down their leading lady under the gaze of an entire film crew.
If ever.
Robbie Fontaine was distasteful, for sure, but Posie was willing to bet her life on the fact that he wasn’t a killer. And unless Brian Langley was the perpetrator of the notes, there was precious little to investigate here.
Posie needed to look at the other suspects, or else come up with her own theory as to who was behind the threats. And there was hardly any time left before tomorrow’s Wrap Party. She was horribly unprepared, and sitting here wasn’t helping.
Posie knew that she needed to prowl around. She promised herself just one more hour at Worton Hall, to see what else she could find out before digging deeper.
Murder of a Movie Star Page 6
