‘But – they hated each other.’
Isabella shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t have let a small thing like that stop them. People get married all the time for ridiculous reasons. It’s all much too easy. Thank goodness divorce is just as easy these days.’
Agatha stirred her tea.
Isabella lowered her eyes. ‘I’m sorry – I spoke out of turn.’
Agatha managed a small smile. ‘From my experience,’ she said, ‘divorce is extremely difficult.’
‘I’m sorry…’ Isabella was blushing, and once again Agatha was struck by this new self, this pared-down authenticity. ‘You know far more about it than I do. Whereas me – it’s just as well no one has ever asked me to marry them,’ Isabella went on. ‘Because I’d have certainly said yes, and it would have certainly been a very bad idea.’
Agatha looked at her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes. I have absolutely no idea what’s good for me. My mother always said so, and it turned out she was right.’
Agatha watched an aproned waitress bustle past with a tray full of pink and yellow cakes.
‘That’s surely not a very good thing for a mother to say to her own daughter,’ she said.
Isabella gave a shrug. ‘My mother… Let’s just say, I worked out pretty early on that if I looked to my mother for support, or approval, I was bound to be disappointed.’
Agatha studied her. ‘How… how awful,’ she said.
‘Your experience was different?’
‘My mother was my best friend,’ she said. ‘Surely every mother…’ she thought of Rosalind, away at school, with a lurch of love, of missing her.
Isabella sighed. ‘How do I put this? For my mother, love was a pretty thing, a shallow, happy thing. She was an only child, raised in comfort in one of the old New York families. She was spoilt by devoted aunts, and then adored by all manner of male suitors. My father idolized her. But the kind of love one might have for a child, that requires commitment, steadiness, resolve… I have to say, that was beyond her.’
‘And you?’
She sighed. ‘You’re an astute woman, Mrs Christie.’ She spread her hands, palms up. ‘Look at me. Following dear Patrick around, lovesick and hopeless. When I know, in my heart, that he will never love me. A woman like you, you have more sense than I do.’
‘Miss Maynard – my husband chose another woman.’
‘Sure,’ Isabella said. ‘I know that. The world knows that. But you are a steadfast person. Out there, there’s another man for you, one who will make you happy for the rest of your life – and there’s no point you shaking your head like that, Mrs Christie-‘
‘I cannot agree with you.’ Agatha smiled at her. ‘I cannot see how I could ever marry again.’
‘You are an Englishwoman. You are someone with all the attributes of a good wife.’
‘That’s very kind of you. But in fact, I have spent these months reassessing my life. I’ve been protected by having a husband. Now, I have to accept that life requires me to accept these challenges. To be more outgoing, as the single woman that I now am. But how? Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done as a wife, as Mrs Christie, wife of Mr Christie. Buying a house, selling a house, going on holiday… How could I do something like travel on a boat, or a train, all on my own?’ She stopped, breathing hard, aware that she had said far more than she intended.
‘Mrs Christie…’ Isabella leaned towards her. ‘You are a strong person. Anyone can see that about you. I raise my hat to you, for having come this far. And, who’s to say what will arise? In my view, you will succeed at being alone, at doing things like going on holiday, and who knows? You could meet the love of your life on this holiday—’
Agatha shook her head. ‘I have already met, and lost, the love of my life.’
Isabella glanced at her, at the tension in her voice. ‘All I know is, Mrs Christie, that I am ill-equipped for such things. I am destined to love unrequitedly. But what you must know about me, Mrs Christie, is that yearning is good for my work. A reaching out for something unattainable is always a good starting point, I find.’
Agatha thought about her new novel, the scribbled notes, the lists of characters. ‘Unattainable…’ she murmured.
‘Dance,’ Isabella said, emphatically. ‘There’s the stage, the space, the costume… and then the music begins… and I feel it here—’ She placed her hand on her chest – ‘and what I’m expressing is something unresolved, something that aspires to completion. That’s at the heart of my dance. At the heart of my work. Perhaps it’s at the heart of all work such as mine. Or yours.’ She picked up her empty tea cup, replaced it on its saucer. ‘The truth is, since I fell in love with Patrick, my dancing has got much, much better.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And talking of Patrick, we all have tickets for tonight’s show. Patrick claims he’ll meet me there. If we’re going to save him from his fate, we’d best get going.’
*
They were greeted in the theatre foyer by Georgie, gleeful and excitable. ‘I should never have let you have those comps.’ He danced from foot to foot. ‘We’ve had queues at the box office. I fear it’s notoriety, ever since the newspapers got hold of the story. “Double Killing in Theatreland”,’ he laughed. ‘At least dear Saffra has decided she’ll go on. We’ve had all sorts of temperament from her today.’
Isabella was distracted, her gaze on the doors where the audience was now filing in, chattering, animated.
‘So much for Stefan and his gypsy curses,’ Georgie smiled. ‘It was nothing to do with floods or illnesses. It was just that they lost Madlen the trapeze act. She’d been one of the main draws. No wonder the Americans snapped her up. I gather she’s doing famously there – Isabella darling, do stop fretting—’
‘Where is Patrick?’ Her voice was anxious.
‘Perhaps PC Plod has already locked him up.’ Georgie was scanning the entrance.
‘It’s not a joke, Georgie.’ Isabella faced him.
‘Darling, no one is taking it more seriously than me.’ He laid his hand on her arm, suddenly serious. ‘I’m the one who’s had all the boys in blue scurrying about all day. I ended up saying to them, “If you had any sense, you’d mock up the moment of death. Find a wax dummy, let the rail fall again.” Then they could see what really happened. I offered to do it for them, I said our Belotti could lend us his dummy.’
Isabella looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Surely not?’
‘The coppers expressed interest. But then Belotti said he’d kill me if I so much as laid a finger on dear Paco. And I have no doubt he meant it too.’
Isabella was scanning the crowd once again. ‘It really is a full house,’ she said.
‘I told you so. We’re on the path to great success. So much for bad luck. And in any case, it can’t be true. No self-respecting gypsy would dream of setting foot in Porthcawl. And look, here’s Patrick. All spruced up and ready for a grand night out.’
Isabella jumped to her feet and went to greet him. Georgie followed her with his eyes.
‘Mr Carmichael.’ Agatha addressed him. ‘Speaking of motives for murder—’
He turned to her. ‘There is the possibility,’ she went on, ‘that Alexei and Cosmina got married in Cardiff.’ He said nothing, so she continued, ‘If Cosmina and Alexei really were a married couple, it does raise the stakes a bit.’
He breathed, then spoke. ‘I heard rumours,’ he said. ‘There was certainly a day when he vanished. They both vanished. And they came back together, in time for the evening show, arm in arm, giggling like happy lovers. Not that it lasted. But you see, it seems very unlikely. They hadn’t been in the country long – would the Cardiff register office give them permission to marry? I did mean to ask him about it, as their welfare was of course my concern – but now it’s too late. And you know, it might just have been silly company gossip…’ His eyes had travelled to the doorway again. ‘Look at her,’ he said. ‘She really will stop at nothing.’
Isabella was standing with her arm
across the doorway, as if to corner Patrick. They were having an intense conversation.
Georgie shook his head. ‘She is so determined to get her man.’
‘That’s not what she said to me.’
‘She won’t admit it. She is unstoppable. I’ve seen her before when she’s in love – ooh, there’s the bell. Time to take your seats.’
Isabella had taken Patrick by the arm and was now leading him into the auditorium. Agatha turned to join them.
‘Enjoy the show, Mrs Christie. It must make a change from thinking up new ways of killing people.’ He raised his imaginary hat, and then drifted away into the crowd.
Patrick whispered a good evening to Agatha, as she took her place next to him. The chatter of the packed theatre faded to a hush as the lights went down.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Afterwards, in the bar, Agatha had to admit that it had been a perfect evening’s entertainment. They’d laughed, they’d clapped, they’d sat entranced by the dancing. They’d marvelled at Saffra as she appeared to float several feet up in the air, a vision of turquoise scarves and jewelled slippers.
‘True professionals,’ Isabella said, stirring her martini, as they found three bar stools in one corner. ‘They’ve lost two of their key performers, they’re in grief at these awful deaths, they’ve got the police everywhere – and they’ve produced a show like that. It’s typical Georgie,’ she said, with a smile. ‘And you can’t see the join,’ she went on.
It was true. Sian and Stefan had added a second dance number to their set, a flamenco number, a counterbalance to the ballet. It made the most of their strengths, with Sian’s stately height and Stefan’s neat precision. Hywel had added to his repertoire too, folk songs to balance with the opera, two of them in Welsh.
‘And as for the mime,’ Isabella said. ‘It was in the tradition of great Italian clowning,’ she said.
‘Luca Belotti,’ Patrick said. ‘Cosmina always spoke well of him.’ He was gazing around the bar, his face taut and anxious.
Luca’s new act had been set against a cityscape, its jagged towers of skyscrapers suggesting New York. The backdrop was all in black and white. The orchestra had played a discordant, modernist piece. Luca had appeared with an accordion, red-nosed and jaunty. He had danced hither and thither, attempting to join in the music with his accordion. But every attempt to play was thwarted, by the accordion malfunctioning, by his coat getting in the way, his nose coming loose. And the audience had laughed.
At the end, the music finished. He was left in silence, still and alone, a melancholic silhouette against the Manhattan skyline. The lights had gone to blackout.
‘…Stravinsky-esque,’ Patrick was saying. ‘The essential alienation of the individual in the industrial landscape. The music was perfectly chosen. And Hywel’s set too, those Butterworth songs. Such poignant words about the loss of life in the war.’
Isabella murmured in agreement, her hand resting on his sleeve.
Agatha thought about yearning, and what Isabella had said about her dancing being better for unrequited love.
She felt suddenly tired, wondered about finding a taxi back to Chelsea. But now here was Georgie, full of high spirits, ‘Best audience we’ve had all season – and we’re booked out for the rest of the month. I’ve got half the West End queueing up for us…’
Patrick had reached out a hand, was thanking Georgie for the tickets, ‘No doubt we’ll see you soon…’
Isabella was asking him how he was getting back. ‘I’ll stay at the club,’ he said. ‘It’s only up the road…’
Agatha was standing now, gathering her coat, yawning—
The doors burst open. Agatha saw blue uniforms, men standing in a military formation, and then there was Inspector Joyce himself.
‘Now what?’ Isabella managed to say, before they were aware that it was their table the police were approaching, their table that was suddenly surrounded – and Patrick was being helped to his feet by Inspector Byrne himself.
‘Professor Standbridge,’ the inspector said. ‘I am afraid you are under arrest, charged with the murder of Mr Alexei Petrovich.’
Patrick seemed much taller than the officers who now flanked him, one at each arm. He stood, calm, broad-shouldered, acquiescent.
‘Officers,’ Isabella was on her feet. ‘This is preposterous. You cannot possibly have any evidence against this man—’
‘Madam.’ Inspector Joyce faced her. ‘I fear the evidence is all too clear.’
‘Patrick—’ Isabella turned to him, as if waiting for him to protest, to defend himself. ‘Patrick—’
He shook his head. ‘Isabella,’ he said. ‘I fear history must take its course.’ He was pale with shock but still strangely accepting, as the officers handed him his coat and prepared to lead him away.
Isabella was at his side. They marched him out of the doors, into the street. Agatha followed, aware of the gaping stares of the public in the bar.
Isabella was now fretful, flapping between the policemen. ‘Officers, you can’t possibly act this way—’
Patrick flashed a look of pleading at Agatha.
Agatha took Isabella by the arm. ‘I think we have no choice,’ she said, ‘other than to let things take their course.’
‘But he’s innocent,’ Isabella said.
‘In that case,’ Agatha said, ‘the police will establish the facts and Patrick will be released.’
An Austin Twelve was parked outside the hotel. Patrick allowed himself to be led to it, bent down to climb inside. They watched as it drove away, joining the carriages and motorcars on the busy street.
*
‘So,’ came a quiet voice at Agatha’s side. ‘Alexei killed Cosmina, and Professor Standbridge killed Alexei.’ It was Alicia who was speaking. ‘Like all the old stories,’ she went on. ‘Love, and revenge.’
She stood watching the jostling crowds of the London evening. One by one the company stumbled outside to join her.
‘And don’t go on about gypsy curses,’ Alicia said, her voice suddenly sharp, as Stefan approached.
He shook his head. ‘I weren’t going to,’ he said. ‘This is beyond all that. That poor man. Did you see his face, being driven away by the law?’
Sian was pacing the pavement. Stefan went to her, led her to the steps, put a coat around her shoulders.
Hywel was at Alicia’s side. ‘Georgie’s still indoors,’ he said. ‘Not a care in the world.’ He gestured with his thumb towards the theatre. ‘He’s counting the box office takings and talking to Terry and Gladys about how to improve their Floating Queen.’
‘“Resilient, we theatre people.” Is that what he’s saying?’ Stefan gave a mirthless smile. ‘“The show must go on.” Don’t tell me.’
Alicia patted Stefan’s arm. ‘Georgie only understands theatre,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t understand real life.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Stefan said. ‘It makes me angry. Like in Wales – he behaved as if it was all a game. People needed looking after, and all he did was dance around as if he owned the place and then pick fights with people.’
Hywel smiled. ‘Not quite fights.’
‘Oh,’ Alicia sighed. ‘You were very brave. You and Stefan here.’ She turned to Agatha. ‘It was Alexei. He took an afternoon off, it’s not as if he was even needed, he was trying to sort out where he might live in London, I think – and Georgie took exception. For no reason at all.’
‘Trying to show us who was boss,’ Stefan said. ‘It got completely out of hand. Georgie just went for him, fists at the ready—’
‘Alexei grabbed one of the carpenter’s tools,’ Alicia said. ‘He was waving it around, and then luckily Stefan here stepped in.’
‘We both did,’ Stefan said. ‘Me and Hywel.’
Alicia was gazing up at Hywel. ‘Stepped in, between Alexei and Georgie. Calmed Alexei down, got the screwdriver off him. Cosmina had run off, so upset, though she was such a shy girl in any case, poor kid.’ Alicia gave a little
shudder. ‘It was so upsetting. Alexei still spitting fire and fury about Georgie, Georgie looking at him like he wanted to kill him, and these two boys keeping them apart…’
Hywel shook his head. ‘In the end I had to say to Georgie, did he want a show that night or not? That calmed him down. He was going on about being lied to, about these shifty Russians never telling the truth, and I said to him, that’s no reason to risk the box office.’ He smiled.
‘And so they went their separate ways, and we all stumbled back to our lodgings, back to lovely Mrs Parry. Dear Mrs Parry, eh, Sian?’
Sian was standing next to Stefan. She looked thin and pale, shivering in the chill evening air. ‘Mrs Parry. We’d known her for years, me and Madlen. When we knew we’d be in Penarth, we told Georgie we must stay with Janet Parry. And he agreed, probably just because of her generous rates.’ She gave a small smile. ‘She was like an auntie to us.’
‘She calmed everyone down, made us all tea, got us all sorted out,’ Alicia said.
‘And the show went on,’ Hywel said.
The company breathed, shifted. ‘And all Georgie said,’ Alicia went on, after a moment, ‘when he was watching Alexei and Cosmina from the wings, was how they always dance better after a fight.’ She shook her head, disbelieving. ‘An unlucky show.’ She looked at Stefan. ‘But I loved Wales. I’d go back in a flash. And dear Mrs Parry. I loved her too. Her and her stories.’
‘She never shut up,’ Hywel smiled.
‘She was always like that,’ Sian said.
‘All about her cousins. And her residents, all in the business, whippets who could count and parrots trained to recite the sonnets. And all of it was true.’
Hywel laughed. ‘Nearly all of it,’ he said.
‘I kept her address.’ She pulled out a card, showed it to Agatha. ‘Always meant to go back.’
‘It was a home from home for Sian here,’ Stefan said. ‘You were missing your sister so much.’
Sian gave a shy smile. ‘We’d never been apart. I still miss her.’
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