Agatha looked at her. ‘How much do you know,’ Agatha wanted to say. ‘Under this quivering, feminine sympathy, that core of steel, that makes you so sure you will get what you want—’
The first bell rang through the hubbub. Patrick was at her side again, offering his arms, one to each. ‘Ladies, shall we go in?’ He led them towards the door. ‘The play’s the thing,’ he said, with a mirthless smile.
Isabella flashed her an anxious glance, as they went through to the auditorium.
The red velvet seats were now breathing, packed with people. Agatha took her seat, Patrick in between them. Once again, the fading of the lights, the hushing of the audience, as the orchestra played the opening notes and the curtain rose.
Sian and Stefan were as poised as ever, their steps perfectly controlled, their height evenly matched. Agatha marvelled at the power relationship in the dance, the toing and froing of leader and follower. There was a defiance in the stamping steps, in the Spanish music, in the frills of Sian’s dress, the tilt of her head with its short spiky hair. Agatha found herself musing on the balance of the dance, how it allowed a play between aggression and harmony.
How unlike a marriage, she thought. Especially, my own. We’d had no fighting, no harsh words, no jagged rocks against which our love had been shipwrecked. It had been in the silences, in the distances, that our love had drained quietly, invisibly away.
She was aware of Isabella sitting on Patrick’s other side. She thought about the iron resolve it would take, to love a man who wouldn’t return that love.
The tango finished to enthusiastic applause. Then Hywel took the stage, his deep musicality lending itself to expressions of yearning, for his homeland, for lost love, for ‘an honest heart, a pure heart’.
A short interval. The curtain rose on the New York skyline. Luca the clown, stood, still as a statue, with his melancholy pallor. His grief for Paco eventually gave way to graceful tumbling. At the end the applause was loud and joyful, and continued through to the turn of Saffra the Levitating Persian Queen. Gladys for once appeared to be enjoying herself, and even had a warm smile for Terry at the curtain call.
And then, a sense of hush.
The orchestra struck up a single, sustained chord. A spotlight on the stage illumined the white bar of the trapeze. And there she was. She was slim, her bright red leotard clinging to her slight form, with its zigzags of black along her limbs. She had very long black hair, which swung as she moved. She settled on the trapeze, and began to move gently to and fro with the chords of the music. Then, a syncopated arpeggio – as the trapeze swung higher and higher, with Madlen making a series of acrobatic shapes that became more and more daring. The audience collectively held their breath. The music was discordant and swooping, as she swung by one leg, upside down, or flew into a handstand, letting go altogether, then catching the trapeze as it came back towards her, to gasps from the audience.
Gradually the trapeze began to slow, swinging lower and lower to a point of stillness. Madlen stepped off the bar, took a step towards the front of the stage, and made a deep curtsey, her long hair sleek like a curtain. There was a hush, a moment of silence, and then the audience erupted in applause. A few more curtseys, and then Madlen ran off into the wings as the applause came to a noisy end.
The lights came up.
Isabella breathed out. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘No wonder everyone wants her. And no wonder Georgie was upset to lose her. And look, there he is, with dear Joe the conductor, taking a bow…’
Patrick had stumbled to his feet. ‘That woman,’ he said. ‘I must talk to her. She will know why Cosmina had to die…’
‘Patrick – no—’ Isabella grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, and headed to the door at the side of the stage.
Isabella glanced at Agatha, and they both hurried after him.
He burst into the wings.
And there they were, both of them, Madlen and Sian, laughing, hugging, laughing again, before Sian ran off to get everyone else. Madlen seemed even more beautiful up close, dark eyed, and porcelain skinned, with a light tinkle of laughter as she was greeted by the company, as Georgie filed in, followed by Alicia, Hywel, Luca and Stefan. Even Gladys and Terry came to meet her.
Patrick’s shout interrupted the merriment. ‘Miss Harries—’ he cried out.
Everyone turned.
‘I need to know the truth,’ he said. ‘I need to know why Cosmina died.’
Madlen faced him, calm, petite – and then she ran to the trapeze, and suddenly the trapeze was lifting, lifting, as she sat tight on the bar, disappearing into the heights of the theatre roof.
There was a silence. Everyone stared into the flies of the stage, in shock and surprise.
‘Bring her down.’ Patrick addressed the assembled company, who all looked as bewildered as he did, standing dazed with incomprehension. Madlen was so far away as to be out of sight. The trapeze rope swung gently in the wings.
Patrick surveyed the company. He spoke again. ‘I am currently facing prosecution for the murder of a man. I am in torment. I admit that I carried out certain actions that might well have brought about his death. I also admit that my motivation was clear, that I believed him to be responsible for the death of a woman that I loved, that I still love.’ His voice faltered, then he went on. ‘However, over these last few days I have become aware that the story is not so simple, that there are factors that have layered the story with complications. I have been conducting a kind of archaeology, and I am now convinced that the truth lies buried, hidden within deeper strata. It is now my intention to reveal it – or rather, to ask that young woman, now mysteriously having fled from my questioning, to assist me.’
The company all looked from one to another. The trapeze rope still swung, unattended.
It was Agatha’s voice that cut through the silence.
‘If this is a story,’ she said, ‘then it is one we must start at the beginning.’
The company, as one, turned to her. Agatha took a step towards Alicia. ‘Let’s start with you. The fact is, Alicia, when Alexei died, you became a free woman.’
Alicia was standing by her costume rail. She faced Agatha, her face wary, her voice brisk. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Because, you were now a widow.’
Alicia paled.
‘You married Alexei in Cardiff, two months ago.’
‘This is all lies,’ Alicia said, her voice shaking.
‘We’ve seen the certificate.’ It was Georgie who spoke, stepping forward. ‘I just don’t understand why you hid it from us all.’
Hywel was at Alicia’s side, and now he turned to her, astonished. ‘You’re – you’re married?’
Alicia faced him. She looked at his kind, open face, now pale with shock. She tried to speak, but no words came.
‘To keep him in the country?’ Agatha prompted.
Alicia turned to her with a look of resignation. She breathed out a defeated sigh. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I married him.’
Hywel was looking at her as if she was a stranger. His voice now cut across the hush of the stage. ‘And then he died,’ he said.
‘Darling—’ Alicia turned to him. ‘Please try and understand. I was desperate for money. And he offered to pay me.’
‘He – paid you?’
‘His application to stay in America had failed. He needed to belong somewhere, they were threatening to deport him back to Moscow. He was in fear of what would happen to him there. We organized it in Cardiff… I needed the money. I didn’t realize that you and I…’ she turned to Hywel, her eyes welling with tears. ‘It was a terrible mistake,’ she said.
‘But—’ Hywel said, ‘One that was entirely solved by Alexei’s death.’
Alicia’s expression hardened. She faced him. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice level. ‘Yes, it was in my interests, our interests, that Alexei was gone. But that doesn’t make me a murderer.’
Hywel held her gaze.
Georgie
broke the silence. ‘My dears,’ he began. ‘Why the mystery? We all know that the drop batten fell on him and that our friend the professor here was the only person in the room when it happened, indeed, that he’s admitted to loosening the cords.’
Patrick was still staring upwards, into the roof. Slowly he focused on Georgie.
‘Except—’ Agatha said, ‘the rail was made to land on him after he’d been left out cold by a punch to his head. There are bruises on both sides of his head, not just one. The rail fell on the left side of his skull. I remembered it clearly, from when we all saw him, lying there.’ She gazed at the centre of the stage. ‘It’s not a sight that would leave one very easily. And yet, when I saw him in the mortuary yesterday morning, the largest contusion was on the right side of his head, a very large blow indeed. You can still see the bruising round the eye. Even the mortuary attendant seemed unsure which side of the head the rail had landed on. All of which led me to conclude that someone must have hit the poor man very hard, and then, when he was already out cold, a second, lethal blow was landed by the rail to the other side of his head.’
It was Patrick’s turn to gasp, to stumble. ‘You mean…’ He turned to Agatha. ‘You mean – I knew it. I did have a look at the rope. It’s true I wasn’t thinking straight. When I went back – it was tempting. And I did think that the rail was unsafe – and I did touch the rope, I admit it all – but—’
‘But the murderer was watching you. And it was the murderer who came back and made sure the rail dropped.’
Isabella took a step towards Patrick and grasped his hand. He was immobile, as if unaware of her, staring at the bare boards at his feet.
‘Let’s go back a bit further,’ Agatha said. ‘Poor Cosmina. Do we still think Alexei was killed in revenge for killing his partner? Or, is there another story?’ She surveyed the gathered company. They stood, motionless, waiting. Georgie had lost his jauntiness. Alicia was pale and shivering, with Hywel holding her arm. And Isabella was helping Patrick to a seat, standing with one hand on his shoulder.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Agatha says. ‘Cosmina wasn’t Romanian at all. But – isn’t theatre wonderful? It can create anything. It can rustle into life a Romanian ballet dancer. It can turn one beautiful young woman into another. Cosmina, it turns out, was a Welsh girl from Pontypridd – in fact, she was none other than Madlen, sister of Sian.’
There was a gasp from the assembled company. Again, everyone gazed upwards. Georgie glanced towards the unsecured rope, which twitched with the movement of the trapeze high above them.
Agatha went on, ‘But you’ll be telling me, Cosmina is dead. Whereas Madlen is right here, isn’t she, sitting up there on her trapeze. Stefan, perhaps you’d do the honours…’
Stefan looked stunned. He faced Agatha, uncomprehending, unmoving. Slowly, he became aware that everyone was watching him, waiting. Slowly, he turned to the rope, took hold of it in both hands and began to lower the trapeze.
The rope creaked and swung.
Gradually the zigzagged black and red appeared, the lithe young body, the long black hair. Her face was expressionless, her dark eyes blank. Agatha walked towards her. She gave a wince, as Agatha reached out and took hold of a handful of hair and pulled.
The long black wig came off in Agatha’s hand.
The woman sitting on the trapeze had short, dark hair in a spiky modern style.
‘Sian,’ Agatha said. ‘We should congratulate you. It turns out you’ve hidden your extraordinary skill as a trapeze artist, which is every bit the equal to your poor dead sister’s.’
Everyone was staring at the trapeze. Georgie was pale with shock, standing there wide-eyed. ‘Do you mean to say,’ he began, ‘I could have had that act every night?’
‘But—’ It was Isabella who spoke. ‘I just saw them. Together, the two sisters…’
‘The illusions of theatre,’ Agatha said. ‘Greater than any floating princess,’ she said. ‘Stefan – would you like to show everyone the wig and the veils that allowed you to look, briefly, from a distance, like Sian, just for those moments before you ran off and came back as you, that little show you both put on just now of two sisters, happily reunited – knowing that we’d all be watching you, a willing audience?’
He faced her, his blank severity now edged with hostility. He said nothing.
‘Theatre, you see,’ Agatha said. ‘We’ve been entertained with a little play, all carefully staged. Madlen and Cosmina are the same person – and that person is dead.’
Georgie was looking at Sian, who was staring at the floor. He turned to Agatha. ‘But how do you know?’
‘It’s amazing what information is available in the public sphere. I went to the Public Record Office in Cardiff to find out about Alexei’s marriage. Once there it occurred to me that I could do my own research, about wills, for my new novel. So, in an idle moment, I looked up the estate of Miss Merwen Jenkins, deceased, aunt of Madlen and Sian. It appeared to show nothing at all, just a rather modest amount to be divided between her two nieces, and a generous donation to a rather odd Christian charity, plus a certain obsessive interest in her sister’s trust, administered by a lawyer called Hiram J. Beckenbauer.
‘I thought nothing more of dear Mr Beckenbauer until he was mentioned, in passing, in relation to Alexei’s American citizenship. There had been this apparently throwaway suggestion from Sian, simply because she’d heard of him through her aunt. It seemed rather odd. Then I remembered the account I’d heard about the other sister, Cicely, who had married a minister and settled in the United States. And I got to thinking about this feud, this disputed amount of money which was apparently quite substantial. Just a story, told me by a gossipy landlady, Mrs Parry, but for some reason it, too, had stuck in my mind.’
She looked around the shadowy space, the eyes of all the company fixed on her. ‘Sian and Madlen knew about this money held in trust, that their aunt Merwen was so convinced was owed to her. What they also knew was that, should their aunt Merwen die, this money would be due to them, as claimants on their aunt’s estate. They knew about the probate lawyer in Brooklyn who was the trustee.’ Again, she looked around the company. ‘It might have just stayed for them as a dream, an idea, if it wasn’t for two things. Firstly, Madlen got the chance to work in New York. And—’ She turned to Stefan. ‘And you were determined that the dream should become a reality.’
Stefan’s gaze was fixed on her, but he said nothing. Agatha continued, ‘I learned today that the probate lawyer, Hiram J. Beckenbauer, did indeed meet Madlen in Brooklyn. He told me he explained to her that the terms of the will were that anyone who claimed the money, now held in trust, had to be a US citizen, resident in New York – apparently to prevent a claim from her spiteful sister. Which left you all with a dilemma. How could either sister claim US citizenship? In the meantime, the new company had formed. Georgie had brought in Alexei, Alicia and Hywel. And you found out that Alexei had US citizenship, or so you thought. So, you hatched another plan: Madlen should pretend to stay in New York, claiming that she was indeed resident and that her American husband was due to join her – but in fact, she should come back here to Britain, in disguise, and marry Alexei, and then, once more herself in New York, would produce him as the American husband and claim the money on behalf of all of you. She kept up the appearance, with frequent messages to Mr Beckenbauer, he told me, as he assumed she was still in New York. You all knew that once everyone was in Wales no one would know if Madlen turned into Cosmina, as Georgie had only just taken on the management with a whole new cast. You persuaded Madlen to join in with the plan, to relinquish her Welshness and pretend to be from Romania, although I fear you were less than informed about such places, and indeed, her accent did seem to slip from time to time, as Isabella said.
‘Alexei and Madlen became dancing partners, and you all attempted to get them to marry. But Alexei had no intention of marrying Cosmina, as he thought she was. As Georgie found out, his American citizenship was false, and he
was under suspicion of the law there for having faked it. He was keen to leave all that behind him and acquire citizenship here instead, and had offered Alicia money to marry him in order to claim it. That’s what he’d asked Hiram J Beckenbauer about, whether such a thing would work, and in fact Mr Beckenbauer told me he’d had to explain he wasn’t an expert in immigration law and he’d recommended someone else. So, in Cardiff, two things happened. Alexei disappeared for a day, apparently with Cosmina, and you both assumed he’d married her. And Madlen, posing as Cosmina, allowed you to think that – because she had a scheme of her own. She’d decided to go back to the States on her own, apply for citizenship and claim all the money. She’d already started these proceedings through Mr Beckenbauer, he told me.’
There was a silence, broken by Stefan. ‘How do we know any of this is true? How do we know you spoke to the New York lawyer?’
She looked at Stefan. ‘You can check with the operator about the transatlantic call I made today. I’m sure they’ll have a record of it.’ She turned to Sian, who was sitting, head bowed, on the trapeze. ‘At some point,’ Agatha went on, ‘you two must have discovered that this was Madlen’s plan. And, enraged by her intention to betray you, you decided on a new plan. Madlen had to be got rid of, and, after a decent interval, you two would go to the States and claim American citizenship instead. And also, believing that Alexei was now her husband and as such having a claim to the money, he had to be dispensed with too. It all fell into place then. No theatricality. No fairy tales. Just ordinary human greed.’
Alicia was holding Hywel’s hand. Patrick’s eyes were fixed on Agatha, and Isabella was leaning with her head on his shoulder.
‘Of course,’ Agatha continued, ‘the tempestuous relationship between so-called Cosmina and Alexei was fortuitous for your plan. You chose a moment when they were particularly highly strung. You placed a sedative in the tea, the tea that Luca brought her – and then some time after that, Stefan strangled her in the dressing room, where she was found, after the show.’
From the trapeze came a sob, as Sian buried her face in her hands, still swaying slightly to and fro.
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