He led her to the room beside the dining room and opened the door.
‘Can I look yet?’
‘Just a moment longer.’ He let go of her hand. ‘Stay there and don’t move.’
He crossed to the gramophone and lifted the lid then pulled the arm back gently until it clicked and the turntable started to revolve. He placed the needle in the groove of the record and took a breath. ‘You can open your eyes now.’
Jane clapped her hands. ‘A gramophone! What a lovely surprise. How did you know I wanted one?’
‘I guessed. Now we can dance whenever we like.’
She laughed. ‘Shanti, dear, it’s only teatime, and I’m not dressed for dancing.’
‘What does that matter?’
The sound of the strings, woodwind and brass of the BBC Dance Orchestra, under the baton of Henry Hall, filled the room.
‘Shall we?’
‘With pleasure, kind sir.’ She stepped into his arms.
As the music swelled, he spun her round.
‘Shanti, not so fast! You’ll make me giddy! And you must count. We’re out of time.’
‘But I am counting. It’s just the music that is too slow.’
Jane rolled her eyes. ‘And mind the furniture.’
‘The furniture is perfectly safe and now who is not concentrating?’ He pulled her closer and they both started to laugh as Les Allen began to croon.
Love is the Sweetest Thing…
He couldn’t have put it better himself.
***
An Inspector de Silva Mystery
Offstage in Nuala
Harriet Steel
Kindle edition first published 2017
Copyright © Harriet Steel
The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Chapter 1
Late November 1936
Nuala’s Gaiety Theatre had never decided whether it wanted to be in the style of a Roman temple or a medieval castle. On its busy roof, columned classical domes rubbed shoulders with crenelated turrets in an architectural argument that was only partially settled by the simpler decoration of the walls below. There, whitewashed plaster was set off by the stone trim of the windows and the triple bank of entrance doors. Without a doubt, thought Inspector de Silva, the effect of the lower half of the building was the more restful of the two.
With Jane on his arm, he joined the crowd that mounted the stairs. At the top of the steep flight, ushers in red and gold livery stood on either side of the main door, bowing to the theatregoers passing through. ‘Goodness,’ murmured Jane. ‘I hadn’t expected it to be such a smart occasion. I’m afraid I’m rather underdressed.’ She looked down at her blue cotton frock and its matching woollen stole with a frown.
‘Nonsense, you look perfect.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so, dear, but I can’t help feeling I should have worn something more formal. I suppose it’s so long since a professional theatre company’s come to Nuala that the place has been all spruced up and people have made a special effort too.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘But it won’t make them enjoy the play any more than we shall.’
Jane smiled. ‘I don’t think that’s the point, dear.’
De Silva shrugged. He wasn’t keen on the British habit of wearing formal dress. It seemed especially unwarranted when you were going to spend most of the evening in darkness watching a play. As he was not on duty, he had come dressed for comfort in traditional loose white trousers and long tunic.
Inside, chatter and laughter filled the foyer and, despite the many large fans suspended from the gilded ceiling, the heat was overpowering.
‘There are the Clutterbucks,’ said Jane. ‘Oh dear, Florence really has dressed up.’
The assistant government agent’s wife’s ample figure was encased in shiny, emerald-green satin and festooned with pearls. She glimpsed the de Silvas through the crowd and bestowed a wave.
‘And has managed to resemble one of your British Christmas trees,’ de Silva whispered.
Jane’s lips twitched. ‘Shanti! Really! I hope she doesn’t realise what you’re saying.’
‘I don’t expect so. Florence may be very good at ferreting things out, but I doubt she can lip read.’
‘Look, there’s Doctor Hebden coming to talk to them. What a shame he’s on his own.’
De Silva raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still trying to marry him off?’
‘Is there anything wrong with that? I like Doctor Hebden and I think it’s time he had a wife.’
‘I can’t argue with you there.’ De Silva grinned. ‘I’ve no complaints about the married state.’
‘I should hope not.’
Archie Clutterbuck saw them and beckoned. They made their way through the crowd to join the little group. ‘Evening, de Silva. And Mrs de Silva. A pleasure to see you, ma’am.’
Clutterbuck bowed to Jane, the buttons on his dinner jacket straining over his rotund middle as he did so. His neck was the colour of rare beefsteak against the white of his starched dress shirt and his forehead glistened. ‘Warm in this crowd, eh? I hope it will be cooler inside.’
‘I hope so too, sir,’ replied de Silva. ‘May I say how charming you look, Mrs Clutterbuck?’
Florence simpered. ‘Why thank you, Inspector. I thought one ought to make an effort when the Danforths have honoured us with a visit. Alexander Danforth and his wife have appeared in the West End, you know.’
‘So Jane tells me, ma’am. We have both been eagerly anticipating this evening. The programme looks most interesting.’
‘Ah, dear Mr Shakespeare,’ Florence gushed, laying the palm of her hand on her bosom. De Silva suppressed a chuckle. From the way she was behaving, it was as if she was under some delusion she had known the playwright in a previous life. ‘Such sublime language,’ she went on. ‘I do hope it won’t be too hard for you to follow, Inspector.’
De Silva smiled politely. ‘I shall do my best, ma’am. With Jane’s help, I have been doing a little homework to that end.’
‘Very laudable,’ Archie cut in. ‘Interested to hear what you make of it. I must say, defeats me a lot of the time. Never get the jokes.’
Florence shot him one of her looks.
A bell sounded. ‘Time we were taking our seats, I think,’ said Archie in a voice tinged with reluctance.
‘You mustn’t mind Florence,’ Jane whispered as they fell into step behind the Clutterbucks. ‘You know how she loves to polish her literary credentials.’
‘I do know, and I won’t let it worry me.’
Inside the auditorium, they were greeted by a more coherent scheme of decoration than the outside of the theatre presented, with red-plush seats and cream walls embellished with gilded detail. Golden cupids cavorted across the front of the dress circle. De Silva saw the Clutterbucks take their places in a box to one side of the stage; he half expected Florence to whip out a lorgnette and start surveying the audience below her with a critical eye.
Looking round, he wondered what Shakespeare would have made of the elegant setting. From what he’d learnt, the famous bard had been used to very different surroundings. Theatres in his day had, apparently, been built of wood, largely open to the elements, and they were not reserved for the well off. De Silva imagined the heat of hundreds of people packed into the pit in front of the stage; the shouts and the laughter; the tramp of boots on the wooden stairs as those with more money to spend went up to take their seats in the galleries. Lastly, his acutely sensitive nose wrinkled at the thought of the smell of un
washed bodies. Of necessity, laxer standards of hygiene had applied in those days.
Jane nudged him. ‘You’re very quiet. Are you’re sure you’re not cross?’
‘What? Oh, you mean Florence. No, not at all. I was just thinking about the theatres Shakespeare would have known.’
It was true Florence didn’t trouble him, at least not much. In his dealings with the British, he had long ago discovered that it was best not to be thin-skinned.
The bell rang for a second time.
‘Oh dear.’ Hurriedly, Jane opened the programme in her lap. ‘We haven’t looked at this yet and they’ll be starting in three minutes.’
De Silva glanced across and saw that the first two pages contained photographs and short biographies of the cast. At the head of the list came Alexander Danforth himself. De Silva recognised him as the man he had noticed two days previously, driving around town in a silver-grey Lagonda, although the company had originally arrived in Nuala in an elderly bus painted every colour of the rainbow. What with that and the huge piles of luggage strapped precariously to its roof, it was an arresting sight and had caused a great deal of excitement. The names on the stickers affixed to the bus – Cairo, Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore and many others were, presumably, places that the company had already visited.
From a distance, in the bazaar, Danforth had looked about forty, powerfully built with springy dark hair and a hawk-like nose. The photograph in the programme must be an old one for it made him look considerably younger than he had in real life. The large, dark eyes, surmounted by luxuriant eyebrows, had a glint of humour in them, but they looked as if they didn’t miss much. Overall, de Silva sensed an electric, very masculine presence.
The photograph of Danforth’s wife, Kathleen, conveyed a very different impression. She looked into the camera with a dreamy, seductive gaze. If the camera didn’t lie, the witchery in those eyes would be enough to make all but the most impervious of men her slaves. The tones of her skin and her heavy mass of hair were muted, as if the photograph had been taken through a veil of the finest gauze.
Jane cleared her throat. ‘You don’t need to stare for quite so long, dear.’
He chuckled. ‘Sorry.’
She turned the page and ran an eye down the cast list. ‘Mrs Danforth is playing Queen Gertrude. I wondered if she would take the part of Ophelia but that’s being played by someone called Emerald Watson.’
She turned back to the photograph pages and pointed to a picture of a young woman with dark, curly hair and a vivacious face. ‘How pretty she is, don’t you think?’
‘Very pretty,’ de Silva agreed.
In contrast to Kathleen Danforth, Emerald Watson leant forward eagerly with her lips curved in a smile. He imagined her as captain of the hockey team at one of those jolly British schools one read about in novels. He suspected she would be livelier company than Mrs Danforth and considerably less overwhelming.
‘The ghost of Hamlet’s father is played by a man called Frank Sheridan,’ Jane went on. ‘Horatio, Hamlet’s friend, is played by Paul Mayne.’ She pointed to his photograph on the opposite page to the Danforths – a good-looking young man with soulful eyes. ‘Polonius is played by Michael Morville, and Laertes—’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Don’t you remember? He’s Ophelia’s brother and Polonius is their father.’
‘Ah yes.’
‘Laertes is played by Frank Sheridan too.’
‘What about the rest of the characters?’
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, some of the members of our own Amateur Dramatic Society are taking part.’
‘Hmm. I’m glad I’m not a member.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Nonsense, I’m sure you would do very well.’
‘I doubt it.’
The lights dimmed, and she closed the programme. ‘Oh good, they’re beginning.’
Although de Silva had been familiar with some of the well-known lines from Hamlet, he had only recently tackled the complete play. With Jane’s help, he had found the plot quite easy to follow, even if a lot of the language was archaic. He wondered if people really talked like that in Shakespeare’s day, or whether literary language was more formal and high-flown than the everyday. A pity one would never know.
During the interval, he sipped his lemonade and listened while Florence rhapsodised about the play. As far as he had the experience to tell, the acting was very good, particularly Alexander Danforth’s performance in the role of Hamlet. Even though he was rather old for the part, he brought a vigour to it that might be envied by a much younger man, and his sonorous voice was very pleasing to the ear.
‘What with Florence gushing on so, I didn’t get much chance to ask if you were enjoying the play,’ said Jane as they walked to the car at the end of the evening.
He held open the Morris’s passenger door and she slid in.
‘I was and, I’ll admit it now, more than I expected to.’ He settled into the driving seat and started the engine. ‘Everyone was excellent, and they brought the play to life – treachery, vengeance, murder – it reminded me of an average week in the Colombo police force.’
Jane laughed. ‘Colombo wasn’t that bad, I hope.’
He grinned. ‘Not all of the time.’
The Morris left the streets of town behind and purred along the quiet road that led to Sunnybank.
‘I thought that the Amateur Dramatic Society’s members acquitted themselves admirably,’ Jane remarked. ‘And they seemed to be really enjoying it.’
‘I’m surprised Florence didn’t take part. Isn’t she one of them?’
‘Yes, but only for play readings. Anyway, there were no female parts left for her to play.’
‘True.’
They drove on in silence. The Morris’s headlamps turned the road into a ribbon of light, darkening the jungle on either side. Even though there was no other traffic, de Silva kept to a slow, steady speed. A flickering shadow beside the road might be a wild animal poised to run across. It was as well to be very cautious when driving at night.
‘Certainly, Florence would have looked magnificent dressed in armour as a soldier,’ he observed after a few moments. ‘The sight would have struck terror into the stoutest heart.’
Jane giggled. ‘Shanti, you shouldn’t keep poking fun at her. One day, she might find out.’
He reached out and patted her hand. ‘But it’s so tempting, and you know you’re just as bad.’
‘Poor Florence; she does try very hard with all her causes and activities. It’s a pity she has to be so bossy. I’m not sure that Archie enjoyed the evening. I don’t think he cares for serious theatre much. But he did tell me once that he liked a good musical. He and Florence seem to have very different tastes, don’t they? It makes one wonder if they’re really happy together.’
He shrugged. ‘People say opposites attract.’
Jane stifled a yawn. ‘I suppose they have been married for a long time.’
‘So, there you are. There must be affection between them.’
‘I like to think so.’
‘The scene where the ghost of Hamlet’s father comes up from below the stage was suitably eerie,’ de Silva said after another short silence. ‘I expect the owner of Gopallawa Motors was relieved. He told me he had to send a mechanic up to repair the contraption that moves the section of stage there up and down. He wouldn’t like it getting about that his garage does a bad job.’
‘I doubt that stage trap’s been used for years. I didn’t even know the theatre had one. Do you remember the friend I told you about in London? The lady I used to go to the theatre with.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, she had a cousin who worked at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane and he invited us to go behind the scenes once.’
‘I imagine that was right up your street.’
‘I’m sure you would have found it fascinating too. They had all sorts of clever ways of creating effects. Some of them used hydraulics – water pressure
.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Here in Ceylon, we’ve understood how to tame water for thousands of years.’
‘I’m sorry, dear. I know you have.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, feeling a little guilty for being tetchy. Perhaps Florence Clutterbuck’s remark earlier in the evening had annoyed him more than he liked to admit. ‘Go on.’
‘Let me see… Oh yes, there was a special trap made of triangular wedges of leather. My friend’s cousin called it a star trap. An actor has to stand on a circular platform below it and then be hauled up very fast using counterweights so that, as the trap opens, he shoots into the air at great speed. Apparently, it was very popular in pantomimes when the story called for surprise entrances.’
‘It sounds dangerous.’
‘Yes, he admitted there were quite a few mishaps.’
The Morris turned into the drive and the gravel crackled under its wheels as they drew up at the front porch. De Silva turned off the engine and applied the handbrake. ‘Home at last.’
He got out and came around to Jane’s side of the car to open the door for her; she climbed out and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘For being so patient with Florence.’
He grimaced. ‘If I’m honest, I’m not sure I am.’
‘Well, we’re home now, so you don’t need to be any longer.’
She bent down and picked up a pebble from the drive. ‘And if it will make you feel better, you can pretend this is her and throw it into that prickly bush over there.’
‘Mm, it’s tempting.’ He took the pebble and weighed it in one hand before dropping it back on the ground. ‘On second thoughts, I think a nightcap might be the better solution.’
‘Whisky and soda?’
‘What a good idea.’
Chapter 2
‘Do you have a busy day planned, dear?’ asked Jane as they breakfasted a few mornings later.
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 34
