Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2

by Celina Grace

  I shook my head again. Now I really was being fanciful. I tried to put the thought of poor Aldous from my mind and keep my attention on what I was doing.

  Verity didn’t appear at luncheon either. I was beginning to get a little worried about her when she suddenly popped into the kitchen at about two o’clock, with her hat and gloves in her hand and a purposeful look on her face. She went straight for Mrs Watling and drew her to one side. I strained my ears to hear what they were talking about but Verity was murmuring in too low a tone for me to be able to overhear.

  After about five minutes of unintelligible conversation, Verity came over to me. I dried my hands off on the tea-towel and looked at her with eyebrows raised.

  “Come on, get your coat and things,” she said. “We’re off out.”

  My eyebrows shot even higher. “What are you talking about?”

  Verity clicked her tongue impatiently. “Just come on, Joan. I’ve cleared it with Mrs Watling and Mrs Anstells. We’ve got two hours.”

  “What—“ I began, but Verity pulled a face like she was sucking a lemon and nodded frantically towards the hook where my coat hung.

  “Just come on.”

  Giving in, I grabbed my coat, found my gloves and hat and hastily pinned it on. Was I supposed to talk to Mrs Watling myself? I began to walk over to where she was rolling out pastry on the floury surface of the kitchen table but she waved a whitened hand to me and said “Be back before five, Joan, that’s a good girl. And do give poor Mr Tommy my sincere condolences.”

  “What is going on?” I hissed to Verity as we hurried up the basement stairs. It was a horrible day, cold and sleety and with a wind that tugged at our hats so that we were forced to keep them on with one hand as we made our way down the street.

  “It’s fine, it’s all arranged,” said Verity, hunting in her bag for her purse. “Dorothy agreed that I could go and see Tommy, after this tragedy with Aldous, and if Dorothy was fine with it, Mrs Anstells wasn’t going to kick up a fuss.”

  “That was kind of her,” I said, as we hurried down into the relative shelter of the Underground.

  Verity snorted. “You know Dorothy. Desperate for the gossip.” I turned to her, a little shocked and she looked a bit ashamed and added “Well, perhaps she really is sorry. I suppose she’s not made of stone.”

  “What did you tell Mrs Watling?” I asked as we made our away onto the crowded platform. I could hear the distant hiss and screech of the train as it approached us through the tunnels.

  “Just the facts. She’s a good woman, she knew that Aldous was a friend of ours. Well, of mine. Well, of Tommy’s.” Verity had to shout above the noise of the approaching train as it clattered loudly into the station.

  “Besides,” said Verity, as we took our seats inside. “There’s no possibility of Dorothy being able to eat anything like a normal dinner tonight, and I told Mrs Watling that too. So you shouldn’t have too much to do when we get back.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Hungover badly, is she?”

  Verity said nothing but rolled her eyes. I could see her gaze go to a man, on the opposite side of the carriage, who was reading that morning’s paper. I looked over myself and re-read those horrible headlines.

  “Poor Aldous,” I murmured.

  Verity gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher. “Maybe,” she said.

  I scarcely heard her over the noise of the train. “Where are we actually going? To the theatre?”

  “No, to the pub next door. You know what actors are like. They’re already holding an impromptu wake. Just an excuse to get drunk, if you ask me.”

  “Verity!”

  Again, Verity looked a little ashamed of herself. “I know, I know, I’m not being reasonable.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Verity looked grim. “Oh, everything. Dorothy being the next best thing to a dipsomaniac and Tommy being out of work now, and Aldous killing himself or perhaps not…” She trailed off, looking across the swaying carriage.

  I patted her gloved hand. “Look, it’ll be all right. Tommy’s got his pantomime role coming up, hasn’t he? So he won’t be out of work for long. And as for Aldous—“ I broke off, unsure of what I was going to say. “It’s desperately sad, of course. I’m sure there’s nothing much else we can do except what we’re going to do now, go and give our support.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Verity, who had been sitting hunched forward, collapsed against the back of her seat with a sigh. Then she looked over at me with a quizzical smile. “Besides, Joanie, we’ve hardly had a chance to discuss the most important thing lately, have we? What about this murder?”

  I looked down at my gloves. It was odd but in this case, with what I thought was Inspector Marks’ blessing to at least make a few enquiries of my own, I felt as if my feeble attempts at investigation were getting nowhere. I didn’t even have any theories as to why Guido Bonsignore had been killed – nothing apart from that odd niggle of doubt that even now reoccurred to me.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “There’s nothing more to add than what I’ve already told you. There’s just something—“ I broke off in frustration, and then tried again. “It’s something to do with the theatre, V. That’s all I can say. I just know that the theatre has a part to play, an important part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t put my finger on it. Every time I think I’ve got a grip on it, it just slips away like – like an eel.”

  Verity sat there looking at me, clearly waiting for me to say more. But as the minutes of silence lengthened, she gave me a glance that was half impatient, half sympathetic, and eventually turned her face away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The pub next to the theatre had seemed quite roomy the time we’d visited it before. It no longer seemed that way – probably because the better part of the entire cast and crew were currently packed into it, nursing drinks and, in most cases, shedding tears quite freely. I could see a few old men at the bar, who were clearly locals but not part of the theatre crowd, casting glances about them in some alarm.

  Verity and I battled through the weeping throng until we reached Tommy, who sat at a table at the back, with Gwen, the wardrobe mistress at his side. He didn’t look upset. He looked angry.

  “Tommy, I’m so, so sorry,” said Verity, casting herself into his arms. He gave her a hug and kissed her on the top of her bright hair but said nothing.

  “I am too,” I said and at least at that, Tommy looked up and gave me a brief smile.

  Somehow, we managed to find a couple of chairs and pull them up to the tiny table. There was an earthenware jug of ale in the middle and a stack of cloudy glasses. Tommy poured us both a glass without comment.

  Silence – as much of a silence as you could find in that noisy place – fell, as Verity and I sipped our drinks.

  “The police came round earlier,” Tommy said abruptly, staring at his half-empty glass. I could see the glimmer of red at the roots of his dyed black hair. He wouldn’t need to re-dye it now for the part, now that the play was over. “They found a note in his lodgings. Not a long note, just a scrap of paper, really.”

  We all looked at one another.

  “What did it say?” asked Verity, tentatively.

  “Not a lot. Something like “I find it hard to believe I can carry on living.” Something like that.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said without thinking. “Poor Aldous.”

  Tommy re-filled his glass from the jug. I could tell, by the glassiness of his eyes, that he’d had quite a lot of ale already. “I knew there was something on his mind, I knew it. I just wish he’d been able to confide in me. Perhaps I could have helped, I don’t know. Done something, at least.” He drained the glass in three gulps and slammed it back on the table, making us girls jump. “Why did he have to do a silly thing like that for? The stupid boy.”

  “I know what it was,” announced Gwen. Her eyelids were reddened, matching the hue of her ro
und cheeks.

  Tommy gave her a look of dislike. “Come on, he wouldn’t have – have done what he did because of that.”

  “He might have. He was silly about her.”

  Verity and I were looking from one of them to the other. “Silly about who?” I asked.

  Gwen looked triumphant. “Caroline, of course. He was head over heels in love with her. He would have done anything for her.”

  “No, he wouldn’t, don’t be stupid.” Tommy sounded more irritable than I’d ever heard him. “He liked her, and Caroline was kind to him, that’s all.”

  Gwen tossed her head. “You can think that if you want. I know what I saw, it was obvious.”

  Having observed Aldous’ behaviour around Caroline Carpenter, I could only agree with Gwen. Would that have been enough for Aldous to have killed himself, though? Did unrequited love hurt that much?

  Silence fell again. Tommy refilled his glass yet again and drank moodily. I cast around for something to say, anything really, but couldn’t think of anything that would sound suitable. After a moment, Verity drew her chair nearer Tommy’s and took his hand. He turned to her and put his head on her shoulder.

  For some reason, the gesture brought tears to my eyes. He was like a little boy, all of a sudden. Feeling as if I were intruding on a private grief, I turned to Gwen.

  “It must have been such a shock to you all,” I said, nervously turning my glass around and around in my fingers.

  “Oh, it was, it was.” Gwen’s normally cheerful face was troubled. “We all could scarcely believe it. Caroline just collapsed. She actually fainted.”

  I looked around the room, searching for Caroline, but couldn’t see her. “Was she all right? Is she here?”

  Gwen shook her head. “She’s at her fiancé’s house. I can’t imagine she’ll be back here anytime soon. I mean, what is there to come back to? The play’s finished, Aldous is—“ She broke off, fiddling with the sleeve of her blouse. Then she looked up directly into my eyes. “I should have told him not to waste his time mooning over her. She was never going to give up her rich, important fiancé for a struggling actor.”

  It occurred to me then that Gwen had been a little in love with Aldous Smith herself. I suppose that was understandable.

  Gwen was still speaking, still with that undertone of bitterness in her voice. “Caroline loved him dancing attendance on her but she was just using him, that was all. Some people have all the luck, don’t they? She’s got it all, talent, beauty, all the men wanting her, and now riches and a place in society.” Envy had thickened her voice so much that it was hard to make out what she was saying.

  I felt helpless. What could I say against life’s truth – that some people have it all, and others, like Gwen and me, have very little? Life wasn’t fair. That was what it came down to, really. Life just wasn’t fair.

  As I had before, I tried to think of something to distract Gwen, something that would cheer her up. She’d obviously loved talking about her work before so I asked her about that.

  “Had any more costume mishaps lately?” I enquired, rather desperately.

  Gwen was still staring moodily at the tabletop, her fingers twisting the button of her cuff. She’d have that off if she wasn’t careful. Mind you, if anyone could mend clothes, you’d think a wardrobe mistress would be able to. “What’s that?”

  “Anything funny happened lately with your costumes?”

  For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer me and then she seemed to sigh and bring herself back to reality. “Actually, it’s funny you saying that. Something did happen the other day, I’d quite forgotten about it.”

  “What was that?

  “Oh, you know I said a costume had been stolen?” I couldn’t remember that she’d said that but I nodded encouragingly. Gwen half laughed. “My eyes must have been playing tricks on me because I did actually find it again, stuffed into one of the back cupboards. Silly of me.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a relief,” I said, not really caring either way but glad that she seemed a little more cheerful.

  Tommy and Verity had finished their whispered conversation. Tommy turned back to the table and tipped the last dregs of the jug into his glass. He’d put a small red book onto the table and I leant forward a little to see what it was. He saw me looking.

  “The play. Voyage of the Heart.”

  “Oh.” I leant forward even more. I’d never actually read a play in its original form before. “May I? I mean, could I have a look?”

  Tommy tossed the book over to me. “Have it. It’s of no use to me anymore. I may as well throw it in the bin.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” I said, shocked. “May I really have it?”

  The bleak tone in his voice lifted just a little. “Yes, Joan. Seriously, please keep it. Give it a good home.”

  “Well, thank you.” I put it safely away in my bag. Something to read tonight, if I had the time and energy. I’d be able to see how a play should actually be set out on the page. It came to me then, what a wonderful thing it would be to write a play – an actual play. It was an arresting thought, and for a moment, I was lost in a dream of the future, of myself being a famous playwright, the best actors and actresses of the time bringing my characters to life.

  I was so lost in a dream world that it took Verity several attempts to attract my attention. “Joan. Joan. It’s nearly time to go. Come on, drink up.”

  “Sorry,” I said, flustered.

  Tommy leant his head back against the wall with a sigh. “The funeral is next week, apparently.”

  Verity squeezed his arm. “Would you like us to come? If we can get the time off, I mean?”

  “That would be kind. But don’t get into trouble on our account.”

  “We’ll try. To come, I mean, not get into trouble,” I said, feeling a bit ridiculous.

  He smiled at me sadly. “Thank you, Joan.”

  There was another short silence and I was just about to get to my feet when Tommy remarked again. “I see Caroline’s set the wedding date at last.”

  “Oh yes?” Verity said, beginning to pull on her gloves.

  “Yes.” Tommy shut his eyes as if exhausted. “In about three weeks’ time, she’ll no longer be Caroline Carpenter but Mrs Nicolas Holmes. Wife of an MP, God help her.”

  “Well, she should be used to the name change, at least,” said Gwen, with a touch of vinegar in her voice.

  “What do you mean?” Verity asked, just before I got the chance.

  “Oh, Caroline Carpenter’s her stage name. Goodness knows what her real name was. Edna Grubb, or something, probably.”

  Verity and I smiled, despite ourselves. Then, because time was ticking along, we kissed Tommy, bid Gwen goodbye, and began the struggle through the crowded pub towards the exit.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As it happened, Verity was able to attend the funeral but I wasn’t. Mrs Watling, kind as she had been to let me go and give my condolences to Tommy that night at the pub, flatly refused to allow me to attend the funeral of a man I’d barely known. I couldn’t really blame her. As it was, I gave Verity a kiss goodbye on the morning of the funeral and then went back to work, trying not to mind too much.

  It was baking day, as it was every Tuesday. I pounded the bread dough with my fists, working out some of my frustration. That was the problem with being a servant – well, I suppose it was like that with any job, really. It wasn’t the money, it was the fact that your time wasn’t your own. After the dough was placed in the bottom oven of the range to proof and rise, I turned my attention to the biscuits and scones that were next on the list, wondering about the funeral and how Verity and Tommy would be feeling. Would Caroline be there? Of course she would, I chastised myself.

  Once everything was either in the oven or turned out onto the wire rack to cool, I had a precious half hour in which to sit down, have a cup of tea, and think. Or, if not think, read the play that Tommy had given me the previous week. I turned the book over in my han
ds, thinking how odd it was that the words contained within it could engender such passion and emotion when acted on stage. I’d never actually sat down and read a play, in its original state, before. I opened the covers a little nervously.

  It was more difficult than I’d expected, to be honest. I was so used to reading things in novels and newspapers that the lay-out of the words on the page in the play put me off a bit. I struggled through the first few pages, wondering if I could be bothered to continue. But then, I recognised a bit of dialogue – I could remember Caroline Carpenter saying it, on stage – and then the play sprang to life for me and after that it was easy. I was engrossed.

  Half an hour slips by quickly when you’re doing something you actually want to do. Before I knew it, the clock was pointing to twelve o’clock and I had to heave myself out of the chair, put the play to one side, and return to work.

  The afternoon slipped by and I was busy enough not to worry too much about the funeral and how Tommy and Verity must be feeling. I’d just put the finishing touches to Dorothy’s main course – a rack of lamb with redcurrant jelly, chipped potatoes, and three vegetable dishes to accompany it – when the back door to the kitchen opened, letting in a rush of wintry air.

  It was Verity, returned from the funeral. One look at her was enough to make me realise quite how much of a toll it had taken from her.

  “Are you all right?”

  Verity shook her head. I could tell she was near tears, and that, in itself, was alarming. Verity almost never cried, unlike me, who could weep at the drop of a hat.

  “Was it very bad?”

  “It’s not just that,” Verity said wearily. She pulled her gloves up, pulled the hatpins from her hair, and then threw her hat into a corner of the room with a viciousness that startled me.

  “Verity—“

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Joan. Not just yet. Besides, I have to get back to Dorothy.”

  Mrs Watling, who’d been down at the markets, came in through the back door with her hands piled with brown-paper-wrapped packages. “Oh, Verity, you’re back,” she exclaimed and then took a look at Verity’s face. “Oh – oh, dear. Was it so very bad?”