by Celina Grace
But of course, it wasn’t money. It was just a handwritten note, a flowing hand on cream coloured paper, and all it said was Darling, meet me at eleven tonight, my place.
I frowned. Where had I seen that handwriting before? It wasn’t Tommy’s, or at least I didn’t think so. I read the note again. Darling, meet me at eleven tonight, my place. Was it a lover’s note? Or something more prosaic. Eleven o’clock at night – surely a little more suggestive? Or was that just me being suspicious? And what business was it of mine, anyway?
I folded the note back up and put it back in the flyleaf. Then, thinking I should just check, I turned to the front cover and checked the flyleaf there, in case there was another note. There wasn’t, but there was something else I noticed. Written in pencil on the front page, in tiny writing at the bottom were the words Aldous Smith.
I frowned again. Wasn’t this Tommy’s book? He was the one who’d given it to me, after all. Or had he grabbed Aldous’s copy by mistake one time and either not realised or not cared? I didn’t think it was very likely that the actors cared much about having their own copies of the play, although of course, I wasn’t sure.
Oh, what did it matter anyway? I was very tired now, so tired my eyelids were fluttering. I put the play back on the bedside table and slid down under the bed covers. Normally I would have left the light on for Verity, but I was feeling so cross with her, I couldn’t be bothered to do so. Besides, who knew what time she would actually come to bed? I clicked the switch and pulled the covers up to my chin, settling my head on the pillow. I was asleep in moments.
Chapter Twenty Two
The stage was enormous. It stretched for miles and miles and the red velvet curtains climbed up into the clouds above, disappearing from view. I couldn’t see beyond the footlights, which were as dazzling as the sun. I stood there on the boards of the stage, blinking in the light and feeling horribly exposed. I knew I had to perform something, I had to say the words of the play, but nothing was coming to mind. I was dumb as well as blind. Corpsing, I’d heard Tommy call it before.
Corpsing. Funny the way things are called in the theatre.
I stood there on the enormous stage, screwing up my eyes against the dazzle of the footlights. Were they getting brighter? Surely they couldn’t get any brighter without blinding me entirely? There was a noise on the edge of hearing that was gradually growing in volume. Was I supposed to be singing? I listened as the noise got louder and louder. It was a babble of voices, male and female, and as I listened, I could hear what they were saying, just words and phrases here and there. She’s done this before, a voyage of the heart, he’d do anything for her, she’s done this before, a voyage of the heart, he’d do anything for her… The golden dazzle of the lights grew ever more bright, and I held my hands up, watching the light penetrate them, lighting up the bones and the blood and above it all, the voices chanted and sang. She’s done this before, she’s done this before…
I woke quite suddenly, my heart hammering. It took a few moments before I realised I was in my bed, the room dark about me with just a thin grey glimmer around the curtains at the window. I lay there, trembling a little. It had seemed so real to me, that stage. And the voices… As I came back to reality, I realised something else. That dream had showed me the truth.
I sat up in excitement. It was then I realised that Verity was in her bed, just a humped figure under the blankets, and breathing steadily. For a moment, I thought of shaking her awake, but I almost immediately dismissed the idea. Now that I knew the truth – or I thought I did – there was only one person I needed to talk to. There was only one person who would be able to tell me if I were being foolish or not.
I groped for the bedside clock and squinted at it in the darkness. A quarter off the hour of six. Not too early to get up, and besides, I didn’t think I could remain in bed, not with my new found knowledge. I felt fizzy with excitement and the need to take action. How early would I be able to call? Would I be able to call from the house telephone or would I need to invent an excuse to go and find a public telephone box? I thought the former would be acceptable, particularly if I could make sure I wasn’t overheard.
I got up, gathered up my clothes as quietly as I could, and made my way to the bathroom. It was icy cold in there with the fire out so I washed, shivering, as quickly as I could in cold water, pinned up my hair and dressed, my teeth chattering. Creeping downstairs, I met Nancy, who was bringing up the hot coals to get the fires started, yawning away as if her jaw were on a hinge.
“Oh, hullo, Joan,” she said amiably but sleepily.
“Hullo.” I had to stop myself from bounding down the stairs. I looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway as I made for the kitchen stairs. Oh, come on, come on… Why did time go so slowly when you didn’t want it to?
I lit the range, put the kettle on the hob, and began to prepare the breakfast with fingers jittery with impatience. I was starting to worry about whether I would be able to contact Inspector Marks. I knew he was a very busy man, and what if he was out of London, investigating a case elsewhere? Or taking a holiday? You’ll just have to wait and see, I told myself, trying to calm down and failing miserably.
I was never particularly chatty in the mornings so Mrs Watling didn’t comment on my silence that morning. She did look a little askance when I burned the first batch of toast but simply folded her lips and said nothing. Cursing inside my head, I cut more slices and put them back on the toasting tray. I kept stealing anxious glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. Nine o’clock was when I was going to attempt to telephone, and I just hoped that wouldn’t be too early or too late.
I ate my own breakfast barely tasting a mouthful. Food had never seemed less important. It was baking day today, and I knew Mrs Watling and I would be chained to the kitchen table for the next few hours, so if I were going to make a telephone call it had to be now. Doris was finishing the washing up and Mrs Watling was occupied with the fishmonger’s boy, who had just called round with today’s order.
At the last moment, I decided that what I had to say to Inspector Marks was so important that I really needed the privacy of a public phone box, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Chewing my lip, I wondered how on Earth I was going to get away for long enough to make the call? I knew there was a telephone box at the end of the street, but it would still mean coming up with a convincing cover story. And – a secondary thought occurred to me – did I even have the money for a public call? I hunted out my purse and checked, feeling despair at the findings. I barely had enough money for a minute’s call.
I would have to see if I could use the house telephone after all. But the chances of being interrupted or overheard were high. What would people think if they heard what I was intending to say to Inspector Marks? I clenched my fists in frustration.
I was still there, frozen to the spot with indecision, when I felt a finger poke me in the back. I jumped.
“What on Earth is wrong with you?”
Verity sounded more herself than she had done for the past three days. As I turned to face her, I realised that, whilst we seemed to be at odds for the moment, she was my friend, and I could rely on her. I could always rely on her. All of a sudden, the mist of confusion and panic cleared.
“Verity, can you help me?”
Verity had been smiling but at this, her face fell. “What’s wrong?” she asked again.
I didn’t have time to explain properly. “Can you cover for me? I need to slip out for five minutes.”
“Cover for you? What, with Mrs Watling?”
“Or whomever asks. And—“ I hesitated. “Can you lend me some money?”
Now Verity looked alarmed as well as serious. “What’s wrong, Joan?” She began to get that scared look on her face again. “What’s going on?”
I shook my head impatiently. “Verity, will you just trust me? I can’t tell you everything now, but I need you to help me. Can you help me?”
She stared at me, chewing her li
p for a moment. Then, clearly making up her mind, she nodded, slowly. “Yes. Wait here. I’ll get my purse.”
I waited there, trying not to jig from foot to foot with impatience. I heard her footsteps coming back and hugged my arms across my body. I was too tense to smile at her but I could see that she was holding something in her hand.
“Here, take this.” She poured a small heap of coins into my palm. “I’m going to see if Mrs Watling can sit down with me to plan a dinner party that Dorothy wants to give next week. Quite a tricky menu.”
“Is it?” I said, interested despite myself.
Verity rolled her eyes. “Bloody hell, Joan, I’m making it up as I go along! Now, go and do whatever you have to do but be quick, I can only keep her talking for so long.”
I began to hurry away but just as quickly turned back and hugged Verity in a quick, fierce embrace. “Thank you,” I whispered in a heartfelt burst in her ear.
She half-smiled back but she looked suddenly pale and tense. I didn’t have time to ask why. Instead I closed my fingers more tightly around the coins she’d given me and scurried up the stairs. I would have to risk using the front door so as not to alert Mrs Watling to my leaving.
My good luck angel must have been with me. I made it out of the front entrance without Mr Fenwick or Mrs Anstells noticing and ran as swiftly as I could down the street to the telephone kiosk. I was shivering, having not wanted to take the time to fetch my coat. Besides, it would make it easier to sneak back without it looking like I’d actually left the house.
The telephone box was empty – another piece of luck. I hoped I wasn’t using it all up before I got to speak to Inspector Marks. But no, my angel must have still been with me because after only a couple of tries, I was put through to the inspector’s office and his kind voice greeted me pleasantly. He honestly sounded like he was pleased to hear from me.
Now it came down to it, I had a momentary loss of confidence. I didn’t really have any evidence, did I? It was intuition and a few overheard scraps of conversation, a role in a play and a missing costume. Not very much to build a prosecution case on, was it?
“Miss Hart? Are you still there?”
I took a deep breath. Believe in yourself, Joan Hart. “Yes, sir, I’m still here. I’m calling because I think I know who killed Gideon Bonnacker. No, I do know who killed him.”
There was a short silence on the other end of the telephone, so I could hear the crackles and whistles of the line. “Indeed,” said the inspector’s voice. He sounded neutral, but beneath the surface, I could hear that guarded excitement that I remembered from the days at Merisham Lodge. “Well, Miss Hart—“
“Call me, Joan,” I said and then blushed.
“Yes, of course. Joan. Well, why don’t you tell me all about it?”
Chapter Twenty Three
After I’d put the telephone down in the kiosk and scurried back to work (successfully managing to get back into the house without anyone noticing I was gone – my good luck angel was working very hard that day), I returned to my chores, feeling – truth to be told – rather flat. Inspector Marks hadn’t laughed at me or told me I was being ridiculous; in fact, he’d sounded rather eager to get started uncovering the evidence. But now all I could do was leave it in the hands of the police, while I went back to my tedious, kitchen-bound existence. The washing up seemed endless, that day; there was a never-ending production line of vegetables to be peeled and chopped, meat to be seasoned, biscuits, scones and bread to be baked. I didn’t want to do any of it.
I sat down to luncheon in a dim sort of mood. The chances were that that was the absolute last I would have to do with the case. Inspector Marks would (I hoped) find the evidence he needed, make the arrest and then it would be all over the papers for a short while before the world forgot about it and everything went quiet until the trial. I tried to console myself with the fact that I wouldn’t have to give evidence at any trial, this time around. Or that I probably wouldn’t. It wasn’t much consolation.
Verity was equally quiet. We didn’t talk at all, except for one short, odd conversation we had out in the corridor after luncheon, when she grabbed my sleeve as I walked past her.
“What is it?” I enquired. “By the way, thank you again so much for helping me this morning.”
Verity waved a hand impatiently, as if batting away my thanks. “Joan—“ She said my name and stopped abruptly before beginning to speak again.
“What is it?” I asked, interrupting her.
Verity still had hold of my arm. “Joan – you would – you would always do the right thing, wouldn’t you?”
This was so unexpected that I just gazed at her. “What do you mean?”
Verity shook her head impatiently. “I mean, you would always do what had to be done. Wouldn’t you?”
I half shrugged, not really understanding her meaning. “Well, I would hope so.”
She stared at me fixedly a moment longer and then released my sleeve from her hand. She stood back. “I suppose I just have to trust you,” she said, stepping back. She said it again, staring into my face as if she could reassure herself. “I suppose I just have to trust you.”
Lost for words, I stared at her. She gave me one last, searing glance and turned on her heels and began to climb the stairs, her head down, as if all her energy were draining away.
Puzzled and anxious, I went back to the kitchen. I worked the afternoon’s tasks in something of a dream, thoughts of Verity and Inspector Marks competing for who could make my head more of a whirl. It was a relief to get to dinner, to have Dorothy’s food taken up for her alone, and to sit at the servants’ table amongst people who, although I couldn’t exactly say they were friends, at least were familiar and safe and didn’t demand anything much of me emotionally. Verity wasn’t there – she must have been dining with Dorothy.
It was Doris’s evening off, and I had a pile of washing up awaiting me. Philosophically, I began to carry everything through to the scullery and to run the water into the sink.
I could hear voices outside in the kitchen; Mrs Watling’s and a deeper one. I held my breath, suddenly taut with anticipation. Then, because I couldn’t wait any longer, I hurried to the scullery door and peered out. My stomach jumped. Inspector Marks was there, talking to Mrs Watling.
“Ah, Miss Hart,” he said as soon as he saw me. “I’ve been asking Mrs Watling here for permission for you to accompany me this evening.”
I could feel the blush start up in my face. Then I realised, from the look on his face, that he wasn’t talking about a purely social invitation. The blush receded and excitement leapt up in my throat. I looked at Mrs Watling and there must have been desperation in my eyes because she threw up her hands and said, in a scolding voice than nonetheless carried some affection in it, “I’m sure I don’t know what the world’s coming to. But if the inspector needs you, Joan, then I suppose go you must.”
I bobbed a curtsey to her out of sheer gratitude. It was then I realised I was dressed in my two-day-old, soiled uniform.
“May I be allowed to go and change my clothes, sir?” I asked, wondering if that was an indelicate question.
The inspector didn’t look scandalised. “Yes, but be as quick as you can.”
I didn’t need telling twice. I pelted for the stairs and took them two at a time, arriving at my room in a breathless heap. I pushed open the door and was startled to see Verity, standing there dressed in her coat and hat and pulling on her gloves.
“Are you going out?”I asked in some confusion.
Verity looked extremely tense. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. “I’m coming with you,” she said, eventually.
“With me?” Shock made me ungrammatical.
“With you and Inspector Marks.”
Shock was piled upon shock. “With us? Why? And where are we going?”
For a moment, I thought Verity was going to cry. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
I stared at her but o
nly for a moment – I had to get dressed. I tore off my uniform, splashed myself with the cold water from the basin on the dressing table, and quickly pulled on my good blouse and skirt. My hair was a disaster but I didn’t have time to fix it. I rammed my hat on my head, picked up my gloves and put my coat on as Verity and I hurried back out of the door.
Inspector Marks had a police car waiting outside – an unmarked one, thankfully, I could just hear the gossip flying around the street if the neighbours had seen us getting into a car with bell and sign on it. We drove through the streets of London, Inspector Marks sitting next to the driver up front, Verity and I hunched tensely in the back seat. I don’t believe the three of us exchanged one word on the journey. I wondered where we were going but as we approached the West End, I realised I knew. I didn’t have to ask. I suppose all I had to do was trust Inspector Marks. That made me think about what Verity had said to me earlier. I suppose I have to trust you. Was that what this case was all about, after all? Being able to trust another person to do the right thing by you?
The lights of the Connault Theatre blazed before us. As Inspector Marks handed us out of the car and bent to confer with the driver, I turned to Verity, to ask her something, I’m not sure what. At the sight of her face, I forgot whatever it was I was going to ask. She was milk-pale and trembling.
“V?” I asked tentatively and put a hand out to her but she shook her head and moved away. It occurred to me then to wonder why she was accompanying us. Was it because Inspector Marks thought we worked as a team? The thought pleased me.
If there had been a show on that night at the Connault, it was over. The entrance vestibule was empty and the corridors dark. Inspector Marks walked confidently towards the entrance to the stalls and Verity and I followed him. As we got close to the double doors that led into the theatre, we could hear music and laughter and people’s voices. I realised now why we were here.
