by Nicola Upson
It was always at this time of the evening that Esme McCracken felt most at home in her life. Rather than take a break after the matinee like most of her colleagues, she preferred to stay behind and get the preparations for the evening performance out of the way immediately. Impatiently, she ran through costume and property plots which were automatic to her after more than a year, and made sure that all was in place by seven o’clock at the latest. It was then that she most needed time to herself.
Her one good coat – wool, in a daring blue, cast off by a woman her sister worked for and hardly ever worn – hung on the hook where it was always kept for these occasions. She took it down and put it on as quickly as possible, fastening the buttons firmly to cover a faded black jumper and skirt which felt as worn out and as undistinguished as she did, then slipped out of the stage door and round to the front of the New Theatre, eager to be where she belonged. From where she stood at the top of the steps, just outside those polished timber doors, she could watch the audience arrive without being seen from inside, offering a few words of welcome to any theatregoers who caught her eye and practising an air 119
of gracious humility for the future. As the foyer began to fill with expectation, she wondered what her own audiences would be like when Aubrey finally gave in and put her play into production; more discerning than this, certainly, she thought, looking dis-paragingly at a man in a drenched-through mackintosh and trilby, although she supposed she would have to settle for smaller numbers, at least in the early days. Never mind: what mattered was that those who did come would value her ideas, and of that she had no doubt.
On the dot of seven-thirty, Bernard Aubrey came down from his office into the foyer as he did every night, clad immaculately in evening dress which he wore with a casual elegance. He took up his usual position by the white marble chimneypiece and, ever the genial host, nodded to his Saturday night regulars, many of whom he knew well after several years of faithful attendance. He was still a handsome man, McCracken thought grudgingly, and the attractive coupling of compassion and determination in his eyes had not been dulled by age.
As she watched, Aubrey’s general smile of greeting took on a more personal warmth and she felt a sharp stab of jealousy when she recognised its recipient; in the crush, she had not noticed Josephine Tey arrive, but that was hardly surprising – her looks were as bland as her work. She returned Aubrey’s kiss on the cheek, and he lowered his head to allow her to speak privately into his ear, then the two moved slightly to one side, away from the main crowd. McCracken tutted impatiently as her view of the pair was blocked, and risked moving slightly forward; by the time she had them once again in her view, Aubrey’s expression had completely changed and Tey had laid a consoling hand on his arm.
What was that all about? Perhaps she had told him she was giving up the stage? If so, this could be the moment she’d been waiting for. Her heart lifted briefly, until she saw one of the Motley women
– the overweight one – dragging a young couple through the crowd to where Tey and Aubrey were still in solemn conversation.
The designer, overdressed as usual and apparently oblivious to their mood, pointed to the engagement ring on the girl’s finger and 120
Tey smiled her congratulations, while Aubrey turned and went back upstairs. McCracken watched as the author signed the programme which was tentatively held out to her. All that cringing self-effacement made her sick – it was so affected – and she knew then that whatever had darkened Aubrey’s mood, it wasn’t the prospect of having to replace a successful author: this one loved her glory far too much to relinquish it. Trust the smug bitch to spoil even this ritual for her. Already late for the half, McCracken turned round and headed bitterly for the dark anonymity of backstage, pushing the last few stragglers roughly aside as she went.
Josephine was about to take her seat in the royal circle when she felt a tap on the shoulder. She turned round, the practised smile already in place, but took an involuntary step back when she found Frank Simmons looking intently back at her. He was soaked to the skin and, as he removed his hat, the water fell in a steady drip from its brim, creating a patch of deeper crimson in the foyer’s carpet.
‘Mr Simmons – Frank – what are you doing here?’ she asked, torn between sympathy for his grief and unease at seeing him so unexpectedly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, miss, I’m fine but I had to get out for a bit. The flat felt so empty with Betty gone up north, and all I could think about was my Elspeth lying alone somewhere, so I came here. I know it sounds strange, but this is where I feel closest to her.’
He looked at the floor, tears threatening to join forces with the rain. Josephine struggled to find something to say which would bring this excruciating scene to an end without sounding too callous or too encouraging, but nothing came to her and she remained locked in an uncomfortable silence with him, conscious that everyone left in the foyer was beginning to stare. When Archie appeared at her side, seemingly out of nowhere, she had never been more pleased to see him.
‘It’s a terrible night, Sir, can we give you a lift anywhere?’ he asked, his natural courtesy tinged with a firmness that was not lost on Simmons, who released Josephine’s hand and appeared to get a 121
grip on himself. ‘That’s very kind of you, Inspector, but a walk does me good and I can’t get much wetter than I am already. I just wanted to see Miss Tey again and to thank her for this afternoon,’
he said, turning to her, although his voice was so low and uncertain that she could barely make out the words. ‘I’ll let you go in now – you don’t want to miss the start.’
‘Oh I think I know how it goes by now,’ said Josephine with a nervous laugh, and bid him goodnight. Gratefully, she allowed Archie to lead her away and Simmons watched them go, continuing to stare long after they had disappeared into the auditorium.
122
Nine
Penrose had not intended to use his ticket for the performance but, with his cousins seated in another part of the theatre and Josephine visibly shaken by her encounter in the foyer, he was reluctant to leave her on her own immediately. Their seats at the side of the royal circle afforded a splendid view of the stage, but neither of them seemed particularly inclined to look in that direction. More often than not, Josephine’s gaze was fixed on the relief figures of Music and Peace which hovered optimistically above the proscenium arch, and he doubted that the world in which she was absorbed belonged to the fourteenth century. His own attention, meanwhile, was focused on the auditorium. His eyes followed the line of the three balconies, sinuously curved and decorated with painted panels, lamps and sconces, but nowhere could he see the two empty seats which he had expected to stand out as a poignant reminder of yesterday’s events. He would have to check in the rear stalls and balcony, which were currently hidden from his view, but every row seemed full; certainly the coveted top-price seats – of which Hedley White was supposed to have had two – were all taken. So what had happened to those tickets? Had he got rid of them, or asked someone else to do it for him? Is that why Frank Simmons had appeared so unexpectedly downstairs? Or had White never actually bought the tickets, knowing that Elspeth would be dead by the time the performance began?
Impatiently, Penrose glanced at his watch and was frustrated to see that the interval was still half an hour away. Almost as restless as he was, Josephine touched his arm and nodded to the exit, urg-ing him to leave her and get on with what he needed to do, but he 123
shook his head – he hoped reassuringly – and tried to settle back in his seat. It was irrational, this feeling he had that she was in danger, but it carried the force of conviction and he was not prepared to take a chance for the sake of thirty minutes, not when someone had already been killed just yards away from a crowd. Trying not to fidget, he was relieved to note that no one else was likely to be disturbed by his irreverent disregard for the play. Every other head was turned towards the stage and held there as if by force, and the silence in the
auditorium was of a quality rarely found in London outside of its sacred spaces. In the last year John Terry had acquired the authority and presence of a truly great actor but tonight there was a nervous brilliance about his performance which surpassed everything he had achieved up to now. The audience, many of whom were regulars and had several performances to compare it to, realised they were watching something special.
Terry was only slight in build but he dominated the stage, determined, it seemed, to prove that it was his. In scene after scene he extracted every ounce of opportunity from Josephine’s lightly drawn portrait, seeming to relish the King’s strengths and weaknesses in equal measure and moving effortlessly from the airy carelessness of Richard’s early scenes to the disillusionment of someone in whom the poison of suspicion has begun to work.
Eventually, even Penrose was drawn in and he marvelled at the way in which the actor’s movements took on a morbid, feline elegance as he responded to the treachery against him. ‘To become an expert in murder’, he whispered bitterly to his queen as the first act drew to a close, ‘cannot be so difficult,’ and the intensity in his voice held the audience – Penrose included – spellbound.
He thought back to the first time he had seen Terry, playing the very same role but in Shakespeare’s version at the Old Vic. It was five years ago now, but he remembered it vividly because the production’s brief run had coincided with one of Josephine’s then rare visits to London. They had gone together and, if he recalled the evening more for the pleasure of her company than the power of Terry’s acting, it was no less poignant to him now. It had been one of those hot summer evenings which occasionally graced the city 124
with a leisurely decadence. As they walked back down the Waterloo Road, still laughing at one of the more eccentric patrons, whose cracked but resounding rendition of ‘God Save the King’
rang out from the front of the gallery at the end of the performance, he had seen in Josephine a willingness to engage with the future which had been absent since Jack’s death. Since then, she had often referred to that night as the inspiration for Richard of Bordeaux, but it had been less fondly of late and, if he really wanted to torment himself, he could curse the impulse that had made him buy those tickets. Fortunately, before he could dwell too long in the past, the dusty-pink brocade and velvet curtains fell, drawing a jarring air of opulence over the simple lines of the Motleys’ stage designs.
Leaving Josephine safely in the bar with Lettice and Ronnie, Penrose walked round to stage door to look for Bernard Aubrey.
The rain which had fallen so fiercely in the early part of the evening had finally relented, but it was impossible to avoid the puddles, and the light from the Salisbury’s solid Victorian coach lamps blurred and splintered as his feet disturbed its perfect reflection. He had met Aubrey a few times, mostly at opening nights but more recently during that vicious court case, when Elliott Vintner had accused Josephine of plagiarism in the writing of Richard of Bordeaux, claiming that it echoed the events of his own novel, The White Heart, published twelve years earlier. Aubrey, as the play’s producer, had given evidence on Josephine’s behalf and Penrose had been impressed with his intelligence and sense of justice. His opinion of White’s character would, no doubt, be worth listening to and he might even be able to help the police find the boy. There were men posted wherever White was likely to appear and a description would be out by now in the evening paper, but Elspeth’s young man had so far proved elusive and any other suggestions would be gratefully received.
He announced who he was and the stage doorkeeper – a burly, red-faced man in his late fifties – wasted no time in telephoning up to Bernard Aubrey’s office and handing over the receiver. Penrose came to the point quickly and discreetly, aware that the doorman 125
was giving a display of nonchalance which would never get him a job on the other side of the footlights.
‘Bernard? It’s Archie Penrose. I’m sorry to interrupt you on a Saturday night but I need to talk to you, and the sooner the better.
Is now convenient? It shouldn’t take too long.’
There was a second’s pause while Aubrey blew a lungful of smoke into the air, then Penrose heard his voice, thick and guttural from a lifetime’s devotion to cigarettes. ‘Actually, Archie, it might take longer than you think. I’m glad you’re here because there’s something I need to talk to you about, as well. I was going to come and see you on Monday, but after this terrible business it can’t wait until then. As it is, I’ve got to live with the fact that I’ve left it this long.’ He exhaled again, then continued. ‘I’ve got to be on stage in the second half and I can’t get out of that – there’s no one else here to do it – but I’ll meet you downstairs as soon as we finish. I’m supposed to be taking everyone for a drink, but we can talk privately first. What I have to say might help you. In any case, it will help me.’
‘Then perhaps we could at least make a start now?’ Penrose said, but the line was dead even before he had finished the sentence. Frustrated, but daring to hope that he might at last be getting somewhere, he resigned himself to another agonising wait and walked back down St Martin’s Court.
The Grand Circle Bar was always packed on a sold-out Saturday night. Ronnie, who never allowed even the densest of crowds to stand between her and a large gin, returned triumphant from the bar and passed two tall glasses to Lettice and Josephine before falling heavily into the third herself. ‘Fuck, it’s Fitch,’ she said, as she came up for air. ‘Don’t look round.’
But it was too late. ‘A hundred thousand in a year at the box office!’ cried the critic from the Evening Standard, forcing his way over. ‘Aubrey can afford to go dark for a month and I dare say Inverness has seen a few corks popped of late?’
‘Oh, it’s been nothing but fizz and fun since last February,’ said Josephine, brushing the comment skilfully aside and trying to hide 126
her dislike. ‘I can’t thank you enough for all the reviews, and I do so appreciate it when you include a list of criticisms.’
Over Lettice’s head, Josephine saw Marta appear at the door and make her way through the crowd, drawing some appreciative glances as she did so. ‘I’ve been sent to offer you the chance of some peace and quiet backstage if you don’t want to go back in after the interval,’ she said. ‘Come down to the dressing room.
Once Lydia’s died, we can all have a drink.’
Gratefully, Josephine took the lifeline she was offered. ‘I’ll see you at stage door afterwards,’ she called back over her shoulder, and felt a brief stab of guilt as she saw Fitch take a deep breath, ready to continue.
‘You came just at the right moment,’ she said as they went downstairs. ‘Grovelling really doesn’t suit me, and it’s so hard to fake it well.’
‘Tell me about it. The only row I’ve had with Lydia was when I told her to stop fawning round producers and have faith in her own talent. She looked at me as though I were two days out of a lunatic asylum, then asked me how far that approach had got me in publishing.’ She smiled, and her eyes were filled with a warmth which transformed the dark beauty of her face into something more approachable. ‘That friend of yours has a wicked tongue. It’s one of the things I love most about her.’
Wryly, Josephine raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she’d say much the same about you. She’s right, of course – about the fawning, I mean; I can’t speak for the tongue. Actresses live on goodwill.’
By the time they reached the dressing room, Lydia had returned to the wings ready for her brief appearance in the second act but Josephine felt none of the awkwardness that often comes when mutual friends are thrown together in the absence of the common link. In contrast to their first brief meeting, Marta made conversation easily, avoiding the small change to which strangers often limit themselves and talking animatedly about the last couple of months, but her concerns about Lydia’s future were never far away and Josephine realised that she was genuinely troubled.
‘Is her work a problem for you?
’ she asked almost brutally, real-127
ising that Lydia would be back with them in a few moments’ time and the opportunity for confidences would be lost.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s been her life and I’d never ask her to give that up – just the opposite, in fact. What worries me is how she’ll cope if – when – it all dries up. She’s had a couple of knock-backs lately and the harder she pretends to take it all in her stride, the more I know it’s hurting her.’
‘She’s bound to feel unsettled when something like this comes to an end. Long runs are a luxury, but they lull you into a false sense of security and get you out of the habit of moving on. It’ll pass as soon as she gets out on tour and into rehearsals for something new.’
‘Perhaps.’ Marta looked at her as if assessing how direct she could be. ‘Tell me – would you have written a play about Mary Queen of Scots if Lydia hadn’t asked you to?’
‘No, I don’t think I would. I can see why the idea of playing her on stage is attractive, but I’ve never had any real sympathy for the woman.’
Marta nodded. ‘You know, I almost wish you hadn’t done it. We all need something to work towards, and the idea that someone could bring that creature to life has been a dream of hers for years.
Now it’s become a reality and she’ll have done it before the year’s out, and I’m not sure that leaves her anywhere to go. As it is, I keep catching her looking over her shoulder, thinking that the best is behind her.’
