Offstage in Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  ‘Are you accusing the lady of killing her husband, purely because you have some unreliable fellow’s word for it that no one else was at that end of the theatre? It’s absurd! My wife and I met the Danforths on several occasions and they were clearly a devoted couple. It could be someone outside the company entirely. A thief, say, whom Danforth surprised.’

  De Silva had already rejected that idea as implausible but it was always unwise to be dismissive with Archie Clutterbuck. ‘You make a good point, sir,’ he said politely. ‘But then Mr Danforth was a strong man. I doubt he would have given in without a fight and it didn’t look as if he had made any effort to defend himself.’

  ‘He may have been asleep. Didn’t that man Sheridan say he left him to have his rest?’ Clutterbuck looked irritable and de Silva suspected that he shared his own initial reaction that it was impossible to imagine such a beautiful woman as Kathleen Danforth committing such an ugly crime.

  ‘I don’t intend to make any assumptions, sir,’ he said evenly. ‘I never come to my conclusions without firm evidence.’ He hesitated for a moment then decided to risk pressing the point. ‘But the lack of signs of a struggle leads me to believe that Mr Danforth knew his attacker and trusted them, or he had been drugged. I would be surprised if he was sleeping so deeply that he wasn’t roused into putting up some kind of fight. And going back to the men, Sheridan, Morville, and Raikes all claimed Kathleen Danforth and Paul Mayne were having an affair. Mayne was defensive about it, but he admitted there was something between them. Danforth might have been jealous and threatened them, or they wanted him out of the way. That would give them a motive for murder.’

  Clutterbuck flushed. ‘I’m not interested in gossip, de Silva. Give me facts.’

  By the time de Silva finished, Clutterbuck was frowning. ‘It strikes me,’ he said, ‘you should be leaning harder on this caretaker. I maintain that the most likely explanation is the attacker was an intruder who got past him and hid in the theatre. Danforth caught him unawares, he panicked and seized the first weapon that came to hand.’

  He stood up, rousing Darcy, who staggered to his feet with a grunt, tail wagging. ‘We’ll have to wrap this up now. Time for church and I must make an appearance. Keep me informed, won’t you?’

  ‘There’s one more thing, sir,’ said de Silva, trying hard to control his irritation at Clutterbuck’s attitude.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The caretaker mentioned he’d seen a man loitering near the theatre one evening. He was hiding something behind his back. When the caretaker called out to him, he hurried away without answering.’

  ‘Let’s not clutch at straws, de Silva,’ snapped Clutterbuck. ‘It was probably a beggar afraid he’d get a beating.’ He brightened. ‘Or it bears out my theory, and it was this thief watching for his chance to get in.’

  ‘Unlikely, sir. The caretaker said the man looked British and was respectably dressed.’

  There were footsteps in the corridor and a knock at the door. A servant entered.

  ‘The car is waiting, sahib.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, de Silva, we’ll have to leave it for today. I’ll make arrangements for you to visit Mrs Danforth and Miss Watson and you’ll be notified.’ He nodded to the servant. ‘You may show the inspector out.’

  De Silva felt his cheeks burn as he followed the servant back to the hall. There were times when he found the assistant government agent’s attitude infuriating and this was one of them. To his relief, they didn’t meet anyone on the way to the front door. It would have been hard to make polite conversation with Florence. Outside, he walked back to the Morris, resisting the urge to kick trenches in the Residence’s immaculate gravel as he went. He hoped the sermon the Reverend Peters had prepared for the morning service was a long and very dull one, then felt remorseful. Jane would be there having to put up with it too.

  Driving away, the cool air rushed up into his face like balm, but it did not soothe his wounded pride. That would take several hours of contemplating his garden.

  **

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Jane on her return from church. He’d been home for a couple of hours but was still not feeling much better, in spite of a quiet perambulation round his flowerbeds.

  ‘Archie was in one of his difficult moods.’

  Jane unpinned her navy hat and put it on one of the verandah chairs.

  ‘He fastened on the fact that the caretaker may be an unreliable witness and he’s got the idea in his head that the murderer has nothing to do with the company,’ he went on.

  ‘Does he have any suggestions who it might be then?’

  ‘He favours the idea that it was a thief who broke in and was hiding in Danforth’s dressing room.’

  Jane’s brow puckered. ‘But you found Danforth facing his dressing table. Surely he would have seen an attacker reflected in the mirror and tried to save himself?’

  ‘Exactly. And if he was resting as Archie went on to suggest, it’s more likely he would have lain down on the bed than dozed off in his chair.’ He scratched his chin. ‘I’m still waiting to hear whether there’s firm evidence that Danforth was drugged before he died. If he was, the theory that it was a random break-in would be even less plausible. It has too many holes in it as it is.’

  ‘But who would have drugged Danforth and when would they have the opportunity?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Shanti, I had a thought while I was at church—’

  ‘Reverend Peters’ sermon didn’t engross you then?’

  ‘Poor man, his sermons rarely do, but my idea might be worth considering.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you remember the uprising in Chittagong?’

  De Silva had to think for a moment before it came back to him. A revolutionary group, many of them young, had carried out a plan to take over the Bengali city, and the British were caught unawares. The first target was the Telephone and Telegraph Office. It was destroyed in less than five minutes, the switchboard smashed and the whole place stripped. Immediately after that, a separate band of revolutionaries attacked the Police Lines’ armoury. Their military-style uniform confused the guard who was shot dead. Other revolutionaries damaged the railway lines to make it harder for the British to bring up troops. The British club was taken and the wireless station on the only ship in port put out of action.

  The next day however, the uprising that had, at first, looked unstoppable turned into a fierce battle when the British began to fight back with weapons from an armoury the rebels had overlooked. Well-trained and equipped troops were brought up too and the rebels were soon crushed.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘The British over here were very worried the unrest might spread to Ceylon, but we remained peaceful. Why do you bring it up now?’

  ‘Do you remember the date of it, Shanti?’

  He pondered a moment. ‘It must be about six years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but I meant the exact date. It was on the eighteenth of April and that was significant. The rebels chose it because it was the date of the Irish rising against the British in 1916. The Irish called it the Easter Rising and the rebels in India gave their revolt the same name.’

  A deep line etched itself between de Silva’s brows. ‘But what does that have to do with Alexander Danforth?’

  ‘Don’t you see? He was Irish. The southern part of Ireland gained partial independence from the British in 1922, but they still have a British Governor General as Ceylon does and they are ruled by our King. Most of the Catholics down there want the British out completely and they want the north back too.’

  De Silva frowned. ‘And what does the north want?’

  ‘To stay British. Most people in the north are Protestants.’

  He searched his memory for facts about Catholics and Protestants. Ah yes, King Henry VIII. He had broken with the pope in Rome and declared himself supreme head of a Protestant English church so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. There had been battles between Catholics and Protes
tants ever since, but how was it relevant here?

  ‘I’m afraid I’m still having trouble understanding where Alexander Danforth’s murder fits into all this,’ he said.

  Jane sighed. ‘Oh, perhaps I’m seeing shadows where there are none, but I can’t help thinking of Mrs MacFarlane, the mother of the children I was governess to in Colombo. Mr MacFarlane was Scottish but she came from Northern Ireland. She often spoke of how saddened she was by the violence between the rival factions in Ireland – people injured, even murdered, and homes and livelihoods destroyed. The troubles still go on today and show no sign of coming to an end. What if Danforth was visiting all the countries he went to with more than just putting on plays in mind? A travelling theatre company would make a good cover. It would provide plenty of opportunities for carrying messages and meeting with disaffected people in different areas.’

  De Silva chewed the idea over. He remembered the unusual interest Danforth had taken in Nuala’s affairs. Then there was the lavish spending. The Crown Hotel certainly didn’t come cheap, and neither did hiring a Lagonda. From what he had heard, the profits of the theatre company wouldn’t be enough to support such a lifestyle, so where had all the money come from? Did Danforth have a secret source of income?

  ‘Are you suggesting that he was a spy working for the Irish against British interests abroad?’

  ‘Do you think it’s too farfetched? It’s a very difficult time for the country with this business of the King wanting to marry Mrs Simpson. If he won’t give her up, everybody says it will bring on a constitutional crisis. The Irish might see us as being particularly vulnerable at such a time.’

  De Silva considered her point. Of course, Jane was right about the danger of a constitutional crisis. The alarming news, alarming at least to the British, had only just broken in Ceylon and, in England, it hadn’t been public knowledge for much longer. King Edward was officially the head of the Church of England which prohibited marriage if either of the couple were divorced. If he persisted in marrying his twice-divorced mistress, Mrs Simpson, he would almost certainly have to give up his crown.

  ‘So few British monarchs have abdicated, and then not voluntarily,’ Jane went on. ‘It would shake Britain and the Empire to the foundations.’

  ‘Well… I suppose you’re right about it being a tempting time for the Irish to make trouble. And although Ceylon may not be of huge importance to the British, it is very close to India which is far more so.’

  ‘And don’t forget there was an attempt on the King’s life only a few months ago and the man the police arrested was Irish.’

  De Silva recalled the story being broadcast on the radio. The British had been shocked and angry. The would-be assassin, armed with a revolver, had been apprehended by the police on Constitution Hill in London. He had hidden in the crowd assembled to see the King drive back to Buckingham Palace after attending a military ceremony.

  ‘Alright, I’m willing to be persuaded.’

  Jane smiled triumphantly. ‘There! So perhaps the British government had found Danforth out and wanted to be rid of him.’

  ‘Whew! If you’re right, it would explain why Archie is acting so strangely. He really needs this murder to look like a random attack.’

  ‘When in reality, it was a political execution. But what if they were wrong about Danforth and an innocent man died? It’s too dreadful to contemplate.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘What are you thinking, dear?’ Jane asked after a few moments.

  ‘If you have found the answer, I’m thinking about how the murder was carried out.’

  ‘Maybe the man loitering outside the theatre got in when the caretaker’s back was turned, or climbed in through that window in Danforth’s dressing room. One of the cast could have been helping him.’

  ‘If one of the cast is also an agent for the British, why didn’t they just carry out the assassination on their own?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘Perhaps the British authorities didn’t trust them to do it and wanted to make sure someone else was present in case they lost their nerve or bungled it.’

  ‘Do you think their role would primarily have been to drug Danforth in advance so that the stranger could finish the job and make sure he never woke up?’

  ‘I think that’s likely.’

  A memory stirred in de Silva’s mind. Danforth’s corpse had smelt faintly of brandy but he didn’t recollect finding a bottle or a glass in the dressing room when he searched it that night. He grimaced. Foolish of him to have overlooked that. If Danforth had drunk the brandy in his dressing room, who had taken the bottle and the empty glass away?

  ‘You said that Frank Sheridan and Bert Raikes both seemed extremely loyal, but it might change things if they thought their boss was a traitor,’ said Jane.

  ‘It might.’

  She frowned. ‘What about Michael Morville? He didn’t want to talk about what he did in the war, did he? Pen pushing might mean anything from ordering blankets to being in the Secret Service.’

  A cloud settled over de Silva’s head as he weighed up the odds that Clutterbuck had something to hide. If he has, thought de Silva, I’m standing on the brink of some very murky waters indeed. No doubt Clutterbuck would keep his word and let him speak to Emerald Watson and Kathleen Danforth, but it was a forlorn hope that either of them would divulge anything useful. If Danforth had led a double life, he had probably kept it a secret. On the other hand, if they knew about it, they wouldn’t want to incriminate themselves.

  Jane put a hand on his arm. ‘You look cross.’

  ‘I am. I don’t like being kept in the dark, if that’s what’s happening.’

  ‘You’ll find a way round it, I know you will. Now, I think what you need is a good lunch.’

  Chapter 11

  Archie Clutterbuck emerged from an official car as the Morris drove up to the Crown. The sprawling, mock-Tudor hotel was the best in Nuala. The Danforths and Miss Watson had been more luxuriously housed than the rest of the cast. It seemed strange that Kathleen would put up with her husband flaunting a mistress so close to home. De Silva still wasn’t sure whether to believe the story of the affair. Was it just a malicious rumour?

  Clutterbuck hailed him and they walked in together. The grand lobby, with its sumptuous decoration of carved wood and Art Nouveau stained glass, was quiet, and the receptionists behind the desk, smartly turned out in navy and gold hotel livery, sprang to attention. Clutterbuck strode over to them and de Silva followed, feeling like a tugboat in the wake of an ocean liner. Soon, they were being ushered into a lounge on the first floor where Emerald Watson waited for them.

  De Silva had given a lot of thought to how he would conduct this interview. He wanted to find out what Emerald Watson knew about Danforth but he needed to be as tactful as possible. He didn’t want her upset as that would be bound to annoy Archie and he was already uncooperative enough.

  When he’d first seen her, Emerald Watson had reminded him of one of those bright-eyed, outdoorsy girls who featured in many of the detective novels Jane favoured. Girls who captained their school hockey team and who, on reaching their adult years, played a capable game of croquet or tennis at country house parties where murders seemed to occur alarmingly often. To add a romantic dimension to the plot, they usually stole the hearts of at least one of the young men who were fellow invitees. Today, however, sadness dimmed the sparkle in her eyes. Her face was bare of makeup and she looked very vulnerable.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me, ma’am,’ he said gently after Clutterbuck had spoken for a few moments. ‘This must be a very distressing time.’

  ‘Distressing for all of us, Inspector, but life has to go on. So, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d tell me where you were on the evening that Alexander Danforth died.’

  ‘At the theatre. We all were. There was to be a dress rehearsal for our next play, an eighteenth-century comedy. You may recall, we saw you in town and mentioned we were going to tho
se caves beforehand. We returned to the theatre by three o’clock. Alexander had some business to discuss with Frank Sheridan so I went to my dressing room. I rested for a while then went over some lines. I need to put in more work than the others, you understand. I’m very new to all this and afraid of letting everyone down, although Alexander was always so kind about…’

  Her voice cracked. He waited until she had composed herself.

  ‘I changed into my costume at around half past five and went along to the green room. When Alexander was late joining us, Frank went to see if something was wrong.’ She broke off and swallowed hard. ‘You know the rest,’ she whispered.

  De Silva saw Archie Clutterbuck shoot him a warning glance. ‘We’ll put an end to this interview at any time you want, my dear,’ he said. De Silva did his best to conceal his irritation.

  Emerald gave them both a brave smile. ‘No, I shall be alright. I know you need to do everything possible to catch poor Alexander’s killer.’

  De Silva nodded. ‘Thank you for being so understanding, Miss Watson.’

  ‘Would you like me to call for some refreshments, my dear?’ asked Clutterbuck. ‘Tea perhaps?’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re very kind but there’s no need.’

  Clutterbuck patted her hand. ‘Are you ready to go on?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve been told that your dressing room was one of the ones along the corridor where all the cast members except the Danforths were housed.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘While you were in your dressing room that afternoon, did you notice any unusual activity in the corridor?’

  ‘I was asleep for about an hour but otherwise everything was quiet.’

  ‘Then as far as you know, everything was proceeding normally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might help us to find Alexander Danforth’s killer?’

  He saw that her eyes glistened. She plucked mechanically at a stray thread on the sleeve of her dark dress.