by Ellis Peters
He moved deep into its recesses from the lecturing voice that pursued him, his fingertips running affectionately up and down the woodwork and dimpling the fabric. Here at the back Gisela had reached out her hand and felt for the sword. He still could not believe in the strange events of that night, or rather his mind believed in them but his senses could not adjust themselves to the idea of Gisela steeling herself, putting out her gloved hand for the weapon she had laid ready.
He repeated the gesture. Nothing. And then she was free. She, but not the other person, the one who had lifted the burden from her.
He drew back his hand. Close to his eyes as he turned, wavering gently in a faint current of air, a floating thread of red, fine as a hair, signalled from the crevice between the wood and the canvas. A thread of frayed silk, one strand from a thread, rather. He pulled it, and it parted at a touch, clinging to his fingers with the living vigour of silk. But short and bright, a thicker end of blue followed it into the light, a down of white, the infinitesimally tiny corner of a scrap of material.
He inserted his fingertips very carefully, and felt along the folded edge of a small, flat thing wedged tightly between canvas and stay, close to where they were fastened together. The feel of the silk, vibrant, organic, tingled through the nerves of his hand, and set the hairs on his wrist erect. Folded in three, fine as gossamer, it took up very little room. He smoothed even the last delicate filament out of sight. He dared not do anything else; the didactic voice was drawing nearer, coming to look for him; Musgrave was out of the orchestra pit, and up on the stage.
Johnny went out to meet him, calm of face and empty of eye, went past him and stood in mid-stage looking round upon his assembled toys.
‘The trouble with you, Musgrave,’ he said, ‘is that you’ve lost the capacity for honest, generous delight, and because you can’t enjoy it you’re damned if anyone else shall. The critical faculty to you means a weapon by which you can spoil things for other people, people who would have been quite happy with them, and rightly, if you’d kept your mouth shut.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Musgrave, following him closely, grinning the superior grin that meant his blood was up, ‘you’d have us all become as little children.’
Johnny had got him to the other side of the stage now, step by step away firom the tiny folded thing hidden in the arbour. Keep the argument going, and he was like a hooked fish. But how difficult it is to argue when your own mind is caught inextricably in another matter, a matter of life and death, which must at all costs be kept secret.
‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that,’ he objected, eyeing his opponent critically. ‘You must have been a horrid child, come to think of it, for ever sticking pins in other kids’ balloons, and all for their own good. No, my dear chap, you stay as adult as you please, and wallow in your chilly intellectual experiences. But don’t espect to enter the kingdom of heaven, either.’
Off the stage now. Get him well away from it, ask him up to the office, if necessary, to look at the Rosenkavalier toys. ‘Pastiche,’ he’d call that marvellous, inspired heir to Figaro, without doubt, but let him. Anything, as long as his attention was never for a moment drawn to the arbour.
‘I shall be staying through your performance of Figaro tonight,’ said Musgrave, pacing elbow to elbow with him along the corridor.
‘By all means. Use my box, if you’d like to.’
‘Thanks all the same, but if it’s all one to you, I’d like to hang around backstage.’
He would! Johnny saw him for ever looming up, angrily smiling, between him and the small, damning thing that must be extracted and destroyed. There’d be no touching it again until tonight’s performance was over; but some time, praise be, the man must go home and sleep.
Alone behind closed doors, Johnny sat down to think it out. Twice he reached out for the telephone to call Gisela, and once he even began to dial her number, only to drop the instrument in its cradle again without completing the call.
What, after all, could he tell her? And what could he ask her?
He knew now where the length of embroidered ribbon torn from Hero’s baldric had vanished to, he knew where to lay his hand on it this minute, if only the watch-dog below could be called off for a quarter of an hour. Poppies, cornflowers and wheat embroidered on white silk and edged with gold thread, part of a ribbon from a Bohemian bridal headdress, converted to serve as trappings for a child prince’s dress sword, nearly two centuries ago. His fingers still burned with the touch of it, soft and fierce and clinging.
And no one but Gisela could have put it there.
That was a certainty. She had stood there concealed during Tonda’s aria, and it seemed she had known already that she must get rid of this delicate, dangerous thing at once. She had to hide it there, where she was, before she went out to face the disaster that had fallen upon them all. It could easily be done without Nan’s noticing, there in the dark.
Once done, the thing could not be undone; Musgrave’s men were always about the place, there was nothing to be done but leave the thing where it was and show no interest in it, and hope that the enemy would go away. But the enemy had not gone away.
She had hidden it. She had known that she must hide it. She had known the reason for its importance, because she had known, she must have known, that Chatrier was already dead. Whatever might be the truth about that night, Gisela had lied.
The final curtain came down on a Figaro as disappointing as it seemed to have been successful. Eight or nine curtain calls, a conservatory of flowers; but Johnny knew better, and so did all his team, even the brave and unlucky substitute Figaro who realised only too well that he was out of his class and struggling against the odds. The audience had the wrong feel about it; half of the seats, at least, were occupied by people who would not normally have gone near a Mozart opera, and had done so now only out of morbid curiosity, dropping in on the scene and setting of a sensational tragedy for kicks.
The same attitude would be reflected in the more popular notices, and the better ones would hold fastidiously aloof and be more critical than usual to avoid joining a fashionable stream. Unsatisfactory to everyone. Johnny was sorry for his Figaro. The boy had worked hard and done as well as it was in him to do, and it’s bitter having to swallow the knowledge that your best isn’t good enough.
He went out of his way to say a few words of appreciation and comfort to him at the end of it; not too effusively, because the boy was by no means a fool. I could make a fine artist of him, thought Johnny, if I could have him for a couple of seasons and find him the parts that are within his range. Why should he have to put up with being a bad Figaro when he has the makings of a pretty good Masetto?
The house was emptying rapidly, the receding hum of satisfied excitement, familiar but tonight curiously off-key, vibrated in Johnny’s ears as he stood in the wings. The members of the orchestra were clattering out of their pit through the low doors, hoisting their instruments and drifting away to put on their coats and make for home. Their talk was of the iniquity of the licensing hours in these parts of London’s outer fringe, and where you could get a drink notwithstanding, and the horse that fell down in the three-thirty, and Spurs’ chances in the European Cup.
That was all right with Johnny; he knew all about the small realities as well as the great ones, and saw no quarrel between them. Some of Mozart’s jokes were distinctly off-colour, and he had all, repeat all, the attributes of humanity. But the music – oh, the music!
The lady harpist, of course, was more genteel; she knitted in the intervals while the others played pontoon.
Johnny stood saying: ‘Good night! … Good night! … Good night!’ to this one and that, and letting the evening disintegrate round him. He had seen no sign of Musgrave since the curtain fell. There had been three other plain-clothes men about the place, but none of them was in sight now.
Johnny set a course across the stage, in such a way that it would bring him close to the back of the left-hand arbour; and the
re under cover of the canvas he halted to light a cigarette. No one paid any particular attention to him, no one was close.
He knew already what he would find, but he slid his fingers between the wood and the canvas, and felt upwards to the spot where the folded ribbon had rested.
There was nothing there now. Only an infinitesimally tiny fibre of white silk, three-quarters of an inch of thistledown, clung to the edge of the two-by-four where it had been.
She had had to wait a long time for her opportunity, but Figaro had provided it at last. The same hand that had hidden Hero’s torn baldric had retrieved it again during the last act.
He made his way slowly and miserably to Gisela’s dressing-room, knowing that he could not let it rest at that. He had never before hesitated to knock at her door; this time it cost him an effort. And even when she called him in, smiling over her shoulder from tired, dark eyes, he knew that he couldn’t begin to ask her about it. After all the time they’d known each other, suddenly he found himself at a loss with her.
‘Well?’ said Gisela. ‘How did it go?’
She was still in Marcellina’s black gown, with the stiffly boned bodice and the tiny waist. He came to her back, and stood looking down into the steady eyes that watched him from the mirror. She smiled, and he returned the smile; which of them had to make the greater effort was a question.
‘As well as we could expect, I suppose. Pretty well, really. After what’s happened we couldn’t hope for an honest audience.’
‘It will pass,’ said Gisela, as though she could find no better comfort for him or for herself.
‘I’m sorry, I thought you’d be dressed. I’ll go away, shall I?’
He let his hand rest in the lace that made her milky shoulders whiter. She turned her head a little, her lips parted and her lashes low on her cheeks, as though for a word or one more touch she would have laid her cheek against his hand and rested so. He had never seen her look so tired. There were tiny, fine lines at the corners of her mouth, others like them round her eyes. His heart melted in him with so sudden and sad a fondness that he could hardly speak.
‘Oh, girl, if only you’d told me!’
How often had he said that to her in the last few days? And how often looked it, even when he was silent?
‘Oh, my dear, don’t! How could I? By the time I knew he was coming it was too late, we couldn’t have gone back on the contract. What would have been the use of making you miserable, and starting all that again? I thought we could make it work. I thought I could carry it.’
‘But if I’d known! I’d never have let you.’ He drew back hopelessly, sighing. ‘I’ll go away,’ he said. ‘You get dressed, and I’ll take you home.’
‘No, don’t go, you sit down here. I’ll manage.’
Her wardrobe had large double doors; she retired behind their shelter, and he heard the long zipper of her gown shirr softly downwards as she unfastened it.
‘Hero was a little subdued tonight,’ said her muffled voice from under the hooped petticoat as she lifted it over her head.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he said bitterly.
‘She did very well. But a little muted, all the same.’
Her handbag lay on the dressing-table, close to his hand. He had already known for some minutes what he was going to do, but doing it was one of the hardest thing he’d ever undertaken. His body was between her and his hands, so quiet there on the dressing-table close to the black calf bag. His broad shoulders would hide both the act and the image of the act in the mirror; from her, not from him. He would have to live with it, and with himself after it, as well as he could. And it might be all for nothing. A silly, obvious, frightening place to put something so dangerous, but women are queer about handbags, they regard them as sacrosanct by some special magic, even apart from any granted privacy.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Gisela, installing Marcellina’s dress on its padded hanger, and reaching for her own black jersey suit. ‘What’s the matter? More than usual, I mean,’ she added wryly, for the weight of the shadow that burdened them all had become daily harder to bear.
‘Nothing. Same complaint as Butch’s, I suppose – just subdued.’
His fingers eased open the clasp of the bag, very gingerly for fear of a sound she would be sure to recognise; but the rustle of the voluminous lace and taffeta skirts in the wardrobe covered his offence.
She was a tidy person, even her handbag was a model of order. Make-up, comb, purse, keys, handkerchief, cigarette case, lighter, two or three opened letters. Nothing more. Yes! In one of the letters, something soft and smooth that wasn’t paper. He parted the folds, and there it was, the sudden bright, burning gaiety of gold and red and blue and white, putting out fine, wavering filaments to fasten on his skin like tentacles.
Between forefinger and middle finger he drew it out and unfolded it. Seven or eight inches of it, with a torn hem at one end, and strands of coloured threads trailing at the other; and obliquely crossing it, approximately midway, a straight, narrow line of dark, brownish-red, hardly thicker than a pen-stroke, and like a pen-stroke more strongly marked at its edges, where it frayed out a little, like an ink-stain.
A thin line of blood, incomprehensible but unmistakable, the blood of Marc Chatrier.
Chapter Six
He heard her light step behind him, and felt the cold sweat break in the palms of his hands with shame and agitation. The ribbon was folded back into its envelope, the clasp of the bag closed, everything as she had left it, except for the stinging colour in Johnny’s cheeks. The faint waft of muguet that shook out of her movements reached him and set him quivering. He had never been so acutely aware of her as now, when she couldn’t confide in him, and he didn’t know what to do to help her.
Her eyes met his in the mirror. He got up slowly, and turned to face her. For a long moment they were out of words. She hugged the collar of her fur coat to her pale cheeks, and picked up her bag.
‘Johnny …’ she said in a muted gasp.
He thought for one moment that she was going to pour it all out to him, but he should have known better; all she wanted was an hour off, time to regroup before the next engagement.
‘Johnny, take me out somewhere. Anywhere, I don’t care. Let’s go and have supper at the Mezzodi Club, or something.’
‘If you like,’ he said, startled. ‘If you’re not too tired.’
‘I’m not tired. I’m just wild to go somewhere else and do something else, and not see Inspector Musgrave’s face while I’m doing it.’
‘I’ll send Hero home with Tom,’ said Johnny eagerly, ‘and we’ll borrow her Aston and run into London.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Mind? I’ll be glad. I need to get out of here, too.’
And that was true enough, perhaps, but the answer to his problem wasn’t going to be found in London any more than here, and how could he ever speak to her of what he knew? For years he’d relied on Gisela, worked side by side with her, thought aloud to her without a qualm, shown her the worst of him as well as the best, and trusted her to accept both and make do with him as he was. And she’d never attempted to restrain or change him, but neither had she ever withdrawn her loyalty and friendship from him.
He took her arm as they went along the corridor to Hero’s room. The handbag nestled between their bodies, the symbol of her silence and solitude. She hadn’t given him the trust he’d always given to her. And how could he wrest from her what she hadn’t offered? There was no way round it. Nonplussed and miserable, he held her gingerly, afraid even the touch of his hand might betray how much he knew.
Where did he stand now? What was he to do? How was he to help her if she wouldn’t ask for his help? And he felt her there against his side, so slender and so quiet, dearer than ever he’d imagined she could be, a revelation. She must be preserved, at all costs. Nothing was any good to him without her.
‘We’re going out to supper,’ said Johnny, putting his head in at Hero’s door. ‘You d
on’t mind going home with Tom, do you, Butch, and lending us the Aston Martin for tonight? Nella will have a drink waiting for you, and a sandwich. And sleep well, love. You haven’t got a rehearsal to-morrow, you stay in bed.’
‘Anybody’d think I was an invalid,’ said Hero affectionately, and bundled her coat into his hands for the pleasure, as she said, of being helped into it by her favourite male. How easy it had been to recover the old terms with Hero.
‘It’s just that you’ve looked a bit down, gal, the last few days.’ He wrapped his arms round her with the coat and hugged her warmly, her rumpled fair hair against his cheek. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Everybody in this theatre,’ said Hero resignedly, ‘seems to be going round asking everybody else if anything’s the matter. Not really, darling. We had a murder on the premises, that’s all. Funny, the way it upsets people. You’d never expect it.’ But she turned and hugged him in return. ‘Sorry! I’m all right, duck, don’t you worry. You run off and spend all night dancing, or something. Do you both good.’
They took her down with them. Her presence there between them on the way afforded them a kind of ease, because she put immediate confidences out of their reach, and enabled them to make believe fondly that but for her innocence they could have spoken freely.
In the foyer Sam was waiting for them, and as soon as they appeared he bellowed for Codger, who came running jealously to guard his privileges.
‘He’s outside,’ said Sam, in the tone which could only refer to Musgrave. ‘Been standing there ten minutes or more, swopping news with a couple of his buddies. Watch out he ain’t got a cordon round the house when you get home.’
‘We’re not going home, Sam. Butch here is, she has to get her beauty sleep. But us young ones are going out on the tiles.’
