Death in the Spotlight

by Robin Stevens

  ‘What do you mean? Why ever not?’ cried Daisy. ‘Why hasn’t he told the police?’

  Martita frowned. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’ she asked.

  ‘All right!’ said Daisy. ‘What is it? What is it?’

  Martita gave her a funny look.

  ‘He was with his friend,’ she said. ‘Mark Tull. He’s got a Soho flat not far from Simon’s, and that’s where Simon went after rehearsal was over. He was there until he went to the Flamingo Club at half past twelve.’

  ‘But why shouldn’t—’ Daisy began. Then her face went very red and she stopped speaking.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, for I suddenly knew what Martita meant. Simon had been with Mark Tull, in a grown-up way. ‘But why can’t he tell the police?’

  ‘Because Mark’s been in trouble with the police before. Two men together – it’s a crime,’ said Martita simply, shrugging. ‘It’s a stupid law, but it’s true: if you’re a man, and the police find out you like men, they have to arrest you. And, if Simon was arrested, he’d be sent back to America. His London stage career would be over.’

  ‘But that’s not fair!’ said Daisy, speaking very quickly. ‘That’s idiotic – why, people like that aren’t hurting anyone!’ I knew she was thinking of Bertie, and I was too. It was awful.

  ‘Oh, I know! It’s wicked and wrong of the law,’ said Martita. ‘Which is why you must swear not to tell anyone. Do you promise? Simon’s one of the best people in this company. He didn’t commit either of the murders, and he can prove it – but only to you.’

  ‘I promise,’ Daisy said.

  ‘I promise too,’ I agreed. I had finally understood something. If Simon did like men, then the conversation we had overheard between him and Inigo at last made sense. He had been afraid that the police would find out about him and Mark; it was nothing to do with Rose’s murder at all.

  Then I had a horrid thought. ‘It isn’t – what about girls who like girls?’

  Martita gave me a sharp, serious look. ‘It’s quite different,’ she said. ‘The police don’t bother about that at all.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  Martita shrugged again. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said. ‘It’s all stupid. But people are stupid everywhere.’

  ‘I don’t know why we’re talking about this,’ said Daisy breathlessly.

  ‘Neither do I, of course,’ said Martita, dead-pan. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to rehearsals. You’ll be all right here?’

  I nodded. And I thought to myself that although that conversation had cost Daisy something, we had discovered a very important truth: that we could rule Simon out.

  3

  As soon as Martita had gone, Daisy sprang back to life.

  ‘Did you hear that, Hazel!’ she cried in a rather high-pitched voice. ‘Simon has an alibi! He didn’t kill Annie, and that rules him out from killing Rose!’

  ‘We have two suspects left,’ I said. ‘Lysander and Martita. Daisy, I think you ought … to be ready. Just in case.’

  ‘Do be quiet, Hazel!’ said Daisy. ‘You’re talking pure nonsense, and you will be proved wrong. Look, get out that letter of Alexander’s you’ve been stowing in your waistband. Let’s see what he and George have uncovered, shall we?’

  I unfolded Alexander’s letter, which had some polite nonsense apology written in ordinary ink, and turned it over so that the blank back was facing us. Then I went up on tiptoe to hold it against the gas jets around the dressing-room mirror.

  Words began to flare and form as the paper heated, running together into close-written sentences. Alexander had squeezed in an awful lot of information.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Daisy, for of course she cannot read Alexander’s shorthand as easily as I can. It’s almost our own private language, and that thought always gives me a glow.

  ‘All right. Simon first. Simon Carver, born September 1908 in New York to Mason and Eugenia Williams. Began his professional career as a singer, but then Inigo Leontes discovered him during Inigo’s 1927 tour of America – he sponsored Simon to come over to England in 1934 and trained him up as an actor. Daisy, if Inigo and Simon were in America all through 1927, he really can be ruled out. He can’t have had anything to do with what happened to Rose’s parents!’

  Daisy nodded. ‘What about Lysander?’ she asked.

  ‘Lysander Tollington. Born April 1906 in Rochester, Kent to Admiral Manfred Tollington and his wife Marguerite. Here’s the exciting thing – the birth certificate is signed by a Reverend Brown. We’ve checked and he’s Rose’s father – his parish at that time was in Rochester. He conducted the marriage ceremony too, in July 1905. George says that’s exactly nine months before Lysander was born – he thinks that’s suspicious, and so do I. It might have been a set-up!’

  ‘Oh!’ said Daisy. ‘I see what George is getting at! Hazel, think about it – this is exactly the evidence we were hoping for. What if Lysander’s parents … weren’t really married when he was born? They might have paid off Reverend Brown to fake their marriage certificate, to make everything look respectable and above board – and that would give them the perfect motive to murder him years later!’

  ‘But why should they bother so much?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s perfectly obvious,’ said Daisy, waving her hands in the air. ‘Grown-ups are idiots, especially important ones like admirals. All they care about is their reputation. It would be considered terribly shocking to have a baby with someone you weren’t married to, and it might truly have ended the Admiral’s military career. I don’t know why, mind you. People are the same whether or not they have the proper piece of paper. But that’s how it is. It happens all the time in books, you know – reverends marrying people even though they’re already married, or being paid to enter a marriage that never happened in their parish records.’

  ‘It makes sense!’ I said, excited. ‘But how do we prove it?’

  ‘Bother, I don’t know!’ said Daisy. ‘Make Lysander confess to it, perhaps? Needle him about it? You know how fearfully upset he gets when anyone talks about his parents. Hazel, I really do think we’ve solved the case!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said doubtfully. ‘But, Daisy, there’s something here about Martita. Her father is Portuguese, but her mother’s name is Martha. She’s English, and Martita lived with her in Essex for a few years when she was a child – not far from Southend. Her parents might have known the Browns. Perhaps there’s a secret they wanted to keep as well?’

  I gulped, and looked up at Daisy. It was not what she wanted to hear, not at all. But sometimes detection is a very unpleasant business. I hated to admit it, but although the evidence was stacking up against Lysander, it was also pointing to Martita. She had motive and opportunity. She did not have an alibi for either of the murders. Her family history fitted with our theory that the 1927 deaths of Rose’s parents were the causes of the two more recent murders. What if the answer Daisy couldn’t bear was the true one? What if we had been deceived, yet again, by kindness?

  4

  I stood in the wings, Daisy trembling resentfully next to me, and watched the final whirl of last-minute rehearsals. The actors playing Peter and Benvolio were back, and so was Theresa. But everything felt subtly out of true, and everyone was brittle with panic. The actress now playing the Nurse was only half sure of her lines, and Theresa (still a little pale) was constantly hissing at her from the prompt corner next to us.

  ‘She’ll be the death of me, girls,’ Theresa said to us, winking – and then her face dropped as she realized what she’d said.

  Martita, though, despite the fact that she was shaking with high-pitched nerves, was word-perfect. Even her balcony scene was excellent. She might have been preparing for this for months, I thought, and shuddered.

  Miss Crompton and Inigo watched her, smiling like proud parents. I saw them glance at each other, and knew that although they must be innocent, what had happened here at the Rue would only help them and the theatre. That was a strange and
uncomfortable thought.

  I looked at Lysander next. He was grandstanding, making his Romeo centre stage no matter who else surrounded him. He didn’t act with Martita but at her – he was aggressive, teasing and rather horrid. I saw again that he was a person who really might cause harm and not care about it.

  Martita or Lysander? I wondered. Lysander or Martita? I knew which of them I wanted it to be, and I knew which of them I thought it was.

  And then, almost as quick as breathing, it was only a few minutes to curtain up.

  Daisy sat in our dressing room, pink and pale by turns. ‘It isn’t nerves,’ she said to me. ‘It’s something different. Can’t you feel it, Hazel? Can’t you?’

  I could. There was a low, stinging buzz in the air, something dangerous and wrong. It was there in every face, in every voice.

  I took a sip from a glass in our dressing room and accidentally dropped it. ‘Just like Rose!’ I said with a shudder.

  ‘Don’t be a chump, Hazel!’ cried Daisy, but she clenched her fists as she stepped round the fragments on the floor.

  It did rather feel as though we were moving along the same path as we had on the night of Rose’s death, those few short days ago – or as though we were tied to a railway track while a train hurtled, whistling eerily, ever closer.

  There was a thump from out in the dressing-room corridor. We stuck our heads round the door to find that Simon had somehow managed to fall headlong over a bucket that someone had left there. He was nursing his left hand and wincing.

  ‘This production is cursed!’ cried Martita behind us.

  ‘It isn’t cursed!’ said Miss Crompton. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t say that here, for goodness’ sake, or you’ll start a riot. Theresa, fetch the bandages. Simon darling, can you stand to wait to have it bound up until after you’re killed in Act Three?’

  ‘It’s not cursed,’ said Lysander, coming out of his dressing room with a slam. ‘There’s just a murderer in the theatre.’

  ‘Will you stop!’ said Miss Crompton. ‘That’s enough!’

  ‘All the world’s a stage,’ said Lysander, smirking, ‘And all the men and women merely players … And one man in his time plays many parts. That’s true, isn’t it? Very true in this case.’

  ‘It’s from the wrong play,’ said Miss Crompton. ‘And you know it. If you make any mistakes this evening, I shall have you replaced. We’ve got full houses for a month thanks to all this business. For once I can afford it.’

  ‘Isn’t murder useful?’ asked Lysander. ‘The first two have gone down so well – I wonder if there’ll be a third, to get you full houses all year?’

  And I felt absolutely terrified.

  5

  Downstairs, in the pit, the orchestra started up, and the Rue was suddenly full of the shuffle and chatter of hundreds of people. It filtered through from front of house to the backstage corridors. I still felt nervous almost to weeping. We were missing the final pieces of the puzzle. We did not yet know enough to point the finger at the murderer. All we had were suspicions.

  I peeped outside our dressing room to see the new dresser Miss Crompton had hired hurrying away, a basket of props in her arms … and then I noticed Theresa leading four people down the corridor towards us: Uncle Felix, Aunt Lucy, Alexander and George.

  ‘Daisy!’ I cried. ‘Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy are here – and Alexander and George are with them!’

  Daisy, carefully painted to be Rosaline, looked up at me in the mirror, her face surrounded by the glow of the gas jets. ‘Let them come in,’ she said rather grandly. ‘Uncle Felix knows everything, after all.’

  ‘Daisy and Hazel!’ called Theresa. ‘Your family’s here!’

  And I had an odd moment of realizing that this was true.

  ‘I want to come in to congratulate my niece, the famous actress Daisy Wells!’ shouted Uncle Felix.

  ‘And Hazel Wong too,’ I heard Alexander add.

  ‘AND HAZEL WONG TOO!’ boomed Uncle Felix, and my heart did another strange flip in my chest. Alexander had remembered me. Me. Not Daisy, me.

  I had to turn away as they entered.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Aunt Lucy. ‘Look at you. Don’t you look grown up!’

  ‘You don’t look anything like yourself,’ said George.

  ‘Dear niece, your friend is right. You have on the most excellent disguises,’ said Uncle Felix, beaming at us both. ‘I should hardly have recognized you. It’s such a useful skill to be able to conceal one’s appearance. In fact, I should almost think you’d been taught …’ He glanced with sudden suspicion at Aunt Lucy, who gazed back at him blandly.

  And, at that moment, something clicked in my head.

  I wasn’t sure what it meant. But … but …

  ‘Overture and beginners!’ cried Theresa, out in the corridor. ‘Overture and beginners, please! Five minutes!’

  Daisy looked at me and I knew that the same key had turned in her mind. She did not show it outwardly – she was absolutely delightful with Uncle Felix, Aunt Lucy, George and Alexander. She took the flowers Uncle Felix had brought us both and smiled and said thank you. But, as soon as they had gone out of the room, she whirled round to me, her eyes blazing.

  ‘Hazel, you see it too!’ she cried. ‘Costumes! Disguises! Acting! We haven’t been thinking about this mystery in the right way at all!’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed, feeling light-headed with shock. ‘Being an actor isn’t just about speaking lines. It’s about—’

  ‘It’s about being someone else entirely,’ said Daisy. ‘Goodness, what a clever murder!’

  ‘If we’re right …’ I began.

  ‘Of course we’re right!’ Daisy butted in. ‘Oh, Hazel, all the facts we think we know about the murders are wrong. We have to go back and look at everything again, from the very moment you and I left the Rue on the evening Rose disappeared.’

  ‘We have to tell the Inspector,’ I said.

  ‘Not yet!’ said Daisy. ‘Oh, not yet, not until we can prove it! It’s so fantastical, isn’t it? If only we had some bits of paper to wave at the grown-ups!’

  ‘There’s the white thread and the footprint,’ I said. ‘And the murderer must have slipped up somewhere, I know it. It has to be in my notes!’

  ‘Yes, Watson! I have great faith in you. Even at the Rue, the perfect place for deception, you can’t fake everything perfectly. Oh, how were we taken in for so long? There was another play backstage and we never noticed it!’

  We were sparking off one another again, working together in the way we do sometimes, when it feels as though we are really two halves of one person. In these moods, it feels as though I do not need to speak, only think, and Daisy will catch my meaning.

  Through the walls came the muffled clatter of applause and the swelling hum of the orchestra.

  ‘Daisy!’ I said. ‘We have to go on soon!’

  ‘I know,’ said Daisy. ‘But, while we do, we must keep thinking about the case. What else can we use to prove it?’

  I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my hands. I blocked out the music, the smell of make-up … and then I opened my eyes again.

  ‘The coat,’ I said, my heart racing. ‘Everything we read in the newspapers!’

  ‘WATSON!’ said Daisy. ‘You genius! All right. We’re getting somewhere. Every moment you have, read through your case notes. There must be something in them that’s useful!’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What’ll you do?’

  ‘I need to check timings, now that our old ones are all wrong. I shall go and stare at the prompt book over Theresa’s shoulder. I know the opportunity is there, during Act Two, but I need to prove it.’

  ‘You don’t think anything else will happen?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘I think it almost certainly will. We know that the murderer loves to act and be in the spotlight. Think what’ll happen when they see someone else in that spotlight tonight!’

  My breath caught. Daisy was right, and we had to move a
s quickly as we could.

  We did the Detective Society handshake and then nodded at each other.

  ‘Detective Society for ever,’ whispered Daisy. ‘Go and do me proud, Watson!’

  ‘Only if you do me proud as well,’ I said, grinning at her despite my nerves.

  6

  My mind was full of detection – but first I would have to overcome a much more difficult ordeal: stepping onto the stage in front of a real audience. I told myself I had rehearsed. I told myself I only had to say a few lines. I told myself that it didn’t matter if I botched them.

  But all the same, as I waited to go on, my legs were trembling and my hands were slippery and I could feel perspiration rising up on my forehead.

  I was sure that I could not do it, that I was going to have to turn and run – and then Daisy gave me a sharp shove and I was tumbling onto the stage with the other servants, into the beam of the lights and the roaring emptiness of air between us and the audience.

  I wobbled to my mark and turned to the First Servingman just as he shouted, ‘… IN THE GREAT CHAMBER!’

  ‘WE CANNOT BE HERE AND THERE TOO!’ I shouted back at him, as loudly as I could, as loudly as I’d practised with Martita.

  I felt all the breath rush out of my body and my knees went limp. I had done it.

  I retreated back across the stage, and as I did so I could have sworn I heard someone clapping, from far away in the stalls.

  I hovered in the wings, stage right, flicking frantically through my notes, listening to Romeo and Benvolio making their speeches before the party scene and waiting for Daisy to dance as part of the revels and then float across to where I was standing. There is an awful lot of murder in Romeo and Juliet – although I had been hearing the play for weeks, somehow it had never seemed so obvious to me as it did tonight. That is the funny thing about becoming familiar with something: it begins to wash over you. You do not really hear or see what is there, only what you are expecting.

  That is where we had gone wrong with this case, where we had almost tripped up for good. We had been expecting certain things. We had become too familiar with the Rue, and with the people in it – we had allowed ourselves to be dazzled by the front-of-house glamour, and not looked beyond that, to the paste and paint and hollow spaces that make up a theatre.