A Question of Guilt (15 page)

‘Good. And in the meantime, just take care of yourself, do you hear?'

‘I will.'

‘I mean it. Try not to upset any apple carts at Compton Players, do you hear?'

‘Honestly, Josh!' I exploded. ‘What on earth harm can I come to in the town hall with a bunch of thespians?'

‘None, I hope.'

But the grim note was there again in his tone.

‘Shut up and kiss me,' I said.

Monday dragged by almost as slowly, it seemed, as the first days following my accident had done – and that was saying something! There was really nothing I could do at the moment. At some point I would go down to Dorset and speak to Dawn's parents, but that was going to be horribly difficult, and I didn't feel I was quite ready yet to face them, or the long drive. Always provided Dad was agreeable to me taking his car so far!

I wasn't able to do anything about getting myself a laptop either – by the time I came downstairs, Dad had eaten his breakfast and was out and about again on the farm. Mum wasn't sure of the name of the local computer sales firm he dealt with, so that had to go on hold until I was able to ask him for contact details.

I tried several times to ring the membership secretary of the Compton Players, whose number the junior reporter at the
Gazette
had given me, but my calls went straight to voice mail. At the third attempt, I left a message simply leaving my number and saying I was interested in joining. This was the way I was going to play it this time – so far it had seemed that the moment I began asking questions about Dawn, the barricades went up, and I thought a more subtle approach might yield more fruit. If I pretended to be just another new member I'd get to know the others in a more natural way. I could listen to conversations, and, when the opportunity arose, mention Dawn casually. It might take longer, but I reminded myself of the fable of the hare and the tortoise. Rushing in with all guns blazing wasn't always the quickest way to get information – in fact in this case it was proving to be counter-productive.

I had high hopes of the Compton Players, though. In my experience, people who were involved in amateur dramatics – or professionals, come to that – weren't usually reticent types. Just as long as I didn't put them on their guard they'd probably be quite happy to talk.

It was always possible, too, that one of them was the perpetrator I was looking for. Once again I ran over the list of possible motives for someone wanting to be rid of Dawn, and wondered if any of them would be a fit for a member of the Compton Players. I'd already marked out the man Katie had referred to as ‘the gorgeous George Clancy' as being of special interest – he sounded exactly the sort that Dawn might set her cap at, or perhaps have an affair with. But I mustn't let that blind me to everyone else in the society. Besides the other actors there would be the directors – awash with power! – and the backstage crew, the sound and lighting team, the carpenters and electricians who built the sets. Any one of them could have been involved with Dawn, and, if they were married, then all kinds of explosive situations could result.

I couldn't rule out the women, either. A woman could set a fire every bit as easily as a man, or drive a car that could be used as a murder weapon. A cuckolded wife, an ambitious actress, resentful of the fact that Dawn always got the best parts, a girl whose boyfriend she had stolen, or who wanted a boyfriend of Dawn's for herself, any one of them could have been pushed over the edge by powerful emotion.

So far, though, I hadn't even managed to find out if Dawn had a boyfriend at all, never mind an illicit lover. Yet I was convinced the clue to the mystery must lie in a personal relationship and I kept coming back to what Alice had suggested – Dawn made lots of enemies. Unfortunately that was often true of the beautiful or stunningly attractive – people were always resentful of a girl who seemed to have everything. Perhaps Dawn had been a spoiled little madam, but, then again, perhaps she had just been an ordinary, nice girl who happened to have been blessed with good looks, talent, and a vivacious personality.

This was what I hoped to find out from her friends at Compton Players.

It was five o'clock before the membership secretary returned my call, and I'd almost given up on hearing from her. In the event, though, she sounded very friendly, her strong Welsh valleys accent lending warmth. She told me that there was indeed a meeting tonight in the town hall when they would be play-reading in an effort to find something suitable for their spring production, and that I'd be welcome to come along. Then, as I'd expected, she asked if I'd ever done anything on stage before.

I said that I hadn't, and explained I was at home recuperating from a skiing accident, and was at a loose end. I wouldn't be looking to take an acting part, but I'd be happy to help out in any way I could behind the scenes.

Delyth, as the membership secretary was called, told me the meeting time was seven thirty p.m.

‘We probably won't get started until nearer eight,' she said, ‘but if you get here on time it will give you the chance to get to know a few people before you get thrown in at the deep end.'

Dad, bless him, had agreed that I could borrow his car again, and when we'd had tea I got myself ready and set off in good time. I was hoping I'd find a parking space in the High Street or the Square at this time of day – I really didn't want to have to walk too far if I could help it – and I was in luck. There were a couple of vacant bays in the Square; I reversed into one and sat for a few minutes' waiting time.

The lights were still on in Compton Properties, I noticed – surprising, really, given that it was past seven, and I couldn't imagine they'd have late viewings at this time of year, when it was dark by five, or even earlier if it was overcast. Could be office cleaners, I supposed. But as I watched, the lights in the upstairs windows went off, and then most of the downstairs ones as well, leaving no more than a dull glow that I presumed was from the security lights. Then the door opened, and two figures emerged. One was recognizable as Lewis Crighton, though his back was towards me as he checked that the door was securely locked. The other was Sarah, the girl who had dealt with the items I'd taken in for auction.

Why that surprised me so, I really didn't know. There could, after all, be a perfectly reasonable explanation – that they had both been working late. But there was something in their body language that suggested to me that it was more than that. The angle of her head, as if she was looking up at him adoringly, although of course I wasn't close enough to see if that was the case, the way he put a hand on her back as he turned away from the door and steered her across the Square, looking both ways a couple of times although there was no traffic about – as if he was checking to see if they were being observed, I thought. Lights flicked on a parked car twenty or so yards up the Square from where I was parked, and Sarah got in. Lewis waited until she had pulled away, then walked further up the Square. A few moments later a Range Rover drove past me from the same direction; by the light of the street lamps I could see it was Lewis driving.

I was agog by now. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation for what I had seen, of course, but somehow I didn't think so. Much more likely they had been ‘carrying on', as Mum would have called it, in the empty office after hours. Lewis was twice Sarah's age, at the very least, but when had that been a deterrent? He was also distinguished, undeniably handsome, and her boss. A man who liked his staff to look like fashion models, which suggested he had an eye for a pretty girl.

My thoughts were racing now, so fast I could scarcely keep up with them. If Lewis Crighton was having an affair with Sarah, then she might not be the first. Perhaps it was something he made a hobby of, and exactly the same thing had happened with Dawn. I'd suspected her of having an illicit affair – it was one of the things that might well provide the motive for her death. Could it be that Lewis Crighton was the man she'd been involved with? If so, it would explain the brick wall I'd encountered at his office, and why Alice was so reluctant to talk about Dawn.

It would be more than her job was worth to gossip about her employer's liaisons. That could very well be the reason she had shut up like a clam when Lewis had appeared on the stairs on the first occasion when I'd visited and begun asking questions, and why she had failed to return my calls. But for all that Lewis fitted the bill very neatly for an illicit lover, I really couldn't see him as a fire raiser and a hit-and-run driver. He was too suave, too polished. The idea of him creeping about in the middle of the night with a can of petrol was almost laughable.

The clock on the dashboard of Dad's car was showing twenty-two minutes past seven – time for me to get to the meeting of the Compton Players. I locked up the car and headed for the town hall.

As I neared it, however, I realized I might well have a problem. The lights were on in the upper hall, which I knew was reached by a long, curving flight of stone stairs. How stupid of me not to have thought of that before! I'd assumed the Players met in one of the downstairs rooms, but why would they? There was a stage in the upper hall – of course that would be their venue.

The prospect of getting myself up all those stairs was a daunting one, but I couldn't give up at the first hurdle. One of the big double doors appeared to have been left on the latch; I pushed it open and went inside.

I was just preparing to haul myself up the stairs when the door opened again and a girl came in. She was about my own age, with a mop of impossibly curly hair, dark-rimmed spectacles, and she was carrying a large wicker basket.

‘Hello! Are you lost?' Her voice was pleasant and friendly; the lilting Welsh accent was unmistakable. Before I could make myself known, though, she went on in almost the same breath: ‘Ah, wait a minute. You must be Dawn.'

‘Yes. And you must be Delyth.'

‘For my sins! Goodness, I didn't realize you were still on crutches! Don't try going up those stairs, whatever you do. There's a lift just by here. Come on, I'll show you.'

A lift. Well, that was new! Installed for disabled access, I imagine. It must have cost a fortune!

‘I might as well come up with you,' Delyth said. ‘I don't generally bother with it, but seeing as you're here . . .'

She pressed a button, a door slid open and we squashed into the tiny compartment, Delyth's basket sandwiched between us.

‘So you thought you'd like to join us then?' she asked as we clattered towards the upper floor.

‘Well . . . yes. As you can see, I won't be a lot of use to you,' I said ruefully.

‘Nonsense! We can always find something you can do. It's great to get new members. There were about forty of us at one time, but numbers are slipping. People move away, you know, that sort of thing. And you won't be on crutches forever, will you?'

‘I sincerely hope not! But . . .' On the point of saying I would no longer be in Stoke Compton when my leg was healed, I broke off. I didn't want to draw attention to the fact that I would be a very temporary member.

The lift came to a stop and we got out. It had deposited us in a corner of the landing between the top of the flight of stairs and the door to the upper hall.

‘Come on in then, and you can meet the gang – well, those that turn up on time, anyway,' Delyth said, holding the door open for me to go in.

The hall hadn't changed much since the days when I used to come here as a child for dancing classes. It was still cavernous, with tall arched windows and a low stage at the far end. But it had been decorated fairly recently, from the look of it – the walls were cream emulsion rather than the dirty brown colour I remembered, and the curtains – rich red velvet – at the windows and hiding the stage looked relatively new.

About half a dozen members had already arrived; a little knot were gathered around one of the big old radiators, and a large, balding man was setting out chairs in a circle.

‘Come and meet John – he's our chairman.' Delyth laughed. ‘
Chairman
being a very apt word to describe him by the look of it.'

‘Delyth, my angel.' The man unhooked another chair from a stack and positioned it between the others. He was wearing a scarlet sweater that stretched over his impressive paunch and baggy cords. ‘Did you get the scripts from the library, darling?' His voice carried across the hall with all the resonance of a trained actor's.

‘I did.' Delyth put her basket down on one of the chairs and I could see it contained paperback books divided into sets by rubber bands. ‘
Blithe Spirit
and
I Remember Mama
. The Ayckbourn was out on loan, I'm afraid.'

‘As always. That man is just too popular.' He turned his gaze on me. ‘And who are you, my darling?'

‘This is Sally, a prospective new member,' Delyth said with a twinge of pride, as if she'd recruited me herself. ‘Sally, this is John Hollingsworth. He's our chairman, as I said, but he also directs. And acts sometimes, too.'

‘Sometimes!' John rolled his eyes. ‘When have I not had to step in to fill a part? Lack of men, you see, that's the trouble. We never have enough men. You haven't a brother who'd be interested in joining us, I suppose?' he asked me.

‘Don't you dare scare her off, John!' Delyth warned.

‘Can you act, darling?' John looked at me over the top of his rimless spectacles.

‘I'm afraid not. I thought perhaps I could do something backstage.'

‘Producing, perhaps?'

‘Oh, oh no!' I said, horrified. ‘And anyway, aren't
you
. . .?'

‘I am the
director
, darling.' He laid emphasis on every syllable of the word, giving it due importance. ‘I need a
producer
– someone to organize all the routine jobs, liaise with the crew, leave me to get on with the artistic side of things.' He beamed at me. ‘We'll see, we'll see.'