Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 (12 page)

Chapter Twenty One

I don’t know whether I expected Verity to change her mind about wanting to know who I thought the killer was but she didn’t. The subject just didn’t come up between us again. The next day was quiet in terms of our workload, thankfully, with just Dorothy’s and the servants’ usual meals to prepare. Ironically, now that I didn’t really need it, I had more time to think. I had hoped that my conversation with Verity would have brought me new insight, helped me see with fresh eyes, but that hadn’t happened. For some reason, she’d cut me off and that was another mystery.

That evening the servants were having kedgeree, quite an easy dish to make. I carefully lifted the eggs into boiling water with a teaspoon and turned the egg timer on the dresser over so I knew when they’d be hardboiled. The kitchen was filling up with steam and I went over to the window to open it a little. It was a grey, cold day, with the odd squall of sleet occasionally darkening the pavements.

I’d expected to see more of Verity that day, given that Dorothy was likely to stay in bed until late and probably spend the afternoon on the chaise-longue in the drawing room in the front of the fire. I stretched and eased the ache in my back, feeling that old familiar feeling of envy. What I wouldn’t give for hours and hours of emptiness, of time to be filled however I wanted it to be. I was quite sure I would have been able to solve this Connault case if only I’d been given enough time to think.

As it was, I barely saw Verity. She didn’t come down for supper but asked for a tray to be sent up to Dorothy’s bedroom. I frowned as Nancy delivered the message. Was Verity trying to avoid me? Nancy was waiting expectantly for my answer. “That’s fine,” I said, thinking about things. “I’ll bring it up, don’t you worry. Go in, Nancy, and have something to eat.”

Dinner on nights where Dorothy wasn’t entertaining was a less formal affair than it might have been. Of course, we still looked to Mr Fenwick and Mrs Anstells for permission but we sat next to whom we pleased and we were allowed to chat as we ate. I had been hoping that Verity would come down so I could talk to her, but as she wasn’t going to, I was going to have to corner her myself. Was it possible that she was trying to avoid me? Why?

As I climbed the stairs to Dorothy’s room, I pondered it uneasily. Was it something I had done to offend her? Something I had said? I wracked my brains as I shifted the tray about in my hands, trying to open the bedroom door, but nothing came to mind. Was it just that she was bored with my constant musings on who might have been the Connault killer? Or did she think I was overstepping the mark and should leave well enough alone?

I’d spent so long trying to balance the tray with getting the door open that eventually Verity opened it herself. She looked – yes, she did – startled to see me.

“Hello, thought I’d bring this up myself,” I said.

She didn’t look very pleased although she thanked me. “Just leave it over there, Joan. Thank you.”

I did so. There was an awkwardness between us that had never been there before, and I couldn’t think of why that would be. “I thought you might come down to eat with us,” I said, unsure of whether to take her up on it.

“I didn’t feel like it tonight. I’m too tired.”

“Oh.” Another heavy silence fell. To hell with it, I thought, and threw caution to the wind. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Verity said coldly.

I frowned. “Then why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything, Joan.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

But—“ I stopped, frustration strangling me. I knew Verity though – she could be as stubborn as any mule. If she didn’t want to tell me what was bothering her, she wouldn’t.

I swallowed and gathered my courage. “It is something I’ve done?”

Verity made a noise of impatience. “There’s nothing
wrong
, Joan. Don’t keep on about it. I’m just very fatigued. It’s been a fairly awful week.”

We stood for a  moment, looking at one another. Half of me wanted to carry on, to have a proper argument and at least get what was bothering her out of her system and into the open, but after a minute, I sighed and turned away. I didn’t have the energy for a quarrel.

“Very well. Just ring down when you’ve finished and one of the girls will collect your tray.”

“Thank you,” she said, but very formally, as if I were a stranger. I shook my head, wanting her to see my frustration, and then left without saying goodbye.

Well, that made for a bit of a gloomy evening, I can tell you. I went back downstairs and sat down for dinner but ate the kedgeree as if it were cardboard – I couldn’t taste a thing. Doris and I cleared the kitchen and washed up, while Mrs Watling went through the order sheets for tomorrow. All the time, I was thinking about Verity and wondering what was on her mind. Could it be Dorothy and her drinking? Was that worry enough to cause Verity to act the way she was?

I could have done with a drink myself that night, to be honest. Of course, I didn’t have one. I made myself a cup of cocoa, said goodnight to Doris and Mrs Watling, and carried it up to bed with me. I fully expected Verity to be in our room, perhaps already asleep as she’d said she was so exhausted. But she wasn’t there. I stood for a moment in the doorway, frowning.

I drank my rapidly cooling cocoa, undressed, washed and brushed my teeth. I was tired but I didn’t think I would be able to sleep just yet, despite my fatigue. There were too many thoughts running around in my head, too many emotions running around in my heart. I brushed out my hair in front of the mirror, expecting to hear Verity’s footsteps in the corridor outside any moment, but she didn’t come.

Climbing into bed, I thought that I would read for a little while. Hopefully a good book would distract me, help me calm my thoughts and prepare myself for sleep. But I realised I was without a novel, or at least without one I’d not read several times before. I made a sound of annoyance. I thought, briefly, that this would be a good opportunity to do some writing of my own, but I didn’t feel like it. I doubted I would be able to write anything down that was worth re-reading.

The nearest book to me was
Voyage of the Heart
, lying on the bedside table. But I’d already read that… I picked it up, idly flicking through it. It was quite a handsome book, with a fly-leaf covering the red leather binding. I flipped through the pages of the play, marvelling again how those black markings on white paper could become real human emotion on the stage. It was like magic, really.

I realised I’d never actually read right to the back of the book and had put it down once I’d reached the end of the actual play. I did so now, leafing through the mostly blank pages until I got to the very back cover. Then I realised there was something tucked into the flyleaf at the back, a slip of paper.

It was hard to remove. I tried grasping it with my fingernails but it stubbornly resisted. In the end, I had to get up and find Verity’s eyebrow tweezers before I could grab a corner and pull it free. I opened up the paper curiously. I think I had thought for one giddy moment that it could be money and was already thinking of how I could return it to Tommy, if that was the case.

But of course, it wasn’t money. It was just a handwritten note, a flowing hand on cream coloured paper, and all it said was
Darling, meet me at eleven tonight, my place
.

I frowned. Where had I seen that handwriting before? It wasn’t Tommy’s, or at least I didn’t think so.  I read the note again.
Darling, meet me at eleven tonight, my place.
Was it a lover’s note? Or something more prosaic. Eleven o’clock at night – surely a little more suggestive? Or was that just me being suspicious? And what business was it of mine, anyway?

I folded the note back up and put it back in the flyleaf. Then, thinking I should just check, I turned to the front cover and checked the flyleaf there, in case there was another note. There wasn’t, but there was something else I noticed. Written in pencil on the front page, in tiny writing at the bottom were the words
Aldous Smith
.

I frowned again. Wasn’t this Tommy’s book? He was the one who’d given it to me, after all. Or had he grabbed Aldous’s copy by mistake one time and either not realised or not cared? I didn’t think it was very likely that the actors cared much about having their own copies of the play, although of course, I wasn’t sure.

Oh, what did it matter anyway? I was very tired now, so tired my eyelids were fluttering. I put the play back on the bedside table and slid down under the bed covers. Normally I would have left the light on for Verity, but I was feeling so cross with her, I couldn’t be bothered to do so. Besides, who knew what time she would actually come to bed? I clicked the switch and pulled the covers up to my chin, settling my head on the pillow. I was asleep in moments.

Chapter Twenty Two

The stage was enormous. It stretched for miles and miles and the red velvet curtains climbed up into the clouds above, disappearing from view. I couldn’t see beyond the footlights, which were as dazzling as the sun. I stood there on the boards of the stage, blinking in the light and feeling horribly exposed. I knew I had to perform something, I had to say the words of the play, but nothing was coming to mind. I was dumb as well as blind. Corpsing, I’d heard Tommy call it before.

Corpsing
. Funny the way things are called in the theatre.

I stood there on the enormous stage, screwing up my eyes against the dazzle of the footlights. Were they getting brighter? Surely they couldn’t get any brighter without blinding me entirely? There was a noise on the edge of hearing that was gradually growing in volume. Was I supposed to be singing? I listened as the noise got louder and louder. It was a babble of voices, male and female, and as I listened, I could hear what they were saying, just words and phrases here and there.
She’s done this before, a voyage of the heart, he’d do anything for her, she’s done this before, a voyage of the heart, he’d do anything for her
… The golden dazzle of the lights grew ever more bright, and I held my hands up, watching the light penetrate them, lighting up the bones and the blood and above it all, the voices chanted and sang.
She’s done this before, she’s done this before
…

I woke quite suddenly, my heart hammering. It took a few moments before I realised I was in my bed, the room dark about me with just a thin grey glimmer around the curtains at the window. I lay there, trembling a little. It had seemed so real to me, that stage. And the voices… As I came back to reality, I realised something else. That dream had showed me the truth.

I sat up in excitement. It was then I realised that Verity was in her bed, just a humped figure under the blankets, and breathing steadily. For a moment, I thought of shaking her awake, but I almost immediately dismissed the idea. Now that I knew the truth – or I thought I did – there was only one person I needed to talk to. There was only one person who would be able to tell me if I were being foolish or not.

I groped for the bedside clock and squinted at it in the darkness. A quarter off the hour of six. Not too early to get up, and besides, I didn’t think I could remain in bed, not with my new found knowledge. I felt fizzy with excitement and the need to take action. How early would I be able to call? Would I be able to call from the house telephone or would I need to invent an excuse to go and find a public telephone box? I thought the former would be acceptable, particularly if I could make sure I wasn’t overheard.

I got up, gathered up my clothes as quietly as I could, and made my way to the bathroom. It was icy cold in there with the fire out so I washed, shivering, as quickly as I could in cold water, pinned up my hair and dressed, my teeth chattering. Creeping downstairs, I met Nancy, who was bringing up the hot coals to get the fires started, yawning away as if her jaw were on a hinge.

“Oh, hullo, Joan,” she said amiably but sleepily.

“Hullo.” I had to stop myself from bounding down the stairs. I looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway as I made for the kitchen stairs.
Oh, come on, come on…
Why did time go so slowly when you didn’t want it to?

I lit the range, put the kettle on the hob, and began to prepare the breakfast with fingers jittery with impatience. I was starting to worry about whether I would be able to contact Inspector Marks. I knew he was a very busy man, and what if he was out of London, investigating a case elsewhere? Or taking a holiday? You’ll just have to wait and see, I told myself, trying to calm down and failing miserably.

I was never particularly chatty in the mornings so Mrs Watling didn’t comment on my silence that morning. She did look a little askance when I burned the first batch of toast but simply folded her lips and said nothing. Cursing inside my head, I cut more slices and put them back on the toasting tray. I kept stealing anxious glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. Nine o’clock was when I was going to attempt to telephone, and I just hoped that wouldn’t be too early or too late.

I ate my own breakfast barely tasting a mouthful. Food had never seemed less important. It was baking day today, and I knew Mrs Watling and I would be chained to the kitchen table for the next few hours, so if I were going to make a telephone call it had to be now. Doris was finishing the washing up and Mrs Watling was occupied with the fishmonger’s boy, who had just called round with today’s order.

At the last moment, I decided that what I had to say to Inspector Marks was so important that I really needed the privacy of a public phone box, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Chewing my lip, I wondered how on Earth I was going to get away for long enough to make the call? I knew there was a telephone box at the end of the street, but it would still mean coming up with a convincing cover story. And – a secondary thought occurred to me – did I even have the money for a public call? I hunted out my purse and checked, feeling despair at the findings. I barely had enough money for a minute’s call.

I would have to see if I could use the house telephone after all. But the chances of being interrupted or overheard were high. What would people think if they heard what I was intending to say to Inspector Marks? I clenched my fists in frustration.

I was still there, frozen to the spot with indecision, when I felt a finger poke me in the back. I jumped.

“What on Earth is wrong with you?”

Verity sounded more herself than she had done for the past three days. As I turned to face her, I realised that, whilst we seemed to be at odds for the moment, she
was
my friend, and I could rely on her. I could always rely on her. All of a sudden, the mist of confusion and panic cleared.

“Verity, can you help me?”

Verity had been smiling but at this, her face fell. “What’s wrong?” she asked again.

I didn’t have time to explain properly. “Can you cover for me? I need to slip out for five minutes.”

“
Cover
for you? What, with Mrs Watling?”

“Or whomever asks. And—“ I hesitated. “Can you lend me some money?”

Now Verity looked alarmed as well as serious. “What’s
wrong
, Joan?” She began to get that scared look on her face again. “What’s going on?”

I shook my head impatiently. “Verity, will you just trust me? I can’t tell you everything now, but I need you to help me. Can you help me?”

She stared at me, chewing her lip for a moment. Then, clearly making up her mind, she nodded, slowly. “Yes. Wait here. I’ll get my purse.”

I waited there, trying not to jig from foot to foot with impatience. I heard her footsteps coming back and hugged my arms across my body. I was too tense to smile at  her but I could see that she was holding something in her hand.

“Here, take this.” She poured a small heap of coins into my palm. “I’m going to see if Mrs Watling can sit down with me to plan a dinner party that Dorothy wants to give next week. Quite a tricky menu.”

“Is it?” I said, interested despite myself.

Verity rolled her eyes. “Bloody hell, Joan, I’m making it up as I go along! Now, go and do whatever you have to do but be quick, I can only keep her talking for so long.”

I began to hurry away but just as quickly turned back and hugged Verity in a quick, fierce embrace. “Thank you,” I whispered in a heartfelt burst in her ear.

She half-smiled back but she looked suddenly pale and tense. I didn’t have time to ask why. Instead I closed my fingers more tightly around the coins she’d given me and scurried up the stairs. I would have to risk using the front door so as not to alert Mrs Watling to my leaving.

My good luck angel must have been with me. I made it out of the front entrance without Mr Fenwick or Mrs Anstells noticing and ran as swiftly as I could down the street to the telephone kiosk. I was shivering, having not wanted to take the time to fetch my coat. Besides, it would make it easier to sneak back without it looking like I’d actually left the house.

The telephone box was empty – another piece of luck. I hoped I wasn’t using it all up before I got to speak to Inspector Marks. But no, my angel must have still been with me because after only a couple of tries, I was put through to the inspector’s office and his kind voice greeted me pleasantly. He honestly sounded like he was pleased to hear from me.

Now it came down to it, I had a momentary loss of confidence. I didn’t really have any evidence, did I? It was intuition and a few overheard scraps of conversation, a role in a play and a missing costume. Not very much to build a prosecution case on, was it?

“Miss Hart? Are you still there?”

I took a deep breath.
Believe in yourself, Joan Hart
. “Yes, sir, I’m still here. I’m calling because I think I know who killed Gideon Bonnacker. No, I
do
know who killed him.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the telephone, so I could hear the crackles and whistles of the line. “Indeed,” said the inspector’s voice. He sounded neutral, but beneath the surface, I could hear that guarded excitement that I remembered from the days at Merisham Lodge. “Well, Miss Hart—“

“Call me, Joan,” I said and then blushed.

“Yes, of course. Joan. Well, why don’t you tell me all about it?”