Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 (13 page)

Chapter Twenty Three

After I’d put the telephone down in the kiosk and scurried back to work (successfully managing to get back into the house without anyone noticing I was gone – my good luck angel was working very hard that day), I returned to my chores, feeling – truth to be told – rather flat. Inspector Marks hadn’t laughed at me or told me I was being ridiculous; in fact, he’d sounded rather eager to get started uncovering the evidence. But now all I could do was leave it in the hands of the police, while I went back to my tedious, kitchen-bound existence. The washing up seemed endless, that day; there was a never-ending production line of vegetables to be peeled and chopped, meat to be seasoned, biscuits, scones and bread to be baked. I didn’t want to do any of it.

I sat down to luncheon in a dim sort of mood. The chances were that that was the absolute last I would have to do with the case. Inspector Marks would (I hoped) find the evidence he needed, make the arrest and then it would be all over the papers for a short while before the world forgot about it and everything went quiet until the trial. I tried to console myself with the fact that I wouldn’t have to give evidence at any trial, this time around. Or that I probably wouldn’t. It wasn’t much consolation.

Verity was equally quiet. We didn’t talk at all, except for one short, odd conversation we had out in the corridor after luncheon, when she grabbed my sleeve as I walked past her.

“What is it?” I enquired. “By the way, thank you again so much for helping me this morning.”

Verity waved a hand impatiently, as if batting away my thanks. “Joan—“ She said my name and stopped abruptly before beginning to speak again.

“What is it?” I asked, interrupting her.

Verity still had hold of my arm. “Joan – you would – you would always do the right thing, wouldn’t you?”

This was so unexpected that I just gazed at her. “What do you mean?”
Verity shook her head impatiently. “I mean, you would always do what had to be done. Wouldn’t you?”

I half shrugged, not really understanding her meaning. “Well, I would hope so.”

She stared at me fixedly a moment longer and then released my sleeve from her hand. She stood back. “I suppose I just have to trust you,” she said, stepping back. She said it again, staring into my face as if she could reassure herself. “I suppose I just have to trust you.”

Lost for words, I stared at her. She gave me one last, searing glance and turned on her heels and began to climb the stairs, her head down, as if all her energy were draining away.

Puzzled and anxious, I went back to the kitchen. I worked the afternoon’s tasks in something of a dream, thoughts of Verity and Inspector Marks competing for who could make my head more of a whirl. It was a relief to get to dinner, to have Dorothy’s food taken up for her alone, and to sit at the servants’ table amongst people who, although I couldn’t exactly say they were friends, at least were familiar and safe and didn’t demand anything much of me emotionally. Verity wasn’t there – she must have been dining with Dorothy.

It was Doris’s evening off, and I had a pile of washing up awaiting me. Philosophically, I began to carry everything through to the scullery and to run the water into the sink.

I could hear voices outside in the kitchen; Mrs Watling’s and a deeper one. I held my breath, suddenly taut with anticipation. Then, because I couldn’t wait any longer, I hurried to the scullery door and peered out. My stomach jumped. Inspector Marks was there, talking to Mrs Watling.

“Ah, Miss Hart,” he said as soon as he saw me. “I’ve been asking Mrs Watling here for permission for you to accompany me this evening.”

I could feel the blush start up in my face. Then I realised, from the look on his face, that he wasn’t talking about a purely social invitation. The blush receded and excitement leapt up in my throat. I looked at Mrs Watling and there must have been desperation in my eyes because she threw up her hands and said, in a scolding voice than nonetheless carried some affection in it, “I’m sure I don’t know what the world’s coming to. But if the inspector needs you, Joan, then I suppose go you must.”

I bobbed a curtsey to her out of sheer gratitude. It was then I realised I was dressed in my two-day-old, soiled uniform.

“May I be allowed to go and change my clothes, sir?” I asked, wondering if that was an indelicate question.

The inspector didn’t look scandalised. “Yes, but be as quick as you can.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I pelted for the stairs and took them two at a time, arriving at my room in a breathless heap. I pushed open the door and was startled to see Verity, standing there dressed in her coat and hat and pulling on her gloves.

“Are you going out?”I asked in some confusion.

Verity looked extremely tense. For a  moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. “I’m coming with you,” she said, eventually.

“With me?” Shock made me ungrammatical.

“With you and Inspector Marks.”

Shock was piled upon shock. “With us? Why? And where are we going?”

For a moment, I thought Verity was going to cry. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

I stared at her but only for a moment – I had to get dressed. I tore off my uniform, splashed myself with the cold water from the basin on the dressing table, and quickly pulled on my good blouse and skirt. My hair was a disaster but I didn’t have time to fix it. I rammed my hat on my head, picked up my gloves and put my coat on as Verity and I hurried back out of the door.

Inspector Marks had a police car waiting outside – an unmarked one, thankfully, I could just hear the gossip flying around the street if the neighbours had seen us getting into a car with bell and sign on it. We drove through the streets of London, Inspector Marks sitting next to the driver up front, Verity and I hunched tensely in the back seat. I don’t believe the three of us exchanged one word on the journey. I wondered where we were going but as we approached the West End, I realised I knew. I didn’t have to ask. I suppose all I had to do was trust Inspector Marks. That made me think about what Verity had said to me earlier.
I suppose I have to trust you
. Was that what this case was all about, after all? Being able to trust another person to do the right thing by you?

The lights of the Connault Theatre blazed before us. As Inspector Marks handed us out of the car and bent to confer with the driver, I turned to Verity, to ask her something, I’m not sure what. At the sight of her face, I forgot whatever it was I was going to ask. She was milk-pale and trembling.

“V?” I asked tentatively and put a hand out to her but she shook her head and moved away. It occurred to me then to wonder why she was accompanying us. Was it because Inspector Marks thought we worked as a team? The thought pleased me.

If there had been a show on that night at the Connault, it was over. The entrance vestibule was empty and the corridors dark. Inspector Marks walked confidently towards the entrance to the stalls and Verity and I followed him. As we got close to the double doors that led into the theatre, we could hear music and laughter and people’s voices. I realised now why we were here.

The actors and crew were on the stage, all sat on chairs that had been drawn up in a big circle, or lounging on some settees and chaise longues which looked like props. Caroline Carpenter sat like a queen to the rear of the circle, dressed in a shimmering silver gown that sparkled under the glow of the stage lights. As we walked closer, I had the incongruous thought that she was supposed to be getting married next week. A winter wedding. As I thought that, a vision of Caroline in her wedding dress rose in my mind’s eye – I could see her as clearly as if she were standing there in front of me, dressed in icy white silk, a white fur wrapped around her, the cold shine of the diamonds in her hair and at her throat and ears. It made me feel sad, because I realised I would never get to see it in real life.

It took everyone a while to notice us. Tommy was telling a joke and everyone was laughing. It was Caroline who first realised we were there and I was by then close enough to see something flicker in her gaze as she realised Inspector Marks was climbing the stage steps, Verity and I behind him. Gradually, the laughter around the circle faded and died.

“Good evening,” said Inspector Marks genially as he came up to where everyone was sitting.

Tommy was the first to react. “Good evening, Inspector. Erm – like a drink?” He proferred a glass half full with ale. “Or Caroline brought some champagne, if you’d prefer that?”

I saw him look over at Verity anxiously. Her eyes met his and they exchanged a look that I couldn’t decipher.

“Not for me, thank you.” The geniality in Inspector Mark’s voice fell away. “This isn’t a social call.”

“It isn’t?” Caroline sat up a little but her voice was still the same languid drawl as it always had been. “Whatever do you mean, Inspector Marks?”

There was a short silence. Inspector Marks found a couple of spare chairs and indicated that Verity and I should sit down. Verity did so, almost collapsing into the seat as if the strength had left her legs. Gwen, who was sitting next to her, put a concerned hand out to her, but Verity ignored her, staring at the floor.

I remained standing, next to the inspector. I wanted the advantage of height. Inspector Marks gave me an approving glance.

“I’m here to talk about the murder of the man who was killed here, six weeks ago, during a performance of
Voyage of the Heart
. The name of the victim was reported in the newspapers as that of an Italian citizen called Guido Bonsignore.” The inspector let his gaze sweep around the circle of faces. They looked puzzled, worried, intrigued and wary. “That was not his real name,” he added.

There was another silence. I had the fanciful thought that the spirit of the theatre was even now infusing the inspector, as I’d once felt it had done to me. He was certainly making the most of some dramatic pauses.

Inspector Marks went on. “The actual name of the murder victim was Gideon Bonnacker.”

There were two faces I watched at that revelation. I saw Gwen’s eyebrows go up and her mouth make an ‘o’ shape, as she clearly remembered something she’d thought she’d forgotten. Just as I’d forgotten I’d actually
seen
the murderer. The other face didn’t move a muscle. Not even a flicker. But I would have expected nothing less.

“This has been a very strange case,” the inspector remarked, walking around the outside of the circle slowly. Heads turned to watch him as he walked. “For a long while, we weren’t even sure who the victim was. We had a whole theatre-full of witnesses, all of whom had seen precisely nothing. Before this case, I wouldn’t have said it were possible – to have that many people in the vicinity of a murder and for them all to have noticed nothing.”

He had come to rest behind Tommy, who was staring ahead of himself uneasily. The inspector stood there for a good few seconds before speaking again. I heard Verity gulp and suddenly realised what had been preying on her mind. I bit my lip.

“As it was, there
was
a witness,” said Inspector Marks, quite lightly. I heard the intake of breath around the circle. The inspector’s head turned towards me. “Over to you, Miss Hart. Tell us what you saw on the night of the murder, when you and Miss Hunter were seated up there—“ He gestured towards the back of the theatre. “Up there in the Gods.”

I had been half expecting this, given the theatrics that had just gone on, but still it was my turn to gulp. I stepped forward, literally into the spotlight. I had to clear my throat before I spoke and as I did, I wished I could sound firmer and more confident, just as the inspector did.

“I – I—“ I pulled myself together and spoke up. “I was sitting in the row behind Gideon Bonnacker, about three seats away from the end of our row. As the curtain came up on the play, I saw a woman come into our row and sit behind the – the victim.”

“Yes, yes, this mysterious woman,” said Caroline, sounded irritated. “The one the police could find no trace of. Do you actually have anything concrete to say?”

I swallowed. “The police know that this woman was the murderer. She stabbed Gideon Bonnacker through the back of his chair under the cover of darkness and while everyone was distracted by the play. Then she left before more than a few minutes had elapsed.”

“Well?” Caroline demanded.

I drew myself up a little straighter.
The truth shall set you free
. “I know who she was. I actually saw her face.”

“And?” Caroline said, in a bored voice.

I cleared my throat. “She was Aldous Smith.”

There was more than a gasp this time. There was Caroline’s angry exclamation of “Impossible!”, Tommy’s cry of protest, whispers and hisses carrying around the circle.

“That’s enough,” said the inspector sharply. “Let Miss Hart speak.”

I wished my hands would stop trembling. I tried not to clench them at my sides. “When I say that the woman was Aldous Smith, I mean she was Aldous dressed up as a woman.” I addressed Gwen for the next sentence. “He was the one who took that costume, Gwen, and returned it later. He didn’t appear in the first act of the play, so there would have been just enough time for him to put on his disguise, go up to the Gods, er – er, stab Mr Bonnacker and then hurry back down to backstage and get rid of the costume, just before he had to appear in his first scene.”