Leave the Grave Green (15 page)

Squelching the thought that she might not have become so hopelessly muddled if she’d had her mind on her driving instead of Kincaid’s visit the previous evening, she tucked a stray hair into place and pulled open the door.

A man leaned against the doorjamb of the receptionist’s cubicle, chatting with a young woman in jeans. “Ah,” he said, straightening up and holding a hand out to Gemma, “I see we won’t have to send your colleagues out searching for you, after all, Sergeant. It is Sergeant James, is it not?” He looked down the considerable length of his nose at her, as if assuring himself he hadn’t made a mistake. “Had a bit of trouble getting here, I’d say, from the look of you.” As the young woman handed Gemma a clipboard similar to the one Danny had used at the Coliseum, he looked at her and shook his head. “You really should have warned her, Sheila. Not even London’s finest can be expected to navigate the wilds north of the Finchley Road without a snag.”

“It was rather dreadful,” Gemma said with feeling. “I knew where you were, but I couldn’t get here from there, if you see what I mean. I’m still not quite sure how I did.”

“No doubt you’d like to powder your nose,” he said, “before you have your wicked way with me. I’m Tommy Godwin, by the way.”

“So I’d gathered,” retorted Gemma, escaping gratefully to the loo. Once safely behind the closed door, she surveyed her reflection in the fly-specked mirror with dismay. Her navy suit, Marks and Sparks best, might as well have been jumble sale beside Tommy Godwin’s casual elegance. Everything about the man, from the nubby silk of his sport jacket to the warm shine of his leather slip-on shoes, spoke of taste, and of the money spent to indulge it. Even his tall, thin frame lent itself to the act, and his fair, graying hair was sleekly and expensively barbered. A swipe of
lipstick and a comb provided little defense, but Gemma did the best she could, then squared her shoulders and went out to regain charge of her interview.

She found him in the same relaxed posture as before. “Well then, Sergeant, feeling better?”

“Much, thank you. Is there somewhere we could have a word?”

“We might steal five uninterrupted minutes in my office. Up the stairs, if you don’t mind.” He propelled her forward with a light hand upon her back, and Gemma felt she’d once again been out-maneuvered. “This is officially the buying office, the costume coordinator’s domain,” he continued, ushering her through a door at the top of the stairs, “but we all use it. As you might guess.”

Every available inch of the small room seemed to be covered—papers and costume sketches spilled from the worktables onto the floor, bolts of fabric leaned together in corners like old drunkards propping one another up and shelves on the walls held rows of large black books.

“Bibles,” said Godwin, following her gaze. Gemma’s face must have registered her surprise, because he smiled and added, “That’s what they’re called, really. Look.” He ran his finger along the bindings, then pulled one down and opened it on the worktable. “Kurt Weill’s
Street Scene
. Every production in rep has its own bible, and as long as that production is performed the bible is adhered to in the smallest possible detail.”

Gemma watched, fascinated, as he slowly turned the pages. The detailed descriptions of sets and costumes were accompanied by brightly colored sketches, and each costume boasted carefully matched fabric swatches as well. She touched the bit of red satin glued next to a full-skirted dress. “But I thought… well, that every time you put on an opera it was different, new.”

“Oh no, my dear. Productions sometimes stay in rep as long as ten or fifteen years, and are often leased out to other companies. This production, for instance”—he tapped the page—“is a few years old, but if it should be done next year in Milan, or Santa Fe, their Wardrobe will be responsible for securing this exact fabric, down to the dye lot, if possible.” Gently closing the book, he sat
on the edge of a drafting stool and crossed his long legs, displaying the perfection of his trouser crease. “There are some up-and-coming directors who insist that a show they’ve originated mustn’t be done without them, no matter where it’s performed. Upstarts, the lot of them.”

Making an effort to resist the fascination of the brightly colored pages, Gemma gently closed the book. “Mr. Godwin, I understand you attended last Thursday evening’s performance at the Coliseum.”

“Back to business, is it, Sergeant?” He drew his brows together in mock disappointment. “Well, if you must, you must. Yes, I popped in for a bit. It’s a new production, and I like to keep an eye on things, make sure one of the principals doesn’t need a nip here or a tuck there.”

“Do you usually drop in on Sir Gerald Asherton after the performance as well?”

“Ah, I see you’ve done your homework, Sergeant.” Godwin smiled at her, looking as delighted as if he were personally responsible for her cleverness. “Gerald was in particularly fine form that night—I thought it only fitting to tell him so.”

Growing increasingly irritated by Tommy Godwin’s manner, Gemma said, “Sir, I’m here because of the death of Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, as you very well know. I understand that you’ve known the family for years, and under the circumstances I think your attitude is a little cavalier, don’t you?”

For an instant he looked at her sharply, his thin face still, then the bright smile fell back into place. “I’m sure I deserve to be taken to task for not expressing the proper regret, Sergeant,” he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I’ve known Gerald and Caroline since we were all in nappies.” Pausing, he raised an eyebrow at Gemma’s look of disbelief. “Well, at least in Julia’s case it’s quite literally true. I was the lowest of the lowly in those days, junior assistant to the women’s costume cutter. Now it takes three years of design school to qualify for that job, but in those days most of us blundered into it. My mother was a dressmaker—I knew a sewing machine inside and out by the time I was ten.”

If that were the case he’d certainly done a good job of acquiring
his upper-middle-class veneer, thought Gemma. Her surprise must have shown, because he smiled at her and added, “I had a talent for copying as well, Sergeant, that I’ve put to good use.

“Junior assistant cutters don’t fit the principals’ costumes, but sometimes they are allowed to fit the lesser luminaries, the has-beens and the rising stars. Caro was a fledgling in those days, still too young to have mastered control of that marvelous natural talent, but ripe with potential. Gerald spotted her in the chorus and made her his protégée. He’s thirteen years her elder—did you know that, Sergeant?” Godwin tilted his head and examined her critically, as if making sure he had his pupil’s attention. “He had a reputation to consider, and oh, my, tongues did wag when he married her.”

“But I thought—”

“Oh, no one remembers that now, of course. It was all a very long time ago, my dear, and their titles weren’t even a twinkle in the Queen’s eye.”

The hint of weariness in his voice aroused her curiosity. “Is that how you met Caroline, fitting her costumes?”

“You’re very astute, Sergeant. Caro had married Gerald by that time, and produced Julia. She’d sometimes bring Julia to fittings, to be fussed and cooed over, but even then Julia showed little evidence of being suitably impressed.”

“Impressed by what, Mr. Godwin? I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Music in general, my dear, and in particular the whole tatty, overblown world of opera.” Sliding from the stool, he walked to the window and stood, hands in his pockets, looking down into the street. “It’s like a bug, a virus, and I think some people have a predisposition for catching it. Perhaps it’s genetic.” He turned and looked at her. “What do you think, Sergeant?”

Gemma fingered the costume sketches lying loose on the table, thinking of the chill that had gripped her as she heard
Traviata
’s finale for the first time. “This… predisposition has nothing to do with upbringing?”

“Certainly not in my case. Although my mother had a fondness for dance bands during the war.” Hands still in his pockets, he did
a graceful little box-step, then gave Gemma a sideways glance. “I always imagined I was conceived after a night spent swinging to Glen Miller or Benny Goodman,” he added with a mocking half-smile. “As for Caroline and Gerald, I don’t think it ever occurred to them that Julia wouldn’t speak their language.”

“And Matthew?”

“Ah, well, Matty was a different story all together.” He turned away again as he spoke, then fell silent, gazing out the window.

Why, wondered Gemma, did she meet this stone wall every time she brought up Matthew Asherton? She remembered Vivian Plumley’s words: “We don’t talk about that,” and it seemed to her that twenty years should have provided more solace.

“Nothing was ever the same after Caro left the company,” Godwin said softly. He turned to Gemma. “Isn’t that what they always say, Sergeant, the best times of one’s life are only recognized in retrospect?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. It seems a bit cynical to me.”

“Ah, but you’ve contradicted yourself, Sergeant. I can see you do have an opinion.”

“Mr. Godwin,” Gemma said sharply, “my opinion is not in question here. What did you and Sir Gerald talk about last Thursday night?”

“Just the usual pleasantries. To be honest, I don’t remember. I can’t have been there more than five or ten minutes.” He came back to the stool and leaned against the edge of its seat. “Do take the weight off, Sergeant. You’ll go back to your station and accuse me of dreadful manners.”

Gemma kept firmly to her position, back against the worktable. She was finding this interview difficult enough without conducting the rest of it on a level with Tommy Godwin’s elegant belt buckle. “I’m fine, sir. Did Sir Gerald seem upset or behave in an unusual way?”

Glancing down his long nose, he said with mild sarcasm, “As in dancing about with a lampshade on his head? Really, Sergeant, he seemed quite the ordinary fellow. Still a bit charged up from the performance, but that’s only to be expected.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“We had a drink. But it’s Gerald’s custom to keep a bottle of good single-malt whiskey in his dressing room for visitors, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen him any the worse for it. Thursday night was no exception.”

“And you left the theater after your drink with Sir Gerald, Mr. Godwin?”

“Not straight away, no. I did have a quick word with one of the girls in Running Wardrobe.” The coins in his pocket jingled softly as he shifted position.

“How long a word, sir? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Do you remember what time you signed out with Danny?”

“Actually, Sergeant, I didn’t.” He ducked his head as sheepishly as an errant schoolboy. “Sign out, that is. Because I hadn’t signed in, and that’s quite frowned upon.”

“You hadn’t signed in? But I thought it was required of everyone.”

“In theory it is. But it’s not a high-security prison, my dear. I must admit I wasn’t feeling entirely sociable when I arrived on Thursday evening. The performance had already started when I came in through the lobby, so I just gave one of the ushers a wink and stood in the back.” He smiled at Gemma. “I’ve spent too much of my working life on my feet, I suppose, to feel comfortable staying in one position for very long.” As if to demonstrate, he left the drafting stool and came to stand near Gemma. Lifting a swatch of tartan satin from the table, he hefted it, then ran his fingers over its surface. “This ought to do nicely for
Lucia—”

“Mr. Godwin. Tommy.” Gemma’s use of his first name caught his attention, and for an instant she saw again the stillness beneath his surface prattle. “What did you do when the performance finished?”

“I’ve told you, I went straight to Gerald’s—” He stopped as Gemma shook her head. “Oh, I see what you mean. How did I get to Gerald’s dressing room? It’s quite simple if you know your way around the warren, Sergeant. There’s a door in the auditorium that leads to the stage, but it’s unmarked, of course, and I doubt anyone in the audience would ever notice it.”

“And you left the same way? After you spoke to Sir Gerald
and”—“Gemma paused and flipped back through her notes—“the girl in Running Wardrobe.”

“Got it in one, my dear.”

“I’m surprised you found the lobby doors still unlocked.”

“There are always a few stragglers, and the ushers have to tidy up.”

“And I don’t suppose you remember what time this was, or that anyone saw you leave,” Gemma said with an edge of sarcasm.

Rather contritely, Tommy Godwin said, “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. But then one doesn’t think about having to account for oneself, does one?”

Determined to break through his air of polished innocence, she pushed him a little more aggressively. “What did you do when you left the theater, Tommy?”

He propped one hip on the edge of the worktable and folded his arms. “Went home to my flat in Highgate, what else, dear Sergeant?”

“Alone?”

“I live alone, except for my cat, but I’m sure she’ll vouch for me. Her name is Salome, by the way, and I must say it suits—”

“What time did you arrive home? Do you by any chance remember that?”

“I do, actually.” He paused and smiled at her, as if anticipating praise. “I have a grandfather clock and I remember it chiming not long after I came in, so it must have been before midnight.”

Stalemate. He couldn’t prove his statements, but without further evidence she had no way to disprove them. Gemma stared at him, wondering what lay beneath his very plausible exterior. “I’ll need your address, Mr. Godwin, as well as the name of the person you spoke to after you saw Sir Gerald.” She tore a page from her notebook and watched as he wrote the information in a neat left-handed script. Running back through the interview in her mind, she realized what had been nagging her, and how deftly Tommy Godwin had sidestepped.

“Just how well did you know Connor Swann, Mr. Godwin? You never said.”

He carefully capped her pen and returned it, then began folding
the paper into neat squares. “I met him occasionally over the years, of course. He wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, I must say. It baffled me that Gerald and Caro continued to put up with him when even Julia wouldn’t, but then perhaps they knew something about him that I didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow and gave Gemma a half-smile. “But then one’s judgment of character is always fallible, don’t you find, Sergeant?”