Play to the End (22 page)

"Not sure."

"Not sure's a bit bloody weak this late in the day."

"It's the best I can do."

"Denis's death has knocked us all sideways, Leo," put in Brian.

"Ah yes," said Melvyn, slurping some wine. "Death the great leveller."

"I don't know about death," said Leo. "What concerns me is whether there's any life in Lodger in the Throat."

"There always has been," I said. "We just haven't been very successful at finding it."

"Hah. Sounds like you agree with your friend Unwin. It's all down to unsympathetic direction."

Melvyn choked and spluttered on another mouthful of wine. "Am I never to hear the last of that ghastly fellow and his impertinent letters?"

"Actually, Leo, his name's Oswin," I pointed out. "Not Unwin." Then Melvyn's use of the plural registered in my mind. "Did you say letters?"

"Oh yes," Melvyn replied. "Another one arrived this morning."

"I suppose you get used to your fan mail containing a certain percentage of crackpot material," said Leo. "It's come as an eye-opener to me, though."

"What did the letter say?"

"See for yourself." Leo flourished a sheet of paper from inside his jacket and handed it to me. "Keep it if you like."

It was Derek's distinctive handwriting, no question about it. He'd sent a second letter, after promising me he wouldn't. Or had he? He probably posted it yesterday morning, before he undertook to end the correspondence. Technically, he hadn't broken his promise. But nor had he warned me that a second missive was already on its way. Not for the first time, he'd been economical with the facts. It seemed to be something of a local custom. Why, I wondered, had Derek seen fit to write to Leo again?

Dear Mr. Gauntlett,

Further to my previous letter, I realize that I omitted to say something very important about Mr. Flood. As someone to some degree responsible for the advancement of his career, you should be aware that it is not only for his considerable acting abilities that Mr. Flood is to be cherished. He is also, you see, an honourable and generous man, as I know from my personal experience. He has tried to help me just as I have tried to help him. I find it hard to imagine that any other person of Mr. Flood's eminence would spare me so much attention. It is a reflection of the nobility of his character and I wish to pay tribute to that. I only hope it does not redound to his disadvantage.

Should it do so, however, I call upon you to do everything you can to assist him. He would richly deserve any kindness you could render him, since there may come a time when he is not the best judge of his own interests.

Respectfully yours,

Derek Oswin

"You assured me he wouldn't write again, dear boy," said Melvyn as I folded the letter and slid it into my pocket. "Is it to become a regular event?"

"No. Definitely not."

"First he questions Melvyn's direction," said Leo. "Now your judgement, Toby. A bit bloody presumptuous, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid he is, yes. But you've heard the last of him."

"Really?"

"You reserved a ticket for him last night, Toby," said Brian. "It wasn't taken up."

"I believe he's left town."

"Good riddance," mumbled Melvyn.

In some ways, I wanted to echo the sentiment. If Derek was in trouble, as I believed he was big trouble then it was of his own making. But I wasn't trying to get him out of it just in order to win Jenny back. I was also trying to help Derek for his own infuriating sake, as he in his oddly acute fashion seemed to understand. In the opinion of some, the time has already come when I'm not the best judge of my own interests. And in the opinion of others, I never have been. But, as it happens, I'm the only judge who counts.

Not as far as the future of Lodger in the Throat is concerned, though.

That's down to Leo S. Gauntlett.

"I hope I haven't had a wasted journey," he grumbled, spearing a cherry tomato.

"Don't worry, Leo," I said, dredging up some bravado and beaming at my companions like the versatile actor I am. "I'll ensure you go back to London with a spring in your step and a song in your heart."

Leo regarded me acidly for a moment, then said, "You're not going to try and turn it into a bloody musical, are you?"

Brian and I left Leo and Melvyn to their coffees (and brandy, in Melvyn's case) in order to be at the theatre by two o'clock. We were threading through the crowds of Christmas shoppers in North Street when Jenny rang me.

"I've spoken to Delia, Toby. She can meet us late afternoon. When will you be free?"

"We'll finish about five fifteen. I could be at Powis Villas by ... a quarter to six."

"All right. I'll be there when you arrive. It's number fifteen."

"I know. Fine. But look .. ." I edged into a doorway, waving Brian to go on ahead, which he did, though only far enough to put himself out of earshot. "Jenny, there's something that's bound to crop up when I speak to Delia and I'm not sure if you know .. . about it."

"Oh yes. What's that?"

"Roger's mother. Ann Colborn."

"Yes?"

"She killed herself, Jenny. She and Delia were pretty close, apparently. I... well, I didn't want... to spring it on you."

There was the briefest of delays before Jenny responded, but it was a delay that told a tale of its own. "Of course I know about Roger's mother, Toby. It's not a secret."

"Good." I've just done you a big favour, Jenny, I thought to myself.

Do you realize that? You can clear this up with Delia before I arrive now. Thanks to me. "I just .. . wanted to check."

"Well, now you have."

"Yeah, OK. See you later."

I caught up with Brian and explained to him that I'd have to leave the theatre straight after the show. There'd be no time for a debriefing session with' Leo and Melvyn. He was clearly put out by this, since they wouldn't be staying for the evening performance, but, as I said to him, "Leo will decide what's best for business, Brian, you know that.

With or without encouragement from me."

I was glad to reach the haven of my dressing room and relieved, in some ways, to be about to go on stage. The adrenalin doesn't course through my system during live performances the way it used to, but I was confident there'd be enough of it pumping around to put the tangled complexities of my involvement with the Colborn and Oswin families past and present out of my mind for a couple of hours.

I changed into my costume, applied a little make-up and sat quietly, trying to will myself into the thoughts as well as the persona of James Elliott. The quarter-hour was called, then the five minutes. And then my mobile, which normally I'd have switched off, trilled into life. In the interests of my preparation routine, I should have ignored it.

Naturally, I didn't.

"Yes?"

Tan Maple here, Toby. We need to meet."

"I'm due on stage in a few minutes."

"Things have taken ... an unexpected turn."

"This will have to wait, Ian."

"It can't."

"But it has to."

"When can we meet? It's got to be this afternoon."

"All right. Come to the theatre an hour from now. Use the stage door.

I'll leave word you're to be shown to my dressing room. We'll talk during the interval."

"Understood."

He rang off and I headed for the door.

My mind lost all focus during the first act. That's not as bad as it sounds. Sometimes I'm at my best when I just surrender control and let it happen. The down side is that I'm in no position to analyse such a performance. It is what it is, good or bad. The rest of the cast were probably on their mettle,

knowing Leo and Melvyn were in the audience, but how they thought it went, or more importantly how they thought Leo thought it went, I have no idea.

Ian Maple was waiting in my dressing room, as agreed. He looked sombre, but, surprisingly, more relaxed than last night. He remained where he was on the couch when I entered. On the floor at his feet was a long, narrow object wrapped in a carrier bag bearing the name Dockerills, an ironmongery shop in Church Street I'd passed several times.

"Thanks for telling me you'd already dropped in on my wife when we spoke this morning," I said by way of an opener, turning the dressing-table chair round and sitting down to face him.

"You've seen her?"

"Yes."

"Ah." He rubbed his unshaven chin. "I didn't know you were planning to."

"I wasn't."

"But I was. I told you that."

"All right. Let's not waste time." It was true to say we couldn't afford to. And recriminations were clearly not going to make any impression on Ian. He meant business. "What's happened since? Have you met Colborn?"

"Not exactly. I've seen him."

"Seen as in "observed"?"

"As in "followed". I hired a car and drove out to Wickhurst. Spotted Colborn leaving in his Porsche as I was cruising towards the entrance, so I just fell in behind and let him take me where he was going."

"And where was that?"

"Car park up on Devil's Dyke. Where a bloke was waiting for him in a Ford Transit. A big bloke. Fucking huge."

"Denis's man mountain."

"That's what I figured. Colborn pulled in next to the van. They talked for a few minutes. Colborn handed him an envelope. Then they went their separate ways. I followed man mountain."

"Are you sure they didn't spot you?"

"It's a nice day. There were quite a few cars up on the Dyke.

Dog-walkers and such. I blended in. I'm good at doing that."

"OK. So, where did man mountain take you?"

"Fishersgate. Part of the sprawl between here and Worthing. A mix of housing and factories. There's a small, down-at-heel industrial estate next to Fishersgate railway station. He drove in there and went into one of the units. There was no-one waiting for him that I saw. Unless they stayed inside, of course. The main shutter-door was down. He let himself in by a wicket-door. Came out about ten minutes later and drove away. I kept following. He headed into the centre of Brighton.

Stowed the van in a lock-up garage in Little Western Street, then took off on foot. By the time I'd parked the car, I'd lost him. So, I went back to Fishersgate and took a closer look at the warehouse he'd gone into. No signs of life. No trace of ownership. Bloke in the welding outfit next door knew zilch."

"What do you reckon, then?"

"I reckon it's where they're holding Oswin."

"Based on what?"

"Based on man mountain going there to check on something after a confab with Colborn. And it's a guess I mean to back up."

"How?"

"We're going in tonight." He toed open the bag on the floor to reveal the jaws of a stout pair of bolt-cutters. "These'll get us through the perimeter fence and the padlock on the wicket-door."

"You're serious?"

"The best way to nail Colborn is to spring Oswin. There's no sense in holding off. But.. ."

"What?"

"I'll need you to watch my back and, maybe more importantly, explain to Oswin that I'm one of the good guys."

"This sounds risky."

"Of course it's risky. What did you expect? A stroll on the beach?"

"It's just... I'm an actor for God's sake. I'd be a liability."

"I can't do it on my own. And there's no-one else I can ask to help.

Now .. . are you in or out?" He stared at me levelly, defying me to pass up the chance I undeniably craved to pin something on Roger Colborn. Nor was that the only consideration, as Ian was well aware.

"Delaying won't help Oswin, you know. The longer someone like him is in the hands of man mountain's kind, the worse it'll be for him, believe me."

"I do believe you."

"Well, then?"

"All right. Let's do it."

"I'll pick you up from the bottom of Madeira Place at midnight. OK?"

I nodded. "OK." There really was, it seemed, nothing else for it.

The second act sped past, my mind auto piloting me through to the close. The applause sounded less than wholeheartedly enthusiastic, but midweek matinees attract an undemonstrative lot. In a fragmentary conversation afterwards, Jocasta struck a hopeful note. "I think we've given Leo something to think about."

Well, she might have been right. But, even if she was, it was nothing like as much as I had to think about. Two performances of Lodger in the Throat and a spot of breaking and entering constituted a distinctly challenging workload.

"If I were you," I said to my reflection in the dressing-room mirror as I changed out of my James Elliott kit, "I wouldn't do it."

Night had fallen by the time I left the theatre. Gift-laden shoppers were trailing along North Street. The air was cold and the spirit Christmassy, as a gust of piped "Jingle Bells' from a shop near the stage door forcibly reminded me. I

hurried along Church Street past the fuming crawl of traffic and cut across Dyke Road to Clifton Terrace, where a chill, quiet serenity prevailed, then round the corner into Powis Villas, a sloping street of semi-detached residences sporting stylish verandahs and expensive cars in the driveways.

Jenny answered the door at number 15 and showed me into a high-windowed drawing room furnished and decorated with tasteful restraint. A log fire blazed invitingly beneath a gilt-framed oil, the subject of which I instantly recognized as Wickhurst Manor.

Delia Sheringham rose from a fireside chair to greet me. Tall, slim and fine-boned, dressed plainly but elegantly, she was grey-haired yet younger in appearance than her probable age had prepared me for. Her eyes were a softer, more forget-me-not shade of blue than her brother's and nephew's. Her smile was softer too, her voice altogether gentler.