Offstage in Nuala Read online

  ‘I suggest we begin with Sheridan, although he may not have much more to tell us.’

  Clutterbuck led the way down a corridor that took them to a pokey room that was new to de Silva. There was no furniture apart from a table and three straight-backed chairs, two of them ranged on one side of the table and the third opposite. A notepad and a blue china pot containing a few pens and pencils stood on the table top, alongside a small brass hand bell. Clutterbuck picked up the bell and rang it. A moment later, a servant appeared in the doorway. ‘You are ready to begin, sahib?’ the man enquired.

  ‘Yes. Ask Mr Sheridan to come in.’

  He selected a pen and laid it across the notepad. ‘You can do the talking, de Silva. For now, I simply want to observe. I’d like to get the measure of these fellows. I thought it might help to have the benefit of another pair of eyes. Gauge how they conduct themselves, and so forth. You can tell a lot about a man by watching him closely. Sometimes that’s more revealing than what’s actually said.’

  ‘Indeed it is, sir.’

  Clutterbuck sat down on one of the chairs facing away from the window. He gestured to de Silva to take the other.

  ‘Make sure the light falls on their faces and not ours,’ he remarked. ‘Old trick. Puts a man at a disadvantage if he can’t see his interlocutor too clearly.’

  De Silva felt a twinge of discomfort. Whatever Clutterbuck said about leaving the questioning to him, it was clear he had no real intention of taking a back seat.

  There was a knock at the door and the servant returned. ‘Mr Sheridan is here, sahib.’

  Frank Sheridan came into the room. He looked more composed than he had the previous evening and all traces of stage makeup had been wiped from his face. The eighteenth-century costume was replaced by khaki trousers and a soft-necked white shirt.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Sheridan,’ said Clutterbuck, indicating the vacant chair. ‘The inspector here has a few questions for you. Any light you can throw on this damnable business would be appreciated.’

  Sheridan glanced at him sharply as he sat down. ‘Light? How much of that do you need to work out who stood to gain from Alexander’s death?’

  ‘Inspector de Silva will ask the questions.’ Clutterbuck gave Sheridan a chilly stare. ‘I strongly advise you against jumping to any conclusions.’

  A flush darkened the actor’s cheeks but he didn’t make a riposte.

  ‘Carry on, Inspector,’ Clutterbuck said gruffly.

  His attitude grated on de Silva and it also puzzled him. It certainly contrasted unfavourably with his attitude to the ladies in the company. Sheridan was hardly likely to open up when confronted with hostility. He took a breath. ‘Mr Sheridan, I’d be grateful if you would go through yesterday’s events for me once more, starting with your last conversation with Alexander Danforth.’

  Sheridan looked as if he was tempted to reply with a dismissive remark but then thought better of it. ‘I was with Alexander in his dressing room from about three o’clock. I’m not sure exactly how long I spent with him but it was probably around an hour.’

  ‘Did he seem in good spirits?’

  ‘Of course. Alexander was the kind of man who was rarely anything else. He took difficulties in his stride.’

  ‘And were there any problems you needed to discuss?’

  ‘Nothing of importance. Bookings were good for the rest of our stay in Nuala and most of the arrangements were made for our next port of call. There were a few minor problems with scenery and a trunk with some of our costumes went missing on the journey from Colombo. I suggested I go to the railway station to see if it had turned up, but Alexander wasn’t worried. He knew Olive could always be relied on to find a way of plugging the gaps if necessary. She’s very skilled with her needle.’

  ‘Olive?’

  ‘Olive Reilly, Mrs Danforth’s maid.’

  ‘And was Bert Raikes with you?’

  ‘He came in to fix the lights. As I told you last night, Alexander was very particular about having a good light to do his stage makeup by.’

  ‘Would you say that when you left Mr Danforth, there was nothing out of the ordinary going on?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Inspector, and I fail to see where this is leading.’

  ‘Just making sure I have the facts straight, sir.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sheridan with a shrug.

  ‘And after you and Mr Raikes left the dressing room, where did you go?’

  ‘Straight to my dressing room. I wanted to run over my lines and compose myself before the rehearsal.’

  ‘Did you stay there until it was time to go to the green room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  All of that tallied with what had been said the previous night. De Silva tried a different tack. ‘How long have you known Mr Danforth?’

  ‘Twenty years. We were in the same regiment during the war; we fought together in France.’

  ‘Would you describe your relationship as a close one?’

  ‘In war, Inspector, you soon get to know your companions. Those you take to quickly become fast friends. Alexander Danforth was one of those.’

  ‘Then you knew him well?’

  ‘Haven’t I said so? In fact, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today. I owe him my life.’

  De Silva let the hostile tone pass. He saw how Sheridan’s hands clenched, turning the knuckles to the yellowish-white of a plucked fowl. ‘Were you aware of anything unusual in his behaviour recently?’

  Sheridan gave a harsh laugh. ‘Unusual? I think Alexander was the most unusual man I’ve ever known. Shrewd, mercurial, highly talented. Gifted with the soul of a poet, and a silver tongue.’

  In spite of what seemed a wilful misunderstanding, de Silva forced himself to be patient. Sheridan was a difficult man to question but he must persist. ‘I meant did he behave in a way that wasn’t characteristic?’

  There was a tap at the door. Clutterbuck called out and a servant entered. ‘The government agent is on the telephone for you, sahib.’

  Clutterbuck pushed back his chair and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’ He turned to de Silva. ‘I expect William Petrie wants an update. I’ll try and keep it short.’

  The door closed behind him. Sheridan hesitated briefly then leant forward. ‘If you’d like to know who wanted Alexander dead, Inspector, the answer is simple: his wife and her lover, Paul Mayne. I’d advise you to take a very good look at them.’

  De Silva frowned. ‘If you’re accusing them of murder, Mr Sheridan, that’s a very serious allegation. Do you have anything to support it?’

  ‘Oh, I have no actual proof, but who else stood to gain? It’s been obvious for a long time that Mayne wants to take over the company. He was always jealous of Alexander. Alone, she would never have done anything, but she’s under Mayne’s spell.’

  This was an interesting development. It was the first time it had been suggested that there was anything between Mayne and Kathleen Danforth. Maybe it was true. He thought of his meeting with Danforth and Emerald Watson. They had seemed very at home in each other’s company. Had the Danforths’ marriage been in trouble?

  All the same, he reminded himself, motive wasn’t everything; there must also be opportunity. Mayne’s dressing room was at the opposite end of the theatre and, according to the caretaker, it was impossible to reach Danforth’s from there without being seen. Kathleen Danforth however…

  He heard footsteps in the corridor and braced himself for the reappearance of Archie Clutterbuck’s bulky figure, but instead the same servant as before entered. ‘The sahib is unable to come back today,’ said the man. ‘He says there is no need for you to wait, and arrangements have been made for the gentlemen to be driven back to their hotel.’

  De Silva frowned. It wasn’t particularly surprising that Petrie wanted an update, yet why did it have to disrupt the investigation? Briefly, he wondered if there was something else going on, but the thought didn’t detain him for long. He was more bo
thered about the awkward situation Clutterbuck’s high-handed manner put him in. If he continued the questioning, he would have to explain himself later. On the other hand, compliance made him look like a lackey. He hovered between the choices then, seeing the wry expression on Sheridan’s face, made a swift decision.

  ‘Tell them I’ll follow them there.’

  It should also provide an opportunity to search the bus.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Please come in and take a seat, Mr Raikes.’

  The Nuala Hotel was a modest establishment, not nearly as grand as the Crown where Kathleen Danforth and Emerald Watson were staying, but the owner had been obliging and found de Silva a spare room where he could interview the remaining members of the company without attracting attention. It looked as if it hadn’t been used for a while. The walls were drab and the wooden floor dusty, but it served the purpose.

  A small table and two chairs stood in a corner to one side of the single window. Bert Raikes sat down opposite de Silva and pulled a green and gold tin of tobacco from his pocket. ‘Mind if I smoke, Inspector?’

  De Silva shook his head and waited while Raikes extracted a cigarette paper from a cloth pouch, added a few pinches of tobacco from the tin and proceeded to make his roll-up. From his leathery, nicotine-stained fingers, de Silva guessed it was one of many.

  He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, of middling height with broad shoulders and a bull neck. His grizzled hair was cut very close to his skull and his pale-blue eyes were set in a face that had a lived-in air. He also had what appeared to be recently sustained grazes on his hands. He finished his task, lit up and took the first puff. ‘Terrible business the major going like that,’ he said when he had exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘I still think of him as the major. I was his batman in the war. Old habits die hard.’

  ‘How would you describe him?’

  ‘A gentleman. The best officer you could wish to serve under. You’d have trouble finding anyone with a bad word to say about him. I know Frank Sheridan from those days too. He was a captain in the same battalion. Never got on with him all that well – he was difficult to fathom, everybody thought so. He was devoted to the major though. Not surprising, he would have been a goner if the major hadn’t saved him from a Jerry sniper’s bullet, but they couldn’t be more different.’

  He took another puff of the roll-up. ‘The major was the life and soul of every party. Sheridan’s a loner.’

  ‘Are you aware of anyone who might have borne Mr Danforth a grudge?’

  Raikes shook his head. ‘As I say, everyone admired him.’

  ‘Tell me more about Frank Sheridan. Did he join the company straight after the war?’

  ‘Pretty much so. I heard he went to pieces for a while, then the major threw him a lifeline. I’m not sure exactly when it was though. I joined the company a few months later on.’

  In other words, Sheridan had a powerful reason to be grateful to Alexander Danforth. If it was true that Paul Mayne and Kathleen Danforth were having an affair, Sheridan’s loyalty to Danforth might influence his claim that they were responsible for his murder.

  ‘What do you know about Mrs Danforth’s relationship with her husband?’

  Raikes raised an eyebrow. ‘You know about her, do you? I suppose Sheridan told you. She and that bastard Mayne have been carrying on for months. He only got the job because she took a fancy to him and persuaded the major to hire him, but it doesn’t mean anything. The major and she had an arrangement.’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Open marriage, she calls it. Bloody licence to act like a tart in my book, but there’s women for you. If the major didn’t object, who was I to? Anyway, he had his own fun.’ He grinned. ‘That pretty little Miss Watson’s no better than she should be, and she wasn’t the first to catch his eye.’

  De Silva couldn’t help feeling somewhat shocked. If Raikes had his facts straight, Alexander Danforth had truly been having an affair with a woman young enough to be his daughter.

  ‘Are you a married man, Mr Raikes?’

  Raikes’ face darkened. ‘Was. Ran off while I was away fighting in France, didn’t she. Only found out after I was demobbed.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Long time ago. Water under the bridge.’

  Still, unsurprising that he had a jaundiced view of the female sex, thought de Silva.

  ‘The grazes on your hands, Mr Raikes. How did you come by them?’

  Raikes scratched irritably at a red patch. ‘Working on some new scenery. It’s an occupational hazard. The only wood I can get in the market up here is sub-standard. It splinters easily.’

  De Silva reached down and pulled the bag containing the scissors out of his holdall. There was always a chance that a murderer confronted with the fatal weapon might let his or her guard slip. Raikes, however, looked unmoved. De Silva guessed that his war service had left him less susceptible than most people.

  ‘Do you recognise these, Mr Raikes?’

  Raikes didn’t answer at first, then, to de Silva’s surprise, he saw that the man’s eyes had filled with tears. Raikes sniffed and knuckled them away, then nodded. ‘And I’d like to get my hands on the bastard who used them,’ he muttered.

  ‘Do you have any idea at all who that might be?’

  Raikes leant forward, the tension in his body palpable. De Silva watched him, refraining from pressing for an answer. He wondered if the man would come out with the same accusation that Frank Sheridan had, but at last he shook his head. ‘If I did, you’d be the first to know, but—’

  His shoulders slumped and, suddenly, he looked ten years older. ‘I can’t understand it. It’s hard to believe it was anyone in the company. Mayne’s too cocksure for his own good but he’s not got the guts.’ He raised a disparaging eyebrow. ‘When he first joined, he used to go green at the first drop of stage blood. Nah, he wouldn’t do it. Sheridan was devoted to the major. Morville’s a harmless bloke and Crichton’s all talk. As for her…’

  ‘Mrs Danforth?’

  Raikes nodded. ‘I can’t believe she’d do it. Even if they did both stray sometimes, she and the major were fond of each other. Never mind what anyone tells you different. No, whoever killed him was from outside.’

  De Silva sighed. In view of what the caretaker had told him, that seemed unlikely, but perhaps he needed to be more circumspect about taking the man’s word at face value. That was something he must deal with later. For the present, he would continue with his interviews. Not everyone might share Raikes’ conviction.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Raikes. If I have any more questions, I’ll let you know. Would you ask Mr Morville to come and see me now, please?’

  Gruffly, Raikes mumbled his assent. As he stood up, the sunshine filtering through the dusty window fell on his face. De Silva saw that, once more, his eyes were wet.

  **

  It took de Silva a moment to recognise that Morville was the actor who had played Ophelia’s father, Polonius. He had obviously worn a wig on stage for instead of having white hair, he was nearly bald with mild, grey eyes. De Silva guessed that he was in his forties, about the same age as Frank Sheridan, but Morville looked more worn down, his gangly figure encased in beige trousers and a drab-green jacket, its too-short sleeves revealing bony wrists. He exuded a weary, mournful air that made it hard to credit he had the energy to murder anyone.

  ‘I’d like to help, Inspector,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t much to tell you. I was in my dressing room all afternoon, going over my lines and having a nap. I must admit to finding the heat in your country very overpowering. I went to the green room a little before six o’clock and I had no idea anything was wrong until Frank Sheridan came in.’

  ‘Were you the last person to arrive in the green room?’

  ‘Yes, the others were already assembled.’

  ‘How did Mr Sheridan look when he raised the alarm?’

  ‘Strange, even for him. He looked completely blank. It must have bee
n the shock. But then Raikes asked him if he’d seen a ghost. Joking, of course, and that fired him up. If I hadn’t grabbed his arm. I think he would have decked the poor fellow.’

  ‘What about his clothes and hands? Was there any blood on them?’

  ‘No. He said he hadn’t touched the body. Raikes took charge after that and kept us all at a distance. He knew enough not to disturb the scene of a crime.’

  De Silva made a note. ‘How well did you know Mr Danforth?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like to think we were good friends, although I hadn’t known him for as long as Sheridan or Raikes had.’

  ‘I understand they served together in the war.’

  Morville looked away. ‘The army’s medical board turned me down. I had TB when I was a boy, so I spent the war pushing papers.’

  ‘Pushing papers?’

  ‘Deskwork. Nothing of any interest or importance.’

  ‘How did you come to join the company?’

  ‘I’d always had a yen to go on the stage as a career. I’d done plenty of amateur dramatics.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Believe it or not, Inspector, I was considered quite good-looking when I was a young man. I haven’t always played dodderers.’

  Briefly, de Silva tried to imagine Morville as a young man. Yes, the high cheekbones and sad eyes, combined with what must have been slenderness in his youth, might well have made him a romantic figure. One of those poets who wandered lonely as a cloud over the green fields of England. He smiled. ‘I’m sure you haven’t, sir.’

  ‘Anyway, not long after the war, I saw in The Times that applications were invited for a theatre group Alexander was setting up. I auditioned and was accepted and I haven’t regretted it since, especially later on when Alexander decided to tour in warmer climes. The idea of seeing faraway places was very enticing and I thought the heat would be beneficial for my lungs too. Have you ever been to England, Inspector?’

  De Silva shook his head.