Offstage in Nuala Read online

‘If you had, you’d know what I mean by a pea souper. A filthy mix of soot and fog that makes you choke, even if you have lungs of iron. When you have sponges like mine, it will eventually kill you.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Mr Danforth? To the best of your knowledge, had he enemies?’

  Morville shook his head. ‘Alexander was the most charming of men. I’ve never come across anyone who didn’t like him.’

  ‘Were you aware of any money troubles he might have had?’

  ‘Money troubles? Not that I know of. If Alexander was in debt, he kept it to himself, although I doubt the company made him rich. Don’t misunderstand me, we’ve lived well and Alexander was always generous but I suspect he had more style than substance.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Paul Mayne?’ de Silva asked.

  ‘Ah, our young Lothario. Kathleen Danforth likes to amuse herself with him but he’s fundamentally harmless. The only person Mayne really loves is himself.’

  ‘And you don’t think her husband objected?’

  ‘Actors are different, Inspector. A little judicious infidelity goes with the bohemian life. I’m sure Alexander always knew that Kathleen would send Mayne packing if he asked her to.’

  De Silva frowned. This chimed with Bert Raikes’ views, but he found such a casual attitude to marriage hard to comprehend. Was the fact that you spent your working hours pretending to be someone else really an excuse?

  ‘What’s your general opinion of Mrs Danforth?’

  Morville pondered for a moment before answering. De Silva had already marked him down as a quiet but shrewd observer. ‘You need to take care if you want to stay on the right side of her. She’s temperamental and capricious and takes great offence if anyone dares to puncture the aura of youth and beauty she likes to project. Take this business with Paul Mayne for example. She needs to know she can still attract a much younger man. She’s also difficult to work for. A lot of maids have come and gone over the years.’

  ‘What about Olive Reilly? Has she been with her long?’

  ‘About a year. She joined us in Calcutta. She comes from an army family and she’d been living there looking after her widowed mother who’d been an invalid for years. When the mother died, naturally the army pension died with her, and Olive needed a job. I think she may fare better with Kathleen than most of her predecessors, she’s very capable and seems a tough nut.’

  ‘But in spite of everything, do you believe that Mrs Danforth’s prime loyalty was always to her husband?’

  ‘Absolutely, and his to her, even though they’d both had, shall we say, other interests from time to time.’ He rested his elbows on the table and pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘You’re not convinced, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s too early to reach any conclusions, sir, but your colleague, Mr Sheridan, takes a different view of Paul Mayne.’

  Morville sighed. ‘Inspector, you need to understand that Frank Sheridan dislikes Paul Mayne intensely. Whereas the rest of us understand that if you don’t want trouble, you have to be careful around Sheridan and leave him alone when he doesn’t want to talk, Mayne taunts him. I know what Sheridan’s been saying but the idea that Mayne is responsible for the outrage, with or without Kathleen’s help, is preposterous. Mayne could no more manage the company on his own than fly, and he knows it. Sheridan’s just a tricky customer. He seems to feel life hasn’t treated him as it should and that makes him bitter.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Bert Raikes, who knows more about him than I do, once told me he came from a wealthy family, but he was the black sheep. Before the war, he had a variety of jobs, I believe. Playing piano in a nightclub and dabbling in antiques among them.’

  ‘Has there ever been anything between him and Mrs Danforth?’

  Morville threw back his head and laughed. ‘Sheridan and Kathleen? He’d be far too complicated for her. Anyway, as I said, she likes her men younger. No, Frank has never had much luck with the ladies. Don’t misunderstand me, I doubt there’s anything of the other about him, if you know what I mean. I think he’s just always been plain scared of anything in a skirt.’

  He scratched his chin with a neatly clipped fingernail. ‘Actually, there was a girl I think Sheridan might have been sweet on way back. At least, he was a bit more sociable than usual if she was around, not that that’s saying much. But, if he was, it didn’t come to anything. She was far keener on Alexander, like they all are. Women have always stuck to him like flies to paper. Apparently, she and Alexander had known each other from before the war and she joined the company about the same time as Sheridan. Now what was her name? Polly… Polly Devlin. That was it. She was very pretty – rather in the same style as our young Miss Watson, but the similarity’s only skin deep. Emerald’s a straightforward girl. Polly Devlin was anything but. Moody with a wild streak would describe her better. I always thought she was neurotic. Things cooled off between her and Alexander pretty quickly and after that, she left the company. Probably just as well really.’

  De Silva rotated his pen between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. He was beginning to despair of learning anything that would be useful in this investigation.

  ‘Poor old Bert,’ Morville went on. ‘You may already know something of his history. He came back from the war to find his wife had left him and taken their kiddie too. The company’s his life and God only knows what will happen to it with Alexander gone. Bert’s the last person who would want him dead.’

  Morville removed his elbows from the table and leant back in his chair. ‘So, Inspector, if you were hoping I’d be able to give you any clues about who killed him, I’m afraid I must disappoint you, because I haven’t the glimmer of an idea.’

  De Silva shifted in his seat. The hotel would do well to consider purchasing more comfortable chairs.

  ‘Thank you for your help all the same, Mr Morville,’ he said civilly. ‘Just one more thing.’ He picked up the bag that still lay on the table and took out the scissors. ‘Do you have any idea who these belong to?’

  ‘I presume they’re the ones that killed poor Alexander.’

  ‘Yes, although their ownership isn’t necessarily proof of guilt. They could have been stolen.’

  Morville shrugged. ‘Very true, but anyway I can’t help you with that either.’

  ‘What will you do now the company has lost its leader?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I suppose it’s best to wait for the dust to settle then see who’s interested in carrying on. We’d need to find a new actor, possibly two, to fill Alexander’s shoes, but we have plenty of bookings lined up. I’ve no desire to return to England. I’ve been gone too long.’

  He half rose from his seat. ‘If you have no further questions, Inspector?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Shall I ask one of the others to come in?’

  De Silva nodded. ‘Please.’

  The door closed behind Morville and a few minutes passed before de Silva heard footsteps in the corridor. They were loud and brisk as if their owner was impatient. The door handle jerked down and, glowering, Paul Mayne made his entrance. His thick, coppery hair was untidy and his startling blue eyes flashed a challenge. Although he was probably in his late twenties, he gave the impression of a truculent schoolboy called to the headmaster’s office.

  De Silva stood up. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Mayne, please take a seat.’

  Mayne slumped into a chair. De Silva thought for a moment that it might collapse under the young man’s tall, broad frame. ‘I know what people are saying,’ Mayne snarled.

  ‘What would that be, sir?’

  ‘That I killed Alexander Danforth.’

  ‘And who are these people?’

  ‘Sheridan. And I’d put money on it that it won’t be long before he infects the rest of them.’

  ‘And what have you to say?’

  Mayne shifted in his chair, jolting the table. De Silva’s pen rolled away and he
caught it just before it went over the edge. Mayne scowled. ‘The man’s a maniac.’

  ‘Putting the question of Mr Sheridan’s state of mind aside, why would he single you out?’

  ‘Because he dislikes me. Has done from the first and he’s been even more difficult to get on with of late.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘For some obscure reason, Danforth had a soft spot for the malevolent crab. If it’d been up to anyone else, he would have been given his marching orders long ago.’

  ‘I understand that Mr Sheridan thought very highly of Mr Danforth in return. Perhaps your relations with his wife coloured his view of you?’

  Mayne flushed. ‘Danforth only had himself to blame.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He humiliated her. A woman like Kathleen won’t put up with that for long. Emerald Watson was the latest conquest. The latest of many. I hoped it would at last convince Kathleen to leave him and I think she was on the verge of agreeing, but now…’

  This wasn’t the story de Silva had heard from Bert Raikes or Michael Morville. He wondered what the truth was.

  ‘She’s just called me to say it’s over between us,’ Mayne continued bitterly. ‘Something about respect for his memory.’

  De Silva studied the young man’s baffled expression. Kathleen Danforth’s reaction certainly didn’t seem that of a woman who had inveigled her lover into killing her husband. Either the two of them played a clever game and Mayne was lying, or, now that she was free, she wanted rid of him before he demanded more of her than the amusement of a romantic intrigue.

  If Mayne had just been a toy, or a stick with which to goad Kathleen’s husband, de Silva felt quite sorry for him. Unless he was putting on a very good act – and de Silva remembered he had been fairly wooden as Horatio in Hamlet – he was more likely to be a naïve, rather vain young man haplessly caught between two charming and unconventional people than a murderer.

  As the sun moved westwards and ceased to warm the small room, he put a few more questions to Mayne but it was not with any hope of a great revelation. He claimed he had never seen the scissors before and de Silva rapidly formed the view that Morville and Raikes were right. Mayne didn’t have much going for him except his good looks.

  De Silva’s thoughts drifted. He wondered how much longer Archie Clutterbuck would insist that Kathleen Danforth mustn’t be troubled and how necessary his delicacy was. She was the only person, apart from her maid perhaps, who would have been able to go to her husband’s dressing room without attracting attention. Her reaction to questioning might be the key that unlocked the mystery.

  He came back to reality to find Paul Mayne fidgeting in his chair, watching him with a confused expression. De Silva blinked. ‘My apologies, Mr Mayne. I had very little sleep last night. I think that will be all for now. I won’t detain you any longer. Would you ask Mr Crichton to come in, please?’

  In contrast to Michael Morville, Charles Crichton reminded de Silva of Dickens’ Mr Pickwick. The robes of the King of Denmark had concealed a burly chest and fleshy thighs that were rendered all too apparent by modern dress. For a man who was probably in his mid-fifties, his face was surprisingly cherubic with plump cheeks and moist pink lips. He seemed more subdued than he had on the night of the murder; de Silva wondered why. Was it that the cold light of day had brought him to the realisation that his livelihood was now in doubt or was there something more to it?

  In response to de Silva’s invitation, Crichton sat down, the chair protesting faintly under his weight. De Silva noticed a strong aroma of whisky and remembered he had observed it the previous evening too. He turned to a fresh page in his notebook.

  ‘I understand from your remarks last night that you had a high opinion of Alexander Danforth, sir. To the best of your knowledge, was there anyone in the company who didn’t share that opinion?’

  Crichton looked startled. ‘Everyone admired him, Inspector. I can’t imagine why you’re asking.’

  ‘Even Paul Mayne?’

  ‘I meant everyone whose opinion was worth having.’

  ‘And you don’t number Mayne among them?’

  ‘No. Mayne’s a spoilt fool with an over-inflated idea of his own talent. It always surprised me that Danforth kept him on. I imagine Kathleen had a lot to do with that.’

  ‘Do you think there was something between them?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Have you been with the company long?’

  ‘About ten years.’

  ‘Then you knew Alexander Danforth pretty well?’

  Crichton took a deep breath and for a moment de Silva was afraid he was about to be treated to another display of his thespian talents, but the broad chest deflated and de Silva realised that it was more likely that Crichton was attempting to master his emotions. Perhaps last night’s more melodramatic personality corresponded with the amount the man had drunk.

  Crichton looked away. ‘I hope he counted me as a friend,’ he said quietly. ‘I certainly had a great regard for him.’

  ‘What did you do before you joined the company, Mr Crichton?’

  ‘I’ve always been an actor.’ He waved a hand in an expansive gesture. ‘As they say, acting is in my blood. I’ve shared a stage with some of the best in the business.’

  De Silva remembered the menace the man had exuded in the role of King Claudius and had little difficulty believing it. Might he be using his acting skills to cover up something sinister?

  ‘And what persuaded you to leave England?’

  A wary look came into Crichton’s eyes and he hesitated. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Inspector,’ he said at last. ‘My career was in danger of stalling – fashions change, you know. I was at the end of a long run in the West End and nothing was coming up except a few auditions for parts I wasn’t confident I’d win. Money was getting tight, then I happened to meet Alexander and we hit it off.’

  Another instance of the kindness of the man.

  The sight of the scissors produced a shudder from Crichton but his vehement denial that he knew who owned them seemed genuine. De Silva asked a few more questions but learnt nothing useful.

  When Crichton had gone, he closed his eyes and massaged the lids with his fingertips. His shoulders and neck ached. Not a very auspicious start; getting to the bottom of this wasn’t going to be easy.

  He went to see the hotel manager and asked where the company’s bus was parked. Taken to a large shed behind the hotel, fortunately, he found the vehicle unlocked. He spent some time on his search but it revealed nothing of interest. He hoped he wouldn’t have cause to regret the delay.

  When he had thanked the manager for his help, he returned to the police station. A message from Archie Clutterbuck awaited him, telling him that on no account was he to speak with Kathleen Danforth or Emerald Watson until further notice.

  Jane was out for the evening at one of Florence Clutterbuck’s soirées so he wasn’t in any particular hurry to go home. Instead, he settled down at his desk and wrote up the notes he had made that afternoon, embellishing them with his thoughts. When he reached the end, he frowned. He wasn’t very satisfied with the result but there was nothing more to be done tonight. Tucking the pages in one of his desk drawers, he locked it and pocketed the key.

  Dusk approached swiftly as he drove home. By the time he arrived, it was dark. Lights flared in the bungalow’s windows, but he delayed going inside for a while to take a turn around the garden.

  The moon hung low on the horizon; liquorice shadows dappled the grass. Here and there in the flowerbeds, gleams of silver highlighted stems and leaves. He stopped beside his cherished roses. Next month, it would be time to prune them. He always liked to see the plants trimmed and sheared of last season’s crisped and mottled leaves. It heralded the time when they would bloom again in all their crimson, pink, and primrose glory.

  The scent of hibiscus wafted towards him as he reached the trellised archway that divided the flower garden from his vegetable plot. Beyond it
, shining trails meandered across the path. His eyes followed them to a bed of cabbage stumps where a dozen or so slugs and snails were enjoying a leisurely feast. Sluggish: the word settled in his mind like an overly rich meal on a sweltering day. Sluggish defined exactly how he felt. It was never a good thing when the way ahead was strewn with obstacles. He wondered again how long he would have to wait before he was able to interview Kathleen Danforth. Surely Archie Clutterbuck must agree to it soon?

  His chin jutted and he took a deep breath. There was no use getting frustrated. He must do something to distract himself. Going over to the nearby shed, he found a tin bucket and some old gloves. Jane would tell him off for doing a job the gardeners were supposed to carry out but some garden chores were therapeutic.

  One by one, he collected the slugs and snails and dropped them in the bucket then crossed the garden and deposited them carefully in a patch of uncultivated ground. Some people said you should kill them with salt but the idea offended his Buddhist principles. Didn’t snails and slugs have as much right to live as anything else? He didn’t grudge it them provided they left his vegetables in peace.

  He remembered the words Jane had told him for groups of slugs and snails: a cornucopia of slugs and a walk of snails. English was a marvellously expressive language – parliaments of rooks, conspiracies of ravens, murders of crows.

  Murder: there it was again. There was no escape from his predicament.

  He took the bucket back to the shed, removed the gloves, and then wiped his hands on a piece of sacking that hung from a nail by the door. He would wash his hands properly in the house.

  The moon was higher now, hanging in the clear sky like a dented silver coin. He breathed in the cooling night air and thought of dinner. He wasn’t fond of eating alone – food tasted best in good company – but he had missed lunch and he was hungry. Perhaps after he had eaten, he would read some more of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

  Chapter 6

  He slept more soundly than he expected and woke refreshed, feeling less gloomy about the challenges that awaited him. Jane was already up and he found her in the dining room having breakfast.