Читать книгу Clouds among the Stars - Victoria Clayton - Страница 10

‘I shall call him Byron,’ I said. ‘After the poet.’

‘He doesn’t look a bit like a nasty old poet.’ Cordelia was feeding Derek with glacé cherries, which he was gobbling greedily. ‘I wish Bron had given him to me. He’s such a sweet little snookums. I’d call him Honeypot.’

‘You wouldn’t!’ I was revolted. Derek blinked and panted and laid his chin gratefully on Cordelia’s knee, showing a regrettable lack of taste.

‘Why not? Better than calling him after a boring, wrinkly old man.’

‘Byron was only thirty-six when he died. He was stunningly attractive and women fell in love with him by the lorry-load, even though he had a club foot. Besides he was a first-class poet,’ I added, attempting to redress the trivial aspects of my argument.

‘A club foot? Now that is romantic,’ Cordelia became dreamy. ‘Like Richard the Third, do you mean?’ This was Cordelia’s favourite film and every time it came to the arty little cinema down the road she made me sit through practically every performance. Laurence Olivier’s improbable wig sent shivers of delight through her and she made noses like shoehorns out of Plasticine for all her dolls. Now she got up from her chair, brought one shoulder up to her ear and walked about the kitchen, limping. Derek – Byron, I should say – was driven into a frenzy by this performance, racing several times round the table, jumping up at Maria-Alba and knocking the whisk from her hand.

‘Uffa! Senti!’ she said, fetching a cloth to wipe zabaglione from the table, chairs and floor. ‘Le cose vanno di male in peggio!’

By which I understood her to mean that things were going from bad to worse. Derek was sick at her feet, the glacé cherries being conspicuous on their return. Maria-Alba flung me the cloth wordlessly.

After a lunch that was rich even by Maria-Alba’s standards – chiocciole with walnuts and mascarpone, braised guinea fowl, tomatoes stuffed with rice and the zabaglione – for Byron’s sake as well as our tightened waistbands, we dragged ourselves out for a walk. The only thing I knew about dogs was that they needed plentiful exercise. Also Derek was such a tiring dog indoors that by the time he had gnawed the legs of the furniture, fought the rugs, eaten the lock of Garrick’s hair and knocked over almost every vase of flowers in the house, we were quite prepared to brave the newspaper men. That is, Cordelia and I were. Ophelia had appeared briefly for lunch, dry-eyed but subdued. She had confined her remarks to unfavourable comment on Derek/Byron, who, it must be admitted, behaved quite badly. He insisted on lying under the table, snatching our napkins from our knees and trying to take off our shoes. When we put him outside the room he cried continuously with a high-pitched whine until we allowed him back in.

‘This was a very bad idea of Bron’s,’ Ophelia said, somewhat savagely as I tied the dining-room curtains into loose knots to discourage Byron from thrusting up his head inside them and pulling down the interlinings with his teeth.

‘I expect he’ll settle down soon,’ I said. ‘You must admit he’s terribly sweet.’ There was about Byron a floppy, panting appeal that I was beginning to find quite irresistible. His nature was affectionate to a fault.

‘I admit nothing of the kind,’ said Ophelia, as she wrested her shoes from Byron’s jaws and placed them with the entrée dishes on the sideboard.

Our walk was not particularly enjoyable. For one thing I was suffering from indigestion, having grossly overeaten to keep Maria-Alba happy. Also I had been obliged to jump up between each mouthful to rescue our goods and chattels from Derek. For another, the weather was damp and chilly, with water droplets condensing on one’s hair, face and hands. The reporters stuck to us like blowflies to a corpse as we wandered through the park, Byron pulling on the choke chain until his eyes were starting from his head.

‘You ought to let him have a good run, miss,’ said one of the reporters, wearying of my reply of ‘No comment’ to all his questions. ‘It’s cruel to keep them always on a leash.’

I was cut by this accusation and, against my better judgement, I unhooked his lead. Byron at once changed down, revved up and sped away into the mist. It was a good hour later when Cordelia and I and the two reporters who remained loyal to the search, sank down hoarse and exhausted on the bench beside the war memorial drinking trough. The fog was much thicker now and we could see barely ten yards in front of us. My hair clung wetly to my forehead and my shoes were ruined.

‘This is a rum do,’ said the nicest reporter, whose name was Stan. ‘Likely the little blighter’s halfway home by now. Where did you say you got him from?’

‘I didn’t. I’ve no idea where he lived before. Perhaps he’ll be run over before he gets there.’ Low spirits dipped past the point of what was tolerable at the dreadful idea of Derek – we had given up calling him Byron – smoothed extensively over the surface of Shooter’s Hill Road.

‘I’d better go back now,’ said Cordelia, looking dutiful. ‘I promised Maria-Alba I’d help her make the strozzapreti for supper.’ Though strozzapreti literally means priest-stranglers, it is nothing more homicidal than a kind of pasta. I suspected there was a favourite television programme about to come on. ‘Don’t get all mopy, Hat. He’s probably waiting for us on the doorstep. Whatever anyone else says, I think he’s very intelligent.’

During the last half-hour Derek’s reputation had been much sullied by the other reporter, whose name was Jay.

‘See if you can persuade Maria-Alba to cook something simple,’ I begged. ‘Sausages would be nice. I don’t know when we’ll be back from visiting Pa.’

‘I’d better come with you,’ Jay said to Cordelia, relief evident in his tone. ‘You’ll get lost in this fog.’

‘It’s just like that film with Doris Day, called Midnight Lace,’ said Cordelia. ‘It begins with her walking across a London park and it’s foggy and this voice says from behind a fountain – only you can’t see anyone – “Mrs Preston –” that was Doris Day’s name in the film, – “Mrs Preston! I’m going to kill you.” It’s a really spooky voice – sing-song Welsh – and Doris Day is terrified. Her husband’s incredibly swave and sexy, played by Rex Harrison …’ They were hidden from view by the drifting vapour long before I ceased to hear Cordelia’s voice describing the plot in fine detail.

‘Cheer up, young lady,’ said Stan to me. ‘Probably the little girl’s right and the dog’s gone home. I’ve got a dog meself – a Westie, cute as a button – and I shouldn’t like not knowing where she was. They’re part of the family, aren’t they? My Melanie – that’s my daughter, only six but she’s got me twisted round her little finger – she’d break her heart if Snowy got lost.’

He told me all about Melanie, how pretty and bright she was, and then about Annette, his wife, who had multiple sclerosis and had been forced to give up her job as a clerk in a solicitor’s office and was very depressed in consequence, and about their house in Purley Oaks that they were struggling to pay the mortgage on, and Annette’s mother who lived with them. Her name was Ivy, and Stan called her Ivy the Terrible because she was so disagreeable. I was sympathetic about all these difficulties and Stan said it was as good as a tonic to talk to someone who really understood.

In return I told him a little about my family. Despite the awfulness of my father’s arrest and wrongful imprisonment, I realised that our life sounded much more fun than Stan’s and I felt embarrassed by our comparative good fortune. Because he had been so honest with me I felt obliged to do a little unburdening myself. So I told him about Bron’s dormant acting career and Ophelia’s engagement, which looked unlikely now and Portia’s having gone off with a sinister-sounding man, and Stan was very kind and made all sorts of consoling and boosting remarks.

‘Tell you what,’ Stan shook his head and little starry drops of water fell on my knees, ‘it’s getting dark and I could do with a drop of sustenance. What say we finish me sandwiches leftover from lunch and then have one last holler for the hound?’

I was not at all hungry but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings as he’d been so decent, so I agreed it was a good plan. Stan undid the unappetisingly soggy parcel and a split second later Derek materialised at his knee. His coat was silvered all over with fog but he was quite unharmed. I was so pleased to see him I forgot to be angry about the wasted time spent searching. I snapped on the lead and begged Stan to give Derek my share of the fish-paste sandwiches as he had fixed the package with his large brown eyes and was drooling unbecomingly.

By the time we had walked back across the park, exulting in a shared sense of relief, Stan and I were the best of friends. Though he thought it wouldn’t come out because the light was bad, he took a photograph of Derek for his daughter because Melanie loved dogs and would be interested to hear how her father had spent the afternoon. He hoped it would cheer Annette up a little to hear that the dog had come at once in response to the sandwiches.

‘Laughter’s the best medicine, when all’s said and done,’ he said, with a wink.

As I was waving a fond farewell a black car drew up and Inspector Foy and Sergeant Tweeter got out. At once I felt guilty because I had been smiling at Stan and forgetting, for a moment, my father’s predicament. Actually, I think now that it is impossible to keep sorrow continually before one’s eyes, and almost the worst thing about unhappiness is constantly remembering it, so that you realise your grief a thousand times over with the devastation of a fresh shock each time.

Derek took a shine to the inspector at once and made lengthy smears over the immaculate mackintosh with his muddy paws. I apologised profusely but the inspector said it didn’t matter a bit. This confirmed my opinion that despite his calling as a fascist instrument of proletarian oppression he was a nice man.

‘Is your mother coming with us?’ he asked, attempting to wipe his coat with his handkerchief and making a worse mess.

‘I’m afraid not. She’s – having an operation.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He looked so concerned that I almost told him the truth. ‘What about your brother and sisters?’

‘Cordelia’s coming. Portia’s still away, Bron’s got a – business appointment and Ophelia, my eldest sister, isn’t well.’

Just as I said that the front door opened and Ophelia came down the front steps. Even by the light of the streetlamp, which was refracted into a halo by the excessive moisture in the air, she looked stunning. She was wearing a white wool coat, a diaphanous silver scarf and a black Juliet cap. The fairy-tale romance of her appearance was exaggerated by her golden hair, which was knotted loosely behind her head and tumbled down her shoulders in elegant waves, like the youngest of three princesses, who is always the most virtuous and kind-hearted. Ophelia shrank back from Derek’s overtures.

‘For God’s sake, don’t let that bloody animal near me.’ She ignored the inspector. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Peregrine Wolmscott. I can’t stand another minute in that depressing house of horrors. Woe, woe, woe! All those ghastly flower arrangements – nobody cheerful to talk to. As for Maria-Alba, she’s sinking so fast into depression, I think she’s going to have to go in for another sizzle.’ She meant the electroconvulsive therapy that Maria-Alba so hated and feared.

‘It’s awfully early for dinner.’ I looked at my watch. It was not yet six. ‘Do come with me and see Pa.’

‘I thought I’d go to a news cinema and cheer myself up watching the Libyans blasting one another to bits.’

‘I’d be grateful if you’d give me a few minutes of your time.’ Inspector Foy looked gravely at Ophelia and I longed to explain to him that she only talked like that because she was unhappy.

‘You are …?’ Ophelia turned her eyes towards him for the first time with her most crushing look of boredom and indifference, which she had spent years perfecting.

The inspector reacted only by the merest contraction of his eyebrows. ‘If you’ll just step inside, Miss Byng. It shouldn’t take long.’

‘As I just said, I’m going out.’ She turned to walk away but the inspector made a sign to Sergeant Tweeter, who placed his large bulk in her path.

‘Don’t let’s play games, Miss Byng.’ The inspector looked very calm. ‘My time is valuable. I want to speak to all the members of Mr Byng’s family. I can interview you at the police station if you prefer.’ He nodded towards the car and Sergeant Tweeter took a step forward and opened the door.

‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Ophelia gave a contemptuous laugh.

‘You’ll look less ridiculous if you come with me into the house of your own free will.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘The choice is yours.’

Something in the inspector’s face persuaded Ophelia, for once, to capitulate. She flounced up the steps to the front door and stalked in ahead of us. I went down to the kitchen. Maria-Alba had just finished making the strozzapreti.

‘Is there anything for Derek to eat?’ I asked. ‘I’m going to creep out to the police car. Probably he won’t whine if he’s got food. Where’s Cordelia?’

‘She watch the television. Sì, I give him the faraona from lunch and the bones of the coscetto d’abbachio we have for dinner.’

This was one of her specialities, a boned leg of lamb stuffed with onions, liver, sage and pearl barley, delicious but bloatingly rich. Evidently Cordelia had forgotten to give her my message. She opened the fridge door and Derek gave little shivering growls of anticipation. ‘Sausages!’ I heard Maria-Alba mutter. ‘Cos’altro! Dio ci scampi e liberi!’

I had collected Cordelia from the television in the coal-hole and my hand was on the front door when Derek gave voice to several ear-splitting bars of painfully high notes, like an amateur Queen of the Night. I could hear Ophelia’s voice in the drawing room, though not what she was saying. I heard her laugh scornfully. Cordelia and I sat in the car with Sergeant Tweeter and I tried not to worry. Five minutes later Inspector Foy ran down the steps and got into the front passenger seat. ‘All right, Sergeant.’ He sounded almost savage. ‘Let’s not dawdle. We haven’t got all night.’

Cordelia and I exchanged glances. It seemed that Ophelia had, after all, won the encounter. I could detect anger in the tilt of the inspector’s head. Even the bristles on his neck seemed to express a contained fury. No one said anything until we drew up outside a massive, red-brick Victorian gateway that was closed to the world by giant wooden doors. The inspector showed something to the uniformed man at the wicket, who looked carefully at each of our faces before he pressed a button that opened the huge gates and waved us through.

We stood in the brilliantly lit courtyard and, selfishly, I wished myself far, far away. Our household gods, Beauty and Truth, were conspicuous by their absence. Lights shone between bars from curtainless windows in high walls. They illumined nothing but dirt and barrenness. A black van, with its engine running, filled the air with sickening fumes. Not a trace of starlight could penetrate the polluted haze that composed the square of dripping sky above. Not a skeleton leaf nor a straggling weed softened the concrete paving blocks below. Several men in shirtsleeves were brushing a tide of water towards gratings in the centre. I found out later that there were several details of prisoners appointed to this task throughout the day. The slop buckets in the cells, built for one man and occupied by three, were emptied in the mornings only. Not unreasonably the prisoners were unwilling to be confined at close quarters with a pail overflowing with excrement so they threw the contents out of the window. Truth, also, was reluctant to put in an appearance in this breeding ground of despondency. It seemed obvious to me that if one were weak, stupid or wicked before, one would undoubtedly be weaker, more stupid and more wicked after spending any length of time here.

Inside, the shiny green paint of the corridors reflected the neon lighting with a glare that made me blink. There was a reek of disinfectant laced with urine and sweat that overlaid the smell of boiled greens. Every ten yards or so we stopped and the prison officer who was leading the way unlocked a gate in a grille that barred our path, then fastened it again behind us. I kept my eyes on the floor, which someone had washed with a dirty mop, leaving streaks of grime. I dreaded to see an eye glaring through one of the square peepholes that were in every door. I felt sick with horror at the prisoners’ plight and at the same time I was afraid of them. Surely those who are imprisoned can only feel violent hatred for those who are free? I was close to tears but anxious not to alarm Cordelia, who was walking ahead of me, lugging her cake in a plastic carrier. I had a ridiculous longing to hold the inspector’s hand but, thanks to Ophelia, he too was an enemy. Just as I thought this, he turned to look at me, said, ‘Are you all right?’ and winked.

That brief instance of kindness was exactly what I needed. Panic subsided and I felt, if not calm, at least able to control myself. I was thankful that the door to the interview room was not locked. The idea of my brilliant, princely father caged, was intensely hurtful; I did not want to see it.

He was standing by the window. It took a moment to realise that it was he. He was still wearing the borrowed clothes, and his hair was fastened into a ponytail. But more unfamiliar than this was his demeanour. His shoulders drooped forward and his hands hung loosely by his sides. There was none of the élan that characterised his bearing. His face was grey and puffy.

‘Pa, darling.’ Cordelia went towards him, her arms held wide. ‘You look just like Sydney Carton.’ Several times during the journey I had regretted allowing Cordelia to come, afraid that it was too harrowing an experience for a child. Now I saw that the theatricality of her nature was just what was needed. Except for the ponytail Pa did not look in the least like Sydney Carton, but it was a happy thought and his face brightened. Cordelia took his hand, assumed a frightened expression and a French accent. ‘Citizen Évremonde, will you let me ’old your ’and? I am but a poor, leetle creature and it will give me ze courage.’ Then she looked at him and did a dramatic double take. ‘Sacrebleu! Zoot, alors! Do you die for ’im?’

‘And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.’

‘Oh, you will let me ’old your ’and, oh brave, brave stranger?’

‘Hush! Yes, my poor child. To the last.’

‘Am I to keess you now? Is ze moment come?’

‘Yes. God bless you! Very soon we shall meet again in a better place than this. Go ahead of me. I shall follow swiftly.’

Sydney Carton took the little seamstress, alias Cordelia, in his arms and kissed her. Then she kneeled and extended her neck, her arms thrust out behind her with a professionalism acquired from the many films about Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey and Mary, Queen of Scots she had sobbed through at the Hippodrome, Blackheath.

My father kneeled in his turn and lifted his eyes to a vision of the future. ‘I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, prosperous and happy in that England which I shall see no more. I see her with a child upon her bosom that shall bear my name. I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see that child who bears my name, a man. My name is made illustrious there by the light of him. I see the blots I threw on it faded away.’ He closed his eyes and his face became radiant. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.’ He allowed his head to drop slowly forward.

I felt my throat tighten. I can’t ever read about Sydney Carton going to the guillotine without crying, and my father managed to get into his voice all the triumph and despair of that moment. He was, without doubt, truly a great actor. After he and Cordelia had embraced passionately I kissed his cheek more diffidently. I wished I was less inhibited. It wasn’t because I was more truthful, far from it. I was the only one of my family who was no good at acting and if I felt self-conscious there was nothing I could do to hide it.

We brought my father up to date on the condition of the family. I would have avoided any mention of Ronald Mason but Cordelia, to her credit, was not sophistical and blurted it out. Luckily my father was inclined to be condescending rather than jealous.

‘Poor Ronnie. It is loyal of the old war horse to muster to the sound of trumpets. You may not remember, Inspector, the only Bonnie Prince Charlie with a strong Irish brogue. Every housewife from Sunderland to Wimbledon longed to be Flora Macdonald nestling in Prince Charlie’s manly arms, crooning love songs into his lace jabot, crossing the sea to Skye against a purple sunset. The truth was less romantic. Apparently it was filmed in the studio pool with a wave machine but even so, poor Ronnie was sick as a dog.’

There is nothing so effective in the short-term as sneering at someone else to make one feel better about oneself. Pa seemed to recover his spirits a little.

Inspector Foy smiled. ‘I remember he was a great favourite with my mother. ‘Now, sir, one or two more questions, if you don’t mind. I understand from Mr Sickert-Greene that you want to appeal against committal and change your plea to not guilty.’

‘Of course I didn’t do it! No one but a simpleton could imagine that I, Waldo Byng, am capable of murder! Sickert-Greene made a hopeless mull of it in court this morning. What on earth made him plead guilty but insane? Do I look crazy?’ Pa inflated his chest and narrowed his nostrils, as though indignation and insanity were mutually incompatible. ‘He actually believes I did it! I can’t think why I go on employing that silly old fool.’

The reason was because old Sickly Grin was a fearful intellectual snob. No ancient rabbi daring to pronounce the forbidden name of Yahweh could have looked more awe-stricken than Sickly Grin when he uttered the sacred moniker of Shakespeare. His voice dropped along with his several chins and even his knees appeared to bend in their Savile Row trousers. He was prepared to look after my father’s interests for practically nothing so he could boast of his intimacy with Waldo Byng, the great Shakespearean actor.

‘Mm.’ The inspector got out his pipe and stroked the bowl tenderly. He had nice square, strong-looking hands. ‘If I may say so, sir, I think it was a mistake to tell the chief magistrate that he was as guilty as you were of the murder.’

My father laughed bitterly. ‘The fellow’s a philistine. When I gave him the speech from Measure for Measure where Isabella pleads for Claudio’s life, he went as red as fire and started to gobble.’ My father began to recite. ‘“Man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As makes the angels weep.”’

‘It was the angry ape that annoyed him, I think.’ The inspector’s expression was reproachful and I believed, then, that he wanted my father not to be guilty. Pa looked sulky and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well.’ The inspector seemed to have packed his pipe with tobacco to his apparent satisfaction. ‘It’s too late to worry about that. Let’s look again at the question of motive. Who might have wanted Sir Basil dead? The most common motive for homicide is sexual jealousy.’ He sucked wistfully at his unlit pipe but my father was unmoved. ‘Somebody discovers his or her other half’s been unfaithful and there’s a violent reaction. The killing’s unpremeditated. Those cases are relatively straightforward. Sir Basil’s housekeeper says he rarely went out and had no close friendships with either sex, as far as she knows. We can’t exclude sexual jealousy entirely but at the moment it seems unlikely. Having looked at Sir Basil’s will, I’m sure it wasn’t money.’ Inspector Foy stopped, looked at his pipe with something like disgust and thrust it into his pocket. ‘Let’s consider more complex motives – killings intended to protect some discreditable secret, for example. Blackmailers get bumped off because their victim can’t or won’t go on paying out. Since the legalisation of homosexuality, this sort of crime is on the decline. Was Sir Basil the kind of man who might hold other men to account for their sins or indulge in a little gentle blackmail?’

‘I should say there was no man less likely to do such a thing.’ Pa looked amused at the idea. ‘He wasn’t interested in other people. He was much too self-absorbed. But you could say that of most actors.’ It was evident that Pa considered himself an exception.

Inspector Foy selected a pencil from the pen tray on the table, took a penknife from his pocket and began to make a fine point. Balked of his pipe, he needed another focus for his attention. I wondered whether this was a ploy to soothe the nerves of his suspects and distract them into making damning confessions. I dismissed at once the idea that he might be jittery himself. The inspector was almost monumentally calm as he smiled at Cordelia, then at me. The situation seemed quite unreal. We might have been discussing the plot of a film.

‘So we’re left with a mixed bag of motives – let’s call it personal animosity. This includes everything from disputes between neighbours rowing over the height of a hedge to professional jealousy.’

Pa looked scornful. ‘I can assure you that Basil’s small talents were insufficient to make me lose a moment’s sleep.’

‘All right. But I have to examine even the remotest possibilities. I’ve interviewed every member of the cast. They all described your relationship with Sir Basil Wintergreen as being – well, the mildest expression was “competitive”. Apparently there was no love lost.’

‘My dear Inspector, it is clear you know nothing of the theatre. All actors are toxically jealous and grudging of others’ success. Sometimes friendships survive despite it. Often there is unqualified dislike and contempt. But never, as far as I know, does it lead to murder. Sooner or later, along comes a critic who will do one’s dirty work far more effectively. Now look here. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve gone along with things pretty well, I think, but I’d like to go home now. This is a ghastly place, quite unfit for even a hardened criminal. Get me out of here, will you?’

‘It’s not as simple as that, sir. The law moves slowly. It has to, to avoid making mistakes.’

‘But I didn’t do it!’ There was something like panic in Pa’s voice. Cordelia leaned against him and tucked her hand through his arm. He patted it absently.

‘There was something else, wasn’t there, that came out at this morning’s hearing? Something which Harriet won’t know about.’ The inspector frowned at a notice instructing anyone who cared to read it that all articles of furniture, stationery and crockery were the property of HM Prison Services and removal of ANY item would be counted as theft. ‘Evidence that, when combined with your fingerprints on the only possible weapon, would have made any bench in the land decide to commit you for trial, regardless of the plea entered. Let’s run over it again, just in case there’s something we haven’t thought of. Do you remember passing anyone as you went on stage to rehearse the putting out of your eyes?’

Pa looked impatient. ‘Must we? I went through it all in court. I’m sick of talking about it.’ The inspector folded his arms and gave my father the look he had given Ophelia – a firming of the lips and a drawing together of the eyebrows. It was surprisingly effective. ‘Oh, all right,’ said Pa very grumpily. ‘You know perfectly well that Sandra was there, with Gemma, the wardrobe mistress. And there was a blonde girl, probably another understudy. New, anyway. Not bad-looking. A bit flat-chested. Can’t remember her name. They were chatting together. Sandra was leaning against the cyclorama –’

‘That’s the curved wall at the back of the stage?’

‘Yes.’

‘But they couldn’t actually see the stage itself from there?’

‘Not unless they had X-ray eyes. The backcloth was down. What I didn’t tell the magistrates was that Sandra leaned forward as I went by, so I accidentally brushed against her breasts. They all twittered like starlings.’ Pa smiled as though the memory was an agreeable one. The inspector continued to run the blade of his knife up and down the lead of his pencil as though nothing was so important to him as getting the point needle-sharp.

‘You went on from stage left?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Stage right was more accessible. You wouldn’t have needed to go round the back.’

‘I told them in court … Oh, all right.’ Pa sighed and continued with exaggerated emphasis as though speaking to someone of limited understanding. ‘There was an A-frame trolley stacked with flats carelessly parked at stage right, blocking the wings.’

‘No one could have got on to the stage that side?’

‘Not without an element of risk. Those trolleys are notoriously unstable. Full of flats, the weight is enough to kill a man.’

‘Sandra says that just before the murder she went on to the stage to retrieve her knitting. Sir Basil was on the stage, running through some lines. She remembers this clearly because he glared at her as though she had no right to be there and she was annoyed. She’s quite certain he was alone. A minute or two later you came along. She says she remembers that because you smiled at her and pinched her – cheek.’

‘I may have done.’ Pa put on his supercilious face. ‘If you mean I squeezed her behind, I probably did. These things mean nothing in the theatre.’

‘No one else passed them, either entering or leaving the stage. The next thing anyone remembers is hearing you shout. They ran on stage to find you kneeling by the body.’ The inspector looked at me. ‘You see the inference the court was bound to draw from that?’

The blade of the knife slipped and the point of the pencil snapped. I felt the hair on my scalp rise. I would have taken Pa’s other hand but he was smoothing his hair with his palm as though comforting himself.

Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘It means that Pa must have been alone on the stage with Basil.’

My father forgot to be superior. ‘But he was already dead, I swear it!’

Inspector Foy looked regretful. ‘But you see how awkward it is.’ He sighed. ‘I understand how you must be feeling. But we shall do everything in our power to bring the killer to justice, you can be sure of that.’ There was a sinister ambiguity about this promise. ‘I’ll leave you with your family now. We’ll have another talk later. Goodbye, young lady.’ Inspector Foy smiled kindly at Cordelia and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Cordelia, pointing at the notice. ‘It won’t do for a police inspector to be put in gaol for stealing.’

Inspector Foy restored to the pen tray the pencil he had absent-mindedly put in his pocket.

‘Goodbye, Harriet. We’ll keep in touch.’ For a moment it looked as though he was going to pat my arm too, but evidently he changed his mind and instead felt in his pocket for his pipe. I searched his face for clues to what he was thinking. He looked as though he had nothing more on his mind than what Mrs Foy was going to give him for supper. I wondered if there was a Mrs Foy and, if there was, what she was like.

‘I brought you this cake. I made it myself,’ said Cordelia when the inspector had gone, offering up the bag with pride.

My father took it on his knee. ‘Good heavens, what’ve you put in it? Cakes are supposed to be light, my girl. And what’s this metal thing sticking out –’

‘Shh!’ Cordelia, apparently in agony, rolled her eyes at the constable on duty.

‘Ha, I see!’ My father smiled and for a moment looked almost his old self. I blessed Cordelia for coming with me. ‘But what shall I do when I’ve filed through the bars? My cell’s on the first floor. I’d be human jam if I jumped. You’d better make another cake with a rope inside. Though what Loveday will say when he sees his precious tools smothered in icing and currants, I wouldn’t like to say.’

‘You aren’t taking it seriously.’ Cordelia was cross. ‘But I saw this film called Heaven is where the Heart is, where this man was in gaol though he hadn’t done the murder – he’d been stitched up by his best friend – and his childhood sweetheart was dying and they wouldn’t let him go and see her and he made a file in the prison workshop –’

‘I’ve brought your post,’ I said as Cordelia paused to draw breath.

My father looked through the envelopes. ‘Half these are bills.’ His momentary good humour evaporated. ‘And there’ll be your mother’s chin to pay for. They’ve cancelled the play. Had to, of course, without me and Basil.’ He swore a decorative Elizabethan oath. ‘Here’s a letter from the bank. My God, they’re quick on the draw when it comes to calling in the dibs! This fellow,’ he glanced to the bottom of the letter, ‘Potter, he calls himself, says he wants to know what I’m going to do about reducing my overdraft.’ He threw the letter down. ‘Well, he can take what steps he likes. They can’t do anything to me while I’m in here.’

He set his face mutinously. I picked up the letter and put it in my bag. While my father and Cordelia played the farewell scene from Romeo and Juliet, I went to find Sergeant Tweeter.

We arrived home to find our neighbours mingling with the reporters who had reappeared with the cessation of rain, like flowers blooming in the desert.

‘Someone ought to ring the RSPCA.’ Mrs Newbiggin from next door, whom I had never liked, had a penetrating voice but even she was almost drowned out by the howling that was coming from inside the house. Seeing me, she pointed a finger. ‘That’s one of the girls. This used to be a respectable neighbourhood. What’s going on? I’d like to know. Is some poor animal being tortured in there?’

‘Sorry. It’s only our dog.’ I squeezed past the cameras and rang the bell. The howling changed to barking over three octaves, from a high-pitched whine to a deep Baskerville bay. I pushed open the letter box to call out to Maria-Alba and a large pink tongue laved my hand affectionately.

‘Grazie al cielo.’ Maria-Alba brandished her ladle threateningly as she let us in. Under the other arm she held two cushions. ‘Now I understand the cruelty to animals.’

‘What are the cushions for?’ asked Cordelia.

Maria-Alba held them over her ears in demonstration. ‘He has not stop since you go out.’

‘But look how pleased he is to see us.’ I patted Derek, who was jumping up in an attempt to get his front paws on to my shoulders. ‘It’s really very touching. He’s going to be an excellent watchdog.’

‘Perhaps he’s going to perform deeds of heroism.’ Cordelia was willing to join me in a little dog-worshipping. ‘He might rescue me from a raging torrent or you from an axe-murderer. He’d be famous then, like Greyfriars Bobby. They might put up a statue of him in the street. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’

‘I’m not entirely sold on the idea, since you ask. There don’t seem to be quite so many reporters as usual. I wonder if they’re getting fed up? There can’t be a worse job in the world than working for a newspaper. Out at all hours in all weathers, making an absolute nuisance of oneself and being loathed and reviled, just to get a story that’s identical to everyone else’s. Making up sordid lies about other people’s sadness to get something exclusive. I should hate it.’

‘I’m going to have to get used to the paparazzi, though,’ said Cordelia. ‘When I’m a famous film star I shall never know a moment’s peace.’

‘It may not be that easy.’ I did not want to be discouraging but I knew acting was a cruelly disappointing occupation for most people.

‘It will be for me.’ Cordelia said with confidence. Looking at the calm smile on her ravishing little face, I thought she might be right. Cordelia had my father’s ability to draw your eye and hold your attention. She had Ophelia’s beauty with the added charm of warmth, and Portia’s spontaneity, with – so far anyway – less reckless self-destructiveness in her nature. ‘I shall have a white Pekinese like Marina Marlow,’ she went on, ‘that I can carry around under my arm. I shall call it Yum-Yum after the girl in The Mikado. You needn’t look so snooty. At least I haven’t got a dog called Derek.’

‘A palpable hit,’ I acknowledged.

‘I’ve just had a brainwave!’ Cordelia looked pleased. ‘You remember the film of A Tale of Two Cities? They’ve got the same gorgeous doggy brown eyes. Derek and Sydney Carton, I mean’

‘Isn’t it rather a mouthful? Imagine calling, “Come here, Sydney Carton!” across the park. Beside sounding a little pretentious –’

‘No, you ass! You can call him Dirk – after Dirk Bogarde. It’ll sound just the same to a dog but it’s got bags more style than Derek.’

This was undeniable, but I was still not enthusiastic. Dirk sounded assertively masculine; it lacked poetry. Cordelia pointed out that it was a sort of Highland dagger, which was romantic enough for anyone, even a loopy poetess. It made her think of wild, wet mountains, bottomless lochs, ruined castles, skirling bagpipes. When I begged her, perhaps unkindly, to stop sounding like The Highlands and Islands Tourist Board, she lost her temper and hard words were exchanged. I think we were both tired and under a strain. Anyway, Cordelia got her way as she always did and, by a process of attrition, Dirk he became.