Curtain Call
Authors: Anthony Quinn
Contents
On a sultry afternoon in the summer of 1936 a woman accidentally interrupts an attempted murder in a London hotel room. Nina Land, a West End actress, faces a dilemma: she's not supposed to be at the hotel in the first place, and certainly not with a married man. But once it becomes apparent that she may have seen the face of the man the newspapers have dubbed âthe Tie-Pin Killer' she realises that another woman's life could be at stake.
Jimmy Erskine is the raffish doyen of theatre critics who fears that his star is fading: age and drink are catching up with him, and in his late-night escapades with young men he walks a tightrope that may snap at any moment. He has depended for years on his loyal and longsuffering secretary Tom, who has a secret of his own to protect. Tom's chance encounter with Madeleine Farewell, a lost young woman haunted by premonitions of catastrophe, closes the circle: it was Madeleine who narrowly escaped the killer's stranglehold that afternoon, and now walks the streets in terror of his finding her again.
Curtain Call
is a comedy of manners, and a tragedy of mistaken intentions. From the glittering murk of Soho's demi-monde to the grease paint and ghost-lights of theatreland, the story plunges on through smoky clubrooms, tawdry hotels and drag balls towards a denouement in which two women are stalked by the same killer. As bracing as a cold Martini and as bright as a new tie-pin, it is at once a deeply poignant love story, a murder mystery and an irresistible portrait of a society dancing towards the abyss.
Anthony Quinn was born in Liverpool in 1964. Since 1998 he has been the film critic of the
Independent
. He is the author of
The Rescue Man
, which won the 2009 Authors' Club Best First Novel Award,
Half of the Human Race
and
The Streets
, which was shortlisted for the 2013 Walter Scott Prize.
The Rescue Man
Half of the Human Race
The Streets
For Mike
and
for Pete
or
The Distinguished Thing
A novel
Â
âSo here it is at last, the distinguished thing!'
Henry James (attrib.)
The Second Arrangement
1
STEPHEN SQUINTED TOWARDS
the cloudy sash windows. He knew he ought to have them cleaned, but he liked the way they lent the day outside a soft and mysterious murk. It didn't seem to matter that you couldn't really see out of them. He picked up another charcoal stick and turned back to the sketch, while Lady Trevelyan talked on.
â. . . though I really don't know how Tom puts up with the beastly things the newspapers say about him. It isn't as though any of the others have a better plan for running the country â Tom's only fault is that he sees what's wrong and jolly well says it! Of course at the root of it is jealousy. To have that sort of breeding and education and accomplishment, well, it's bound to raise the hackles of
little men
. And such a handsome fellow too! â I don't believe I'm the first to notice his resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks . . .'
Stephen wasn't sure how much more of this he could stand. He possessed an intensity of concentration that only a rare breed of irritant could disturb. Alas, it seemed that Lady Trevelyan, with her high, hectoring voice, belonged to that unhappy genus. His attention had wandered again from his drawing. He dipped his head behind the easel and yawned extravagantly.
âHmm?' he said, hearing a sudden interrogative note from the other side.
âI said, do you not admire him?'
âEr, Douglas Fairbanks?'
âNo, you silly man â I mean Tom â Sir Oswald Mosley!'
So
that's
who she was talking about. Why did he call himself Tom if his name was Oswald? âTo be honest, Lady Trevelyan, I've no opinion about him one way or the other.' He gave a little shrug. âThough I don't greatly care for that moustache of his.'
âNo opinion? But, Mr Wyley, you must read the papers . . .'
He sneaked a glance at the wristwatch he had been careful to fasten on the frame of his easel. âAh, yes, the papers â I always start to read them, and little by little I . . . fall behind. By the time I've caught up the news has changed, and then I think, why bother?'
Lady Trevelyan gave one of her dismissive laughs and pressed on with her encomium of âdear Tom'. Stephen, eager to conclude the session, spent two minutes vigorously cross-hatching with a pencil before snatching the paper from its mount and presenting it for inspection.
âIt's just a study, of course,' he explained. âA little throat-clearing before we start on the canvas.'
He watched her expression twitch with delight as she contemplated his handiwork. The sketch, with its artful editing of the sitter's double chin and the softening of her snouty nose, was designed to please. He could have given a masterclass in portraiture as flattery. It was why so many of them came to him. Lady Trevelyan, like all the others, made no mention of Stephen's cosmetic dexterity: that was an unspoken part of the contract, as was his fee. Their brief acquaintance, however, had inclined him to wonder about the money. The ratio of guineas earned to hours confined in her company was already looking to be a poor deal.
âLady Trevelyan, I do beg your pardon,' he said, interrupting her absorption in the sketch. âI'm rather late for an appointment across town. But we shall meet soon' â he gave the bell-rope a tug â âto begin the serious work.'
Mrs Ronson, the housekeeper, was prompt in bringing his guest's coat, though neither she nor Stephen were able to do much about Lady Trevelyan's parting monologue, a disordered flurry of society gossip begun as she was almost, agonisingly, out of the door, and extended for several minutes on the landing. In the end Mrs Ronson practically had to strong-arm her down the staircase before Stephen could safely close the door. Consulting his watch again, he found that he actually was running late, with no time to change. Exasperating, really, after he had gone to the trouble of booking the hotel. Not very debonair to show up late
and
ungroomed.
Five minutes later he was taking the stairs two at a time, having squirted on a bit of cologne and straightened his tie's hurried knot in the hall mirror. He'd fix it on the way. Something else was bothering him as he descended to the pavement and broke into an awkward half-run: the shoes. They were pinching with a vehemence he could almost have taken personally. He had bought them the previous day in a new shop on the Brompton Road, failing to notice the tightness across the uppers. Damn. He should have gone to Lobb. The August day, the last of the month, was sultry but overcast, with that granular quality of light that seemed to anticipate rain. Turning into Royal Hospital Road, he flagged down a cab and, once inside, tried to compose himself. His reflection played hide-and-seek in the window. He was vain (he knew) of his toffee-coloured hair, brushed back from his forehead. His handsome, symmetrical face lacked only (which he didn't know) a small quirk of individuality that might have rendered it truly interesting. He fiddled with the knot against his collar and, having moulded it to his liking, speared a tiepin through the yielding silk.
Stephen Wyley had been lucky in most things, and had learned not to mind being resented for it. Born just late enough to have escaped the Great War â he turned eighteen the week before the Armistice â he was able to take a place at Oxford left unclaimed by one of those young men ahead of him in academic distinction, now stretched cold beneath a field in France or Belgium. He proved to be no scholar, preferring to refine his talent for drawing, and after graduating went to study at the Royal Academy. Around the same time he found himself the beneficiary of a small inheritance â or, as some called it, a small fortune. A friend on hearing the news remarked that Stephen could not supply his future biographer with a title:
The Life of Wyley
.
It enabled him to buy a flat in Chelsea which he furnished from the proceeds of the small oils he had begun to sell. His natural affinity was for landscapes, but that changed when a Scottish grandee of his acquaintance commissioned a large portrait of his three children.
The Daughters of Fitzroy Traquair
, shown at the RA in the summer of 1931, was the making of his name. The
Burlington Magazine
hailed him as âthe British Sargent', and the
Telegraph
sent a man to take his photograph. Before long Stephen was a sought-after guest at the houses of collectors, artistic patrons, titled worthies. The invitations began to pile up. Gratified at first by his social elevation, he soon came to distrust. He was clear-sighted about his technical skills, considering himself to be a distinctive painter of nature but merely an adequate portraitist. That estimate proved at odds with his rising acclaim. In his cups he would say that he only took commissions from people he despised, because they were too stupid to see what an inferior talent he was. His reluctance to turn them away hid a deeper insecurity: he hadn't enough money to stop pleasing others, and had far too much to feel pleased with himself. In retrospect he realised that being discovered was not entirely a blessing; he had never quite possessed himself since.
The cab had crawled to a halt amid shoaling, honking traffic at the top of Sloane Street. This was getting him nowhere. He paid the driver and stepped out, making a beeline for Knightsbridge Tube. His shoes felt ever tighter as he skittered down the escalator towards the platform, almost deserted in the mid-afternoon lull. He was thinking about her again as the train burst out of the tunnel, its updraught warm and frowsy against his face.
They had met nearly four weeks ago at a friend's private view in Bury Street. Stephen was stooging around when he spotted her gazing in rapt concentration at one of the still lifes. She was slim, on the short side, with brown, shoulder-length hair framing a strong, full-lipped face. Her dark eyebrows were plucked and shaped. He thought he had seen her somewhere before.
âIf you stand there much longer your eyes are going to burn a hole through it.'
She looked round, unstartled, and gave him the once-over. âI'm sure Henry will forgive me,' she said coolly. Her voice was low, with a pleasing hoarseness at the back of it.
âYou like his work?'
She nodded. âI bought one of his a few years ago â square, about so big, of a ceramic jug with primulas. And I'm pleased to see he's now on the way to being quite unaffordable.'
Stephen smiled. âI remember that ceramic jug. Well . . . if I'd known Henry had such discerning clients I'd have brought along a few pictures of my own to hang here.'
âYou paint?' she said, a thin note of scepticism in her voice.
âStephen Wyley,' he said, extending his hand, which she took.
âNina Land. Your name is . . . familiar to me.'
âThat's odd, because your face is familiar to
me
. Have we met before?'