Ruddy Gore (6 page)

‘Bernard, what did you do with Miss Copland and her mother?’

‘Sent ’em to wait in the foyer – they’ll have seen the ambulance. Lord, Phryne darling, this is terrible!’

‘Yes. How does the company look? Is anyone behaving in an unusual manner?’

Bernard pulled himself together and scanned the crowd.

‘Let’s see. There’s Selwyn’s dresser Bradford arguing with Walter’s dresser Hansen – they loathe each other. And that’s Miss Gault’s Jill snubbing Miss Wiltshire’s Kitty – that’s standard. They’re 49

sisters – neither of them could manage on the stage, so they became dressers. They’re stage-struck. Kitty thinks that Violet Wiltshire should have got Dame Hannah and that heavenly song, when Violet sings patter like nobody’s business but has no top range at all, and Jill thinks that Agnes Gault should have got Mad Margaret when she has a lovely soprano range but can’t sing faster than 3/4 without choking. Artistic judgement is not their strong point. No. That’s normal.’ Phryne laughed and Sir Bernard continued his catalogue, pointing out each cast member as he went. ‘Violet fanning Mollie, they’re friends. Selwyn wooing Miss Esperance from one side, demonstrating sin-ister charm, with that Welsh boy whispering sweet Celtic nothings in her other ear? They’ve been doing that for months. Agnes trying to calm the chorus, leaning on Cameron Armour’s arm?

They’re old . . . er . . . friends. I gave him Sir Roderick because he’s a bit past the more athletic parts but he’s got a good presence and can still deafen the back stalls. The chorus palpitating in time around Monsieur Dupont? First time they’ve been in harmony all night and he has a firm hand, bad temper though, all chorus masters have either a natural or assumed bad temper. No, situation as usual, Phryne darling, except that Walter Copland and poor Robbie are in hospital. That’s not normal, even for the Maj.’

‘Anyone missing?’

‘Let me see. I let the box office and the ushers go home, now have we got all the hands? Yes, I 50

believe so. And the chorus . . . Doris, Winnie, Madge, Annie, Mellicent, Patricia, Jessie, Marie-Claire, Betty, Emma – yes, all present. Reggie, Col, Frankie, Roy, Leslie, Norman, Eric, Jimmy, Raymond and Louis – no, where’s Louis?’

‘Is he the one hiding behind the curtain?’ asked Phryne, sighting a pair of shoes and the shadow of a frightened face.

‘Yes, that’s him – silly boy. I’ll just go and get him.’

Sir Bernard bustled away. Phryne beckoned to the call boy.

‘Hello, Herbert,’ she said. ‘You read detective stories, don’t you?’

‘How could you tell?’ asked the boy, impressed.

‘I’m a detective,’ said Phryne. She judged Herbert to be about eleven, a smidgen overgrown and underfed but alight with enthusiasm.

‘I like Sexton Blake best,’ he confided. ‘Ain’t this grouse? I mean, isn’t this exciting? Nothing interesting’s happened around this place the whole time I been here . . . I’ve been here,’ he corrected himself. Someone was evidently trying to teach him grammar.

‘Do you want to be an actor?’ Brown eyes in the thin mobile face fixed on her with uttermost conviction.

‘Yes,’ said the boy, flatly. ‘I’m going to be a great dramatic actor but Mum’s got no money for lessons so I got myself this job. Sir B says he’ll give me a part as soon as we do a panto. Christmas.

Peter Pan. I’m one of the Lost Boys. Like this, see?’

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His whole body drooped, his eyes filled with tears, and he reached down to stroke something lying on the floor. ‘Poor Wendy,’ said Herbert, and Phryne could almost see the curve of the girl’s cheek inside the caressing cupped hand.

‘What’s the rest of your name, Herbert?’ she asked, impressed.

‘Cowl. Reckon I’ll change it, though. Cowl’s good enough for a factory-hand but not for an actor. Sir B thinks that it should be a big name, like Savage or Moreland.’

‘I’ll watch your future progress with great interest, Herbert,’ said Phryne. ‘Now, what do you think about these attempted murders?’

‘You mean you want me to help you, Miss?’ the shadowed eyes lit up again.

‘I might. You know more about the theatre than anyone else, don’t you? You go everywhere and see everything.’

‘Can I be your . . . irregular?’

Herbert’s reading had obviously included the Great Detective. Phryne nodded.

‘I think so. A quid a week and expenses?’

‘Done,’ said the boy, and they shook hands.

The stage had been cleared of the technicians and the sergeant was beginning on the chorus. It was late and cold and the harsh working lights illuminated patches and holes even in the ancestral hall of the Ruddigores. The floor felt odd under Phryne’s feet until she realised that it was painted cloth. The theatre looked battered and faded and Phryne was glad of her cloak.

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‘I’ve sent Naylor to search the dressing rooms,’

commented Robinson as the last sobbing girl was led away to sit in the body of the theatre and wait until she could be searched by a police-woman. ‘Now there’s just the principals and then we can get out of here and into somewhere warm. Miss Fisher, are you retained in this matter?’

‘Yes, Jack.’

‘You know, for once, I think you might do better than me,’ he said slowly.

‘Oh, why?’

‘Well – this is a different world,’ he said, shield-ing his tired eyes against the light. ‘All these people are used to being someone else. I’ve never had so many tears poured all over me, never – and a good three-quarters of ’em were false. I can get a confession out of anyone in their right mind – but I don’t reckon actors have a right mind. You’ll have to keep me posted, Miss Fisher.’

‘All right. Can I sit in when you talk to the principals?’

‘Yes,’ said Robinson wearily. ‘Let’s start with the men. I’ve had enough women for one night.

Begging your pardon, Miss Fisher.’

Mr Selwyn Alexander was pried loose from Miss Esperance and strode up to the detective inspector.

‘This is outrageous !’ he began. ‘Is no one safe?’

‘Probably not all that safe,’ said Robinson quietly. ‘What do you mean?’

Mr Alexander took the offered chair, identified himself as forty-seven years old, Australian, 53

unmarried, and an actor. He removed the black hat with a flourish. He was older than he looked on stage; wrinkles grooved the greasepaint.

‘I mean, since this run of G and S began we haven’t had a moment’s peace – it’s as though we were cursed. You’d think we were doing the Scot-tish play.’

‘You mean Mac . . . ’ began Robinson and Phryne tapped his lips.

‘Not in the theatre, Jack dear, it’s unlucky to name that play, as it is to wear real jewellery on stage, whistle backstage, and a multitude of other superstitions.’

Robinson paused to digest this, then went on.

‘Cursed, Mr Alexander?’

Selwyn leaned back and flicked his hat back over his shoulder without checking whether his dresser was there. He was. A grey, fat, balding little man who held the hat as though it was a crown.

‘I mean we have had all sorts of odd things happening with no explanation. Things going missing and turning up in odd places. I was extremely ill for a week during rehearsals – I am now beginning to think that I was poisoned, too. It’s been one thing after another.’

‘Did you see either of the victims eat or drink anything tonight?’

‘No.’ Selwyn lost interest. ‘I was in my dressing room most of the time – I need to rest. Sir Despard is a demanding part, you know.’

‘Well, thank you, Mr Alexander. Mr Evans?’

Selwyn slouched past the young man as he left 54

Miss Esperance with a backward glance of melting longing which Phryne registered as about 6 on the Richter scale.

Then the actor turned the full force of his personality on her. My, she reflected, he was attractive. Even Bunji had noticed it. He had clearly defined features and brown hair, dark blue eyes with shadows under them and a red mouth which owed little to greasepaint. He was still clad in his sailor’s suit but had doffed the hat and cleaned the make-up off. He scanned Phryne, from silver heels to the hood of her black cloak, then smiled a smile so full of sensual appreciation that she grinned in reply.

‘Gwilym Llewellyn Evans, born in Wales,’ he said in his cut-glass voice. ‘Thirty-one years old and an actor by profession. How are Robbie and Walter?’

‘Alive.’ Jack Robinson repeated his questions and got the same answers – Mr Evans had been occupied with Miss Esperance. Dismissed, he added to Phryne, ‘You laughed at that business with the flag – that was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘Celtic intuition. Thank you. I was waiting for someone to notice how funny it was.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Phryne, taking a small step backwards under the onslaught of his practised charm.

Mr Cameron Armour, questioned, had nothing to add. Neither did Miss Gault. Violet Wiltshire said that she had been terrified that Robbie was 55

going to fall but he had somehow kept his feet.

She had seen nothing else. Old Adam, alias Leslie Franklin, was almost too shocked to speak. He could not have been more than twenty, young bones emerging eerily through the old man’s face.

He said he had noticed the new Sir Ruthven fading gradually, as though he was falling asleep, whereas Walter Copland had just collapsed without warning.

Miss Mollie Webb sat down and gave her age as twenty-five, her nationality Australian, and her occupation as actress. She rubbed her hands across her eyes.

Robinson warmed to this efficient and unaffected young woman. ‘Miss Webb, I know you’re very tired, but did you notice anything that might help us?’

‘No, neither of them could speak by the time the doctor came. Isn’t he a nice doctor, though –

terribly good at his job, I mean. Most of them never even notice nurses. Where was I? I’m playing Zorah, the chief bridesmaid, and I’m off stage for the beginning of Act 2, that’s the Ruddigore curse bit. Then I come on again for the finale, and it was after that they called for a nurse and that’s what I used to be. My mother disapproved of actresses, so she made me get a trade first. I suppose it will be useful when I’m too old to act. Sorry, I’m so tired I’m babbling.

Ask me questions.’

‘Did you see either of them eat or drink anything during the play?’

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‘No. Except for Walter and his indigestion pills.

He took three just as we came on at the beginning.’

‘He always takes them?’

‘Yes, they’re a chalk and bismuth compound, quite harmless. He thinks he’s got an ulcer – and he might have, too. All that bile rots the stomach.’

‘In a little blue box?’

‘Yes. Did you find the box?’

‘We did.’

‘Good,’ said Miss Webb. Her glance strayed to Gwilym Evans, who was waiting in the centre of the stage, Miss Esperance having vanished into Selwyn’s embrace. Phryne intercepted a come-hither so blatant that had she been in the habit of blushing, she might have blushed. Dismissed, Miss Webb stirred and put back her hair with grimy hands. Gwilym held out his arms and she walked into them, nestling into his embrace with her head buried in his shoulder, while his dark profile was outlined against the backlights like a cameo. It was a very effective picture and Phryne appreciated it.

Jack Robinson beckoned with vast reluctance for the attendance of Rose Maybud, Miss Leila Esperance, the star of the show.

Sir Bernard cut Selwyn Alexander neatly out, seated the lady, then remained standing behind her chair.

‘Leila Esperance, aged twenty-five, actress,’ she said in a fairly clear voice. ‘Oh, it was awful. I had to hold him up and he was collapsing all over me.’

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‘Robert Craven?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything to you which might indi-cate how he was poisoned?’

‘No. He just whispered ‘‘Hold me up, I can’t stand, we have to finish the show,’’ and then at the end he said ‘‘I’m dying,’’ and I thought he was, poor Robbie.’

‘What about earlier, with Mr Copland?’

‘He seemed a little slow,’ she said consideringly.

‘Not bright, not up-to-tempo like he usually is.

And his eyes seemed bigger – I know that sounds silly. But I couldn’t smell anything on his breath.

He wasn’t drunk. No, just slow. Then he managed to stay on his legs until the curtain and then . . .

oh, Lord, it was the Hinkler gala so we couldn’t stop the show, it’s terrible being on the stage, no one gives us credit for anything, and there was poor Robbie battling on even though . . . ’ she seemed to struggle with tears but Phryne observed that her eyes were dry. ‘Can I go home now?’

‘In a little while. Did you see either of them eat or drink anything?’

‘No, but then, I’m mostly on stage,’ she said artlessly. ‘Mr Loveland-Hall won’t allow any alcohol at all on the stage or the wings. If we need a drink of water, the dresser brings it – they have to be there when we enter and leave to check the costume. I had a cigarette on the stairs – Mr Loveland-Hall won’t allow naked lights on stage either – and I saw Robbie running past to get fitted for the bad baronet’s costume, but that’s all I saw and are you going 58

to do something? We’ll all be murdered! I tell you, we’re haunted! I’ve seen her!’

‘Seen whom?’

‘Her, the ghost!’ screamed Miss Esperance. ‘She smells of hyacinths and she steals gloves. One of my gloves went again tonight, out of a packet that had just come back from the cleaners. It still had the sealing wax, not broken, and there was a glove missing – a white glace´ kid glove! She’s always in Rose Maybud’s costume and she has eyes as black as the pit and she smiled at me! We’re doomed!’

shrieked Miss Esperance to the astonished ears of the entire cast of
Ruddigore
, and fainted dead away. Her black curls veiled her face as she slumped gracefully to the floor. It was the most decorative faint Phryne had ever seen.

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CHAPTER FOUR

ROSE MAYBUD (to Robin Oakapple): Ten minutes since my heart said ‘white’ –

It now says ‘black’

It then said ‘left’ – it now says ‘right’ –

Hearts often tack.

I must obey its latest strain

You tell me so