“Tell me about Kitty first.”
“Well, you must have seen what happened in Act Two. I don’t know what it looked like from die front …”
“Pretty savage.”
“I wanted to stop the whole thing, but Colin disagreed. When Kitty came off, she could hardly stand. I sat her down next to the table.” Noticing an intensification of watchfulness in Barnaby’s expression, Deidre added quickly, “But she didn’t stay. I went down to the dressing room to get her a drink and an aspirin.”
“How long do you think you were away?”
“Several minutes. First I couldn’t find the aspirin, then I couldn’t get the top off, then I had to wash a mug. Then I panicked. You can imagine.” Barnaby nodded, imagining very well. “When I got back, Kitty had gone, and I found her in the toilet.”
“How did she react to what had happened?”
“She was terribly angry. Furious. She … well, she cursed a lot. Then she said, ‘If he touches me again, I’ll—’ ” Deidre broke off. She looked around the room at the bottles and jars and showy bouquets and at a good-luck card sporting a large black cat who had obviously completely failed to get the hang of its required function. “Sorry, Tom. I don’t remember what she said after that.”
“Deidre.” Deidre made eye contact with a coffee jar, a jar of artificial sweetener, and one of powdered milk. “Look at me.” She managed a quick glance, timorous almost pleading. “This isn’t a practical joke we’re investigating.”
“No.”
“So what did Mrs. Carmichael say?”
Deidre swallowed and took a deep breath. “‘If he touches me again … ” The rest of the sentence was smothered in a whisper.
“Speak up.”
“‘I’ll kill him.’ But she didn’t mean it,” Deidre rushed on. “I know she didn’t. People say that all the time, don’t they? Mothers to their children in the street. You’re always hearing them. It doesn’t mean anything, Tom. And she was probably worried about the baby. She hit the pros arch with a terrible smack.”
“Where did she go when she left the toilet?”
“Back to the wings. Joycey was standing by to put her padding on. And I followed. She didn’t go near the table again, I’m positive.”
“Do you have any idea why Esslyn should have acted the way he did?”
“No—I can’t understand it. He was perfectly all right till the interval.”
“You haven’t heard any gossip?”
“Gossip? About what?”
“Perhaps … another man?”
“Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so. Kitty was pregnant, you see.”
He was certainly meeting them tonight, thought Sergeant Troy, resting his ball-point against the pad borrowed from the constable on pavement duty. First the old gaffer upstairs singing his cracked old song halfway up Delilah Street, now the droopy-bottomed daughter who apparently believed that once you’d got one in the oven you hung a no-trespassing sign around your neck. In fact, as Troy knew to his philandering benefit, it was the one time you could hold open house with nobody having to foot the bill. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand to conceal an involuntary twitch of derision.
“Now you know the tape was deliberately removed, do you have any idea how this could have been done?” Deidre’s features seemed to gather themselves together in the center of her face, so great were her efforts at concentration. Barnaby said, “No hurry.”
“I just can’t think, Tom. The risk. It was so sharp.” Suddenly she saw David’s fingers, quick and deft, wrapping the razor.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Before he could persist, Deidre improvised. “I mean—it was so dangerous, it couldn’t have been done in the dark. And although the wings and stage were brightly lit till curtain up, it couldn’t have been done then, either, because of the chance they might have been seen.”
“Who was the first to arrive after you?”
“Colin and David.”
“Did you tell them you’d done the check?”
“I told Colin.”
“But if they were together, that means you told them both.” Deidre’s gaze reconnected with the powdered milk. “Do you remember who came next?”
“Not really, Tom. Half a dozen people arrived together. Rosa and the Everards … and Boris. All the ASMs were in on the half.”
“Did anyone ask if you’d done your check?” Barnaby knew this question to be rather futile. The last thing the person who doctored the razor would wish to do was draw attention to himself. But he felt it still had to be put. Deidre shook her head. “Did you leave the stage area at any time?”
“Yes. I went to the dressing rooms to call the quarter. Then I fetched my ASMs from the clubroom and I went to meet my father. This was just before eight o’clock. He was late.” Reminded, she half rose, saying, “Is that all, Tom? He’s waiting, you see.”
“In a moment.” Reluctantly, Deidre reseated herself. “Did you like Esslyn, Deidre?” She hesitated for a minute, then said, “No.”
“Do you have any idea at all who might have done this?”
This time there was no hesitation. “Not at all, Tom. To be honest, I don’t think anyone liked him very much, but you don’t kill someone just because of that. Do you?”
The question was not lightly put. It was flooded with such intense appeal that Deidre seemed to be seeking reassurance that the police had perpetrated a shocking misconstruction and that the tape had managed to fly away of its own accord. Barnaby’s unconsoling reply was never made. There was a knock at the door, and the constable who had been sitting with the body popped his head round the door and said, “Dr. Bullard’s arrived, sir.”
Meanwhile, next door in the scene dock, the company, while still shocked, was starting to bounce back. Some more than others, naturally. But hushed whispers had already gone the way of solemn looks and reverential head shakings. Now ideas and suggestions were being mooted, but in tones of bashful solemnity out of respect for Kitty’s grief.
Not that this was much in evidence. She sat on a workbench staring crossly at Rosa and tapping her foot with irritation. The first Mrs. Carmichael, her mouth loose and frilly, wept continuously. Her makeup now resembled a Turner sunset. You would have thought that she, not Kitty, was the widow. Earnest, who could have gone home ages ago, remained by her side. Joyce, her blood-soaked clothes hidden behind a screen with Cully’s ruined dress, sat holding her daughter’s hand and wearing her husband’s topcoat. Cully was wrapped in several yards of butter muslin that she had found in a basket. Nicholas, who could not take his eyes off her, thought she looked like an exquisite reincarnation of Nefertiti.
All of them had been searched quickly and efficiently, and although it had been no more than the brisk, impersonal going-over anyone gets at an airport, Harold had taken umbrage and threatened to write to his member of Parliament.
“If a man’s been stupid enough to cut his own throat,” he had cried indignantly, “I don’t know what on earth the police expect to gain by subjecting my people to this humiliating procedure.”
None of his people had really minded, but they had all been equally puzzled by the need for such a step.
“I really don’t see,” said Bill Last, lately Van Swieten, “why they’ve locked up the men’s dressing room. My car keys are in there. And my wallet. Everything.”
“Right,” said Boris, who chain-smoked and was desperate for a drag.
“I don’t see why they want to talk to us at all,” complained Clive Everard. “We’re not responsible for checking the props. It’s obviously Dreary’s fault. Took the tape off for some reason. Forgot to put it back again.”
“Typical,” said his brother.