Avery, aware of the antagonism, typically became over-helpful, even ingratiating. Tim calmly shifted his chair so that his back was toward the sergeant and ignored him throughout the interview. In reply to Barnaby’s opening question, they agreed they had arrived on the half, gone up to the clubroom, and had a glass of Condrieu accompanied by Nicholas, who’d had a bitter lemon. Then they’d drifted around to the dressing rooms in what Tim called, “a whirl of insincere effusion and fake goodwill.” They did not touch the razor or notice anyone else doing so. They entered the box at ten to eight and stayed there.
“You came out at the intermission, surely?”
“Well, no,” said Avery.
“Not even for a drink?”
“We have our own wine. Tim won’t drink Roo’s Revenge.”
“I was perhaps mistaken then … ?” Barnaby’s voice trailed off mildly.
“Oh! I did dash to the loo,” said Tim. “Once the coast was clear.”
“Yes. Splendid lighting.”
“Our swan song.”
“Was that the actors’ loo off the wings or the public?” asked Barnaby.
“The actors’. There was a queue in the clubroom.”
“Can you think of any reason,” continued Barnaby, “why anyone would wish to harm Esslyn?”
Avery started to flutter, like a young bird trying to get off the ground. Fatally he glanced at Troy, receiving in return a look of such poisonous dislike that it took him a full five minutes to recover. Nervously he rushed into speech. “He wasn’t an easy person. Expected everyone to defer all the time, and most of us did. Except for Harold, of course. I quite liked him myself—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Avery!” interrupted Tim. “We’re both in the clear. We were in the box. There’s no need to be such a bloody toady.”
Avery looked disconcerted, then relieved. “I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Phew,’ as they say.” He mopped his forehead with an emerald-green Paisley hankie. “Well, if that’s the way of it, I don’t mind admitting that I thought Esslyn was an absolute shit. And so did everyone else.”
Tim laughed and felt the blade of Troy’s attention in the small of his back. Barnaby said, “Some more than others, perhaps?”
“People often weren’t bold enough to show it.”
“Or careless enough.”
“Pardon?” Avery looked puzzled but willing, like a puppy who hasn’t quite got the point of a trick but is prepared to give it a try.
“He means,” said Tim dryly, “that this was probably some time in the planning.”
Troy resented the speed of this connection. His own thought processes, though he liked to think he got there in the end, were less wing-footed. Queers were bad enough, he thought, stabbing at the page with his ballpoint, but clever queers …
“You wouldn’t like to make a guess who is responsible?”
“Certainly not,” said Tim.
“Avery?”
“Oh …” As if called upon unexpectedly to make a speech, Avery half rose in his seat, then sank back again. “I’d have thought Kitty. I mean, she can’t have enjoyed being married to Esslyn. He was over twice her age and about as much fun as a night out with the tontons macoutes. And of course they were heading for trouble as soon as the baby came.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
“Esslyn would have been so jealous. He couldn’t bear not to be the center of attention, and babies need an awful lot of looking after. At least,” he added, it seemed to Barnaby a trifle wistfully, “so I understand.”
“You knew she was having an affair?”
“So Nicholas told us.” Avery blushed and looked rather defiantly across at his partner. “And I, for one, don’t blame her.”
Neither of them could think of anything else at the moment that might be of help, so Barnaby let them go, turning to his sergeant as the door closed and saying, “Well, Troy. What do you think?”
Troy knew that it was not his opinion of homosexuals that was being solicited. There had been a particularly repulsive example of the species in a case the previous year at Badger’s Drift, and Troy’s suggestions as to how the man’s activities might be curtailed had been very frostily received. His chief was funny like that. Hard as iron in many ways. Harder than the iron men who thought they could never be broken and were now serving their time. Yet he had these peculiar soft spots. Wouldn’t come out and condemn things that everyone knew to be rotten. Probably his age, thought Troy. You had to make allowances.
“Well, sir—I can’t think of any reason why either of them should have been involved. Unless the dead man was queer, and that’s why his missus screwed around. But from what I’ve heard, he seemed to have had a steady stream of tarts on the go.”
Barnaby nodded. “Yes. I don’t think his heterosexuality is in question.”
“And those Everards, just slimy little time-servers.”
“That seems to be the general opinion. Right—let’s have Nicholas.”
The sergeant paused on his way out. “What shall I tell that little fat geezer? Every time I go in and it’s not for him, he nearly wets himself.”
“Tell him”—Barnaby grinned—“tell him the dame always comes down last.”
Scenes of crime had worked their way through the wings and were now tackling the stage. To save time, Colin and David Smy had been released and told to present themselves at the station the next morning. Barnaby was interviewing Nicholas.
He had always liked the boy, and quickly became aware that Nicholas was enjoying the drama of the situation while feeling rather ashamed of himself for doing so. Which, thought Barnaby, was one up on certain other members of the company, who had taken in the enjoyment while stopping well short of the shame. Having ascertained that Nicholas knew and saw nothing in relation to the tampering with the razor, Barnaby asked if he could think of any reason why anyone would wish to harm Esslyn.
“You’ve never acted with him, have you?” said Nicholas, with a strained laugh. He was blushing with nerves and anxiety.
“I advise you to keep facetious remarks like that to yourself,” said Barnaby. “A man has died here tonight.”
“Yes … of course. I’m sorry, Tom. It was just nerves. Panic, I suppose.”
“What have you got to be panicky about?”
“Nothing!”
Barnaby paused for a moment, letting his impassive gaze rest on Nicholas. Then he exchanged a look with Sergeant Troy. Anything could have been read into that look. Nicholas, already a bundle of quivering apprehension, felt his spine turn to jelly.
Barnaby could not have seen (no one could have seen what had happened to him onstage under the table. But if he had, he would never believe the attack to be entirely unmotivated. Who would? And if Esslyn appeared to have a reason for attacking Nicholas, might Nicholas not be supposed to have a reason for killing Esslyn? How airy-fairy now, thought Nicholas, did his reasoning seem that the other man was temporarily mad. Nicholas could see himself drawn into a whole area of emotional muddle and mess with questions and counterquestions all under that basilisk eye. (Could this be old Tom?) Thank God no one else had seen the confrontation. All he had to do was not get rattled and he’d be fine.
“What have you done to your hand?”
“What hand?”
“Let’s have a look.” An irritated grunt. “The other one, Nicholas.”
Nicholas held out his hand. Barnaby regarded it silently. Troy allowed himself a low whistle.
“Nasty,” said the chief inspector. “How did you manage that?”