“Stung.”
“What by?”
“A wasp.”
“A wasp’s nest in the wings? There’s novelty.”
“I did it yesterday.”
“Ah.” Barnaby smiled and nodded, as if he found this suspiciously unsound explanation quite satisfactory, then said, “I understand it was you who started the rumor of Kitty’s infidelity.”
“It wasn’t a rumor,” retorted Nicholas hotly. “I know I was wrong to tell Avery, and I’m very sorry, but it wasn’t a rumor. I actually saw her in the lighting box with David Smy.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. They were the only two people in the building.”
“Apart from yourself.”
“Well … of course.”
“So we only have your word for it that anyone was with Kitty.”
“She’d hardly have been reeling and writhing about up there on her own.”
“But she might have been there with you.”
‘‘Me!”
“Why not? I’d have thought you were a much more likely contender than David.” Nicholas looked more trapped than flattered.
“Why on earth would I want to tell tales about myself? It doesn’t make sense.”
“You might have wanted things out in the open.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“What happened to your hand, Nicholas?”
“I told you.”
“Forget the wasps. It’s November, not mid-July. What happened to your hand?”
“I don’t remember… .”
“All right. What happened to your thumb?”
“A splinter.” Nicholas seized gladly at this opportunity to give a brief and truthful reply.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“How?” Barnaby’s look became more concentrated, and Nicholas closed his eyes against the glare.
“I’ve forgotten …”
“Nicholas.” Nicholas opened his eyes. The glare was muted now. Tom looked slightly more like his old self. Nicholas, who hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, let it out gratefully; his backbone unjelled a little; his shoulders relaxed.
“Yes, Tom?”
“Why did you believe that Esslyn was trying to kill you?”
Nicholas gasped as if a pail of cold water had been thrown in his face. He struggled to regain his equilibrium and formulate a sensible reply. At the moment his brain seemed unraveled, nothing but kaleidoscopic fragments. All he could do was stall.
“What?” He tried a light laugh. It came out a strangled croak. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” Rosa. Of course. He had forgotten Rosa. Tom had stopped looking like his old self. He spoke.
“I’ve been sitting in this chair for a very long time, Nicholas. And I’m getting very tired. You start messing me about, and you’ll find yourself in the slammer. Got that?”
Nicholas swallowed. “Yes.”
“Right. The truth, then.”
“Well … my hand … he did that with his rings. Turned them all feeling inward and squeezed tight. Then, near the end of the play when I crawl under the table, he came after me. His cape cut all the light off. I was trapped. Then he tried to strangle me. …” Nicholas trailed lamely off. Barnaby leaned forward and studied his lily-white throat. “Oh—he didn’t actually touch me.”
“I see,” said the chief inspector. “He tried to strangle you. But he didn’t actually touch you.”
Nicholas fell silent. How could he convey the feelings he had experienced during those dreadful minutes when, half-paralyzed with fear, he had shrunk away from Esslyn’s jackal breath and groping, bony fingers. He stumbled into speech, explaining about cutting a page and a half and bringing Kitty on.
“And you really believe that it was only her entrance that stopped him attacking you?”
“I did then … yes.”
“But temporarily?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Obviously anyone really determined balked at one attempt will look for an opportunity to make a second.”
“That didn’t occur to me. I just felt that if only I could get offstage, I’d be safe.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
“I know it sounds unlikely, Tom.”
“It sounds bloody ridiculous! How much more likely that you come off frightened and angry. Take the razor, nip off to the loo, remove the tape, and bingo! You get him before he gets you. Problem solved.”
“That’s not true. ”
“Cop a plea of self-defense,” said Barnaby cheerfully, “get off with three years.”
“No!”
“Why go straight to the props table?”
“I just sat down for a second. I felt shaken. I’d got this splinter. It hurt like hell. I went down to the men’s dressing room.” Nicholas could hear the sentences clattering out through chattering teeth. Each one less convincing than the one before.
“Anyone see you?”
“… I don’t know … yes … Rosa …”
“What on earth was Rosa doing in the men’s dressing room?”
“She wasn’t. I couldn’t find any tweezers, so I went next door.”
“Who was in the men’s, then?”
“No one.” Barnaby tutted. “But … if I’d been messing with the razor, I’d have taken the tape off, then gone straight back, surely? To put it back before it was missed.”
“Oh, I don’t know. If I’d been messing with the razor, I’d have made sure I had a good excuse to be downstairs and someone saw me going about my lawful business.”
“You don’t think I rammed that splinter down my thumb on purpose? It was bloody agonizing.” Nicholas plucked at the square of grubby Band-Aid. “Do you want to have a look?”
Barnaby shook his head, then slowly got to his feet. “See if you can rustle up some tea, Sergeant. I’m parched.”
Nicholas waited for a moment and, when Barnaby made no attempt to continue the conversation, also got shakily to his feet … “Is that all, then, Tom?”
“For now.”
“D’you think”—Nicholas appeared almost to gag on the words—“I ought to find a solicitor?”
“Everyone should have a solicitor, Nicholas,” said Barnaby, with gently smiling jaws. “You never know when they’re going to come in handy.”
It was about ten minutes later, when Nicholas was putting on his coat, that the odd thing struck him. Barnaby had not asked the first question that even the most inexpert of investigators must surely have put. And the chief inspector, as Nicholas’s still twitching nerve ends could testify, was far from inexpert. He had not asked Nicholas why Esslyn would wish to kill him. There must be a reason for this very basic omission. Nicholas did not believe for a moment it was either lack of care or forgetfulness. Perhaps Barnaby thought he already knew. In which case he knows a damn sight more than I do, thought Nicholas. He decided to look into this further, and retraced his steps to the ladies’ dressing room.
Long afterward, when she was able to look back with some degree of equanimity on the first night of Amadeus and its shocking aftermath, Deidre marveled at the length of time it had taken her to realize that there was only one place where her father felt safe and cared for when she was absent. Only one place where he could possibly be.
The day center, Laurel Lodge, was nearly a mile from the middle of town. Two custard-yellow minibuses, Phoenix One and Phoenix Two, collected the elderly and infirm at their homes and ferried them to and from the center each weekday. So Mr. Tibbs knew the way. In fact, it was not complicated. You just took the B416 as if you were going to Slough, then tapered off on a side road toward Woodbum Common. The distance could be covered in about an hour. Or less, if you were running your heart out and pacing yourself against dark, unreasoned fears.
Deidre remembered the center when she had been hunched over the electric fire in the kitchen being urged by the policewoman to swallow some hot, sweet tea and try not to worry. Now, she sat once more in the back of the Escort warmed by the drink and above all by the knowledge that the hopeless, misdirected floundering was over and that they were definitely on their way to where her father would be waiting. She struggled to keep calm, knowing that her attitude was bound to affect the situation when they met.