“Animals is extra,” he said when they reached the car.
“What?”
“He is yours, ain’t he?” The man nodded at a small dog who had been patiently waiting outside the main doors and was now trotting alongside.
“Oh …” Deidre hesitated, looking down at the creature. The gargantuan task of trying to explain her lack of comprehension as to his background, ownership, and reason for being there was quite beyond her. “Yes.”
The roads were almost deserted, and they covered the twelve miles to Causton in under twenty minutes. It was not until they drew up outside the Latimer that the large snag in Deidre’s plan became apparent. There was no sign of life. The building was dark, the policeman outside had gone. Deidre stood on the pavement, having realized that not only were her house keys in her bag, so also were her keys to the Latimer.
The cabbie, all his suspicions reawakened, tooted his horn. Deidre moved toward the theater noticing as she did so a tall, gangling scarecrow of a figure with wild spiraling hair suddenly reflected in the glass. She pushed on one of the doors. It didn’t move. She leaned on it then with both hands, more for support than anything else, and felt it shift slightly. Then she pushed with all her might. It was like trying to roll a giant boulder up a hill. Deidre stepped into the darkened foyer. Surely, she thought, there must be someone still here, or why would the door be unlocked? Perhaps, with all the hubbub (light years ago, it now seemed), they’d just been forgotten. At least she would be able to get her bag. She regarded the dim outline of the steps leading, like a cliff face, to the auditorium, and the immense reaches of carpet to be covered before she could start to climb.
She took the first step. And tottered two more. Then light flooded the foyer as the auditorium doors swung open and two figures emerged. Dazzled, Deidre saw the still-moving doors fly slowly up into the air. The steps followed. Then she felt the sudden hard thud of the floor against the back of her head.
Exit, Pursued by a Bear
The Barnabys were at breakfast. Cully was enjoying some fresh pineapple and Greek yogurt. Barnaby was squaring up to the wobbly challenge of a half-cooked egg, and Joyce was putting two sprigs of virbumum bodnantense in a glass vase on a tray.
She was feeling very tired, but much calmer than she had expected. She was still living with the moment when Esslyn turned and, with the thin red weeping line across his throat, had put his hands on her shoulders and stared disbelievingly into her eyes. But she had talked about it over and over again to Cully, which had helped, and then, when he had finally come home at two o’clock bringing Deidre, to Tom. But as for offering any constructive ideas as to the reason for that terrible death, or on how or when the tape could have been removed, Joyce was as uninformative as the rest of the company. She felt keenly frustrated that this should be so. This was the first time in their long and happy marriage that she had been directly involved in one of her husband’s cases and in a position where, it might be supposed, she could be of some help. But waiting in the scene dock, intensely aware of her companions, when she had brought each of their names individually to the forefront of her mind and tried to imagine that it belonged to a murderer, all she experienced were mounting feelings of incredulity. She could not believe that even the hateful oily Everards could have set in motion such a formidably final train of events.
Tom had been neither surprised nor disappointed at her response. He knew how much she had to do during the course of the play and how little time was spent standing around and had had no expectations in that direction. What he hoped for was that, in casting her mind back over the weeks of rehearsal and clubroom conversation as he suggested, Joyce might remember a remark, an expression, a reaction that, put into the later context of Esslyn’s demise, might prove to be significant. Now, tuning in once more to the early morning conversation (still about Amadeus), she heard Cully say that at least Harold couldn’t complain on his first night about lack of verismo. Unbowed under her father’s criticism that such a remark showed a certain lack of sensitivity, she then asked if he thought the culprit was the merry widow in cahoots.
“Possibly.”
“I bet it is. Like in all those films noirs. The Milkman Always Comes Twice. ”
“Don’t be rude, Cully.”
“Alternatively,” said Barnaby, shaking out a tablet, “it seems to be even-stevens on Diedre.”
“Poor Diedre,” Joyce said automatically. Then she tutted at her husband’s pill-taking, which she insisted on regarding as an amusing affectation.
“You ought to stop saying that. Everybody ought.”
“What do you mean, dear?” asked her mother.
“This persistent attitude toward her as an object of pathos.”
“It’s understandable,” argued Joyce. “She’s had a very sad life. You’ve had all the advantages. You should be kinder.”
“Since when does having all the advantages make you kind? You and Dad are sorry for her. That’s awful—so patronizing. Pitying people isn’t a kindness. It makes them supine. And those who seek it don’t deserve respect.” Barnaby looked at his bright, beautiful, clever daughter as she continued, “Last time I was home, Mum was going on about her losing some weight and getting contact lenses. I mean, it’s so sentimental. The Cinderella bit. Deidre’s quite interesting and intelligent enough as she is. I should think she could wipe the floor with the lot of them at the Latimer given half a chance. She’s got a grasp of stage management that would put Cardinal Wolsey to shame.” She added, as her mother took down a jar of instant coffee, “Don’t give her that, for godsake. It’s going to be hard enough waking up this morning as it is. Use one of my filters.”
Joyce took one of the Marks and Spencer individual coffee filters out of its box and set it on a cup. Cully always brought what she called protective rations home with her. One of the reasons her father looked forward to her visits so much. Now, she said, “Could I have the vegetable lasagne tonight? It’s in the freezer.”
“I’m doing a bouillabaisse. ”
“Oh, Ma—don’t be silly.”
“It’s all in here.” Joyce indicated a book lying open near the breadboard. “Very plainly explained. I’m sure I shall cope perfectly.”
Cully finished her pineapple, crossed to her mother, and picked up the book. “Floyd on Fish? It’s not like you to be seduced by the telly.”
“Oh, I didn’t buy it. Harold gave it to me.” “Harold?” said her husband. “Harold wouldn’t give you the fluff from his navel.”
“He didn’t buy it, either. It turned up at the theater anonymously. Toast…”
Cully snatched the bread from the jaws of the toaster in the nick of time, saying, “What a peculiar thing to give to a place that doesn’t sell food.”
“I don’t think it was for the theater. It was addressed to him personally.”
“When did it arrive?” asked Barnaby.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Joyce put some butter in a saucer. “A few days ago.” The coffee drip-dripped through the fine-meshed gauze, its fragrance mingling with the scent of the Viburnum.