“You’re very astute, Sergeant. Caro had married Gerald by that time, and produced Julia. She’d sometimes bring Julia to fittings, to be fussed and cooed over, but even then Julia showed little evidence of being suitably impressed.”
“Impressed by what, Mr. Godwin? I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Music in general, my dear, and in particular the whole tatty, overblown world of opera.” Sliding from the stool, he walked to the window and stood, hands in his pockets, looking down into the street. “It’s like a bug, a virus, and I think some people have a predisposition for catching it. Perhaps it’s genetic.” He turned and looked at her. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
Gemma fingered the costume sketches lying loose on the table, thinking of the chill that had gripped her as she heard Traviata’s finale for the first time. “This… predisposition has nothing to do with upbringing?”
“Certainly not in my case. Although my mother had a fondness for dance bands during the war.” Hands still in his pockets, he did a graceful little box-step, then gave Gemma a sideways glance. “I always imagined I was conceived after a night spent swinging to Glen Miller or Benny Goodman,” he added with a mocking half-smile. “As for Caroline and Gerald, I don’t think it ever occurred to them that Julia wouldn’t speak their language.”
“And Matthew?”
“Ah, well, Matty was a different story all together.” He turned away again as he spoke, then fell silent, gazing out the window.
Why, wondered Gemma, did she meet this stone wall every time she brought up Matthew Asherton? She remembered Vivian Plumley’s words: “We don’t talk about that,” and it seemed to her that twenty years should have provided more solace.
“Nothing was ever the same after Caro left the company,” Godwin said softly. He turned to Gemma. “Isn’t that what they always say, Sergeant, the best times of one’s life are only recognized in retrospect?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. It seems a bit cynical to me.”
“Ah, but you’ve contradicted yourself, Sergeant. I can see you do have an opinion.”
“Mr. Godwin,” Gemma said sharply, “my opinion is not in question here. What did you and Sir Gerald talk about last Thursday night?”
“Just the usual pleasantries. To be honest, I don’t remember. I can’t have been there more than five or ten minutes.” He came back to the stool and leaned against the edge of its seat. “Do take the weight off, Sergeant. You’ll go back to your station and accuse me of dreadful manners.”
Gemma kept firmly to her position, back against the worktable. She was finding this interview difficult enough without conducting the rest of it on a level with Tommy Godwin’s elegant belt buckle. “I’m fine, sir. Did Sir Gerald seem upset or behave in an unusual way?”
Glancing down his long nose, he said with mild sarcasm, “As in dancing about with a lampshade on his head? Really, Sergeant, he seemed quite the ordinary fellow. Still a bit charged up from the performance, but that’s only to be expected.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“We had a drink. But it’s Gerald’s custom to keep a bottle of good single-malt whiskey in his dressing room for visitors, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen him any the worse for it. Thursday night was no exception.”
“And you left the theater after your drink with Sir Gerald, Mr. Godwin?”
“Not straight away, no. I did have a quick word with one of the girls in Running Wardrobe.” The coins in his pocket jingled softly as he shifted position.
“How long a word, sir? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Do you remember what time you signed out with Danny?”
“Actually, Sergeant, I didn’t.” He ducked his head as sheepishly as an errant schoolboy. “Sign out, that is. Because I hadn’t signed in, and that’s quite frowned upon.”
“You hadn’t signed in? But I thought it was required of everyone.”
“In theory it is. But it’s not a high-security prison, my dear. I must admit I wasn’t feeling entirely sociable when I arrived on Thursday evening. The performance had already started when I came in through the lobby, so I just gave one of the ushers a wink and stood in the back.” He smiled at Gemma. “I’ve spent too much of my working life on my feet, I suppose, to feel comfortable staying in one position for very long.” As if to demonstrate, he left the drafting stool and came to stand near Gemma. Lifting a swatch of tartan satin from the table, he hefted it, then ran his fingers over its surface. “This ought to do nicely for Lucia-”
“Mr. Godwin. Tommy.” Gemma’s use of his first name caught his attention, and for an instant she saw again the stillness beneath his surface prattle. “What did you do when the performance finished?”
“I’ve told you, I went straight to Gerald’s-” He stopped as Gemma shook her head. “Oh, I see what you mean. How did I get to Gerald’s dressing room? It’s quite simple if you know your way around the warren, Sergeant. There’s a door in the auditorium that leads to the stage, but it’s unmarked, of course, and I doubt anyone in the audience would ever notice it.”
“And you left the same way? After you spoke to Sir Gerald and”-“Gemma paused and flipped back through her notes-“the girl in Running Wardrobe.”
“Got it in one, my dear.”
“I’m surprised you found the lobby doors still unlocked.”
“There are always a few stragglers, and the ushers have to tidy up.”
“And I don’t suppose you remember what time this was, or that anyone saw you leave,” Gemma said with an edge of sarcasm.
Rather contritely, Tommy Godwin said, “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. But then one doesn’t think about having to account for oneself, does one?”
Determined to break through his air of polished innocence, she pushed him a little more aggressively. “What did you do when you left the theater, Tommy?”
He propped one hip on the edge of the worktable and folded his arms. “Went home to my flat in Highgate, what else, dear Sergeant?”
“Alone?”
“I live alone, except for my cat, but I’m sure she’ll vouch for me. Her name is Salome, by the way, and I must say it suits-”
“What time did you arrive home? Do you by any chance remember that?”
“I do, actually.” He paused and smiled at her, as if anticipating praise. “I have a grandfather clock and I remember it chiming not long after I came in, so it must have been before midnight.”
Stalemate. He couldn’t prove his statements, but without further evidence she had no way to disprove them. Gemma stared at him, wondering what lay beneath his very plausible exterior. “I’ll need your address, Mr. Godwin, as well as the name of the person you spoke to after you saw Sir Gerald.” She tore a page from her notebook and watched as he wrote the information in a neat left-handed script. Running back through the interview in her mind, she realized what had been nagging her, and how deftly Tommy Godwin had sidestepped.
“Just how well did you know Connor Swann, Mr. Godwin? You never said.”
He carefully capped her pen and returned it, then began folding the paper into neat squares. “I met him occasionally over the years, of course. He wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, I must say. It baffled me that Gerald and Caro continued to put up with him when even Julia wouldn’t, but then perhaps they knew something about him that I didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow and gave Gemma a half-smile. “But then one’s judgment of character is always fallible, don’t you find, Sergeant?”
CHAPTER 8
The High Wycombe roundabout reminded Kincaid of a toy he’d had as a child, a set of interlocking plastic gears that had revolved merrily when one turned a central crank. But in this case five mini-roundabouts surrounded a large one, humans encased in steel boxes did the revolving, and no one in the Monday morning crush was the least bit merry. He saw an opening in the oncoming traffic and shot into it, only to be rewarded by a one-fingered salute from an impatient lorry driver. “Same to you, mate,” Kincaid muttered under his breath as he escaped gratefully from the last of the mini-roundabouts.