right, David?"
Audley frowned. "Burton who?"
"But you must remember! He was the fellow you liked so much once you found out he was a rugger-player. Didn't he have a trial for Wales, or something? And you said he'd come down in the world, to play the lead at Stratford?"
"Eh?"
"I don't know what you're talking about either," snapped Bradford. "But you're right about Richard Burton—in fact he's the only one they agree on, Palfrey and the studio. But who told you about him—the Palfrey cast list is supposed to dummy5
be ultra secret—who told you?"
"No one told me." Stein continued to look at Audley. "But David there knows. He's just playing dumb, that's all."
Audley drew himself up stiffly. "I am not playing dumb, damn it! Burton . . . yes, he was an actor from somewhere—
but I can't be expected to remember actors' names. I don't go to the theatre."
"You did once. In fact, you did several times—with me—to Stratford. . . in fact. . . in fact, I taught you to drive that summer, in that terrible old car of yours—'50, or '51—and we were staying with those girls in that cottage near Banbury . . .
and you drove home every night drunk as a lord—damn it, David . . . the Stratford season we went to—" Stein spread his hands and looked around for support "—he had these tickets for the Stratford Shakespeare season, and there were these two girls—and he had this car he couldn't drive, and I was teaching him . . . and we saw the whole season— Richard II, with Redgrave as Richard, and both parts of Henry IV and Henry V, with Burton as Prince Hal—and The Tempest with Redgrave as Prospero—and he was also a cracking good Hotspur in Henry IV—" he rounded on Audley "—damn it, David . . . you had these matinee tickets, and we were stuck in the middle of this schoolgirl outing, from Benenden or some such place—and Redgrave was massaging his wife's right buttock and left breast like mad on stage, and these little schoolgirls were ooh-ing and aah-ing at every squeeze in the audience alongside of us—you have to remember that!"
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Roche covertly observed the lamplight shadows twitch on Audley's face as the circumstantial tale unfolded around him, and found himself questioning why the big man continued to resist it.
"Yes . . . well—" Audley rocked on his stool as though embarrassed by the return of the memory "—we did see the Histories season at Stratford, I grant you. But I don't remember any schoolgirls wetting their pants next to me . . .
and I certainly don't see what that's got to do with Bradford's curious obsessions now, either."
Nor do I," said Bradford.
"But I do." Jilly ignored him. "They were all in the Stratford season— you're right, Davey. I only saw Richard II and The Tempest... but they were all in it—"
"Richard Burton's yummy," said Lexy. "I've seen him in something in the West End—and in a film. He'd be scrumptious with Elizabeth Taylor, I should think. And I wouldn't mind him tackling me in a loose scrum!"
"Shut up, Lexy "admonished Jilly. "Davey—she's cast the film from the Stratford season, is what you're saying—is that it?"
Stein nodded. "That's exactly it. Quayle played Falstaff, and Badel was Pistol . . . Griffiths was Glendower . . . plus Redgrave and Burton and Jefford—coincidence just doesn't stretch so far, it has to be intention."
"She saw the plays, of course," said Jilly. "And she liked what she saw."
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"Which is not to be wondered at—it was pure magic, that season," said Stein. "Quite unforgettable!"
"Well—so what's all the fuss about?" Lexy looked around. "I mean, if they're all so marvellous and magic and unforgettable—?" She zeroed in on the American. "Mike?"
Bradford sighed. "Maybe . . . But it doesn't work like that."
You mean Hollywood doesn't work like that," said Jilly. "I mean you can't pick names out of a hat," said Bradford heavily. "It's who's available, and who's under contract, and who's box office—and you can't just cast a Hollywood movie straight out of Shakespeare hits from Stratford-upon-Avon, England, no matter how good the cast was—or how wet the schoolgirls' pants were. It's a crazy idea."
"Olivier did it with Henry V and Hamlet," countered Jilly.
"But they were Shakespeare plays—this is a goddamn epic."
So why not make it in England?"
"Like Caesar and Cleopatra? Honey, you must be joking!"
Bradford reached for a bottle.
Stein leaned forward. "But Miss Palfrey isn't joking."
"The hell she isn't!" Bradford refilled his glass. "Just a simple little old spinster lady living in seclusion with the blinds drawn to keep out the sunlight. . ." he drank deeply.
"What's she really like?" asked Jilly.
"Huh! That would be telling!"
"Tell us, Mike," asked Lexy.
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"Sure. For five thousand bucks on account, and twenty thousand to come . . . she's a two-timing, double-crossing, obstinate, secretive, avaricious, scheming old hag, who'd make your Madame Peyrony look like Florence Nightingale, Lex honey." Bradford drained his glass. "Or ... to put it another way ... I haven't the faintest idea. Okay?"
"What d'you mean—you haven't the faintest idea?"
"And where does five thousand dollars—or twenty thousand—
come in?" asked Stein. "It's what they're paying you? For what?"
"Twenty thousand doesn't come in, the way it's looking—"
Bradford nodded at Audley "—unless David there can pull the rabbit out of the hat." The nod was converted into a slow shake of the head. "Because you're my last hope, Old buddy."
"Then you've got no hope, old buddy." Audley looked down his nose at his friend. "It's not my field, the so-called
'historical' novel."
"Archie Forbes said you could."
"Archie Forbes at Cambridge?" said Jilly suddenly. " That Archie Forbes, d'you mean?"
"Yeah— that Archie Forbes—Dr Archibald Forbes of Rylands College—" Bradford gave Audley another nod "— his old tutor and drinking buddy."
"My old brigadier and eminence grise," said Audley. "Why don't you split your bounty-money with him, for God's sake—
and leave me alone!"
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"Because he doesn't know—that's why. And you do."
"Know what?" asked Jilly.
"Crap!" exclaimed Bradford. "All you have to do is think—"
Roche stirred himself. "Think what? Know what?"
Bradford turned towards him, screwing up his eyes in the darkness. "I took the goddamn book to Forbes at Cambridge
—"
"But why?" asked Jilly.
"Because he's an expert on medieval history, honey. They gave me his name in UCLA—they said whoever wrote it is a historian."
"But Antonia Palfrey wrote it, Mike."
Bradford spread his hands. "And who the hell's Antonia Palfrey? It's just a name on a book jacket—a nom-de-plume name, not a real one."
"But there's her picture—"
"Sure. But with no address. And she just turns up at intervals, out of the blue . . . sometimes in London, but mostly in New York . . . and then disappears again before the press can catch her. Or anyone else."
"But her publishers must know where she lives, Mike."
"And her lawyers," said Stein.
"Huh! Well... if they know, they're not telling me!"
“There are ways of finding out," said Stein.
"Sure there are ways." Bradford pointed at Audley. "He's one dummy5
way—"