Clarissa's voice broke into her mood. 'Oh, here you are. I've sent Tolly away so that we can talk. Don't just stand there. Find yourself a chair.' On each side of the fireplace was a low, spoon-backed chair with carved arms and feet. Cordelia slid one forward on its casters and seated herself to the left of the dressing-table. Clarissa peered at herself in the glass then unscrewed a jar of cleansing pads and began wiping off her eye-shadow and mascara. Thin black-stained scraps of tissue crept over the polished mahogany. The left eye, wiped clean of make-up, looked diminished, almost lifeless, giving her suddenly the mask of a lopsided clown. She peered at the denuded lid, frowned, then said:
'You seem to have enjoyed yourself this evening. Perhaps I should remind you that you were hired as a detective not an after-dinner entertainer.'
It had been a long day and Cordelia couldn't summon the energy for anger.
'Perhaps if you were honest with them and told them why I'm here they'd be less likely to treat me as a fellow guest. Private detectives aren't expected to sing, at least I wouldn't think so. They probably wouldn't even want to eat with me. A private eye is hardly a comfortable dining companion.'
'What good would that do? If you don't mix with them, how can you watch them? Besides, the men like you. I've seen Ivo and Simon looking at you. Don't pretend that you don't know it. I hate that kind of sexual coyness.' 'I wasn't going to pretend anything.'
Clarissa was busy now with an immense jar of cleansing cream, smearing dollops of the cream over face and neck and wiping it off with strong upward sweeps of cotton wool. The discarded greasy balls were added to the mess on the dressing-table. Cordelia found herself studying Clarissa's face with as much intensity as did its owner. The eyes were a little too far apart, the skin was thick, unluminous, but almost without lines; the cheeks were flat and wide; the mouth with its pouting lower lip too small for beauty. But it was a face that could take on loveliness at Clarissa's will and even now, bandaged, unenhanced and sunk in repose, it held the assurance of its latent, eccentric beauty.
Suddenly, she asked:
'What do you think of Simon's playing?'
'I'm not really qualified to judge. Obviously, he has talent.'
She was about to add that he might make a more successful accompanist than solo performer, then thought better of it. It was perfectly true: she wasn't competent to judge. And she had the feeling that ignorant though she was, some kind of decision might depend on her answer.
'Oh, talent! That's common enough. One doesn't invest six thousand pounds or so in mere talent. The thing is, has he the guts to succeed? George thinks not, but that he may as well be given his chance.'
'Sir George knows him better than I do.'
Clarissa said sharply:
'But it isn't George's money is it? I'll consult Ambrose, but not until after the play. I can't worry about anything until then. He'll probably damn the poor boy. Ambrose is such a perfectionist. But he does know something about music. He'd be a better judge than George. If only Simon had taken up a stringed instrument, he might eventually try for a place in an orchestra. But the piano! Still, I suppose he could always work as an accompanist.'
Cordelia wondered whether she should point out that the job of a professional accompanist, so far from being an easy option, required a formidable combination of technical ability and musicality, but she reminded herself that she hadn't been employed to advise on Simon's career. And this talk of Simon was wasting time. She said:
'I think we should discuss the messages and our plans; for the weekend, especially tomorrow. We ought to have spoken earlier.'
'I know, but there hasn't really been time what with the rehearsal and Ambrose showing off his castle. Anyway, you know what you're here for. If there are any more messages, I don't want to receive them. I don't want to be shown them… I don't want to be told about them. It's vital that I get through tomorrow. If I can only get back my confidence as an actress, I can face almost anything.'
'Even the knowledge of who is doing this to you?'
'Even that.'
Cordelia asked:
'How many of the people here know about the messages?'
Clarissa had finished cleaning her face and now began removing the varnish from her nails. The smell of acetone overlaid the smell of scent and make-up.
'Tolly knows. I haven't any secrets from Tolly. Anyway she was with me in my dressing-room when some of them were brought in by the doorman, the ones sent by post to the theatre. I expect Ivo knows; there's nothing happens in the West End that he doesn't get to hear about. And Ambrose. He was with me in my dressing-room at the Duke of Clarence when one was pushed under the door. By the time he'd picked it up for me and I'd opened it, whoever it was had gone. The corridor was empty. But anyone could have got in. Backstage at the Clarence is like a warren and Albert Betts used to drink and wasn't always on the door when he should have been. They've sacked him now, but he was still working there when the note was delivered. And my husband knows, of course. Simon doesn't, unless Tolly has told him. I can't think why she should.'
'And your cousin?'
'Roma doesn't know and, if she did, she. wouldn't care.' 'Tell me about Miss Lisle.'
^There's not much to tell and what there is, is boring. We're first cousins, but George has told you that. It's quite a common story. My father made a sensible marriage and his younger brother ran off with a barmaid, left the Army, drank and made a general mess of his life, then expected Daddy to help out. And he did, at least as far as Roma was concerned. She was always staying with us when I was a child, particularly after Uncle died. Poor Little Orphan Annie. Glum, badly dressed and perpetually miserable. Even Daddy couldn't stand her for long. He was the most marvellous person, I adored him. But she was such a bore, and so plain, worse than she is now. Daddy was one of those people who really couldn't bear ugliness, particularly in women. He loved gaiety, wit, beauty. He just couldn't make himself look at a plain face.'
Cordelia thought that Daddy, who sounded like a self-satisfied humbug, must have spent most of his life with his eyes shut, depending, of course, on his standard of ugliness. Clarissa added:
'And she wasn't a bit grateful.'
'Should she have been?'
Clarissa seemed to feel that the question deserved serious thought, or as much as she could spare from the business of filing her nails.
'Oh, I think so. He didn't have to take her in. And she could hardly expect him to treat her the same as me, his own child.' 'He could have tried.'
'But that's not reasonable, and you know it. You wouldn't behave like that so why expect him to. You really must guard against becoming just a bit of a prig. Men don't like it.'
Cordelia said:
'I don't much like it myself. Someone once told me that it's the result of having an atheist father, a convent education and a nonconformist conscience.'
There was silence between them, not uncompanionable. Then Cordelia said on impulse:
'These notes – could Miss Tolgarth have anything to do with them?'
'Tolly! Of course not. Whatever put that idea into your head? She's devoted to me. You mustn't be put off by her manner. She's always been like that. But we've been together since I was a child. Tolly adores me. If you can't see that you're not much of a detective. Besides, she can't type. The messages are typed in case you hadn't noticed.' Cordelia said gravely:
'You should have told me about her child. If I'm to help I need to know anything that might be relevant.' She waited, apprehensive, for Clarissa's response. But the hands, busy with their self-ministrations, didn't falter.