A Question of Identity (3 page)

Rona laughed. ‘They'd probably find more than they bargained for! But as far as ESP goes, we've always been telepathic, haven't we?'

‘Well, that's only to be expected – we're twins. It would be quite different if a stranger was involved, so don't even
think
about going up on stage!'

‘Don't worry, I've no intention of doing so! I'll be interested to see what happens, though.'

‘Mind you report back.' Lindsey checked her watch. ‘I should be going.'

‘Me too, though I'll extend my lunch hour and take Gus for a walk. It'll be late when we get back from the theatre, and he'll have to make do with the garden.'

They joined the small queue at the till, their minds already on the afternoon ahead and the tasks awaiting them, and it wasn't until an hour later, as Rona felt in her bag for her front door key, that her fingers encountered the school photo. She drew it out with an exclamation of annoyance. Lindsey must have slipped it in while they were waiting at the till. Well, she'd ignore it, she decided, and wait for her to raise the subject. And with a passing glance at the blacked-out figure that was causing so much interest, she dropped it back in her bag and opened the front door.

R
ona saw them as soon as she walked into the Bacchus – Hugh and a woman she didn't recognize, deep in conversation in one of the booths. They'd not seen her, but they would, and she'd no option but to speak to them.

As a waiter led her to their reserved table, she paused at their booth.

‘Hello, Hugh,' she said lightly.

He looked up, and in his startled expression, she saw that for a heartbeat he'd thought she was Lindsey. Then he came to his feet.

‘Rona – hello.' He paused, colour tingeing his pale face. ‘I don't believe you've met my work colleague, Mia Campbell? Mia – my ex-sister-in-law, Rona Parish.'

His companion nodded with a faint smile.

‘Max not with you?' Hugh asked, and Rona sensed the fear that he might have to ask her to join them.

‘He's parking the car,' she said. ‘We're meeting the Ridgeways here. Since you're eating early, I presume you're also going to the theatre?'

‘We are, yes. It should be . . . very interesting.'

‘Different, anyway!' Her smile encompassed them both. ‘But don't let me keep you from your meal. Enjoy the show!' And she walked to her own table, where the waiter had already pulled out her chair. Max came in as she was seating herself, and, seeing Hugh, exchanged a word on his way over.

‘Well, well, well!' he said softly, as he joined her. ‘What have we here?'

‘Lindsey did say he had a girlfriend.'

‘Woman friend might be more accurate. Who is she? I didn't wait for an introduction.'

‘A colleague, he said, so I'd guess she works at Hesketh's. She wasn't particularly forthcoming, but then there's no reason she should have been.'

‘Especially when she learned who you were.'

‘Oh, I doubt that would worry her; she looked very sure of herself, though she mightn't have enjoyed being introduced as a work colleague.'

‘Could be that's all she is,' Max said.

The layout of the wine bar, where the tables were separated by five-foot high partitions, meant that, once seated, they couldn't see Hugh nor he them – possibly a relief all round, and as Magda and Gavin joined them, Rona put the unexpected meeting out of her mind. But not before she'd filed away her impressions of ‘Mia' to pass on to Lindsey: red-haired, self-assured, attractive. And Max was right – more woman than girl; she looked in her early forties, the same age as Hugh.

‘Before I forget, Mama sent her love,' Magda was saying. ‘She rang at the most inopportune moment, bless her, and when I phoned back, it was the answer machine. I meant to try again, but never got round to it.'

‘I must call in and see her,' Rona said. Paola King had been an important part of her childhood. With her flamboyant clothes, her rich laugh and obvious joy in life, she'd been a stark contrast to her own mother, and their house – where Rona was always welcome – seemed deliciously foreign, with religious pictures and crucifixes on the walls, and the pervading scent of exotic breads and pastries, rich meat stews and succulent pastas. During Rona's early teens, it had been more of a home to her than her own.

‘How is she?' she added. ‘And your father?'

‘Both fighting fit,' Magda replied. ‘Though as always, Papa has trouble getting a word in!'

Rona laughed, remembering the quiet Englishman who was happy to let his beloved wife hold sway. It was from George King – ‘Just call me King George!' – that Magda had inherited her height of marginally under six feet, which Gavin topped by a few inches. They made a striking couple, she with her heavy-lidded dark eyes and black hair and he ash-blond and blue-eyed.

They ordered a selection of tapas, and as the meal progressed, Magda and Rona exchanged news on mutual friends, while the men discussed rugby.

‘So what's the form this evening?' Max asked, as their coffee was served. ‘Does this bloke hypnotize people for a solid two and a half hours?'

Magda gave a quick shake of her head. ‘Oh no, he's the star attraction and doesn't appear till the second half. First, we have a conjuror, and someone demonstrating telepathy.'

‘In other words,' Gavin remarked, ‘we're in for a wacky evening!'

‘You and Max can amuse yourselves by trying to see how it's done.'

Rona stirred her coffee. ‘Lindsey and I were discussing telepathy over lunch,' she said.

‘I suppose it's run-of-the-mill to you two!'

‘It happens quite often, yes, but only with each other.'

‘That's a relief, I must say!' Gavin commented. ‘I shouldn't like anyone to know what
I'm
thinking!'

‘Then you'd better keep a low profile,' Magda told him. ‘We're in the fourth row!'

Rona looked surprised. ‘But the seats aren't numbered, are they?'

‘They have been for several months. It's much more civilized now; we don't have to rush in and bag places before ordering interval drinks! Even so, we should probably be going. We want time to get settled and look at the programme.'

The Darcy Hall was a two-minute walk away, just the other side of the car park, and they joined a stream of people making their way there. The billboard outside displayed a head and shoulders photograph of the man they'd come to see – bald, smiling broadly, wearing a bow tie.

‘I wouldn't buy a used car from him,' Max muttered in Rona's ear.

The Hall, splendidly decorated in green and gold, offered a less expensive alternative to the Carlton Hotel for wedding receptions and dances, since its tiered seats could be removed as required. It was also the venue for concerts, lectures and, of course, plays, being the home of the Acorn Amateur Dramatic Society.

The fourth row seemed uncomfortably near the front, Rona thought uneasily as they took their aisle seats. She wondered where Hugh and his companion were seated, but had no intention of looking for them. The little theatre was filling rapidly, and there was an undercurrent of excited anticipation.

The telepath, Rona noted from the programme, rejoiced in the name of Jerome Hilton. She hoped fervently that he wouldn't divine a kindred spirit in her. Then the lights dimmed, the orchestra struck up, and the entertainment was under way.

From the start, it was an evening of audience participation. The conjuror, first to occupy the stage, lost no time in calling for volunteers, and two giggling girls from the front row were persuaded to respond. The routine was pretty run-of-the-mill: watches were removed and reappeared in unexpected places, chiffon scarves were produced from the girls' pockets, a series of objects taken from a supposedly empty box.

Then another couple of volunteers – man and wife this time – took their place, and were suitably amazed when coins appeared in their ears, a live mouse was retrieved from a shirt pocket, and a box of matches placed under one of four beakers apparently kept changing position. The act continued in much the same vein, with varying sets of volunteers, for about forty minutes, before the conjuror was applauded off the stage, bowing repeatedly as he went.

‘Old hat, but he's quite good,' Max said grudgingly. ‘I'm damned if I could see how he did it.'

As the last of the applause died away, the stage lights were lowered, the triumphant notes of the orchestra sank to a low, rhythmic beat, and a very different personage appeared on stage – Jerome Hilton, no less, resplendent with goatee beard and a velvet jacket. Rona was only aware her hands were clenched when Max patted them reassuringly. She glanced sideways at him, and they exchanged a smile.

Hilton took his time in establishing his routine, starting in a manner reminiscent of a spiritualist meeting. ‘Is there anyone in the audience with the initials C. A. B.?'

‘Safe bet!' muttered Max, and sure enough a hand was raised.

‘Could you stand up, please, sir?'

Rather unwillingly, a bushy-haired young man came to his feet, blinking as a spotlight picked him out.

‘And you are?'

‘Colin Andrew Bradshaw.'

‘Quite so. And you have a sister, I believe, whose name is Alison Jane?'

Rona, who, with the rest of the row, had turned to see who was speaking, saw what seemed to be genuine surprise on his face.

‘Yes,' he stammered, ‘that's right.'

‘And your father's initials are the same as yours, are they not, in his case standing for Charles Arthur Bradshaw?'

‘How . . .?'

Hilton smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. You may sit down.' He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Now, I believe we have a Mrs Elsie Breen in the audience?'

A woman in the row behind them gave a startled exclamation. ‘Jack!' she accused in a stage whisper. ‘You never told them we were coming?'

There was laughter from those close enough to hear.

‘I assure you, madam,' Hilton said smoothly, ‘I've not been in contact with any member of your family. But I can confidently state that you received a letter this morning, from your sister Mary in Australia.'

Another gasp. ‘Jack, you
must
. . .'

‘Who said she hopes to come over for Christmas. I'm right, am I not?'

‘A relic from the Victorian Music Hall!' Gavin whispered. ‘Spot on, though.'

‘They're plants,' Max said dismissively, ‘the lot of them!' And, before Rona realized his intention, he rose to his feet. ‘Could you tell me, please, what I have in my pockets?' he challenged.

The spotlight that had illuminated Mrs Breen switched to Max, and there was a surprised hush as everyone awaited the man's reaction. He smiled, placing the tips of his fingers together.

‘Certainly, sir. Just give me a moment.' Again, his eyes closed briefly. ‘Your inside jacket pocket,' he began, ‘contains a wallet.'

‘Like, I imagine, that of every man in the audience!'

Hilton ignored him. ‘Brown leather, with the initials M. R. A. in gold, which stand for – let me see . . . Mark? – no,
Max
. . . Roland? . . . Allerdyce. Is that correct? The wallet contains Visa credit and debit cards – I'll refrain from quoting the numbers! – receipts with today's date from Waterstone's, the Bacchus Wine Bar and Marsborough Art Supplies, three twenty-pound notes and two ten – oh, and a library ticket.'

Rona felt Max stiffen incredulously.

‘Am I right, sir? Perhaps you would satisfy everyone's curiosity? And while you're doing so, I can tell you that your trouser pocket contains a mobile phone, a handkerchief, three pound coins, a fifty-pence piece and several twenties – four, I believe.'

Max had opened his wallet and was checking the banknotes, knowing as he did so that the man would be proved correct. The audience, anticipating the result, broke into applause, and, highly embarrassed, he resumed his seat.

‘That'll teach you!' Rona said under her breath.

More volunteers were called for, and six people made their way up on stage. An outsize pack of playing cards was produced; one of the men blindfolded Hilton, who then proceeded to guess which card was selected by each of the volunteers in turn and held up to the audience. By this stage, no one was surprised at his hundred per cent accuracy, though the cards were repeatedly shuffled and cut by the people taking part.

Next, they were asked to write words or even short sentences on a whiteboard and display them to the audience, and again Hilton had no difficulty reciting them.

‘There must be some kind of signal,' Gavin murmured.

‘Then it's your turn to challenge him!' Max retorted feelingly.

‘Not on your life!'

The act came to an end, Hilton was applauded enthusiastically, the safety curtain descended and the lights came up. Having escaped involvement, Rona breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I'm ready for that drink!' Max commented, as they made their way to the bar.

‘How does telepathy work, Rona?' Magda asked, sipping her gin and tonic. ‘I mean, what do you have to do?'

‘Me? I don't do anything!'

‘But you admitted you and Lindsey are telepathic.'

‘Yes, but nothing as concrete as what he demonstrated; it's more emotions – thoughts, feelings of fear or intense happiness.'

‘And you realize they're coming from her?'

‘Of course. It's as though she's inside my head.'

‘Weird!' Gavin pronounced. ‘We should get you up on stage – make some money out of you!'

‘Not in a million years!' Rona said emphatically. ‘Anyway, you can't do it to order.'

‘Jerome Hilton can.'

‘He's a professional, I'm definitely not.'

‘You could probably tune in to other people if you wanted to,' Magda mused.