All My Enemies (21 page)

Bren came by a little later. “Got something here should cheer you up,” he said. He reached into the bag he was carrying and produced a tiny bottle which he handed to Kathy. It was full of an amber fluid, like liquid honey.

“What is it?”

“Read the label.”

Kathy looked. “Leichner New Formula Spirit Gum No 165. The adhesive for beards and moustaches. Apply with brush and allow to become tacky before applying the crêpe hair. 25 cc. Leichner, London, England.”

“We gave the girl a sniff. She thinks it’s very like the smell she remembers from the man who attacked her. Leon’s getting his lads to go back over the fibre traces from Angela’s bedroom and Carole Weeks’s clothing, make sure there weren’t any black crêpe fibres we missed, or gum residues.”

ON THURSDAY, AUNT MARY
said they were going to have a preliminary costume fitting for some of the cast before the evening rehearsal, and Kathy agreed to pick her up at the Three Crowns at seven. When she got there, however, the cast were just arriving.

“I’m sorry, Kathy,” Aunt Mary said. “I got it mixed up. We have to do the fittings during the rehearsal. Do you mind waiting till we’re done, pet?” Her arms were full of bundles of cloth, a tape measure round her neck, eyes alight with anticipation.

“Aren’t you tired, Mary? You’ve been at it all day.”

“Oh, you don’t get tired when you’re busy, pet.”

“What about food? Aren’t you hungry?”

“We had something at Ruth’s. But what about you? You’ll be starving, I dare say.”

“That’s all right. I’ll get something downstairs.”

There was one exhausted sausage roll under a plastic cover on the bar, and Kathy returned with this and a half of lager to the rehearsal room upstairs. She tried to slip unobtrusively into a corner seat, but Stafford Nesbit spotted her and she suddenly found him dragging a chair to her side. “Sergeant Kolla. How very nice to see you again.” His angular elbows and knees stuck out like the limbs of a tree, trapping her in the corner. “We missed you on Monday night.”

“Monday?”

“Yes, your colleagues paid us a visit. They questioned us extensively for the names of people who bought tickets for
The Lady Vanishes.
Caused quite a stir.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“Some people have had follow-up visits at home too, I understand. So very thorough, but about six months too late, one would have thought. One wonders indeed what has caused all this latter-day activity. Could there be new evidence? Or is one to detect the hand of a new investigating officer behind all this, one more thorough and more determined than her predecessors?”

He raised one eyebrow conspiratorially, leaning forward unnervingly close. When Kathy didn’t reply, he went on, “Your aunt has confessed all to me, Kathy. She has told me that you have recently been recruited to the top murder investigation unit in Scotland Yard—indeed, are practically running it! So you see, there is no need to hide your light under a bushel where I am concerned. Tell me the truth, what are you seeking tonight? Let me assist you.”

Kathy shook her head, exasperated, by her aunt and by this rather pathetic old ham. She was aware of the others looking in their direction, waiting for the producer to start the rehearsal. “There’s nothing new, Mr. Nesbit. I just came to take my aunt home after she’s finished the costume fittings.”

“Ah, now, she’s been an absolute godsend. Really, a gift from the gods. We are indebted.”

“She’s enjoying herself.”

“Salt of the earth, your Maryanne. And she worships you, Kathy, understandably enough.”

He seemed almost to be flirting with her. Kathy squirmed and managed a thin smile.

“Oh my God!” He suddenly drew back and made a little gesture of horror with one bony hand.

“What’s the matter?”

“You are surely not going to eat that?” He pointed at the pathetic sausage roll.

“Yes, that’s my dinner, Mr. Nesbit.”

“
Stafford
, Kathy, please. If this is not an official visit, we can’t go on addressing each other like aliens. Now there is a perfectly ordinary but no doubt sanitary Indian takeaway not three minutes from here. With your approval, I shall send Svärd the Orderly on a mission of mercy for some samosa, rogan josh, and rice. What do you say?”

“No, really . . .”

“And in return, to pay for your supper, I should like to beg something of you.”

“What’s that?”

“Our prompter’s taken to her bed, and we are desperate. While you’re sitting here, waiting for your aunt to finish her work, would you consider prompting for us?”

“Oh . . . I don’t think so. What does that involve, exactly?”

“It’s simplicity itself. You follow the text in the book, and when someone dries—forgets their lines—or misses bits out . . .”—he glared pointedly across the room at Edward Quinn—“. . . you speak out. Very simple.”

Kathy wondered what he was playing at. It was as if he were trying to draw her into something. She shrugged. “All right.”

“Excellent! And there really is no new development in Zoë’s case, then? No breakthroughs, no flashes of insight?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“Well, that is a shame. But your aunt has assured me that if anyone can find the solution, it is you.” He held her eye for a moment, a slightly manic gleam in his. “Now, we really must start our rehearsal.”

He got abruptly to his feet and stalked off to give some instructions to a skinny man, presumably playing Svärd the Orderly, and then spoke to a striking, dark-haired woman, who came over to Kathy.

“Don’t mind Stafford,” she said. “We all have to put up with him. I’m Vicky.”

“Hi, I’m Kathy.”

“Yes, I saw you last week when you were here. You can use my book. We’re here, in act two, this scene between Edward, the Captain, and his wife, Laura. That’s me.”

“Vicky, darling!” Stafford’s voice cut in again, “Let us resume our struggle with the second act, if you please! From Bertha’s exit.”

“Don’t you want Bettina for the moment, then, Stafford?” Ruth Sparkes spoke up from the doorway. “Can we have her next door for her fitting?”

“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand impatiently, and Bettina stood up to follow Ruth out of the room. Kathy watched her go, out of place among the other actors, a generation apart, dressed in a black T-shirt and short black skirt with a frayed hem, below which a pair of sturdy legs ended in a pair of thick-soled Reeboks, also black.

“Silence, everyone!” Stafford barked. He pointed a bony finger at Vicky to begin.

“
Oh, am I as powerful as that?
” She spoke to Quinn with hands on hips, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“You insulted Nordling till he went away; and then you got your brother to scrape up votes for this man.”

Vicky stared at him blankly for a moment, then shook her head and turned away, dropping out of character.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Nesbit said with exaggerated patience.

“That’s not the line,” she complained. “You jumped again, Edward.”

“Did I? Sorry.” He looked hopefully at Kathy.

“
Do you think a father
. . .” Kathy prompted.

“Ah yes,” he nodded.
“Do you think a father would let ignorant and conceited women teach his daughter that he is a charlatan?”

“It’s less important to a father.”

“Vicky, darling,” Stafford said, kneading his domed forehead, “why don’t you move downstage left at that point? We’re getting awfully static. Although you seem to be hopping about a bit, Edward. Have you got an itch?”

“I’m trying to keep clear of Vicky. She’s blocking me.”

“You’re upstaging me, Edward!” Vicky flashed back at him. “I can’t talk to him when he’s standing right behind me, Stafford.”

“I’m trapped by this bloody sofa, for God’s sake!”

“Children! Children!” Stafford thought for a moment. “Why don’t we have the Captain sitting on the sofa for this part, Edward? You could sit down when Bertha exits. On the line
Leave us, Bertha.
All right? You sit down and fold your arms, the stubborn husband. Laura, on the other hand, the manipulative wife, paces back and forward, between down right and down left. Vicky?”

She nodded, and Edward arranged himself expansively on the two chairs standing in for the sofa.

“Prompt, Kathy,” Nesbit said. “Can you give us the cue?”

“It’s less important to a father.”

“Right.”

“Oh? Why?”
the Captain said.

“Because a mother’s nearer to the child—since it’s been discovered that no one can tell for certain who is a child’s father.”

Kathy thought how good Vicky was in the part of Laura. She was delivering her lines with a confidence that was compelling, and Kathy had to force her eyes back down to the page to follow the script.

“Edward, you’re looking a bit complacent, old chap. Begin to sit up as she says this. She’s showing you the weapon she’s got, the one she’s going to skewer you with. You might note the warning signs.”

“I thought it might be effective if I appeared a bit slow on the uptake, Stafford.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” Nesbit muttered under his breath, so that only Kathy, sitting nearby, heard it and smiled.

“Try it my way, Edward.”

Quinn nodded.
“What has that to do with it?”

“Simply that you don’t know that you are Bertha’s father.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Of course I know!”
Kathy broke in.

They all looked at her.

“He skipped a line,” she explained. “
Is this a joke?
comes after Laura’s next line.”

“Thank you!” Vicky smiled at her.

“Oh, look . . .” Edward threw up his hands. “We have a bit of latitude, Kathy, OK?”

“Sorry.”

“Latitude!” Vicky exploded. “You’re always doing this, Edward, mangling the lines. How can I get my timing right if I never know which line is coming next?”

They struggled on to the end of the scene, when Nesbit called a ten-minute break. Most people wandered off to get a drink from the bar, leaving Kathy, feeling rather shaken, alone with the Indian dinner which had arrived for her. Ruth Sparkes came in, and Kathy explained what had happened. “Every time I gave a prompt it seemed to make trouble.”

Ruth laughed. “That wasn’t your fault, Kathy. That’s Edward and Vicky. They’re always like that. Edward is notoriously slow learning his lines. And when the others nag him he sometimes deliberately makes mistakes, trying to corpse them.”

“Corpse them?”

“Yes. Corpsing is where you do something to try to throw somebody else out of their character, like make them laugh in the middle of a death scene.”

“That’s terrible! But he wouldn’t do it during an actual performance, would he?”

Ruth laughed. “
Especially
during an actual performance!”

“But that’s vicious! No wonder Vicky gets angry.”

“Well, it’s a kind of game. Taking risks with the characters, testing how good you are at staying in character, even when you’re struggling to work out what on earth is going on.”

Kathy shook her head. “I don’t know how they can stand it. It must be bad enough going out there, hoping you can remember your own lines, without having to worry about all that going on around you. And the emotion! Even at rehearsals. It was exhausting just to watch.”

“Did we have an upstaging episode?”

“How did you guess?”

“It’s one of their routines. Another form of corpsing, really. One manoeuvres to the back of the stage to upstage the other and make them turn their back to the audience. So instead, the downstage person counter-attacks by moving directly in front to block the upstager, turns their back on them and delivers their lines directly to the audience. It can go on like that for some time.”

“You make it sound like a battle. I thought they were supposed to be on the same side.”

“Well, really”—Ruth leant forward, a mischievous gleam in her eye—“it’s a kind of foreplay. Stafford knows all about the chemistry. He’s very good at creating it, making it work for him.”

They didn’t reach the end of act two that evening, and by the time Stafford released them, Kathy felt drained. Aunt Mary too was showing signs of exhaustion, and sighed wearily as she lowered herself into the passenger seat beside Kathy.

“They’ve certainly worked you hard today, Mary,” Kathy said.

“That’s good, pet. Takes my mind off things, thinking about the problems we’ve got.”

“What sort of problems?”

“Well, bustles, for one thing.”

“Bustles?”

“Aye. According to the books Ruth’s been studying, bustles were back in fashion in 1887 when the play was written, and didn’t go out of fashion again till 1890. But Stafford says he doesn’t care—he doesn’t want bustles. He says they look stupid. He wants a stark look, more modern. Vicky, on the other hand, thinks she looks quite becoming in a bustle. When she told Stafford this, he said, in a very sarcastic tone, ‘becoming what?’ ”

“Ah. There’s more to all this than meets the eye, isn’t there?”

“That’s true enough. But they’re a grand crowd. I always thought southerners were cold, but they’re smashing. You should do something like this, you know, Kathy. You should have an outside interest. Give you something other than your work to think about. Something less morbid.”

“I don’t think I could stand the excitement. The drama of the play is nothing compared to what goes on among the cast.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that, but they do have a very active social life, with parties and outings and all sorts. And that’s the kind of place you’d find a nice young man, like as not.”

Kathy didn’t rise to this.

“Well, anyway,” Mary said, satisfied she’d made her point, “I shall be looking out for them in the papers when they come touring up north.”

Kathy shook her head, getting a little tired of the subject.
“They don’t go touring, Mary. They’re not that kind of a theatre company. They’re only amateurs.”

“Oh yes they do!” the old lady said tetchily. “Last year they went to Edinburgh. Next year they’re thinking of coming up to Scarborough.”

“Edinburgh?”