Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The pub next to the theatre had seemed quite roomy the time we’d visited it before. It no longer seemed that way – probably because the better part of the entire cast and crew were currently packed into it, nursing drinks and, in most cases, shedding tears quite freely. I could see a few old men at the bar, who were clearly locals but not part of the theatre crowd, casting glances about them in some alarm.

Verity and I battled through the weeping throng until we reached Tommy, who sat at a table at the back, with Gwen, the wardrobe mistress at his side. He didn’t look upset. He looked angry.

“Tommy, I’m so, so sorry,” said Verity, casting herself into his arms. He gave her a hug and kissed her on the top of her bright hair but said nothing.

“I am too,” I said and at least at that, Tommy looked up and gave me a brief smile.

Somehow, we managed to find a couple of chairs and pull them up to the tiny table. There was an earthenware jug of ale in the middle and a stack of cloudy glasses. Tommy poured us both a glass without comment.

Silence – as much of a silence as you could find in that noisy place – fell, as Verity and I sipped our drinks.

“The police came round earlier,” Tommy said abruptly, staring at his half-empty glass. I could see the glimmer of red at the roots of his dyed black hair. He wouldn’t need to re-dye it now for the part, now that the play was over. “They found a note in his lodgings. Not a long note, just a scrap of paper, really.”

We all looked at one another.

“What did it say?” asked Verity, tentatively.

“Not a lot. Something like “I find it hard to believe I can carry on living.” Something like that.”

“Oh, Lord,” I said without thinking. “Poor Aldous.”

Tommy re-filled his glass from the jug. I could tell, by the glassiness of his eyes, that he’d had quite a lot of ale already. “I knew there was something on his mind, I
knew
it. I just wish he’d been able to confide in me. Perhaps I could have helped,  I don’t know. Done
something,
at least.” He drained the glass in three gulps and slammed it back on the table, making us girls jump. “Why did he have to do a silly thing like that for? The
stupid
boy.”

“I know what it was,” announced Gwen. Her eyelids were reddened, matching the hue of her round cheeks.

Tommy gave her a look of dislike. “Come on, he wouldn’t have – have done what he did because of
that
.”

“He might have. He was silly about her.”

Verity and I were looking from one of them to the other.  “Silly about who?” I asked.

Gwen looked triumphant. “Caroline, of course. He was head over heels in love with her. He would have done anything for her.”

“No, he wouldn’t, don’t be stupid.” Tommy sounded more irritable than I’d ever heard him. “He liked her, and Caroline was kind to him, that’s all.”

Gwen tossed her head. “You can think that if you want. I know what I saw, it was
obvious
.”

Having observed Aldous’ behaviour around Caroline Carpenter, I could only agree with Gwen. Would that have been enough for Aldous to have killed himself, though? Did unrequited love hurt that much?

Silence fell again. Tommy refilled his glass yet again and drank moodily. I cast around for something to say, anything really, but couldn’t think of anything that would sound suitable. After a moment, Verity drew her chair nearer Tommy’s and took his hand. He turned to her and put his head on her shoulder.

For some reason, the gesture brought tears to my eyes. He was like a little boy, all of a sudden. Feeling as if I were intruding on a private grief, I turned to Gwen.

“It must have been such a shock to you all,” I said, nervously turning my glass around and around in my fingers.

“Oh, it was, it was.” Gwen’s normally cheerful face was troubled. “We all could scarcely believe it. Caroline just collapsed. She actually fainted.”

I looked around the room, searching for Caroline, but couldn’t see her. “Was she all right? Is she here?”

Gwen shook her head. “She’s at her fiancé’s house. I can’t imagine she’ll be back here anytime soon. I mean, what is there to come back to? The play’s finished, Aldous is—“ She broke off, fiddling with the sleeve of her blouse. Then she looked up directly into my eyes. “I should have told him not to waste his time mooning over
her
. She was never going to give up her rich, important fiancé for a struggling
actor
.”

It occurred to me then that Gwen had been a little in love with Aldous Smith herself. I suppose that was understandable.

Gwen was still speaking, still with that undertone of bitterness in her voice. “Caroline loved him dancing attendance on her but she was just using him, that was all. Some people have all the luck, don’t they? She’s got it all, talent, beauty, all the men wanting her, and now riches and a place in society.” Envy had thickened her voice so much that it was hard to make out what she was saying.

I felt helpless. What could I say against life’s truth – that some people have it all, and others, like Gwen and me, have very little? Life wasn’t fair. That was what it came down to, really. Life just wasn’t fair.

As I had before, I tried to think of something to distract Gwen, something that would cheer her up. She’d obviously loved talking about her work before so I asked her about that.

“Had any more costume mishaps lately?” I enquired, rather desperately.

Gwen was still staring moodily at the tabletop, her fingers twisting the button of her cuff. She’d have that off if she wasn’t careful. Mind you, if anyone could mend clothes, you’d think a wardrobe mistress would be able to. “What’s that?”

“Anything funny happened lately with your costumes?”

For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer me and then she seemed to sigh and bring herself back to reality. “Actually, it’s funny you saying that. Something did happen the other day, I’d quite forgotten about it.”

“What was that?

“Oh, you know I said a costume had been stolen?” I couldn’t remember that she’d said that but I nodded encouragingly. Gwen half laughed. “My eyes must have been playing tricks on me because I did actually find it again, stuffed into one of the back cupboards. Silly of me.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” I said, not really caring either way but glad that she seemed a little more cheerful.

Tommy and Verity had finished their whispered conversation. Tommy turned back to the table and tipped the last dregs of the jug into his glass. He’d put a small red book onto the table and I leant forward a little to see what it was. He saw me looking.

“The play.
Voyage of the Heart
.”

“Oh.” I leant forward even more. I’d never actually read a play in its original form before. “May I? I mean, could I have a look?”

Tommy tossed the book over to me. “Have it. It’s of no use to me anymore. I may as well throw it in the bin.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” I said, shocked. “May I really have it?”

The bleak tone in his voice lifted just a little. “Yes, Joan. Seriously, please keep it. Give it a good home.”

“Well, thank you.” I put it safely away in my bag. Something to read tonight, if I had the time and energy. I’d be able to see how a play should actually be set out on the page. It came to me then, what a wonderful thing it would be to write a play – an actual play. It was an arresting thought, and for a moment, I was lost in a dream of the future, of myself being a famous playwright, the best actors and actresses of the time bringing my characters to life.

I was so lost in a dream world that it took Verity several attempts to attract my attention. “Joan. Joan. It’s nearly time to go. Come on, drink up.”

“Sorry,” I said, flustered.

Tommy leant his head back against the wall with a sigh. “The funeral is next week, apparently.”

Verity squeezed his arm. “Would you like us to come? If we can get the time off, I mean?”

“That would be kind. But don’t get into trouble on our account.”

“We’ll try. To come, I mean, not get into trouble,” I said, feeling a bit ridiculous.

He smiled at me sadly. “Thank you, Joan.”

There was another short silence and I was just about to get to my feet when Tommy remarked again. “I see Caroline’s set the wedding date at last.”

“Oh yes?” Verity said, beginning to pull on her gloves.

“Yes.” Tommy shut his eyes as if exhausted. “In about three weeks’ time, she’ll no longer be Caroline Carpenter but Mrs Nicolas Holmes. Wife of an MP, God help her.”

“Well, she should be used to the name change, at least,” said Gwen, with a touch of vinegar in her voice.

“What do you mean?” Verity asked, just before I got the chance.

“Oh, Caroline Carpenter’s her stage name. Goodness knows what her real name was. Edna Grubb, or something, probably.”

Verity and I smiled, despite ourselves. Then, because time was ticking along, we kissed Tommy, bid Gwen goodbye, and began the struggle through the crowded pub towards the exit.

Chapter Fifteen

As it happened, Verity was able to attend the funeral but I wasn’t. Mrs Watling, kind as she had been to let me go and give my condolences to Tommy that night at the pub, flatly refused to allow me to attend the funeral of a man I’d barely known. I couldn’t really blame her. As it was, I gave Verity a kiss goodbye on the morning of the funeral and then went back to work, trying not to mind too much.

It was baking day, as it was every Tuesday. I pounded the bread dough with my fists, working out some of my frustration. That was the problem with being a servant – well, I suppose it was like that with any job, really. It wasn’t the money, it was the fact that your time wasn’t your own. After the dough was placed in the bottom oven of the range to proof and rise, I turned my attention to the biscuits and scones that were next on the list, wondering about the funeral and how Verity and Tommy would be feeling. Would Caroline be there? Of course she would, I chastised myself.

Once everything was either in the oven or turned out onto the wire rack to cool, I had a precious half hour in which to sit down, have a cup of tea, and think. Or, if not think, read the play that Tommy had given me the previous week. I turned the book over in my hands, thinking how odd it was that the words contained within it could engender such passion and emotion when acted on stage. I’d never actually sat down and
read
a play, in its original state, before. I opened the covers a little nervously.

It was more difficult than I’d expected, to be honest. I was so used to reading things in novels and newspapers that the lay-out of the words on the page in the play put me off a bit. I struggled through the first few pages, wondering if I could be bothered to continue. But then, I recognised a bit of dialogue – I could remember Caroline Carpenter saying it, on stage – and then the play sprang to life for me and after that it was easy. I was engrossed.

Half an hour slips by quickly when you’re doing something you actually want to do. Before I knew it, the clock was pointing to twelve o’clock and I had to heave myself out of the chair, put the play to one side, and return to work.

The afternoon slipped by and I was busy enough not to worry too much about the funeral and how Tommy and Verity must be feeling. I’d just put the finishing touches to Dorothy’s main course – a rack of lamb with redcurrant jelly, chipped potatoes, and three vegetable dishes to accompany it – when the back door to the kitchen opened, letting in a rush of wintry air.

It was Verity, returned from the funeral. One look at her was enough to make me realise quite how much of a toll it had taken from her.

“Are you all right?”

Verity shook her head. I could tell she was near tears, and that, in itself, was alarming. Verity almost never cried, unlike me, who could weep at the drop of a hat.

“Was it very bad?”

“It’s not just that,” Verity said wearily. She pulled her gloves up, pulled the hatpins from her hair, and then threw her hat into a corner of the room with a viciousness that startled me.

“Verity—“

“I don’t want to talk about it, Joan. Not just yet. Besides, I have to get back to Dorothy.”

Mrs Watling, who’d been down at the markets, came in through the back door with her hands piled with brown-paper-wrapped packages. “Oh, Verity, you’re back,” she exclaimed and then took a look at Verity’s face. “Oh – oh, dear. Was it so very bad?”

I braced myself but Verity didn’t say anything. She sort of slumped out of the room, without even stopping to pick up her discarded hat. Mrs Watling tutted and bent down to retrieve it, dusting it off.

“I’m sorry,” I said, although why I was apologising I didn’t know.

Mrs Watling put the hat on the dresser, out of the way. “Funerals are terribly hard,” she said, without anger. “Particularly when it’s a young one. Such a terrible waste.”

Verity’s return and the bad mood she brought with her cast a pall over the evening. Mrs Watling, Doris and I served up the dinner for the servants, washed up the dishes and tidied the kitchen, preparing it as usual for tomorrow, but we didn’t talk much as we were doing it, and Doris didn’t do her usual trick of singing the popular music hall hits in her off-key warble. I think the only words we said to one another after nine o’clock were ‘goodnight’.

I climbed the stairs on weary legs,
Voyage of the Heart
in my hand. I wanted to read some more before I went to sleep, but I felt so tired I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to stay awake. For some reason, I had expected Verity to be with Dorothy still, so I jumped when I walked into our room and found her curled up on the bed.

“Oh, V…” As I got closer, I could see she had been crying, although she was dry-eyed now.  I wanted to give her something to make her feel better – what, I wasn’t sure of. A chocolate bar, a sweet, a drink – just something. But I had nothing to give. I patted her on the back instead.

She rolled over onto her back and gave me a wan smile. “Sorry, Joanie. I was very snappy and horrible to you earlier.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was.”

“Well, anyway. It doesn’t matter. It’s been a hard day.”

Verity briefly closed her eyes. “Oh, Joan, you have no idea. It was
horrible
. Aldous’s parents were there,
distraught,
of course, and the vicar kept skirting around the fact that he’d killed himself, like it was this big, shameful secret – which I suppose it is – and everyone was there, thinking about it but not being able to say anything or talk about it or anything—“ she stopped and swallowed, as if it hurt her. “And Caroline turned up with her fiancé, looking like a fashion plate and brought all the newspaper men with her and sobbed like it was going out of fashion…”

I waited for her to say more but she didn’t. “The press were there?”

“Of course they were. It’s got it all, hasn’t it? Scandalous suicide of handsome young actor, involvement of beautiful famous young actress who’s about to marry that stuffed shirt MP. Tie in the murder at the Connault. Sprinkle in a few more semi-famous names. It’s the story that’s got it all.” She rubbed her face hard and let her hands drop back down to her side. “I hope Tommy’s going to be all right. He was three sheets to the wind before the funeral even started.”

“Oh, dear.” It was a most inadequate remark but what else could I say? “How’s Dorothy this evening?” I asked, cautiously.

Verity heaved herself off the bed with a groan. “Quiet, thank God. Subdued. Just as well, I don’t think I could have taken any more drama.” She went over to the dressing table and sat down to begin unpinning her hair.

I started to get undressed, my thoughts far away. For a moment, I almost forgot Verity was in the room. Then I was startled by her asking me a question.

“What’s that?”

Verity had stopped unpinning her hair. She was staring at her reflection in the mirror as if mesmerised by it. “I said, don’t you ever wonder – don’t you ever worry that this is it?”

“What do you mean, this is it?”

“I mean, this is
it
. For your life. This is all that’s ever going to happen. That you’re just going to be a servant for the rest of your life, until you die.”

Her melancholy tone worried me. I don’t think I’d ever heard her speak in quite such a way before. “Well, I suppose I do. Sometimes. But—“

“But what?”

I sat down on the bed, catching her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “Well, I – I’ve got ambition. I don’t want to be a servant for the rest of my life.”

“Nor do I,” said Verity, with emphasis. “But what else can we do? Get married?”

“Do you want to?” It seemed funny then, that neither Verity nor I had ever really talked about getting married.

Verity snorted. “It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to or not. When do we ever meet anyone anyway? Any men? There’s no bloody
time
to meet anyone, whether I wanted to marry them or not.”

“Well—“ I had to pause. She was right of course. Apart from our evenings out, we had no time to meet any men, suitable or otherwise. And the men in the household were either ancient or not interested – at least not interested in someone like me. I thought, with a touch of bitterness, that at least Verity had prettiness and vivacity on her side. What did I have, except for a few cooking skills? You’ve got nice hair, I told myself, in a desperate attempt to find something positive to say about myself. But what man ever fell for someone who just had nice hair – and no other alluring attributes?

I had always assumed I would get married and have children one day, because that was just what you did, if you were a girl. I tried to think of someone of my class who wasn’t married, and did something else instead. I discounted people like Dorothy. When you’re wealthy, you can do as you want. But was there anyone I knew, in my social sphere, who wasn’t married and yet did something that was interesting?

“What about Gwen?” I said, hearing the doubt in my voice even as I mentioned her name. “She’s got a career, hasn’t she? And she’s not married.”

That was a pathetic example, even I could see that. You could tell that Gwen, nice as she was, was in no small way terribly bitter about being single. You just had to listen to her little digs at Caroline to see that.

Verity snorted again but didn’t bother to respond. She yanked the few remaining pins out of her hair with bad grace. “I feel like swearing, really swearing,” she said, after a moment’s silence.

“Well, what’s stopped you before?” I asked.

“No, I mean,
really
swearing. Those actors are a bad influence.”

“Well, don’t really swear. You won’t feel any better for doing so.”

“Maybe.” I could see her staring moodily at her reflection again.

In an effort to get her mind off the subject, I fastened on the closest thing to hand. “I’ve been reading Tommy’s play, you know,
Voyage of the Heart
. It’s wonderful.”

“Oh yes?” I could tell Verity wasn’t really listening to me.

“That’s it,” I said, somewhat desperately. “That’s what we’ll do. We won’t bother getting married. I’ll write plays and you can act in them. I always said you’d be a wonderful actress.”

There was a short, loaded silence. Verity’s eyes came round to meet mine in the mirror.

“What a wonderful idea,” she said, slowly.

Of course, the second I’d made it, I started backpedalling immediately. “Well, it sounds good, I’ll grant you but—“

“You’d be a brilliant playwright. I’ve read your stories, they’re marvellous.”

“But – but—“

“But, what? Joanie, it’s a marvellous idea.”

“But – I don’t know how to write plays.” I’d forgotten that I’d vowed just a few days ago that I was going to look into how I would go about writing professionally.

Verity thrust her hands into her hair and shook it out, a fountain of red-gold over her shoulders. She turned to me, her eyes sparkling, her dark mood of just moments before obviously gone. “Joanie, I always said you’re a genius. What a marvellous idea. You can write the plays, we’ll take them to Tommy and he can find a director and then I’ll act in them.” She got up and then cast herself upon her bed, giggling. “We’ll both be famous. Just think of it!”

I started to laugh too. This was the Verity I knew, impulsive and spontaneous and full of enthusiasm for the future. “Oh yes. It’ll be easy as pie, I’m sure.”

“Well, what have we got to lose?”

I laughed harder. “Our jobs?”

Verity’s giggles died away. “Oh well, yes, I suppose so.” She sat up, the inner light inside her suddenly quenched. “I suppose you’re right.”

I couldn’t bear to see her cast down again. “It’s not a stupid idea, V. It’s just – you took me by surprise, that’s all.”

We stared at each other. I think we both knew the conversation wasn’t finished but the exhaustion that we’d both been fending off suddenly hit us. Verity dropped her gaze, yawning. “I’m all in, Joan. Let’s sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“All right,” I agreed. I got up off the bed to continue undressing. “It’s been a strange day, V. Let’s not make any hasty decisions right now.”

“No, you’re right.”

I pulled on my nightdress. I had that unsatisfactory feeling of a conversation cut short, of a discussion that we should have been having suddenly cut off. After a moment, I picked up my washbag. “You can turn off the light, if you want,” I said. “I’ll be quiet when I come back in.”

“Very well, Joanie. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Verity got into bed with a sigh and switched off the lamp. In the blackness that followed, I stood for a moment, temporarily blinded. In my head was the swish of the red velvet curtains of the stage and the roar of applause from the crowd sitting in the darkness beyond the footlights.