Full Dark House (17 page)

Biddle checked the spelling in his report and recapped his fountain pen. By the end of his first week he hoped to have a dossier on Bryant that would draw a constricting ring of common sense around the unit. Davenport had made it clear that he wanted them closed down before the month was out. He’d clearly had enough of boffins being allowed a free hand while everyone else had to buckle down.

Biddle knew something else the others didn’t know, because he had taken the call himself. DS Gladys Forthright would soon be on her way home, because her fiancé had backed out of the wedding. All they needed now was an unstable woman moping about the place. He smiled to himself as he blew on the page and closed it. She might just prove to be the straw that broke this peculiar camel’s back.

‘I’m so glad you could spare the time to have lunch with me,’ said Bryant awkwardly. He never knew what to say to women. Consequently his behaviour around them was formal and slightly unnatural.

‘I’ve always had a soft spot for the police. My brother’s a crown court duty officer, not that I ever see him. I have to be getting back in a minute.’ Elspeth pushed away her soup plate. The café was steamy and crowded with customers queuing for tables. ‘There’s a dress rehearsal this afternoon. Helena feels that several of the scenes aren’t working so she’s changing them. There are no out-of-town try-outs, and unless you tour first, the team only has rehearsals and previews to get it right.’

‘Do shows change much before opening night?’ asked Bryant, scooting a fork around the remains of the suspiciously unmeaty gravy on his plate.

‘Oh, some of them become unrecognizable, especially the musicals. Of course, I’m strictly FOH so I’m not privy to everything that goes on, but you hear it all from the front of house because stages are designed to project sound forward. Do you think Helena will be able to keep the show running?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bryant admitted. ‘Westminster Council will have to be given our crime reports because of the Palace’s status as a public building, but they’ve already got their hands full, so it’s pretty easy for me to stall them. Their final decision will be swayed by the Lord Chamberlain’s attitude. If he decides that it’s a threat to public morality, there’s nothing I or anyone else can do to keep it open. An appeal to Churchill might work, I suppose. I understand that when he was young he used to champion the ladies of the music hall.’

‘All this talk of the chorus girls appearing nude is sending the box office through the roof,’ said Elspeth. ‘We’ll soon have the Christmas season fully booked. If the Lord Chamberlain does shut us there’ll be nothing else to put in after it. We’ll go dark for the first time in thirty years. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘If the Lord Chamberlain objects, couldn’t a compromise be reached?’

‘Yes, if Miss Parole would just agree to cover up the girls’ . . . you know . . .’

‘What?’

‘Nipples,’ she mouthed at him, looking down at her chest. She dabbed a napkin at her forehead, embarrassed. ‘It’s so hot in here, Arthur. That scarf must be strangling you. We never overheat in the foyer, even in the middle of summer. So much marble.’

‘You’re all very loyal to the theatre,’ Bryant conceded. Just being outside the building made Elspeth uncomfortable. He wondered how she would cope if the directors closed the show down and fired the permanent staff. Theatre management seemed a separate breed from the acting companies, one of the oldest and least recognized London tribes, working long hours for low salaries, never in the limelight themselves, unable to imagine any other life apart from the stage. ‘Mr Whittaker’s like you. I’m surprised you aren’t . . .’

‘What?’

‘Well, together.’

‘Me and Geoffrey?’ It was good to see her smile. ‘God, no. The theatre would always be in the way. We’d never talk of anything else. Besides, he’s a terrible womanizer.’

‘Are there really no problems between Helena and members of the cast?’

‘None that I know of. The only row is with the stagehands, because of these accidents. I mean, we’re all assuming the rumours are true about Miss Capistrania suffering something similar. Everyone’s wondering who’ll be next, but they all get on with their work. It’s incredible how the press has managed to twist the whole thing around. Have you seen the article by Gilbert Riley in this morning’s edition of the
Evening Standard
? He’s suggesting we’re the victims of some ancient theatrical curse. And then there are those photographs.’ Elspeth was referring to the fact that someone had managed to take several shots of semi-naked chorus girls through the door of a rehearsal room several days earlier. ‘Where’s Mr May today? He seems ever so nice.’

She fancies him, thought Bryant immediately. Well, why not? He had the same effect on every woman he met. Presumably it was some kind of chemical reaction, scientifically quantifiable and easily explained. Some men had it, he decided, and others didn’t.

‘He’s finishing the interviews,’ said Bryant, pushing his plate back and picking up the bill. ‘I have to submit a report to my superior by tomorrow. The process would normally take longer, but the war is speeding everything up.’

‘The last fourteen months have passed so quickly,’ agreed Elspeth. ‘So many horrors, so many changes. I just celebrated my thirty-second birthday. Not a good age for a single woman.’ Her hand absently brushed her cheek. In the dusty light from the restaurant window she suddenly looked much younger, as if she had been kept all her life within the walls of the theatre, untouched by the ravages of the outside world. Bryant felt a sudden pang of desire for her. ‘It’s rather ironic still to be working in a shrine constructed for a man who made merciless fun of spinsters.’

‘Oh, Gilbert, you mean. Yes, he was a bit hard on the ladies. But Sullivan balanced him. He loved women too much. It must have been an interesting alliance.’

‘I daresay you see the parallels with your own partnership,’ said Elspeth carelessly.

Bryant pretended to bridle at the thought. ‘Crusty curmudgeon and laconic ladies’ man, whatever can you mean?’ he said.

Elspeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’re such a curmudgeon. You have the heart of someone who’s been in love. Trust me, I know the signs.’

‘Well, once was enough.’

‘You’re young. You have plenty of time yet, provided you can manage to stay out of harm’s way.’ She checked a tiny gold watch. ‘I need to get back. Perhaps we can see each other when I get out.’

‘And perhaps we can eat somewhere other than here,’ said Bryant, paying the bill. ‘Their meat sauce tasted as though it had been boiled up from the innards of a horse.’

‘If they keep reducing our rations, I imagine that’s what we’ll end up eating.’ Elspeth rose and straightened her hat as a woman shoved past her to claim her seat.

The young detective laid a gentle hand on Elspeth’s shoulder. ‘I’ve overlooked something. You know the theatre better than anyone . . .’

‘I know it well, but so does Geoffrey. And Stan Lowe, and Mr Mack.’

‘Am I making mistakes? What have I missed?’

‘I think perhaps . . .’ She hesitated for a moment, studying his wide blue eyes. A connection tingled as she opened herself to him, then quickly cooled as she remembered her place. ‘I think you should talk to the owner of the theatre company. You might learn more than you imagine. Everyone has secrets.’ She pushed open the restaurant door and glanced guiltily at the theatre. ‘I’ve said enough. I really must go.’

For the briefest of moments Bryant had read something in her eyes that he could not interpret: fear, mistrust, the pain of hidden knowledge. He was young, and still had much to learn about people, especially women.

25

THE NATURE OF ILLUSION

Every time May passed near the footlights of the Palace stage, chorus girls would peer round the wings at him and start giggling. He wondered what Betty had told them. The evening had been a lot of fun, though bloody expensive, and the pretty chorine had made it obvious that she would welcome entertainment again at the weekend. Knowing that Bryant had returned to the unit the previous night, May felt an odd sort of disloyalty to his partner. It was only the end of his third day, and he was fraternizing with potential suspects instead of working late.

‘I thought I’d find you down here,’ he said, spotting the unruly fringe of chestnut hair that stuck above the back of a row of stalls, six rows from the orchestra pit. Bryant was sprawled with his legs hooked over the seat in front. The stage was partially lit with Fresnel spots to reveal a hellish scene. Crimson caverns of oil and fire glittered with droplets of lava, and the petrified purple bodies of demons jutted from priapic stalagmites. The effect was, if not quite obscene, very near the edge of public toleration in 1940.

May pushed down the seat next to his partner and leaned over. ‘Did you know that while the theatre company is occupying the Palace, it owns the stage, the backstage area and all rights of access, but not the front of house or its offices? Those are in the control of the theatre’s owners. Each of the companies is placing the responsibility on the other, so now we’re not allowed to talk to staff on the premises. I’m trying to make arrangements to continue off site.’

‘We should have done that from the start,’ said Bryant grumpily. ‘It’ll shake them up to be questioned in official surroundings. I wish I hadn’t tried the mystery meat pie at luncheon, I feel most uncomfortable.’

May pointed at the semi-naked women cavorting with each other onstage. ‘I suppose all of this offends your purist sensibilities.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Bryant. ‘Offenbach was far from pure. In fact, he outraged the purists of his age, so he’d probably approve of the nudity, although he might think some of the sex scenes are going a bit far, even in our supposedly enlightened times.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me what’s supposed to be going on’—May waved a hand at the stage—’all this operatic hellfire and brimstone.’

Bryant unbuttoned his waistcoat and massaged his podgy stomach. ‘For a start it’s not an opera, it’s an
opéra bouffe
.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘It has mythological, supernatural elements. It’s fanciful. It’s intended as a comic diversion.’

‘So there’s no fat lady singing at the end?’

Bryant swivelled his head and studied his partner coolly. ‘You’re not much of a music lover, are you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, I like a bit of a dance to Glenn Miller. I’m always willing to learn.’

‘I know a numbers-and-fractions merchant when I meet one. You’re a science bod. I saw you listening to Oswald Finch when he was going on about body fluid ratios. Your ears pricked up.’

‘I just thought I should know a bit about all this.’ He bounced his fingers in time with the music.

‘I must say, it’s suspiciously appropriate.’ Bryant unknotted a few feet of his scarf and sat up. ‘Jacques Offenbach was a forerunner of Gilbert and Sullivan. He’s the reason they started writing together. He had huge successes with these romps in Paris, even though the critics were sniffy.
Orpheus in the Underworld
is over eighty years old. Back when it was first performed, everyone who could afford to visit the theatre had a decent working knowledge of the classics, so Offenbach could make fun of Greek legends and everyone would get the joke. Here, he’s taken the most famous part of the Orpheus myth and reworked it. Orpheus was the son of a muse who saved the Argonauts from the Sirens. He ventured into the Underworld to get back his beloved nymph, Eurydice, who had been bitten by a snake.’

‘Oh, I remember that bit. Pluto let him have Eurydice back on the condition that he didn’t look behind him at her until she reached daylight, but he did.’

‘Well done. Offenbach’s version breaks with traditional mythology. He cynically parodies the characters and makes the story a social satire. He turns Orpheus into a salacious violin teacher, makes Eurydice a tart and has her old man moaning about having to go off and save her.’

‘Who’s that, then?’ May pointed out a statuesque woman in vast grey crinolines. He had last seen her throwing a histrionic fit in Helena Parole’s office.

‘That’s the figure of Public Opinion. In Offenbach’s version of the myth Orpheus is pleased to see the back of his wife, and goes down to Hades only because Public Opinion threatens him with exposure about his own dalliances. Eurydice lusts after a shepherd called Aristaeus, who is really Pluto in disguise. She gets bitten, and is taken down to Hell, but finds it more boring than she expected. Meanwhile, on Mount Olympus, the gods are grumbling to Jupiter about their rights, he gets hot for Eurydice and they all go down to Hell.’

‘I think I get the idea,’ interrupted May. ‘Presumably it all ends in tears.’

‘No, it ends with the cancan. A real trouser rouser, sends you home with a song on your lips and a lump in your drawers. In those days, the stage used to be lit with floats, oil wicks that were floated on water to reduce the risk of fire. It was an effect designed to show up the dancers’ thighs, so you can imagine the excitement it caused with a lot of saucy high-kicking. The ladies of the Paris chorus rarely bothered to wear knickers, and performed all kinds of athletic motions to reveal themselves to the wealthy patrons in the front rows.

‘As well as stuffing his recitative with knowing jokes, like Morpheus being the only god awake when all the others are sleeping, Offenbach filled his entertainments with references to other nineteenth-century operas, so the trio of the last act of
La Belle Hélène
is lifted from the
William Tell
Overture, and in this opera there’s a direct pinch from Gluck’s version of
Orpheus
that got screams of laughter from the audience. The ending’s topsy-turvy too, because Eurydice doesn’t want to go back with boring old Orpheus, and he doesn’t want her, so Pluto’s condition of not looking back at her on the way out of Hades is really an escape clause for both of them. Eurydice ends up as a bacchante, one of Hell’s call girls, merrily high-kicking in the inferno.’

‘Sounds rather immoral.’

‘That was the whole point. What interests me,’ Bryant continued, warming to his subject, ‘is Offenbach’s capacity for deceit. Here was a man who used tricks and jokes, paradox, caricature and parody, who lied about when and where he was born, a man who was not French at all but probably a German rabbi, who conned his way into the Paris Conservatoire despite the fact that foreigners were banned from attending, who was a published composer at nineteen, a virtuoso on the cello and, bizarrely, the toy flute, who had five children and became a Roman Catholic, whose success was so great that
le tout Paris
had to be nightly turned away from his theatre. He was a conundrum, a shamelessly charming scoundrel. He had what our Jewish friends call “chutzpah”.’ Bryant folded his arms across the back of the seat in front of him, lost in admiration. ‘Offenbach’s been out of favour for the last few years. But he was capable of scandalizing in his time.’