Banks warmed his hands by the fire. ‘I should imagine you got to know Caroline Hartley pretty well during rehearsals for Twelfth Night,’ he said. ‘Can you tell us anything about her?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Anything at all. Her habits, moods, your impression of her. Believe me, every little bit helps.’

‘It’s very difficult,’ Conran said. ‘I mean, I didn’t know her that well. None of us did really.’

‘What was your relationship with her?’

Conran frowned. ‘Relationship? I’d hardly say we had a relationship. What are you implying?’

‘You were directing her in a theatrical production, isn’t that so?’

‘Well, yes… but-’

‘That’s a relationship.’

‘I see… I… I thought. Anyway, yes, I directed her on stage. It was a purely working relationship. You don’t really find out much about people when you’re busy telling them where to stand and how to speak, you know.’

‘What did you think of her?’

‘She was a very talented and attractive girl, a natural. It’s a real tragedy. She’d have gone far had she lived.’

‘Yet you only gave her a small part.’

‘It was her first performance. She needed more experience. But she was quick. It wouldn’t have taken her long to get to the top if she’d put her mind to it. Mercurial. I think that’s the best word to describe her talent.’

‘How did she get on with the rest of the cast?’

Conran shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose.’

‘Did she form any special relationships? Was she close to anyone in particular?’

‘Not that I know of. We’re all pretty chummy, really, when it comes down to it. After all, this isn’t the West End. It’s meant to be fun. That’s the reason I’m involved.’

‘She did join you for drinks after rehearsals sometimes, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, usually. But you can hardly get to know somebody in a group situation like that.’

‘Who did she talk to?’

‘Everyone, really.’

‘How did she behave?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Was she comfortable with the group?’

‘As far as I could tell.’

‘Did you know she was a lesbian?’ Banks asked.

‘Caroline?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Do you have evidence to the contrary?’

‘Of course not,’ Conran snapped. ‘Stop twisting everything I say. What I mean is I’m surprised. She…’

‘She what?’

‘Well, you don’t expect things like that, do you? She seemed quite normal to me.’

‘Heterosexual?’

Conran looked at Susan as if pleading for support. ‘You’re doing it again. I’ve no knowledge of her sex life at all. All I’m saying is she seemed normal to me.’

‘So she didn’t tell you anything about her private life?’

‘No. She kept herself to herself. I knew nothing at all about what she did when she left the hall or the pub.’

‘Oh, come on! Surely some of the men in the cast must have tried it on with her. Maybe you even tried yourself Who wouldn’t? How did she respond?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘It’s obvious enough. Was she cold, polite, friendly, rude…?’

‘Oh, I see. Well, no, she certainly wasn’t cold. She’d joke and flirt like the rest, I suppose. It’s not something I actually thought about. She was always friendly and cheerful, or so it seemed to me.’

‘Terrible waste, don’t you think? A beautiful woman like that, and no man stood a chance with her.’

Conran glanced down into his mug and muttered, ‘It takes all sorts, Chief Inspector.’

‘Who did she usually sit next to?’

‘It varied.’

‘Did you notice anything at all that hinted at a more than superficial relationship with anyone in the cast, male or female?’

‘No.’

Banks sipped some tea and leaned back in his chair. ‘In a close group like that, you must get all sorts of pressures. I’ve heard that actors sometimes have very fragile egos. Did you get many tantrums or rows? Any professional jealousies?’

‘Only over petty matters,’ Conran said, ‘like you’d get in any team situation. As I said, we’re in it for pleasure, not ambition or fame.’

‘”Petty matters”? Can you be a bit more specific?’

‘I honestly can’t remember any examples.’

‘Anything involving Caroline Hartley?’

He shook his head.

‘Was there any special reason why Caroline didn’t join you all for a drink after rehearsal on December twenty-second?’

‘Nobody went to the pub that evening. We didn’t always go, you know. It was a very casual thing.’

‘But you went?’

‘Yes. Alone. I wanted to mull over the rehearsal. I seem to be able to think better about things like that when there’s a bit of noise and festive activity around me.’

‘Drink much?’

‘A bit. I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean?’

‘Had anything odd happened between four and six? Any fights, threats, arguments?’

‘There was nothing unusual, no. Everybody was tired, that’s all. Or they had shopping to do. Surely you can’t think one of the cast-’

‘Right now, I’m keeping an open mind.’ Banks put down his mug. ‘Why did you give up teaching, Mr Conran?’

If Conran was surprised by the abrupt change in questioning, he didn’t show it. ‘I’d always wanted to write. As soon as I had a little success I decided to burn my bridges. Much as I enjoyed it, teaching made too many demands on my time and energy.’

‘How do you make your living now? Surely not from the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society?’

‘Good Lord, no! That’s just a hobby, really. I work as a freelance writer. I’ve also had a few plays produced on television, some radio work.’

Banks looked around the room again. ‘Don’t you even watch your own work?’

Conran laughed. ‘I do have a television, as a matter of fact. I don’t watch it very often so I keep it upstairs in the spare room. One of the advantages of being a bachelor. Plenty of space.’

‘Are you working on anything right now?’

Conran beamed and sat forward, hands clasped in his lap. ‘As a matter of fact, I am. I’ve just got this wonderful commission from the BBC to dramatize John Cowper Powys’s novel, Weymouth Sands. It’ll be a hard task, very hard, but it pays well, and it’s an honour to be involved. I’m not the only writer in the project, of course, but still…’

‘You’re a long way from Weymouth,’ Banks remarked ‘Come from down there?’

‘Little Cheney, actually. You won’t have heard of it. It’s a small village in Dorset.’

‘I thought I could spot a trace of that Hardy country burr. Well, Mr Conran, sorry to have bothered you on Christmas Eve. Hope we haven’t kept you from your family.’

‘I have no family,’ Conran said, ‘and you haven’t kept me from anything, no.’ He stood up and shook hands, then helped Susan on with her coat.

Back outside at the car, Banks turned to Susan and said, ‘Do you know, I think he fancies you.’

Susan blushed. ‘He probably fancies anything in a skirt.’

‘You could be right. He seemed a bit edgy, didn’t he? I wonder if there’s more to this dramatic society than meets the eye? You know the kind of thing, fiery passions lurking beneath the surface of dull suburban life.’

Susan laughed. ‘Could be,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps he’s just shaken up.’

‘And did I miss something,’ Banks said, ‘or did he tell us nothing at all?’

‘He told us nothing,’ Susan agreed. ‘But I certainly got the impression he knew much more than he let on.’

Banks opened the car door. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think he did, didn’t he. That’s the trouble with cases like this. Everybody’s got something to hide.’