‘Aubrey hadn’t changed his mind about Bothwell,’ Josephine said. ‘Apparently he was still very keen this afternoon on hiring Fleming.’

Lydia gave an involuntary shudder. ‘You know, I’ve just remembered what Johnny said when he made the toast tonight: “To memorable exits.” He couldn’t have known, could he? Surely he wouldn’t . . .’ she tailed off, unable to bring herself to say the words.

‘I thought you said you wouldn’t keep her long, Inspector?’

Marta stood in the doorway, calmer now, but no less protective.

Penrose looked up at her and said, politely but firmly, ‘There are a couple more questions. Please take a seat, though, I’ll be as brief as I can.’ Marta moved across to be near Lydia, but remained standing. ‘Now, the tray of drinks for this ritual,’ Penrose continued, ‘who got that ready today?’

‘Hedley made sure everything was there before the matinee. At least, that’s what usually happens. McCracken was on duty tonight, so she’ll have put the drinks in place.’

‘And do those two get on? White and Miss McCracken, I mean.’

‘I don’t think you could honestly say that McCracken gets on with anyone – except Johnny, perhaps. He actually thinks she can write. But Hedley isn’t the confrontational type and he has to work with the woman, so he puts up with all her nonsense and just 160

gets on with it. How is Hedley, by the way? I didn’t realise until Josephine told me tonight that it was his girlfriend who was killed yesterday. I can’t believe I met her at the station and didn’t make the connection. He’ll be devastated. He was so in love with her, you know, it was really very sweet. And of course Bernie had become like a father to him over the last few months. It’ll feel like his whole world has collapsed when he finds out what’s happened now.’

‘Actually, we’re having a bit of trouble getting hold of Mr White,’ Penrose said, with an edge in his voice which was lost on neither Lydia nor Marta. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be, do you?’

‘I haven’t seen him since the matinee,’ Lydia said, and Penrose was interested to note that her tone had lost some of its warmth.

‘If I had, I’d have no qualms about telling you. He wouldn’t do anything wrong, Archie. He’s just a boy.’

Fallowfield spoke up for the first time. ‘He had done something wrong, though, hadn’t he, Miss? The stage doorman says he was supposed to report to Mr Aubrey after the matinee this afternoon for some sort of disciplinary, but he never showed up. Do you know what that was about?’

‘I’ve really no idea, Sergeant, but I can’t imagine it was a matter for the police.’ She accepted the cigarette that Marta held out to her, and paused while it was lit. ‘He shares digs with Rafe Swinburne over the river. If he’s not there, I’ve no idea where you’ll find him, but I just hope he’s all right.’

‘Rafe Swinburne – you mentioned him earlier,’ Penrose said.

‘Why is Terry so keen on him?’

‘Well, partly out of sheer stubbornness. He hates Fleming so much that anyone who has some talent and fits the same sort of roles would be preferable. And Swinburne is talented – he’s made quite a success of things in Sheppeyat Wyndham’s, helped along no doubt by his looks. Johnny’s a fool for a pretty face.’

At the mention of Wyndham’s Theatre, Penrose looked across at Fallowfield. ‘And does Rafe Swinburne want to take this role as much as John Terry wants to give it to him?’

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‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. He’s very ambitious. I’ve seen him work the room a couple of times now, and he certainly knows how to pull out all the stops.’

Marta made no attempt to disguise the contempt in her voice.

‘Has the world really come to that, Inspector? Are we all so shal-low now that we’ll kill for a part in a play? Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned motives that people used to murder for? At least they were a little more convincing.’

Protective Marta might be, but Penrose was beginning to lose patience with her sarcasm. He stood up, aware that Aubrey’s widow would be waiting for him. ‘My officers will be in the theatre for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘You’re all welcome to stay here as long as you want to, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t go anywhere else in the building. When you’re ready to leave, the constable at stage door will call for a car to take you home.’ He reserved a smile for Josephine on his way out of the room, and paused at the door. ‘Last year, I had to investigate the murder of a young woman in Pimlico,’ he said, looking back at Marta. ‘She was a secretary in a large firm of solicitors, and she was strangled because she was allocated a desk that somebody else wanted. Not a very old-fashioned motive, I agree, Miss Fox, but I’m sure it seemed convincing enough to the woman who hanged for it.’

Penrose heard four bolts being shot back from their sockets and the jangle of keys in a lock before a maid opened the front door to admit him to the imposing house on Queen Anne’s Gate. What a shame, he thought, that Bernard Aubrey hadn’t shown the same concern for security in his theatres as he clearly had at home.

‘Mrs Aubrey’s upstairs, Sir,’ the woman said, with a balance of civility and economy born of many years in domestic service. ‘I’ll show you to the drawing room, and she’ll join you shortly.’

The room in which Penrose was asked to wait was of similar proportions to Aubrey’s office at the theatre and showed the same exquisite taste in its décor and furnishings, but the signs of everyday living which had personalised his study were entirely absent from the domestic space that he had shared with his wife. It was, 162

in fact, the sort of room in which no object was permitted to serve the purpose for which it had been created: the sofa – an elegant Chesterfield – was attractive but uninviting; the fireplace was beautifully polished but far too clean to have known much warmth; and the handful of books in a corner cabinet seemed chosen more to offset the light browns of the walnut than to entertain.

He had little doubt that, were he to take one down, he would find some of its gilt-edged pages still uncut. The masculine traces of cigarette smoke, so dominant in Aubrey’s office, were replaced here by a faint, violet-scented fragrance; by now, he was not surprised to trace its origin to a vase of irises, dark purple and all in full bloom, and so uniform in their display that only their perfume proved them to be the work of nature rather than man.

Just above the flowers hung an oil painting, and Penrose wondered if it had been chosen out of a spontaneous love for its beauty or merely with a shrewd eye to its future value. From what he knew of the man, Aubrey was capable of either. It was a beach scene, centred, he guessed, on one of those French coastal resorts that had become so fashionable in the second half of the last century. The foreground was dominated by men with elaborate bathing paraphernalia and women sporting crinolines and para-sols – all very different from the easy-going holidaymakers of his own age – and even the children were dressed in the finest of clothes and hats, with no prospect, it seemed, of venturing into the tame sea beyond. Penrose didn’t need to look at the signature to know that the painting was by Eugène Boudin: studying in Cambridge, he had been lucky enough to have the Fitzwilliam’s fine collection of Impressionism on his doorstep and he had always been drawn to these small, quietly beautiful paintings, much preferring them to the louder canvases of Boudin’s more famous con-temporaries.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it? It was my husband’s favourite painting. The beach is at Trouville in Normandy, and he used to spend his summer holidays there as a child. Unfortunately, his more recent memories of France were less happy.’