Death Of A Hollow Man (39 page)

“Joyce took it in for an MOT.”

“Only I’m not going straight home … calling at the Golden Swans.” More waggling. “It’s a free house,” explained Troy. “Out on the Uxbridge Road.”

“That’s all right by me. I could do with something wet and warm on a night like this.”

“Well …” Red-faced, hanging on to the door handle, Troy elucidated further. “It’s not really a pub—that was just a joke—they’re on the bath, you see.”

Barnaby looked at his sergeant. And saw. “Ah. Sorry, Troy. I’m not usually so slow on the uptake. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, sir.” The younger man made it halfway through the door, then turned and squared up to Barnaby in a manner both awkward and defiant. “I mean, the case
is
over.”

“Oh, yes, yes. What you do off duty’s your own affair.” Then, when Troy still hovered: “If you’re waiting for my approval, you’ll stand there till daisies grow out of your arse.”

“Good night then, sir.”

“Good night, Sergeant.” As the door closed, Barnaby called, “Give my regards to Maureen.”

That reminded him of the song about Broadway, which reminded him of theaters, which reminded him of the Latimer, which reminded him of Harold, whom he was trying to forget, which he did most of the time, especially once he got into the business of the day. After all, he told himself (yet again), it was just another arrest. A bit out of the ordinary in that it was someone he knew. Also slightly out of the ordinary in that, once Harold had realized that the
crème de la crème
of British journalism had not gathered to honor him, it had taken three men to hold him down and get him into a cell. Barnaby, for the first time that he could remember in working hours, took the coward’s way out and left them to it. But even in the canteen, he could still hear Harold screaming.

“Oh, Christ!” Barnaby slammed the office door and decided to walk home. A brisk trot through the snapping air should cool his blood. And calm his recollections. He strode down Causton High Street, darkness by his side. Naturally he had never expected, even as a naive young constable in the early fifties, that his policeman’s lot would be an entirely happy one. He had been prepared for foulness galore, and the preparation had not been in vain. But there were occasions when all the foulnesses memory held seemed to join together and become one great dark malodorous scab blotting out the good times, the bright times.

He strode on, crossing the road before he got to the Latimer even though it meant he would have to cross back further on. He didn’t want to go near the place. Neither did he have any intention of helping to paint the set for their next production, “heavenly” though his daughter had asserted it to be. She and Joyce would be in there now— he glanced at his watch—carrying on. He knew he’d probably feel differently in a few days’ time, perhaps even tomorrow, but just at the moment he was sick of actors. Sick to death of their ramshackle emotions and dissembling hearts. Of their posturing ways and secret, gossipy gatherings.

Then, on the principle that spiteful coincidence always seeks out those who can least tolerate it, as he moved out onto the Pelican crossing, the car that had stopped gave a friendly hoot and, glancing across, Barnaby saw the Everards. Their faces were grubby yellow under the sodium street lamps. Clive wound his window down and called, “Hello,” and Donald, who was driving, tootled again. Barnaby continued to walk.

There must be something, he grimly thought, as he grimly plodded on, still in a welter of miserable recall, to turn this sorry tide of introspection. Then, felicitously, outside the Jolly Cavalier, he stopped. The scene at that morning’s breakfast table popped into his mind. Joyce had said would he mind terribly, as she had a packed day and had to be at the theater by seven, getting something from the Indian or Chinese for his supper. So Barnaby pushed open the door of the Cavalier and went in.

Moving with the times, the pub offered a family/no-smoking room at the back. They also did all their own cooking. Barnaby obtained a large helping of meat pie-rich steak and kidney and flaky pastry—buttered broccoli, roast potatoes, and steamed treacle pudding for dessert. He added a pint of real ale and took his tray through.

The family room, living up to its name, held one small family. A thin young woman nursing a baby and a youngish man, heavily tattooed, who was crouching in front of a cardboard box filled with much-used toys and showing them to his three-year-old daughter. He was speaking quietly and offering first a shabby animal, then a doll. Their table was littered with potato-chip bags and beer bottles. Barnaby nodded curtly (he would much rather have had the place to himself), and sat down.

The hot, savory food was soothing, and gradually he started to relax. The little girl eventually chose a woolly lamb, took it back to their table, and offered it to her brother. He took it and dropped it on the floor. She reclaimed it and gave it back. He threw it down again. They both seemed to think this was a great joke.

Barnaby started on his pudding. He no longer wished he had the place to himself. The family about which, perhaps fortuitously, he knew nothing, seemed to offer, in a muddled way he could not be bothered to define, a kind of solace. He drained his glass and, deciding to make an evening of it, went to get another pint.

The Latimer caravan rolled on. Right now there was a rehearsal for
Uncle Vanya.
Rosa, who had seriously thought about getting off forever when she had been offered the measly part of the old nurse, was now glad that she hadn’t. It had been a near thing, though, more than once. Especially when she’d been told there was no such thing as a small part, only small actors. She’d flounced out then, but had sidled back after Joycey had made her some coffee and talked about how exciting it would all be. And Rosa had to admit that it was. Exhilarating, in fact. But frightening, too.

All the little technical tricks she had accumulated over the years had had to go. And that romantic husky voice the audience loved. All very well being told to use her imagination, search for the truth, and follow the syntax. Armorless, Rosa frequently felt she had never been on a stage before in her life. It was like stepping out over an abyss on a thin wire. And
tired.
She had never been so tired. When she looked back at all the leading roles that she had played, all on technique, without even getting out of breath, she marveled at her present exhaustion. Thank goodness for dear Earnest. He was such a comfort; warming her slippers by the fire, cocoa freshly made as soon as she tottered in. Rosa gathered her wits. It was nearly time for her entrance; opening Act IV.

Nicholas and Joyce sat together halfway up the stalls. They were both thinking of Cully. Nicholas, madly in love, wondered if she meant it when she said they would meet in London and, if he was in anything at Central, he was to let her know and she’d come along to cheer and shout.

Joyce, observing the sad splendor in which her daughter moved as Yelena, marveled and was afraid. What a business she was going into. Cully knew all about theatrical uncertainties, of course; her mother had made sure of that. All about being “between engagements” and the unanswered letters and the auditions where they would let you know and never did. But like all young hopefuls, she didn’t really think they would apply much to her. Joyce turned her attention to the stage, where Boris as Telyegin was holding out his arms, which were draped with a skein of wool. The ancient nurse, Marina, wound the ball slowly, holding it with great care in arthritic fingers. Her face and humped shoulders were old, but there was a robust peasant merriment in her cackling voice.

“Who’d ever have thought,” whispered Nicholas, “that Rosa could turn in a performance like that.”

Joyce smiled. All of them were thinking—and feeling-on their feet, alive, alive-o, re-creating moment to moment. Her ideas on her own character (Maria Voinitski) had gotten pretty short shrift. Cully had got off lightest. Not that any of them minded. Because what was happening onstage made it all worthwhile.

In the scene dock David Smy was recovering a chaise lounge with olive-green patterned velvet. Sunny lay yawning by the portable gas fire. There seemed to be a lot going on at the moment, he thought, and certainly his walks were getting shorter and shorter, but he was not a dog to complain. Perhaps when the nice weather came, things would perk up.

Colin worked on a huge armoire, painting it with a walnut stain. Phoebe Glover, the ASM, would pop down and tell them when it was okay to saw and bang and generally make a racket. Colin wasn’t too worried. The set was almost finished. There hadn’t been any flats to paint or rostrums to drag about; it all looked so simple, yet seemed to work very well. He glanced across at David’s bent head. Colin was neither a fanciful nor a religious man, but just at that moment found himself wondering if Glenda knew of their son’s present happiness. Why not? Stranger things must have happened. He smiled at the thought. David looked up.

“What is it, Dad?”

“I’m parched, that’s what. I’m popping up to the club-room for a drink. Coming?”

“No. I want to get this done.”

“Henpecked.”

David gave a broad grin. “You want to bet?”

Upstairs they were taking a break. The cast had gathered together and were sitting, standing, or lying about on the stage. Their director rose from her seat in the back row, a tall, slim figure in a white jumpsuit, and came down to the footlight, clipboard in hand.

“That wasn’t bad at all. We’ve a long way to go yet. Don’t look like that, Rosa—what you got in Act Four was marvelous. Really very good.”

There was a murmur of genuine agreement, and Rosa, proud but inexplicably shy, studied the carpet.

“I’m sure we could all do with some coffee. Phoebe?” The ASM hurried out from the wings. “Put the kettle on, there’s a good girl.”

“I’m just painting the candlesticks.”

“Leave those for now. Go on then . . said Deidre, and she smiled. A smile with all the zing and glitter of a bold young samurai. Then she clapped her hands and cried, “Chop-chop!”

CAROLINE GRAHAM, a former journalist, scriptwriter, actress, and professional dancer, lives in Suffolk, England.
Death of a Hollow Man
is her second Inspector Barnaby mystery, following high critical acclaim for
The Killings at Badger’s Drift
.