More Deaths Than One (12 page)

Following her into the darkened auditorium, they slid into seats a few rows from the front. The stage was bare, the actors were in casual working clothes, mostly jeans and sweaters, and there was as yet no scenery in evidence. It wasn't easy to understand what they were up to on the stage, but after a while Mayo began to gather the threads. Powerful stuff, seemingly, a play full of dark obsessions, capable of degenerating into overdone melodrama if not handled properly, he suspected. A sombre and sinister story of intrigue and murder committed by an ill-favoured serving man at the instigation of his mistress against those who were an obstruction to what she desired. Kite shifted in his seat, nudged Mayo, whispered in his ear and nodded towards the stage.

Mayo nodded back to show he'd noticed too, and for a while continued to try to get to grips with the plot. But at last he abandoned it as a bad job and concentrated on the two principal actors. The man who took the character of the ugly de Flores (an athletic, handsome bloke who would presumably be suitably uglified for the performance) was acting his socks off, his intention obviously being not to be upstaged by the woman he was playing against. Didn't he realize when he was beaten? He hadn't a hope, poor devil. She would always outshine anyone else on stage because, apart from the stunning impact of her physical presence, she knew what she was about, she could really and truly
act.

He should have known, Mayo told himself. She was born to it. How far had she been playing a part when she'd told him she barely knew Rupert Fleming? Was she yet another of his women? Along with Georgina, Bryony, Lois?

He gave her his attention again, but nothing in her demeanour gave him any clue. Whether she was aware of their presence in the audience it was impossible to say, but if so, she certainly wasn't letting it affect her performance. The beautiful Mrs. Susan Salisbury had totally become Beatrice Joanna, a woman committed to evil, whispering and entreating her besotted servant to perjure his soul for her, and now refusing to pay the price of herself. Mayo, bedazzled, followed her movements, light as thistledown, listened to her voice, clear and innocent as an angel's:
“Thy language is so bold and vicious, I cannot see which way I can forgive it with any modesty.”

And de Flores's answer:
“A woman dipped in blood, and talk of modesty?”

“She has the edge on them all, hasn't she, sir?” a voice next to him whispered, and turning, Mayo saw that Janet Lindsay, whom he had thought to be in Crete or Rhodes, had slipped into the seat beside him. “She used to be a professional actress.”

Unsurprised, Mayo reflected that the only wonder was that she had abandoned what must have been a spectacular future for a man like Tim Salisbury and the life of a farmer's wife, albeit a prosperous one. No wonder she had turned to the Thespians, no doubt in an endeavour to combat the dullness. And perhaps to Rupert Fleming? She had given him to understand that their acquaintance had been of the slightest, but she must have known him better than that, surely, from his frequent visits to the Gaiety? He had put one of his men onto finding out what he could about that putative relationship, but nothing had been turned up.

On stage, de Flores was declaiming: “...
and made you one with me.”

“With thee, foul villain?”

“Yes, my fair murderess ...”

“Try that once more,” called Lili. “With slightly less sibilance, de Flores, if you please. We wouldn't want to go over the top, darling, now would we?”

Mayo turned to W.P.C. Lindsay and spoke to her in a low voice. “If you're not needed for a while, come outside, please. I'd like a word with you.”

“I'm spare at the moment. I've been on the book, but they're word perfect by now so they don't need me,” Janet whispered back, and he followed her as she slid from her seat.

Lili Anand saw them go from the corner of her eye but forced herself to keep her attention concentrated on the stage. When the scene came to an end she reluctantly wound up the rehearsal for that day. If she could have prolonged it, she would have done so. She'd known that, sooner or later, the police would be here and though she'd prepared what she was going to say to them, she was frightened at the thought of going through with it.

She'd begun to wish, these last few days, that she'd never come to Lavenstock, that the chance meeting with Ashleigh in Piccadilly had never happened. They hadn't seen each other for years, not since they'd worked together at the Winter Gardens in Malvern, and that had been more years ago than she was willing to admit. She'd always had a specially soft spot for Ashleigh. He enjoyed being mothered by her, and relished the boost her admiration gave to his fragile ego when he was feeling low, while he endeared himself to her by listening amiably to her stories of past triumphs and successes. Not that there'd been so many he hadn't heard them repeated over and over again. But he'd never so much as hinted that he found the repetition dull. All actors knew about the need for reassurance. He'd always been a good type, easy-going, if not particularly strong-minded.

He
had
been. Past tense. Lili wasn't so sure about either quality, now. People, like time and circumstances, change. The years hadn't brought Ashleigh the success he thought was due to him, the West End roles or the bland, television comedy parts he knew he would have excelled in, given the chance. He was thirty-seven, and he'd grown fed up of waiting. The recognition which he felt had always eluded him, the setbacks and disappointments, far from being character-forming as such things were supposed to be, seemed to have given him only a sense of grievance, a chip on the shoulder.

But when she'd met him in London and admitted that times were hard, and becoming harder, that she was due to lose the flat where she lived and that her agent hadn't had an offer of a part for her for over a year, he'd immediately turned up trumps and suggested she share the tiny house he had in Lavenstock. Actors were like that, generous when they were on the up, sticking together when they were down. As long as it suited them. She could help out with the productions at the Community Centre if she felt so inclined, he told her, and cook him those marvellous meals she was famous for. She'd jumped at the chance, though she was warned there could be no pay. But she had her pension now – a secret she kept well guarded –  and as a Frenchwoman, though long-exiled, cooking came to her as easily as breathing. It was a small price to pay to be back in the world of theatre, even amateur theatre, and however peripherally.

Where
was
he?

She'd told the police he'd had to go to London suddenly and she was prepared to stick to her story for as long as she thought it might help him, which might not be for very much longer now, but that wasn't what had happened. The truth was he'd simply disappeared. She knew without being told that it was something to do with Rupert Fleming and an enormous fear clutched at her heart now as she sat where she was in the stalls, giving the police sergeant the names of the cast in case they might want to interview them, feeling every one of her sixty-four years.

She'd known that man Fleming was trouble the moment she met him. He'd blown into the theatre like an ill wind, or rather insinuated himself in, sneaking and ill-natured, like a chilling spiteful draught, cooling the warmth and good humour of the production, spoiling the enjoyment of those taking part. Trouble for Ashleigh also, though when she'd mentioned this – cautiously, obliquely – Ashleigh's furious silence had left her with the distinct impression that she could mind her own business or pack her bags and go. That's what she meant about his having changed. He'd never have reacted like that in the old days. She'd grown more and more sure the two men were involved in something underhand together. All those late-night sessions at the theatre. And what about Trish? She worried about that a lot.

And then, Ashleigh had simply vanished, without a word to her or anyone else as far as she knew, and the next day Rupert had been found dead. There was a sick, churned-up feeling in her stomach whenever she thought about it, which was most of the time.

Janet Lindsay took Mayo with her into one of the small, empty dressing rooms back-stage, where she switched on a small electric fire. “I only got back from holiday yesterday, sir,” she explained. “And I didn't hear about Rupert Fleming until I got to the theatre. I rang the station immediately to speak to you and they said you were on your way here, so I waited for you. I'd like to help if I can.”

“Aren't you still on leave?”

“That's all right, sir. I'm at a bit of a loose end, actually.”

Mayo smiled. “If you put it that way, thank you – I understand Fleming had connections here and it'll be useful if you can tell me what you know about him, put me in the picture.”

“I'll do my best, sir, but there isn't much. He wasn't a man who gave out a lot about himself. The person who'd know most about him is Ashleigh Cockayne. Fleming seemed to hang around here quite a lot, sometimes during rehearsals, but mostly he came along as they were ending. I couldn't make out why. It was nothing to do with me, of course, nothing to do with anybody, he might simply have been waiting to go out with Ashleigh for a drink or something ... and if it hadn't been for Trish I'd have tried to forget it.”

“Who's Trish?”

“Diaphanta, the waiting woman in the play who also gets murdered. The red-haired girl, Trish Lambert. Did you notice her, sir?”

He'd have been blind if he hadn't. A young girl, seventeen or eighteen at a guess, bursting out of her skin-tight jeans like a ripe fig, giving out provocative sexual signals from under her eyelashes. A taut bottom that ought to be thoroughly spanked. A long fall of shining red-gold hair.

“Red at the moment,” Janet amended thoughtfully. “She keeps changing the colour and the style.”

“Why were you worried about her? Was Fleming pestering her?” Though the girl was unlikely to have let that bother her overmuch, he'd have bet, from the little he'd seen of her.

“No, at least I don't think so, but you could never tell with Fleming ... he always had some woman or other in tow, different women, you know. I had the impression he used to string them along and then drop them suddenly when he got fed up. But I don't know about Trish. She's still at school, but she wants to act professionally. She's not bad, really, for her age, I suppose. She'll never be anywhere near as good as Susan, mind, but if determination will get her anywhere, she'll succeed. Although in some ways, she's rather a silly girl.”

Having delivered herself of this Janet, rather prosaic young woman that she was, sat back, suddenly feeling distressingly like her own strait-laced Scottish grannie. Had she let her imagination run away with her? Or her Presbyterian conscience? After all, as she'd remarked to Mitch, what had there been to go on? Trish staying on after the others had left, waiting for a lift: home, or so she said, from Ashleigh. Refusing Janet's own offer to drive her home. A feeling that she was up to the neck in something with the pair of them, though Janet had always felt that Fleming, in fact, seemed to find the girl mildly tiresome. It was difficult to explain, but now that she'd spoken, she'd have to have a go.

“I tried to have a word with her, but she wouldn't listen. She just shrugged and walked away. And there really wasn't anything definite.”

“Leave her to me, I'll have a talk with her. But come on, Janet, what did you
think
was going on?”

Janet tried to remember that she was a policewoman first, a Presbyterian second, and told him.

“I have kiss'd poison for't, strok'd a serpent.”

LILI FELT she'd hung around long enough while the Chief Inspector interviewed that feather-brained Trish. Her high heels were killing her and she badly wanted to kick them off, put her feet up and lie back with a cup of tea at her elbow. So she simply picked up the big canvas holdall from which she was inseparable and told one of the cast she was off and if the police had a mind to talk to her, they'd find her at home.

Home was a small house in a short street of nineteenth-century workmen's cottages that sloped down to the river, not far from the Gaiety. A very long time had passed since The Leasowes had been the pasture from which the street derived its name. Now, smart white paint, window boxes and ruffled blinds were evidence of proud home ownership, the Renaults and Sierras parked outside in the street gave status to the occupants. The house which Ashleigh Cockayne rented at the top of the street was a little different. It had been recently repainted by the Council when it was offered as an inducement to secure a Community Arts Director for the town, but they hadn't run to window boxes and Ashleigh's taste wasn't for Austrian blinds.

It was a tiny house: one room, a kitchen and a scullery downstairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom above, but big enough to accommodate Lili as an extra as well as Ashleigh, since the way their lives had been lived had taught them not to demand too much space, and not so large that a fairly total disinterest in any form of housekeeping would result in chaos. It had been minimally furnished by the Council and embellished by the personal clutter with which each defined themselves. It was a home. Lili thankfully eased off her shoes, boiled the kettle, switched on the gas fire and settled herself in like a snail into its shell.

Mayo meanwhile was talking to Trish Lambert, leaving Kite to chat to the rest of the cast over coffee, which came black, bitter and boiling in Styrofoam beakers, full of promise to keep them all on their toes. Hopefully, Kite would get them talking. It was to his advantage that he looked ingenuous and younger than his years, with a ready smile and open manner, which he knew how to exploit. Few people realized his acuity until it was too late.