Murder on a Midsummer Night (12 page)

Dot sensed a clue, jumping up and down and yelling ‘here I am!’ into her ear.

‘Mr Wright, this could be very important. I would like you to cast your mind back and tell me everything you can recall about the other people at the funeral.’

‘Oh, my dear, that’ll be a stretch of the old memory! Not as young as I was.’

Dot knew that she was expected to say something flirtatious but she really didn’t know how, so she said, ‘Nonsense! You’re as young as you ever were. When I saw you dancing on stage, doing “Top Hat and Tails” with Margaret Arnold.’

‘Oh, yes, that was our star number,’ he said dreamily, beginning to hum the tune. ‘Come to think of it, Maggie was at that funeral. It was a freezing day and she was wearing her furs—the price of virtue, I hasten to add; she had married that newspaper magnate by then. I found a new partner, Jessie, darling girl she was, died young. Like too many of us. Cold day, I had my astrakhan coat. Maggie had her furs. Johnnie was there, yes, and old Freddie, weeping into his hankie. Gorgeous Gwen Powell with that reprobate, Hayward Rendell. Most of them were old—I thought them old. Then. Oh, such a long time ago.’

‘Let me go and get us a nice cool drink,’ Dot offered, having seen the restorative effects of alcohol on Phryne’s clients.

‘I’ll send the boy down to the theatre bar,’ he told her, ‘if you’ve got the wherewithal.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Dot, who had an emergency fund of Miss Phryne’s money for contingencies like sudden thirst, immediate taxis, witness expenses or bribes. She turned her back to extract the little folder from her undergarment. Mr Wright smiled at her. He really was a charming old man.

He took the note, called ‘James!’ down the stairs, and after a short interval a pale, panting boy appeared. Too much greasepaint and not enough sleep, Dot diagnosed.

James booked an order from Mr Wright and took off again. He clattered down and, in due course, plodded up. On one hand, like a waiter, he held a tray with several glasses, an ice bucket, a bottle of tonic and a bottle of gin. James offered Dot the change and she nodded at him to keep it. He blushed with pleasure and for a moment looked quite healthy. James bowed elaborately, putting back the skirts of his imaginary brocaded coat, flourishing an imaginary feathered hat. Then he was gone, in case Dot changed her mind.

‘Going to be good, that boy,’ commented Mr Wright, loading ice into both glasses and pouring a solid dose of gin into each one, topping it up with tonic.

‘Mud in your eye!’ he said cordially, then leaned back, sipping, closing his eyes. Dot got out her notebook and began to make a list of names as he spoke them.

‘Maggie, of course, and me, then old Charlie and Freddie, that was Charlie Latham, fine dancer in his time. The Russian—Serge was his name? Came out here with the Ballets Russe and never went home to the steppes. He was a dear friend of the deceased, but Paddy had crept away from all of his old friends. Serge never even knew where he was living, come the last act. None of them did. Thought he’d gone back to Ireland, perhaps. Serge always said that Paddy had a secret sorrow. Only one who knew where he was was Archie, now Archie ought to be able to tell you who was at that funeral, good memory, old Archie, and he used to take our little donation over to Paddy every Thursday. Archibald Lawrence. You might have seen him on stage, Miss Williams. There was a woman in a dark suit, very antique, long skirt, big hat. Hard to see her face. And two men; both much of a muchness, can’t recall anything about them, sorry, except they were wearing ordinary clothes and they slipped away from the church, didn’t even follow the coffin to the grave, though some people are just too sensitive to do that—poor Serge had to be carried away by Freddie when he wanted to fling himself in, you know how emotional those Russians are . . . Tell you what,’ he said, sitting up and opening his eyes suddenly. ‘I believe that Archie is at home, he hates the heat. Let’s call him on the telephone and invite him to have a drink with us.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ said Dot, who had been hoping for a chance of disposing of her drink. She never drank gin and especially not in the morning. There was no suitable receptacle to pour it into and anyway she hated wasting things, and this was expensive gin.

Fortunately Mr Wright excused himself to go and use the box office phone and Dot noticed that the silent boy James had reappeared. He was looking hungrily at the tray. She beckoned and offered him her glass. He smiled, drained the glass, refilled it with tonic and returned it, all without a word. Then he gave her his court bow again, and vanished. He would do well on the stage, Dot thought, as long as he didn’t have a speaking part.

‘That boy been here?’ asked Mr Wright as he struggled up the stairs again. ‘He’s a mumchance brat.’

‘Can’t he talk?’ asked Dot.

‘Oh, yes, nice little voice, but he’s on tonight and he’s saving it. Have to conduct all my conversations with him in dumb show. Old Archie’s delighted with the invitation and should be here soon. I think that calls for another round, don’t you?’

‘I’m still drinking this one,’ said Dot truthfully.

‘Now, how can I amuse you in the interim, Miss Williams?’ asked Mr Wright. ‘We have some scripts, and a rare collection of playbills and scrapbooks.’

‘Tell me about when you were on stage,’ invited Dot. Nothing could have pleased Mr Wright more. He sipped his gin and began to reminisce.

Dot soon got lost in the Freddies and Charlies and Jimmies and Roses and Julias, but she was fascinated. The theatre flowed over her like a highly flavoured river of pink champagne, fizzing with gossip and spiked with refreshing malice like the Angostura bitters in a cocktail. When she heard footsteps on the stairs, Mr Wright was describing a phenomenon called ‘corpsing’.

‘You see, after a while, in a long run, you start to sleepwalk through the part. I remember when we were doing one of those Cheltenham tragedies, all sound and fury, you know, I started making a shopping list, and when I got to the end of it, reminding myself that we were out of soda water, I found that I had denounced my wife, disinherited my son, and turned my daughter out of the house with her child of shame. I came to myself in front of seven hundred people in the full glare of the footlights without the faintest idea of what I was going to do next. A terrible feeling.’

‘What did you do?’ gasped Dot. He waved an elegant hand.

‘Oh, I coughed myself over to prompt and got the line. No one took those melodramas seriously, you know.’

‘Luckily for you,’ commented a spare man from the doorway. ‘Has young James been struck dumb? He wouldn’t announce me.’

‘Saving his voice,’ explained Mr Wright. ‘He’s Ariel tonight.’

‘Oh, ah,’ said the spare man. He held out a hand to Dot. ‘I’m Archibald Lawrence, as this oaf does not seem to be willing to introduce me.’

‘Dorothy Williams,’ said Dot, flustered by being so abruptly dragged out of her theatrical river. The hand was smooth and cool.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Mr Lawrence, dropping into a chair and reaching for the gin. ‘Filthy weather, isn’t it? Your employer has handed over a cheque of special generosity, bless her, so we are at your service. About time someone took notice of poor old Paddy. I always felt he had a hidden sorrow.’ His drink vanished almost instantly, as though he had a secret siphon.

‘Hidden bottle, more like,’ said Mr Wright. ‘Another half, Archie?’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Archibald Lawrence.

Dot looked at the two gentlemen. One thin, one comfortably stout. Mr Lawrence was shabby but clean, Mr Wright more prosperous. Mr Wright had abundant silver hair and Mr Lawrence almost none. But they were similar. Both had the sonorous diction of those who had to be heard at the back of the stalls. And both had the excellent skin, hardly lined at all, of those who never saw the sun and who wore greasepaint every night of their lives, plus matinees on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

‘We’re trying to remember who were the strangers at old Paddy’s funeral,’ prompted Mr Wright.

‘Ah, yes, well I recall the day, it was so cold I had two coats on. And, yes, Albie, you are correct, for a change. Two men, coat collars turned up, hats pulled down. And a woman in a black cloth coat with a draggled rabbit fur around her shoulders. It had been rained on, you know that look. Shabby. Didn’t speak to any of us.’

‘Do you think they were all together?’ asked Dot.

‘Interesting. I can see them clearly, you know. Good memory and it hasn’t departed like other things. I would have thought the men were together and the woman alone. What do you think, Albie?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Wright slowly. ‘I suppose so. I didn’t pay much attention to them.’

‘Well, I did,’ said Mr Lawrence with some asperity. ‘Actors’ Benevolent couldn’t find any relatives and we had to lash out for the whole funeral. I thought I might sting them for a contribution if he was their connection, but they slipped away so quickly that I never got to put the arm on them. But I had a brief rummage through my papers and I found the book for that funeral. We ought to be able to eliminate all the theatre names, and the ones that are left will be the strangers.’

‘Assuming that they signed in,’ said Mr Wright. ‘Well, furnish it forth, dear fellow, and let’s have a squiz.’

Mr Lawrence produced a folder, nicely edged in black, with the details of the funeral on the first page and a scribble of signatures on the second, facing page. Mr Wright took a pencil, sharpened it with a slow deliberation which made Mr Lawrence quiver with impatience, and they began to tick off the known attendees.

‘That’s Serge, he was so Russian, poor fellow. And there’s me, and you, little cramped letters.’

‘Better than that scrawl of yours,’ snorted Mr Lawrence.

‘Made signing autographs a lengthy business,’ preened Mr Wright. ‘But you didn’t have that trouble, of course. Here’s Althea, and here’s Thomasina, and McKenna Jordan—God, she was gorgeous; those long, long legs, dark eyes and that famous
poitrine
—excuse me, Miss Williams.’

Dot nodded, unoffended. She knew what a
poitrine
was. Bosom would have done as a translation, and why shouldn’t an actress have a famous bosom? Mr Lawrence was hastening into speech.

‘Even so, she was a fine actress when she was older. I saw her do a Gertrude that would blow your hat off. Absolutely exuded “it”. To Johnson’s Hamlet—of course, they were close, you know.’

‘Really?’ asked Mr Wright. ‘I mean, I heard rumours . . .’

‘Gentlemen,’ reproved Dot.

‘Ah, yes, of course. Well, there’s McKenna and right next to her—you see?—old Tommy himself. Then there’s . . .’

They went on. It had been a well-attended funeral. Dot’s attention wandered to the walls, plastered with posters for benefit nights. So much work, just to amuse the world! A world that ate toffee and drank ginger pop and probably dropped paper bags in the stalls . . .

‘Aha!’ said Mr Wright. ‘Here they are. Everyone else accounted for, you agree, Archie?’

‘I agree,’ said Archie, and poured himself another drink, adding lumps of ice.

‘They are rather hard to read, so we’ll give you this document to show your Miss Fisher, if we can have it back for the archives, please?’

‘Of course,’ Dot agreed.

‘The names seem to be T Johnson, S Barton, and this might be Gaston, or Geston, maybe? Blasted pen has spluttered.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dot. ‘That’s wonderful. Miss Fisher will be very grateful.’

‘She has already expressed her gratitude very handsomely,’ said Mr Wright. ‘Anything else we can do for you and her?’ His gesture offered her the whole theatre and everything in it.

‘What do you recall about Mr O’Rourke? What was he like?’

‘They say he was a fey creature when he was young,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘I never knew him then. By the time I saw him he was old and doing bit parts in Shakespeare. Beautiful voice. Remnants of a career, of course. They say he did a very good Hamlet in his time. But the drink got him. Occupational hazard in our line of work, eh, Albie?’

Mr Wright looked solemnly over the rim of his glass. ‘Certainly. It’s only when we’ve safely retired that we can tope a bit. Or a lot, of course. Bottoms up, dear boy! I’ve still got the figures to do.’

‘Leave them until tomorrow,’ suggested Mr Lawrence. ‘I’ve got a couple of fine cigars here to go with the drinkies. Haven’t chatted with you for an age, Albie.’

‘Oh, very well,’ agreed Mr Wright readily. ‘Wretched weather destroys my arithmetic, anyway.’

‘Talk about fading memory,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘No one to claim them, see, so we kept them. If your Miss Fisher is investigating, these might be helpful.’

Dot took charge of a small box. Then she took her leave of the two actors, and heard, as she went down the stairs, the rollers of theatrical gossip surging afresh above her.

She had to speak to herself sternly. She really, really wanted to go back and listen.

Simon parked the motorbike and scratched his head. Would she be waiting? Had she got his message? He had been refused at the shop by that dreadful old woman. She had turned into steel since Augustine died. Despite the heat, he shivered. He didn’t want to ask the terrible woman who kept the Atkinson house. Last time she had showed him the ulcer on her leg.