The London Blitz Murders (20 page)

Such sentiments considered, she was not quite sure why she adored the theater so, why in her heart of hearts she preferred the role of playwright to that of novelist. In her youth, before she had developed this miserable, horrible shyness, she had performed in plays and given piano and vocal recitals without a care. Perhaps now, in her self-conscious adulthood, she was performing through the actors, personal appearance by proxy.

Or perhaps it had to do with her propensity for living in a world of fantasy, at the center of a self-created, interior stage suited for drama, comedy and her own particular brand of melodrama. She’d had imaginary friends as a child, and even now she heard her characters speak within her and often merely felt the recording secretary of their thoughts and discourse.

She had been accused, by reviewers, of using dialogue as a sort of crutch, of short-changing the art of narrative by leaning
so heavily on what the characters said to each other. This technique, she’d been lectured, was simplistic.

Her only defense was the work itself—that publishers and readers accepted this approach. To her, dialogue was the engine of a story, and perhaps she was not a novelist at all; perhaps she was a dramatist who occasionally staged her productions within the covers of a book.

Tonight, however, the play would be staged at the St. James Theatre, and she must endure all of the attention and folderol attendant with any opening night. The after-party would be held at the Savoy, and the procession of Rolls Royces that would carry “celebrities” such as herself and the director and producer to the theater began there, as well.

(The publicity-averse Sir Bernard had chosen not to participate in this indignity, and arranged to meet her later at the theater; he’d even offered to give Stephen a lift, and Agatha savored with pixie-ish glee the thought of cool and collected Professor Glanville being subjected to a wild ride with the Mr. Toad who was Sir Bernard Spilsbury.)

A West End opening, like everything else in wartime, required adjustments. The play would begin at seven p.m., not eight, and the caravan of celebrities had begun at six, prior to nightfall and the blackout. This allowed the event to include flash photographers and an illuminated marquee and a general emulation of the giddy hysteria of a pre-war premiere, even though the bombed-out remains of Willis Sale Rooms next door, and the ravaged Christie’s Auction House across the way, provided stark reminders of reality.

Often scavengers, poor things, were seen digging through the rubble of these buildings, the once-grand Willis in particular. The bobbies had no doubt chased any such unfortunates
away, before the red carpet and velvet ropes were put in place at the St. James; the war-zone reminders of the Willis site and Christie’s across the street could not be banished, but the ragtag homeless, the war refugees of London, could be chased away, temporarily, at least.

Agatha, sharing her Rolls with Larry Sullivan, frowned at this bitter irony—again, she could only wonder if the homicidal frivolities she dispensed had any place in this war-torn world.

A surprising crowd awaited them, held back by constables, and timidly she smiled and waved at the blur of people who shouted, “Agatha! Agatha!” at her, as if she were a film star; oddly, the real star of stage and screen at her side, portly Francis L. Sullivan (looking rather like a head waiter in his evening dress), received fewer of these complimentary catcalls than she.

Certainly Agatha did not feel like a film star. She felt like an overweight middle-aged woman, rather embarrassingly stuffed into a navy chiffon pleated evening gown that had been purchased several seasons (and two stone) ago. Her fur coat, however, hid a multitude of sins, and the passage down the red carpet and into the lobby was blessedly brief.

The lobby was closed off to the public, and a small cocktail-party-style gathering of the principals—excluding the actors, of course, who like brides before the wedding must not be seen—was under way, the night’s nervous participants milling about sharing best wishes (including the quaint American admonishment that they should all “break a leg”) and shaking hands and kissing cheeks and calling each other “darling.”

She sensed a chilliness, however, from several of those who had participated in the recent interrogation at the public house next door.

The cold front had first moved in at the Savoy when Larry Sullivan barely spoke to her. In the backseat of the Rolls Royce, she asked her actor friend if he was miffed with her.

“Miffed?” the portly actor asked, arching an eyebrow. “That hardly states it. How, Agatha, could you participate in that inquisition?”

“If you mean Inspector Greeno’s questioning, I thought it was polite and perfunctory. Really, Larry, we’d all come in contact with a victim in the most notorious murder case of the war. Police queries were inevitable.”

He huffed. “Surely you don’t suspect me of indiscretions.”

So that was it: Larry was not worried that he might be considered a murder suspect, but that his lovely bride, Danae, might hear tales out of school.

“Of course not,” Agatha assured him. “I really don’t believe the inspector has his eye on the St. James bunch at all, at this stage.”

“You mean, because of the other two killings.”

“That’s right. This seems a murder spree, clearly, and any thought that the Ward girl was someone’s murdered mistress has fallen by the roadside.”

Larry’s eyes popped. “Is that what the inspector thought?”

She touched the black sleeve of his tuxedo. “Larry, please. The inspector doesn’t think anything. Let’s save the melodramatics for the stage, shall we?”

Embarrassed, Larry rode in silence for a while, then turned to her with a child’s little smile. “I would just hate for you to have a bad opinion of me, Agatha. I think the world of you.”

“I’m sure you do, darling,” she’d said.

The coldest of them was probably Irene Helier Morris. The actress-turned-director had traded in her mannish rehearsal
togs for a lovely black gown that showed off a figure that managed to be willowy and curvaceous at once. Her makeup was perfection, her dark blue eyes highlighted beautifully, her lipstick a bold crimson.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your inspector along,” Irene said, with a chilly smile.

“I asked him,” Agatha said, realizing the woman had been trifling with her, “but this loathsome case has him working evenings.”

In a rather premature display of celebration—the curtain had yet to go up, after all—waiters in red jackets threaded through the little party with silver trays of champagne in glasses. Irene plucked one off. Agatha did not—she did not indulge in alcoholic beverages.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Irene said, “I’d think you pulled us into this wretched affair for the publicity.”

“You do know me better.”

“Well, there hasn’t been any press, it’s true. Don’t think I haven’t considered it myself—plays in this climate can use any boost they can get.”

Not sure whether the director was trifling or not this time, Agatha smiled her most winning smile and said, “If you do turn this into a publicity stunt, my dear, neither you nor your husband need approach me again about producing one of my plays…. Excuse me.”

“Agatha,” the director said, touching Agatha’s shoulder—she had already turned away, “forgive me. Opening night jitters.”

Agatha turned and cast a sincere smile at the woman. “I understand. Do know that I think you’ve done a lovely job.”

“It’s a wonderful entertainment. I don’t believe I could have mucked it up if I’d tried.”

Now Agatha gave the director a smile to wonder about. “Oh, I’m sure you could have done, darling.”

Leaving Irene with a confused frown, Agatha found Janet Cummins and her cadet husband, Gordon, standing rather awkwardly against a wall—obviously feeling the outsiders. He was a most handsome boy in his blue uniform, and Janet was a knockout, proving the truth behind the cliché of a secretary turned raving beauty by taking off her eyeglasses. Janet’s full-bosomed figure was well-served by a pink off-the-shoulder gown.

“Well, Airman Cummins,” Agatha said and offered her hand.

He took it and half-smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t know whether to shake this or kiss it.”

“Entirely your choice.”

He shook it and all three of them laughed lightly.

“You are ravishing,” Agatha told Janet. “You belong up on that stage.”

The producer’s secretary beamed and all but blushed. Her complexion was peaches and cream and her brunette hair was nicely curled. The thought that Airman Cummins would have any need to go trolling among streetwalkers, with this pretty, voluptuous wife at hand, struck Agatha as absurd.

“I’m afraid,” Janet said, in belated response to Agatha’s compliment, “that my childhood ambitions to be an actress were quashed by a terrible strain of stage fright.”

“I suffer the same malady,” Agatha admitted. To the RAF cadet, she said, “I’m so delighted you could get leave for this evening.”

“Actually, I had picket duty again, but your friend Stephen Glanville, at the Air Ministry, arranged it for me. I have the
whole night off to spend with Janet, don’t have to report in till nine a.m. He’s a true gentleman, Mr. Glanville is.”

“He is indeed. He’ll be here tonight. I’m expecting him momentarily.”

“I feel a fool, Mrs. Mallowan,” the cadet said, “not bringing a book for you to sign.”

“Did you forget?”

“Well… I thought it might be bad form, considering the occasion.”

“Nonsense. I’ll fix you up at a later date.”

His grin was infectiously boyish. “I’m so anxious to see how you’ve made this one into a play. The book ended so… finally.”

“I warned you before, young man—I’ve changed the ending. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Perhaps you can give me an honest appraisal, after the performance.”

“If I like it,” he said, “I’ll gush with praise.”

“And if you don’t?”

He shrugged. “I’ll gush with praise.”

They all laughed again and Agatha excused herself, to respond to Bertie Morris. The round producer with the matinee idol’s face stood off to one side, motioning at her frantically.

She joined him and said, “Why the semaphores, Bertie?”

“I need a favor. The critic from the
Times
desires the briefest of interviews.”

“Well, then, here it is: no.”

“But Agatha…”

“No. And if, at curtain, you try to ‘surprise’ me by requesting that I respond to the ‘author, author’ outcries with a speech, I will refuse… perhaps not graciously.”

“Not a speech… just a few words…”

“Bertie, must we have this conversation again? I cannot make speeches. I never make speeches. I won’t make speeches.”

“But Agatha…”

“And it is a very good thing that I don’t make speeches, because I should be so very bad at them.”

Bertie’s expression of disappointment melted into a warm smile. “Well, I had to try, didn’t I, darling?”

She returned the smile. “I suppose you did.”

“You’ve written a simply wonderful play.”

“I would settle for ‘good.’ ”

The producer chuckled, but the warmth in his eyes seemed genuine. “Agatha, in your quiet way, you are the most difficult prima donna of them all.”

“Bertie, you alone of the people I have called ‘darling’ tonight truly are… ‘darling,’ that is. And thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, for producing my play, for one thing, and selecting your lovely talented wife to direct, for another, as well as assembling such a fine cast in wartime. But also for being the only participant in those Golden Lion interviews, the other day, who hasn’t chastised me.”

“Oh, that! I thought it was exciting. A police inspector asking questions about a murder—rather like one of your plays!”

He seized a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved on.

Twenty minutes later, Agatha was sitting in her inconspicuous seat off to one side between her two extremely handsome escorts—Stephen Glanville and Sir Bernard Spilsbury.

“Did you enjoy the ride?” she whispered to Stephen.

His eyes widened, and he whispered back: “I’ll have my revenge one day, my dear…. Didn’t you invite our inspector friend?”

“You’re the second person to ask me that. He’s working on the murders even as we speak.”

Stephen’s expression grew serious. “It still troubles me, you in the midst of that grotesque Grand Guignol. Tell me, are you having nightmares?”

“Not at all,” she lied. Well, sort of lied: the murder scenes had not turned up in her dreams; but the Gunman of her childhood nightmares had been with her every night this week.

She turned to Sir Bernard. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“I had to miss a concert for this, you know,” he told her with a sideways glance that seemed vaguely reproving.

Agatha touched her bosom. “Oh, dear no…”

“Yes. It’s on the BBC this evening.”

And he smiled a little.

She chuckled. Those who considered Sir Bernard an aloof stuffed shirt didn’t know him very well.

“I feel privileged,” he was saying, “to accompany the author to a first night. And as possibly the only human being in the British Empire who has not yet enjoyed one of your thrillers, I look forward to the experience.”

Moved, she took Sir Bernard’s hand and squeezed it in thanks.

Stephen looked past Agatha to say to the pathologist, “A word of advice, Sir Bernard—if you figure out the mystery, don’t tell her. Annoys the bloody hell out of her.”

Agatha said, “Stephen,” sharply, but was amused.

Also, he was right. Max had figured out the novel tonight’s play was based upon, and she had never forgiven him.

The lights dimmed, and an expectant audience burst into applause. Bertie Morris came out on stage into the spotlight
to welcome the first-night audience and Agatha did not hear a word of his speech, which wasn’t very long. She was nervous, as if about to go on stage herself.

But she needn’t have been. The performance—by a splendid cast that included Henrietta Watson, Linden Travers, Percy Walsh, Terence de Marney, Allan Jeayes, Eric Cowley and Gwyn Nichols—was letter perfect; no corpses were up and around (at least no unscripted corpses) and the audience tittered and even laughed at her occasional dark humor, gasping in collective fright and surprise at all the appropriate moments.