The London Blitz Murders (7 page)

Her husband, Bertram, was a short, bald, rather round man who had made a star of Irene twenty years ago and a director of her this year. A dapper dresser, Bertram was attired in a dark brown suit with yellow shirt and golden tie; his attire was always so handsome, Agatha felt, one could almost mistake
him
for handsome.

Almost.

After all, his features were those of a leading man, albeit condemned to that round face. He was a frog who had been kissed back into a prince, only to have the transformation stall, halfway.

The theater’s lights were up, and the bare stage was well illuminated, as well. The naked shabbiness of the undressed stage made a marked contrast with the dignified elegance of the theater itself—dark wood paneling and rounded pillars and arched proscenium around which carved angels flew.

On the other hand, Agatha knew, theater was illusion, and under the seats of this elegant showcase could no doubt be found the hard-crusted corpses of abandoned chewing gum.

Speaking of which, the actress currently on stage, script in hand, was removing hers, delicately, a little embarrassed about it, as a stagehand scurried out to provide a napkin for the gum’s disposal. The stagehand rushed off, like a member of the Unexploded Bomb detail looking for a bucket of water into which to drop an explosive device.

“So sorry,” the actress said, in an alto that had a nice quality, to Agatha’s ears. Chewing gum or not, the young woman possessed a voice with a dignified, even upper-class lilt; of course, she was an actress. Take Bertie, for example—he sounded as
if he might have attended Oxford, whereas his father was a Whitechapel butcher, and the school the producer had graduated from was Hard Knocks.

The actress was not young—thirty-odd, Agatha should say—but she was quite attractive, a bright-eyed brunette with a heart-shaped face, Kewpie-doll red-rouged lips and a curvy shape that asserted itself despite a restrained wardrobe: dark gray suit jacket over off-white blouse, lighter gray skirt, brown “tanned” legs (
that liquid stockings stuff
, Agatha thought).

Standing next to her, making the five-foot-five woman look exceedingly small, was actor Francis L. Sullivan, who (like the young woman) had folded-open script in hand. The rather beefy actor stood a good six feet two, double-chinned and hooded-eyed, not unpleasant-looking, but no leading man.

Larry Sullivan had been the original Poirot in
Alibi
and had repeated the role in the recent
Peril at End House
. (
Why on earth
, Agatha wondered,
did producers insist on casting these ponderous overweight figures as her tiny Belgian detective? Charles Laughton’s size in
Black Coffee
had been exceeded only by his overacting
.) Sullivan was not appearing in the current production—Poirot was not a character in this one—and had been called in as a dialogue coach at the last moment.

The female understudy—who would substitute for the crucial roles of Vera and Mrs. Brent—had vacated her duties last week, when she landed a better role in a revue. In normal times, this might have ended up with the understudy finding herself blacklisted in the West End; but everyone knew the difficulties of assembling a qualified cast in wartime.

In particular, good actors were hard to come by—those men who preferred not to go into uniform were required to go out
on one or two tours a year for ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association). And pretty young actresses were much in demand for revues; among the many wartime shortages in London was an undersupply of chorus girls.

Irene’s strong voice—a contralto—came from next to Agatha and echoed through the theater. “
Your name, please
,” she intoned, the voice of a female God.

Despite this, on the stage, the young woman seemed quite at ease. “Nita Ward,” she said.

On the other side of Agatha, Bertie boomed: “Ah, yes, Miss Ward! So glad you could come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” Miss Ward said.

Bertie sat forward and spoke to his wife in a whisper. “Take a look at her resume, dear. She has impressive credits.”

Irene glanced sharply at her husband. “Is that what you call them?… Did you invite this one?”

“Well…”

“Is this another of your discoveries, Bertram?”

“Darling… she’s qualified. Please do look at her vita.”

Another sharp look from Irene. “Why should I?… You seem to have examined Nita’s…
vita
, already.”

Agatha felt that she had suddenly become the net in a tennis match. A grudge match, at that.

A notion, the cattiness of which was worthy of Jane Marple herself, flashed through Agatha’s mind: Perhaps Irene was doomed to such jealousies, since she better than anyone knew how an actress could get ahead in the theatrical world, particularly with this producer….

“You can be impossible, sometimes,” Bertie said, and rose, and shuffled out of the aisle to take a seat elsewhere, nearer to the stage… and to his latest discovery?

Irene, coldly professional, called out, “If you would take it from Act Three, Scene Two…. Larry, you’ll read both Blore and Lombard.”

The young woman was nothing special, but she had a lively quality and did not trip over the words. She was the seventh woman they’d heard read for the understudy part this afternoon, and by some distance the best.

“Her age is about right,” Agatha ventured in a whisper to Irene.

“She’s not bad,” Irene admitted. “She’s a bit short.”

“Oh, I think that’s just Larry. He’s a towering beast, our Larry.”

Irene laughed a little. “Yes… he wouldn’t have been bad as the judge.”

“You have a splendid judge. Larry can be a bit…”

“Bombastic,” Irene said.

“Indeed…. Lovely man, though.”

“Thank you!” Irene called out to the scene. “If you’ll hold up, just a moment, please….” The director looked behind her. “Janet!”

Janet Cummins, an attractive brunette in dark-rimmed glasses, rose from her aisle seat a few rows back and came down to meet Irene. Janet was Bertie’s secretary, but that understated her role: she was a trusted assistant to both Irene and Bertie.

Odd, Agatha observed, that Irene had no jealousy over Janet, who was a fetching, busty, blue-eyed woman in her later twenties, business-like in a navy suit with white blouse.

“Yes, Miss Helier?” Janet asked, dutifully half-kneeling in the aisle, clipboard in hand.

“How many more?”

“We only have three more to see.”

Irene was studying the stage where a friendly Miss Ward and a smiling Larry were conversing softly, pleasantly. “She really isn’t terrible…. I’m going to read her some more.”

Janet nodded, and then looked over at Agatha and whispered across Irene, “Could I have a word, Mrs. Mallowan?”

Agatha said, “Certainly, my dear.”

Faintly irritated, Irene said to the assistant, “Come around and do it, then.”

Janet crossed the row of seats behind them and entered from the aisle, sidling over, and was about to take the seat Bertie had vacated when Agatha rose and met her halfway, to put a few seats between them and Irene.

They sat.

Janet’s eyes were tight behind the lenses. “Mrs. Mallowan, I hate to bother you… I know how you feel about having a fuss made….”

“Go on, my dear.”

Janet seemed hesitant, even nervous, and was searching for words.

Gently Agatha prodded, “What is it, dear? I don’t bite.”

Janet’s smile was embarrassed. “You’ve heard me mention Gordon….”

“Gordon?”

“My husband.”

“Ah! The RAF pilot. Your brave young hero!”

“Well… I think he will be a hero, one day soon. He’s learning to fly Spitfires, right now…. Anyway, he’s such an enormous fan of yours. He’s simply reading your books day and night, just devouring them, and, well, I wondered if you would mind saying hello to him. For me.”

“Why, not at all! Shall we send him a signed book? Where is he stationed, dear?”

“Right here in London. Or that is, out at St. John’s Wood.”

“Oh, how lovely for you to have your man in the military so close by. Are you able to live together?”

“No, unfortunately. He’s billeted near the station. But we see each other frequently.”

Agatha gestured with open palms. “Well, why don’t you invite him down to the theater, some afternoon, if he can get away from his duties? Or perhaps he could come to our opening night, on Friday.”

Janet’s embarrassed smile curdled into mortification. “Actually, I took the liberty… I talked to your friend…. Oh my.”

“Please, Janet. You’re making me out to be an absolute ogre. What is it?”

“Well… he’s here now. Gordon’s here.”

Janet swiveled in her seat and indicated the back of the theater.

There, just inside the lobby, semi-silhouetted by mote-flecked sunlight, stood a young man in RAF blues, cap in both hands figleafed before him, a broad-shouldered sturdy five nine or ten, a boyishly handsome specimen of Britain’s military who might have stepped right off a recruiting poster.

Agatha touched Janet’s hand. “By all means, dear, let’s go back and say hello. I’d be honored to have you introduce me.”

They moved to the rear of the theater, even as the audition continued, Miss Ward’s voice resounding pleasantly through the stalls as she ably traded lines with Larry Sullivan. She was gaining confidence as the audition went on.

Gordon Cummins shifted on his feet, twisting his cap in his hands in anticipation as Agatha and Mrs. Cummins approached. His boyish good looks only improved on closer inspection—blondish brown hair, a fair complexion, wide-set
eyes of a striking clear blue-green, like a country brook on a perfect afternoon. His nose was straight and well-formed, his mouth almost feminine in its poised-for-a-kiss sensuality.

Archie
, Agatha thought, eyes widening, the sight of the young man hitting like a physical blow, the image of her first husband jumping into her mind in his own RAF uniform, of the last war.
I haven’t seen such a handsome young man in uniform since Archie was my
…

“Mrs. Christie, this is such an honor,” the young man blurted.

“Gordon,” Janet whispered, scoldingly. “It’s Mrs. Mallowan. I explained that…”

“It’s all right, dear,” Agatha said. “That’s still my name, my professional name.” She glanced toward the stage where the audition remained under way. “Shall we step into the lobby?”

They did.

The young man had a soft voice, a second tenor, and his manners were impeccable; Agatha noticed he wore a Leading Aircraftsman badge, the white badge (or “flash”) of an Officer Trainee on the hat in his hands.

He was quite charming, really, in a naive way. For several minutes he raved on and on about her books, specifically the Poirot novels, and Agatha allowed herself to bask in the adulation. It was as if Archie were standing there praising her work, adoringly interested in her… which in the reality of their marriage had never occurred.

Finally she said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Cummins. Tell me something about yourself.”

“Not much to tell, really,” he said, with a fleeting grin. “My father was a schoolmaster of sorts.”

“That’s sounds… educational.”

Janet put in, “I’m afraid more so than you know, Mrs. Mallowan. Gordon’s father was rather more a warden than a schoolmaster, I would say—the school was for delinquent boys and girls.”

“Oh,” Agatha said, and frowned sympathetically. “I hope that wasn’t terribly unpleasant for you. Was your father strict, then?”

“By most standards, yes,” the boy said. “But it was good for me. Prepared me for the life I’m leading now.”

Janet, rather proudly, said, “Gordon has something else in common with you, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“Really? What is that, dear?”

“He’s a chemist.”

“Is that right, Mr. Cummins? You do know I work in a pharmacy.”

“I do know,” he said, “that you know your poisons.”

They all laughed. A little.

Shyly, the cadet said, “I can’t say my tour of duty as a chemist is anything to boast about—I trained in a Northampton technical school and worked here in London, as a research chemist.”

“That’s when we met,” Janet explained. “I was already working for Mr. Morris.”

Agatha bestowed on them a smile, one each; then to the young RAF cadet, she asked, “You enjoy the air force?”

“Very much! I’ll be flying a Spitfire soon.”

Janet said, “One of his senior officers—a Schneider Trophy pilot—has personally endorsed Gordon for his commission.”

“How thrilling,” Agatha said. “Do you think you can get a pass to join us on opening night?”

“That would be wonderful. I do so love the book!”

Her smile was apologetic. “Well, the play turns out a little differently…. Why don’t you come in and watch these auditions? We’re finding an understudy for our leading lady.”

Cummins sat toward the back as Agatha returned to Irene’s side, while Janet headed to the stage and the wings, to direct traffic on the auditions. The pert Miss Ward was asked to stay around for a possible callback, and the other actresses read with Larry, none of them terribly good.

A thin blonde actress (who was forty-five if she was a day) was reading when Stephen Glanville strode down the aisle and, with his usual confidence, slid in and over and plopped down next to Agatha.

For an archaeologist, Glanville had personality to spare. He was tall, handsome, mustached, cleft-chinned, forty-two years of age, in a rumpled brown tweed suit with reddish-brown bow tie that identified him as the professor he was; he was also the most despicable rake. Notwithstanding, he was Agatha’s husband’s best friend and sometime cohort in Egyptology, and—despite the man’s faults—Agatha loved him dearly.

Glanville had taken a position in the RAF—strictly bureaucratic, at Whitehall—and had in fact engineered Max’s commission. This had been an enormous favor to Max, whose heritage was against him, ridiculously enough; though born in England, and giving off an Oxbridge air, Max had nary a spot of English blood—French mother, Austrian father.

So it indeed was Stephen who’d wrangled Max that posting, as RAF Adviser on Arab Affairs to the British Military Government in Tripolitania, North Africa. Agatha tried not to resent that Max was surrounded by the great sites of antiquity that were his passion, in a bungalow by the sea, with a warm
climate and a diet of fresh fish and vegetables. Meanwhile she existed in cold, precarious London on bangers and mash.