Max Collins: The London Blitz Murders

“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.

Before Max’s posting, Stephen had also helped Agatha and her husband find suitable lodging in London, in the same Lawn Road Flats where Glanville himself lived. Stephen’s family, his wife and children, had long since been hastened off to Canada, for safety’s sake; and in the meantime, Stephen Glanville was having one romantic affair after another.

Stephen did not bother hiding the fact from Agatha, who had become his sole confidant in Max’s absence. He claimed these “flings” meant nothing to him, and were merely to console and comfort him in his family’s absence.

They had spent many evenings alone together; Agatha often cooked for Glanville. She found the Egyptologist quite good-looking and she remained relieved-and vaguely insulted-that he had never made a play for her.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the blame,” Stephen whispered.

“That’s because you’re so frequently guilty,” Agatha whispered back. She detected a frown from Irene, and motioned to Glanville to move a few seats over, so as not to disturb the director. Then: “Blame for what?”

“I’m afraid the presence of that fresh-faced fan from St. Wood’s Station is my fault… or at least, partly mine.”

Agatha glanced back at the handsome cadet, whose eyes were on the stage and the latest actress to trample on her words.

“Oh, he’s quite charming,” Agatha said. “Janet’s a very lucky girl.”

“Janet could do better than that cabbage,” Stephen said. “But never mind.”

Agatha turned and looked at her handsome friend. “You arranged for that cadet to have the afternoon off, didn’t you, Stephen?”

He was a higher-up in the Air Ministry, after all.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged…. Janet told me the kid was a huge fan of yours. I warned her that you didn’t like being fussed over. But Janet pleaded.”

“Please tell me you don’t have your sights on-”

“No! No. We’re just pals, Janet and I. But I don’t mind doing a favor for a pretty lady. One never knows with whom one might wind up stranded on a desert island.”

Agatha shook her head. “Stephen, no one combines cynicism and romanticism quite so effectively as you. A unique gift, you have there.”

“Thank you, my dear. That is… darling . We are at the the-ah-tah, you know.”

She again glanced at the cadet, entranced in the theatrical experience. “Well, I don’t mind meeting a loyal reader… and, anyway, I don’t have ‘fans,’ Stephen, I have readers… customers. I just don’t care for mobs of them. One on one, they can be quite delightful.”

“He is a good-looking bloke, I’ll give you that.”

“He’s young enough to be my son.”

“Ah, but he isn’t. Your son, I mean. So incest isn’t really an issue, is it?”

She looked sideways at him. “You’re a terrible man, Stephen. A true villain.”

“Then why do you love me?”

She shrugged. “There’s no explaining it.”

“So when do we begin?”

His voice had naughtiness in it-as if he were finally referring to an affair.

“Begin what?”

“Our book! Our Egyptian mystery.”

“I’ve told you before, Stephen-I never collaborate.”

“I don’t want to collaborate. I merely want to advise. What a wonderful surprise for Max to return and find you’ve set your latest thriller in ancient Egypt.”

They’d had this conversation endlessly, since Max departed.

And it ended as it always did: “We shall see, Stephen.”

Then she told Stephen about her research project with Sir Bernard Spilsbury.

“That sounds dangerous,” Stephen said skeptically.

“Don’t be silly. I may be going to crime scenes, is all-the danger’s long over, by the time the pathologist arrives.”

“Still… I don’t like it. I doubt Max would like it, either.”

“He would have the same reaction as you, dear Stephen: a knee jerk of chauvinism; and then I would point out that Sir Bernard’s research is not unlike his own… digging into the past. And that my work, at least as I see it right now, requires a research effort of my own. And I would have Max’s blessing.”

His dark eyes were tight beneath the dark eyebrows. “I don’t know, Agatha. Do please take care.”

“Who’s to say anything will come of it? This ‘Ripper’ may never strike again; or the two murders may not really be connected.”

Stephen shifted uncomfortably in the hard seat. “But if a new Jack the Ripper is stalking London, using the blackout as his fog… that’s inherently dangerous. You must reconsider.”

“I tell you what, Stephen. Stay away from the likes of Janet Cummins, and I’ll consider… reconsidering.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“ Mrs. Mallowan! ” The seeming echo was Irene calling over to her. “Agatha… a moment, please?”

Agatha gave Stephen a scolding look, said, “Behave yourself while I’m gone,” and returned to the seat next to the director.

“I hate to interrupt your social hour,” Irene said, teasing good humor mixed in with the bitchiness. “But have you had the opportunity to pay any attention to these auditions?”

“I have indeed.”

“I’m on the fence. There are three I’m considering.”

“No, you’re not, Irene. You know very well the Ward girl is the best. The others are quite wretched. Miss Ward is the most attractive, and she speaks my lines well… or at any rate, well enough.”

Irene sighed. “I hate to give a part to one of Bertie’s ‘discoveries.’ ”

Agatha touched the director’s arm. “Bertie loves only you, Irene. Just as you love only the theater. Cast the best girl-which is to say, Miss Ward.”

The next sigh was colossal. “Well… I’ll read her again, at least.”

Nita Ward returned and by this time she and Larry Sullivan were old pals, laughing, touching each other. Agatha had never considered Larry to have a philandering bone in his body; but a fetching creature like Nita Ward, even if she had been around the block a few times, could probably locate that bone quite easily.