Ngaio Marsh - Photo Finish

“So you were,” he agreed. “I think I’ll take a look.”

And he went downstairs to the concert chamber. When he arrived, there was no one to be seen but Hanley, who was evidently stage manager for the production, superintending three imported electricians in the management of the lights and seeming to be in a state of controlled dementia. Whatever the climate outside might be, inside it was electric.

Alleyn heard Hanley demand at large: “Well, where the hell is he? He ought to be here . I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The curtain that separated the apron from the stage proper was open and the acting areas were prepared for the performance. A realistic set had not been attempted. A blue cloth had been hung behind the pillars and the central entrance was flanked by two stylized sheafs of corn. Three sumptuously draped seats completed the decor.

Alleyn sat where Troy had sat to make her drawings. The window in question was still uncurtained and open. Such had been her concentration that he thought she would not have noticed him if he had not leaned over the sill.

Hanley said to the electricians, “It’s easy, really. You’ve marked the areas where Madame Sommita stands, and you’ve got them covered. Fade up when she’s there and fade down when she moves away. Otherwise there are no lights cues: they stay as set throughout. Cover the windows and we’ll run it through once more.”

He turned to Alleyn. “Have you seen Rupert?” he asked. “He was to be here half an hour ago to give the music cues. They went all to blazes at the dress rehearsal. Honestly, it’s too much.”

“I’ll see if I can find him,” he volunteered.

“Super of you,” gushed Hanley with a desperate return to his secretarial manner. “Thank you so much.”

Alleyn thought that a hunt for the unhappy Rupert might well turn out to be as fruitless as the one for a problematical photographer, but he struck it lucky, if that was the appropriate word, at the first cast, which was Mr. Reece’s spectacular study.

He wondered if a visitor was expected to knock or even to make an appointment before venturing upon this sanctum, but decided to effect an entrance in the normal manner. He opened the door and walked in.

The actual entrance was shut off from the room by a large leather screen, the work of a decorator much in vogue. Alleyn came in to the sound of Mr. Reece’s voice.

“—remind you of the favors you have taken at her hands. And this is how you would choose to repay them. By making her a laughingstock. You allow us to engage celebrated artists, to issue invitations, to bring people of the utmost distinction halfway across the world to hear this thing, and now propose to tell them that after all there will be no performance and they can turn round and go back again.”

“I know. Do you think I haven’t thought of all this! Do you think — please, please believe me — Bella, I beg you—”

“ Stop !”

Alleyn, behind the screen and about to beat a retreat, fetched up short as if the command had been directed at him. It was the Sommita.

“The performance,” she announced, “will take place. The violin is competent. He will lead. And you, you who have determined to break my heart, will sulk in your room. And when it is over you will come to me and weep your repentance. And it will be too late. Too late. You will have murdered my love for you. Ingrate!” shouted the Sommita. “Poltroon! So!”

Alleyn heard her masterful tread. As he had no time to get away, he stepped boldly out of cover and encountered her face-to-face.

Her own face might have been a mask for one of the Furies. She made a complicated gesture, and for a moment he thought that actually she might haul off and hit him, blameless as he was, but she ended up by grasping him by his coat collar, giving him a ferocious précis of their predicament, and ordering him to bring Rupert to his senses. When he hesitated, she shook him like a cocktail, burst into tears, and departed.

Mr. Reece, standing with authority on his own hearthrug, had not attempted to stem the tide of his dear one’s wrath nor was it possible to guess at his reaction to it. Rupert sat with his head in his hands, raising it momentarily to present a stricken face.

“I’m so sorry,” Alleyn said; “I’ve blundered in with what is clearly an inappropriate message.”

“Don’t go,” said Mr. Reece. “A message? For me?”

“For Bartholomew. From your secretary.”

“Yes? He had better hear it.”

Alleyn delivered it. Rupert was wanted to set the lights.

Mr. Reece asked coldly, “Will you do this? Or is it going too far to expect it?”

Rupert got to his feet. “Well,” he asked Alleyn, “what do you think, now? Do you say I should refuse?”

Alleyn said: “I’m not sure. It’s a case of divided loyalties, isn’t it?”

“I would have thought,” said Mr. Reece, “that any question of loyalty was entirely on one side. To whom is he loyal if he betrays his patrons?”

“Oh,” Alleyn said, “to his art.”

“According to him, he has no ‘art.’ ”

“I’m not sure,” Alleyn said slowly, “whether, in making his decision, it really matters. It’s a question of aesthetic integrity.”

Rupert was on his feet and walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Reece said sharply.

“To set the lights. I’ve decided,” said Rupert loudly. “I can’t stick this out any longer. I’m sorry I’ve given so much trouble. I’ll see it through.”

ii

When Alleyn went up to their room in search of Troy, he found her still suffering from jet lag, fast asleep on their enormous bed. At a loose end, and worried about Rupert Bartholomew’s sudden capitulation, Alleyn returned downstairs. He could hear voices in the drawing room and concert chamber. Outside the house, a stronger wind had got up.

Midway down the hall, opposite the dining room, there was a door which Mr. Reece had indicated as opening into the library. Alleyn thought he would find himself something to read and went in.

It might have been created by a meticulous scene painter for an Edwardian drama. Uniform editions rose in irremovable tiers from floor to ceiling, the result, Alleyn supposed, of some mass-ordering process: classics, biographies, and travel. There was a section devoted to contemporary novels, each a virgin in its unmolested jacket. There was an assembly of “quality” productions that would have broken the backs of elephantine coffee tables, and there were orderly stacks of the most popular weeklies.

He wandered along the ranks at a loss for a good read and high up in an ill-lit corner came upon a book that actually bore signs of usage. It was unjacketed and the spine was rubbed. He drew it out and opened it at the title page.

Il Mistero da Bianca Rossi , by Pietro Lamparelli. Alleyn didn’t read Italian with the complete fluency that alone gives easy pleasure but the title was an intriguing surprise. He allowed the half-title page to flip over and there on the flyleaf in sharp irregular characters was the owner’s name, M. V. Rossi.

He settled down to read it.

An hour later he went upstairs and found Troy awake and refreshed.

The opera, a one-acter which lasted only an hour, was to begin at eight o’clock. It would be prefaced by light snacks with drinks and followed by a grand dinner party.

“Do you suppose,” Troy wondered, as they dressed, “that a reconciliation has taken place?”

“I’ve no idea. She may go for a magnificent acceptance of his surrender or she may not be able to do herself out of the passionate rapture bit. My bet would be that she’s too professional to allow herself to be upset before a performance.”