Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

Marta took her arm as they joined the throng of playgoers in St Martin’s Lane and headed south towards the river, taking the sight-seeing circuit which they always enjoyed whenever she met Lydia from the theatre between shows. ‘Don’t make me doubt my decision on this one,’ she said, more seriously this time. ‘I could easily be persuaded to come with you because I don’t want us to be apart any more than you do, but I’ll just be in the way.’ She held her fingers to Lydia’s lips as they started to protest. ‘You know I’m right. It’s your world, and I can skate around the edges and drag you up for air occasionally, but it’s better for both of us if we keep you and me separate from all that. At least that way you have some sanity to come home to, and thank God nobody’s thought of opening the theatres on a Sunday yet: we’ll have a lot of time to make up for on your days off.’

Lydia smiled wickedly back at her and, sensing that the crisis had passed, at least for now, Marta changed the subject. ‘Talking of delicate queens, has your lord and director found you a Bothwell to return to yet?’

‘I don’t know for sure but we’ll find out from Josephine later –

she went to the meeting with them. However, judging by the mood he was in when he came out, I don’t think he got his way so we’re probably safe in assuming that it’ll be Lewis rather than Swinburne.’

‘How miserable for you! From what I saw of him at lunchtime, he’s not exactly going to be a laugh a minute in rehearsals, and 112

there was a gaggle of adolescent girls panting over the other chap’s photograph as I came past Wyndham’s. Wouldn’t he have been a bigger draw?’

‘Possibly, but I’m hardly in a position to argue at the moment.

Bernie made it quite clear the other day that I’m lucky to have a job at all at my advanced age, let alone a leading role.’

‘Don’t be daft. Look at the success you’ve had this last year –

he’d be mad to drop you. You’ve always said before that he values your opinion. He must have been having an off day.’

‘Yes, I know. He has been acting strangely recently and I’m sure he wouldn’t normally have been as blunt in the way he put it, but even I have to face up to the fact that what he said is absolutely right. I might be able to talk Josephine into writing me another role or two, but make the most of these weeks of peace without me

– you’ll be seeing a lot more of me until I’m of character age.’

‘Well I’m hardly likely to complain about that,’ Marta replied affectionately, opening an umbrella to protect them from the strengthening rain. ‘You never know – I may even scribble something for you myself one of these days, and I’m slightly more ancient than you.’

‘It’s all right for you writers, though: you can start as late as you like and go on until you drop, and no one thinks anything of it. In fact, we don’t even chide you for being lazy in not getting around to it sooner. I don’t know how you get away with it. I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen – no wonder I’m exhausted!’

‘Oh I started on and off a long time ago but if I read now what I wrote then, I’d probably be horrified. When you’re young, you only ever write romantic nonsense.’

‘And now you’re so cynical and worldly wise, I suppose? How does that tally with the woman whose idea of a first date is to take me tobogganing on Hampstead Heath to seduce me in the snow, or the one who leaves a single flower at stage door before every performance even though I’ve told her it’s bad luck, or . . .’

‘All right, all right – you win. I’m a different woman since I met you and I’ll probably never write another word because of it.

Books aren’t built on happiness, but I know what I’d rather have.’

113

‘Then we shall be old and poor and illiterate together,’ said Lydia, turning to give her a kiss. ‘Now, what about that sausage roll?’

The Salisbury public house was known to its advocates for liveli-ness and companionship, and to its detractors for noise and interference. Rafe Swinburne was not bothered enough to subscribe to either party, but Terry had suggested the Salisbury as a meeting place convenient for both of them before their evening shows and he had willingly agreed, eager to discover what the future held for him. He bitterly regretted having arrived on the scene too late to make his mark in the biggest success of the year, but his debut in Sheppey – which Terry was directing at the same time as he starred in Richard – had been moderately praised by the critics and keenly welcomed by the audience, and his hopes for Queen of Scots , should he get the part, were high. He had known from the moment he met him that Terry was the future of theatre while Aubrey was the past. Always blessed with a remarkable nose for his own advantage, Swinburne had watched with interest the cooling of their part-nership, which – or so rumour had it – had been particularly tense of late. If a parting of the ways was on the horizon, he had decided very early on which horse he was going to back, and what his stage presence could not get him with Terry, he suspected his face could.

He was ten minutes late for his rendezvous, but there was no sign of Terry in the crowds that lined the long, curved bar. The Salisbury’s clientele was made up almost exclusively of actors, playwrights and the odd agent or two touting for talent, and a dramatic heritage of sorts could no doubt be traced through the various owners of the heavy pewter tankards that hung from the ceiling. Early evening was always one of the busiest times: as the half approached, glasses would be collectively drained and three-quarters of the trade would disperse to one stage or another, gradually drifting back in twos and threes to resume where they had left off. By last orders, the bar would be full again, triumphs mixing leisurely with disasters amid the warm fog of smoke and beer but, at this earlier hour, with the most important performance of the week still to come, the 114

atmosphere was one of nervy expectation. Swinburne bought a glass of beer and found room on the end of one of the hard, horse-hair settees that bordered the room, casually taking in the conversations that came and went around him. He counted seven copies of the evening paper lying around on the brass-topped tables and, for once, none of them were open at the situations vacant pages, but rather at the latest account of the King’s Cross killing. It never ceased to amaze him that the murder of a complete stranger could be so tirelessly fascinating to so many. What difference could the loss of some girl they had never met possibly make to the ponder-ous old man in the corner or the powdery-faced redhead behind the bar? Sensation might be the public face of grief, but Londoners were a fickle bunch: there’d be a new headline along tomorrow and the world would carry on as normal through it all.

As he finished his beer, still on his own, Swinburne began to worry that Terry had been and gone without waiting for him.

Perhaps he should go and look for him? If he walked straight to the New Theatre there was no chance of their missing each other, so he gave up his seat to a pretty but excessively grateful young girl who had spotted an agent she needed to charm at his table, and headed out. He arrived at stage door without encountering anyone he knew on the way, gave a cheery greeting to the chap on duty and went downstairs. Even before he reached Terry’s dressing room he could hear raised voices behind the closed door.

Carefully, he went a little nearer until he was close enough to make out the words beneath the anger. It was Lewis Fleming speaking –

there was no mistaking that dour northern bravado – and he listened intently, confident that both men were too absorbed in the row to think about leaving the room. No one in the business would have been surprised to find the actors at each other’s throats