Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

shook his head – he hoped reassuringly – and tried to settle back in his seat. It was irrational, this feeling he had that she was in danger, but it carried the force of conviction and he was not prepared to take a chance for the sake of thirty minutes, not when someone had already been killed just yards away from a crowd. Trying not to fidget, he was relieved to note that no one else was likely to be disturbed by his irreverent disregard for the play. Every other head was turned towards the stage and held there as if by force, and the silence in the auditorium was of a quality rarely found in London outside of its sacred spaces. In the last year John Terry had acquired the authority and presence of a truly great actor but tonight there was a nervous brilliance about his performance which surpassed everything he had achieved up to now. The audience, many of whom were regulars and had several performances to compare it to, realised they were watching something special.

Terry was only slight in build but he dominated the stage, determined, it seemed, to prove that it was his. In scene after scene he extracted every ounce of opportunity from Josephine’s lightly drawn portrait, seeming to relish the King’s strengths and weaknesses in equal measure and moving effortlessly from the airy carelessness of Richard’s early scenes to the disillusionment of someone in whom the poison of suspicion has begun to work.

Eventually, even Penrose was drawn in and he marvelled at the way in which the actor’s movements took on a morbid, feline elegance as he responded to the treachery against him. ‘To become an expert in murder’, he whispered bitterly to his queen as the first act drew to a close, ‘cannot be so difficult,’ and the intensity in his voice held the audience – Penrose included – spellbound.

He thought back to the first time he had seen Terry, playing the very same role but in Shakespeare’s version at the Old Vic. It was five years ago now, but he remembered it vividly because the production’s brief run had coincided with one of Josephine’s then rare visits to London. They had gone together and, if he recalled the evening more for the pleasure of her company than the power of Terry’s acting, it was no less poignant to him now. It had been one of those hot summer evenings which occasionally graced the city 124

with a leisurely decadence. As they walked back down the Waterloo Road, still laughing at one of the more eccentric patrons, whose cracked but resounding rendition of ‘God Save the King’

rang out from the front of the gallery at the end of the performance, he had seen in Josephine a willingness to engage with the future which had been absent since Jack’s death. Since then, she had often referred to that night as the inspiration for Richard of Bordeaux, but it had been less fondly of late and, if he really wanted to torment himself, he could curse the impulse that had made him buy those tickets. Fortunately, before he could dwell too long in the past, the dusty-pink brocade and velvet curtains fell, drawing a jarring air of opulence over the simple lines of the Motleys’ stage designs.

Leaving Josephine safely in the bar with Lettice and Ronnie, Penrose walked round to stage door to look for Bernard Aubrey.

The rain which had fallen so fiercely in the early part of the evening had finally relented, but it was impossible to avoid the puddles, and the light from the Salisbury’s solid Victorian coach lamps blurred and splintered as his feet disturbed its perfect reflection. He had met Aubrey a few times, mostly at opening nights but more recently during that vicious court case, when Elliott Vintner had accused Josephine of plagiarism in the writing of Richard of Bordeaux , claiming that it echoed the events of his own novel, The White Heart , published twelve years earlier. Aubrey, as the play’s producer, had given evidence on Josephine’s behalf and Penrose had been impressed with his intelligence and sense of justice. His opinion of White’s character would, no doubt, be worth listening to and he might even be able to help the police find the boy. There were men posted wherever White was likely to appear and a description would be out by now in the evening paper, but Elspeth’s young man had so far proved elusive and any other suggestions would be gratefully received.

He announced who he was and the stage doorkeeper – a burly, red-faced man in his late fifties – wasted no time in telephoning up to Bernard Aubrey’s office and handing over the receiver. Penrose came to the point quickly and discreetly, aware that the doorman 125

was giving a display of nonchalance which would never get him a job on the other side of the footlights.

‘Bernard? It’s Archie Penrose. I’m sorry to interrupt you on a Saturday night but I need to talk to you, and the sooner the better.

Is now convenient? It shouldn’t take too long.’

There was a second’s pause while Aubrey blew a lungful of smoke into the air, then Penrose heard his voice, thick and guttural from a lifetime’s devotion to cigarettes. ‘Actually, Archie, it might take longer than you think. I’m glad you’re here because there’s something I need to talk to you about, as well. I was going to come and see you on Monday, but after this terrible business it can’t wait until then. As it is, I’ve got to live with the fact that I’ve left it this long.’ He exhaled again, then continued. ‘I’ve got to be on stage in the second half and I can’t get out of that – there’s no one else here to do it – but I’ll meet you downstairs as soon as we finish. I’m supposed to be taking everyone for a drink, but we can talk privately first. What I have to say might help you. In any case, it will help me.’

‘Then perhaps we could at least make a start now?’ Penrose said, but the line was dead even before he had finished the sentence. Frustrated, but daring to hope that he might at last be getting somewhere, he resigned himself to another agonising wait and walked back down St Martin’s Court.

The Grand Circle Bar was always packed on a sold-out Saturday night. Ronnie, who never allowed even the densest of crowds to stand between her and a large gin, returned triumphant from the bar and passed two tall glasses to Lettice and Josephine before falling heavily into the third herself. ‘Fuck, it’s Fitch,’ she said, as she came up for air. ‘Don’t look round.’

But it was too late. ‘A hundred thousand in a year at the box office!’ cried the critic from the Evening Standard , forcing his way over. ‘Aubrey can afford to go dark for a month and I dare say Inverness has seen a few corks popped of late?’

‘Oh, it’s been nothing but fizz and fun since last February,’ said Josephine, brushing the comment skilfully aside and trying to hide 126

her dislike. ‘I can’t thank you enough for all the reviews, and I do so appreciate it when you include a list of criticisms.’

Over Lettice’s head, Josephine saw Marta appear at the door and make her way through the crowd, drawing some appreciative glances as she did so. ‘I’ve been sent to offer you the chance of some peace and quiet backstage if you don’t want to go back in after the interval,’ she said. ‘Come down to the dressing room.

Once Lydia’s died, we can all have a drink.’

Gratefully, Josephine took the lifeline she was offered. ‘I’ll see you at stage door afterwards,’ she called back over her shoulder, and felt a brief stab of guilt as she saw Fitch take a deep breath, ready to continue.

‘You came just at the right moment,’ she said as they went downstairs. ‘Grovelling really doesn’t suit me, and it’s so hard to fake it well.’

‘Tell me about it. The only row I’ve had with Lydia was when I told her to stop fawning round producers and have faith in her own talent. She looked at me as though I were two days out of a lunatic asylum, then asked me how far that approach had got me in publishing.’ She smiled, and her eyes were filled with a warmth which transformed the dark beauty of her face into something more approachable. ‘That friend of yours has a wicked tongue. It’s one of the things I love most about her.’