actors and wondered how many of these people, most of them students, were themselves trying to push their feelings to a lower level, to disguise their affection behind a stiff upper lip and clipped English formulae of regret. Warm, witty, and juggling his immense learning with a blend of skill and insouciance, Andrew became dear to everyone he met. He had launched many careers; he had sabotaged none. It seemed only his wife despised him. But then, Letty acknowledged, his wife had good cause.
“Beecham. Henry Beecham, miss … er … stage left. Fourth from the end in the lineup. British School of Archaeology. Student digs. That’s all? Thank you. Got to dash.”
Letty wondered whether she ought to insist on their staying. Montacute hadn’t passed such an order. In the end, she asked the two who needed to leave early to report to the inspector before they went off-site. She looked in the policeman’s direction, wishing he’d walk back over and take the reins from her hands. She caught sight of his barrel-chestedfigure in its khaki shirt and linen trousers apparently beating the bounds of the theatre, moving in and out of the shadows. Head bent, he was tracking over the ground in ever-widening circles. He disappeared for a few moments into the clutter of wooden buildings that stood for the
skene
and continued his survey of the scene of crime. The sight of his solitary effort made Letty ashamed for her lack of dedication. She had to suppose that a man of his rank was used to directing a whole squad of trained hounds back in London, spearheading the advance of forensic science, a world authority. And here he was alone for a vital half hour until reinforcements arrived, in a foreign country, in the dark, with a grotesque corpse on his hands, twenty skittish witnesses to control, and no one in support but a feeble, heartbroken English girl.
With a sudden insight, she realised why Montacute had set her to catalogue the dramatis personae. Queuing up to supply information was something they understood. They had been doing it all their English lives and could be expected to fall in with the procedure with no demur. Even Adams had not seriously challenged the authority bestowed so surprisingly on her. They would stand quietly to one side, out of the inspector’s hair, while he roamed about unencumbered, trying to establish what he could in the important minutes after the—could she bring herself to say the word?—murder. The inspector’s professional behaviour certainly indicated that they were looking at just that. Someone had murdered Andrew.
Shuddering as the suspicion belatedly struck her, Letty looked along the queue of actors, standing passively waiting for her attention. Someone had killed Andrew and could be at that very moment waiting patiently in line, ready to tell her his name.
Chapter 9
S he beckoned the next actor forward.
One by one they chose, on leaving her, to go and sit down with Louis Adams, huddled together, waiting on events. Although not generally liked—Letty noticed—Adams seemed to attract a following. People listened when he spoke and had no objection to keeping him company on the stone benches.
The stage manager, Hugh Lattimore, presented himself, perplexed and defensive. He risked becoming garrulous, Letty thought, as he launched into a self-justifying account of his evening: He wouldn’t be held responsible … Couldn’t possibly be everywhere … He’d no idea what villainy had been going on backstage—his eyes had been trained on the performance from the wings and the front side of the audience benches, judging the effect of the torches and timing the advance of the twilight. Oh, there was so much more to stage management than people realised! Surely she’d noticed him? He’d been no more than twenty yards away, to her right? Letty admitted the truth of this and steered him back to the vital moments.
“Ah! When my cue came—that is, Melton’s screeching—I did my duty
“Beecham. Henry Beecham, miss … er … stage left. Fourth from the end in the lineup. British School of Archaeology. Student digs. That’s all? Thank you. Got to dash.”
Letty wondered whether she ought to insist on their staying. Montacute hadn’t passed such an order. In the end, she asked the two who needed to leave early to report to the inspector before they went off-site. She looked in the policeman’s direction, wishing he’d walk back over and take the reins from her hands. She caught sight of his barrel-chestedfigure in its khaki shirt and linen trousers apparently beating the bounds of the theatre, moving in and out of the shadows. Head bent, he was tracking over the ground in ever-widening circles. He disappeared for a few moments into the clutter of wooden buildings that stood for the
skene
and continued his survey of the scene of crime. The sight of his solitary effort made Letty ashamed for her lack of dedication. She had to suppose that a man of his rank was used to directing a whole squad of trained hounds back in London, spearheading the advance of forensic science, a world authority. And here he was alone for a vital half hour until reinforcements arrived, in a foreign country, in the dark, with a grotesque corpse on his hands, twenty skittish witnesses to control, and no one in support but a feeble, heartbroken English girl.
With a sudden insight, she realised why Montacute had set her to catalogue the dramatis personae. Queuing up to supply information was something they understood. They had been doing it all their English lives and could be expected to fall in with the procedure with no demur. Even Adams had not seriously challenged the authority bestowed so surprisingly on her. They would stand quietly to one side, out of the inspector’s hair, while he roamed about unencumbered, trying to establish what he could in the important minutes after the—could she bring herself to say the word?—murder. The inspector’s professional behaviour certainly indicated that they were looking at just that. Someone had murdered Andrew.
Shuddering as the suspicion belatedly struck her, Letty looked along the queue of actors, standing passively waiting for her attention. Someone had killed Andrew and could be at that very moment waiting patiently in line, ready to tell her his name.
Chapter 9
S he beckoned the next actor forward.
One by one they chose, on leaving her, to go and sit down with Louis Adams, huddled together, waiting on events. Although not generally liked—Letty noticed—Adams seemed to attract a following. People listened when he spoke and had no objection to keeping him company on the stone benches.
The stage manager, Hugh Lattimore, presented himself, perplexed and defensive. He risked becoming garrulous, Letty thought, as he launched into a self-justifying account of his evening: He wouldn’t be held responsible … Couldn’t possibly be everywhere … He’d no idea what villainy had been going on backstage—his eyes had been trained on the performance from the wings and the front side of the audience benches, judging the effect of the torches and timing the advance of the twilight. Oh, there was so much more to stage management than people realised! Surely she’d noticed him? He’d been no more than twenty yards away, to her right? Letty admitted the truth of this and steered him back to the vital moments.
“Ah! When my cue came—that is, Melton’s screeching—I did my duty
Similar Books
