My God, you should see the keys! I feel like Mrs. Danvers. In more ways than one. It's quite spooky sometimes, seriously spooky."
"Phantom of the theatre? Sir Henry Irving goes walkabout?"
Hattie paused. They were, Jemima noticed, outside Randall Birley's dressing-room: "Number One: Mr. Birley'. Jemima had to admit to a sneaking desire to barge in unannounced and congratulate the star... just for a minute. She was persuaded otherwise by the sound of a girl's voice, confident and clear as a bell.
T always said you were a wonderful actor, Randall. Ages ago, when we were all staying with Desmond in Ireland and we did charades. You were this brilliant rat "Still is," said another voice, equally confident, male. There was the noise of loud, distinctly upper-class laughter and the popping of a champagne cork.
"Randall always has lots of visitors', said Hattie. There was something wistful about the way she said it and the sense of inane or at least agitated chatter faded. Then Hattie gave a shake of her springy brown curls and returned to the subject in hand.
"No, not Sir Henry Irving. Not that kind of ghost. I could live with that. I'm really into the paranormal. I find it really interesting, don't you? I mean, you probably come across a lot of it in television." Now what on earth did she mean by that? "It's the feeling of humans in an empty theatre," went on Hattie, 'humans who shouldn't be there that's what spooks me on Thursday nights. I sometimes think I'm seriously psychic. It's getting to me now really. Perhaps it's the awful day I've had. Something weird happened, there was a sort of burglary, I still can't work it out. Could that be a ghost? A phantom burglar? That would be rather amusing never mind. Here we are. Sorry for the trek." Hattie knocked on the door, ushered in Jemima and scurried away.
Jemima accepted a glass of wine from Millie Swain (no champagne, but why should there have been?). She complimented Millie sincerely on her performance and quite unexpectedly moved into discussing unrequited love via Viola's undeclared passion for Orsino.
"You took me back to a very painful time in my life," Jemima found herself saying. "A married man, and the worst of it was that when he was with his wife, I had the impression that he was betraying me. Did Viola feel that about Orsino's obsessive love for Olivia when he sent her off to do his wooing?"
Millie Swain looked at her. "It all ended happily for Viola, didn't it? That's what matters."
Jemima did not tell Millie that the man concerned, Tom Amyas, had been an MP, like Burgo Smyth, that he had written to her on House of Commons paper, as Burgo Smyth had written to Imogen Swain. Nor did she think it necessary to tell her that these painful memories, including the mistress's jealousy of the wife, had been stirred by Imogen Swain's Diary and those references to Tee'.
The Diary! That single-volume still locked up in a file in her flat, the police in the shape of Pompey of the Yard still not contacted. It was now or never. Jemima took a deep breath.
"Look, Millie, whatever you're going to say about your mother and I'm very sorry about her death, by the way whatever you're going to say, I must tell you something. I took away one Diary. Your mother gave it to me. She was insistent about it. Kept saying, "It's yours"." She saw a startled look on Millie's face. How should she proceed? Jemima settled for the convenient word 'confusion', not knowing how often in the past, with dread, Millie and Olga had heard the word applied to their mother.
"There was a good deal of confusion on the subject that night. At one point your mother seemed to think that someone had either fetched them already or was going to fetch them later. A visitor she somehow identified with Burgo Smyth but clearly wasn't." Even as she spoke, an image sprang into Jemima's mind: Sarah Smyth and her compassionate politician's face, the one that meant, "I do so much regret that I'm about to deceive
"Phantom of the theatre? Sir Henry Irving goes walkabout?"
Hattie paused. They were, Jemima noticed, outside Randall Birley's dressing-room: "Number One: Mr. Birley'. Jemima had to admit to a sneaking desire to barge in unannounced and congratulate the star... just for a minute. She was persuaded otherwise by the sound of a girl's voice, confident and clear as a bell.
T always said you were a wonderful actor, Randall. Ages ago, when we were all staying with Desmond in Ireland and we did charades. You were this brilliant rat "Still is," said another voice, equally confident, male. There was the noise of loud, distinctly upper-class laughter and the popping of a champagne cork.
"Randall always has lots of visitors', said Hattie. There was something wistful about the way she said it and the sense of inane or at least agitated chatter faded. Then Hattie gave a shake of her springy brown curls and returned to the subject in hand.
"No, not Sir Henry Irving. Not that kind of ghost. I could live with that. I'm really into the paranormal. I find it really interesting, don't you? I mean, you probably come across a lot of it in television." Now what on earth did she mean by that? "It's the feeling of humans in an empty theatre," went on Hattie, 'humans who shouldn't be there that's what spooks me on Thursday nights. I sometimes think I'm seriously psychic. It's getting to me now really. Perhaps it's the awful day I've had. Something weird happened, there was a sort of burglary, I still can't work it out. Could that be a ghost? A phantom burglar? That would be rather amusing never mind. Here we are. Sorry for the trek." Hattie knocked on the door, ushered in Jemima and scurried away.
Jemima accepted a glass of wine from Millie Swain (no champagne, but why should there have been?). She complimented Millie sincerely on her performance and quite unexpectedly moved into discussing unrequited love via Viola's undeclared passion for Orsino.
"You took me back to a very painful time in my life," Jemima found herself saying. "A married man, and the worst of it was that when he was with his wife, I had the impression that he was betraying me. Did Viola feel that about Orsino's obsessive love for Olivia when he sent her off to do his wooing?"
Millie Swain looked at her. "It all ended happily for Viola, didn't it? That's what matters."
Jemima did not tell Millie that the man concerned, Tom Amyas, had been an MP, like Burgo Smyth, that he had written to her on House of Commons paper, as Burgo Smyth had written to Imogen Swain. Nor did she think it necessary to tell her that these painful memories, including the mistress's jealousy of the wife, had been stirred by Imogen Swain's Diary and those references to Tee'.
The Diary! That single-volume still locked up in a file in her flat, the police in the shape of Pompey of the Yard still not contacted. It was now or never. Jemima took a deep breath.
"Look, Millie, whatever you're going to say about your mother and I'm very sorry about her death, by the way whatever you're going to say, I must tell you something. I took away one Diary. Your mother gave it to me. She was insistent about it. Kept saying, "It's yours"." She saw a startled look on Millie's face. How should she proceed? Jemima settled for the convenient word 'confusion', not knowing how often in the past, with dread, Millie and Olga had heard the word applied to their mother.
"There was a good deal of confusion on the subject that night. At one point your mother seemed to think that someone had either fetched them already or was going to fetch them later. A visitor she somehow identified with Burgo Smyth but clearly wasn't." Even as she spoke, an image sprang into Jemima's mind: Sarah Smyth and her compassionate politician's face, the one that meant, "I do so much regret that I'm about to deceive
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