Ruddy Gore by Kerry Greenwood Page A

there was a filthy row.
    99
    Someone is certainly nicking Leila’s gloves, and someone is leaving things in Selwyn’s room.’
    ‘Any idea who?’
    ‘Look, theatres are emotional places – that’s our trade, emotions. The poisoning could have been done by anyone. Could be an ambitious member of the chorus wanting to move up. Could be me or Mollie or anyone attached to that bounder Gwil – could be Gwil himself, it’s suspicious that both Sir Ruthven himself and his understudy were removed. As to the gloves and the other things –
    malicious mischief, trying to scare us? It’s working. We’re scared enough. Those who aren’t scared of ghosts are scared that someone could hate us enough to play all these tricks to make us scared. Selwyn’s terrified of the supernatural. He’s been to a medium who says that . . . well, you can talk to him about it. Load of rubbish.’
    ‘What is he like?’
    ‘Nice enough. Getting old and terrified of it. No money and a poverty-stricken old age staring him in the face. Have you met Tom Deeping, the doorkeeper?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘He’s our nightmare. We all fear that we’ll end up keeping a boarding house, fat and slopping around in down-at-the-heel slippers or muffled in a greatcoat complaining about our bronicals and dreaming of the good old days. The theatre demands youth – there aren’t many parts for character actors and not many stay on after their bloom has faded.’ She stood up and quickly 100
    sketched an old woman, cigarette in mouth, leaning back to counterbalance her bulk, wrapping a greasy kimono round her waist and opening a boarding house door. It was both comic and bitter. ‘Thirty shillings a week, dear, and no gentleman callers in the rooms, I run a nice respectable ’ouse.’
    She sat down again and the old woman vanished. ‘Well, that’s fate. Poor Selwyn isn’t old yet, of course, but Gwil shows him up. Gwil’s young.
    And of course Selwyn, the silly fellow, had to go and fall for Leila, who has a heart of pure plati-num. Have you talked to her yet?’
    ‘No. I was on my way there when . . . ’
    ‘You fell over Murderous Meg on the steps,’ she laughed. ‘Well, you’ll see. But she’s a good actress,’ she added, lighting another gasper.
    ‘Nothing wrong with her craft, drat her. Thanks, Miss Fisher. I’ll be all right now. Excuse me, I have to put on my slap and go out and be Mad Margaret again.’
    Phryne took her leave and knocked on the next door.
    Selwyn Alexander was sitting in the chair in front of the mirror, muffled in a towel, while the short fat dresser combed what was evidently black dye through his thinning hair. Phryne perched on the edge of the table and the dresser glared at her.
    ‘Finished in a moment,’ he snapped at her.
    ‘Can’t you wait outside, Miss?’
    ‘No, I need to talk about ghosts and poisonings 101
    and a lot of other interesting things before the cops come back.’
    ‘Miss Fisher!’ Selwyn’s face appeared through the towel. ‘Get on with it, Bradford,’ he snapped.
    ‘Talk to me, Miss Fisher. What do you want to know?’
    ‘Did you know that Walter was drinking?’
    ‘Oh, dear, someone told you, did they?’ She could not see the actor’s face but the voice was full of regret. ‘Poor Walter. He hit the bottle a few years ago and then dried out. I thought he was still on the wagon until I caught him in the wings with a little flask. It can happen to anyone,’ he said plaintively, as the dresser rubbed his hair with the towel and whisked it away, then stood behind him to comb the glossy hair over the bald patch. ‘He was never drunk – not on stage, not even when he was at his worst. The Management can fire you instantly if you’re drunk on stage. But he was scared – he had the worst stage fright I’ve ever seen. He was getting on and his powers were deserting him, but he still had magnificent presence. He was a better Sir Ruthven than Gwil Evans will ever be,’ he added through his