Ruddy Gore by Kerry Greenwood Page B

teeth.
    ‘What happened to the bottle?’ asked Phryne. ‘It wasn’t on him when the police searched him, and it wasn’t in his costume.’
    ‘I don’t know. Let’s see, the whole chorus was on stage when he collapsed, everyone is at the end of the act. The wings are always full of people coming and going – stage crew and technicals and dressers and actors.’
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    ‘And what do you think about the ghost?’
    Selwyn’s countenance, which had been pale, bleached.
    ‘She’s here. I’ve seen her. She seems to be singling me out for attention.’ He laid his long artistic fingers flat on the dressing table to still their trembling. ‘I don’t know if she was behind the poisoning, I can’t imagine why, but she’s been taking Leila’s gloves and I’ve seen her – Charles and I both saw her. Eh, Charles?’
    ‘If you say so, Sel,’ agreed the dresser. Phryne looked at him. His hands were deft as they arranged the hair and pinned it. He was short and paunchy and had some stiffness in his left side and arm. His face was round and his eyes blue and the remains of what had been fine blond hair were cut very short, like a tonsure around a shining scalp.
    His mouth was pursed in a scowl.
    ‘Dammit, man, you saw her! A week ago, when we were rehearsing Ruddigore . In the corridor –
    at the end of the corridor nearest the stage, Miss Fisher. A woman in costume, and the scent of hyacinths so strong it almost knocked us over. Black eyes, she had, angry black eyes.’
    ‘What do you think she wants?’
    ‘I went to a spiritualist. I don’t think that one can ignore these things. If she’s come back after thirty years then she must have a reason.’
    ‘What did the medium say?’ asked Phryne, watching the dresser who was exuding disapproval from every pore.
    ‘She said to come back next week – that is, 103
    tomorrow. Will you come, too? No one else believes in these things and I’m sure that there are mysteries beyond the veil which are hidden from us. Bradford thinks I’m mad. He now says he didn’t see anything. But I saw him when she appeared. He was as white as a sheet and shook like a willow. Didn’t you, Bradford, eh?’
    Selwyn was suddenly the dominant melodrama villain. His moustache bristled and his voice had dropped half an octave. Even though Bradford must have been used to these demonstrations of acting, he backed a pace.
    ‘I saw a bright light and got a shock,’ he muttered. ‘And the rest is your imagination, Mr Alexander.’
    ‘Oh, to hell with you,’ snarled Selwyn Alexander. ‘Get out! Out!’
    He drove the small man out of the dressing room and slammed the door.
    ‘What about Miss Esperance, then?’ asked Phryne quietly. Selwyn Alexander flushed brick-red.
    ‘I won’t have her brought into this. I like your impudence!’
    ‘I like it too, it’s my best asset,’ said Phryne, not at all abashed. ‘Do resume your seat, you are dripping hair dye on your dressing gown. Now, would you like to talk to me or the cops?’
    Mr Alexander coughed in outrage and then began to laugh. ‘You are a remarkable young woman. All right. What about Miss Esperance?
    I . . . want to marry her.’
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    ‘And?’
    ‘She hasn’t made up her mind yet,’ he said wretchedly. ‘There’s me and that bounder Evans and Dupont the chorus master with his French accent and frankly, Miss Fisher, I don’t give much for my chances.’
    ‘Do you want her that much?’
    ‘Oh yes, she is utterly beautiful. Utterly. And she threw herself into my arms the other night when she could have had Gwil. That’s a hopeful sign. I don’t know how Evans works on all the women.
    To me he seems transparently a scoundrel.’
    ‘He is, transparently. Therein lies his attraction,’
    said Phryne.
    ‘Oh, not you, too!’
    ‘No, not me. I admire his talent, that’s all.’
    Selwyn Alexander barked a scornful laugh. ‘Being a scoundrel is a talent,’ Phryne explained. ‘I’ll join you tomorrow and we’ll see what