look of disapproval at this casualness, wormed his way into his slippers and padded through to the snug sitting-room, Mrs. Romford following along behind him. He turned up the flames of the gas fire which so remarkably reproduced the effects of a coal one, right down to being virtually impossible to light on a cold morning, and flopped down into his favorite armchair.
"A rum do, old girl," he said as Mrs. Romford dropped into the armchair opposite him. "A very rum do indeed. Sorry your evening of Culture was truncated so rudely. Can't be helped, of course."
She said nothing, but looked pointedly at the telephone.
"Now, where did I put my tobacco? Ah, here it is."
"You'll be able to claim back the cost of the calls if you do them from here?" she asked anxiously.
"Calls, old girl?"
"You told the vicar that you were going to phone the constabularies in the neighboring counties."
"Did I? Oh, yes, so I did. Well, I think that can just as easily be left until tomorrow." He sucked on his pipe, succeeded in lighting it, and – as always – stopped the reflexive movement of his hand just in time not to hurl the spent match at the gas fire.
She looked at him earnestly. "That was a load of baloney, what you said back at the hall, wasn't it, Trevor?"
"Ahem. I would prefer the term 'imaginative detection.'" He blew out a cloud of blue smoke, satisfied in the knowledge of an evening's work well done.
"Then all that about the fake swords ...?"
"A reconstruction of what could have happened. We in the Force do it all the time."
"What do really think did happen, dear?"
Romford fumbled in his trouser pocket and produced a crumpled copy of the cyclostyled program for that night's performance: "JULIUS CEASER, as Presented by the Bridhampton Amateur Dramatic Society."
"'Ceaser,'" mumbled Romford. "How very, very appropriate." Out loud he said as he unfolded the program's single sheet: "Now, if we take a look at the list of credits we notice a very singular thing. The name of the young actor who met his untimely demise this evening was Clarence Griggs."
"I know that. He was Dora's only son, the apple of her eye ..."
"And, old girl, if we look down at the bottom of the right-hand side, we discover the producer's name."
Mrs. Romford took the sheet from him. "'A Mrs. Dora Griggs Production,'" she read. "Well, naturally."
"Yes, my love, 'naturally.' Everything that's been staged by the Bridhampton Amateur Dramatic Society during the past four years has been that – a Mrs. Dora Griggs Production. Ever since old 'Chompy' Griggs died she's been spending her money financing the company – that's what 'producer' means. Do you remember their presentation of The Merchant of Venice ?"
"I did wonder at the time if it was a good idea to have the same actor playing both Shylock and Portia," said Mrs. Romford with suddenly remembered dubiety.
"And who was the actor cast in both roles?" pressed Romford.
"Why, it would have been young Clar—" Mrs. Romford began.
"Exactly. The apple of her eye. Even her millions couldn't have got him into RADA, which was what he'd set his heart on, but she could and did ensure that he was the star on a humbler stage."
The idea that crude finance could possibly play a part in casting decisions was obviously a new one to Mrs. Romford.
"His interpretation of Desdemona was rather ... suspect," she conceded, visibly recalling the grand outdoor performance of Othello the Bridhampton Amateur Dramatic Society had staged last summer in the Griggs House car park. ("So much easier than trying to get all those nasty cigarette-ends out of the herbaceous borders," Dora had confided to her.)
"And then there was the song-and-dance number in the last act of King Lear ," said Romford. "I do not think Shakespeare envisaged the dying monarch leaping from his throne and launching into a rendition of 'My Way.'"
"Yes, it didn't seem quite ... respectful."
"Not to mention the Christmas panto, Aladdin . Surely you remember
"A rum do, old girl," he said as Mrs. Romford dropped into the armchair opposite him. "A very rum do indeed. Sorry your evening of Culture was truncated so rudely. Can't be helped, of course."
She said nothing, but looked pointedly at the telephone.
"Now, where did I put my tobacco? Ah, here it is."
"You'll be able to claim back the cost of the calls if you do them from here?" she asked anxiously.
"Calls, old girl?"
"You told the vicar that you were going to phone the constabularies in the neighboring counties."
"Did I? Oh, yes, so I did. Well, I think that can just as easily be left until tomorrow." He sucked on his pipe, succeeded in lighting it, and – as always – stopped the reflexive movement of his hand just in time not to hurl the spent match at the gas fire.
She looked at him earnestly. "That was a load of baloney, what you said back at the hall, wasn't it, Trevor?"
"Ahem. I would prefer the term 'imaginative detection.'" He blew out a cloud of blue smoke, satisfied in the knowledge of an evening's work well done.
"Then all that about the fake swords ...?"
"A reconstruction of what could have happened. We in the Force do it all the time."
"What do really think did happen, dear?"
Romford fumbled in his trouser pocket and produced a crumpled copy of the cyclostyled program for that night's performance: "JULIUS CEASER, as Presented by the Bridhampton Amateur Dramatic Society."
"'Ceaser,'" mumbled Romford. "How very, very appropriate." Out loud he said as he unfolded the program's single sheet: "Now, if we take a look at the list of credits we notice a very singular thing. The name of the young actor who met his untimely demise this evening was Clarence Griggs."
"I know that. He was Dora's only son, the apple of her eye ..."
"And, old girl, if we look down at the bottom of the right-hand side, we discover the producer's name."
Mrs. Romford took the sheet from him. "'A Mrs. Dora Griggs Production,'" she read. "Well, naturally."
"Yes, my love, 'naturally.' Everything that's been staged by the Bridhampton Amateur Dramatic Society during the past four years has been that – a Mrs. Dora Griggs Production. Ever since old 'Chompy' Griggs died she's been spending her money financing the company – that's what 'producer' means. Do you remember their presentation of The Merchant of Venice ?"
"I did wonder at the time if it was a good idea to have the same actor playing both Shylock and Portia," said Mrs. Romford with suddenly remembered dubiety.
"And who was the actor cast in both roles?" pressed Romford.
"Why, it would have been young Clar—" Mrs. Romford began.
"Exactly. The apple of her eye. Even her millions couldn't have got him into RADA, which was what he'd set his heart on, but she could and did ensure that he was the star on a humbler stage."
The idea that crude finance could possibly play a part in casting decisions was obviously a new one to Mrs. Romford.
"His interpretation of Desdemona was rather ... suspect," she conceded, visibly recalling the grand outdoor performance of Othello the Bridhampton Amateur Dramatic Society had staged last summer in the Griggs House car park. ("So much easier than trying to get all those nasty cigarette-ends out of the herbaceous borders," Dora had confided to her.)
"And then there was the song-and-dance number in the last act of King Lear ," said Romford. "I do not think Shakespeare envisaged the dying monarch leaping from his throne and launching into a rendition of 'My Way.'"
"Yes, it didn't seem quite ... respectful."
"Not to mention the Christmas panto, Aladdin . Surely you remember
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