The Death Collector by Justin Richards Page B

check her father was still settled and deeply asleep.
    In the drawer of the kitchen table where Liz kept her playscript there was a sheet of cartridge paper. On it she had written a short message. The ink was faded from age and the paper was curling at the edges, but she saw no reason to write it out again. It was a short note to her father and he had never read it. Liz hoped he never would. She placed the sheet of paper prominently on the table in the living room where he would be sure to see it if he woke and came downstairs. It was not much of a letter, and while it did not tell the whole truth it was not actually a lie:
    Dear Father
    Since you were sleeping so soundly, I have taken the opportunity to go for a short walk. I feel the fresh air will do me good after such a long day.
    Please do not worry, as I shall be back soon. I will look in on you on my return.
    Your loving daughter
    Elizabeth

    The Chistleton Theatre was not an imposing building. Standing slightly back from the road, it was easy to miss unless you knew it was there. The frontage was narrow and bland, nothing like the decorated facades of the larger London theatres. It rarely boasted much of an audience, but the people who did come were keen and loyal.
    Liz Oldfield barely glanced at the front of the building. It was dark and quiet – there was no performance this evening. A new play was in preparation, and Liz could just hear the sounds of the rehearsal. A deep voice was proclaiming loudly about the merits of afternoon tea, pausing at the end of each line of the script. She recognised it at once as the theatre’s leading man – Nigel Braithwaite. He was loud and brash and not talented enough to have made it in the larger theatres. But he was also intelligent and modest enough to recognise the fact. Despite his bluff manner, he was willing to listen to the producer’s advice and on the night he would be word perfect if not a hundred per cent convincing.
    Braithwaite’s volume increased when Liz opened the door, and continued to grow as she made her way through the narrow backstage corridor towards the auditorium. She stood in the flies, just off stage, hoping not to be noticed as she watched Marcus Jessop attempt to tone down his star’s performance. Mary Manners was standing quietly beside Braithwaite on the stage, patient as ever.
    â€˜And Mary,’ Jessop finished, ‘that was fine thank you.’
    The woman smiled thinly. She was playing the leading lady, which meant that both the main characters were rather older than the author had intended. But they complemented each other well, Liz thought. If she felt a moment’s stab of regret that she had herself turned down Jessop’s offer of a leading role – again – then she did not admit it, even to herself. One day, she had promised, one day she would take up that offer. One day she would have the time to commit herself to the theatre. But she scarcely dared think when that might be, or of the events that would have to take place to give her that freedom.
    Until then, she would swell the crowd scenes, help with the props, perhaps even serve as prompter. Jessop had promised her a walk-on part, and she hoped and prayed she would not have to let him down. He seemed to have faith in her and she had earned a round of applause for her brief appearance in the last play – toMary Manners’s distinct annoyance and Nigel Braithwaite’s generous congratulation.
    â€˜You’ve got something I have to admit that I haven’t,’ Braithwaite had said quietly to Liz in the wings after the last night’s performance. ‘Talent. Skill. The audience responds to you.’
    Jessop’s voice jolted Liz back to the present: ‘Is that Miss Oldfield I see lurking in the wings there?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she admitted, stepping forward. ‘I ordered the dresses and the hats. They should be delivered later in the week.’
    â€˜That’s