Eventually, Frank took the doll from Swinburne’s hands, wishing the scene to be over. ‘Hedley really wants Elspeth to have this and he thought you’d know what to do,’ the actor said, and looked again at the cases of theatre souvenirs. ‘Although, if you don’t think that’s appropriate, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you kept it here.’

Before he could say anything, Frank heard the shop door close and his wife called up the stairs. So he had missed their arrival after all, but at least they were back safely. When Betty came into the room, he was as surprised to see her alone as she was to discover he had company. ‘Where’s Alice?’ he asked.

‘She wanted to go to Elspeth straight away, spend some time with her on her own, so the car took her there first. The police have been very kind. She’s going there next – she said she had to speak to Inspector Penrose as soon as possible – so we probably won’t see her till this afternoon.’

‘What does she want to talk to the police about so urgently?

Does she know something?’

Betty looked at Swinburne, clearly not wanting to discuss their business in front of strangers. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Sorry, this is Rafe Swinburne.’

‘I just came to give my condolences, Mrs Simmons, and to bring something for Elspeth. I can see you need to be alone, though. I’ll see myself out.’

Betty removed her hat and went to deal with the kettle, while 194

Frank listened to the fading sound of a motorcycle engine and waited to hear what Alice had said to his wife.

Dead, then, thought Esme McCracken, trying to come to terms with the news as she sat alone in a poky, depressing room on the ground floor of New Scotland Yard. That would teach him to be so fucking smug.

It was a shame the police had found the letters, though. If she’d thought about it, she could have removed them – she’d had plenty of opportunities – but it never occurred to her that Aubrey would care enough to keep them. She cast her mind back over what she had written, and was pleased to recall nothing to be ashamed of.

Admittedly, the threats were unfortunate in hindsight – unfortunate but not unjustifiable, and she certainly didn’t regret having made them. No, when somebody did at last have the decency to come and see her, she’d be ready and happy to talk. What was keeping them, she wondered? Surely she must be a priority?

To pass the time, she tried to take in all she could of her surroundings. It was important for writers to make the most of every experience and she often played this game with herself, standing outside life, observing. It was second nature to her, really. Ironically, the one time the trick had failed her was when it mattered most, when her father died and she found herself unable to escape her own heart, torn between grief at his loss and resentment that she had had to postpone her writing to care for him. But that was a while ago now.

No cell – or interview room, as they had euphemistically called it –

could equal that for a prison. She found it hard to imagine a time when a visit to Scotland Yard would have a place in her work, but she would store it up anyway. If the worst came to the worst, she could always knock off one of those sad little detective stories –

God knows, everyone else did and Tey had managed it, so how hard could it be? Not exactly something to be proud of, though. No wonder she didn’t want her own name on it. Or on Richard of bloody Bordeauxfor that matter.

It was outrageous, though, the way they were making her wait.

She was just contemplating making a fuss when the door opened 195

and two men entered the room. One was the fat idiot who had brought her in for questioning, the other was clearly his superior

– in every possible way, she hoped, if he expected her to talk to him. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Penrose and, as he spoke, she recognised him from the theatre as the man who occasionally hung around Tey. He was handsome, she had to admit, with a richly textured voice and an intelligence in his eyes that must make him enviable company. What on earth did he see in a second-rate scribbler from Scotland?

Although she was too clever to let it show, Penrose’s first question surprised her. ‘It’s clear from your letters to Bernard Aubrey that you were dissatisfied with how things were run at the New Theatre. Would you be happier if John Terry were in charge?’

She thought for a moment before answering, but saw no reason to lie. ‘The issue isn’t the running of the building but the philosophy of what’s on stage,’ she said. ‘Theatre is about sharing ideas and expanding people’s horizons. It’s not about making money. Aubrey had cash, but Terry has vision. So what do you think, Inspector?’

‘Does entertainment have a place in yourvision, Miss McCracken?’

‘People make do with what they’re given, but they need to be led. How can they be taught to appreciate better things if they’re never given a chance to experience them?’ Her habit of answering a question with a question was beginning to frustrate him, she could tell, but she was enjoying the chance to act out the debate that she had rehearsed so many times in her head.

‘Did anyone else share your views about Aubrey?’

‘If you mean was he unpopular, that’s hard to say. Wealth tends to distort the boundaries of like and dislike, don’t you find?

Bernard Aubrey was one of those men who people use. He could do so much for so many, and that’s never a recipe for true friendship. Anyway, no relationship is ever what it seems in the theatre: you learn that when you work backstage and see what they’re really like. Some alliances are built on very shaky foundations, and a pretty face can turn the most unlikely heads.’

‘Would you care to expand on that?’

196

‘Not really. Ask Terry or Fleming or Lydia Beaumont what they really thought of Aubrey. Or of each other, for that matter. I think there’d be a few surprises.’

‘I’ll do that. In the meantime, where were you on Friday evening between six o’clock and eight o’clock?’

Penrose had changed his approach and, for the first time, McCracken felt at a disadvantage. What did he know, she wondered? ‘I was in Charing Cross Road, browsing in the bookshops until they closed. I suppose the last one shut at around six-thirty.

Afterwards, I went for a walk round the theatres to see what the queues were like, and got to the New just after seven. I like to be there in plenty of time.’

‘Did you buy anything in the bookshops?’

She hesitated. ‘No, not this time.’

‘I gather you’ve written a play of your own. What’s it about?’

She expected better from him. The question was disappointingly simplistic, and she gave it the contempt it deserved. ‘It’s not a simple narrative that can be summed up in a couple of sentences, Inspector. If I could sit here and paraphrase it, what would be the point of going to the trouble of writing it at all? It’s a play of ideas.’ She thought again of Tey, and wondered how much he cared for her. ‘But at least they’re my own ideas and I haven’t had to borrow them from someone else.’

He smiled. ‘Well, no doubt we’ll find out what they are if the play goes into production.’

McCracken tried to keep her fury in check and was helped by a knock at the door. The Sergeant, who might as well have been struck dumb for all he was contributing to the interview, got up and returned a few seconds later. He whispered something to the Inspector, who closed his file.

‘I’m sorry, Miss McCracken, but we’ll have to leave it there for now.’

‘What do you mean?’ she cried indignantly. ‘Surely you want to ask me about Aubrey’s death?’

‘I do indeed, but not at the moment. You won’t mind waiting, I’m sure. I’ll get the constable to bring you a cup of tea.’