“Harold ..
Harold turned, frowning. “You can see I’m tied up here, Barnaby. I’ve been reasonable so far, I’m sure you’ll agree—”
“I want you to come with us.”
“What—now?”
“That’s right, Harold.”
“Out of the question, I’m afraid. I must get Vanya cast tonight.”
Barnaby felt Troy move, and put a restraining hand on the sergeant’s arm. Apart from Barnaby’s own sensibilities, which made dragging a demented, possibly screaming man out of a building and into a car a task he would hardly relish, there was the fact that his wife and daughter were present. Not to mention Deidre, who must have had more than enough of this sort of thing already. Harold was now standing waving his arms about urgently in the center of the stage. No one laughed. Barnaby prayed for inspiration, and caught Joyce’s eye. Her face looked withdrawn, almost alarmed. Barnaby had never seen his “closing in look,” and had no idea how fearsome it could be. He allowed his expression to soften and saw his wife respond, warmth come back into her cheeks. Then he noticed a newspaper lying on her lap, The Stage and Television Today, and silently sent his thanks.
“Harold,” he repeated, moving toward the director, then gently touching his arm. “The press are waiting.” “The press.” Harold repeated the honeyed words, then his brow darkened. “That potbellied idiot from the Echo…”
“No, no. The real press. The Times, The Independent, The Guardian. Michael Billington.”
“Michael Billington.” The blaze of hope in Harold’s eyes dazzled. “Oh, Tom.” Harold placed his hand on the chief inspector’s arm, and Barnaby felt the weight of his exultation. “Is it really true?”
“Yes,” said Barnaby, his voice rough.
“At last! I knew it would come. … I knew they’d remember me.” Harold gazed wildly around. His face was white with triumph, and saliva, like a bunch of tiny crystal grapes, hung on his lips. He allowed Barnaby to take his arm and guide him down the steps leading from the stage. Halfway up the aisle, he stopped. “Will there be pictures, Tom?”
“I … expect so.”
“Do I look all right?”
Barnaby looked away from the shining countenance disfigured by lunacy. “You look fine.”
“I should have my hat!”
Avery got up and collected Harold’s succubus and silently handed it to him. Harold put on the hat at a grotesque angle, the tail hanging over one ear; then, satisfied, continued his progress to the exit.
Troy, a few steps ahead, opened and hooked back one of the double doors and held aside the heavy crimson curtain. Harold paused on the threshold, then turned and stood for a moment to take a last look at his kingdom. He held his head a little to one side and appeared to be listening intently. On his face memory stirred, and an expression of the most intense longing appeared in his crazed eyes. He seemed to hear, from far away, a trumpet call. Then, still touched by the magic of death and dreams, he walked away. The heavy crimson curtain fell, and the rest was silence.
Another Opening, Another Show
Christmas had come and gone, and the weather was far from clement. The woman who climbed out of the shiny blue Metro was wearing a full-length fur coat (beaver) and a silk-lined fur hood. She made her way across the wet pavements to the Far Horizons Travel Agency and gratefully hurried into its warmth. She pushed back the hood as she waited at the counter, revealing soft gray-blue curls, and also removed her gloves. She asked for some cruise brochures and, at the sound of her voice, the agency’s only other customer, a slender girl in black, turned and spoke in some surprise.
“Doris?”
“Kitty—hullo.” Doris Winstanley’s response was a spontaneous smile; then, remembering past circumstances, an embarrassed silence. Kitty was far from embarrassed. She smiled back and asked Doris where on earth she was planning to sail away to.
“I’m not sure. It’s just that all my life I’ve dreamed of going on a cruise. Of course, I never thought I’d have the opportunity.”
“Don’t blame you, Doris. Weather like this. You want to be careful, though.”
“I’m sorry? I’m not sure …”
“Lounge lizards. All those charmers looking round for unattached wealthy ladies.”
“Oh, I’m not at all wealthy,” Doris said quickly. “But I have had a little windfall. So I thought I’d treat myself.”
“Super. Are you going to stay in Causton when you come back?”
“Oh, yes. I have quite a few friends here.” (Indeed, it had surprised her how many people had visited and shown genuine concern and support over the last few weeks. People who had never showed their faces when Harold was at home.) “And I’m going to let my two spare rooms to students when I come back. I’ve already contacted Brunei. It’ll be lovely to have young people around the place again. My own children are so far away.”
Doris talked on for a few minutes more. She didn’t mind at all Kitty asking questions, or the brazen flavor of her advice. Doris was only grateful that Esslyn’s widow was able to meet her and chat with some degree of kindness. Kitty looked very attractive, and had made no concessions to the weather. Her black suit had a miniskirt, and she seemed to be wearing neither blouse nor jumper beneath the tight-fitting jacket. She was beautifully made up, and had on a little pillbox hat with a black veil that came just to the bridge of her pretty nose and through which her pearly skin gleamed. Doris concluded her ramblings by asking Kitty what she was doing in Far Horizons.
“I’m picking up my plane tickets. I fly to Ottawa on Tuesday. To visit my brother-in-law.” She adjusted the veil with rosy-tipped fingers. “He’s been so kind. They’re very anxious to console me.”
“Oh,” said Doris. There didn’t seem to be much else she could say except, “Have a nice trip.”
“You, too. And watch out for those lizards.” Kitty pushed her ticket into her bag. “Now, I must rush. I’ve got a friend coming at seven, and I want to have a bath. See you.”
Doris reflected for a moment on the unlikeliness of this assurance ever coming to pass, then she collected her pile of brochures and made her way to the Soft Shoe Cafe where she ordered tea and cakes. It was much more comfortable here than at home. There was hardly a stick of furniture in the place at the moment. All the tired, stained, hateful old rubbish of a lifetime had gone to the junkyard, and she would take her time replacing it. She would buy some new things and hunt for little treasures in antique shops. There would be plenty of time. And plenty of money. She had got an awful lot for the Morgan and, to her surprise, a very capable solicitor that Tom Barnaby recommended had sold the business for what seemed to Doris an enormous sum. And of course the house was in her name. Doris smiled, picked up her fork, and plunged it into an eclair.
Avery was cooking supper. They were eating in the kitchen as the surface of the dining-room table had almost disappeared under a large and beautiful working model of the set for Uncle Vanya. Tim had spent the last hour with a flashlight and colored cellophane, experimenting with lighting and making notes. Personally he thought the main room in the composite set looked as if it belonged to a villa in New Orleans rather than one in tum-of-the-century Russia, but there was no denying the close, enervating feel of the place, especially when the jalousies were closed and the light seeped through them and fell in dusty bars across the furniture.
“I hope you understand it’s just scratch.”