I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and, taking down the first handful of ciné magazines, began my search.
I flipped through page after page of Ciné Tit-Bits and Silver Cinema, smiling, at first, at the antics of the so-called “movie stars,” most of whom I had never heard of.
Parties, galas, premieres, benefit performances: smiling faces, toothy grins, top hats and sequined dresses, arms around shoulders in exotic motorcars—what vast amounts of time these people had spent having themselves photographed!
It wasn’t difficult to find Phyllis Wyvern. She was everywhere, spanning the years without apparently aging a day. Here she was, for instance, sitting, legs crossed, in a canvas chair with her name painted on the back, studying a script, with a cardigan thrown over her shoulders and a look of intense concentration on her face. Here she was, dancing with a young airman in a dark nightclub that seemed to be located in a church crypt. And here she was again, on the set of Anna of the Steppes, standing with another actress, their faces turned skyward, in front of one of the behemoth tractors as their makeup is retouched by a man in a mustache and a beret.
Could it be?
For a moment I thought that the woman beside Phyllis Wyvern was Marion Trodd. A much younger Marion Trodd, to be sure, but still …
In spite of my excitement I was having difficulty in keeping my eyes focused on the page. The air in the cupboard was becoming stuffy; the bare bulb giving off a surprising amount of heat. That and the fact that I was bone tired was making my head swim.
How long had I been huddled in this cupboard? An hour? Perhaps two? It seemed like days.
I rubbed my eyes with my fists, forcing myself to pay attention to the tiny type in which the caption was printed.
Perhaps there was something after all in Father’s insistence on having all of us outfitted with spectacles. I wore mine only when trying for sympathy, or when I needed to protect my eyes during a hazardous chemical experiment. I thought momentarily of running upstairs to get them, but decided against it.
I shook my head and read the caption again:
Phyllis Wyvern and Norma Durance freshen up between takes. Eyes front for the birdie, girls!
What a disappointment. I must have been mistaken. I had thought for a moment that I was on to something, but the name Norma Durance meant nothing to me.
Unless …
Hadn’t I seen that face a few issues back? Because the woman wasn’t photographed with Phyllis Wyvern I had paid her no attention.
I went back a couple of issues.
Yes! Here it was in Silver Cinema. The actress is in a barnyard, throwing a handful of grain from her gathered-up skirt to a mob of frenzied chickens.
“Pretty Norma Durance ably undertakes the part of Dorita in The Little Red Hen. We hear she’s not working for chicken feed!”
I held the magazine up to the light for a closer look. As I carefully studied the woman’s features, the top edge of the cover pressed for a moment against the lightbulb. In an instant the tinder-dry paper had browned, then blackened—and before I could blink, burst into flame.
It’s wonderful how the mind works in such situations. I remember distinctly that my first thought was “Here’s Flavia, her hands full of fire in a cupboard jam-packed with combustibles.”
It was the kind of thing of which front-page stories in the Times are made.
Smoldering ashes are all that remain of historic country house. Buckshaw in ruins.
And there would be a grisly photo, of course.
I threw down the burning magazine and stamped on it again and again with my feet.
But because of the waterproofing solution that Dogger applied so conscientiously to our footwear—a witches’ brew containing both linseed and castor oils, as well as copal varnish—my shoes burst immediately into flames.
I tore off my cardigan and dropped it onto my feet, stamping and bundling with my hands until the fire was out.
By now, my heart was pounding like a racing engine, and I found myself gasping for air.
Fortunately I had not burned myself. The fire had been quickly extinguished with little trace remaining other than a few black ashes and some lingering smoke.
I checked quickly to be sure that no sparks had lodged among the stacks of paper, then let myself out into the passageway, coughing as I went.
I was pulling on my singed sweater and scraping the toes of my smoking shoes on the floorboards when the kitchen door opened and Dogger appeared.
He looked at me closely without saying a word.
“Unforeseen chemical reaction,” I said.
An air of weariness had fallen upon the foyer. No one paid the slightest attention to me as I passed through. Everywhere, the people of Bishop’s Lacey sat staring blankly off into space, immersed in their own thoughts. In a corner, a card table with two chairs had been set up as an interrogation center, and Sergeant Graves was murmuring away with Miss Cool, the village postmistress and confectioner.
“Dazed” was the word for the rest of them. The earlier air of sharing in a jolly good adventure had worn off, pretense had vanished, and everyone had sagged, exhausted at last, into their real faces.
Buckshaw had been made over into a bomb shelter.
In the farthest corner from the police, the chauffeur, Anthony, sucked on a cigarette that he held concealed in a half-closed hand. He looked up and caught my eye, just as he had done when I’d dislodged the little avalanche of snow.
What was he thinking?
I sauntered casually off towards the west wing to have a look at the grandfather clock that stood in the corridor near Father’s study. It must be getting late.
The hands of the ancient timepiece stood at ten-seventeen! Where could the day have gone?
Even twenty-four hours seemed an eternity when one was cooped up indoors and the days were the shortest of the year, but the death of Phyllis Wyvern under the roofs of Buckshaw had turned time topsy-turvy.
The roofs of Buckshaw! My bucket of birdlime!
Time was running out. If I was going to carry out my plan—my plans!—I’d better get a bustle on. Christmas was nearly upon us. Father Christmas himself would soon be here.
And so would the undertaker.
Poor Phyllis Wyvern. I was going to miss her.
• NINETEEN •
A QUICK JAUNT TO the jakes was all I needed. With that attended to, I could get on with my plans.
The closest convenience was at the top of the kitchen stairs, two doors along from Dogger’s bedroom. When I reached it, I threw open the door and—
My heart stopped.
Naked from the waist up, Val Lampman was sitting on the toilet clumsily trying to wrap one of his muscular arms with surgical lint. They were both horribly scratched and torn. He was as surprised as I was, and as he looked up at me, startled, his eyes became suddenly those of an injured hawk.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were in here.”
I tried not to stare at the matching anchors tattooed on each of his forearms.
Had he been a sailor?
“What are you looking at?” he demanded in a harsh voice.
“Nothing,” I said. “May I help?”
“No,” he said, momentarily flustered. “Thank you. I was trying to help the lads shift a flat in one of the lorries, and it fell on me. My own fault, really.”