Gemma touched her arm. “That music-what is it?”
“What-?” Alison listened for a moment, puzzled, then smiled. “Oh, that. That’s from Lakme, Mallika’s duet with Lakme in the high priest’s garden. One of the girls in Traviata is singing Mallika next month at Covent Garden. I suppose she’s swotting by listening to a recording.” She glanced at her watch, then added, “We can get that cup of tea now, if you like.”
The music faded. As Gemma followed Alison back into the maze of corridors she felt an odd sadness, as if she’d been touched by something beautiful and fleeting. “That opera,” she said to Alison’s back, “does it have a happy ending?”
Alison looked back over her shoulder, her expression amused. “Of course not. Lakme sacrifices herself to protect her lover, in the end.”
The canteen smelled of frying chips. Gemma sat across the table from Alison Douglas, drinking tea strong enough to put fur on her tongue and trying to find a comfortable position for her backside in the molded plastic chair. Around them men and women dressed in perfectly ordinary clothes drank tea and ate sandwiches, but when Gemma caught snippets of conversation it contained such obscure musical and technical terms that it might as well have been a foreign language. She pulled her notebook from her handbag and took another sip of tea, grimacing at the tannin’s bite. “Miss Douglas,” she said as she saw Alison touch the face of her wristwatch with her fingertips, “I appreciate your time. I’ll not take up any more than necessary.”
“I’m not sure I understand how I can help you. I mean, I know about Sir Gerald’s son-in-law. It’s an awful thing to happen, isn’t it?” Her forehead creased as she frowned, and she looked suddenly very young and unsure, like a child encountering tragedy for the first time. “But I can’t see what it has to do with me.”
Gemma flipped open her notebook and uncapped her pen, then laid both casually beside her teacup. “Do you work closely with Sir Gerald?”
“No more so than with any of the conductors”-Alison paused and smiled-“but I enjoy it more. He’s such a dear. Never gets in a tizzy, like some of them.”
Hesitating to admit she didn’t understand how the system worked, Gemma temporized with, “Does he conduct often?”
“More than anyone except our music director.” Alison leaned over the table toward Gemma and lowered her voice. “Did you know that he was offered the position, but declined it? This was all years ago, way before my time, of course. He said he wanted to have more freedom to work with other orchestras, but I think it had something to do with his family. He and Dame Caroline started with the company back at Sadler’s Wells-he would have been the obvious choice.”
“Does Dame Caroline still sing with the company? I would have thought… I mean, she has a grown daughter…”
Alison laughed. “What you mean is that she’s surely past it, right?” She leaned forward again, her animated face revealing how much she enjoyed teaching the uninitiated. “Most sopranos are in their thirties before they really hit their stride. It takes years of work and training to develop a voice, and if they sing too much, too soon, they can do irreparable damage. Many are at the peak of their careers well into their fifties, and a few exceptional singers continue beyond that. Although I must admit, sometimes they look a bit ridiculous playing the ingenue parts when they get really long in the tooth.” She grinned at Gemma, then continued more seriously. “Not that I think that would have happened to Caroline Stowe. I can’t imagine her looking ridiculous at any age.”
“You said ‘would have happened.’ I don’t-”
“She retired. Twenty years ago, when their son died. She never sang publicly again.” Alison had lowered her voice, and although her expression was suitably concerned, she told the story with the relish people usually reserve for someone else’s misfortune. “And she was brilliant. Caroline Stowe might have been one of the most renowned sopranos of our time.” Sounding genuinely regretful, Alison shook her head.
Gemma took a last sip of tea and pushed her cup away as she thought about what she’d heard. “Why the title, then, if she stopped singing?”
“She’s one of the best vocal coaches in the country, if not the world. A lot of the most promising singers in the business have been taught, and are still being taught, by Caroline Stowe. And she’s done a tremendous amount for the company.” Alison gave a wry smile, adding, “She’s a very influential lady.”
“So I understand,” said Gemma, reflecting that it was Dame Caroline’s influence, and Sir Gerald’s, that had dragged the Yard into this investigation in the first place. Seeing Alison straighten up in her chair, Gemma asked, “Do you know what time Sir Gerald left the theater on Thursday evening?”
Alison thought for a moment, wrinkling her forehead. “I really don’t know. I spoke to him in his dressing room just after the performance, around eleven o’clock, but I didn’t stay more than five minutes. Had to meet someone,” she added with a dimple and a lowering of her lashes. “You’ll have to ask Danny. He was on duty that night.”
“Did Sir Gerald seem upset in any way? Anything different about his routine that night?”
“No, not that I can think-” Alison stopped, hand poised over her teacup. “Wait. There was something. Tommy was with him Of course, they’ve known each other practically forever,” she, added quickly, “but we don’t often see Tommy here after a performance, at least not in the conductor’s dressing room.”
Feeling the sense of the interview fast escaping her, Gemma said distinctly, “Who exactly is Tommy?”
Alison smiled. “I forgot you wouldn’t know. Tommy is Tommy Godwin, our Wardrobe Manager. And it’s not that he considers one of his visits akin to a divine blessing, like some costume designers I could name”-she paused and rolled her eyes-“but if he’s here at the theater he’s usually busy with Running Wardrobe.”
“Is he here today?”
“Not that I know of. But I expect you can catch him tomorrow at LB House.” This time Gemma’s bewilderment must have been evident, because before she could form a question, Alison continued. “That’s Lilian Baylis House, in West Hampstead, where we have our Making Wardrobe. Here.” She reached for Gemma’s notebook. “I’ll write down the address and phone number for you.”
A thought occurred to Gemma as she watched Alison write in a looping, schoolgirl hand. “Did you ever meet Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, Connor Swann?”
Alison Douglas flushed. “Once or twice. He came to ENO functions sometimes.” She returned the pen and notebook, then ran her fingers around the neck of her black sweater.
Gemma cocked her head while she considered the woman across the table-attractive, about her own age, and single, if her unadorned left hand and the date she’d alluded to were anything to go by. “Shall I take it he tried to chat you up?”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Alison said, a little apologetically. “You know, you can tell.”
“All flash and no substance?”
Alison shrugged. “I’d say he just liked women… he made you feel special.” She looked up, and for the first time Gemma noticed that her eyes were a light, clear brown. “We’ve all talked about it, of course. You know what the gossip mill’s like. But this is the first time I’ve really let myself think…” She swallowed once, then added slowly. “He was a lovely man. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
The canteen tables were emptying rapidly. Alison looked up and grimaced, then bustled Gemma back into the dark green tunnels. Murmuring an apology, she left Gemma once again in Danny the porter’s domain.