‘Did the police question you?’
‘They did. All sorts of idiotic questions. Made me feel like a criminal! You used to work in the police, didn’t you?’
‘Not the police. Intelligence. That was some time ago now.’
‘Melisande said you and your wife were experts in murder.’
‘I don’t know where people get such ideas.’
‘Melisande said you told her you always carried the Police Code and Procedure with you and you tried to memorize seven pages a day. Oh. Is that a joke? The story’s bound to be in tomorrow’s papers. People are such ghouls. The way poor Stella died is sure to attract attention-’ Morland broke off. ‘Where did you say your wife was?’
‘America. Signing tour. It ends the day after tomorrow… How did Stella die? Where did it happen?’
Morland’s hand went up to his forehead. It looked as though he was checking whether he had a temperature. He then loosened his tie. ‘She was found at the Villa Byzantine. Tancred Vane’s house. The royal biographer fellow. It was Tancred Vane who discovered her body. It was in the drawing room. If the police had any sense at all, they’d see at once why Moon couldn’t have done it. You see, Payne, Moon broke her wrist only a couple of months ago. She can hardly use her right hand. It – it would have been too heavy for her-’
‘What would have been too heavy?’
‘The-’ Morland broke off. ‘Stella was – she had been-’ Payne leant forward eagerly. ‘Yes?’
‘No, it’s too horrible.’ Morland made a breath-catching sound like a sob. ‘I can’t say it. No, I can’t.’
The next moment he did. He blurted it out. There was a pause.
‘Golly.’ Payne stared back at him.
6
Blithe Spirit
‘This is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long while, you are absolutely right, so I should be happy. Only I am not.’ Melisande Chevret raised the champagne glass to her lips. ‘Oh, don’t look like that, Win. You do think I am being unreasonable and spoilt, don’t you?’
‘As a matter of fact I do. You have been “resting” for quite a while. I’d have thought you’d leap for joy at any opportunity to act again.’
‘Leap for joy. You do say horrid things. You make me sound like one of those desperate ageing actresses for whom anything is better than nothing. Listening to you, one might be excused for imagining my career has entered the tundra-like wasteland stage. My bone structure is not yet obscured by pouches and jowls.’
‘I never said it was… I wouldn’t call Madame Arcati “anything”.’
‘It’s a wonderful character part, I do agree – Coward at his most comically inspired and so on – but I simply can’t make the transition that easily.’
‘What transition?’
‘I was Elvira not such a long time ago. Unpredictable, wilful, capricious, irresistibly attractive Elvira. Bursting with erotic energy – dangerous – destructive! I enjoy being destructive,’ Melisande added in a reflective voice. ‘Can you see Elvira transmogrifying into Arcati? I mean – can you?’
‘I can. Why not? Isn’t that what being an actress is all about?’
‘I would have thought such cliches were beneath you, darling.’
Pale sea-water eyes – seductively asymmetrical – a carefully made-up, predatory kind of face – a flat sheep’s nose – black velvet dress, cut low at the neck – long sleeves – a single row of black pearls – aiming at an intriguing triste effect. At one time, Winifred reflected, men had been mad about her sister.
‘D’you remember my Joan of Arc?’ Melisande asked.
Winifred said she did, vividly. ‘You were twenty-one. You were terribly good. Was that Anouilh?’
‘One critic wrote he had feared for the safety of my fellow actors! His exact words were that he’d been surprised heads hadn’t rolled on the stage!’ Melisande gave a reminiscent laugh. ‘Ah, that sword! It was a real sword of course.’
‘You declared you couldn’t get into the part if you were to hold a papier-mache one.’
‘I took fencing lessons. Did some special exercises to strengthen my wrists. They provided me with my own personal trainer. Such a charming boy – so agile. Ah, how they indulged me! D’you remember the party they gave after the play? A thousand white cymbidium orchids flown in from New Zealand and suspended from willow branches on sterling silver thread! Then – then I appeared in that modernist medieval morality play, which I couldn’t understand at all, but the critics unanimously agreed I was brilliant in.’
‘Oh dear, yes. What a curious amalgam of antique metaphysics, harsh Calvinism and contemporary absurdism that play was… What was it called? They invariably sink without trace, plays like that…’
‘But don’t you see? If I did accept Arcati, there would be no going back – I’d have reached the point of no return – don’t you see?’
‘See what exactly?’
‘The die, darling. The die would be cast.’ Melisande shut her eyes. ‘I’d be entering the dreadful dimension of typecasting. No-nonsense nannies – Valium divas. Character parts, darling! Dipso dolly divorcees on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’
‘The dipsomaniac divorcee is a particularly Anglo-Saxon phenomenon,’ Winifred said thoughtfully. ‘In French films, I have noticed, women excel in a kind of existential hysteria without need for a whiff of alcohol-’
‘All right, there are some good dramatic parts, perhaps, for, to employ your pet phrase, women of a certain age. I wouldn’t mind playing Mrs Stone in her Roman spring… Blanche Dubois – don’t tell me I am too old to play Blanche! No, not Bernarda Alba – I have pledged never to play matriarchs… I wouldn’t mind Florence Lancaster either, or Livia in Women Beware Women.’
‘How about morose Mrs Alving?’
‘I am not sure… I have a soft spot for Ibsen, true… But it would mean patting the cheek of some sallow, sweaty, syphilitic Oswald night after night after night… A most definite no to Miss Havisham and Aunt Betsey Trotwood, or to any other Dickens woman, for that matter. Most Dickens women are such bores.’
‘Lady Dedlock and Rosa Dartle are not bores.’
‘I haven’t really done much comedy, have I?’
‘You did Miss Prism last year.’
‘Miss Prism was an exception. I did it as a special favour to Neville. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.’ Melisande lowered her eyes. ‘I believe I was a little in love with Neville. I wore pince-nez! How ridiculous people in pince-nez always look!’
‘You made Miss Prism recite a limerick, which is not in Wilde. “The Young Lady of Clare”.’
‘That wasn’t too awful, was it?’
‘No, not at all. It struck the right note. It was hilarious. You brought the house down. Your comic timing was perfect.’
They were sitting at a corner table at the Savoy Grill. The service, as could have been expected, was impeccable, the food delicious, if a little too rich for Winifred’s taste. She regretted having plumped for roast Anjou pigeon with sauteed Jerusalem artichoke and pommes Anna after the pan-fried foie gras. She should have had the veal cutlet with root vegetables. Melisande had insisted that they have dinner together. Melisande had hinted she might have important news to impart…
‘Actually, Win, I would love to play you one day.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. One of those ladylike, rather repressed Rattiganesque Englishwomen, passionless in a cloche hat.’ Melisande sketched an amorphous shape above her head. ‘The kind of woman who haunts the Riviera in the low season, having taken advantage of reduced rates, not minding the discomforts of her small pension, her excessively composed manner hinting at latent hysteria. One sees her reading a novel after dinner, or merely immersed in maiden meditation – having ordered a small pot of black coffee in perfect French.’
‘Is that how you see me? How very amusing.’
‘No, not passionless. Seething with suppressed emotions behind her fastidious and aloof exterior – disguising her true feelings from everyone, even from herself. I’d insist on a scene where she takes off her hat and brooch and disrobes herself to reveal some really outre underwear.’