She glanced in Goldstein’s direction. “I had not thought of that.”
“You could put up at a hotel, of course,” Cribb went on. “It might be less distressing for you than your former home.”
“I suppose it might.”
“This young lady, Miss Shaw, is in Oxford for the weekend. I’m arranging for her to take a room in a small hotel in St. Aldate’s. It occurs to me that you might care to join her there. You could take your meals together. At times like this, a little company is a great support.”
“I am not ungrateful, but-”
Goldstein broke in. “Sergeant Cribb is speaking good sense, my dear. I shall not be able to stay overnight and it would be too distressing for you to pass the night in that house in Banbury Road. If Miss Shaw has no objection to the plan, I think you should do as the sergeant suggests.”
“I shall be pleased to help in any way I can,” Harriet offered.
“Things should be completed in a day or two,” said Cribb. “Once the funeral is over and his affairs are tidied up, you’ll be able to resume your normal life, get back on the stage. Good to have something to occupy the mind. Has Mrs. Bonner-Hill performed in your theatre, Mr. Goldstein?”
Goldstein’s cheeks went slightly pinker. “Yes. In several different productions.”
“That’s how you met, I expect,” Cribb went on staunchly. “Looked after your cast as if they were your own family. I’ve a great admiration for the way you theatricals stick together. This lady won’t be short of parts when she returns to the boards, I’ll wager. Are you in anything at the moment, ma’am?”
“No.” Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s hand sought Goldstein’s and held it. “I am between plays.”
“Ah. Shows how wrong it is to jump to conclusions. Seeing Mr. Goldstein here, I supposed you were in the current production at Windsor.”
“We are playing Lear,” said Goldstein acidly. “Mrs. Bonner-Hill is a comedy actress. I happened to be visiting Melanie when the constable called this afternoon and broke the news to her. I could do no less than accompany her to this place. We are old friends.” He added, with emphasis, “I met poor Bonner-Hill more than once.”
“Really?” said Cribb. “I thought he disapproved of the theatre.”
“Oh no,” interjected Mrs. Bonner-Hill. “He liked it well enough. He disapproved of my continuing on the stage after we were married, that is all.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
“Disapproved? He forbade you. Issued threats!” said Goldstein. “He would have terminated your career the day he married you if he had got his way. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but it doesn’t show much concern for the theatre to marry one of its most talented young actresses and order her never to go onto a stage again. Like pulling the wings off a butterfly.”
“We had misunderstandings,” explained Mrs. Bonner-Hill unnecessarily. “About a year ago I returned to the stage and Harry moved back into his rooms in Merton. It was a civilized arrangement, with no bitterness on either side. By then we had come to accept that our careers were more important to us than an unfruitful marriage. He sent me money regularly.”
“You will notice the lack of it, then,” said Cribb.
“There is the insurance,” said Mrs. Bonner-Hill, her eyes wider and bluer at this consoling thought. “His life was insured for five thousand pounds. That should be enough to support me whether I return to the stage or not.”
“Insurance?” said Cribb. “Which company insured him, ma’am?”
“The Providential. He made the arrangements a week after we were married. It depressed me somewhat at the time, thinking about death so soon after the wedding, but Harry was quite unshakeable. His own papa had died young and left his family unprovided for. They were not penniless, but they lived in reduced circumstances. Harry went to Tonbridge as a scholarship boy. It was only when he got to Oxford that he had any money to spend on himself. An uncle made him an allowance in recognition of his scholastic achievements. I think the reason why he was so particular about his appearance at Oxford was that he had been compelled to wear old clothes at Tonbridge. Other boys can be very cruel, I believe.”
“Utterly heartless,” Goldstein confirmed, and added, moved by some personal recollection, “Little monsters.”
“Your husband was happier in Oxford, then?” suggested Cribb.
“Yes, indeed! He took to the academic life like a duck to water. Oh, dear.” Mrs. Bonner-Hill bit her lip like a schoolgirl who had given a wrong answer. A large tear rolled down her left cheek. She wiped it away. “Forgive me. Such a foolish thing to say.”
“Don’t concern yourself on our account, ma’am,” said Cribb. “If it distresses you to talk about your late husband …” He was catching the mortuary attendant’s habit.
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Bonner-Hill. “I want to help you if I possibly can. We must find the person responsible for this terrible thing. I have been trying to think of anyone who might have harboured a grudge against Harry, but I am at a loss. You see, I have not seen so much of him in the past twelve months. His colleagues in Merton could give you a better idea of his comings and goings.”
“Mr. Fernandez?” said Cribb. “I spoke to him earlier.”
“That man! Don’t rely on anything he tells you. A most unwholesome person. It is too embarrassing to go into now. He is not a gentleman, I am afraid.”
“Do I gather that there was an incident, ma’am?” Cribb asked.
“The lady prefers not to speak about it,” cautioned Goldstein. “I think this has gone far enough.”
“You’re wanting to get back in time for King Lear, sir?” “That is immaterial. Melanie should not be forced to submit to more interrogation.”
“I wasn’t forcing her, sir. She just expressed her willingness to help. If she prefers not to speak about her experience with Mr. Fernandez …”
But Melanie had evidently decided it was better if the truth were out. “One afternoon at Merton before Harry and I were married, he was standing in the corridor outside Harry’s rooms as I came out alone. I knew him as one of the Fellows, so I smiled-just a polite smile of recognition, you understand-and prepared to pass him. Imagine my astonishment when he stopped in front of me without a word, pressing me physically against the wall. I was too shocked to cry out and I could not move, he was so close to me. I thought he was attempting to kiss me and I tried to move my head aside. Then-I am a married woman now, but it makes me shudder still-I became conscious of the presence of his left hand inside my blouse.”
“Deplorable!” said Goldstein.
“It was only there for a second and then he withdrew it, released me and was gone. I was too mortified with shame to go back to Harry, so I rearranged my clothes and walked twice round the Fellows’ Quad.”
“What self-possession!” said Goldstein.
“It was more than a year before I mentioned the matter to Harry and by then he was my husband. To make things worse, he expressed no particular surprise when I told him, and actually tried to fabricate excuses for Mr. Fernandez by saying that he had a weakness-a blind spot, he called it-where ladies were concerned. It was fairly common knowledge in the Senior Common Room. He dismissed it, just like that! And then went on to tell me how unfortunate it was when a man had things he was ashamed of, because sooner or later they became known to his colleagues. Do you see what he did? He turned the whole thing upside-down to make me feel that if I went back to the stage it would be betraying him. That started our first serious argument. I should never have spoken to him about it.”
“He was already friendly with Fernandez, I expect,” said Cribb.
“Of course he was-and determined that my experience should not spoil the friendship. Harry was a fine man in many respects, and a dutiful husband, but he brushed aside my feelings in this matter. He insisted that we both behaved towards Mr. Fernandez as if nothing had happened. In fact, he took to inviting him to dinner, to show me that he possessed qualities I had not appreciated before. I admit that after several such evenings I started to revise my opinion of our visitor. I began to wonder whether I had exaggerated the incident in the passage. Mr. Fernandez has a very charming manner and he could not be faulted at our dinner parties. Harry was delighted, and I was greatly reassured-to my cost.”