The back of the theatre felt even more deserted than the front, but, as always, Keith was perched at his desk, surrounded by old-fashioned telephones with large punch buttons and four small TV screens. I have described him as the deputy stage-door manager, but he’d only been at the theatre for a short while and it was unclear if he was temporary or permanent. He was only in his thirties – most of the stage-door managers I’d met had been much older than that and very much the cornerstone of the buildings they guarded. Keith was more wayward, sitting with his legs stretched out, displaying grubby jeans and trainers. Whenever I went past him, he seemed to be rolling a cigarette, although I’d never actually seen him smoke one.
‘Good evening, Keith,’ I said.
‘Oh, hello, Anthony! How are you doing?’ One thing that he’d definitely got right was that he was always cheerful. Bad reviews, poor audiences, murder … he took them all in his stride.
‘I’m OK, thanks, Keith.’ He had never told me his surname. ‘How are we doing?’
He had a rash on his neck and he scratched it. ‘We’ve taken a knock with some of those reviews,’ he admitted. ‘Critics can be bastards. But we’ve got a decent audience. Not too bad for midweek.’
It was actually Thursday.
‘It’ll pick up at the weekend,’ he went on. ‘These days it’s all about word of mouth. You’ll see.’
Meanwhile, Hawthorne had been examining the television screens. There were only four of them, but they showed six different views of the theatre, the fuzzy black-and-white images shifting as one camera took over from another. I saw the main entrance to the foyer with a few early arrivals trickling in, the stage door and a stretch of Maiden Lane, the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms, the entire length of Lumley Court looking down to the Strand, the auditorium – with row upon row of empty seats waiting, perhaps forlornly, to be filled – and the stage itself, with a stagehand sweeping the floor. ‘Do these just show you what’s happening, or do they also record?’ he asked.
‘This is Daniel Hawthorne,’ I explained. ‘He’s a detective. He’s looking into the murder of Harriet Throsby.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Keith’s face fell. ‘I’ve had it up to here with that, to be honest with you. We had the police in and out all day yesterday, asking all sorts of stupid questions. Did I see Harriet Throsby arrive? Of course I did!’ He pointed at the screen showing the front entrance. ‘That’s what I’m here for! They went on and on about those bloody knives. I didn’t buy them! I just handed them over. And they’ve only gone and closed the green room. Why would they do that? She wasn’t murdered there! They still haven’t told me if I’m allowed to open it …’
‘You saw her arrive,’ Hawthorne said, repeating what Keith had just told him.
‘That’s right.’
‘How did you recognise her?’
‘You get to know all the critics, working in this job.’ Keith eyed Hawthorne suspiciously, as if he resented this further interrogation. ‘I was at the Lyric before I came here and there was a picture of her in the laundry room.’ He smirked. ‘Complete with Hitler moustache.’
‘How long have you been at the Vaudeville?’
‘Two months.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘It’s all right. I used to work in hospitality. Barman at the Best Western in Avonmouth. Night manager at the Bristol Marriott. This is a lot more interesting. We had Emily Blunt in this morning!’
‘Did she buy tickets?’ I asked.
‘No. It was the wrong theatre. She was looking for the Aldwych.’
Hawthorne cut in. ‘So, do the cameras record?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Keith shook his head disdainfully. ‘All this equipment is rubbish. It’s years out of date. I’m meant to see everything and if there’s anything funny going on, I call Pranav, the stage manager. That’s if the phones are working, but half the time the line’s down!’
‘Did you see anything unusual on Tuesday night?’
‘I already told the police – that fat one and her ratty assistant. It was a first night. Everyone was a bit tense and there was a lot of movement at the stage door. Flowers arriving. Champagne. The weather wasn’t too good, so no one was hanging around. It was a full house, of course. Lots of people milling around at the front …’
‘What about after the play?’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Mr Hawthorne. You can’t think that anyone working here had anything to do with it. I mean, she was a critic. She didn’t like the play. But there’s no way an actor would ever have wished her harm.’
‘Or a writer,’ I added.
Hawthorne ignored both of us. ‘You were here all evening,’ he continued.
‘That’s right. Yes. I’m always the last to leave. Make sure everything’s secure, lock up and home by midnight, except when it’s Shakespeare and then it seems to go on half the bloody night.’ He sighed. ‘The curtain came down at nine forty-five, but there was a party and then the cast came back for drinks downstairs, so it was almost one o’clock before I got away.’
‘Do you know what time they all left?’
‘We have a book.’ He pointed at the table behind us. ‘Everyone has to sign in and sign out. The management is very strict about that.’
Hawthorne swung the book round and turned back a couple of pages. Sure enough, everyone who had been in the green room had left a record of their visit.
Name
Time In
Time Out
Ewan Lloyd
10.20 pm
12.45 am
Tirian Kirke
10.20
12.25
Jordan Williams
10.30 pm
00.50 am
Sky Palmer
10.45
12.35
Anthony Horowitz
10.50 pm
12.40 am
Ahmet Yurdakul
11.25
12.55
Maureen Bates
23.25
00.55 am
The times accorded with what I already knew. Ewan and Tirian had been drinking in the green room when I arrived at the theatre and went down. Jordan had met me. He was still upstairs in his dressing room. Sky had arrived moments ahead of me. I had caught up with her outside as she shook off her umbrella.
At the end of the evening, after reading the review that had brought the party to a close, Tirian had been the first to leave, followed by Sky. I had been the third out of the door and remembered looking at my watch and scribbling the time in the book. Ahmet and Maureen, it turned out, had been the last to depart, shortly after Jordan. I couldn’t help wondering what they’d got up to in those last few minutes.
‘So you saw everyone on the way out.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you talk to any of them?’
‘None of them were in the mood for a chat after that review. Tirian mentioned it – but only briefly. He was catching the last train to Blackheath and he only had ten minutes to get down to Charing Cross.’
‘He didn’t have his motorbike?’ I asked.
‘He’d have been mad to get on that fancy bike of his after the amount you lot had had to drink. I cleared away the bottles! Sky had a cab waiting for her. Mr Lloyd called an Uber.’ Keith frowned. ‘I’m not sure if I saw you, Anthony. Maybe you slipped out while my back was turned!’ He said this as if I had done something wrong. ‘I didn’t see Jordan either, but I checked you’d both signed the book before I locked up. I spoke to Mr Yurdakul for quite a few minutes. He was the last to leave. He wasn’t at all happy.’