Home through the Dark Page 3

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” There was a note in his voice suggestive of alarm, which my presence hardly seemed to warrant.

  “I’m sorry. I came to book a seat for this evening –”

  “To book a seat?” He stood staring at me frowningly, drumming his fingers against the side of the mug he was holding.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the box office wouldn’t be open. I’ll come back later.”

  I turned away but he said more levelly, “Perhaps I can help. You must forgive me for being a bit abrupt; I thought I was alone in the building and you frightened the life out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said lamely, for the third time.

  “I can see to it, anyway.” He brushed past me and pushed open the door of the minute office. A seating plan of the theatre was spread out on the shelf beside the window.

  “The seats are all one price. Where would you like to be?”

  “About – the third row?” I said tentatively. Something about his manner made me slightly nervous.

  “Row C, number nine. Just the one?”

  “Just the one,” I answered steadily.

  “That’ll be fifty pence.”

  I slid the coin across the shelf towards him and took the ticket in exchange. “Thank you. The door was open,” I added, in a belated attempt at self-justification.

  “Okay.” He nodded briskly and slipped the money into the cash box, but for the second time within a few hours, I was acutely conscious of a pair of assessing eyes following me as I made my way back the length of the foyer until, thankfully, I turned down the stairs.

  I emerged into Phoenix Street still somewhat nettled by my reception. Even accepting his explanation that my presence had startled him, I hadn’t cared for his manner and I stupidly found myself wishing that I’d left the theatre before the sound of his whistling had made me aware of him.

  I stopped abruptly and a wave of heat washed scaldingly over me as the piercing notes of that whistling echoed in my head. “Roses of Picardy.” He had been whistling “Roses of Picardy.” For a split second I couldn’t pinpoint the reason for my panic reaction. Then I remembered: Picardy 127 – wait till you hear the tune. This, surely, must be the tune the voice on the phone had been referring to. The possibility was a firm conviction to me. It was not as though the song were one of today’s favourites; you could go for months without hearing it and then, twice in one day. Could it really be coincidence?

  “Peaceful, olde-worlde Westhampton!” I thought with a bitter twist of humour. Was there, then, a connection between the phone call and the man at the theatre? And what possible link could there be anyway with a presumably respectable firm of estate agents? Was it all some elaborate sort of joke? I wished uselessly that I had never seen the name of Culpepper whatever it was, that I’d crossed the Avenue higher up and come first to kindly, concerned Mr. Henry. And suddenly a new dimension came into my loss of Carl – the simple lack of someone with whom I could talk things over, whose advice I could ask. Yet, despairingly, I knew exactly what his reaction would be. “Forget it. The message wasn’t meant for you in the first place, so what the hell!”

  Easier said than done. On my way back to the hotel I passed a newsstand and on impulse bought a copy of the local evening paper. Once in my room, I spread it over the table and searched diligently for any report of a missing person, a kidnapping, anything that might tie in with what I had overheard. There was nothing. It might, of course, be too soon; the note, whatever it was, was only being delivered today. I resolved to listen to the news summary before going down for my early dinner, and in the meantime searched out the garage attendant to enquire about the progress on my car.

  “There you are, miss,” he said proudly. “Good as new! I was able to match it up a treat!”

  “That’s marvellous,” I said gratefully, running my hand affectionately along the bodywork. I would not have fancied having to find my way home in the dark after the evening performance. My present state of wary apprehension would have detected an assailant in every shadowed doorway.

  “Jack,” I said impulsively, “I wonder if you can help me – you must know Westhampton pretty well.”

  “Like the back of me hand, miss.”

  “Do you happen to know where – where Picardy Street is?” I held my breath, my hand pressed down on the metal of the car absorbing its coldness.

  “Picardy Street?” he repeated. “No, I can’t say I’ve heard of that one. Hereabouts, is it?”

  “I think so. Could it be Picardy Road, or Lane, or anything? A friend of mine was staying there but I can’t remember the exact address.”

  “No, miss, there’s no Picardy Street that I know of, nor anything like it where any friend of yours might be.” He looked at me curiously.

  “Oh, well, I must have misheard it. Never mind.” I pushed myself away from the car and went back upstairs. It was now just twenty-four hours since my arrival in Westhampton, and they had certainly been full of incident. Momentarily, before my mental censorship swung into action, I wondered what Carl was doing, whether he was anxious about me or merely glad to have me out of the way. Bleakly, I accepted that there was no way of finding out.

  Chapter 3

  I DISCOVERED to my slight dismay that it was not, in fact, possible to park very near the theatre, and a certain length of dark streets would have to be negotiated after all. However, it was still almost daylight as I locked the car door just after seven-fifteen and made my way back to Phoenix Street.

  The atmosphere at the theatre was very different from the deserted barracks it had appeared that afternoon. The small foyer was filled to overflowing with laughing, talking groups of people and a girl with a tray of empty coffee cups was trying to thread her way between them.

  “Any more coffee, Kitty?” someone called, and she paused for a moment.

  “Sorry, we’re rather hard-pressed this evening. Can you possibly wait till the interval?”

  “Right-o, I’ll make do with a whisky!”

  Going to the theatre alone was something I was used to. Even after our marriage, Carl was more likely to be on stage than beside me in the auditorium, and often when I saw plays he was neither appearing in nor producing, he would be busily engaged in those activities elsewhere. Nevertheless, I did feel rather an odd-man-out here, where everyone seemed to know each other, and since there was no chance of a coffee, I moved through into the auditorium, buying a program on the way.

  The theatre was tiny, prettily decorated in white and gold, with the traditional red plush seats. At a quick reckoning I estimated it would seat a hundred and twenty at the most. Several people were already in their seats and a man with glasses was playing the piano in the minute orchestra pit. I found my place in the third row, sat down and opened the program. Some of the names I recognized from the photographs on the staircase: Leonard Beaufoy, Marion Dobie, Robert Harling – I paused, trying to probe the chord the last name had struck in my memory. I had heard it before today. And obediently the memory resolved itself into Carl’s voice, some weeks ago: “There’s a bloke I’ve been hearing a lot about lately, Robert Harling. He’s in rep. or something at Westhampton. He might be a possible Clarence to my Richard.”

  Which memory also served to solve the question of where I had heard Westhampton mentioned recently. Had I been able to pinpoint its association when Mrs. Baillie had first mentioned it, I should probably have gone farther afield, at least after the first night, rather than stay in any place that had the remotest connection with Carl. Now, having settled for the Beeches, it was too late and in any case I liked the town. I could hardly go through life avoiding any place Carl had ever referred to.

  Out in the foyer a bell rang and the crowds began to filter through. With a perfunctory little bow the pianist took his leave to a sprinkling of applause and with the mounting excitement such a moment never failed to bring, I sat back and waited for the curtain to go up.

  The set, although not as op
ulent as those at the Playhouse, was pleasant and effective and it was clear within the first few minutes that the acting was of a high standard. It was no great surprise to recognize among the actors the man I had spoken to that afternoon; he was playing the part of Eric, the son of the family. I checked his name on the program and found it to be Stephen Darby. Several times in those first few minutes I was a little disconcerted to find his eyes speculatively on me, and my initial sense of antipathy strengthened. I was careful not to look at him throughout the rest of the first act.

  The curtain came down, the lights went up, and I made my way with the others out to the foyer in search of coffee. The signs were not too hopeful. There was a long queue already at a hatch opening onto what looked like a kitchenette and I could see the girl who’d passed me before, cheeks hot and flustered, pouring into cups set out on a tray while behind her a kettle was boiling uproariously. It looked very much as though she were in need of assistance. I threaded my way past the queue and out of the foyer into the passage leading to the stairs. Just short of them and directly opposite the cloakroom was the door I was looking for. I tapped on it, went in and found myself in the steam-filled room. The girl turned distractedly towards me.

  “Can I help?”

  “Oh, bless you!” she exclaimed fervently. “Could you see to that infernal kettle and fill up the coffeepots waiting on the side? There’s more milk under the sink.”

  Without more ado I set to work making the coffee, pouring it into the never-ending succession of empty cups, replenishing milk jugs and sugar basins. At last the queue in front of us shortened and dwindled away and I was able to pour out a cup for myself. The girl called Kitty came back and joined me.

  “You are an angel; thank you so much! I was nearly going scatty! There should be two of us, but the girl who’s usually on with me has sprained her wrist.”

  “Glad I could help. Is it your regular job to do the coffee?”

  “No, we take it in turns, along with the bar duty and program-selling.”

  “We?” I queried.

  She looked surprised. “The members.”

  “Is this a theatre club? I’d no idea! I’m afraid I’m an interloper, then.”

  She smiled. “Are you? They usually check up when they issue tickets.”

  “Well, I came along this afternoon on the offchance and one of the actors booked my seat for me.”

  “Ah. I suppose it never occurred to him to ask you. Anyway, the sub’s only a pound a year.”

  “Then I’d better make an honest woman of myself and join straight away.”

  “You haven’t time now, there’s the bell. Thanks again for your help. By the way, my name’s Kitty Fulton.”

  “Ginnie Durrell. Shall I help out again in the second interval?”

  She dimpled. “I didn’t like to ask, but I was hoping you would!”

  I had only just regained my seat when the curtain went up and the play reached out for me again. Knowing it so well, I found myself assessing the acting ability of the cast with a more or less professional eye, imagining Carl’s pungent comments on their various capabilities. Laurence Grey, who played the Inspector, had also directed the play, I noticed, and I wondered whether Suzanne Grey, in the part of Sheila, was his wife. She was a striking-looking girl with sleek, straight black hair curving smoothly onto her face and long legs with fragile ankles like a thoroughbred racehorse. She acted with a staccato kind of nervousness which admirably suited the part; even when she was in the background, the air of tension was kept up by the restless twisting and pulling of her fingers. It was so authentic a performance that I found myself wondering unaccountably whether any part of it was real.

  The second interval came and I quickly made my way back to Kitty. This time the queue was not so long, most people seeming to be thronging round the bar, and we were able to talk more.

  “Look, I know this is an awful cheek,” Kitty began awkwardly, “but is there any chance at all of your coming to help tomorrow and Saturday? I feel awful asking you, but –”

  “I don’t see why not,” I said slowly. I had not been looking forward to the prospect of spending another evening at the hotel before I could move into my flat, and this seemed a pleasant alternative. As far as Saturday was concerned, with only two suitcases to my name, the moving-in operation would not be a major undertaking. And not least, even this humble task was associated with the theatre, which had always been meat and drink to me. Only later did I wonder whether my curiosity to learn more about Stephen Darby and the tune he had been whistling had also weighed in my acceptance.

  “You would?” Kitty eagerly tossed back her long brown hair. “Rachel won’t be back this week and it’s the last night on Saturday. It would make all the difference if I could count on you being here.”

  “Okay, count away! Does the place close down next week?”

  “Only to the public. They start rehearsing in earnest for the next play which opens in three weeks’ time.”

  “How many productions do they do a year?”

  “Eight or nine, I think. This is the first one after the summer break. The theatre closes from the end of June till September.”

  The bell sounded and I left Kitty to the collecting and washing-up of the coffee cups in which for the next two evenings I would be assisting her.

  The last act played itself out with admirably mounting tension and I experienced the usual thrill of unease even though I knew the ending. It had been a most enjoyable performance.

  I paused at the box office to request a membership form and duly filled it in and handed over my pound. There was no sign of Kitty and the hatch was closed. No doubt she had cleared up and gone home. I made my way slowly down the steep stairs after the last of the departing playgoers, my footsteps quickening as I turned perforce into the less well-lighted streets where I had left the car. After the warmth and companionship of the brightly lit theatre the streets seemed extra cold and dark, and I thought of the rest of the audience, their fears and anxieties perhaps reclaiming them after the brief respite of the make-believe we had shared, separating now and going home through the dark.

  It was with a feeling of melancholy as well as relief that I reached the car and let myself in and, closing my mind to everything but the physical act of driving, I hurriedly made my way back to the hotel.

  After breakfast the next morning there was a phone call from Mr. Henry asking me to go round to his office to sign the tenancy agreement, after which we could go on to the flat and check the inventory.

  Westhampton in the sunshine looked as peaceful as ever as I drove through the busy streets to the Avenue. I cruised slowly past the window of Culpepper’s and saw a middle-aged woman standing at the telephone. Had the message I’d received been intended for her? There had still been no report either in the paper or on the radio of anything remotely connected with what I’d overheard. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Stephen Darby’s whistling and his subsequent rather surreptitious watching of me, I might well have decided to forget the whole thing. As it was, with nothing better to occupy my mind, I continued to circle round it.

  The agreement was straightforward and it was with a pleasant sense of at least temporary ownership that I returned with Mr. Henry to the Beeches. An elderly woman was letting herself into one of the other flats as we arrived, and she nodded briefly at us. Inside Number 7 we went meticulously through every pan and every teaspoon, every blanket and ornament. I was full of impatience to be here alone, hanging my clothes in the wardrobe, making myself some tea and being able to relax in private. The only faint shadow on my anticipation was the remembrance of having carelessly blurted out my future whereabouts and thereby aroused such apparent interest in the dark-eyed man at the hotel.

  I spent half an hour after lunch happily making out a basic list of necessities to take with me the next day, and the rest of the afternoon in buying them.

  That evening I dined early again in the almost deserted dining room and once more drove to
the theatre, this time to report for duty. By the time the doors opened at seven, Kitty and I were ready for the invasion.

  The evening passed quickly. As soon as we’d finished washing and drying the pre-show cups and saucers, it was time to fill the urn for the interval coffee, keeping the kettle going for topping-up operations. And when we’d washed those cups, the second interval was already looming. No wonder Kitty had been flustered on her own.

  It was during the final act that the door of the kitchenette burst open unceremoniously and Stephen Darby looked in.

  “Kitty, have you got –”

  He broke off as his eyes fell on me, and I was sure the same wariness was back in them as I had noticed when he had come upon me in the empty theatre. “Hello,” he said slowly. “You here again?”

  “Ginnie’s being an angel and helping out while Rachel’s off. What did you want, Steve?”

  “I was going to ask if you’d such a thing as an aspirin. Suzanne has a raging headache. She’s jittery enough at the moment –” He broke off abruptly, as though regretting he had said so much.

  “Sorry, I hardly ever use them. Can you help, Ginnie?”

  I said steadily, “I might have a couple in my bag. Just a minute.” I went to the shelf where I’d left it and retrieved a bottle with only a few tablets in it. I handed it to Stephen Darby, my eyes meeting his with forced calm. “She can have these if they’re any use.”

  “Thanks,” he said briefly. His eyes raked my face for a moment, then he was gone.

  “Do you know Steve?” Kitty asked curiously.

  “It was he who gave me my ticket yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  And he wasn’t pleased to see me here again. Why? Thoughtfully I picked up the discarded tea towel and went on drying the cups.

  The following morning I awoke with a sense of excitement. Immediately after breakfast I collected the few things I’d unpacked so miserably on Wednesday evening and put them back in the cases. Then, while the porter carried them out to the car, I went to the desk to pay my bill. As luck would have it, Mrs. Baillie was there.