Critically, Jemima wondered whether Christabel wasn't wearing too much make-up for that time of day - and that particular restaurant. Her cheekbones were prominently high-lighted with rather harsh blush-on powder; frequent dabs from her gold basket-weave compact, with its diamond and lapis lazuli catch, did not serve to soften the picture. Her over-heavy mascara made her lashes look rather spiky. Next to Christabel, Poll's scrubbed powderless face, as she swept on her silent way producing the Florentine - or pseudo-Florentine - food, had a welcome freshness.
It would not be long before Blanche Cartwright would represent a prettier, as well as a younger version of her mother. This reflection was inspired in Jemima by Blanche's sudden eruption into the restaurant in the middle of lunch. She demanded some cash from her mother. She sounded jolly rather than hysterical and it suited her; her cheeks were pink, and a new short layered haircut drew attention to the heart shape of her face. Evidently Blanche was reconciled with her mother, at least to the extent of taking her money; her outburst at the Watchtower Theatre appeared to have had some kind of purgative effect. Even in her man's -or rather boy's - clothes of shirt and white knee-length shorts she looked rather pretty, now she had lost weight.
It was Regina Cartwright in her father's Land-Rover who dropped her mother at the restaurant - she had recently passed her driving test and Jemima had a feeling that the days of Rina's teenage passion for the horse Lancelot might be numbered. Striding away from her mother, black hair swinging on her shoulders, Rina looked both beautiful and confident. In the three or four months Jemima had known her, she too had changed out of all recognition. The girls had both emerged from the summer's ordeal strengthened and rather improved; it was the mother who languished.
One memorable aspect of Jemima's first meeting with Christabel was however still present. She continued to dip into the vodka bottle concealed in her expensive handbag. Guiltily, Jemima was rather glad, she presumed that drink had loosened Christabel's tongue on that previous occasion and hoped it would produce the same effect on her today.
Jemima insisted that this was her lunch - 'Megalith's lunch', she said with her sweet wide television smile, the one that made people who watched her on the box, men and women, fall deeply in love with her and decide she was really a very sweet person. She ordered a carafe of red wine for Christabel and a glass of white wine for herself.
But as it turned out, Christabel was not to be drawn. All the wiles of Jemima Shore Investigator, the practised tricks of the professional interviewer, failed to secure any form of personal revelation from her. In particular she declined to respond to references to their original conversation. Had Christabel felt 'safe' back on stage, as she had hoped to do?
'Oh darling, it's no good asking me that. Safe! I'm always so terribly terribly nervous before a First Night. A bundle of nerves. Not safe at all. Ask anyone. I'm on the verge of quitting the profession — again!' Christabel added with a ghost of her old humour. It was really the only light moment in what was otherwise purely a defensive operation.
'But something was frightening you—' pursued Jemima. 'You told me.'
Christabel looked at her quite steadily for a moment, her huge eyes appeared to glisten with tears.
'Oh it's too late to talk about all that now, darling,' was all she said. She hesitated. 'Maybe I should have talked to you about it more then. It all seems so long ago. If I had, darling, well, all sorts of things might have been different. But now - well, it's too late, isn't it?'
'Too late for what, Christabel?' In her desperation, feeling the brief moment of confidentiality passing away, Jemima became bolder. But at this Christabel merely opened her blue eyes even wider in a parody of surprise.
'Too late to go back, darling. That's all. That's all I meant. One can never go back in life, can one?'
You did! Jemima longed to cry in frustration, seeing Christabel's face settling itself into a mask of polite non-cooperation. She still looked infinitely sad, but at the same time remote. In a moment she would be waving the dreaded powder compact again, powdering her nose for the third time, as one who shakes dust in her pursuer's face. You came back! But the words died on her lips. She could not risk antagonizing her at this stage. The question of Filly Lennox's death was crucial.
Afterwards Jemima was to regret bitterly not pressing Christabel Carrwright further on those few melancholy words, so much at variance with her public air of cool - and maddeningly successful - repentance. If Jemima had done so, might not Christabel have broken out from behind the pathetic painted mask? And if so, would Christabel have been 'safe'? -what she declared she so much wanted to be at their first meeting. Or was it already, as Christabel now so sadly said, 'Too late'?
At the time Jemima was too concerned to satisfy herself on the subject of Jim Blagge's guilt or innocence to turn aside.
'Christabel,' she said urgently. 'There's one question I must ask you. Do you think Mr Blagge murdered Nat? Is he quite simply guilty? Should I accept that fact? Supposing he did, and I must admit that the police evidence against him is very strong, is it possible - wait for it - that poor Filly Lennox was murdered too? Deliberately drowned: murdered in mistake for you? Mr Blagge went out in the boat on the day of the picnic. Does Mr Blagge hate you too? For the sake of-' now she had to come out with it 'for the sake of his son?'
At this point Jemima fully intended to shock. She did not intend to let Christabel drift back into her gracious reticence. And there was something deeply shocking about voicing her theory - to the woman whom Mr Blagge had perhaps intended to drown in Filly's place. Even so Jemima was quite unprepared for Christabel's reaction.
She fainted.
When Jemima told Spike Thompson about it late that night, as they lay together in the four-poster bed conveniently provided by the Royal Stag, it suddenly struck her that the faint - a dead faint, off the chair to the floor, carrying glasses and cutlery with it - might have been a protective measure. After all Christabel never had answered Jemima's question about Filly's death. Nor for that matter about Jim Blagge's guilt. Yet if it was a protective measure, who was Christabel so concerned to protect?
At the time Christabel's startling physical collapse made it easy for her to escape from Jemima's inquisition: 'I'll go back to the theatre and rest,' she murmured. 'Terribly silly of me, darling. I've been overdoing it. Two productions. Poor little Filly's death. Then Nat. And the strain of the arrest.'
Christabel would not let Jemima summon Regina to drive her home and reacted even more strongly to the idea of Jemima's telephoning Julian at Lark. Blanche, who could be seen inside a bow-windowed Larminster boutique opposite, trying on a pair of velvet knickerbockers, was the only person Christabel agreed to have contacted and sent after her to her dressing-room. So Jemima had to let her go.
Spike, prepared to take a lazy interest in the subject of Christabel's faint during a temporary lull in the night's proceedings, encouraged Jemima in her suspicions. 'These actresses are up to any old trick. I could tell you a thing or two about actresses. But then you, my lovely, are also up to any old trick, aren't you?' But the thought of Jemima and her tricks turned Spike's thoughts away from Christabel Cartwright and once more to that activity with which the gallant Spike always liked to fill as many as possible of his off-duty hours when on location.
He did spare one Parthian chauvinist shot for Julian Cartwright: 'I can't get over her old man taking her back like that. Screwed all over the press by a pop star - and then it's welcome-home time when he ditches her, and-did-you-have-a-good-time, darling? I wouldn't stand for it in my missis, I can tell you,' said Spike virtuously. 'I'd give her a proper going over.'
'Not all men are the same. And not all women either. If I was Christabel Cartwright, it would drive me quite mad to have to come back to Lark as penitent Magdalen.' The conversation might have gone further - for Spike's Parthian shot had started an interesting train of thought in her mind. But by now Spike had succeeded in turning Jemima's attention too from Christabel Ca
rtwright; for the rest of the night, Jemima was entirely possessed by Spike, the touch and taste and feel of him.
What with one thing and another, it was not until the next day that Jemima fully analysed her conversation with Christabel. She was now in renewed conclave with Matt Harvvood. It was time, she decided - the time was really overdue - to confide to him her suspicions about the death of Filly Lennox and her instinct that Christabel, while still fearful, was nonetheless protecting some person close to her.
But Detective Inspector Harwood, in his most reasonable voice, merely asked for proof of all these female fancies. He freely admitted that a good many people had had the opportunity to kill Nat Fitzwilliam, including, if she wished to consider them, the entire large Cartwright family party installed at the Royal Stag on the night of Blanche's birthday. Gregory, Ketty, the Cartwrights in force, they had all been there milling about in the hotel: Mrs Tennant, the manageress, had given them an empty suite on the first floor - Jemima's suite was the only other one in the hotel -out of local loyalty.
Up there however the party had rather fizzled out. The suite was stuffy because it was not in use. At Christabel's request Gregory had then gone downstairs to rout out the champagne which Flora's Kitchen had not been able to produce before leaving for his late-night swim. Christabel had been overcome with exhaustion - 'or maybe something stronger' said the Detective Inspector - and during Gregory's absence, which had been quite prolonged, had at Julian's suggestion retired to the bedroom to lie down. Blanche, removing a few of her hotter garments and unbuttoning her shirt as she went, had then taken the opportunity to flit off to find Ollie Summertown. She had ignored Ketty's protests - 'It's my birthday, Ketty, and anyway it's not indecent - some people think it looks pretty' -and after a bit Ketty had gone to look for her. Julian agreeing that it was very hot had gone out for a breath of air. Regina went down to the lounge to look for a book . .. the Detective Inspector was happy to give Jemima as detailed an account as she liked of their various movements.
It all amounted to this, said Matt Harwood: many people had had Opportunity and Method to kill Nat Fitzwilliam. Only Jim Blagge had had Motive. Only Jim Blagge had had close physical contact with Nat Fitzwilliam on the night concerned. Only Jim Blagge admitted paying Nat Fitzwilliam a late-night threatening call. Jemima was really the only person in Larminster who had any doubts about Jim Blagge's guilt.
Curiously enough, this was not actually true. There was another keen-eyed observer in Larminster who was not quite satisfied that Jim Blagge had murdered Nat Fitzwilliam. This was seventy-nine-year-old Nicola Wain. The old actress, with only her role in Widow Capet to consider, was left with a good deal of liberty on her hands as rehearsals of The Seagull grew more intense. Knitting, as Old Nicola often remarked, gave her plenty of time for thinking 'and also watching all you naughty boys and girls'. It also gave her plenty of time to figure things out, movements, noises, statements which did not add up.
The room to which she had moved at the Royal Stag, a room about which she constantly complained to anyone who would listen ('No bathroom en suite, well, dear, at my age . ..') lay at the top of the service staircase on the first floor. Admittedly the room's single window overlooked the back of the hotel instead of the pretty square which was Larminster's chief beauty and contained the Watchtower Theatre, set among mature trees, in one corner of it. Even Mrs Tennant, the manageress of the Royal Stag, who was an optimist, had had to agree that the view from Old Nicola's room - over the back entrance of the hotel and the courtyard which served as a car-park - was not inspiring. On the other hand she had firmly rebutted the notion that the service stairs, adjoining Old Nicola's room, would prove to be an unpleasant source of nocturnal disturbance.
'No one uses them at night,' Mrs Tennant had assured her querulous guest, at the time of her arrival. 'But we just can't lock them, dear, because of the Fire Regulations. You never know when someone might not need access. In an emergency, that is.'
'Exactly,' Old Nicola had grumbled at the time, as though an emergency was just the kind of needless disturbance she gloomily predicted. Yet in its own way, Old Nicola's sojourn in her little first-floor room had not been unrewarding. Either Mrs Tennant's reassuring remarks about the service stairs not being used except in an emergency had turned out to be inaccurate or perhaps the occasion when they had been used recently had been considered an emergency by the person concerned. Either way, Old Nicola was really quite pleased with the new piece of information which had come her way as a result of her room's geographical location.
As the dress rehearsal of The Seagull approached and everyone else grew more and more frantic, Old Nicola began to reach a certain rather interesting conclusion. For, as she told herself, there was really nothing wrong with 'these poor old wits' - wits which had certainly kept her afloat in her own profession, by fair means or foul, for over sixty years.
It remained for Old Nicola to decide exactly what use she should make of this discovery. After a period of thought, spent by the old woman knitting ostentatiously in the lounge at the Royal Stag - the sight of the battered plastic bag from which the knitting emanated began to madden even the good-natured Mrs Tennant - Old Nicola went upstairs to her room. Once there, she locked the door, and placed her knitting, bag and all, in the solitary armchair as carefully as if it had been a child. Then Old Nicola sat down at the tiny writing-desk and began to write a letter.
Although Old Nicola had frequently complained to Mrs Tennant about the size of the desk and the inadequate light above it, on this occasion she looked positively happy as she penned the words in handwriting which, as she often told herself, was really quite remarkable for her age. She did not however think that the person to whom she was addressing the letter would feel quite so happy at receiving it - despite the care with which it was written, and the clarity of the handwriting.
14
Happy Ending
The dress rehearsal of The Seagull was not going to be filmed for television. Too like the real thing the next night to be dramatically interesting, Guthrie decided.
'Unless there's a disaster,' contributed Cherry brightly. 'We don't want to miss that, do we?'
'Don't we?' Jemima sounded cold. It was now impossible to enter Cherry's bedroom at the Royal Stag for the reek of fruit - nectarines and peaches - and flowers - mainly fat richly-scented crimson roses sent down from Major Cartwright's greenhouse and garden at Larksgrange. The Major had also started to quote poetry to Cherry over the dinner-table although otherwise his conversation remained strictly gastronomic. In the cosy depths of Giovanni e Giovanna the previous evening, he had recited Tennyson's Song from The Princess: 'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ...'
At the end: 'I wrote that,' said the Major sternly. Cherry, despite months spent working on Tennyson: The Tortured Years had not contradicted him, which Jemima told her was very disloyal. Jemima feared the worst: was Flowering Cherry's long quest for the Substantial Older Man in danger of coming to a happy ending?
'We haven't missed many disasters yet,' was Guthrie's gloomy comment. He had just learned from London that the first of his non-controversial programmes about the Elgin Marbles - Ours or Theirs? -was held to be such political dynamite by the Greek government that they had locked up an entire Megalith crew (coincidentally out in Greece at the time the programme was shown, harmlessly filming Sappho: A Woman for Our Time). Most unfairly, he felt, Cy Fredericks blamed the entire expense of bailing this crew out of prison on Guthrie. As a punishment he was threatening to pare down Guthrie's editing time for In a Festival Mood: Part IV: A Seagull-by-the-Sea.
Only Spike was blithe. This was because in the absence of any filming, he had a free evening which meant he could get over at last to The French Lieutenant for dinner. Its prices sounded promising - if not from Megalith's point of view. He took Jemima's refusal to accompany him (conscientiously she felt she must attend the dress rehearsal) in good part. Spike took food almost as seriously as Major Cartwright: in a way it w
as a pity they could not eat together as their tastes in this matter at least were very similar.
Guthrie, Cherry and Jemima sat together centrally, but towards the back of the wide amphitheatre, which fanned out from four sides of the pentagonal stage. Gregory came and sat beside Jemima. A good many rows nearer the front sat Julian Cartwright, Blanche and Regina. Ketty was with them.
Gregory whispered to Jemima that he was most surprised to see Julian. 'He never used to come anywhere near a dress rehearsal in the old days. Not invited for one thing. Didn't want to come either, I dare say. Made a polite supporting appearance at the first preview, if there was one, and then a gracious supporting appearance at the First Night. Otherwise he left it at that - apart from picking up a good many bills for large dinners at expensive restaurants when required. As a matter of fact I never thought even in those days Julian was really all that much in love with the theatre as a whole. It was Christabel he loved. When he secured her by marriage, that patient courtship paid off, the raison d'etre for all that theatre-going had vanished.'
Gregory smiled. He added, still in a low voice: 'Ironically enough, I always thought that made Julian rather a good sort of husband for a leading actress. Certainly better than an actor would have been - no competition, no rival First-Night nerves in the home. Until events proved me wrong.'
But Julian was a good husband, thought Jemima; it was Christabel who had not been a good wife. What was more, she guessed that Julian's presence tonight was due to a laudable desire to support Christabel yet again on the eve of her come-back to the stage.