Nothing really hurt but their . . . expectations . . . ’
Sir Bernard grinned.
‘Have you got the notes?’ Phryne asked.
‘Yes. But they’re block printed on brown paper and I don’t think even a Sherlock like you can deduce much from them.’
He produced two notes, lettered in some greasy dark substance. ‘Come to my room at interval.
Leila.’ He was right, Phryne thought. Nothing to 38
be deduced from the content or the writing, though the ink seemed familiar. She had seen that dark smudgy line before. Eyebrow pencil.
This did not seem to take her any further. Everyone in the cast used eyebrow pencil.
‘All right. What else?’
‘I’m now beginning to think that Selwyn’s illness might have been induced. He was as sick as a dog last week during rehearsals – but he got better and we thought at the time that it was just a stomach bug. Now someone’s taken another one of Leila’s gloves and poisoned both my Sir Ruthvens and I don’t know what to make of it, Phryne darling, I really don’t. Please help me.’
Phryne took the offered hand and said, ‘All right. I’ll do what I can.’ Sir Bernard hauled out a key ring from his fob and detached a large iron key.
‘Come and go as you like,’ he said heavily. ‘See what you can do, Phryne.’
There was a knock at the door, and the call boy bounced in, alight with unholy enthusiasm.
‘The police are here, Sir B,’ he announced, as though it was something that he had wanted to say all his life.
39
CHAPTER THREE
Is life a boon? If so, it must befall That Death, when ere he call
Must call too soon.
Though fourscore years give
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon.
The Yeomen of the Guard
, Gilbert and Sullivan DETECTIVE INSPECTOR John ‘Call me Jack, everyone does’ Robinson did not like theatres.
Bit of a night out at the variety or even the Tiv was fair enough, but ever since a high-minded relative had forced him to sit through an Ibsen festival at an impressionable age, theatres had always been synonymous with what he called
‘high art’, a portmanteau term for everything self-indulgent, terminally tedious and incompre-hensible in the world of culture. This naturally did not encompass Shakespeare. He was a play-wright for whom the detective inspector thought it would be a real pleasure to buy a few beers, have a nice sit down and a talk about life.
40
His sergeant, John ‘Alias’ Smith, was straight out of a long and gruesome inquiry into baby-murder by a nurse in a hospital and was delighted to be anywhere which did not smell of carbolic.
This place, he noted, smelt of paint, dust, and perfume in roughly equal proportions.
Accompanying his superior officers was a very large police constable, William Naylor, at least three axe-handles across the shoulders and reputed to be free with his hands. Robinson had been assigned to make the decision about either pro-moting him or sacking him; Robinson was still undecided as to whether Big Billy would be more dangerous in the force or on the street.
The doorman saw them and drew himself to attention.
‘’Erb, go tell Sir Bernard that the police is ’ere,’
he said, and the boy flew up the stairs. ‘Nasty goings-on, sir,’ he commented. Robinson grunted.
He did not like to talk at the beginning of a case.
He wanted to absorb the atmosphere.
Theatres appeared to have more atmosphere than was comfortable. Overhead, feet were running, doors were slamming, and a female was screaming. Then he heard a familiar voice.
‘Well, well, Miss Fisher,’ he said, as a silvery woman descended like a goddess into his ambit.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Chance,’ said Phryne, extending her hand.
‘How nice to see you, Jack dear. This is Sir Bernard Tarrant, the manager of His Majesty’s Theatre.’
41
Robinson shook Bernard’s hand and introduced his officers.
‘Can you tell me what is happening, Sir Bernard?
All I got from the clerk was a mention of poisoning.’
‘Yes, both my Sir Ruthvens – both of them, and who is to go on tomorrow I do not know – and who would have had a grudge against poor Robert Craven I can’t imagine . . . boy wouldn’t harm a fly . . . ’
‘Come up, Jack,’ said Phryne. ‘You can assemble the whole company on stage if you like. Tom here says that the doctor’s wanting to remove both of the victims to hospital.’
Thankfully, Jack Robinson escorted the witter-ing Sir Bernard up the stairs and blinked as he came out onto the stage.
It was much bigger than it looked from the front.
The box sets of the Ruddigore ancestral hall only occupied half of the space available, though the back was festooned with electrical wiring and ropes. The policemen picked their way gingerly over the sandbags which steadied the canvas frames.
‘On stage,’ Sir Bernard clapped his hands. Magically, out of the wings and clattering down the stairs, came a multitude of people in various states of undress.
‘Keep everyone here,’ said Robinson. ‘Where is the doctor?’
‘Men’s dressing room,’ said the call boy, who was at his elbow. ‘I’ll take you, sir.’
Phryne, unnoticed, tagged along behind as more 42
yellow corridors were traversed and steps climbed.
The chorus’s dressing room was crammed with clothes, littered with props and gear and redolent of sweat and greasepaint. Other odours had been added. A familiar figure climbed wearily to his feet from beside two figures on the floor and looked around.
Curly hair and an unforgettable profile, red mouth and dark unreadable eyes, their brightness somewhat dimmed by strenuous combat with the black angel.
‘Open that window, someone,’ he ordered.
‘Fresh air, that’s the ticket. I think they’ll . . . who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Robinson, who are you?’
‘They called me from the house at the end of the show. I’m Dr Fielding. Luckily Miss Webb is a trained nurse, and we borrowed some equipment.
Hello, Phryne!’
‘Mark, how nice to see you. How are your patients?’
‘I’ve done all I can here – washed out their stomachs. They need observation and rest, and they might pull through. This chap had a lot less of it, whatever it was. The older fellow’s really intoxicated.’
‘Intoxicated? You mean they’re drunk?’ asked Robinson.
‘No, I mean they’re poisoned.’ Dr Mark was weary but polite. ‘An opiate, I think – see how the eyes are dilated.’
He bent over one of the recumbent figures and 43
peeled back an eyelid. A pupil as dark as a pansy bloomed open, then winced away from the light.
‘Good, that’s an alert response. I think we may have got to them in time. Thanks, of course, to Miss Webb here, who has been very helpful.’
Mark smiled at the actress, who had extin-guished her bridesmaid’s gown in someone’s paint-stained smock. A duster confined her long, ringletted golden hair. She grinned back at him.
‘Thanks to you,’ she said in a small gruff voice.
‘Yes, well, I’m sure that you’ve done a splendid job, Dr Fielding,’ Robinson interrupted. ‘Did your patients say anything about where they got this stuff, or who gave it to them?’
‘No, they were both comatose when I first saw them.’
‘Miss Webb?’
‘No, not to me, but I think Leila was talking to poor old Robert. She was actually holding him up on stage, you know. She might have heard something.’
‘Good. You can take them away, Doctor, I’ll have an ambulance called directly – you go and do that, Naylor – but I’d like to search their clothes first.’
Dr Fielding flicked a glance at Phryne, who nodded. He pointed to a pile of discarded clothes and stepped away from his patients.
Sergeant Smith turned both Sir Ruthvens gently to one side and another, feeling for a box or a pill bottle. They seemed deeply asleep. Their heads 44
lolled like broken dolls. Phryne walked to Mark’s side and put a hand on his arm.
‘Opiate?’ she asked.
‘Yes, something derived from opium – morphine, maybe.’ He was watching Sergeant Smith’s handling of the patients jealously.
‘How much?’
‘Hard to tell, too big an initial dose will usually produce vomiting. But I would have thought that the elder man had at least ten grains. I’ve preserved all the matter. The laboratory can test it.’
‘How would it have been delivered?’
‘In a pill, in a liquid – even in an injection. I didn’t search them for injection sites. I was trying rather hard to save their lives.’ He sounded nettled.
Phryne patted the arm.
‘Where are you going from here?’
‘Why, to hospital, to see them settled. Then I’m taking Miss Webb to supper. Without her they would certainly have died. I can’t handle all that apparatus on my own and speed is of the essence in poisonings. Well, have you finished with my patients?’ he asked Sergeant Smith. ‘Found anything?’
‘No, sir, and I can hear the ambulance coming.
Naylor’ll help with the stretchers. What hospital, Doctor?’
‘Royal Melbourne,’ said Dr Fielding shortly. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, Miss Webb.’
‘I think it will have to be another night, Doctor,’
said Mollie Webb, dragging off her duster and shaking her head. ‘I don’t think that the police are 45
going to let us out early. Too many odd things have been happening. But leave me a note at the stage door later this week.’
‘All right,’ Mark Fielding smiled at Miss Webb, then turned to Phryne. ‘In the thick of it again, Phryne,’ he commented. ‘You look absolutely beautiful. Well, I’d better go. Nice to see you again.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Phryne, her breath as always slightly taken by contemplation of his profile. ‘Yes, it is.’
Stretchers were carried out, supervised by Dr Fielding. The police surgeon tutted his way in to certify that various pots of gruesome leavings were indeed parts of a chain of evidence. He was in evening clothes and even worse tempered than usual. This rendered his mood roughly similar to that of a cinnamon bear, expecting a quiet evening with some other bears of equal social status, which suddenly found itself in unpleasant company with one foot caught in a trap.
‘Poisoning? You know how it is with theatres.
Rogues and vagabonds,’ he snorted, making notes in his small black book. ‘Yes, Simmonds, take all that stuff away and I’ll do the analysis in the morning. Thank you for ruining a fine bridge game,’ he snarled as he passed Robinson. His eye caught Phryne shimmering quietly in a corner and he added, ‘Outrageous!’ as he stumped off toward the stairs, followed by an attendant carrying the evidence. The detective inspector caught him by the arm.
46
‘Take this too, Doctor.’ Robinson handed over a small blue box. ‘I found it in that smock. I want to know what the remaining pills are. Thank you for your courtesy, Doctor,’ said Robinson quietly, and Phryne smothered a laugh. ‘Right, back to the stage.
You too, Miss Webb, if you please.’
The stage was crowded. Phryne reflected that there were more people in the theatre than the cast. Among the half-dressed people with paint incompletely removed from their faces were three men in overalls, an ancient who was emphasising points in his discourse with a screwdriver, five boys including the over-excited call boy, six persons who appeared to be connected to the principals, a stately woman leaning on a dress basket, a girl waving a pair of curling tongs, a stout gentleman in a high state of excitement making French gestures and a calm, bearded man with a bound book in his hands. The noise of trained voices expressing their opinion of the situation was remarkable.
‘Sir Bernard,’ said Jack Robinson, ‘call your people to order, please.’
‘Overture and beginners,’ announced Bernard in his big, rich voice, and the noise died down.
‘Now, my name is Detective Inspector Robinson,’ began Jack in a calm voice. ‘I want to know who you all are and where you were during the performance. This is my sergeant. He’ll take down your names and then we’ll call you all one by one and you can tell me anything you know about tonight.’
47
‘May we know, Detective Inspector,’ asked the calm man, ‘how Robbie and Mr Copland are?’
‘Both still alive and in hospital.’ There was a general sigh of relief. ‘Who are you, sir?’
‘Stage Manager, Thomas Loveland-Hall.’
‘And what are your duties, Mr Loveland-Hall?’
Eyes creased as the bearded man made a broad gesture which encompassed the stage and everyone on it.
‘Why, all of it,’ he said.
‘Right. Now, I presume you are responsible for the building and lights and tickets and all that?’
‘No, that’s between Mr West our electrician and his two assistants, and Mr Brawn, our stage carpenter and his two assistants. Then there are the box office and the front-of-house staff, they belong to Sir Bernard, and of course there is Mrs Pomeroy, the wardrobe mistress, and her three girls. There’s the doorkeeper Tom and the call boy Herbert, and the dressers.’
‘Dressers?’
‘A dresser is responsible for all the costume and make-up changes, hair and appearance, and, well, for delivering the actor onstage in his or her right mind, in possession of all props and still remembering the lines. Theatres could not run without dressers.’
Mr Loveland-Hall had a soothing voice and everyone he had mentioned smiled at him.
‘All right. We’ll take the people who aren’t actors first. Just go over there, would you, ladies 48
and gentlemen, and give your names to Sergeant Smith. We won’t keep you long.’
Phryne was standing next to the overflowing dress basket, which was almost as tall as she was, surveying the stage. Through a froth of petticoats, she could see Gwilym Evans whispering into Leila’s ear. Her hand was being held by the patter singer Selwyn Alexander, who had retained his villain’s black hat. The moustache appeared to be real. Mollie Webb had returned her smock to the stage painter and sat down on the floor, fluffing out her hair with her fingers and leaning on Mad Margaret, who had loosened the buttons on her tight Victorian collar and was fanning both of them with a newspaper.
The chorus were clustered together like sheep around the French gentleman, holding hands for comfort. Phryne suddenly wondered about the Copland ladies.