Authors: Marni Graff
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I believe she is completely sincere.”
Charles: Act
I
, Scene 2
4:30 PM
It had been an uneventful lie-down from Declan’s point of view, with Nora too keyed up to do more than cuddle, although that was nice, too. There was always tonight to look forward to, with Sean away and the first performance of the play behind her. Val had texted Nora:
Break a leg. Sean lovely; keeping him 4ever, LOL xoxo V
Nora insisted Grayson was a killer, that the cut brake lines and falls echoed events in the play itself. “You have to understand how theater people think. Everything’s symbolic. They always have the play and the stage on their minds. Grayson hadn’t meant to crash that wall so hard in the accident. He probably didn’t realize the drive sloped down outside the pub and would pick up speed.”
Declan decided to let her get her thoughts out. It was a distraction from her nervous energy toward the play. “And Gemma’s death?”
“Gemma threatened to tell he’d been driving when Estelle Marsh had been hit, and she had to go.” She gave him a wide-eyed look that meant she’d figured it all out.
He managed to talk with her without it escalating to an argument. In the rehearsal Declan had watched, Grayson had been left alone on the stage at the end of the play, so the detective knew the director wouldn’t have an opportunity to harm Nora, just in case she was right.
Declan was almost relieved when Poppy knocked on Nora’s door to bring her upstairs to do her hair and makeup with Fiona’s help. He wouldn’t see her again until the play started. She’d be fussed over by the women and would dress up there. At her bedroom door, he pulled Nora into an embrace and whispered in her ear: “Break a leg.”
Her radiant smile was tempered with a wave of anxiety, and he gave her an extra hug before Poppy led her away. He hoped saying the traditional theatre wish to actors didn’t mean it would come true. Then he gave a little shake. Helen’s character had definitely infected him. He’d never been superstitious and wasn’t about to start now.
Declan went into the lodge kitchen in search of a snack. Maeve and Agnes were putting on their coats. “I’m taking Agnes home for a quick change of clothes, and I’ll pick her up on the way back from my flat.” Maeve waved and left to bring her car to the kitchen door.
“You keep an eye on our Nora.” Agnes pointed a finger at him, then brought him over to the refrigerator. “I’ve sent up a tray of sandwiches and cookies for the cast to snack on before they dress in their costumes. There’s some for you and Simon in the fridge.” Agnes opened the fridge door, pointing out covered dishes. “And fruit, and—just help yourself, Declan.” There was an air of nervous excitement at Ramsey Lodge that had nothing to do with killings or accidents. Agnes waved and left in Maeve’s wake.
Declan looked for Simon and found him onstage by the phonograph that would be used several times during the play, in discussion with Burt Marsh. For Simon’s sake, Declan hoped there wouldn’t be technical difficulties.
He stepped out onto the drive and strolled to its end. His mobile rang. Finally—DS Higgins calling, and precisely when Declan’s mobile had good reception.
“Since I’m coming to the play tonight with the missus, I’ll bring the statements,” the Kendal detective explained. “You can get them signed tomorrow at breakfast.”
“Anything else?”
“Gemma’s mother arrived with her second husband and formally identified the body.”
Declan had the distinct feeling Higgins was playing him. “Nothing else?”
Higgins laughed. “Impatient bugger, aren’t you?” As Higgins proceeded with the rest of his report, Declan withdrew his notebook, and a wide smile spread over his face.
*
5:55 PM
Seated in Fiona’s bathroom on a vanity stool, wearing her undergarments and her robe, Nora tamped down her burgeoning jitters and closed her eyes. Fiona brushed pale powder over the equally pale, silvery-grey face paint she’d applied with a foundation brush over Nora’s entire face and down her neck. Fiona drew a smaller, dampened brush through black eye shadow and gently created ghostly hollows under Nora’s cheekbones and in the creases of her eyes, adding a bit of brown on the eyelids to keep her from looking like a skeleton.
“We usually make everything a bit brighter, exaggerated for the theatre, but here the venue is small, and you’re supposed to be a ghost.” Fiona had done her own makeup and pinned her bobbed hair into classic
1940
s victory rolls.
“Don’t forget her hands.” Poppy looked over Fiona’s shoulder. She would add a maid’s cap over her short hair after Fiona did her makeup.
“Already done.” Nora held her hands up for inspection.
“Maybe a touch of eyebrow color above that eye shadow though, just so your features don’t entirely disappear.” Fiona used a small, slanted brush to darken Nora’s eyebrows.
“Lips, Fi,” Poppy urged.
Fiona rummaged through one of several makeup cases. “A nice scarlet, I think.” She outlined Nora’s lips with a pencil, then filled them in with the lipstick she’d chosen.
“For the wench I’m supposed to be?” Nora smiled, but a shiver ran through her as she remembered the legend of the Scarlet Wench and the reason she was being made up as Elvira.
“There, take a look.” Fiona spun Nora around toward the mirror.
Nora didn’t recognize herself. Her wavy hair, parted on the side and rolled into a chignon, had been sprayed with dry shampoo until it glistened a whitish grey. Her lips and eyes, the only spots of color in the pallor of her skin, kept her from looking insipid.
“I look—very ghostly.” Nora couldn’t stop looking at the reflection in the mirror. It was so far from her normal look. She remembered getting made up in college for this role, with white pancake that left her looking clownish and talcum powder in her hair. Fiona’s touch was infinitely more professional and believable. “It’s brilliant, Fiona, thanks.”
“You know the title of the play comes from a Shelley poem.” Poppy thrust herself back into the conversation. “‘To a Skylark.’”
“And with your grey dress, the effect will be perfect, Poppy.” Nora picked up on the young woman’s insecurity. “I knew Coward wrote it on vacation at Portmeirion in Wales, but not where he got the title.” She smiled at Poppy, who seemed guileless. Nora felt a moment of acceptance into this closed community.
She’d enjoyed this time getting ready with the women but
hadn’t learned a thing toward her investigation. She’d decided to keep an open mind, even though she thought Grayson was to blame for all of the happenings and she could see him being callous enough to murder Gemma. But it seemed lame to bring up Gemma’s name now when everyone was keyed up about the performance. Without Gemma, Fiona’s prickly attitude had dropped, and Nora could see she had a softer side. Poppy seemed anxious that the play would succeed. Whether that was for Grayson or for her own involvement didn’t matter. Nora didn’t see Poppy as a killer. She’d keep her eyes and ears open as she and Declan had discussed. “The others do their own makeup?”
Poppy nodded. “Fiona helped Gray already. He usually does his own, but not with the plaster cast. Helen and the Dentons do theirs, although I expect Lydia helps Rupert.”
“I think I’ll just say ‘break a leg’ before I put my costume on.” Nora stood up. “Thanks again, both of you.
Nora left Poppy taking her seat and knocked on the Dentons’ door. Lydia had on the dress she wore in Act
I
, and her makeup was complete. Rupert had toilet paper tucked around the collar of his shirt to protect it from the face paint. “Just popping in to say break a leg before I dress. Do either of you need anything?” Nora felt baffled. Despite being angry with Grayson, the couple had rallied together to save Simon’s investment. She couldn’t see them behind any of the week’s events, including murder.
“Nora, you make a wonderful Elvira.” Lydia opened the door wider. “Rupert, look how Fiona’s worked her magic.”
Rupert came to the door and inspected Nora. “Damn good job. You’ll be the star tonight, Nora.”
She felt her color rise. “Nonsense. But thanks for staying to see this through for Simon. It’s important to him and to the lodge.”
Lydia smiled. “We’ll soon be able to go home. And thanks for checking, dear, but we’re fine. Just finishing a sandwich before I put my lipstick on. Not long to your debut.”
Lydia closed the door, and Nora walked to Grayson’s room but hesitated. She couldn’t think of a good excuse to knock on his door and didn’t want to incur his wrath if he was getting into character just before the play started.
Nora felt butterflies in her stomach kick in hard. In minutes she was really going to be Elvira again but had no evidence yet firmly establishing Gemma’s killer. Was it vanity that had pushed her into this role? She knew her desire to help Simon was real. Then she realized she also felt a need to show Declan she could be a good partner to his work. She just hoped it didn’t backfire in some horrible way, because she didn’t feel one step closer to actually proving who was responsible for Gemma’s death. She needed a plan to get Grayson to confess.
Then she remembered her last full line before her final exit: “There’s something I want to say before I go.” And Nora decided in that instant to add: “I know you killed Gemma” and watch while Grayson Lange lost it in front of everyone.
*
6:10 PM
Declan had to find Grayson Lange before the play began. To his surprise, the man appeared at the bottom of the stairs when Declan started to look for him. He was made up for the play and wore a dressing gown, his cast hanging out of one sleeve.
“Saved me a trip upstairs. We need to talk.” Declan pointed to the empty library.
“Can’t it wait? Those cackling women have given me a headache, and I’ve come down to see if Simon has any paracetamol.”
Declan guided him into the library. “No stronger painkillers for you?”
Grayson sat down in a wing chair. “Too much going on. Can’t take the chance of spacing out.” He rested his cast on the arm of a chair. “But you can jolly well believe I’ll take some the minute the punters leave.”
“I’ll get you some paracetamol after we talk.” Declan plunged in. “I’ve had a report after enquiries around Chiswick. Are you familiar with The Jag Workshop on the Mall in Ealing?” He watched the man’s reaction.
“What if I am? Surely it isn’t illegal to have repairs made to my car.” The director’s bluster came accompanied by rolling eyes and a shake of the head.
Declan consulted his notebook. “Last November, you had the Jag in for bodywork on the front, left bumper a few days after your visit to Bowness. Care to tell me what happened?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“It was all a mistake, a horrible mistake.”
Charles: Act
I
, Scene 2
7:25 PM
Nora paced the patio, waiting for her entrance cue. She’d thrown her coat over her shoulders and tried to tamp down her racing heartbeat. She could do this. The air crackled with excitement from the audience and nervous energy from the actors. Only the Dentons appeared composed and regal as the play commenced.
Nora had watched from the patio as the audience filled with people she recognized, carrying programs and chatting with anticipation as they took their seats. Callie sat with her brother and parents; Agnes wore a stylish spectator hat with a feather and took a seat next to Simon and Maeve. She could see Daisy in a row near the back with the large man who cooked at The Scarlet Wench. The pathologist, Dr. Foreman, was accompanied by a delicate woman Nora took to be his wife. Declan took his seat, followed by Higgins and a woman she assumed was the sergeant’s wife. There were no empty seats by the time Grayson started his welcome. He made a brief announcement that the role of Elvira would be played by Nora Tierney, to the rustling of programs and many surprised faces. When he noted the performance was dedicated to the memory of Gemma Hartwell, Nora watched people flip through their programs, but for many, the news wasn’t that an actress they’d never heard of wasn’t available but that someone they knew from town was taking part in the play. Nora thought Simon would be grateful that the report of Gemma’s murder must not have hit the evening news before this crowd arrived.
At the far end of the patio, Burt Marsh had set up a laptop on a table next to the winch to follow the action. He must have a camera mounted on the back wall, as the scene on his screen matched the audiences’ view when she looked over his shoulder. Other equipment allowed him to follow the script and work his magic on cue.
Nora could hear Act
I
progress through his laptop, even with its volume turned low. She tried to stay focused, but her thoughts kept wandering to how closely the events of the past week were tied to this play. The fall, the cut brakes lines, the death of Condomine’s second wife when it should have been Condomine himself—there were too many incidents related to the play for it not to be the focus.
Nora kept one eye on Burt’s monitor as her mind raced. The man was focused on his work, one finger following the script, the other hand readying different controls. She’d been so certain it was Grayson who was responsible, but suddenly she saw that if Estelle Marsh’s hit-and-run accident was the center of everything, no one had suffered a greater loss than the man sitting in front of her. She recalled his prostrate form in St Martin’s graveyard, his howls of grief.
The Dentons, Grayson and Fiona sat at the table during the first séance scene as Helen ran across the room to the light switch. The lights were to dim slightly, and Nora watched Burt slide a dimmer switch to match Helen’s actions perfectly. Helen took her seat and intoned: “Is there anyone there?”
In the play, Grayson and Poppy would be victims of a fall. And Fiona would die by taking the car with the cut brake lines and would join Nora’s ghost in Act
III
. Nora thought of Daisy talking to her at The Scarlet Wench about Grayson’s first visit to Bowness: “He had too much to drink that night, too.”
The realization hit Nora like a thunderbolt. Grayson hadn’t been driving the night Estelle Marsh died. Gemma had. And Burt had been asleep upstairs the night she’d died.
Nora shivered, despite her warm coat. Could Burt be responsible for everything that had happened? She’d have to get to Declan if she could and tell him her new theory.
Fiona, as Ruth, was admonishing Grayson for his flippancy as the séance progressed. “Charles, how can you be so idiotic? You’ll spoil everything.”
“Won’t be long now,” Burt muttered.
Nora thought Burt referred to her entrance, still two pages away. Burt’s hand was shaking the monitor; then Nora realized that what she was seeing was the chandelier shaking as his hand gripped the line by the winch. She tiptoed away from Burt to the French doors and cracked them slightly. The director would hit the roof if he noticed her peeking, but he and Fiona faced the audience, and his back was to her.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. The chandelier hung suspended directly over the table where Grayson sat with Fiona, Helen and the Dentons. The sharp glass prisms swayed slightly, reflected in the light. Then Nora noticed something that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck, and she knew her suspicion was accurate. The table’s position had been moved, not enough to be noticeable at first, but just enough so that Grayson and Fiona sat directly under the weight of the large chandelier. If the crystals came down early, everyone seated at that table might be hurt. But if the chandelier itself came down, Grayson and Fiona could die. What better way for Burt to be certain he’d evened the score with Grayson Lange? Nora’s skin crawled, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Could she be mistaken? Could this gentle old man have coordinated everything that had happened in revenge for his wife’s death?
Nora kept her eye on the crack, trying to direct her thoughts
to Declan. Please look up, she prayed. She tried to remain calm and couldn’t look at Burt. She knew if she did, her face would betray her thinking. How could she warn the others and get them away from the table in time?
Lydia was speaking: “How disappointing; just as we were getting on so nicely.”
How ironic, Nora thought fleetingly. This line was Helen’s cue to stand and move away toward the phonograph. In a moment it should start to play the song “Always.”
Across the patio, instead of pulling the props board toward him to ready the start of the recording, Burt reached for the line to the winch. He seemed to have forgotten her presence, and she knew she was too slight to overpower him.
Nora made her decision. Time slowed to a crawl.
Heart ready to burst out of her throat, she pulled the French doors open two pages before her entrance was due and stood in the doorway.
The audience gasped at her appearance. The Dentons and Helen frowned at her early entrance, as she frantically looked at Declan, who stared back at her. Even
he
knew she shouldn’t be there yet. Nora quickly pointed up to the ceiling and out to the patio. “
Please, get there in time. I can’t tackle the man alone
,”
she telegraphed to him.
Nora saw him lean over and whisper to Higgins. The two men stood to work their way down the row of seats. She turned to see Burt getting ready to release the dog on the winch, a glazed expression on his face.
Too late, not enough time for Higgins or Declan to stop Burt.
Nora rushed onto the stage, yelling “Get away!” Everyone at the table stood as she launched herself at the table, pushing Grayson and Fiona off to each side. The Dentons jumped back as Nora’s momentum knocked the table over and the chandelier came crashing down, sending its prisms scattering like daggers.
*
7:45 PM
Declan reached the end of the row when Nora hurled herself at the table and the fixture crashed down. Pandemonium broke out, the audience standing, some yelling, others rushing to leave. Simon took a post at the door to calm them and started to shepherd people into the empty library with Maeve’s assistance.
Declan ran to Nora, lying awkwardly under the overturned table. It had protected her head and back, but one of her legs was pinned between two arms of the chandelier. He knelt beside her and lifted the table but stopped her from getting up. One of the prisms had cut her calf, and he used his handkerchief to stop the blood flow. “You all right?”
“It’s Burt,” Nora said, tears streaming down her face. Whether she cried in pain or relief, he couldn’t tell, but at least she was conscious and talking to him.
“Want me to take a look at that?” It was Milo Foreman.
Declan nodded, and the large man knelt and helped him gently lift the heavy chandelier off Nora’s leg.
Milo inspected Nora’s wound while asking her a few questions about her head. “Just sit here a moment.”
The cast stood around the stage in shock. Fiona roused herself, and Poppy helped Grayson to his feet.
There was a crash from the patio, and a moment later Higgins frog-marched Burt Marsh into the room, hands cuffed behind his back. “Got him trying to run from the patio.” He stooped in front of a chair, thrust Burt into it and stood guard over him. “I’ve called for back up.”
Agnes appeared onstage with a broom and shovel, still wearing her feathery spectator. “I’ll sweep these shards to one side so no one else gets hurt.”
Rupert had his arm around Lydia and assured Declan they were both all right. “That was very brave of Nora.”
“I agree.” Declan turned to the others. “Everyone take a seat, please.”
Helen and Poppy sat on the sofa with Fiona between them. Declan righted the overturned chairs, and the others took seats onstage.
Agnes closed the doors to the drawing room just as Simon slipped inside. “Maeve is having everyone leave names and addresses before they leave. No one else was hurt by the flying glass.” He looked relieved. “Maeve will stay with Mrs. Foreman and Mrs. Higgins.”
“Good thinking, Simon.” Declan turned to Nora and Milo.
“No stitches required, more of a minor puncture wound.” The pathologist looked to Simon. “If you have a first-aid kit, I’ll clean and dress it. With a bit of ice for the bruising on either side of her leg, too.”
Agnes left to get what Milo had asked for, and Declan helped Nora stand and limp to a chair. Declan strode over to Burt and stood looking down at him. “Just what the hell were you trying to do?”
Burt looked around in confusion. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” The man looked at Nora, his eyes wild.
“I saw your grief in the graveyard, Burt. I thought it was Grayson, but Gemma was driving when Estelle was hit, wasn’t she?” Nora shook her head. “That’s why she had to die.”
“I never wanted to hurt anyone.” Burt moaned. “I missed Estelle so much.” He glared at Grayson. “You drove over my beautiful wife and left her to die. I didn’t know who was driving. I wanted them all to die.” His voice rose in hysteria. “You’re a bunch of bloody murderers!” Tears streamed down his face. “If it wasn’t Lange, it was that whore of his. I couldn’t let either of them get away with it.”
Fiona suddenly jerked upright to her feet. She screeched: “You killed the wrong driver!
I
drove that night
—” She looked around at the shocked faces and seemed to deflate. “But it was an accident.” She sank back down to the sofa, her voice reduced to a whisper. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Helen looked shocked, and Poppy sucked in a breath and moved away from Fiona.
“What?” Burt’s confusion increased. He looked wildly about him at the others.
Grayson Lange dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, Fi … ”