‘Hello!’ she called into the velvet blackness of the silent theatre. ‘Hello! Is there anyone there?’
Small sounds, of someone moving in a seat, a rustle of cloth, a choked off cough. She could almost sense them, sitting, watching her. She was frightened. Her mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what had happened to her, trying to peel back the layers of confusion, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t even remember her name, let alone how she came to be standing naked in the centre of an otherwise empty stage.
She’d long ago stopped trying to conceal her nakedness, and there was certainly nowhere to hide on that huge wooden expanse. She just waited to be told what to do.
She stared into the darkness, convinced she’d heard another movement. ‘Please let me go. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt me.’
‘Are you frightened?’
At last, a voice spoke from out of the darkness. She seized upon it hopefully. ‘Yes, yes I am. Terrified.’ She tried to smile, to show that despite her fear she could still be brave, able to laugh in the face of adversity.
‘Good,’ said the voice softly.
It was familiar that voice. She was sure that she’d heard it before, but her muddled mind could not place it, and no matter how much she repeated its cadence over and over in her head, the face associated with the voice remained maddeningly elusive.
‘Who are you?’ she called out into the blackness of the auditorium. ‘Why won’t you let me go?’
‘Do you really want to know who we are?’
She rocked slightly on her feet. That drink. It was drugged. She was remembering now - fragments, glimpses of rooms and faces, snatches of speech. ‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘Yes, show yourselves.’
‘Very well.’
With a suddenness that startled her, the house lights came up, and she saw with total clarity the audience sitting in the stalls watching her.
She opened her mouth and screamed… and screamed… and screamed.
Mrs Gafney, the landlady, led Meg and Gareth up the dingy stairwell. The stairs themselves were covered in a threadbare carpet with a hideous floral design, and they creaked alarmingly with each step.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Gafney, ‘I’ve had a lot of theatricals staying here. We had Max Miller in ‘49. Remember him? The Cheeky Chappie? Lovely man. And Old Mother Riley and Kitty McShane. Of course, he was a fella - Arthur Lucan. He was lovely too, a real gentleman. Never took to her though. A proper madam, I thought... and far too young for him.’
Meg and Gareth exchanged looks and Meg put a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.
Mrs Gafney led them along a dimly lit landing and stopped outside a grey-painted door. ‘This is your room, Barry.’
‘Actually it’s Gareth.’
‘Yes,’ the woman said absently as she opened the door and pushed it wide. She snapped on the light revealing a cramped room decorated in a nightmare of faded chintz. Gareth pulled a face and Meg once again hid her smile. The landlady handed the key to Gareth. ‘The rules of the house are on the back of the door there.’ She indicated a sheet of paper, a faded carbon copy of a typed original, stuck to the door with brown and curling sticky tape. ‘Breakfast is at eight sharp, and I expect all my guests to respect the comfort of others by not smoking in the dining room. All right? I hope you enjoy your stay.’ She turned to Meg. ‘Now, Miss, if you’ll follow me.’
Gareth shut the door on the awful woman and laid his suitcase on the bed. The mattress hardly gave under the weight - a bad sign. Still, he’d stayed in worse accommodation in the ten years he’d been in the business. He kicked off his shoes and went across to the window. There were a few families down on the beach, children playing in the sand, building elaborate castles that would soon be washed away by the incoming tide. On the promenade was a row of deckchairs with mainly elderly people occupying them.
Gareth was canny enough to realise that these people were the same ones who would be paying their shillings to watch the show at the Palace Theatre, and would in turn pay his wages.
He sighed. Showbusiness was a wretched existence. He found it difficult to reconcile the fact that he’d spent three years at RADA, and the best part he could get now was in the chorus of a tuppenny ha’penny revue in a run-down seaside town. Of his contemporaries three had regular positions with the Royal Shakespeare Company, four had made it big in films, a couple of them inducted into the Rank Charm School and giving Dirk Bogarde a run for his money in the pin-up stakes; and of the others at least three of them had turned up on television in various variety shows. He’d decided to give it until the end of the year and if nothing serious had turned up by then, then he would give it all up and get the ‘proper job’ his parents were always going on about.
It was different for Meg. He’d been like her once - young, enthusiastic, approaching his first major professional date with verve and vitality. Ten years as a jobbing actor - of which at least half of those years were filled with temporary menial jobs - had blunted his enthusiasm and made him slightly cynical.
He let the curtain drop and went back to lie on the bed. He groaned as the mattress refused to give under his weight. The season was for three months. By the end of it he would need the services of a chiropractor.
He put his hands behind his head and thought about Meg. She was certainly pretty, and had an easy-going personality, which was a bonus considering not only were they going to be working together but also sharing digs. He’d had some unpleasant times with fellow actors in the past and, he felt, if this was to be his final year in the business, then he would like it to pass as smoothly as possible.
He wondered if he should ask her to come to the party tonight. When Martin Stein called to invite him, he’d told him he could bring a guest if he wished, and Gareth joked that he’d probably end up bringing the landlady, but that was before he’d met Meg on the train. Now all sorts of possibilities were opening up. But whether or not to invite her tonight? That was the question.
Meg followed the landlady up another two flights of stairs, along another gloomy landing, through a door and up yet another staircase, this one narrow, steep and uncarpeted. At the top of the staircase was another door. Mrs Gafney opened it and stepped inside, beckoning Meg to follow. In decor the room was very similar to Gareth’s, but whereas his room had two large windows and a view of the promenade and the sea, the single window in her room was tiny and looked out over the rooftops to the town.
‘This must be the top of the house,’ Meg said anxiously. This was her first time away from home and she was feeling apprehensive
‘Yes,’ Mrs Gafney said sharply, narrowing her eyes to slits. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I just wondered if you had a room nearer to Mr Barker, to Gareth.’
The slits closed further and the eyes disappeared completely. ‘And why would you want that? I keep a respectable house here. My reputation is exemplary.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Meg said quickly. ‘I wasn’t suggesting...’
The woman smiled suddenly. ‘That’s all right then. So long as you understand. Where are you appearing? Not the pier, is it?’
Meg was thrown by this sudden change of tack. She stammered. ‘N...n...no, not the pier. We’re at the Palace... the Palace Theatre in the Winter Gardens.’
‘I know it well. I didn’t think you were at the pier. They’ve got the Crazy Gang there,’ said the woman, crossing to the plywood dressing table and stroking her finger across the surface. She studied the tip of the finger closely. Apparently satisfied she said, ‘So, what are you? Dancer?’
‘Actress, and singer,’ Meg said. ‘I’m in the chorus. The show’s called Showstoppers of ‘58.’
Mrs Gafney looked unimpressed. ‘So it’s all modern music, then. Not my cup of tea this rock and roll rubbish. I like proper singers. John Hanson, and that David Whitfield. Lovely voices.’
‘No, it’s not rock and roll, it’s a revue. We have a comedian, singers... I think there’s even an acrobat troupe.’
‘Now tumblers I like. Circus folk usually. Never had any trouble with circus folk. Is there anyone in this show of yours I might have heard of?’
‘It’s starring Ronnie Miller, the singer.’
‘Off the telly? Oh yes, I’ve heard of him. Him and Dickie Valentine are my favourites on the box. Don’t care much for that Frankie Vaughan though. Too smooth by half that one. And I don’t suppose I’ve heard of you, have I, dear?’
Meg shook her head. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have. This is my first revue.’
Mrs Gafney walked to the door. ‘Yes, I thought you looked a bit green. Don’t you worry; you’ll soon get the hang of living in digs. So long as you obey the rules and keep your nose clean, we should get along fine.’ She smiled, showing a row of tobacco stained teeth, then she slipped out of the room closing the door behind her.
Meg held her breath, waiting to hear the key being turned in the lock. All she heard was the landlady’s feet as they clumped down the uncarpeted stairs. She chided herself for being so melodramatic. Of course the woman wasn’t going to lock her in. But she could not dispel the feeling that in some ways Gafney’s Guesthouse had certain similarities to a prison.
Mrs Gafney herself would make a suitable warder. Meg was annoyed by the woman’s suggestion that there was something untoward between herself and Gareth, when the truth was she barely knew him. It was sheer coincidence that they’d been sitting in the same compartment on the train from London. It was only when she saw he was reading Spotlight, the actor’s trade newspaper, that she struck up a conversation with him. They were both astonished to find that not only were they appearing in the same revue, but also sharing the same digs.
For Meg it came as something of a relief to meet another member of the cast before turning up for the first day of rehearsals. First days were always nerve-wracking, and this one especially so as the producer of the show insisted that the cast assemble, not at some London rehearsal studio, but at the theatre itself. This, he informed them, was to give them a chance to soak up the atmosphere of a typical English seaside town, and to get to mingle with the people who would be making up the audience.
She found this particularly daunting because all her stage experience had so far been based around her hometown of Sevenoaks in Kent; while she relished the opportunity to expand her theatrical horizons; she was very nervous and apprehensive about the reality of it.
She busied herself unpacking her suitcase, making use of the rather basic furniture in the room. The wardrobe, like the dressing table and the chest of drawers, was made from plywood and seemed flimsy, the hanging rail creaking ominously under the weight of her small amount of clothes. She tested the bed and found it hard and unyielding, though the bedding seemed clean enough, and there were no signs of bed bugs. She’d heard some horror stories from other actors about the atrocious conditions of some boarding houses, and so on balance she felt she’d not done too badly with Gafney’s Guesthouse
By the time she finished unpacking it was still only mid-afternoon and she thought she might like to take a walk through the town to the promenade. The sea held a fascination for her. Ever since her mother and father took her to Cliftonville for a holiday as a small child she’d loved the power and implacability of such a great body of water. Standing at the water’s edge, letting the waves lap over her feet and staring out at the horizon, was a magical, almost humbling experience.
She was walking along the first floor landing towards the staircase when a door ahead of her opened and Gareth stepped out.
‘Oh, hullo,’ he said when he noticed her. ‘I’m going out to explore the town.’
‘Me too,’ she said.
‘Well, if you could stand the company we could always explore together.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’
As they descended the stairs to the front door, Mrs Gafney appeared. ‘Thought I heard movement,’ she said. ‘Off out then?’ She was speaking to both of them but skewering Meg with an almost accusatory stare.
‘Yes,’ Gareth said. ‘Thought we’d go down to the sea front for a ice cream.’
‘An ice cream?’ said Mrs Gafney. ‘I like ice cream myself,’ She’d turned her attentions to Gareth now and was looking at him, almost coquettishly. ‘Perhaps...’ She stopped and shook her head, dismissing the thought to which she’d almost given voice. ‘No, silly idea.’
Meg stared at the woman. Dressed in a floral cotton shift a size too small for her, with rather tatty black suede shoes at the end of a pair of lumpy, varicose veined legs, the woman was no beauty. She’d gone heavy on the lipstick and rouge, trying to disguise the ravages of age, but it had the effect of making her face look almost clown-like, an effect compounded by her hair colour, which was ginger, and out of a bottle. All in all a rather blowsy, unattractive woman, old enough to be their mother. Yet the woman was blatantly flirting with Gareth. It made Meg’s skin crawl.
As they left the house and walked down the six stone steps to the street Meg said, ‘She was flirting with you,’
‘Was she?’ Gareth said. ‘Can’t say I noticed.’
‘But it was obvious.’
‘Not to me. I’ve learned to ignore amorous landladies. It’s an occupational hazard in this trade. Come on, let’s get that ice cream.’ He took her by the arm and escorted her along the street.
It was still early in the season and the weather hadn’t yet got into its stride. A chilly wind was blowing in from the sea, cancelling out the warming effects of the watery sun overhead.
They walked along the promenade licking their ice cream cones. In a shelter just along from the penny arcade an elderly couple were enjoying a picnic of tinned-salmon sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, washed down with milky tea from a thermos flask. Meg smiled at them as they passed but the couple ignored her, the woman sprinkling more salt onto her egg.
On a stanchion of the bandstand ahead they could see a poster advertising Showstoppers of ‘58. Gareth nudged her as they passed. ‘See that? Full Supporting Cast and Chorus. That’s us.’
‘Our name in lights,’ she said ironically.
‘One day.’ He checked his watch. ‘I have to be getting back.’
‘So soon? You haven’t even finished your ice cream.’
He glanced down at the cone that was gradually getting soggier. He tossed it into a litterbin. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really like ice cream.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s a bit like life. It looks so enticing and delicious when you first hold the cone in your hand, and at first it tastes as good as it looks, but then the enjoyment goes out of it, and it starts to taste bland and unappetising.’
‘And that’s how you see life? Full of promise and excitement, but in reality dull and uninteresting?’
‘Sometimes, yes. But I live in hope. This show holds great promise, and if the rest of the cast are as amenable and as delightful as you, then I think it should be a lot of fun.’
She leaned against the railings, staring out to sea. On the horizon a ship was making lazy progress, silhouetted against a lowering sun.
‘You can come with me if you like,’ Gareth said.
‘Come with you where?’
‘To the party. That’s why I’ve got to get back - to get myself ready. You really should come. It’s at Clifford Stein’s house. He has a holiday home a few miles along the coast from here. I’ll be getting a taxi, so transport’s not a problem. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I brought you along.’
She’d heard of Clifford Stein. He was a famous figure in the West End of London. An impresario and a noted director. She found the idea of attending a party at such a luminary’s house daunting. This was compounded by Gareth’s next pronouncement. ‘I have it on good authority that Finlay Crawford is going to be there. It will be the chance of a lifetime to meet him.’
If the name of Clifford Stein made her apprehensive, the mere mention of Finlay Crawford made her feel slightly faint. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I think you’re pulling my leg. How on earth did you get an invitation to Clifford Stein’s house? You’re just chorus, like me.’
Gareth smiled. ‘I also went to Charterhouse with Clifford Stein’s son, Martin. We became very good friends at school and we’ve stayed in touch. Martin wanted to become an actor as well, but his father put his foot down. He said that being an actor is no job for an adult; he insisted that Martin go to Cambridge and then follow him into the business side of showbusiness rather than the show part of it. I don’t think Martin’s ever forgiven him for it, but they rub along fairly well despite that.’
‘He’s probably right,’ Meg said. ‘About acting not being a job for adults. It’s all about dressing up and pretending to be somebody else. I used to love doing that as a child, and I suppose I’ve never really grown out of it.’
‘Me neither,’ Gareth said. ‘Say you’ll come.’
They started to walk back to the guesthouse. ‘If I do, you must promise me that if you see me floundering you’ll leap in and rescue me.’
‘You have my word as a gentleman.’
‘And are you a...’ She looked him closely, nodding slowly. ‘Yes, I think you are. All right, I’ll come.’
They reached the guesthouse and started to climb the steps for the front door. ‘Oh, great Heavens!’ Meg said.
‘What?’
‘What on earth am I going to wear?’
Gareth started to laugh, and he was still laughing when she left him at his room and took the torturous route up to her own.
She pursed her lips and applied her lipstick, red but not too obvious. She blotted her mouth with a handkerchief and studied the effect in the mirror. She was always critical of her own appearance. She considered her nose too long, her mouth too wide and her eyes too close together, but tonight even she had to admit that she looked quite presentable. She’d given her hair a rinse with a bottle of beer to bring out the chestnut highlights of the otherwise ordinary brown, and put it up in a french pleat, which combined with the simple black dress she wore, gave her an almost sophisticated appearance.
She could not believe how nervous she felt. Finlay Crawford! The name kept repeating over and over in her mind like a jukebox record with the needle stuck. Finlay Crawford was probably Britain’s most famous and best loved figures in musical theatre. Even now, in his fifties, he could still pack in the crowds and treat them to a magical performance. She’d only seen him once on stage, in a touring version of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma, and in the version she saw he took the part of Jud Fry, rather than the lead role of Curly, but his interpretation of the part was astonishing. He stalked the stage with a virility that had many of the women in the audience in a swoon. It was certainly the most powerful performance by an actor she’d ever seen. And his voice! A rich baritone with a slight Scottish burr that sent shivers down her spine.
She shook her head in wonder. There were a hundred butterflies doing a May dance in her stomach, and her knees were trembling. ‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she chided herself. A persistent little voice nagged at her from the back of her mind, reminding her of all the times in her life when she’d either embarrassed or made a fool of herself. It was a very thorough little voice, dragging up moments from her distant childhood she’d thought forgotten.
‘Oh, for goodness’s sake, Meg!’ she said to her reflection. ‘You’ll be fine. You’re an actress. Just act - cool and sophisticated. Think Audrey Hepburn.’ She grinned at herself as the excitement bubbled up inside her again. Whatever happened, this would be a night to remember.
She was still grinning and thinking Audrey Hepburn when her image in the mirror began to change. At first she thought it was her breath, steaming up the glass, and then it appeared that there were fine lines, thin as cobwebs covering her face, aging her, greying and wrinkling her skin. Gradually the greyness became more solid and she could see another face, thin and gauze-like, overlaying her own. As the image gained substance it completely covered her own until it appeared she was looking through the eyes of the superimposed face.
It was the face of a young woman, pretty, but thin, gaunt and indescribably sad. Meg was suddenly overwhelmed by a devastating sense of melancholy, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes and a constricting of her throat as she fought back the urge to cry.
There was a tap at her door. She started and glanced around; when she looked back the grey face was gone. She went to answer the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, convincing herself that the face in the mirror was nothing more than an illusion, a hallucination brought about by an over-active imagination. When she finally opened the door she was smiling but not convinced.
Gareth stood there looking handsome in a dark lounge suit, crisp white shirt and burgundy tie. He’d brushed his unruly, curly hair and flattened it to his head with pomade.
‘Very smart,’ Meg said, and then glanced down at her dress, which to her felt dowdy. ‘Will I do?’
‘You’ll do very nicely. Black suits you.’
‘Not too funereal, then?’
‘Not as you’d notice. The taxi will be here in five minutes. If you’re ready we might as well wait downstairs.’
‘Whatever you say.’ She gathered up her coat from where she’d laid it on the bed, took one last look at the mirror, and closed the door behind her, twisting the key in the lock and slipping it into her clutch bag.
They were halfway down the stairs when Gareth slapped his hand against his forehead. ‘Wallet!’ he said.
‘Jacket pocket?’
He shook his head. ‘Dressing table. I won’t be a moment,’ he said and retraced his steps.
Meg carried on down. She reached the front door and opened it but the street outside was empty. She looked along the road but there was no sign of the taxi.
‘Going out again?’ Mrs Gafney came up behind her.
Meg glanced back and said, ‘Yes,’ in as dismissive a manner as she could manage.
It had no effect on Mrs Gafney. ‘You look very pretty, I must say. Going somewhere nice?’
‘Gareth’s taking me to a party.’
This earned her a frown from the landlady. ‘Is he indeed? And where is this party?’
They’d come back inside the house and were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Meg was straining to hear if Gareth was coming, but the stairs remained silent. Mrs Gafney tapped her foot impatiently, awaiting an answer to her question.
‘Actually, it’s at the house of one of Gareth’s friends, Clifford Stein, the West End impresario. Finlay Crawford’s going to be there.’ It was deliberate name-dropping, designed to impress the woman into shutting up. The response, however, was not what Meg was expecting. Mrs Gafney glanced up at the stairs then leaned forward, grabbing Meg by the arm and pulling her close.
‘Don’t go!’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Pretend you’ve got a headache… pretend you’re ill, but don’t go.’
‘Why ever not?’ Meg said, pulling her arm away from the woman’s grasp.
‘I was an actress like you. I was young once, believe it or not, and I know about Finlay Crawford… I know things about him you wouldn’t want to repeat in polite company. He’s ruined many a promising career has that one.’
Meg was still in shock that this blowsy, battered old woman was once an actress. What she was saying about Finlay Crawford took longer to register. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the older woman. ‘But I am going. I’ve promised Gareth now and it would be awfully rude to let him down at the last minute.’
‘Let who down?’ Gareth said, appearing at the top of the stairs clutching the wallet triumphantly in his fist. Mrs Gafney glared at Meg again and said, ‘Well don’t say you haven’t been warned.’ She retreated to her room and slammed the door.
‘What was all that about?’ Gareth said as he joined Meg at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Did you know she used to be an actress?’
‘Who? Old Mother Gafney?’
‘Yes. When she was younger.’
‘Great Heavens! Well, I suppose anything is possible.’
Further conversation was halted by the taxi driver rapping on the letterbox.
‘That’s us,’ Gareth said, grinning as he opened the door. ‘Nervous?’
‘Shaking like a leaf,’ Meg said truthfully.
‘Don’t be,’ Gareth said, ushering her inside the waiting cab. ‘They’re very nice people.’
He leaned forward in his seat, gave the driver the address then sat back, taking a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. ‘Do you use these?’ he said offering the open case to Meg. She shook her head. ‘Very wise. Filthy habit. You don’t mind if I do?’
‘Go ahead.’ she said. ‘I don’t smoke, but I love the smell.’
He lit the cigarette with a slim gold lighter and blew smoke out through the half-open taxi window. ‘Soon be there.’
Meg was clutching a handkerchief in her sweating palm, moving it from hand to hand. ‘Good,’ she said with an enthusiasm she, curiously, didn’t feel.
June Gafney poured herself another schooner of sherry and went into the bedroom. She put the glass on the dressing table and knelt down, stretching her arm out under the bed. Her fingers closed around the handle of the suitcase and she pulled it out. The leather was starting to decay, rotting to a fine powder at the corners despite the metal reinforcements. The case was tan and covered in a thick coating of dust, bearing testimony to the years it had lain there undisturbed. She brushed off the worst of the dust and got to her feet. Picking up her glass and taking another mouthful of Amontillado, she carried the suitcase through to the kitchen, setting it down on the red Formica-covered table.
She pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down before the case, prising the catches back with her thumbs. The clasps flicked up and she lifted the lid. She hadn’t seen the contents of the case for more than ten years, and as she lifted out a baby’s bonnet and Christening shawl emotion caught at the back of her throat and she felt the pricking of tears in her eyes. She laid the garments down carefully, almost reverently on the garish tabletop and moved on to the next layer.
There was a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon, an old battered, one-eyed teddy bear, a few schoolbooks filled with stories and poems, all written in a careful but child-like hand. Beneath these was a pair of pink ballet shoes and a pair of black patent leather taps. The case was an entire history of a life. Her daughter’s life.
At the bottom of the case was a scrapbook, bulging with photographs, press cuttings and theatre programmes. A record of that same life in show business - a business that would ultimately destroy her and leave June Gafney with a gaping chasm in her soul, that only a steady stream of casual men friends and copious amounts of sherry could bridge.
They could see the house from the road. Standing high upon the cliff overlooking the sea, Clifford Stein’s home was a structure of concrete and glass, very much in the deco mould of the 1930’s but with a twist that gave it a very contemporary, almost futuristic, look. Every room in the place seemed to be lit and from its perch on the cliff-top the house seemed to glow like a beacon.
‘Is that it?’ the taxi driver asked.
‘That’s it,’ Gareth said and then turned to Meg. ‘Well? What do you think?’
She bit her lip pensively. ‘Daunting,’ she said.
‘Take a right here,’ Gareth said to the driver. ‘The lane takes you right to the door.’
The lane was steep and winding and seemed to go on forever. When the taxi finally drew to a halt outside the house Meg gave an audible sigh of relief.
They got out and Gareth paid the driver, giving him a hefty trip, then, entwining her arm in his, led Meg up the path to the house.
Their ring was answered almost at once by a butler who took their name and ushered them inside. As they walked into the sumptuous entrance hall they could hear music and laughter and it was obvious the party was in full swing. Meg was preoccupied taking in her surroundings. There were works of art on the wall; modern abstracts that defied understanding, and placed at various intervals were spindly bronze sculptures that she found quite ugly and intimidating.
The butler took their coats and led them through the house. The party, it seemed, was at the rear of the massive house.
‘Gareth!’
They both spun round to see a young man running down a flight of stairs towards them. Gareth’s face split into a grin and he stepped forward, spreading his arms wide. ‘Martin! You old...’
‘Watch it’ Martin said as they embraced. ‘Ladies present. And, if I might say, a very pretty one.’
Meg lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
‘She’s with me,’ Gareth said.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Martin held his old friend at arms length. ‘What are you telling me here?’
Gareth smiled. ‘I’m telling you nothing of the sort. We’re both appearing at the Palace and staying at the same digs. I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought her along.’
‘No. Not at all. But an introduction would be nice... not to say courteous.’
‘Of course. Forgetting my manners,’ Gareth said and made the formal introductions.
‘Right,’ Martin said. ‘Now that’s out the way, come and join the party.’ He put his arm around the both of them and led them through the house.
The room containing the party was huge and filled with people standing in small groups deep in conversation, drinking champagne from elegant crystal flutes, whilst waiters drifted amongst them filling glasses and offering trays of delicious looking canapés. Large french doors were open and the party had spilled out of the room with more people congregating on the veranda. In the corner of the room was a white grand piano and a young man in a dinner suit was playing a medley of show tunes. A man Meg recognised from the television and two women she didn’t, were standing at the piano, singing along to the music with fine, trained voices, whilst still more people stood encircling them, an avid and appreciative audience.
‘I don’t know where the old man is,’ Martin said. ‘But let me get you a drink. Champagne all right for you both?’
Meg was hesitant. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, live a little,’ Gareth said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.
‘All right then,’ Meg said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is he here?’ Gareth asked Martin.
‘Who? Finlay? Yes, he’s here.’ He glanced quickly about the room. ‘Don’t know where though. Probably with the old man discussing business. That’s why he’s here. He’s got it in mind to mount a series of musicals in the West End and wants the Stein Organization to back him. Anyway, those drinks...’ He collared a passing waiter and took two glasses from his tray and handed them to Gareth and Meg.
The trio at the piano were singing songs from High Society. Meg sipped her champagne and looked about the room. It seemed to contain half of London’s theatre world. She recognised actors, singers, costumiers, at least two choreographers, and standing by the french doors, a woman who she’d never seen before but whose beauty and presence eclipsed all those around her.
The woman was holding court, surrounded by a small crowd who seemed hungry for her attention. She was tall and slender with hair so close cropped it fitted her head like a helmet, dark and sleek. Meg couldn’t drag her eyes away from the woman’s startling beauty, and, as if aware she was being observed, the woman looked slowly about the room before fixing Meg with a curious stare.
Meg averted her eyes instantly but it was too late. Eye contact couldn’t be avoided and the woman was now aware that Meg had been watching her. Feeling flustered and blushing with embarrassment she sipped her champagne and tried to concentrate on the conversation Gareth was having with Martin. She soon realized that they were reliving their glory days at Charterhouse and were speaking about people she didn’t know.
She moved away from them, going back out to the hall. She needed the bathroom but was not sure where to start looking. The problem was solved when she saw the butler emerge from one of the rooms leading from the entrance area. He was polite and helpful, directing her upstairs.
The staircase was wide and plushly carpeted, leading up through the centre of the house. The banisters swooped down in graceful arcs, polished mahogany, supported by a lattice of black wrought iron. A huge crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling at the top of the stairs, and lining the walls were more of the abstract paintings that hung in the hall. It was a curious mixture of old and new, of the classic and the starkly modern.
The bathroom, in contrast to the hall was simple and functional. The tiles were plain white, as was the suite, and the taps were modern chromium. She washed her hands in the sink and dried them on towels warmed on a heated rail.
As she stepped out onto the landing a movement at the far end attracted her attention. A young woman turned the corner at the end of the landing and stood watching Meg. Her long fair hair was parted in the centre and framed a porcelain mask of a face - so much like the face that gazed back at her from the mirror earlier that evening. The young woman raised her hand and beckoned to her, and then moved quickly out of sight. Meg, her thoughts spinning, ran to catch up with her, turning the corner at the end of the landing and finding herself in a long corridor, lined with doors. There was a slight movement at the end of the corridor, a flutter of pale material.
‘Wait!’ she called, and ran the length of the corridor.
She turned the corner and almost pitched headlong down a flight of stairs. She managed to grab the banister rail, but lost her shoe. It bounced and clattered down the stairs and skidded across the lino-covered floor at the bottom.
She paused to catch her breath, took off her other shoe to carry it, and walked down the stairs. At the bottom she found herself in another corridor, but this one painted a deep burgundy, and poorly lit by a single unshaded bulb. At the far end was a large door, oak, heavily panelled and imposing. A shiver passed down her spine. There was something unsettling about that door. She felt that behind it there were secrets she had no desire to discover. But it was the only place the young woman could have gone and she desperately wanted to talk to her, to find out who she was.
With her bare feet making her approach silent, she crept along the corridor to the door. She reached it and put her ear to the wood, trying to hear any sound coming from behind it. She curled her fingers around the brass handle and started to ease it down.
‘I’m not sure you should be down here.’
With a gasp she let go of the handle and spun around. The imposing figure of Finlay Crawford stood at the opposite end of the corridor, a fierce expression on his face.
It was some moments later that Gareth, realizing they were excluding Meg from the conversation, looked around to find she was no longer standing with them. His eyes flicked about the room but couldn’t see her. There was a small group of people surrounding a rather beautiful woman over by the french doors, but Meg wasn’t part of that group either.
Martin noticed his friend’s distraction. ‘Something wrong?’
Gareth shook his head. ‘No, not really. Meg seems to have wandered off, that’s all.’
‘Well she can’t have gone far. She’s probably just gone to powder her nose.’
‘Probably. Who’s that?’ he said, indicating the cropped-haired woman.
‘Narina Dressler. Rather stunning, isn’t she?’
‘Is she in the business?’
‘An actress, I believe. She’s Austrian... done most of her work abroad. She’s here tonight as Finlay Crawford’s companion. So she’s...’
‘Out of bounds?’
‘Well, I’m not sure, but I’m taking no chances. Finlay Crawford is too important to the Stein organization for me to go stepping on his toes.’
Gareth started to laugh.
‘What now?’ Martin said, puzzled.
‘The look of disappointment on your face is priceless.’
‘Maybe, but I learned a long time ago that not everything in the shop window is for sale. Sometimes you just have to make do with what’s left.’ He sipped his drink and changed the subject. ‘That young friend of yours for instance.’
‘Sorry, Martin, but Meg’s out of bounds too. This is her first time away from home and, I would think, very vulnerable to a wolf like you.’
Martin was staring at Narina Dressler over the top of his glass. She’d detached herself from her audience and was about to slip out through the french doors. He smiled. ‘Anyone would think I was a total cad.’
‘Martin, you are, and both you and I know it so let’s not pretend, shall we? I should go and find her,’ he said and headed off towards the stairs.
‘I should think she’s been found by now,’ Martin said under his breath.
Meg felt herself blushing. ‘I… I’m s...s…sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I took a wrong turning and got lost. I was trying to get back to the party.’
His face was like stone, unsmiling, implacable. ‘Well the party is not down here. Come along.’ He made a quick beckoning gesture with his finger. Head bowed Meg retraced her steps. Crawford picked up her shoe and was turning it over and over in his hand. As she reached him he handed it to her. ‘I suppose you were going to come back for this later,’ he said.
With a sinking feeling Meg realised she’d been caught out in her lie. ‘I…I…’
A smile suddenly split Crawford’s face, transforming him from a ferocious schoolmaster, to a rather handsome matinee idol. Meg felt her stomach perform a somersault. He was old enough to be her father, but he was incredibly attractive. She smiled back shyly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I found myself down here by chance and I’m afraid curiosity got the better of me.’
Crawford smiled indulgently. ‘And we all know what curiosity did to the cat. These are Clifford’s private quarters, and he hates to have his privacy invaded. I’d better take you back to the party.’
He stood aside to let her take the stairs before him. When they reached the top he took her arm and guided her back along the landing. About halfway along he stopped. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door. ‘You run along now,’ he said to her. ‘I shall be down shortly. I promised Clifford I would provide a little entertainment later so I’d better prepare myself. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Meg, Meg Johnson.’
‘And are you in the business, Meg?’
‘I’m an actress… and singer.’
Crawford nodded. ‘A singer eh? Well perhaps you and I should duet later. What do you say?’
There was something about the way he looked at her that told her he was not talking about singing. She avoided his eyes. ‘I’d better get back to the party.’
Crawford started to laugh, and was still laughing when he shut the door to the room. Meg turned and was about to walk back to the party when she stopped. Standing at the end of the landing, having just come up the stairs was the beautiful woman with the cropped black hair. She was staring at Meg furiously. Flustered, but strangely excited Meg walked quickly back along the landing to the stairs. As she reached the woman she said, ‘Excuse me.’
The woman stood to one side to allow her to pass, but Meg could feel her eyes burning into her back all the way down the stairs. She reached the bottom, almost bumping into Gareth who was on his way up the stairs.
‘I was just coming to find you,’ he said, and then looked at her askance. ‘Are you all right? You’re blushing.’ He looked on past her, back up the stairs at Narina Dressler who was standing at the top, casually lighting a cigarette but staring down at them. There was something in the woman’s eyes - a curious mixture of amusement and contempt.
Meg said, ‘I’m fine, really. Just a little flushed, that’s all. It’s very warm. I think I could do with some fresh air.’
‘Come on then,’ Gareth took her by the arm and led her back into the party, through the french doors and out onto the veranda. The cool evening air on her face revived her instantly and she took several deep breaths, filling her lungs and letting the air out slowly.
‘Wait here and I’ll fetch us some drinks.’
She nodded and smiled, and turned to gaze out over the garden. It was huge and floodlit. A gazebo stood in the centre of the sloping lawn, and she noticed there were people inside, sipping drinks and talking. Beyond the garden was the cliff edge, judiciously fenced off, and beyond that the sea. A great expanse coloured crimson by the dying sun. It was a breathtaking view. Her mind was spinning. Finlay Crawford had just made a pass at her. Finlay Crawford!
‘He’s ruined many a promising career has that one.’ Mrs Gafney’s words echoed in her ears.
She shook her head to silence them. She felt faint but would let nothing spoil this moment.
June Gafney flicked over the pages of the scrapbook. The earliest entry was a cutting from a local newspaper, reviewing a school concert.
The star of this particular show was eight-year-old Mary Gafney who sang Nymphs and Shepherds with a gusto and confidence that belied her age.
There were more, many more similar reviews, taking Mary up to the age of fifteen and her first professional engagement in a pantomime. By this time she’d changed her name from plain Mary Elsie Gafney to the more exotic Marie Elise.
A NEW STAR IN THE MAKING
…The new production of Cinderella was notable because of the debut appearance in the West End of a young woman whose star is sure to burn brightly for many years to come. Fifteen year old Marie Elise is possessed of a fine singing voice and is also an excellent dancer, but her acting skills brought to the part of Cinderella a touching vulnerability and an emotional depth that is sadly lacking in most modern pantomimes…
Mrs Gafney opened up a theatre programme and a sob caught in her throat as the pretty face of her daughter smiled back at her from a small black and white photograph. How quickly her daughter progressed from that Christmas pantomime, to taking leading roles in plays by Coward and Rattigan. She was the star of her generation, feted by critics, adored by the public, and dead by the time she was twenty-one.
WEST END ACTRESS FOUND DEAD
Police today are investigating the death of the West End actress Marie Elise, who was found at her Holborn apartment yesterday evening. Miss Elise was taken to St Bartholomew’s hospital where she was pronounced dead on arrival.
Miss Elise was appearing in Blithe Spirit at the Shaftsbury Theatre. Her fellow cast members treated the news of her death with shock and surprise but insist that this evening’s performance of the play will go ahead as planned…
She closed the scrapbook, then placed everything else back into the suitcase and took it back to the bedroom. Back in the kitchen she poured herself another sherry, downed it in one swallow and poured another, then went through to the hall and picked up the telephone. She dialled a familiar number. A gruff male voice answered.
‘Hello, lover,’ she slurred. ‘I’m lonely. D’you want to come over?’
‘Okay. Twenty minutes,’ the gruff voice said.
June Gafney wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled at the receiver. One day, Finlay Crawford, she thought, you are going to get what’s coming to you. But she knew she was too frightened to go against him, and the knowledge of that fear made her despise herself. She sat down in an armchair in the cramped lounge, sipped her sherry, opened the scrapbook again and waited for the doorbell to ring.
When Gareth returned with the drinks Meg was still staring out at the sea, but her thoughts were turned inwards. She was thinking about Finlay Crawford, worrying about the woman with the cropped hair, and puzzling over the pale-faced girl who’d led her to the locked door at the end of the burgundy painted corridor. It was such a confusing jumble of thoughts, all vying for dominance in her mind, that her head began to ache.
‘Cooler now?’ Gareth asked her
She nodded and thanked him for the drink.
They both turned as someone stepped out onto the veranda. Meg recognised the short, rotund figure immediately.
‘Clifford!’ Gareth said, and shook the man’s hand enthusiastically.
‘Good to see you again, Gareth. Martin tells me you’re on at the Palace,’ Clifford Stein said.
‘In the Showstoppers show, yes. Only chorus but...’
‘It’s a living, yes?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And is this young lady also in the show?’
Meg felt herself wilting under the man’s gaze. His face was fat and florid, his forehead covered with a thin film of perspiration. He peered at her myopically through a pair of thick-lens spectacles, and there was something in that look - something Meg found unwholesome. She could feel his eyes boring through her clothes, undressing her.
Gareth introduced her and she shook the man’s slightly clammy hand. She resisted the urge to wipe her palm afterwards.
Stein was still staring at her lasciviously when he spoke next. ‘Come inside, both of you. I’ve persuaded Finlay to give us an impromptu recital.’
As if on cue the opening bars of Moonlight Becomes You drifted out to the veranda, and Finlay Crawford’s rich baritone filled the night air. Stein stood between them and encircled their waists with his arms, propelling them inside. As they moved towards the open door Meg felt the man’s fat fingers fluttering slightly - they felt like fat, damp slugs crawling up her body. She shuddered and once inside pulled away from him.
A group gathered around the piano. Almost everyone in the room was there, all paying homage to the great man. Crawford himself proved to be not only a wonderful singer but also a very adept pianist, his hands stroking the keys with astonishing dexterity.
Meg stood on the periphery of the group, letting herself be carried away by the music. It was only by chance that she happened to glance back at the veranda. Clifford Stein was back outside, talking to the woman with the cropped black hair. They seemed to be having a heated exchange, and Meg could see that the woman was crying. Stein had her by the shoulders and was shaking her, bellowing something into her face, but what it was Meg had no idea. Finlay Crawford possessed a strong voice and a bravura piano technique, and his sound filled the room, obliterating any ambient noise.
As Meg watched, the woman broke free from Stein’s grasp and swung her hand, aiming for his face. Stein caught her wrist in mid-air and started to laugh, mocking her. Suddenly his face contorted and he pulled her to him, bringing his mouth close to her ear. Whatever he said to her Meg had no way of hearing, but judging from the look on the woman’s face it was something dreadful. Her eyes widened and for an instant they seemed to be filled with abject terror. She began to cry again and Stein released her. The woman ran down the steps to the garden and Meg lost sight of her. She looked back at Clifford Stein who stood on the veranda, smoking a cigarette, an untroubled expression on his face.
Suddenly Meg felt she did not want to be here any more. There was something going on under the veneer of gaiety and bonhomie that was making her feel uncomfortable. She could not pin down what it was, but everything she’d experienced tonight seemed designed to unsettle her.
During a break in Finlay Crawford’s impromptu cabaret she turned to Gareth. ‘I’m sorry but I think I’m going to go home now. I have a splitting headache,’ It was a lie but she did not want to tell him what she’d witnessed on the veranda - at least, not here. ‘Could you call me a taxi?’
‘I’ll get our coats,’ he said.
‘No, please. You don’t have to come with me. You stay on. I’ll be fine on my own.’
A troubled frown creased his brow. ‘I’m not happy with you going off by yourself.’
‘And I’m not prepared to drag you away from your friends. I’d never be able to live with the guilt.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m a big girl now. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.’
Gareth bit his lip. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m certain. Go and call that taxi.’
Finlay Crawford started another song, and was staring intensely at Meg, a slight smile playing on his lips. Meg turned away and walked out into hall. When Gareth returned a short while later she saw to her dismay that Clifford Stein was with him.
‘Gareth tells me you’re not feeling so well,’ Stein said solicitously.
Meg was dismissive. ‘It’s just a headache,’ she said. Stein was the last person she wanted to talk to.
‘Can I get you anything? An aspirin perhaps?’
‘No, really. I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. I probably shouldn’t have come.’
The butler approached and whispered something into Stein’s ear. ‘Thank you, Jarvis.’ Stein turned to Meg. ‘Your taxi has arrived.’
‘Thank you.’ Meg made to move towards the door.
Stein stepped into her path. ‘I’m having another gathering here Sunday. Gareth tells me you won’t be working, so would you care to come along? I can’t promise it will be as lively as tonight, but Finlay and Narina are staying on for a few days, so I’m sure it will be far from dull.’
Meg hesitated. She wanted to say no, but couldn’t without appearing rude. She looked to Gareth, willing him to bail her out, but he was nodding his head slightly, urging her to accept the invitation.
‘Thank you,’ Meg said. ‘I’d be delighted to come.’
Stein’s face split into a wide grin and he slapped Gareth on the shoulder. ‘You see, Gareth. I said I could persuade her into accepting.’ He turned to Meg. ‘Gareth was convinced you’d say no. I’m glad you didn’t. Three o’clock suit you?’
Meg smiled slightly and nodded.
Stein stepped aside. ‘Splendid. I look forward to seeing you again.’ He took her hand. Bending forward slightly he put it to his lips. Not an actual kiss, but the faintest of touches. Even so Meg felt her skin crawl. There was something unsavoury about Clifford Stein.
As she turned the key in the front door a feeling of foolishness overwhelmed her. How could she have been so naive, so gauche? This wasn’t Sevenoaks and the people she was mixing with tonight were the cream of the theatre-world, not a ragbag of fading repertory actors.
Yes, she’d seen Clifford Stein apparently behaving like a bore, but she didn’t know the circumstances of the altercation, and he’d been perfectly charming to her. As for her feeling that there was something unpleasant going under the surface of the sociability, the long lonely ride home in the taxi convinced her it was nothing more than her imagination working overtime - like seeing the face in the mirror and imagining it was the same girl she’d seen at Stein’s house. She had to get a grip.
To make matters worse she found that when she went to pay the taxi-driver he told her that Stein himself had covered the fare. She would have to send a letter of thanks and apology to Clifford Stein, and she would have to apologise to Gareth also. Leaving him in the lurch like that was unforgivable.
She turned the key and pushed open the door, then groaned as she saw Mrs Gafney emerge from her room.
‘You’re back early,’ she said. She was holding a half-filled schooner of sherry. Her cheeks were flushed and her words slurred.
‘Yes,’ Meg said. ‘I had a headache.’
Mrs Gafney snorted with laughter. ‘And I’ve used that one in my time, believe you me!’
Meg ignored the innuendo. ‘Besides, rehearsals start tomorrow, and I want to be fresh.’
A gruff male voice called from the landlady’s room, ‘June! Are you coming back or what?’
‘All in good time, Bill. Turn the record over and pour me another drink,’ she called back, then stared blearily at the glass in her hand and laughed again.
‘Well,’ Meg said, ‘goodnight.’
‘Was it a big house then? Ostentatious job was it? Gold taps in the bathroom and a bidet?’
‘It’s a nice house, yes. But no, the bathroom is very plain, very tasteful.’
‘What about the bedroom then?’ Mrs Gafney said, and belched loudly.
‘Mrs Gafney!’ Meg said indignantly.
‘June! Come on! I’m getting cold!’
The landlady ignored him, swaying slightly. ‘I would have thought a pretty girl like you would be right up Finlay bloody Crawford’s alley. I was young once, you know… and pretty. Likes a pretty face does Finlay.’
Meg shook her head. She wasn’t going to get any sense out of the woman tonight. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Gafney. But you’re drunk and I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’
The woman belched again. Meg winced as the stink of sherry wafted over her. Mrs Gafney leaned forward and patted her arm. ‘Sorry, love. No offence, eh?’
The telephone of the hall table rang and Mrs Gafney swore loudly, the oath echoed by the disembodied voice in her room. ‘Who could that be at this time of night?’ She picked up the receiver and barked a hello into it. She listened for a moment, said, ‘Who?’ then laughed bitterly and handed the receiver to Meg. ‘It’s for you.’ she said and staggered back to her room, slamming the door behind her. A second later Meg heard a glass smash and the sound of swearing from behind the closed door.
‘Meg Johnson,’ she said. ‘Hello?’
There was silence for a long moment and Meg was about to speak again when Finlay Crawford said, ‘Meg?’
‘Oh.’ Meg was in a slight state of shock. Whatever could he want with her?
‘Your friend Gareth gave me your number. Actually I had to twist his arm and offer him all manner of favours before he would let me have it. I hope you don’t mind me phoning you so late, only one minute you were there and next you were gone. I didn’t get the chance to properly say goodbye. Clifford tells me you were taken ill. Nothing serious I hope.’
‘Just a headache. It’s almost gone. I think the night air did me good,’ she said.
‘Well that’s splendid. Look, would you think me awfully presumptuous if I asked you to meet me for coffee tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I would. Anyway, I can’t tomorrow. I have rehearsals.’
‘And don’t they allow you a meal break during rehearsals? They allow you time off for lunch, don’t they?’
‘No… yes… I don’t know,’ Meg said.
‘Well, perhaps you can ring me tomorrow when you know what time your break is.’ He reeled off a telephone number before Meg could pick up a pencil and scribble it down on the pad next to the phone. Meg asked him to repeat it.
Crawford did so, slowly enunciating each number. ‘Have you got that now?’
Meg read it back to him. ‘May I ask why?’ she added.
‘Why what?’ Crawford said.
‘Why you should want to take me for coffee?’
There was a pause, and it sounded as if he was laughing softly. ‘Call it idle curiosity,’ he said at last and hung up.
Meg stared at the handset, listening to the soft purr of the dial tone. Finally she shook her head and set the receiver down in its cradle.
‘Idle curiosity,’ she repeated. She wasn’t sure she was keen on that. She pulled herself up short. ‘Oh, stop it!’ she chided. ‘It’s just coffee!’
According to the rules of the house breakfast was served during the hours of seven thirty and nine thirty, with guests being required to vacate their rooms between the hours of ten thirty and four pm. Meg entered the dining room at eight. There were six tables laid for breakfast, one occupied by a young couple she hadn’t yet met. In fact, apart from Gareth, she’d neither seen nor heard any of the other guests at the boarding house, but then being billeted in the roof of the house that was hardly surprising. The young couple turned and smiled as she entered the room and Meg wished them good morning. Pleasantries over the couple turned away, devoting all their attention to each other. Meg wondered if they were newly-weds here on their honeymoon.
A few minutes later Mrs Gafney bustled in, wiping her hands on a floral-print apron. She placed a pot of tea down in front of Meg. ‘Eggs, bacon, sausage and mushrooms suit you? I can do you a slice of fried bread if you like, or a fried tomato.’
Meg hesitated. ‘Er...’
‘Or kippers?’ Mrs Gafney added. ‘ And I can do you a nice piece of smoked haddock if you prefer something lighter.’ The aggression from the night before was gone, and she seemed none the worse for wear from her drinking session.
‘No, eggs and bacon will be fine. No fried bread though. Just toast.’
Mrs Gafney nodded approvingly. ‘You can’t beat a good breakfast. Sets you up for the rest of the day.’ The woman went back to the kitchen and moments later Meg heard fat sizzling as the bacon hit the frying pan.
She’d nearly finished eating by the time Gareth came down for breakfast. He was badly hung over and couldn’t be sure what time he’d arrived back at the guesthouse, though he vaguely remembered the sun coming up over the rooftops. He sat down at Meg’s table and picked up the teapot. ‘Do you mind?’ he said.
‘No, please, help yourself... though it’s probably stewed by now.’
‘As long as it’s wet and warm.’ He reached across to another of the tables and picked up a cup and saucer. He poured the dark brown liquid from the pot, added a dash of milk, sipped it gingerly and grimaced.
‘I told you it would be stewed,’ Meg said. ‘About last night... I’m sorry but I behaved like a bit of an idiot.’
Gareth shook his head. ‘You were ill.’
‘No,’ Meg said. ‘I’m afraid that was a bit of an act. I think I was just feeling out of my depth and a little intimidated.’
‘You should have said.’
Mrs Gafney entered the dining room, saw where Gareth was sitting and glared at Meg. ‘Your table is over here, Mr Barker,’ she said to Gareth indicating a table set in the bay window of the room.
‘I prefer to sit here,’ he said. ‘If that’s all right.’
The landlady scowled at him and ran through the breakfast menu with clipped economy. When she’d returned to the kitchen Meg said, ‘Finlay Crawford rang me last night.’
‘I thought he might. I gave him the number. I hope you don’t mind.’
Meg shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I just thought it was rather strange, that’s all. After all, it’s not as if he knows me. We barely spoke at the party.’
‘I think he found you very attractive. I saw the way he was looking at you when he was playing. It was as much as he could do to keep his eyes off you. Which is probably what put Narina Dressler’s nose out of joint.’
‘Who?’
‘Stunningly beautiful. Short dark hair.’
The woman she’d encountered on the landing.
‘I saw her later in the evening talking to Martin. She had a face like thunder.’
‘So this Nar… what was it?’
‘Narina Dressler,’ Gareth said.
‘So this Narina Dressler is what to Finlay Crawford? His girlfriend… his fiancée… his wife? What?’
‘None of them, or so it would appear. Martin described her as Finlay’s companion, but I was talking to Clifford later and he was saying their relationship was strictly professional… but I’m not sure I believed him. There must be something deeper between them or she wouldn’t have taken such exception to the interest Finlay was showing you.’
She stood up abruptly.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To telephone Finlay Crawford and tell him I won’t be accompanying him for coffee. There was something very unpleasant going on at that house last night.’
‘What do you mean, unpleasant?’
Meg told him about her encounter with Finlay Crawford - although she didn’t mention the pale girl who’d led her to the burgundy corridor - about Narina Dressler witnessing Crawford making a pass at her, and the look the woman gave her. Finally she told him about the incident on the veranda between Stein and Narina Dressler that prompted her to leave the party.
‘I’d convinced myself that it was just me being naïve, you know the country bumpkin, out of her depth in the world of the sophisticated socialites. But the more I think about it now the more I think they were a fairly unpleasant bunch of people. I’m sorry, Gareth, I know they’re your friends, but I don’t think I want them to be mine.’
‘You should have told me all this last night. I had no idea Finlay made a pass at you. As I said, I knew he had eyes for you, but I’d no idea it had already gone further than that.’
‘You would have still given him the telephone number.’
Gareth avoided her eyes
‘Well, you would wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t refuse the great man. Goodness knows what damage he could do your career.’
Gareth was suddenly angry. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and threw it down on the table. ‘You really do have a lot to learn, and you’d better learn it fast if you ever want to make a serious career out of showbusiness. Listen, more can be achieved over a sociable cup of coffee than attending a hundred auditions. When someone of the standing of Finlay Crawford tells you to jump, you don’t ask why, you ask how high. And yes, it will do me no harm at all earning Finlay’s gratitude. Look,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I’ve told no one this, and I don’t want you to breathe a word of it to anyone else, but I’ve decided that unless I get a serious break that sends my career spiralling upwards, I’m quitting this business at the end of the year. Finlay Crawford and Clifford Stein are putting on a series of shows in the West End, and for the first time in my life I feel that I’m in with a fair chance of landing a reasonable part, and all because of seven little numbers. If I’d not given Finlay the telephone number here, do you think he would have offered me a private audition on Sunday when we go over there?’
Meg was equally angry. ‘So I’ve been bought and paid for. Bartered like some… some sixpenny whore!’
The newlyweds stood up and left the dining room, giving them both a look of disgust.
Gareth’s anger evaporated. Meg was absolutely right. He’d behaved abominably. He bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
She sat down and took his hand. ‘So am I. Anyway, you’re probably right. I have got a lot to learn. I entered this profession thinking I could make a go of it based on my talent alone. I’d heard stories, rumours, and friends warned me what this business was like, but I really thought it would be different for me.’
‘Are you still going to cancel Finlay? I warn you now, he won’t take it well.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
‘Look, if it makes you more comfortable I’ll come with you to meet him.’
‘A chaperone?’
‘If you like. I feel responsible. I got you into this.’
She reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘No you didn’t. I got myself into it. If I hadn’t been so nosy and gone exploring Stein’s house I would never have met Finlay Crawford, and we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation. Thanks,’ she said. ‘I may take you up on your offer.’
Outside the door June Gafney stood wringing her hands and listening to the conversation. It’s happening again, she thought, tears again running freely down her cheeks. It’s happening again!
By mid-morning Meg decided to accept Finlay Crawford’s invitation for coffee. Despite her better judgement the man fascinated her, and it was also a huge boost to her ego that he should be interested in her. During a break in rehearsals she found the scrap of paper on which she’d scribbled his telephone number, went out into the theatre’s lobby where there was a pay phone, and dialled.
The telephone was answered almost at once by a woman with a slightly Germanic accent, and Meg’s knees turned to jelly when she realised she was talking to Narina Dressler.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Dressler woman was saying, ‘but Finlay has been called back to London on some rather urgent business. I shall tell him of the telephone call when he returns. Who shall I say was calling?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Meg said and was about to hang up when the other woman said, ‘Wait! Please don’t hang up. It’s you, isn’t it? The girl from last night?’
Meg hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes it is.’
‘I think we need to meet,’ Narina Dressler said.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
‘Please.’ There was a note of desperation in her voice and Meg found her resolve wavering.
‘Very well,’ she said after a few moments.
‘Thank you. I can come to the theatre.’
‘No,’ Meg said quickly. She preferred neutral territory. ‘We could meet on the pier. There’s a cafeteria just before the entrance we could meet there in, say, half an hour?’
‘Very well,’ Narina Dressler said and hung up.
Meg replaced the receiver and stood staring into space, her thoughts racing. What had she just agreed to?
Gareth stood in the wings, watching while Ronnie Miller ran through his numbers in the show with the pianist Ted Taylor. Taylor was an old hand and Gareth had worked with him before. He knew that Ted was a true professional, who took work seriously but never let it interfere with his philosophy of living life to the full and enjoying every moment. When Miller called a break Taylor got up from the piano and came across to where Gareth was standing.
‘Good set of lungs that boy,’ he said, jerking his thumb back at Ronnie Miller who was charming two of the girls from the chorus with his patented Irish blarney.
‘He can certainly hold a tune,’ Gareth said.
‘When was it we last worked together on a show?’ Taylor said, sprinkling some tobacco into a cigarette paper.
‘Three years ago. Boys Will Be Boys, at the Apollo.’
‘Really? What a stinker that was. So why are you still in the chorus? With your talent I had you marked down for greater things.’
Gareth shrugged. ‘You need the breaks in this business. Mine have been few and far between. Actually, I’m hoping something might come my way soon. Did you know Finlay Crawford is in town? He’s staying at Clifford Stein’s house.’
Ted Taylor’s eyes narrowed. He ran the rolled up cigarette paper over his tongue to gum it down. ‘So?’
‘I’ve managed to wangle a private audition with him on Sunday for the series of shows he’s producing next year.’
Taylor pulled a book of matches from his pocket and lit the cigarette, blowing smoke up at the flies. ‘Well, I’m very pleased for you… But you know what they say, he who sups with the devil should use a very long spoon.’ He winked, but before Gareth could ask him what he meant he walked back to his piano and sat down, his fingers running over the keys, playing the arpeggio introduction to Ronnie Miller’s next song.
The door at the back of the theatre banged shut and Meg came down the aisle towards the stage. Gareth jumped down to speak with her. ‘I’ve decided,’ he began. ‘I’m coming with you to see Crawford,’ he said.
‘I’m not meeting Finlay Crawford. He’s been called back to London on business.’
‘Oh,’ Gareth said, wrong footed. ‘Well, that’s all right then. Only I…’
‘But…’ Meg interrupted him. ‘I am going for coffee with Narina Dressler. I spoke to her on the phone and she said she’d like to talk to me.’
‘What about?’
On the stage Ronnie Miller stopped singing. ‘Could we have some quiet down there please?’ he called to them.
‘Sorry,’ Gareth called back. ‘What about?’ he whispered.
‘I really don’t know, but I must admit I’m curious. And,’ she added, ‘scared out of my wits. She’s a very intimidating lady.’
‘Where are you going for coffee?’
‘I suggested the cafeteria on the pier. We’re meeting there.’
‘Well the offer is still there. I’ll come with you if you wish.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, but I think this is women’s business. I think she just wants to make sure I’ve got no designs on Finlay.’
‘And have you?’
‘Gareth, he’s old enough to be my father.’
‘He’s old enough to be Narina’s father, and it hasn’t stopped her.’
‘Good point. But seriously, while I’d be flattered if Finlay Crawford is interested in me I’ve no real desire to pursue it further. And that’s what I’ll be telling Narina Dressler. Hopefully it will put her mind at rest and make it a little less awkward when we go over there on Sunday.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens. I’ve got to fly.’ She pecked him on the cheek and ran silently back up the aisle and out the double doors.
Gareth put his fingertips to his cheek. He could still feel the warm moistness of her lips. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was becoming very fond of Meg Johnson.
A layer of grey cloud was obscuring the sun and there was an unseasonable chill to the air as Meg walked the mile from the Winter Gardens to the pier. She shivered as she walked along, but whether that was due to the weather, or because she was nervous she wasn’t sure. As the pier came into view she quickened her pace. She reached the cafeteria and looked in through the window. At a table in the far corner sat Narina Dressler. She was dressed in a black sweater and slacks. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but she looked across at Meg as she entered and beckoned her across. There were two cups of coffee on the table in front of her. As Meg sat down she slid one across to her, took off her dark glasses and set them down on the table. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.
Meg picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. It was strong and bitter. She reached for the sugar dispenser and poured a measure into her cup, stirring it in to the dark liquid with a spoon. ‘I must say, I’m a little intrigued as to why you wanted to meet with me,’ she said.
‘I don’t think you are that naïve,’ Narina Dressler said. ‘I heard what Finlay was saying to you on the landing. A duet! Ha!’ She leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice. ‘If Finlay is attracted to you - and I believe he is - then there is very little I can do about it. Finlay is very dear to me… I love him, and I don’t think I could bear to lose him. So I’ve asked you here to beg you not to take it further. I know I am asking you to make a very great sacrifice, but I don’t really see what else I can do.’
Meg looked at her over the top of her coffee cup. She felt sorry for the woman. Being in love with someone like Finlay Crawford could not be easy. He was a hugely successful man, immensely popular, as well as being rich and very good looking. Anyone having a relationship with him would be incredibly insecure and vulnerable. She felt it only right to put the woman’s mind at rest.
‘I have no designs on Finlay Crawford,’ she said.
Hope flared in Narina Dressler’s eyes to be replaced quickly with suspicion. ‘But he is a very handsome man,’ she said.
Meg laughed. ‘Yes, I know he is, and I’m very flattered if, as you say, he finds me attractive. But I have no desire to enter into a relationship with anyone at the moment, least of all Finlay Crawford.’
Narina Dressler put her sunglasses back on and swallowed the last of her coffee. ‘Then I think I have behaved very foolishly,’ she said and got to her feet. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you here. I’m sorry if I have wasted your time.’
Before Meg could respond the woman walked to the door of the cafeteria stepped outside and moved quickly back along the pier to the road. As she reached it a black Jaguar pulled into the kerb and Jarvis, Clifford Stein’s butler got out of the driver’s side and came around the car to open the door for her. Without a backward glance Narina Dressler stepped into the car and slammed the door. A few seconds later the car eased away from the kerb and was soon lost in the other holiday traffic.
The suddenness of Narina Dressler’s exit left Meg breathless, feeling she’d in some way been hoodwinked. It was as if there was no real reason for the woman to ask her here. Moreover she was not entirely convinced by Narina Dressler’s performance as the slighted and wronged lover. Performance! That’s exactly what it was. Narina Dressler was acting… and not very convincingly. But why? And who’d put her up to it?
The answer to that question dropped into her mind.
Clifford Stein!
She remembered the incident on the veranda. Stein’s dominance of the woman, her tears. Would he have really acted like that if Narina was in fact Finlay Crawford’s partner? Or was it really as he’d told Gareth, that Finlay Crawford and Narina Dressler’s relationship was strictly professional? Meg was confused. How on earth did all this concern her? She felt that she was slowly being sucked into a web of intrigue that she really wanted no part of. But it seemed the more she tried to extricate herself from it the deeper she became enmeshed. She needed to talk to Gareth about it. And this time she would tell him everything. It was strange, but in the short time she’d known him, he’d become an important figure in her life.
She checked her watch. She needed to head back to the theatre. Across from the cafeteria was a mirror maze, shut for lunch. The ticket kiosk was empty and there was a chain across the entrance. As she turned to walk back along the promenade a movement in the mirror maze attracted her attention. At that moment the sun broke from behind the clouds and she shielded her eyes with her hand to get a clear view. Standing inside the maze, her image multiplied by the dozens of mirrors was the pale-faced girl she’d seen at Stein’s house.
As Meg approached, the girl moved and her reflections moved with her. Within seconds there was nothing to see except for a wall of glass. The chain across the entrance was secured by nothing more than a hook through a ring. She lifted the chain and stepped through the entrance, securing the chain behind her.
She hadn’t been in a maze like this since she was a child, but the principles hadn’t changed. There was a narrow wooden track snaking its way through a system of walls - some made of clear glass, some of mirrors. Sometimes she could see the route of the path through a glass wall, and then she’d turn a corner and be confronted by a dead end and a dozen images of herself.
Taking a deep breath Meg moved forward, deeper into the maze. She caught sight of the girl again. ‘Wait!’ she called out and the girl stopped, glancing back over her shoulder before moving on again.
Meg swore softly and stepped forward, cracking her head on a sheet of plate glass she hadn’t seen. She cried out and threw her hands to her head, feeling a bump the size of a quail’s egg growing on her brow. This was pointless, like chasing a shadow. She turned and tried to retrace her steps, but realized within seconds that she’d come deep into the maze and completely lost her bearings. She looked at her watch again. She should have been back at the theatre five minutes ago.
Starting to panic she stretched out her hand in front of her and began to move quickly along the wooden path, and as she moved she started to hear voices. Soft voices whispering her name over and over again, and a small thrill of fear began to worm its way into her mind.
As she moved forwards more figures appeared in the maze, fleeting shapes that darted this way and that, never still long enough for her to get a close look at them. Her mind was becoming woolly, her mouth dry. She could still taste the bitterness of the coffee… and something else - a slight chemical aftertaste that stuck in her throat, sharp and sour. She stopped moving forwards, swaying slightly as she stood at junction of the mirrors. She closed her eyes and shook her head to try to clear it. When she opened her eyes again she saw the girl with the pale melancholy face standing inches away from her, separated from her by a single sheet of glass.
The girl stretched out her hand and the glass in front of her stretched to accommodate it, then, as if it were made of nothing more substantial than jelly, the glass parted and the girl stepped through, wrapping her arms around Meg and pulling her close. ‘Help me,’ the girl whispered into Meg’s mind.
The coldness of the young girl’s body seeped through Meg’s clothes, through her skin and drove deep into her bones. Her teeth started chattering and her whole body shook. The girl seemed to be passing straight through her and out the other side. Meg screwed her eyes tight, waiting for the freezing sensation to end. When she opened them she was still standing at the junction of mirrors but she was alone. There was no sign of the girl but the voices were louder. They were still hissing her name, but there were other sounds now as well. There was a deep baritone rumbling and high-pitched screaming - a loud, clamorous chorus of sound that forced her to cover her ears.
The air was split by a loud crack as the mirror in front of her fractured. The glass shook and a thousand spider-webbed cracks appeared, before the mirror crumpled in on itself and dropped to the floor. The crack came again and another mirror broke, followed by another and another. Meg realised suddenly that a path was opening up for her. The sheets of glass and the mirrors were cracking and breaking in sequence, forming an alleyway through the maze. With her shoes crunching over broken glass, she followed the alleyway, hoping it would lead her back to the pier. And almost crying out with dismay when the last mirror cracked and fell away to reveal a solid brick wall.
She stood facing the wall, swaying slightly, her head swimming and her thoughts spinning. There was a final crack and the wall split, deep red light pouring out from the crack, filtering through the brick dust clouding the air. Inch by inch the crack widened and more and more light poured through, bathing her in redness as a cool breeze played on her face. Soon the dust subsided and she could see clearly through the gap in the wall.
She took a few steps forward and found herself standing on the soft silver sand of the beach. The tide was out, the sea nothing more than a pale strip of reflected sunlight in the distance. There was a small noise behind her and she spun round to face a blank, white stuccoed wall, solid, no cracks. Confused, she turned back. Away in the distance she could see a brightly painted beach hut, pink and white candy stripe forming a high spot of colour on an otherwise blank canvas. Slowly, with uncertain steps she started to walk towards it.
Above her the sky was an unbroken blue. Seagulls floated on high thermals, calling to her with their raucous voices. She shielded her eyes and looked up at them, squinting past the sun’s brilliant starburst of light.
‘Meg, glad you could make it.’
With a gasp she looked along the beach to the source of the voice. Narina Dressler was leaning against the candy-striped wall of the hut, immaculately dressed, smoking a cigarette, a sardonic smile playing on her beautifully painted lips.
Meg felt her head start to spin. Her mouth was dry and filled with the bitter after-taste of the coffee. She swayed slightly, groaned, and then pitched forward in a dead faint.
It was four o’clock before Gareth could get away from the theatre. Meg’s absence was noticed by Toby Malling, the director, and despite Gareth’s assurances that Meg would not just disappear without good reason, the man was clearly angry. As he walked along the promenade Gareth was worried, though he couldn’t begin to imagine what had happened to her.
The proprietor of the pier’s cafeteria was a stout man with a day’s stubble shading his chin and thick brylcreemed hair. ‘Yes, I remember her,’ he said in answer to Gareth’s question. ‘Pretty little thing. Sitting over there in the corner having coffee with the mysterious one in sunglasses. Sunglasses indoors, I ask you! Is she all right? I must admit I was tempted to call an ambulance when I saw how groggy she was. But she said she’d be okay.’
‘Sorry?’ Gareth said.
The proprietor put down the plate he was drying and flicked the tea towel over his shoulder. ‘I thought that’s why you were here. I was worried about her.’
‘I’m looking for her. We’re rehearsing a show at the Palace and she came here to meet this other woman for lunch and didn’t come back to the theatre. She was taken ill, you say?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say ill, but after the other one left - the one with the glasses - your one got up to leave and was all over the place. Staggering…really unsteady. Well, I was round the counter like a shot. I thought she was going to faint. I asked her if she felt all right, and she told me she was fine. But, I don’t know, there was something about her eyes. They were very bright. Too bright, and her skin looked sort of waxy. Anyway she left and I watched her as she walked away. Not steady on her feet at all. Next thing this car pulls up on the prom and she gets inside, and that’s the last I saw of her.’
‘What type of car?’
The proprietor shook his head. ‘I’m not a driver so I’ve never taken much interest in them. Big though, and black. Not like a hearse, more sporty than that.’
Gareth thanked him and left. He had a sick, hollow feeling in his stomach. If something had happened to Meg he would never forgive himself. He rushed back to the theatre.
Ted Taylor was sliding reams of sheet music into a slim leather carrying case, the ever-present roll-up stuck between his lips. He looked up when Gareth walked onto the stage. ‘Hello, boy, thought you’d gone home for the night.’
‘No,’ Gareth said. ‘I went looking for Meg.’
Taylor pursed his lips and blew through them. ‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘She needs her card marked. Haven’t seen Toby so angry for years and Ronnie Miller was just adding fuel to the fire. Not on though, is it, walking out halfway through the first day’s rehearsals? Doesn’t bode well for the rest of the run.’
‘That’s just it. I don’t think she did walk out. She was meeting someone for coffee, but that was all. I’m worried that something might have happened to her.’
‘Oh,’ Taylor said. ‘What sort of something?’ He finished packing his bag, secured the catches and started to walk to the side of the stage to fetch his coat.
Gareth kept pace with him. ‘When I told you earlier about Finlay Crawford, you said “he who sups with the devil”…’
‘Should use a long spoon. Right enough.’
‘But why Finlay Crawford? What do you know about him?’
Taylor put down his case and slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He shrugged the coat onto his shoulders and set about buttoning it. Then he picked up his case and opened the flap, pulling out a sheet of plain manuscript paper and a pencil. Closing the case and turning it over to use as a rest he wrote something on the paper and handed it to Gareth.
It was a list of names. Finlay Crawford was at the top of the list followed by at least twenty more; names that Gareth recognised instantly - the names of some of the most important people in country.
Ted Taylor watched Gareth’s face as he read, smiling with satisfaction as his young friend’s eyebrows slowly raised. ‘I see you recognise most of the names then.’
‘Yes,’ Gareth said. ‘But then who wouldn’t?’
‘Agreed,’ said Taylor walking towards the stage door. ‘But put them together and you have something a little special.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gareth said, running to keep up with him. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’
Taylor opened the stage door. ‘I’ve said enough already. And all I’m doing is giving you the benefit of what I’ve picked up over the years; backstage gossip and whispers. You’d be amazed what people confide to their accompanist. You’re staying with June, aren’t you?’
‘June?’
Taylor sighed. ‘June Gafney? Gafney’s Guesthouse?’
‘Yes,’ Gareth said. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well,’ Taylor said, stepping out onto the street. ‘Go back and see June, and ask her about the Brotherhood.’
‘The Brotherhood?’
‘June knows about them… first hand, so to speak. Get her to tell you what she knows.’ He looked along the street. ‘There’s my bus. I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you find the girl, she seemed quite nice.’ He trotted along the street towards the bus stop. Gareth watched until he was on the bus then stared again at the list of names on the sheet of manuscript paper. Folding it into quarters he slipped it into the pocket of his jacket and headed back to their digs.
Meg opened her eyes but she was in darkness, she could see nothing. Her mouth was dry and her tongue seemed swollen. She needed a drink. She seemed to be lying on a couch. Her hand traced its contour. Leather by the feel of it… studded…expensive. She tried to sit up but a sharp pain lanced through her head and she groaned and lay back down. There was a small noise and the light was switched on.
‘She’s awake.’
The sudden brightness blinded her but she recognised the voice. Narina Dressler.
Meg squinted through the brightness and saw Narina Dressler’s face inches from her own. Then she looked past the Dressler woman to the person who’d just come into the room.
‘Give her another shot,’ Martin Stein said and Meg felt a sharp pain in her arm. The faces began to swim in front of her.
‘She’s going under again.’
‘Good. Keep her sedated until we hear one way or the other. We shouldn’t have to wait long for his answer.’
Their voices receded, became indistinct then fell silent. Meg closed her eyes and slept once more.
Gareth let himself into the guesthouse, went straight across to Mrs Gafney’s door and knocked sharply.
‘It’s open.’
Gareth pushed the door and it swung inwards. ‘Mrs Gafney, has Meg been back here?’ he said as he walked into the cluttered room.
June Gafney was sitting in an armchair, the scrapbook propped open on her lap. She looked up at Gareth with tear-streaked eyes. ‘It’s happening again,’ she said.
‘What is?’
The landlady picked up the scrapbook and held it out to him. Gareth took it and turned it around in his hands. The book was open at a newspaper cutting.
MARIE ELISE - A TRAGIC ACCIDENT!
the headline read.
‘Who was Marie Elise?’ Gareth said, although the name was ringing bells somewhere at the back of his mind.
Mrs Gafney smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘My dear Mary, my daughter.’
‘I’d no idea…’
She looked at him sharply. ‘It wasn’t common knowledge. I never married the father, and things like that were brushed under the carpet in those days.’
Gareth pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her, waiting for her to continue.
June Gafney leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and shaking her head slightly. ‘I was young, just starting out as an actress, and he seemed… he seemed so unobtainable. He was already a star, already a draw at the box office, and me? Well, I was never going to set any theatres on fire. So when he started taking an interest in me, well, I was just swept away with it.’
Gareth sat in silence, leafing through the pages of the scrapbook. He stopped at a page. All the page contained was a photograph. A publicity still. The photograph showed a young woman with a pale porcelain face, with long fair hair parted in the centre. The face was beautiful but there something in her eyes; an aloofness - a look of haughty superiority. The face was also vaguely familiar.
‘And this is your daughter?’ he said, turning the book for her to see.
Mrs Gafney nodded. ‘It was taken the week after she found out who her father was. I pleaded with her to go away, to put an ocean between herself and him. She’d had offers from a Hollywood studio. She could have gone out to America and started again there. She could have escaped.’
Suddenly he realised why the girl’s face seemed so familiar. ‘Finlay Crawford was her father, wasn’t he?’ he said.
June Gafney nodded her head slowly and stared off into space. ‘I loved that man more than I have ever loved anyone. But the longer I knew him, the more I began to realise there was dark side to him. He could be incredibly ruthless… and cruel too. I’d seen Finlay reduce a fellow actor to tears, literally to tears, simply because the poor chap trod on one of his lines during their scene together. There was a terrible cruelty there… but also a terrible attraction. He drew people to him. He surrounded himself with his friends. So many famous people. Household names all of them.’
Gareth took the folded piece of paper from his pocket and started to read the names aloud.
‘The Brotherhood,’ Gareth said at the end of his recital.
‘That’s what they liked to call themselves.’ She screwed up her eyes, tears pressing out from behind the closed lids. ‘And believe me, young man, that list of yours barely scratches the surface. It’s larger than you could possibly know. It reaches into every part of society - business, politics, the police… even the church. And the man… or creature… at its head is Finlay Crawford. But I didn’t know anything about it when we first met. As I said, I was young… innocent, and I was bowled over because my lover was Finlay Crawford, and I was totally besotted by him. But then one night he took me to a party at Clifford Stein’s house in Bayswater…’
June Gafney stopped talking and sat staring into space, her glass tilting in her grasp, slopping sherry over her floral print dress. Gareth leaned forward and gently righted the glass and said, ‘Are you okay?’
She was lost in the past, buried in the memories haunting her for the last thirty years. She jerked back to the present day and reality with a small cry, and stared at Gareth as though he was a total stranger. ‘A party!’ She laughed harshly. ‘That’s a good one. An orgy more like. People were drunk and drugged, and they were doing things to each other… well, I’ll let you use your imagination. I just wanted to go, to get out of there and go home. I told Finlay and he was so kind and understanding. “Of course we should go,” he said. “It was wrong of me to bring you here. Just have one more drink while I finish talking to Clifford.” That’s what he said, “Just have one more drink.” He fetched the drink for me and I, like a fool, drank it while I waited for him… and that’s the last I remember until I woke up, naked, in the middle of a stage. I couldn’t even tell you which theatre it was. I was drugged. I wasn’t in my right mind…’ She shuddered violently and the tears started to flow once more. She dabbed at them with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘Most of them were there, the Brotherhood, sitting in the front row of the stalls, watching me… hungry, obscene looks on their faces… Finlay was first. The others followed. One by one they came up onto that stage and…’
The sherry schooner exploded as she crushed it in her hand.
In his Mayfair apartment Finlay Crawford threw off his coat and kicked the front door shut. The news was even worse than he’d feared. He stared at his reflection in the hall mirror, his fingers pulling gently at the skin beneath his eyes. There was no mistake. It was no longer as elastic as it was. The skin stayed pulled for seconds before gradually resuming its former shape and smoothness. He’d been warned that this would happen eventually, that dissolution and decay were just as much a part of the cycle as the youth and vitality that had sustained him for the past decades. But he wasn’t expecting to see the results so quickly and so dramatically. He’d expected at least another forty years out of this body. But it was now obvious it was not meant to be.
Jefferson Phillips, his Harley Street consultant and associate member of the Brotherhood, spelled out his options in stark and unpleasant terms. And he, Finlay Crawford, baulked. Damn it! He’d become used to being Finlay Crawford! The character fitted him like a glove and he enjoyed the lifestyle Crawford’s celebrity afforded him. The thought of starting again, in another guise, with another body appalled him, angered him. Life could be so unfair.
He went through to the lounge and stood at the cocktail bar, again studying his reflection in the mirror that served as the bar’s counter. He poured four fingers of scotch into a tumbler, threw in some ice from the bucket, and knocked the drink back, letting the whisky burn down his throat, making his eyes water. Then he repeated the process.
He flopped down on the leather couch and stared up at the ceiling, his mind spinning with unpleasant possibilities. He knew he would have to choose well. He could not afford to be saddled with a specimen anything less than perfect. And there had to be talent there - an innate talent that could not be taught, but was as natural as the lungs drawing breath. Looks were important too. Phillips poked fun at his vanity when he raised the subject in the consulting rooms, but he’d silenced the man with a glare. Phillips knew that without Finlay’s approbation and support, he could never hope to become a full member of the Brotherhood, and receive all the benefits that exalted position merited.
The telephone on the coffee table rang. For a moment he tried to ignore it, preferring instead to be alone with his misery, but after a dozen rings it was obvious the caller was not going to give up easily. He picked up the receiver and barked, ‘Crawford!’
‘It’s Clifford.’
‘Well?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’
Crawford laughed harshly. Could the day get any worse?
‘It’s Narina…’
Crawford went cold. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Narina. So much depended on that woman - all his dreams and everything he’d worked for over the past ten years. ‘What about Narina?’
‘She’s gone.’
For a moment Crawford was dumbfounded. He shook himself. ‘Gone? What do you mean gone?’
‘She went out at lunchtime and hasn’t come back.’
Finlay Crawford breathed a sigh of relief and sipped his third scotch. ‘Then why on earth are you panicking? She’s probably shopping. It’s one of her greatest loves. Really, Clifford, I’ve had a hell of a day. You shouldn’t go around scaring a chap like that.’
There was a silence on the other end of the line and Crawford’s relief turned to apprehension.
‘She’s not shopping, Finlay. Martin has gone too.’
Crawford took a beat. ‘What are you telling here? That Narina and Martin have run off together?
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Look, Finlay, I should have told you this before, but I knew they were having… well… an affair. I challenged her on it last night, told her it had to stop, but she just became hysterical.’
‘You bloody fool,’ Crawford said coldly. ‘As if their affair mattered. It would have reached a natural conclusion after the twenty second anyway.’
‘But that’s the whole point, Finlay. Don’t you see? They’re in love. They don’t want it to reach a natural conclusion. Narina wants to live… as herself!’
Finlay Crawford swore viciously as he saw his hopes and plans disappearing like so much dust in the wind.
‘There is one small hope,’ Clifford Stein said during a pause in the tirade.
‘Well?’
‘They left a note. It goes on about their love and all that nonsense, and Martin is making a stand about wanting to be an actor again and pursuing a life on the stage…’
‘You’re trying my patience, Clifford. Get to the point!’
‘They have the girl.’
Finlay Crawford stared at the receiver as if it was an alien object, and then he put it back to his ear. ‘Girl? Which girl?’
‘The girl from last night. The girl you invited for lunch before you rushed back to London. Meg Johnson.’
Crawford’s puzzlement was genuine. He’d been drunk last night. He could just about remember the girl and finding her in the downstairs corridor, and he even had a vague memory of a phone call but… He couldn’t even bring the girl’s face to mind. ‘What on earth are they thinking of?’
‘They’re offering a trade. If you take no action against them, that is, if you promise to instruct the Brotherhood to take no action against them, they’ll give you the girl to use as a substitute for Narina.’
Crawford was horrified. ‘A substitute? Do they think this is all a game? Do they think that all the hours I spent grooming Narina for this moment was just my way of passing the time? Do they…’
‘It could work,’ Stein interrupted him. ‘Nowhere is it written that the vessel has to be willing.’ Crawford was silent for a moment. He took another sip of scotch. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ve made some enquiries. Meg Johnson is quite a talent. She has a fine singing voice, she’s a passable dancer, but according to Brian Topping at Sevenoaks Rep, she’s a pretty useful actress. It’s everything you need. That’s she’s pretty too is something of a bonus.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Crawford said and put the phone down. If Meg Johnson was pretty, and younger than Narina - that would be of benefit in later life, as he was just discovering. But his anger with Narina Dressler and Martin Stein was unabated. He might well accept Meg Johnson as a substitute, but Narina and Stein would pay dearly for this day’s work.
Gareth wrapped a bandage around June Gafney’s bleeding hand and secured it with a safety pin. ‘Best I can do,’ he said. ‘I was never much good at first aid, even in the scouts.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said, staring down at the blood on her dress. ‘I shouldn’t talk about it. Talking about it killed Mary. If I’d only kept it to myself she might still be here now. But she would keep on about it. She wanted so much to know who her father was. And when she found out the knowledge killed her.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘It was her twenty first birthday and we’d been out celebrating. It was my fault… I was drunk. And when she asked for the thousandth time about her father something inside me just snapped and I told her the story I just told you.
‘I neither saw nor heard from her for weeks after that, and in the end I got so desperate I just had to make contact with her. So early one Monday morning I went around to her flat. When she was appearing in a play she rarely rose before noon so I knew I’d probably catch her in. But this particular day she was up and dressed. She had her coat on and was about to go out. She was obviously very excited about something. And then she told me. She’d been spending most her days for the past few weeks at the British Library, doing some research on Finlay Crawford and the other members of the Brotherhood, and she was due to meet with Finlay that morning.
‘I just went cold. I wanted to keep her there in the flat. I couldn’t bear the thought of that man coming into my life again. I tried to persuade her not to go, but she got so angry… furious. She was screaming at me, accusing me of cheating her out of her birthright. In the end she stormed out of the flat.
‘I really didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe she really wanted that… that monster for a father. I knew I couldn’t just leave it so I decided to wait for her to get back and have it out with her once and for all. I busied myself, vacuuming the flat, dusting. I was tidying her bedroom, picking up her clothes from where she’d dropped them on the floor. As I lifted her blouse from beside the bed I found this.’ June Gafney got unsteadily to her feet and went to the sideboards, pulling open a drawer and taking out a fat manila envelope. She handed it to Gareth and sat back down heavily in her chair.
There were six sheets of foolscap paper in the envelope, each filled with a neat script in black ink, together with some faded photographs and a battered theatre programme dating from the turn of the century. He spent the next twenty minutes reading through them. As every minute that passed unravelled another piece of Finlay Crawford’s history, and uncovered another horror. By the time he’d finished he was shaking. ‘How did the accident happen?’ he said. ‘How did she die?’
June Gafney was shaking her head. ‘There was no accident,’ she said, tears pouring freely down her thread-veined cheeks. ‘I killed Mary, Mr Barker. I killed Mary!’
The light was beginning to fade from the sky when Finlay Crawford slammed the car door and crunched across the gravel drive to the front door. He let himself in and stormed through the house to the study. He’d had an hour’s car journey from London to simmer about the situation, and slowly he was coming to the boil. Stein was in the study waiting, but shrank back into his wing-backed armchair as Crawford burst through the door and slammed it behind him.
‘What a bloody fiasco!’ Crawford said, walking across to the drinks’ cabinet and pouring himself a scotch. ‘Has Martin been in touch again?’
‘All the arrangements are made,’ Stein said. He’d seen Crawford angry before, but never to this extent. ‘You will keep your side of the bargain?’
Crawford wheeled on him. ‘I gave my word, didn’t? The most important thing to me is getting my daughter back, and I will sacrifice everything to do it… even my pride, Clifford, and you know how much that will cost me.’ He swilled the whisky around his mouth before swallowing and checked his watch. ‘So, what are the arrangements?’ He sat down in an armchair opposite Stein’s and closed his eyes while the other man spoke, only interrupting to clarify a point of detail.
‘So we have thirty minutes,’ Crawford said, when the other man finished speaking. ‘I’m going down to the beach to wait.’
‘Have the others all been contacted?’ Stein said.
‘I made over thirty telephone calls before leaving Mayfair. Changing the date of the ceremony at such short notice was something of a nightmare, but we have the necessary thirteen including yourself and me, with three members in reserve, so I’m not expecting to encounter any problems.’
Stein nodded and allowed himself to relax a little. Perhaps things would be all right after all. Finlay was his best friend, and given his word that he would not use the power of the Brotherhood against Martin and the girl. From his chair he watched Crawford leave the room and heard the car start. He stood, walked across to the desk and pulled open the drawer.
Lying at the bottom, hidden by a pile of paperwork was his service revolver and a box of ammunition. He took out the gun and the box, flipped open the chamber and slid in the bullets one by one. He’d never known Finlay break his word before… but there was a first time for everything. And if there was a choice between Martin and the Brotherhood, he would chose his own flesh and blood over a group of people whose only common bonds were selfishness and evil.
Although he’d had many disagreements with his son in the past, and he didn’t approve of the boy’s behaviour now, Martin represented the only link he had to his dear Eleanor, his beloved wife, whom cancer claimed fifteen years ago. And until the Brotherhood approved his appeal to resurrect her, she lived in Martin - in his laugh, in the sideways look he often gave, in his bearing. He couldn’t bear to lose that.
He slipped the revolver into the waistband of his trousers and went downstairs to the room to make the final preparations.
June Gafney sat in the chair, her eyes gazing at some invisible point in the far corner of the room. ‘It was early evening by the time she got home. I was waiting for her. I felt we should talk about it; try to come to some kind of understanding. But she wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. She wasn’t interested in my feelings. She’d met her father now, met Finlay Crawford and knew everything about him. And instead of being repulsed and disgusted by him, she embraced what he was. Admired him even!
‘We argued. We were standing in the hallway of her apartment block. I’d stormed out of her flat, telling her that if she was going to continue to see Finlay then I wanted nothing more to do with her, even though it broke my heart to say it. We were both crying. I was about to walk down the stairs to the street and Mary grabbed my arm. I don’t know why but I spun around and slapped her. I was just so angry. It was the first time I’d ever lifted a hand to her and I can still see the look of shock on her face.
‘I don’t really know what happened next. One minute we were standing facing each other at the top of the stairs and the next she stumbled and fell backwards. I think she died the moment her head hit the first stair. I heard a crack, like a twig snapping. She just tumbled down, over and over until she landed at the bottom.
‘I was on my way down to try to help, even though I knew it was hopeless, when I heard the key turn in the lock and the front door started to open inwards. Of course, it couldn’t open far because Mary’s body was… I ran back up and took the service stairs to the back of the block. I just wanted to get out of there. I had to get away from that madness.’ She stopped talking, looking at Gareth beseechingly, hoping for understanding. For forgiveness.
Gareth got to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go and find Meg,’ he said.
She reached out and grabbed his hand. ‘You do understand?’ she said imploringly.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand any of it,’ he said.
Finlay Crawford parked the car in the lee of an oak tree and walked down the rocky path to the shore. The tide was out and a brisk wind was blowing in, raising clouds of fine silver sand. The sun had dropped below the horizon and a quarter moon hung low in the sky, offering a lambent illumination to the rolling waves far out to sea. He shivered as he walked across the sand. The chill air had sent any holidaymakers back to their hotels and boarding houses, the only reminder of their presence being the full litter baskets on the promenade and a child’s solitary sandal half-buried in the sand. He kicked it irritably as he passed, sending it arcing through the air to land behind a grass-topped sand dune.
Further along the beach a figure stepped out from behind the cover of a beach hut. ‘Finlay?’
‘Yes, Martin. It’s me,’ Crawford said and stopped walking.
‘Are you alone?’
‘What does it look like?’ Crawford snapped, and then reigned in his temper. ‘Yes, Martin. I’m alone. Is Narina with you?’
Another figure stepped out from behind the hut. ‘I’m sorry, Finlay,’ Narina Dressler said. ‘I know how much you planned for this.’
Seeing her again made Crawford’s blood start to boil. She knew how important this was to him, only to jeopardise it with her own selfishness. He clenched his fists and held them at his side. ‘That doesn’t matter now,’ he lied. ‘Have you got the girl?’
‘Father says you’ve given your word that the Brotherhood will take no action. Is that right?’
‘I have spoken to the vast majority of them today. They are very disappointed with you both, but I have told them no action is to be taken.’
‘Very well then.’
To Finlay Crawford’s surprise another figure stepped out from behind the hut. Tall, muscular, and carrying the limp, unconscious body of Meg Johnson, Jarvis, the Steins’ butler, strode through the sand towards him. The two men met each other’s gaze - Crawford furious at this final betrayal, Jarvis, assured, calm, and slightly amused.
‘And what was your price?’ Crawford said sourly.
Jarvis shrugged and lowered the unconscious girl down onto the sand at Crawford’s feet. ‘I’ve known Martin since he was a baby, and God knows his father has always been there to stifle any joy in the boy’s life. Let’s just say I’m helping restore the balance a little. I think she’ll be good for him.’
Crawford shook his head. ‘God save us all from blind optimism,’ he said to the man’s departing back.
Jarvis didn’t turn. When he reached the others they walked together across the beach, until they were lost in the shadows of the dunes. A minute later a car started and sped off into the night.
Crawford crouched down and stroked the hair away from Meg’s brow. Yes, he thought. Very pretty.
She would do.
Martin Stein opened the door of the hotel room and carried Narina Dressler over the threshold, shutting the door behind them with a backward kick of his heel. He laid her gently on the bed and kissed her. She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down on top of her. They’d left Jarvis in the bar, nursing a pint of bitter and a fat wallet. They’d paid him well for today, but there was no doubting the man’s sincerity in his reluctance to accept payment.
Narina’s fingers deftly unbuttoned Martin’s shirt and entwined themselves in his chest hair. He rolled away from her and lay staring up at the ceiling whilst her fingernails scratched soft intricate patterns in his skin. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered.
‘Can he be trusted?’
‘Finlay? Of course. He’s bound to be angry, but it’s not as if we left him high and dry. We gave him an alternative. He will appreciate that.’ She rolled over and straddled him, her hands reaching behind her to unzip her dress.
‘I worry that we’ve underestimated him.’
She got to her feet and let her dress drop to the floor, then pulled back the covers and slid beneath the sheets, tugging at his hand in an effort to get him to follow.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. Come to bed.’
He turned and smiled at her. ‘You’re right,’ he said, then sat up and took off his shirt.
Ralph Jarvis sank the last dregs of his pint and said goodnight to the barman. He glanced up at the clock above the bar. Only nine o’clock but it had been a long and stressful day and he felt incredibly tired. He felt no guilt at having betrayed his employer’s trust. He’d hated Clifford Stein for years, only remaining with the family, first out of loyalty to Eleanor and then, after her death, to Martin. He loved the boy like a son - and had circumstances been slightly different Martin may have been just that. But that was all a long time ago, and he was too old for regrets.
Instead he looked forward to a future. Martin Stein owned a house in the Cannonbury area of London. Nothing too grand, but he’d been assured of a position there, and he would be only too happy to accept it.
He took the stairs to his room on the first floor. At the top he looked along the landing. He thought he’d seen something moving further along. Just a brief fluid movement by the door of his room - a shadow perhaps, but then there was nothing to cast a shadow. The landing was deserted. He walked along to the room and turned the key in the lock. He opened the door and put his hand around the frame, feeling on the wall for the light switch.
His fingers found the switch, but before he had chance to flick on the light his wrist was seized and he was hauled into the room, the door slamming shut behind him. He staggered forwards, cracking his shins against the coffee table, the impact ruining his balance and sending him crashing to the floor.
The air was filled with sound - an intense buzzing, like the sound of a million flies, but there was nothing flying around. In the vague light that filtered into the room through the net curtains from the street outside, he could make out nothing at all untoward. There was the bed, the wardrobe, the dressing table and the suitcase rack. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, but there didn’t seem to be anything through there either. Rubbing his shins he hauled himself to his feet and stood in the middle of the carpet, looking about the room.
The hand that gripped the back of his neck was cold, with fingers like steel bolts. They bit into the muscles at the base of his skull and squeezed, paralysing him, keeping him rooted to the spot. He simply couldn’t move, and when the clothes he was wearing burst into flames, there was nothing he could do but stand there, held in the vice-like grip and watch them burn. Fear turned to incredulity as the clothes were burnt from his body without heat. There was a flickering blue flame, and the cloth was blackening and charring, dropping to the floor as ash, but the flames weren’t touching his skin; he remained unscathed. Even when the fingers released him and he stood in the centre of the floor naked and surrounded by a circle of ash, he still couldn’t believe the flames had left him unmarked.
He held up his arm in front of his face, but it was clear, in the filtered light that there wasn’t a trace of a blister or a scorch. He was shaking his head in wonder, when a strip of skin an inch wide and six inches long was ripped from his forearm.
It happened so suddenly he felt no pain. One moment he was looking at the unblemished skin, the next it was gone, leaving a livid wheal of raw flesh in its place. Seconds later the pain rushed at him and he reeled backwards clasping his arm close to his body, feeling the wet stickiness of the blood seeping through the hairs covering his chest. He opened his mouth to cry out and his tongue was grasped by unseen fingers, sharp nails digging down into the soft tissue, cutting, lacerating until the tongue was ripped from his mouth and hurled against the wall.
Blood poured down his throat and he gagged, choking for breath. The pain was pulsing through him like a living thing, intense and vicious, the shock of it dimming the boundaries of his vision, leaving him teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. But when most of the skin was ripped from his back in one large bloody sheet, unconsciousness receded and he was frighteningly, agonisingly aware of what was happening to him. Blood bubbled in his mouth as he made incoherent sounds of pain and fear, and when the steel fingers closed around his neck and ripped out his throat, the end was mercifully quick.
Martin and Narina made love with an intensity that shocked both of them. There was an animal intensity about their lust, and when they climaxed they lay in each other’s arms, spent and totally fulfilled.
She leaned across and stroked his cheek. ‘I never thought it could be like that,’ she said.
‘That’s what freedom means. You’ve had the sword of Damocles lifted from above your head. You’re free of Finlay Crawford. We’re free of the Brotherhood. This is how it will be from now on.’
He cradled her head in the crook of her arm. ‘Let’s go away to celebrate this. Paris?’
‘Vienna,’ she said. Then cried out in pain as something gripped her ankle.
‘What’s wrong?’ Marin said, and then he too yelped as something crushed his shins.
They struggled to rise from the bed but their legs were trapped, as though someone had laid a great weight across them. The pain was excruciating. They stared into each other’s eyes and knew that Finlay Crawford had broken his word.
The air was filled with a crackling sound, like the sound of ice crunching underfoot, but the bed was anything but cold. Gradually the weight crept further up their bodies, pressing them down into the bed. As though the bed-covers were being pulled slowly up to their faces. But the covers didn’t feel soft, as they should do; they were hard, like metal.
It reached their thighs, crushed their genitals and crept on up to their bellies. They twisted and writhed as much as they could, but the bedclothes had them trapped. The sheets and blankets were turning to iron, crushing them with their weight and, as the weight reached their chests, squeezing the life out of them and suffocating them.
With his last ounce of strength Martin reached down and tried to push the bedclothes back from Narina’s body. He expected the covers to be hard, resistant, but his hand sunk into soft cotton and wool fibres, and within a split second was trapped as the fibres turned to steel. The bed was turning into a metal coffin and they were being crushed by the weight of it, yet the bed seemed as normal in appearance as it had before.
Narina Dressler made a small choking sound in her throat as the last of her air was squeezed from her body. Seconds later she died.
Martin took one last look at his lover’s lifeless body, and then, with a noise that sound like a long regretful sigh, he closed his eyes and accepted the inevitable.
Gareth paid the taxi driver and watched as the cab moved away from the kerb on its way to another fare. The ride from the guesthouse to Clifford Stein’s had given him enough time to digest June Gafney’s story, and what he’d read in Marie Elise’s notes.
Her research had paid dividends. She’d traced Finlay Crawford back to his very first appearance on stage at a small theatre in Edinburgh. But what was more interesting was that the history of Crawford before Edinburgh was vague to the point of being murky. It was as if he didn’t exist before he first appeared on stage.
What was also interesting was the fact that the actor/manager of the small theatre was a man called Oswald Bryce, a man in his late seventies whose theatrical career went back to the second half of the nineteenth century. In some obscure reference book Marie managed to find an entry for Bryce. It was nothing to do with his acting career, but a lot to do with a dining club he ran in Edinburgh called the Brotherhood. A number of eminent people both in and out of the theatre were members of the club, and a footnote to the piece went on at length about a Roman Catholic priest called McNeal who was lobbying various authorities to have the Brotherhood declared an illegal and blasphemous society, claiming that the group were involved in unearthly practices.
In Marie Elise’s research there was little more about Oswald Bryce but much about Finlay Crawford, including a theatre programme with a biographical piece about Crawford, comparing his talents and acting style to that of Oswald Bryce. This, added to the other pages of research led Marie to believe that Oswald Bryce and Finlay Crawford were linked more deeply than just fellow actors. And having read through her notes Gareth was coming to the same conclusion.
As fantastical as it seemed he was starting to believe that Oswald Bryce, old and ailing Oswald Bryce, had in fact taken over the body of Finlay Crawford, the young actor and in some way inhabited him, thus securing his own perpetuity.
He walked up the sweeping lane to the house, keeping to the bushes at the side of the road. The light was gone from the sky but the moon was providing its own illumination. He reached the front door but it was locked and he’d no desire to knock. A gravel path led around to the back of the house and he negotiated it as quietly as he could, breathing a huge sigh of relief when he finally stepped onto the cold hard concrete of the veranda. The french doors were ajar and he pushed them wider and slipped into the house.
The ground floor was deserted. There was no sound to be heard. He crept quietly up the stairs and along the landing, pausing to peer through each open door and putting his ear to each one that was closed. He reached the end of the landing and found himself at the top of another flight of stairs that he presumed led to the servants’ quarters.
Walking on tiptoe and hardly daring to breathe, he crept quietly down the stairs. At the bottom he found himself at the head of a long burgundy painted corridor. There was a huge oak door at the other end, resolutely shut. He reached it and grabbed the door handle, turning it silently. The door opened on well-oiled hinges, swinging into a huge room, dimly lit and reeking of incense.
He stepped through the door. The ceiling was low and swagged in white silk; the walls of the room were draped in long red velvet curtains, and between each fall of velvet was a man-sized alcove, each containing a cloaked and hooded figure. He drew in his breath sharply and was about to turn and run when he saw the podium in the centre of the smooth concrete floor. Lying naked on the podium was the unconscious body of Meg Johnson.
The figures in the alcoves were curiously still. Surely if they’d been living, breathing people standing there his intrusion would have been discovered and the alarm raised. He walked across to the nearest alcove and stretched out his hand to lift the hood of the cloaked figure.
He almost laughed aloud. The figure was nothing more than a wicker armature fashioned in the shape of a man. Where the face should have been was a photograph and nothing more. He pulled the photo from the figure and took it across to a candle burning in a sconce on the wall. Once he could see the face clearly he recognised it instantly. A cabinet member; a politician he’d heard speak on the radio several times; a man of high standing, respected throughout the country.
He went to the next figure and lifted the hood. An actor this time. One he knew well, and even shared a stage with. Were all these men members of Finlay Crawford’s Brotherhood? He moved on down the line to the next figure and the next. When he reached the fifth figure he was breathless. Two actors, an eminent politician and an archbishop. He raised the cowl of the next figure and Finlay Crawford smiled at him. ‘I wondered when you would get to me,’ Crawford said and drove a stiff right hand into Gareth’s stomach. As the younger man doubled over Crawford brought a heavy stave down on the back of his head.
Gareth collapsed in a heap at Crawford’s feet. With the toe of his shoe Finlay Crawford rolled the younger man onto his back and stared down into his face. ‘I recognise him,’ he said.
Clifford Stein emerged from one of the other alcoves. ‘It’s Gareth Barker, a friend of Martin’s, and a friend of hers.’ He jerked his thumb towards Meg Johnson.
‘Tie him up and let’s get started,’ Crawford said. ‘The others will be waiting.’
Gareth was aware of a crushing ache at the back of his head. He flicked open his eyes. He was sitting upright but his head was bent forward looking at the floor and it hurt too much to move it. The smell of incense in the room was intense as was the sound of chanting. Two voices monotonously mouthing a litany of strange words and sounds, over and over again. He tried to move, to bring his hands up to clutch at the pounding in his head, but he couldn’t move. He was tied securely to the chair in which he was sitting.
Gradually he raised his head and looked about the room. In the alcoves lights were turned on and the wicker figures disrobed, so their photographic faces could see the piece of theatre being enacted in the centre of the room. Meg Johnson was still lying on the podium, the reddish lights of the room making her naked skin glow pink. She was flanked by Crawford and Stein, each with their heads bowed, each chanting the monotonous rhyme that to Gareth’s ears made no sense.
He tried to speak but his tongue felt twice its normal size. He struggled with his bonds but they’d been expertly tied and it seemed the more he struggled the tighter they became. He suddenly became aware that the temperature in the room had dropped sharply. As he breathed out he could see his breath misting in front of him. And the same with Crawford and Stein; as they chanted so their hot breath turned to steam in the freezing air.
At the far end of the room another cloud of mist was beginning to form, but there was no one breathing here. It was as if the pale, shimmering cloud was emanating from the wall itself. Slowly it billowed into the room, rising and falling, twisting and turning in on itself, all the while growing more and more dense, more and more solid.
When it was the height of a small child it began to shift across the floor towards the two men and Meg. Crawford and Stein had stopped chanting and were watching the cloud approach, something close to awe on their faces.
Once it reached them the cloud rose into the air and stretched out, moulding itself to Meg’s naked form, and gradually, so slowly the movement was almost imperceptible, it started to sink into Meg’s body.
Finlay Crawford gave an almost exhalant cry and raised his fist in the air in triumph.
Gareth screamed, ‘No!’
Finlay Crawford wheeled on him. ‘Too late!’ he said. ‘It’s done. My daughter has returned to me and there is nothing anybody can do about it. Not you, not Narina, not that fool Martin. And now I’ll deal with you the way I dealt with them!’ Walking across to one of the alcoves he reached in and picked up the mahogany stave he’d used to club Gareth earlier.
He took a step forward and Clifford Stein stepped out in front of him. ‘So you broke your word,’ he said to Crawford, his voice shaking with emotion.
‘I had no choice, Clifford. They betrayed us, betrayed the Brotherhood. There was no possible way I could allow them to go unpunished.’ Crawford spoke calmly and reasonably, like a vet telling an owner why he’d put their favourite cat to sleep. ‘You do see that, don’t you?’
‘You broke your word,’ Clifford Stein said in a curiously flat voice. ‘You killed Martin. My son. You killed Martin…’
Crawford’s face twisted into a mask of fury and he lunged at Stein, knocking him to the floor. He towered over him, wielding the stave threateningly. ‘Do you honestly think I gave a damn about your son and that Dressler woman. They were nothing but extras, Clifford; walk-on parts… bloody spear-carriers. So they were in love, but you know what they say, “all fair in love and war”. Napoleon had a phrase to describe war. He called it “the business of barbarians”. We are the barbarians, Clifford, and this is war. A constant war against the passing of time, against the ravages of age, against death itself, conquering death. That’s why the Brotherhood was formed and why it’s been so successful for so long. And tonight we’ve begun a new chapter. The resurrection of the dead!’ He turned to Meg and grabbed her hand, patting it, trying to revive her, trying to bring her, or rather his daughter, back to consciousness. He was convinced the transfer had worked. He knew Marie had waited so long to be reunited with him, and he’d seen her aura, her spirit enter the body of the unconscious girl. But he had to wake the vessel; he had to be sure that the eyes that looked up at him were the eyes of Marie Elise, his daughter.
Clifford Stein sat on the floor with tears pouring down his cheeks. He was grieving for his son, but he was also grieving for himself and the part of him, the good and caring part of him, that died when he’d first made the pact with the Brotherhood. Crawford was right. They were barbarians, and what had transpired here tonight was truly barbaric. It had to end. And here tonight it would.
He pulled the gun from his waistband and pointed it with a shaking hand at Finlay Crawford. ‘Finlay?’ Stein said.
Crawford turned and Clifford Stein shot him four times in the chest, watching as the man fell to the floor next to him. Then he turned the gun on himself, placed the barrel against his temple and pulled the trigger once.
At the sound of the final shot, Meg Johnson opened her eyes.
Finlay Crawford felt the life oozing out through the holes in his chest as he tried to stem the flow of blood. He inched across the floor towards Gareth, reaching out with a bloodied hand. He grasped Gareth’s knee and pulled himself up until his face was within inches of the younger man. ‘This,’ he hissed through a grimace of pain and triumph, ‘This isn’t the end.’ Then he slumped forward and died.
Meg Johnson lifted herself from the podium and walked unsteadily across to where Gareth sat. He watched her approach, watched the expressions on her face shifting and changing, unable to settle. There was a glazed look in her eyes and it wasn’t until she got to within feet of him that a spark of recognition lit them from within.
She crouched down behind him, untied his bonds and then stood, looking first at the body of Finlay Crawford and from him to Clifford Stein.
‘This will take some explaining,’ she said.
He squeezed her hand. ‘No it won’t,’ he said. ‘We were never here.’
He sat in the front row of the stalls, smiling broadly as the audience around him got to their feet for the ovation. For the entire performance he’d sat next to the theatre reviewer for the Evening News, watching while the man scribbled down his critique by penlight. He’d not managed to read all of the review but odd phrase jumped out at him.
…Meg Johnson is a welcome addition to the West End Stage… , …the purity of her singing voice lifts an otherwise mediocre score to the heady realms of opera… , …the assured performance by Meg Johnson as Claudia put this reviewer in mind of the late Marie Elise at her best…
As Meg Johnson took her bow their eyes met and he flashed her a smile, allowing himself a small thrill of parental pride as he joined in the applause with the rest of the audience. A middle-aged woman sidled up to him, holding out her programme and a pen.
‘Would you mind awfully?’ she said. He dragged his eyes away from the stage, and looked at the woman vaguely. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You are him, aren’t you?’ she said, almost suspiciously. ‘You are Gareth Barker?’
Gareth Barker - the name sounded alien to him still, but he knew he’d get used to it, as he’d gradually become used to Finlay Crawford and before that Oswald Bryce.
It was only a name.
He smiled and took the pen and programme. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am.’
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