Chapter Thirty-Two
A PRIL 2, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
The curtain closes, and the chandeliers illuminate the vast space slowly. Bit by bit, the four levels of the Theatre Royal reveal themselves. Like a gold-and-crimson layer cake, the tiers appear, topped by the icing of the gilt ceiling. In our prized seats—courtesy of Mr. Dean—Agatha and I are at the cake’s center.
Agatha leans toward me and whispers, “Not my favorite show.”
“Mine, either,” I whisper back. “I much prefer a play to a musical. And the music, well…”
“Felt a bit slapdash, didn’t it?”
“Exactly. As if Mr. Coward raced through the writing of this show on his way to another.”
“Borrowing snippets of popular songs to represent different eras?”
“It didn’t quite work for me, either, but the audience seemed to enjoy it.” I reach into my handbag for the tin of pastilles I keep inside. “Care for a black-currant Allenburys while we wait for the theater to clear?”
Selecting one from the golden box, she says, “What is it about the theater that makes one crave a sweet?”
“For me, that craving isn’t limited to the theater. I always long for a sweet,” I remark.
We laugh companionably, keeping our eye on the diminishing crowds. Before the performance began, we quietly showed the ticket takers and concession-stand employees the picture of May and Celia I’d borrowed from May’s sisters. But no one remembered the young women. Much depends on what we might learn from Sir Alfred Chapman.
After a few minutes, Agatha asks, “Shall we?”
We step into the vestibule and head back. Toward the end of a long corridor, we encounter a guard. “Sorry, ladies. No access here for audience members,” he advises us.
“We are here at Mr. Basil Dean’s invitation. And he asked that we come backstage after the show to drop off a signed book for him in the care of Sir Alfred Chapman.” This is Agatha at her most imperious. Given how reticent her typical demeanor can be, it never fails to astonish me how quickly she can become Madge-like. She must come by it honestly.
“Ah,” he says with a respectful nod. “I’ll still have to check with Sir Alfred.”
“Of course,” Agatha says with a nod of her own. “We will happily wait here.”
Once the guard is out of earshot, I murmur to Agatha, “This is where May would have come backstage as well.”
“Yes,” she says. “She might even have sat in the same seats we did. I understand that theater owners generally hold back a few seats each night for last-minute celebrities or politicians, and if they go unused, they share them with friends or colleagues.”
Should I tell her about my visit to Louis Williams? The question plagued me throughout the show. I almost confessed during intermission, but I loathe the idea of disappointing Agatha. And I know I shouldn’t have gone to Mathers Insurance without discussing it with the Queens. That fact was made clear when Margery and I stopped by Madame Isobel’s without notifying the group first. But now that we are about to see Sir Alfred—and he was referenced not once but twice in the past few days—I feel I must. Especially because we should avoid asking him about May directly, given his connection to the Williams family. It would let the cat out of the bag that we suspect Louis Williams, and we don’t want to give Louis the opportunity to clean up any loose ends.
“Agatha, don’t be cross, but I stopped in Mathers Insurance this afternoon.”
“In between our train trip and the theater?” She looks incredulous.
“Yes. It was a mad impulse.”
“Whatever for?”
“I simply had to lay eyes on our main suspect,” I say. “You’ll never believe it, but Louis Williams mentioned Sir Alfred as well.”
Her eyes widen appreciatively, so I race to continue. “Sir Alfred is a family friend of the Williamses, the one who keeps Louis well supplied in tickets. So I think it’s safe to say that Louis supplied to May and Celia the tickets Sir Alfred first provided him with. Sir Alfred must be the one whom Louis wanted May to visit backstage. One more link between Louis and May.”
Agatha stares at me but doesn’t speak.
“Are you furious?” I ask.
“I am furious you didn’t bring me along,” she replies.
I’m shocked and relieved. “You would have wanted to come?”
“Of course. I would have liked the chance to assess our suspect as well, to observe those intangible qualities that reveal much.”
“I’m even more sorry now, Agatha. I would have benefited from another set of eyes and ears. Especially yours.”
“What did you make of Louis?”
“I have no doubt he’s involved in May’s disappearance in some way. But perhaps we should resist mentioning the Williamses to Sir Alfred. He might go running to Louis.”
The clop of heavy shoes echoes down the long corridor, and the guard reappears. “Sir Alfred will see you.”
We follow him, and I notice that the decor grows plainer the farther we walk. The gleaming oak floors in the public spaces become a more serviceable pine, and the white, gold, and crimson color scheme simplifies to white and amber. No crystal light fixtures here, only functional brass. Half-open doors reveal dressing rooms where actors and actresses wipe off makeup, showing faces that are often appreciably older or younger than they appear onstage. I have to stop myself from staring.
When the guard halts to turn the handle on a door, I have low expectations for Sir Alfred’s office. But we step into a sumptuous wood-paneled library that would not be out of place in a country estate or a successful solicitor’s office. And I remember that Sir Alfred has at his disposal a veritable army of theater craftsmen who can fashion for him whatever stage set he prefers for his personal use.
The setting fits the man. With his gray-blond hair and matching mustache, three-piece tweed suit, and unassuming manner, Sir Alfred could be a kindly uncle or well-intentioned adviser. His actual role, theater impresario—which, I imagine, entails raucous parties, long nights of drinking, young actresses, and flashy silk suits—seems ill fitting.
“Welcome, ladies. A friend of Mr. Dean is a friend of mine,” he says pleasantly.
“We so appreciate your taking time to see us,” Agatha says. “I’m Mrs. Mallowan, and this is my friend Mrs. Sayers. We made the acquaintance of your partner at my sister’s home, Abney Hall.”
“Mr. Dean was kind enough to arrange tickets for us tonight and only asked for a signed copy of one of my mysteries in return.” I hand Sir Alfred an autographed copy of The Five Red Herrings .
“I’ll make certain he receives this,” he says. He seems uninterested in the novel or my authorship of it. In my experience, that is unusual; most people have some degree of curiosity about the writing process.
“Much appreciated.”
“We enjoyed Cavalcade, ” Agatha says as a way to prolong the exchange. Though polite, Sir Alfred appears as though he’d rather retire to his Scotch and the open book sitting on the sofa table.
“Yes,” I say with a smile. “We thought you might be out celebrating another successful performance.”
“Ah, I’m not usually one for parties. The cast and crew tend to gather most nights at the Shim Sham Club or Café de Paris, but I rarely attend. Except on an opening night, of course, or some other special occasion.”
I try not to stare at Agatha. Wasn’t the Café de Paris the place where the missing violinist, Leonora Denning, was last seen? Hadn’t Louis Williams been interviewed about her disappearance because he was also in Café de Paris that very evening? All these pieces are coming together, but I cannot quite see the shape.
“Not much of a night owl?” I try a jest.
He gives me an indulgent smile. “Not really. After the show ends, I linger here to make sure all the ducks are in a row. Then I lock up and retire for the night.”
While our fortuitous conversation with Mr. Dean and my orchestrated exchange with Louis Williams both referenced Sir Alfred, I do not get the sense that this mild-mannered gentleman played much of a role beyond supplying tickets. And I am dubious that we’ll gather more information without asking him directly about May Daniels or Louis Williams. Or even Leonora Denning. And that would surely tip off Louis Williams to our interest in him, should Sir Alfred report back.
“We thank you for your time and—” I begin, and to my surprise, Agatha interrupts.
“Before we leave you to your quiet evening, I’m wondering if you might know the Williams family. A father and son, both in the insurance business?” she asks, all demure smiles. Just a society matron making conversation about mutual acquaintances.
Watching Sir Alfred, I understand why Agatha has disregarded my suggestion. His reaction discloses much about his view of the Williamses and his interactions with them. Sir Alfred has been rendered momentarily immobile. When he finally speaks, he utters a bald-faced lie.
“I cannot say that I do.”