‘Go on,’ said Penrose encouragingly.
‘I took a swig of the whisky during the matinee when nobody was looking. I thought it would give me the courage to face Mr Aubrey later.’
At least that narrowed the timing down a little, Penrose thought. Whoever had doctored the whisky could not have done so until after the matinee. He gave White a moment to compose himself, leaving him in PC Bartlett’s care while he went to look for Fallowfield. The Sergeant had not gone far. ‘Rafe Swinburne’s just turned up, Sir,’ he explained, coming out of the room across the landing. ‘He says he’s only nipped back to change his clothes and then he’s going out again, but I’ve asked him to wait until you’ve had a chance to speak to him.’
‘Thanks, Bill. I’ll do it now. You go in with White.’
‘He didn’t know about Aubrey, did he Sir?’
‘No, I don’t think he did. And I think he’s telling the truth about Elspeth, as well, although I’m not convinced by his alibi. We’ll see about that now.’
Swinburne’s room was the mirror image of White’s but had none of the transforming touches of ownership. Clearly Hedley had been accurate when he said that his friend spent very little time at home.
The actor was by the small sink in the corner, shaving with a casual indifference to the presence of Scotland Yard. If he had been at all surprised to find the police in his digs, he did not show it now.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said, looking at Penrose in the mirror. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I carry on getting ready while we talk, but I’m on a promise this afternoon and I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.’
Instantly irritated, Penrose picked up a towel from the bed and handed it to Swinburne. ‘If she’s so keen, a few more minutes won’t hurt,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to tell me what you did before work on Friday – say from half past five onwards.’
Swinburne wiped the soap from his face but not the smirk and Penrose, whose tiredness was getting the better of him, experienced an almost overwhelming desire to help it on its way. He was annoyed to see that the actor not only sensed his frustration but 214
seemed gratified by it. ‘Of course, Sir,’ Swinburne said with infuri-ating politeness, ‘anything to help,’ and proceeded to echo Hedley White’s account of the evening, adding a few details here and there. The speech was convincingly delivered, so much so that Penrose wondered if Hedley’s suspiciously rehearsed version of the same story had, after all, been down to nerves.
‘What about after the shows? Did you and White come back here together?’
‘No, Inspector. We hardly ever do. I’ve usually got business elsewhere, if you know what I mean, and Hedley’s the faithful type.’
He looked slightly ashamed as he realised the inappropriateness of his words. ‘I’m sorry, that was a bit tasteless bearing in mind what’s happened. How is Hedley?’
‘Upset, as you would expect,’ Penrose replied curtly, and cut Swinburne off as he began to vouch for White’s good nature. ‘Did your business extend to Saturday night, as well?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes, but the location was different. I like variety and so far, touch wood, it seems to like me. Speaking of which, do you mind if I throw a few clothes in a bag while we chat? I doubt I’ll be back here tonight and I need to make sure I can go straight to the theatre tomorrow if necessary.’
Penrose nodded, and watched as Swinburne transferred two or three items from a drawer to an empty holdall. ‘This variety that you’ve been with all weekend – does any of it have a name and a contact address?’
‘First names and districts only, I’m afraid. There’s a Sybille in Hammersmith, or it could be Sylvia, and a Victoria in Bloomsbury.
Sorry I can’t be more specific.’
‘Hedley tells me you brought him and Elspeth together. Is that right?’
‘I only gave him a shove in the right direction. It was hardly Cupid at work but it seemed to do the trick. From what I could tell, they were made for each other.’
‘You saw a lot of them, then?’
‘No, not at all. I only met her a couple of times in passing, but he talked about her all the time and he was obviously happy.’
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It seemed to Penrose that Swinburne was not the sort to consider other people’s happiness very often. ‘You weren’t interested in her yourself?’
‘I do have some scruples, Inspector. She was spoken for and clearly smitten, and I only like to make an effort if I’m sure of the pay-off. Rejection’s not good for the soul.’
‘I’m sure someone of your experience could limit the chances of that.’
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. I didn’t kill her, and neither did Hedley, so am I free to go?’
‘By all means, for now,’ Penrose said sweetly, ‘but we may need to talk to you again.’ At the door, he turned back. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said casually. ‘There’s a walkway between Wyndham’s and the New. It runs over St Martin’s Court. Do you ever use it?’
Swinburne closed the bag and picked up his motorcycle helmet.
‘I have done, many times,’ he said. ‘We all used to have a bit of fun with it, running back and forth during the show and playing poker in the wings, seeing how far we could push it before having to get back to our own theatre. Then somebody missed a cue and Aubrey put his foot down. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humour.’
Penrose let him go, angry with himself for not having managed to disguise his dislike of Swinburne during their interview. It had allowed the younger man to take control of the exchange, and that was not something that happened very often. He went back to the other room, where Hedley White was standing at the window, watching as Swinburne left the house.
‘Did Rafe tell you about Friday night?’ he asked anxiously.
Penrose joined him, and watched the actor climb onto his motorbike and move off in the direction of the river. ‘Yes, he confirmed your story.’
‘So what happens now? Am I under arrest?’
‘I’d like you to come back to the station with us so we can take a formal statement and some fingerprints from you. Are you happy with that?’
‘Of course, if it will help.’
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‘Then you’re not under arrest. Do you remember what you were wearing on Friday?’
The fear had returned to Hedley’s face, but he nodded and reached under the bed for a laundry bag. He handed some trousers and a jumper to Fallowfield, who accepted them and then took the whole bag. ‘Go with PC Bartlett, lad,’ Fallowfield said, and his tone was not unkind. ‘We’ll be with you in a minute.’
As Bartlett took White down to the car, Penrose and Fallowfield searched the rest of the room quickly and efficiently, but found nothing of interest. ‘I think a quick look round next door, Sergeant, don’t you?’ Penrose suggested with a wry smile, but the result was the same there. ‘You know, Bill, we’ve got the so-called prime suspect in custody and we’re no further forward now than we were an hour ago,’ he said, unable to hide his disappointment.
‘When are we going to get some help?’
The answer came sooner than he expected. ‘Sir,’ Bartlett said as Penrose shut the car door, ‘there’s an Alice Simmons at the station and she wants to talk to you urgently.’
There were two messages waiting for Penrose when he got back to the Yard. One was from Josephine, who had remembered where she read about the iris, but said it would wait until she saw him later; the other was from Maybrick at the theatre, reporting that Terry had tried to get into the building during the morning and had demanded to know what was going on.
‘Could be a bluff, Sir,’ Fallowfield suggested. ‘After all, he had a lot to gain from Aubrey’s death. He could be making a public display of ignorance to fool us.’
Penrose was doubtful but not in the mood to rule anything out.
‘We’ll have to see him later today, but I’m hoping Alice Simmons will point us in the right direction. In the meantime, perhaps you’d be kind enough to telephone Mr Terry and tell him that his first task as boss of two theatres is to cancel all productions until further notice. That won’t go down well, I’m sure, but it will keep him busy for a few hours until we can get to speak to him. Then come back here. I want you to see Alice Simmons with me.’
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