Disoriented, Gemma reached out and touched the other side of the double bed, patted it. Empty. Opening her eyes, she saw the faint gray light brightening the wrong side of the room.
She came fully awake. New flat. No husband. Of course. Sitting up against the pillows, she pushed the tangle of hair away from her face. It had been months since she dreamed of Rob, and she had thought that particular ghost well laid to rest.
The hot water had just begun to gurgle through the radiator pipes as the automatic timer switched on the central heating. For a panicked moment she wondered why the alarm hadn’t gone off, then relaxed in relief. It was Sunday. She closed her eyes and snuggled down into the pillows, feeling that luxurious laziness that comes with waking early and knowing one doesn’t have to get up.
Sleep, however, refused to be coaxed back. The thought of the interview she’d managed to schedule later in the morning at the Coliseum niggled at her consciousness until finally, with a yawn, she swung her feet from under the duvet. The opera had seemed the logical place to start checking out Gerald Asherton’s story, and she found herself looking forward to her day with a tingle of pleasure.
When her toes touched the floor they curled involuntarily from the cold, and she fumbled for her slippers as she shrugged into her dressing gown. At least she could take advantage of the time before Toby awakened to have a quiet cup of coffee and organize her thoughts for the day.
A few minutes later the flat was warming nicely and she sat at the black-slatted table in front of the garden windows, cradling a hot mug in her hands and questioning her sanity.
She had sold her house in Leyton-three bedrooms, semidetached with garden, a symbol in brick and pebbledust of Rob’s unrealistic plans for their marriage-and instead of buying the sensible flat in Wanstead she’d had in mind, she’d leased… this. She gazed round the room, bemused.
Her estate agent had begged, “Just have a quick look, Gemma, that’s all I ask. I know it’s not what you’re looking for, but you simply must see it.” And so she had come, and seen, and signed on the dotted line, finding herself the surprised tenant of the converted garage behind a square detached Victorian house in a tree-lined street in Islington. The house itself was unexpected, standing as it did between two of Islington’s most elegant Georgian terraces, but it occupied its space with the confidence of good breeding.
The garage was separate from the house, and lower than the garden, so that the hip-high windows which lined one entire wall of the flat were actually ground level on the outside. The owners, a psychiatrist who worked from a shed in the garden, and his Dutch wife, had done up the garage in what the agent described as “Japanese minimalist” decor.
Gemma almost laughed aloud, thinking of it. An exercise in “minimalist living” would be a fitting description of what it had become for her. The flat was basically one large room, furnished with a futon and a few other sleek, contemporary pieces. Cubbyholes along the wall opposite the bed contained kitchen and water closet, and a storage room with a small window had become Toby’s bedroom. The arrangement didn’t allow much privacy, but privacy with a small child was a negligible quality anyway, and Gemma couldn’t imagine sharing her bed with anyone in the foreseeable future.
Gemma’s furniture and most of their belongings had been stored in the back of her parents’ bakery in Leyton High Street. Her mum had shaken her faded red curls and tut-tutted. “What were you thinking of, love?”
A quiet, tree-lined street with a park at its end. A green, walled garden, filled with interesting nooks and crannies for a little boy to hide in. A secret place, filled with possibilities. But Gemma had merely said, “I like it, Mum. And it’s nearer the Yard,” doubting her mother would understand.
She felt stripped clean, pared down to essentials, serene in the room’s black-and-gray simplicity.
Or at least she had until this morning. She frowned, wondering again what had made her feel so unsettled, and the image of twelve-year-old Matthew Asherton came unbidden to her mind.
She rose, put two slices of brown bread in the toaster that stood on the tabletop and went to kiss Toby awake.
Having deposited Toby at her mum’s, Gemma took the tube to Charing Cross. As the train pulled away, the rush of wind down the tunnel whipped her skirt around her knees and she hugged the lapels of her jacket together. She left the station and entered the pedestrian mall behind St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and rounding the church into St. Martin’s Lane she found the outside no better. A gust of north wind funneled down the street, flinging grit and scraps of paper and leaving tiny whirlwinds in its wake.
She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and blinked several times to clear them, then looked about her. Before her on the corner stood the Chandos Pub, and just beyond it a black-on-white vertical sign said LONDON COLISEUM. Blue and white banners emblazoned with the letters ENO surrounded it and drew her eyes upward. Against the blue-washed canvas of the sky, the ornate white cupola stood out sharply. Near the top of the dome, white letters spelled out ENGLISH NATIONAL OPERA rather sedately, and Gemma thought they must be lit at night.
Something tugged at her memory and she realized she’d been here before. She and Rob had been to a play at the Albury Theatre up the street, and afterward had stopped for a drink at the Chandos. It had been a warm night and they’d taken their drinks outside, escaping the smoky crush in the bar. Gemma remembered sipping her Pimm’s and watching the operagoers spill out onto the pavement, their faces animated, hands moving with quick gestures as they dissected the performance. “It might be fun,” she’d said rather wistfully to Rob.
He had smiled in his condescending way and said, light voice mocking, “Old cows in silly costumes screeching their lungs out? Don’t be stupid, Gem.”
Gemma smiled now, thinking of the photo she’d seen of Caroline Stowe. Rob would’ve fallen over himself if he’d come face-to-face with her. Old cow, indeed. He’d never know what he had missed.
She pushed through the lobby doors, feeling a small surge of excitement at her own entrance into this glamorous fairy-tale world. “Alison Douglas,” she said to the heavy gray-haired woman at the reception desk. “The orchestra manager’s assistant. I’ve an appointment with her.”
“You’ll have to go round the back, then, ducks,” the woman answered in less than rarified accents. She made a looping motion with her finger. “Round the block, next the loading bay.”
Feeling somewhat chastened, Gemma left the plush-and-gilt warmth of the lobby and circled the block in the indicated direction. She found herself in an alleylike street lined with pub and restaurant delivery entrances. With its concrete steps and peeling paint, the stage entrance to the London Coliseum was distinguished only by the increasingly familiar ENO logo near the door. Gemma climbed up and stepped inside, looking around curiously at the small lino-floored reception area.
To her left a porter sat inside a glass-windowed kiosk; just ahead another door barred the way into what must be the inner sanctum. She announced herself to the porter and he smiled as he handed her a sign-in sheet on a clipboard. He was young, with a freckled face and brown hair that looked suspiciously as if it were growing out from a Mohawk cut. Gemma looked more closely, saw the tiny puncture in his earlobe which should have held an earring. He’d made a valiant effort to clean up for the job, no doubt.
“I’ll just give Miss Alison a ring,” he said as he handed her a sticky badge to wear. “She’ll be right down for you.” He picked up the phone and murmured something incomprehensible into it.
Gemma wondered if he’d been on duty after last Thursday evening’s performance. His friendly grin augured well for an interview, but she had better wait until she wouldn’t be interrupted.
Church bells began to ring close by. “St. Martin’s?” she asked.
He nodded, checking the clock on the wall behind him. “Eleven o’clock on the dot. You can set your watch by it.”
Was there a congregation for eleven o’clock services, Gemma wondered, or did the church cater solely to tourists?
Remembering how surprised she’d been when Alison Douglas had agreed to see her this morning, she asked the porter, “Business as usual here, even on a Sunday morning?”
He displayed the grin. “Sunday matinee. One of our biggest draws, especially when it’s something as popular as Traviata”
Puzzled, Gemma tugged her notebook from her purse and flipped quickly through it. “Pelleas and Melisande. I thought you were doing Pelleas and Melisande.”
“Thursdays and Saturdays. Productions-”
The inner door opened and he paused as a young woman came through, then continued to Gemma, “You’ll see.” He winked at her. “Alison’ll make sure you do.”
“I’m Alison Douglas.” Her cool hand clasped Gemma’s firmly. “Don’t mind Danny. What can I do for you?”
Gemma took in the short light brown hair, black sweater and skirt, platform shoes, which didn’t quite raise her to Gemma’s height, but Alison Douglas’s most notable characteristic was an air of taking herself quite seriously.
“Is there somewhere we could talk? Your office, perhaps?”
Alison hesitated, then opened the inner door, indicating by a jerk of her head that Gemma should precede her through it. “You’d better come along in, then. Look,” she added, “we’ve a performance in just under three hours and I’ve things I absolutely must do. If you don’t mind following along behind me we can talk as we go.”
“All right,” Gemma agreed, doubting she’d get a better offer. They had entered a subterranean maze of dark green corridors. Already lost, Gemma followed hard on Alison Douglas’s heels as they twisted and turned, went up, down and around. Occasionally, she looked down at the dirty green carpet beneath her feet, wondering if she recognized the pattern of that particular stain. Could she follow them like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs? The smells of damp and disinfectant made her want to sneeze.
Alison turned back to speak to her, stopped suddenly and smiled. Gemma felt sure her bewilderment had been entirely visible, and thought for once she ought to be grateful her every emotion registered on her face.
“Back-of-house,” Alison said, her brusque manner softening for the first time. “That’s what all the unglamorous bits are called. It’s quite a shock if one’s never been backstage, isn’t it? But this is the heart of the theater. Without this”-she gestured expansively around her-“nothing happens out front.”
“The show doesn’t go on?”
“Exactly.”
Gemma suspected that the key to loosening Alison Douglas’s tongue was her work. “Miss Douglas, I’m not sure I understand what you do.”
Alison moved forward again as she spoke. “My boss-Michael Blake-and I are responsible for all the administrative details of the running of the orchestra. We-” Glancing at Gemma’s face, she hesitated, seeming to search for a less complicated explanation. “We make sure everything and everyone are where they should be when they should be. It can be quite a demanding business. And Michael’s away for a few days just now.”
“Do you deal directly with the conductors?” Gemma asked, taking advantage of the opening, slight as it was, but the corridor turned again and Alison pushed aside the faded plush curtain which barred their way. She stepped back to allow Gemma to pass through first.
Gemma stopped and stared, her mouth open in surprise. Beside her, Alison said softly, “It is rather amazing, isn’t it? I begin to take it for granted until I see it through someone else’s eyes. This is the largest theater in the West End, and it has the largest backstage area of any theater in London. That’s what allows us to put on several productions simultaneously.”
The cavernous space bustled with activity. Pieces of scenery belonging to more than one production stood side by side in surreal juxtaposition. “Oh,” Gemma said, watching a huge section of stone wall roll easily across the floor, guided by two men in coveralls. “So that’s what Danny meant. Thursdays and Saturdays Sir Gerald conducts Pelleas and Melisande-Fridays and Sundays someone else is doing… what did he say?”
“La Traviata. Look.” Alison pointed across the stage. “There’s Violetta’s ballroom, where she and Alfredo sing their first duet. And there”-she gestured toward the section of stone wall, now slotted neatly into a recess-“that’s part of King Arkel’s castle, from Pelleas.” She looked at Gemma, studied her watch, looked once again at Gemma and said, “There are a few things I simply must see to. Have a look around here, why don’t you, while I get things in hand. After that I’ll try to manage a quarter-hour in the canteen with you.” She was already moving away from Gemma as she finished, the soles of her platform shoes clicking on the wooden floor.
Gemma walked to the lip of the stage and looked out. Before her the tiers of the auditorium rose in baroque splendor, blue velvet accented with gilt. The chandeliers hung from the dome high above her like frosted moons. She imagined all the empty seats filled, and the expectant eyes upon her, waiting for her to open her mouth and sing. Cold crept up her spine and she shivered. Caroline Stowe might look delicate, but to stand on a stage like this and face the crowd required a kind of strength Gemma didn’t possess.
She looked down into the pit and smiled. At least Sir Gerald had some protection, and could turn his back on the audience.
A thread of music came from somewhere, women’s voices carrying a haunting, lilting melody. Gemma turned and walked toward the back of the stage, straining to hear, but the banging and thumping going on around her masked even the sound’s direction. She didn’t notice Alison Douglas’s return until the woman spoke. “Did you see the pit? We jam one hundred nineteen players into that space, if you can imagine that, elbow to-”
Gemma touched her arm. “That music-what is it?”
“What-?” Alison listened for a moment, puzzled, then smiled. “Oh, that. That’s from Lakme, Mallika’s duet with Lakme in the high priest’s garden. One of the girls in Traviata is singing Mallika next month at Covent Garden. I suppose she’s swotting by listening to a recording.” She glanced at her watch, then added, “We can get that cup of tea now, if you like.”
The music faded. As Gemma followed Alison back into the maze of corridors she felt an odd sadness, as if she’d been touched by something beautiful and fleeting. “That opera,” she said to Alison’s back, “does it have a happy ending?”
Alison looked back over her shoulder, her expression amused. “Of course not. Lakme sacrifices herself to protect her lover, in the end.”
The canteen smelled of frying chips. Gemma sat across the table from Alison Douglas, drinking tea strong enough to put fur on her tongue and trying to find a comfortable position for her backside in the molded plastic chair. Around them men and women dressed in perfectly ordinary clothes drank tea and ate sandwiches, but when Gemma caught snippets of conversation it contained such obscure musical and technical terms that it might as well have been a foreign language. She pulled her notebook from her handbag and took another sip of tea, grimacing at the tannin’s bite. “Miss Douglas,” she said as she saw Alison touch the face of her wristwatch with her fingertips, “I appreciate your time. I’ll not take up any more than necessary.”
“I’m not sure I understand how I can help you. I mean, I know about Sir Gerald’s son-in-law. It’s an awful thing to happen, isn’t it?” Her forehead creased as she frowned, and she looked suddenly very young and unsure, like a child encountering tragedy for the first time. “But I can’t see what it has to do with me.”
Gemma flipped open her notebook and uncapped her pen, then laid both casually beside her teacup. “Do you work closely with Sir Gerald?”
“No more so than with any of the conductors”-Alison paused and smiled-“but I enjoy it more. He’s such a dear. Never gets in a tizzy, like some of them.”
Hesitating to admit she didn’t understand how the system worked, Gemma temporized with, “Does he conduct often?”
“More than anyone except our music director.” Alison leaned over the table toward Gemma and lowered her voice. “Did you know that he was offered the position, but declined it? This was all years ago, way before my time, of course. He said he wanted to have more freedom to work with other orchestras, but I think it had something to do with his family. He and Dame Caroline started with the company back at Sadler’s Wells-he would have been the obvious choice.”
“Does Dame Caroline still sing with the company? I would have thought… I mean, she has a grown daughter…”
Alison laughed. “What you mean is that she’s surely past it, right?” She leaned forward again, her animated face revealing how much she enjoyed teaching the uninitiated. “Most sopranos are in their thirties before they really hit their stride. It takes years of work and training to develop a voice, and if they sing too much, too soon, they can do irreparable damage. Many are at the peak of their careers well into their fifties, and a few exceptional singers continue beyond that. Although I must admit, sometimes they look a bit ridiculous playing the ingenue parts when they get really long in the tooth.” She grinned at Gemma, then continued more seriously. “Not that I think that would have happened to Caroline Stowe. I can’t imagine her looking ridiculous at any age.”
“You said ‘would have happened.’ I don’t-”
“She retired. Twenty years ago, when their son died. She never sang publicly again.” Alison had lowered her voice, and although her expression was suitably concerned, she told the story with the relish people usually reserve for someone else’s misfortune. “And she was brilliant. Caroline Stowe might have been one of the most renowned sopranos of our time.” Sounding genuinely regretful, Alison shook her head.
Gemma took a last sip of tea and pushed her cup away as she thought about what she’d heard. “Why the title, then, if she stopped singing?”
“She’s one of the best vocal coaches in the country, if not the world. A lot of the most promising singers in the business have been taught, and are still being taught, by Caroline Stowe. And she’s done a tremendous amount for the company.” Alison gave a wry smile, adding, “She’s a very influential lady.”
“So I understand,” said Gemma, reflecting that it was Dame Caroline’s influence, and Sir Gerald’s, that had dragged the Yard into this investigation in the first place. Seeing Alison straighten up in her chair, Gemma asked, “Do you know what time Sir Gerald left the theater on Thursday evening?”
Alison thought for a moment, wrinkling her forehead. “I really don’t know. I spoke to him in his dressing room just after the performance, around eleven o’clock, but I didn’t stay more than five minutes. Had to meet someone,” she added with a dimple and a lowering of her lashes. “You’ll have to ask Danny. He was on duty that night.”
“Did Sir Gerald seem upset in any way? Anything different about his routine that night?”
“No, not that I can think-” Alison stopped, hand poised over her teacup. “Wait. There was something. Tommy was with him Of course, they’ve known each other practically forever,” she, added quickly, “but we don’t often see Tommy here after a performance, at least not in the conductor’s dressing room.”
Feeling the sense of the interview fast escaping her, Gemma said distinctly, “Who exactly is Tommy?”
Alison smiled. “I forgot you wouldn’t know. Tommy is Tommy Godwin, our Wardrobe Manager. And it’s not that he considers one of his visits akin to a divine blessing, like some costume designers I could name”-she paused and rolled her eyes-“but if he’s here at the theater he’s usually busy with Running Wardrobe.”
“Is he here today?”
“Not that I know of. But I expect you can catch him tomorrow at LB House.” This time Gemma’s bewilderment must have been evident, because before she could form a question, Alison continued. “That’s Lilian Baylis House, in West Hampstead, where we have our Making Wardrobe. Here.” She reached for Gemma’s notebook. “I’ll write down the address and phone number for you.”
A thought occurred to Gemma as she watched Alison write in a looping, schoolgirl hand. “Did you ever meet Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, Connor Swann?”
Alison Douglas flushed. “Once or twice. He came to ENO functions sometimes.” She returned the pen and notebook, then ran her fingers around the neck of her black sweater.
Gemma cocked her head while she considered the woman across the table-attractive, about her own age, and single, if her unadorned left hand and the date she’d alluded to were anything to go by. “Shall I take it he tried to chat you up?”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Alison said, a little apologetically. “You know, you can tell.”
“All flash and no substance?”
Alison shrugged. “I’d say he just liked women… he made you feel special.” She looked up, and for the first time Gemma noticed that her eyes were a light, clear brown. “We’ve all talked about it, of course. You know what the gossip mill’s like. But this is the first time I’ve really let myself think…” She swallowed once, then added slowly. “He was a lovely man. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
The canteen tables were emptying rapidly. Alison looked up and grimaced, then bustled Gemma back into the dark green tunnels. Murmuring an apology, she left Gemma once again in Danny the porter’s domain.
“’Ullo, miss,” said Danny, ever cheerful. “You get what you came for?”
“Not quite.” Gemma smiled at him. “But you may be able to help me.” She pulled her warrant card from her handbag and held the open case where he could see it clearly.
“Crikey!” His eyes widened and he looked her up and down. “You don’t look like a copper.”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, mate,” she said, grinning. Resting her elbows on the counter-sill, she leaned forward earnestly. “Can you tell me what time Sir Gerald signed out last Thursday evening, Danny?”
“Ooh, alibis, is it?” The glee on Danny’s face made him look like an illustration right out of an Enid Blyton novel.
“Routine inquiries just now,” Gemma said, managing to keep a straight face. “We need to know the movements of everyone who might have had contact with Connor Swann the day he died.”
Danny lifted a binder from the top of a stack and opened it at the back, flipping through the last few pages. “Here.” He pointed, holding the page up where Gemma could see. “Midnight on the dot. That’s what I remembered, but I thought you’d want-what is it, corroboration?”
Sir Gerald’s signature suited him, thought Gemma, a comfortable but strong scrawl. “Did he usually stay so long after a performance, Danny?”
“Sometimes.” He glanced at the sheet again. “But he was last out that night. I remember because I wanted to lock up-had a bird waiting in the wings, you might say.” He winked at Gemma. “There was something, though,” he said more hesitantly. “That night… Sir Gerald… well, he was half-cocked, like.”
Gemma couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. “Sir Gerald was drunk?”
Danny ducked his head in embarrassment. “I didn’t really like to say, miss. Sir Gerald always has a kind word for everybody. Not like some.”
“Has this happened before?”
Danny shook his head. “Not so as I can remember. And I’ve been here over a year now.”
Gemma quickly entered Danny’s statement in her notebook, then closed it and returned it to her bag. “Thanks, Danny. You’ve been a great help.”
He passed over the sign-in sheet for her initial, his grin considerably subdued.
“Cheerio, then,” she said as she turned toward the door.
Danny called out to her before she could open it. “There’s one other thing, miss. You know the son-in-law, the one what snuffed it?” He held up his ledger and pointed to an entry near Sir Gerald’s. “He was here that day as well.”