‘I thought you were—lonely.’ He knew by the look on her face that he had chosen the wrong word.
‘Whatever you thought we had in common, I don’t—I mean to say, I’m not as free as you. I can’t leave this place.’
‘I realize that.’
‘No. I mean I really can’t leave.’
‘Elspeth, I have to talk to you about Jan Petrovic.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He heard the relief in her voice. ‘Have you found her?’
‘No, but I have a good idea where she is.’ Bryant tried to sound nonchalant.
‘You do? Where is she? Is she safe?’
‘She’s fine. She’s in Dublin.’
‘Dublin? I don’t understand.’
‘Petrovic wanted to get out of the show but had an unbreakable contract, so someone suggested a way that she could escape. That was you, wasn’t it?’
Her shoulders slumped wearily, and she placed a hand over her face. For a moment he thought she was going to cry.
‘I know the truth, Elspeth. I’m sorry. I spoke to Phyllis, her flatmate. She told me Jan came to see you. She didn’t think anything of it at the time, because Jan told her you worked at the theatre.’
Wynter raised her head and studied his eyes intently. ‘I just suggested that with these murders going on, there was a way she could easily leave. I told her, it’s just a bit of theatre, that’s all. Break a window, give yourself a little nick on the thumb, leave a drop of blood and people will think that the Palace has claimed another victim. She’s a Hungarian Jew, Arthur. Her parents are waiting for her in Ireland before the family heads for America. She desperately wanted to go and join them.’
‘But why would you do that?’ asked Bryant. ‘Why would you give the police even more cause for concern?’ He held her gaze steadily, and in that moment, she knew that he knew. ‘I’ve never made an arrest before, Elspeth. I’m afraid you’re going to be my first. You see, this time, I know I’ve got the right person. I know it’s you.’
‘Arthur, please—’
‘I know you’ve spent your whole life in the theatre,’ said Bryant quietly. ‘Raising him and looking after yourself. I can’t blame you for wanting to be free. But you chose the wrong way to do it.’
She unlocked the box-office door and closed it behind her with infinite care. ‘So you really do know.’
‘The other pass door,’ he explained. ‘There are no coats of paint holding it shut, just a lock. Nobody ever thought to check it. You told Stan it was sealed, and he told everyone else. I knew that if it could be opened, somebody must have a key. I found it in your tortoise box.’
‘So you unlocked the door and discovered the room. I wonder if we could sit down.’ She looked around, her hands knotted together.
‘Of course.’ Bryant ushered her to a small alcove with a velvet-covered bench seat.
‘I thought we were fine,’ Elspeth explained. ‘It was such a big building, that was the thing. Nobody even knew he was there. Oh, one or two of the girls sat with him when he was small, but they all moved on. I hadn’t even realized I was pregnant, Arthur. I was fifteen years old. Nobody told me the facts of life. A painful two-minute act in the dark of a dressing room with a man I had never seen out of villainous stage make-up. I was frightened out of my wits. The show closed and he left with it. I gave birth just as my grandmother had, here in the theatre. The difference was I was unmarried. There was no one I could go to for help.’
A look of overwhelming misery settled on her. ‘I knew I would have to raise the boy alone. They wouldn’t let me stay in my lodgings, not in my condition. It was a respectable boarding house. So I moved in here with him. Nobody knew—why would they? There are whole floors barely used. That’s when I found the other storeroom behind the pass door. We slept there and were happy enough. My boy stayed quiet. He was as good as gold. There were members of staff in whom I confided. They all moved on. The shows came and went, just as they always had. We would still have been in lodgings, sharing a room. There was so much homelessness. You started to see people sleeping in the parks. We were better off here. Then my boy began to grow restive. He spent too much time alone. Something went wrong in his head.’
‘What did you expect?’ asked Bryant. ‘You can’t lock a child up, away from the real world, away from light and friends, no matter how much love you give him.’
Elspeth appeared not to have heard. ‘He was always playing with the costumes and props, you see. Trying on the masks. He especially loved the Greek ones, but the comedy face got broken and he was left with the mask of tragedy. It got so I couldn’t get him to take it off. He seemed happier behind it. We would eat together, and I would leave him playing or asleep while I went to work, just as always. But he kept the mask on more and more. I tried to pretend that things were normal. Then he became ill and started acting oddly, and I finally took the mask off.’ She bit her knuckle, tears welling in her eyes. ‘At first I couldn’t remove it. He’d cut himself, you see, and the cut was infected. The mask was papier mâché. It was damp from his face all the time. It went rotten. It did something awful to his flesh. I treated it as best I could, but there were terrible scars. It was too late for a doctor. I knew they would send me to gaol. My poor boy. The skin dried all shiny and stretched. He started to remind me of men who’d been in the Great War, the ones who’d been burned, who stand on street corners selling matches. I didn’t know what to do. I decided it was time to leave. This place had become our prison. But when I went to go—’