Biddle was an observer. He stayed silent and noticed the things others missed. He could already feel the undertow of loyalties that might pull the two detectives in different directions. It was worth making a note of. In terms of career advancement, it could prove useful.
‘Sidney, we seem to have lost you.’ May pointed at the blackboard. ‘Points of correspondence in these footprints.’
Biddle studied the photographs pinned at the top of the board and tried to concentrate. ‘The design is similar in shape and dimensions, and there’s what looks like a faint worn area on the instep common to both,’ he pointed out. ‘The moulded sole probably means plimsolls, which is good, given the distinctive patterns produced by different companies.’
‘I noticed that many of the cast members wore a specifically styled stage shoe with a rubber sole like that,’ added May.
‘What would you suggest we do with these prints, then?’
‘They were made on lino and concrete respectively, so I’d try to raise a more detailed image with an electrostatic mat.’ May knew that you could pass an electric charge through a sheet of foil layered between two sheets of acetate, photograph it at an angle that contrasted the surface, and it would reveal details of the shoe that might otherwise be lost.
‘No need. I was informed that such shoes come from a specialist shop in St Martin’s Lane. That’s your job sorted out for the rest of the day, Sidney. Till receipts.’ Biddle looked uncomfortable. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘We should be looking for her enemies.’
Bryant’s face clouded. ‘What does forty-eight mean to you, Mr Biddle?’
‘The first forty-eight hours are the most important in any murder investigation,’ he mumbled.
‘And would you mind telling us why that is?’
‘The evidence starts to deteriorate.’
‘Exactly. The physical surroundings of violent death become muddied. The people who knew this unfortunate young lady will still be around after those barely visible heel marks have gone.’
‘I think what Mr Bryant is trying to point out,’ said May, ‘is that no matter how hard we try to preserve the site, someone or something will stir the air, touch the floor, imperceptibly change the scene. The city we live in now is not the city we lived in five minutes ago.’
‘Oh, but it is, John,’ stated Bryant, annoyingly. ‘The growth circle sees to that.’
‘I’m not sure I follow. Growth circle?’
‘Natural forces create order out of chaos in specific sites, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘I hardly think this is the time for an argument in semantics,’ said May.
‘It’s not semantics, it’s psychogeography. Ask yourself to name the most soulless and depressing central thoroughfare in London. New Oxford Street would be high on your list. Why? Because it’s a forced nineteenth-century creation; it was noted to be atmospherically dead when it was built, and it always will be. Natural growth fails in a spot that was artificial to begin with.’
‘I must agree with that,’ said Biddle, then quickly shut his mouth.
‘Fine,’ said May, surrendering. ‘Would you like me to check out the number of murders in nineteenth-century Cambridge Circus, or shall we go back further, to the age of the Black Death, say?’
‘Where we need to go is back to the theatre,’ said Bryant. ‘You and I will take Miss Wynter’s tour of the building. We shall sense the impressions left behind on the air. The auditorium of the theatre, that’s where the drama is playing itself out.’ He waved a warning digit at Biddle. ‘And not a word to Davenport, you, or I’ll put pinholes in your gas mask.’
18
GRAND TOUR
Elspeth Wynter replaced the receiver and made a note in her theatre order book. Many of the Orpheus opening-night guests were unable to attend because of war commitments. Even so, word of mouth had provoked enough intrigue to sell out most of December. Audiences scented a success in the making. They recalled snippets in newspapers, heard wireless reports, remembered names, gradually assembled facts. The director was suitably infamous, the cast was on loan from the finest companies in the world, including Offenbach specialists from Lyon, and a strong whiff of scandal hung over the show. The play’s ribald new script had incurred the suspicion of the Lord Chamberlain; there was a rumour that he might have it banned.
Elspeth suspected that Helena Parole wanted to court controversy. She knew what would happen once word reached the censor’s office that this production featured virtual nudity, simulated sex and a salacious translation. There would be demands for its immediate closure. But the owner of the theatre company had apparently made contingency plans, though nobody knew what they were.