‘I daresay you see the parallels with your own partnership,’ said Elspeth carelessly.
Bryant pretended to bridle at the thought. ‘Crusty curmudgeon and laconic ladies’ man, whatever can you mean?’ he said.
Elspeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’re such a curmudgeon. You have the heart of someone who’s been in love. Trust me, I know the signs.’
‘Well, once was enough.’
‘You’re young. You have plenty of time yet, provided you can manage to stay out of harm’s way.’ She checked a tiny gold watch. ‘I need to get back. Perhaps we can see each other when I get out.’
‘And perhaps we can eat somewhere other than here,’ said Bryant, paying the bill. ‘Their meat sauce tasted as though it had been boiled up from the innards of a horse.’
‘If they keep reducing our rations, I imagine that’s what we’ll end up eating.’ Elspeth rose and straightened her hat as a woman shoved past her to claim her seat.
The young detective laid a gentle hand on Elspeth’s shoulder. ‘I’ve overlooked something. You know the theatre better than anyone . . .’
‘I know it well, but so does Geoffrey. And Stan Lowe, and Mr Mack.’
‘Am I making mistakes? What have I missed?’
‘I think perhaps . . .’ She hesitated for a moment, studying his wide blue eyes. A connection tingled as she opened herself to him, then quickly cooled as she remembered her place. ‘I think you should talk to the owner of the theatre company. You might learn more than you imagine. Everyone has secrets.’ She pushed open the restaurant door and glanced guiltily at the theatre. ‘I’ve said enough. I really must go.’
For the briefest of moments Bryant had read something in her eyes that he could not interpret: fear, mistrust, the pain of hidden knowledge. He was young, and still had much to learn about people, especially women.
25
THE NATURE OF ILLUSION
Every time May passed near the footlights of the Palace stage, chorus girls would peer round the wings at him and start giggling. He wondered what Betty had told them. The evening had been a lot of fun, though bloody expensive, and the pretty chorine had made it obvious that she would welcome entertainment again at the weekend. Knowing that Bryant had returned to the unit the previous night, May felt an odd sort of disloyalty to his partner. It was only the end of his third day, and he was fraternizing with potential suspects instead of working late.
‘I thought I’d find you down here,’ he said, spotting the unruly fringe of chestnut hair that stuck above the back of a row of stalls, six rows from the orchestra pit. Bryant was sprawled with his legs hooked over the seat in front. The stage was partially lit with Fresnel spots to reveal a hellish scene. Crimson caverns of oil and fire glittered with droplets of lava, and the petrified purple bodies of demons jutted from priapic stalagmites. The effect was, if not quite obscene, very near the edge of public toleration in 1940.
May pushed down the seat next to his partner and leaned over. ‘Did you know that while the theatre company is occupying the Palace, it owns the stage, the backstage area and all rights of access, but not the front of house or its offices? Those are in the control of the theatre’s owners. Each of the companies is placing the responsibility on the other, so now we’re not allowed to talk to staff on the premises. I’m trying to make arrangements to continue off site.’
‘We should have done that from the start,’ said Bryant grumpily. ‘It’ll shake them up to be questioned in official surroundings. I wish I hadn’t tried the mystery meat pie at luncheon, I feel most uncomfortable.’
May pointed at the semi-naked women cavorting with each other onstage. ‘I suppose all of this offends your purist sensibilities.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Bryant. ‘Offenbach was far from pure. In fact, he outraged the purists of his age, so he’d probably approve of the nudity, although he might think some of the sex scenes are going a bit far, even in our supposedly enlightened times.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me what’s supposed to be going on’—May waved a hand at the stage—’all this operatic hellfire and brimstone.’
Bryant unbuttoned his waistcoat and massaged his podgy stomach. ‘For a start it’s not an opera, it’s an opéra bouffe.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘It has mythological, supernatural elements. It’s fanciful. It’s intended as a comic diversion.’
‘So there’s no fat lady singing at the end?’