‘I just wish he’d keep his distance. He thinks we don’t hear him, but we do. He gives me the creeps, thumping about in his leg-irons like the captain of an ancient vessel. This isn’t just a financial enterprise for him, it’s more personal.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s had one of the entresol dressing rooms converted into a sort of chapel, and spends twenty minutes in it before he watches rehearsals. We’re short of space here, John—may I call you John?—there’s nowhere to put anything and there aren’t enough dressing rooms, yet he’s had one turned into a shrine. Doesn’t count as normal behaviour in my book.’
‘Is there bad feeling about that?’
‘About that and everything else, Charles’s death in particular. It was the one event witnessed by several people, and it’s got everyone disturbed. You try standing in a dark corridor with ten other performers waiting to go on, and see if the atmosphere doesn’t get to you. They fairly race out of here after rehearsals. No one wants to be the last to leave.’
‘Who’ll be last out once you start the run?’
‘Elspeth, I suppose, although she’s FOH, so actually it would be Stan Lowe at the stage door. He can’t leave until the last of the backstage staff has gone. After the evening performances the actors invite friends up to the dressing rooms, but they’re supposed to be out by eleven. Now that the run is starting, they’ll go over to the Green Room, one of the actors’ clubs off the Strand, or to Macready’s in Covent Garden. You have to be an Equity member or working in a current production to get into such places. Absolute dens of vice, but I suppose they’re a lot more convivial than staying here, drinking out of chipped mugs as the heating goes off.’
‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ said May. He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned. ‘My colleague wanted me to ask you—the statue on top of the building, in the centre of the roof. You don’t happen to know who it is?’
‘I think she’s a Greek goddess. There’s some kind of odd story about her. She’s holding a flaming torch, but she’s not supposed to be, or something. There was an accident of some kind. I think she’s bad luck.’
‘You’re superstitious, then?’
‘Me? God, no. If you want to know about the statue you could try the archivist, although I think he’s moved out of London for the duration.’
‘Do you know where I can find him?’
‘Mr Cruickshank has a desk in the archive room, although you’ll have trouble spotting it. It’s buried under newspaper clippings and old building plans. You should speak to him before you start moving anything. Elspeth might have his new address.’
‘Thanks.’ He paused on the stair. ‘And good—’
‘Don’t say it!’ yelled Helena. ‘No whistling, no well-wishing.’
‘I thought you weren’t superstitious.’
‘I’m not,’ she said defiantly, ‘but obviously there are limits.’
‘I’m glad we were able to run you to ground. Have a look at this.’ Bryant smoothed the creases from the article Summerfield had penned for The Times and slid it across the table to Andreas Renalda. The tycoon was furious at being brought directly to the unit instead of being taken to his Highgate home to change for the theatre. He peered angrily out of the dusty windows as if searching for a means of escape. May called his attention to the document.
‘What is this?’ the tycoon asked, gingerly touching the edges of the pages.
‘A history of your family,’ Bryant explained. ‘You were reluctant to talk about your background, so I took the liberty of digging it out.’
Renalda flicked the sheets aside in disgust. ‘We sued over this damned article. There were dozens, and we took every one to court. They were appearing all over the world.’
‘You won this battle without going to court. The piece was never published.’
‘It was the last thing our shareholders would have needed to read about at that time, a public washing of dirty laundry. This man had no right to write about my father, but at least he was one of the few to suggest my brother’s guilt. Things were very difficult for me personally. I had lost my beloved wife, the light of my life.’
‘You still believe she was murdered by your brother?’
‘He said he took her out dancing as a gesture of reconciliation. My Elissa, out dancing, with her husband away on business! In our culture, this is not done. She did not know the island, and she had hardly ever had a drink in her life. They passed the evening in a taverna, and at midnight they walked along the harbour wall together. Ask anyone in the town and they will tell you that my wife was deliberately drowned. Every night, before I go to bed, I blame myself for being away in Athens on a trip that I could have easily delegated to one of my staff. Minos was waiting for me to leave.’