The Twist of a Knife

‘I have enormous respect for Ewan. I remember his production of Much Ado About Nothing in Stratford years ago. He set the whole thing in 1930s Sicily. Don John and Don Pedro were Mafiosi. Dogberry was FBI. I have very much enjoyed working with him.’

He stood up and went over to the wardrobe. He took out the suit that he wore as Dr Farquhar. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get changed.’

Hawthorne and I both stood up. I thought we were going to leave, but as we moved towards the door, Hawthorne stopped in front of the photograph that I had noticed. ‘Your wife?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The monosyllable was heavy, inviting no further questions, but Hawthorne went on anyway. ‘Does she still work as a make-up artist?’

Jordan was taken aback. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘You are still married.’

‘Most certainly.’

‘I was just surprised she wasn’t in the audience at the first night.’

How had Hawthorne known that? He hadn’t been there and I was sure I hadn’t mentioned it – if, indeed, I’d even noticed.

Jordan Williams didn’t move. His eyes met Hawthorne’s. ‘She was out of London,’ he said. ‘She’s working on a BBC drama in Leeds.’

‘But you saw her after the party?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘When you went home?’

‘It was well after midnight. She was asleep.’

Hawthorne shook his head a little sadly. ‘“Men were deceivers ever,”’ he muttered. ‘“One foot in sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never.”’

‘What are you talking about?’ Jordan asked.

‘That’s Much Ado About Nothing. You mentioned it a moment ago.’

‘I think I’ve told you everything I want to tell you, Mr Hawthorne.’ Jordan got up and snatched the photograph. Without stopping, he turned it face down. It was unintentional, but the movement was so violent that the glass broke and when Jordan lifted his hand, there was a bead of blood on the side of his index finger.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he said, dully.

We left him sucking his finger. The blood stained his lip.

11 Star Quality

I turned on Hawthorne the moment we were back in the corridor. ‘You didn’t believe him?’ I demanded.

‘About his wife?’

‘About me!’ Before he could answer, I went on. ‘We were all upset by that review. We’d had a lot to drink and nobody was expecting it … not so soon, anyway. But he was the one who went crazy. He put a knife in the cake! Like he was stabbing it, not slicing it. And I didn’t nod. I was actually quite shocked.’

Did I think Jordan had killed Harriet Throsby? Despite what had happened that night, I thought it unlikely. He was a method actor. He’d mentioned Stanislavski. It seemed that some of the violence of the part had spilled over into his real life. But the murder had taken place at ten o’clock in the morning, long after the party had ended. I could see Jordan lashing out in a fit of anger, in much the same way that he had managed to hurt Sky, but premeditated murder was something else. It just didn’t fit with what I knew of his character. And there was another question. The killer had attempted to frame me. Why would Jordan have done that? We’d become quite friendly during the rehearsals and the out-of-town run. I was quite put out by what he’d just said.

It was as if Hawthorne had been reading my mind. He looked at me with those muddy, innocent eyes. ‘Don’t worry about Jordan Williams, mate. I’m on your side.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘We’ll ask everyone who was in the room what they saw. And then we’ll know the truth.’

Well, I thought, that’s a vote of confidence.

We went downstairs. Dressing Room 6 was the first one we came to, a short way down a brightly lit corridor. The door was half-open and I could hear someone moving on the other side. I looked in to see Tirian Kirke wearing a sweatshirt but no trousers, getting into his costume for the performance, which was now about thirty minutes away. He saw me and smiled, unembarrassed. ‘Hi! I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Tirian. Can we come in? This is Hawthorne. He’s a detective. He’s looking into what happened to Harriet Throsby.’

‘I don’t suppose he’s going to find anything here.’ Tirian grabbed Mark Styler’s trousers and pulled them on. ‘But sure. Come on in. I can make you some tea if you like.’

We made our way in and closed the door behind us.

The room was a little smaller than Jordan’s, but it was much less cluttered, which gave an impression of space. I noticed that Tirian had received just three good luck cards and a single bunch of flowers – much less than the older actor. These first-night offerings were looking a little sad, arranged on a single table with nothing else around them. Everything was very neat and tidy. No dirty clothes or dog-eared paperbacks here. The cushions on his sofa had been arranged at exact intervals and I noticed the towels beside the sink hanging with almost military precision.