Staging Death Read Free Page A

he introduced her as Greta, the housekeeper – must have done something to earn her keep and the use of the bijou mews cottage the far side of the stable yard. Not by making coffee, of course – the machine did all that with pre-sealed and thus environmentally unsound packages.
    What I had forgotten, of course, was that a man as rich as Toby Frensham wouldn’t be interested in the attractive folder or whether the estimates were printed in ten or twelve point, in Times New Roman or in Arial. Neither would he want a breakdown of the costs of different types of lining. He just wanted a global sum.
    ‘The best,’ he said, dropping the unopened file on a corner of the two-acre table. ‘That’s why you’re here. Allyn wants the best.’
    ‘Of course,’ I said, my voice so expressionless it probably spoke volumes.
    ‘And I’m happy to buy it for her,’ he said, defensively, I thought.
    ‘Of course. Now, what I suggest is—’
    He raised an eloquent hand. ‘Don’t say another word until we’ve had our caffeine fixes. Greta, could you fix us both a coffee, darling?’
    The Valkyrie was all alert attention. Eyes mauling Toby, she flourished a selection of coffees.
    I shook my head. ‘Greta, would it be too much trouble to ask for a mug of hot water?’ I dug in my bag and produced a green-tea bag, wrapped in its own little envelope. At home I fed such things to my worms. I always thought of Polonius as I lifted the wormery lid.
    ‘Green tea?’ he asked. ‘Surely we have green tea?’
    Impassively Greta reached for a large wooden box, the sort you see in hotels, and presented it, open, for me to make my choice.
    ‘Which is the virgin tea picked by the light of a full moon and blessed in turn by the Dalai Lama and the Pope?’ I asked.
    Toby laughed; Greta didn’t so much as blink.
    I picked out a sachet of white tea with jasmine. ‘Antioxidant,’ I said, ‘and thus anti-ageing.’ I looked him in the eye. Two could play at that game.
    He blinked at the expensive machine and thenat the little sachet. ‘Is there any caffeine in it?’
    ‘Some, but very little.’
    ‘In that case I’ll stick to slopping stuff on my face. Bring on the double espresso, Greta.’ He led the way into the conservatory, where he spread his bare toes on the floor, inviting me to do the same. The warmth was luxurious. Clearly he didn’t have to worry about heating bills, either.
    He wandered across to the far side, with its view of the eighteenth-century walled garden. So why did he want this conversation profile to profile? Perhaps, knowing Toby, because he felt guilty about something. ‘You heard about Howard’s fall last night?’
    Howard Welsh was making a pretty poor and highly alcoholic fist of Iago to an unknown black African’s quite brilliant Othello.
    ‘Not on stage? Never!’
    An actor could be – and sometimes was – as tired as a newt, but the absolute rule was that his affliction simply must not interfere with rehearsals or performances. Absolutely must not. No turning up late, no forgetting lines – and emphatically no keeling over on stage.
    ‘Taking his bloody bow! Arse over tip into the surprised lap of an old biddie in the front row. Mind you, she did say it wasn’t as bad as having him spit on her every time he came downstage.’
    Howard didn’t spit deliberately, as youngfootballers were always doing. It was just that he sprayed saliva whenever he spoke.
    ‘You’d have thought he’d have sorted out that problem after all this time. Had the glands fixed or whatever. Maybe it’s the lubricant,’ I added, miming a drink.
    ‘Quite.’
    ‘What a chance for his understudy,’ I observed, full of hope for Meredith Thrale, an old mate of mine who was understudying that and other roles and no doubt praying for such an opportunity.
    There were times that I didn’t like Toby very much. ‘Not up to it, darling. Just not up to it.’
    How did I know where this was leading?
    ‘Anyway, I just had a call from