Full Dark House by Christopher Fowler

He stopped and studied the framed posters arranged along the corridor ahead. ‘Thank God
No, No, Nanette
came off. All those performances of “Tea for Two” would turn anyone into a murderer. I don’t understand it; America gets Ginger Rogers and we get stuck with Jessie Matthews. Nobody up here. Let’s try again.’
    Bryant turned on his heel and dodged past the confused May, rattling back down the stairs to pass into the theatre’s centre foyer. ‘I used to be quite a fan of the theatre,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘but I haven’t been since the war began. They’re all variety halls now, of course. People have lost the taste for anything serious. Who can blame them?’ He looked about and sniffed the air. ‘Theatres have a particular smell, don’t you find? Mothballs and Jeyes fluid. It’s so gloomy in here with the windows boarded up and all this cold marble, like a morgue. I wonder what D’Oyly Carte would make of the place now.’
    ‘Wasn’t this where Carte set up his national opera house?’ asked May.
    ‘Oh, it was to be his crowning glory. Nearly one and a half thousand seats spread across four floors, five bars, unrivalled backstage facilities, a modern mechanical marvel with room for more scenery than any other house in London. Poor chap opened it with Sullivan’s
Ivanhoe
in 1891. The thing ran for a while, but it was a real plodder by all accounts, po-faced, arse-numbing, no good tunes, riddled with self-importance. Audiences wanted the bouncy songs and jokes of
The Mikado,
not wailing British epics about duty and fortitude. They tried a few more serious operas, then gave up the ghost and turned the place into a variety hall.’
    He rapped on the box-office window with the handle of a furled umbrella he had spotted leaning against the wall. ‘I say, are you in there?’
    The frosted glass slid back to reveal a small tired-looking woman in a shapeless brown jumper and skirt. Knitted into the jumper was the title of Offenbach’s operetta, the capitals picked out in blue wool. An overpowering smell of 4-7-11 cologne assaulted the detectives. The woman had an old-fashioned marcel wave, her hair held in place with kirby grips, and wore a pince-nez. May guessed that she was nowhere near as old as she appeared to be. She had nice eyes, large and rather sad.
    ‘Ah. You must be Mr Bryant. I was wondering when you’d get here.’
    ‘Miss Wynter? I see you’re already advertising the show.’
    ‘Oh, this.’ She pulled at her jumper, embarrassed. ‘Isn’t it awful? Insistence of the new management.’
    ‘John, this is the front-of-house manager, Elspeth Wynter. My partner, John May.’
    ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr May.’
    ‘A pleasure to meet a lady of the theatre,’ said May, in the charming tone he unconsciously reserved for women.
    ‘We looked in once but couldn’t see anyone.’
    ‘No, you wouldn’t. I was on the floor with Nijinsky.’ Elspeth opened the door of her office and emerged carrying a tortoise in a straw-filled cardboard box. ‘I keep him under my stool because of the electric heater,’ she explained, ‘but I can’t leave him alone because he chews through the wiring. Nijinsky’s supposed to be hibernating but he’s an insomniac. It’s the bombs, they’re enough to wake the dead. Do you want to go down and meet the company? They’re about to start today’s rehearsals.’
    Bryant looked surprised. ‘Have they been told what happened?’
    ‘Only that Miss Capistrania went missing yesterday and will be replaced.’ She walked ahead of them with the tortoise box under her arm, leading the way to the stalls. ‘The artistic director is a lady, Helena Parole. This is a bit of a comeback for her. She’s been away for a while, if you know what I mean.’ She made a drinking gesture with her cupped right hand. ‘Problems mixing grape and grain. The insurers aren’t allowing her to touch a drop for the entire run.’ She pointed down to the group