front windows filled with a dazzling display of Elizabethan costumes, weaponry, and props. Sandwiched between these two, the Agincourt had the appearance of neglect and disrepair, qualities disproved the moment one walked through its doors.
When Lady Helen Clyde entered shortly before noon, she paused in surprise. The last time she had seen a production here the building had been under different ownership, and although its former gloomy Victorian interior had possessed a certain Dickensian charm, Lord Stinhurst's renovation was breathtaking. She had read about it in the paper, of course, but nothing had prepared her for such a metamorphosis. Stinhurst had given both architects and designers free rein in orchestrating the theatre's improvements. Following a noholds-barred philosophy of interior design, they had gutted the building completely, achieving light and space through their creation of an entrance that soared with three full floors of open balconies, and through their use of colours that contrasted sharply with the soot-covered exterior which the building presented to the street. Admiring the wealth of creativity that had altered the theatre, Lady Helen allowed herself to forget some of the trepidation with which she had been anticipating her coming interview.
With Sergeant Havers and St. James, she had gone over the details until nearly midnight. Together, the three of them had explored every avenue of approach for this visit to the Agincourt. Since Havers was unable to get to the theatre without Lynley's knowledge and do the job properly under the aegis of the police, it was left to the devices of either Lady Helen or St. James to encourage Lord Stinhurst's secretary to talk about the telephone calls which her employer claimed she had placed for him on the morning that Joy Sinclair's body was found.
Their late night discussion ended with a consensus that Lady Helen was the likeliest one among them to encourage an offering of confidences from anyone. All that had sounded reasonable enough at midnight-even a bit complimentary if one wanted to take it that way-but it was far from reassuring right now with the Agincourt's offices a mere ten steps away and Stinhurst's secretary waiting unwittingly in one of them.
"Helen? Have you come to join the newest fray?"
Rhys Davies-Jones was standing at the auditorium door, a mug in his hand. Lady Helen smiled and joined him at the bar where coffee was brewing noisily, emitting a pungent smell that was in large part chicory.
"Worst coffee in the world," Davies-Jones acknowledged. "But one develops a taste for it over time. Will you have some?" When she declined, he poured himself a mug. The liquid was black, resembling overused motor oil.
"What newest fray?" she asked him.
"Perhaps fray isn't the best choice of words," he admitted. "It's more like political manoeuvring among our tender players for the best part in Stinhurst's new production. With the only difficulty being that the play hasn't been decided upon yet. So you can well imagine the jockeying for position that's been going on for the last two hours."
"New production?" Lady Helen asked. "You don't mean that Lord Stinhurst intends to go on with a play after what's happened to Joy and Gowan?"
"He has no choice, Helen. We're all of us under contract to him. The theatre's due to open in less than eight weeks. It's a new production or he loses his shirt. I can't say he's at all happy about it, however. And he's going to be a good sight unhappier the moment the press start storming him about what happened to Joy. I can't think why the media haven't picked up on the story." He touched Lady Helen's hand lightly where it lay on the bar. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
She hadn't thought she would see him, hadn't considered what she might say if she did. Unprepared for his question, she answered with the first thing that came into her mind, not even thinking for the moment about why she was lying.
"Actually, no. I found myself in the neighbourhood. I thought you might be here, so I took the chance of dropping in."
His eyes remained perfectly steady on her own, but they managed to convey how ridiculous her story sounded. He was not the kind of man who wanted his ego massaged by an attractive woman seeking him out. Nor was she the kind of woman who would ever do so. He knew that quite well.
"Right. Yes, I see." He studied his coffee, moved the mug from one hand to the other. When he spoke again,