Leave the Grave Green

Alison laughed. “What you mean is that she’s surely past it, right?” She leaned forward again, her animated face revealing how much she enjoyed teaching the uninitiated. “Most sopranos are in their thirties before they really hit their stride. It takes years of work and training to develop a voice, and if they sing too much, too soon, they can do irreparable damage. Many are at the peak of their careers well into their fifties, and a few exceptional singers continue beyond that. Although I must admit, sometimes they look a bit ridiculous playing the ingenue parts when they get really long in the tooth.” She grinned at Gemma, then continued more seriously. “Not that I think that would have happened to Caroline Stowe. I can’t imagine her looking ridiculous at any age.”

“You said ‘would have happened.’ I don’t—”

“She retired. Twenty years ago, when their son died. She never sang publicly again.” Alison had lowered her voice, and although her expression was suitably concerned, she told the story with the relish people usually reserve for someone else’s misfortune. “And she was brilliant. Caroline Stowe might have been one of the most renowned sopranos of our time.” Sounding genuinely regretful, Alison shook her head.

Gemma took a last sip of tea and pushed her cup away as she thought about what she’d heard. “Why the title, then, if she stopped singing?”

“She’s one of the best vocal coaches in the country, if not the world. A lot of the most promising singers in the business have been taught, and are still being taught, by Caroline Stowe. And she’s done a tremendous amount for the company.” Alison gave a wry smile, adding, “She’s a very influential lady.”

“So I understand,” said Gemma, reflecting that it was Dame Caroline’s influence, and Sir Gerald’s, that had dragged the Yard into this investigation in the first place. Seeing Alison straighten up in her chair, Gemma asked, “Do you know what time Sir Gerald left the theater on Thursday evening?”

Alison thought for a moment, wrinkling her forehead. “I really don’t know. I spoke to him in his dressing room just after the performance, around eleven o’clock, but I didn’t stay more than five minutes. Had to meet someone,” she added with a dimple and a lowering of her lashes. “You’ll have to ask Danny. He was on duty that night.”

“Did Sir Gerald seem upset in any way? Anything different about his routine that night?”

“No, not that I can think—” Alison stopped, hand poised over her teacup. “Wait. There was something. Tommy was with him Of course, they’ve known each other practically forever,” she, added quickly, “but we don’t often see Tommy here after a performance, at least not in the conductor’s dressing room.”

Feeling the sense of the interview fast escaping her, Gemma said distinctly, “Who exactly is Tommy?”

Alison smiled. “I forgot you wouldn’t know. Tommy is Tommy Godwin, our Wardrobe Manager. And it’s not that he considers one of his visits akin to a divine blessing, like some costume designers I could name”—she paused and rolled her eyes—“but if he’s here at the theater he’s usually busy with Running Wardrobe.”

“Is he here today?”

“Not that I know of. But I expect you can catch him tomorrow at LB House.” This time Gemma’s bewilderment must have been evident, because before she could form a question, Alison continued. “That’s Lilian Baylis House, in West Hampstead, where we have our Making Wardrobe. Here.” She reached for Gemma’s notebook. “I’ll write down the address and phone number for you.”

A thought occurred to Gemma as she watched Alison write in a looping, schoolgirl hand. “Did you ever meet Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, Connor Swann?”

Alison Douglas flushed. “Once or twice. He came to ENO functions sometimes.” She returned the pen and notebook, then ran her fingers around the neck of her black sweater.

Gemma cocked her head while she considered the woman across the table—attractive, about her own age, and single, if her unadorned left hand and the date she’d alluded to were anything to go by. “Shall I take it he tried to chat you up?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Alison said, a little apologetically. “You know, you can tell.”

“All flash and no substance?”

Alison shrugged. “I’d say he just liked women… he made you feel special.” She looked up, and for the first time Gemma noticed that her eyes were a light, clear brown. “We’ve all talked about it, of course. You know what the gossip mill’s like. But this is the first time I’ve really let myself think…” She swallowed once, then added slowly. “He was a lovely man. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

The canteen tables were emptying rapidly. Alison looked up and grimaced, then bustled Gemma back into the dark green tunnels. Murmuring an apology, she left Gemma once again in Danny the porter’s domain.

“’Ullo, miss,” said Danny, ever cheerful. “You get what you came for?”

“Not quite.” Gemma smiled at him. “But you may be able to help me.” She pulled her warrant card from her handbag and held the open case where he could see it clearly.