Leave the Grave Green

“Bibles,” said Godwin, following her gaze. Gemma’s face must have registered her surprise, because he smiled and added, “That’s what they’re called, really. Look.” He ran his finger along the bindings, then pulled one down and opened it on the worktable. “Kurt Weill’s Street Scene. Every production in rep has its own bible, and as long as that production is performed the bible is adhered to in the smallest possible detail.”

Gemma watched, fascinated, as he slowly turned the pages. The detailed descriptions of sets and costumes were accompanied by brightly colored sketches, and each costume boasted carefully matched fabric swatches as well. She touched the bit of red satin glued next to a full-skirted dress. “But I thought… well, that every time you put on an opera it was different, new.”

“Oh no, my dear. Productions sometimes stay in rep as long as ten or fifteen years, and are often leased out to other companies. This production, for instance”—he tapped the page—“is a few years old, but if it should be done next year in Milan, or Santa Fe, their Wardrobe will be responsible for securing this exact fabric, down to the dye lot, if possible.” Gently closing the book, he sat on the edge of a drafting stool and crossed his long legs, displaying the perfection of his trouser crease. “There are some up-and-coming directors who insist that a show they’ve originated mustn’t be done without them, no matter where it’s performed. Upstarts, the lot of them.”

Making an effort to resist the fascination of the brightly colored pages, Gemma gently closed the book. “Mr. Godwin, I understand you attended last Thursday evening’s performance at the Coliseum.”

“Back to business, is it, Sergeant?” He drew his brows together in mock disappointment. “Well, if you must, you must. Yes, I popped in for a bit. It’s a new production, and I like to keep an eye on things, make sure one of the principals doesn’t need a nip here or a tuck there.”

“Do you usually drop in on Sir Gerald Asherton after the performance as well?”

“Ah, I see you’ve done your homework, Sergeant.” Godwin smiled at her, looking as delighted as if he were personally responsible for her cleverness. “Gerald was in particularly fine form that night—I thought it only fitting to tell him so.”

Growing increasingly irritated by Tommy Godwin’s manner, Gemma said, “Sir, I’m here because of the death of Sir Gerald’s son-in-law, as you very well know. I understand that you’ve known the family for years, and under the circumstances I think your attitude is a little cavalier, don’t you?”

For an instant he looked at her sharply, his thin face still, then the bright smile fell back into place. “I’m sure I deserve to be taken to task for not expressing the proper regret, Sergeant,” he said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I’ve known Gerald and Caroline since we were all in nappies.” Pausing, he raised an eyebrow at Gemma’s look of disbelief. “Well, at least in Julia’s case it’s quite literally true. I was the lowest of the lowly in those days, junior assistant to the women’s costume cutter. Now it takes three years of design school to qualify for that job, but in those days most of us blundered into it. My mother was a dressmaker—I knew a sewing machine inside and out by the time I was ten.”

If that were the case he’d certainly done a good job of acquiring his upper-middle-class veneer, thought Gemma. Her surprise must have shown, because he smiled at her and added, “I had a talent for copying as well, Sergeant, that I’ve put to good use.

“Junior assistant cutters don’t fit the principals’ costumes, but sometimes they are allowed to fit the lesser luminaries, the has-beens and the rising stars. Caro was a fledgling in those days, still too young to have mastered control of that marvelous natural talent, but ripe with potential. Gerald spotted her in the chorus and made her his protégée. He’s thirteen years her elder—did you know that, Sergeant?” Godwin tilted his head and examined her critically, as if making sure he had his pupil’s attention. “He had a reputation to consider, and oh, my, tongues did wag when he married her.”

“But I thought—”

“Oh, no one remembers that now, of course. It was all a very long time ago, my dear, and their titles weren’t even a twinkle in the Queen’s eye.”

The hint of weariness in his voice aroused her curiosity. “Is that how you met Caroline, fitting her costumes?”

“You’re very astute, Sergeant. Caro had married Gerald by that time, and produced Julia. She’d sometimes bring Julia to fittings, to be fussed and cooed over, but even then Julia showed little evidence of being suitably impressed.”

“Impressed by what, Mr. Godwin? I’m not sure I follow you.”