Last Act Read online

  “Well, no.” A quick glance showed Prince Rudolf still absorbed in talk with Falinieri and Alix. “It is a little … surprising. I’m quite out of my depth, and that’s the truth. I’m so glad to have you, Carl, to explain things a bit.” She looked down the table to where Princess Gloria was deep in conversation with her cousin, and spoke quietly as the musicians broke into a lively waltz from Rosenkavalier. “The Princess’s cousin,” she asked. “He’s English, surely—I didn’t catch his surname—but she’s American. And—has he business interests here in Lissenberg?”

  “James Frensham.” Carl, too, kept his voice low, under the background of music and conversation. “Yes. The Princess’s branch of the family went to the States just before the war. He stayed home and made munitions—and money. More money. They’ve all got it, the Frenshams. And, yes, you could say he has business interests here. He practically owns the place. Well, the opera complex isn’t exactly coming cheap, you know.”

  “I should think not, indeed. But”—she looked round the ornate room—“surely—”

  “I quite agree.” A note of warning in Carl’s voice as the musicians ended their waltz and a little hush fell on the table. “One of the best operas I’ve ever worked on.”

  “I know it will be a tremendous success.” She followed his lead.

  “It had better be,” said Prince Rudolf, and she wondered, suddenly, if James Frensham had not perhaps brought him bad news.

  “It will.” Carl spoke with a confidence Anne admired. “We’ve got everything going for us, Your Highness.” And then, as the Prince turned back to Falinieri and Alix. “But, Annchen, tell me about yourself, what you’ve been doing all the time since you were my most rewarding pupil. Oh, those days … those happy days …”

  Once again she had the curious feeling that he was inventing a past for them that did not exist. “Not much,” she answered his question. “Living, you know, and partly living.”

  “You could never do anything partly, Annchen, not the girl I knew. Himmel, do you remember how angry I was when you gave up your career for that husband of yours.”

  “We will not talk about Robin.” It came out more ruthlessly than she had intended, but she was glad to have it said, and glad, too, when the conversation became more general, if still curiously strained, and she was able to devote herself to polite nothings, delicious food and elegant local wine. The mention of Robin had drawn a shadow across the evening. A ghost is walking on my grave, she thought, and, so thinking, felt the first quick stab of pain.

  “What’s the matter, Annchen?” Carl asked anxiously. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.” Then, contrite, “I’m a brute to have reminded you. Forgive me?”

  “It’s nothing.” But it was a relief when Princess Gloria rose abruptly to lead the ladies from the room. In the doorway, she tripped over the hem of her dress and was expertly retrieved by a footman. “I’m bushed,” she told Alix and Anne in loud, slurred accents as they followed her through double doors to the salon. “I’m going to hit the hay, and quick, before they bring their quarrel in here.” Anne had already noticed her curious habit of using out-of-date American slang.

  “Quarrel?” asked Alix.

  “I’ll say! I don’t know what it is, but Jimmy’s here to straighten your father out, and thank the lord he’s the man to do it. Darling Rudolf’s not going to get through Jimmy’s money the way he did mine. That damned opera shows a profit, or—” She made an extremely inelegant gesture and left them, staggering a little.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alix. “Poor Mother, she’s had a hell of a time, one way and another. Trouble between Father and Uncle Jimmy would be about the last straw. Though, mind you, I suppose it was inevitable.”

  “I am so sorry. Should I leave, perhaps?”

  “No, please. Do stay. There will be no public quarrel—not with guests. You’ll see; it will be all sweetness and light.”

  “Just like dinner?”

  Alix laughed. “Exactly. God you’re going to be a comfort, Anne. May I call you Anne, and will you call me Alix?”

  “Should I?”

  “Can’t think why not. You’ve heard Mother. She’s right, I’m afraid. It’s not much of a princess whose father is as deep in debt as mine is. I do hope it’s not real trouble between him and Uncle Jimmy. We could do without that, right now.” She put a warm hand on Anne’s. “You see now why this opera has got to succeed. If not, Lissenberg is going to find itself bankrupt. Or part of the Frensham empire.”

  “What would happen then?”

  “I hate to think. If I know Cousin Jimmy, he’d sell us to the highest bidder. And I don’t quite like to think who that might be. We’re in what you could call a strategic position. Too strategic by a half. Who wants to end up as a launching pad? And probably for the wrong side at that. Besides—I like us the way we are. Small and beautiful, if you don’t think that’s too vain. At least, civilised. And—neutral. Like the Swiss. It may not be exactly a position to boast about, but it has its points. Besides, like the Swiss, we contrive to make ourselves useful. And … stick to a few principles.”

  “I know. Someone told me about the Russians you wouldn’t send back. After Yalta. That’s something to be proud of.”

  “And something their bosses won’t forget,” said Alix. “I wouldn’t much like to be sold to them.”

  “He wouldn’t!”

  “I’d not like to bet on it. I meant it when I said the highest bidder. Money’s Uncle Jimmy’s life. If he had to save young James at the expense of his fortune—a kidnapping say—I wouldn’t reckon much on James’s chances.”

  “Young James?”

  “His son and heir. As formidable as his father, in his own way. His mother was an Italian princess—rich, of course. James went to Harrow like his father. That was before his parents got divorced. Now he lives on his mother’s Sicilian estate. Not much love lost between any of them, I’m afraid. Oh dear”—her smile was apologetic—“I’m gossiping. You’re a good audience, Anne. Listen! Here they come. Do something for me?”

  “Gladly.”

  “They’ll all want to drive you home. Let Meyer, would you?”

  “But of course! I’d much rather. We’re old friends, you know.”

  And why did that get her such a strange look from her new friend? Something odd about Alix’s tone; about this whole occasion. Or were fatigue and continuing pain making her imagine things? The day was beginning to seem endless, and when the men joined them she seized the earliest opportunity to say she must go, pleading tomorrow’s early rehearsal.

  “So soon?” But she thought Prince Rudolf was glad enough to have his party break up.

  As Alix had predicted, both Stern and Carl stepped forward to offer to drive Anne, but, surprisingly, so did James Frensham, who had come in from dinner ruddier than ever with ill-suppressed anger. “We have work to do,’ he explained without grace. “Checking some figures for the morning. There is room in my Bentley.”

  “It’s very kind of you—” Anne began, but Carl interrupted her, a pressing hand on her arm.

  “I must plead a stronger claim, sir. Miss Paget and I have things to discuss. With the opening date so near, I feel I must use every minute.”

  “So I should imagine.” Frensham’s tone was not hopeful. “Bland, Marks, we have work!” He took an unceremonious leave.

  “Come along then, Annchen.” A proprietary arm in hers, Carl shepherded her through her farewells as solicitously as if they were old lovers rather than old friends. As he draped her stole tenderly round her shoulders she felt a quick pang of apprehension. If there was one thing she could do without right now, it was an emotional scene. But Carl, helping her into the car and starting the engine, turned at once to a brisk professional discussion of her part, and she got back to the hostel at once relieved and, just faintly, puzzled.

  6

  Waking Anne With her breakfast next morning, Lisel looked white and shocked. Her hands, putting down the tray on the big bed,
shook so badly that the cream spilled. “Forgive me, Fräulein,” she said. “It’s the news. Horrible!” She spoke in German, but her meaning was clear enough.

  “What’s happened?” Anne pulled herself up out of deep sleep and was glad to see that the shaken girl understood the tenor of her question.

  “Tot,” she said, and then broke into a jumbled mixture of German and Liss. Anne recognised a few phrases. Herr Frensham. The Princess’s cousin. And then, again, unmistakable, tot. That formidable English tycoon was dead? It seemed impossible. She nodded a dismissal and lifted the telephone by her bed.

  “Ja?” Josef, too, sounded shaken.

  “Josef? It’s Anne. What’s this about Mr Frensham?”

  “He’s dead. He drove a couple of his friends home from the castle last night, and they fell off the road. It’s a terrible corner.” Was he trying to explain to himself, or to her?

  “I’m …” What did one say? “I’m so sorry.” And then, because she was a professional, “Will it make any difference?” She had not even looked at the note on the breakfast tray that must describe her day’s appointments.

  “To the opera? None. That has already been settled. The opera, the conference, everything is to go on as planned.”

  “Yes, of course.” Anne remembered her conversation with Alix the night before. “I suppose it must.” Ringing off, she opened the day’s programme. More rehearsals … Surprisingly, another appointment with the wardrobe mistress for the late afternoon, and a note in Josefs scrawling hand. Fourteen hours, a car will fetch you to give a statement to the police. Not to worry.

  Alix, telephoning, sounded subdued, but said the same thing. “It’s a matter of form, naturally. But—I didn’t know you were involved in some kind of accident on your way here from Schennen. The police seem to think this one was like it … a bit too like for comfort. We don’t have crime in Lissenberg.” Now she sounded angry.

  “I’m so sorry. How is your mother?”

  “Flat out with shock. She really loved Uncle James.” She broke off for a moment, then, “Sorry, Anne, I must go. We’re at disaster stations here today. Don’t take any lifts from strangers.” It was not quite a joke.

  The morning’s rehearsal was a subdued affair with whispered gossip running through the darkened auditorium so that first Meyer and then Falinieri had to appeal for silence as Stern and Anne ran through their opening duet. At last Falinieri clapped his hands. “Is impossible,” he said. “This is an opera house, not a bear garden. You, chorus, go away and chatter outside. For the rest of the day we will concentrate on Regulus and Marcus—oh, and on you, of course, Fräulein Stock.” This to the quiet girl who played Regulus’ daughter Livia. “We have yet to hear you and Miss Paget. We’ll take that after the lunch break.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Anne. “I can’t be here.”

  “Can’t be here? What kind of talk is that?”

  “I have to see the police,” said Anne, and got the silence they had been wanting all morning. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. They are sending a car for me right after lunch.”

  “I see. Then we will take Fräulein Stock’s scene with her father Regulus first, and await you impatiently, Miss Paget. Perhaps you will explain as much to the police.”

  “I’ll try,” said Anne dubiously.

  She ate lunch in her room, studying her part as she swallowed the hostel’s highly seasoned food, and pushing the impending interview with the police to the back of her mind. At ten to two, her telephone rang. “The car is here,” said Josef, “but don’t hurry.”

  “You’re always saying that, bless you.” But she did hurry. The sooner she got there, the sooner it would be over. Besides, why should the police care how she looked? Her lipstick had hidden itself at the bottom of her bag. She muttered a curse, combed her hair and hurried out to the lift.

  Emerging on the ground floor, she saw a familiar figure awaiting her. “Still no lipstick, I see.” Michael straightened up from where he had been chatting with Josef at the desk.

  “I was in a hurry,” she said crossly. “If you’re my police driver, you’re early.” But she was surprised at how pleased she was to see him.

  “I am, and I am.” He was no tidier than he had been when he rescued her from Schennen station, but today his teeshirt read Votes for Women. “I thought you’d like it.” He had seen her read the message. “And why I’m early is to buy you a drink. Uncle Josef has them all ready in his secret lair. We may as well both tell the same story.” He took her arm and guided her behind the desk to a surprisingly elegant little office where two glasses stood on an exquisite marquetry table. “Slivovitz.” He passed her a glass. “And if you don’t like it, don’t let on.”

  “But I do! It’s just what I need, bless you. How do you mean, the same story?”

  “About what happened day before yesterday. You’ve maybe forgotten the order the cars left the castle last night?”

  “I’m not sure I ever knew.”

  “Well.” He lifted his glass and drank to her. “It’s a funny thing, but once again yours was the car right behind the accident.”

  “Dear God! But—it’s not possible. We didn’t see anything.”

  “Nothing to see,” he said soberly. “Not from the road. It was a long way down. The car wasn’t spotted till this morning, and the police climbers have still not managed to get down to it. Looks like it’s taking all day. Don’t worry”—he had seen her shiver—“not a chance but they’re dead, poor bastards. Now, drink up, and come and tell all to the police.”

  “Will it be Herr Weigel?”

  “No, the boss. He’s not as fierce as he looks—or as stupid.” Somewhere between reassurance and warning, it did little to make her feel better. But the slivovitz was cheering, and so was the fact that he had troubled to come early.

  “Haven’t women got them?” she asked, making conversation as they emerged from behind the desk and crossed the lobby, where as usual several members of the chorus were sitting over coffee.

  “Got what?” And then, “Oh, votes! Good God, no. This is Lissenberg. Women know their place here. Küche, Kirche and all that.” He pushed open the heavy bronze door and led the way down the arcade steps to a smart green car.

  “It’s a police car!”

  “Well, of course it’s a police car.” He opened the door for her.

  “But what about your job? The taxi firm?”

  “Oh, I lost that,” he said cheerfully. “Driving for the police is much more interesting. How did the rehearsal go?”

  “So so.” She was grateful for the question. “Herr Stern doesn’t much like singing with me. He’s making things … difficult.”

  “Oh?” He was taking the police car at a good pace down the valley.

  “Little things. The wrong cue … It’s so easy, and then he’s terribly sorry, and then he does it again.” She laughed angrily. “He’d rather sing with a princess and doesn’t care who knows it.”

  “Tough.” He swung the car round a hairpin bend. “I’d have a word with Meyer if I were you. He’ll sort it out for you. It’s his job.” He looked at his watch. “Time’s getting on. Would you like the siren?”

  “No, please!” She felt quite conspicuous enough as it was.

  “And no need. I can do it in the time without. They’re OK, these cars.”

  “They certainly are. And you don’t really need the siren, do you?” She had noticed that motorists and pedestrians alike kept to the side of the road at sight of the approaching green car.

  “We respect our police in Lissenberg,” said Michael. “I wouldn’t want to be the joker responsible for those two accidents.”

  “Joker?”

  “You’re right. It’s not the word. Has anyone told you just how important a man James Frensham was here in Lissenberg?”

  “Princess Alix said something last night. He was—throwing his weight around rather.”

  “He would. Well—he practically owns—owned the place. What I want to
know is what young James is going to do. Someone may have miscalculated badly, if you ask me.” He slowed the car for a moment. “And, by God here he comes! Quick, you could call that.” A helicopter was hovering over them, its drone audible above the silent-running engine of the car. Michael pressed a button on the dashboard and a disembodied voice spoke from a grille. “Yes, Car 2?”

  “Helicopter about to land, sir. Young James Frensham I’ll bet. Anyone swept the pad for broken glass?”

  The grille emitted a harsh laugh. “Who thinks he’s the only brain in Lissenberg?” said the voice. “Come on in, Michael, and step on it. We’re waiting for Miss Paget.”

  “Right.” With obvious satisfaction, Michael switched on the siren and took the car through the town at a speed that made Anne close her eyes.

  “OK. All over and no lives lost.” He drew the car to a decorous halt outside a handsome, flat-fronted house surrounded by flower gardens. “In with you.” He was around and opening her door before she could get out of her safety harness. “And remember, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “That’s how we make our stories jibe?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, then.” She summed it up. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “A pleasure.” He was guiding her up steps to where a green-uniformed policeman saluted and then held open big doors.

  “This way,” he said to Anne. And, to Michael, “The boss wants you to fetch Herr Meyer and Herr Stern.”

  “They will be pleased,” said Michael. “Sorry to abandon you but duty calls.” His quick smile was heart-warming. “Into the lion’s den with you.” He pushed shaggy hair back from a high forehead, sketched a half-mocking salute and turned to run lightly back down the steps.

  It left her feeling curiously forlorn, but in fact the interview was straightforward enough. Herr Winkler, the huge, calm chief of police took her briskly through the story of her arrival at Schennen and the accident on the road to Lissenberg, then switched to the events of the night before. Here, suddenly, she saw a pitfall she should have anticipated, and was less than grateful, for the first time, for Michael’s distraction. Should she tell Herr Winkler about Princess Alix’s odd request that she let Meyer drive her home? Every instinct was against it. And yet in the light of what had happened it could be sinister enough. Suppose she had accepted James Frensham’s offer of a lift. She shivered. I am not ready to die yet …