The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 17
‘It’s a tempting idea,’ said Byron, ‘but, much as I’d like to believe it, I think you’re making too great a leap. In any case, I don’t think it’s something that could be proved. And it still doesn’t explain the secrecy around the play itself. Whoever that musician was, can you really believe that all these years later, Phelan was honouring his request to – what was it? To “veil Catherine’s name and hide her story, and let history not recall her”? It conjures up tales about family secrets and promises handed down through generations. Like that Rider Haggard novel – She – where succeeding generations are charged with searching for the lost city in the desert, and finding the immortal woman who rules it.’
‘But we’re fairly sure Phelan was Catherine’s descendant,’ said Jack. ‘It sounded as if Montague thought so, too. Could Phelan have written the play and then panicked because he thought he had betrayed the command in that piece of music?’
‘And gave the play to Montague to hide? It doesn’t chime with anything I’ve ever known about Phelan Rafferty,’ said Byron. ‘I think you’re getting carried away, and I’m usually the one who does that.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘I should think Montague would have kept any promise he’d made to Phelan, but once Phelan was dead, wouldn’t Montague have staged the play? But he didn’t. He kept it hidden. And if he hadn’t fallen down the stairs and broken his neck, we wouldn’t have even known it existed.’
‘And,’ said Jack, ‘we still don’t know what’s in that disguised scene – the scene written in Gaelic. We still don’t know who wrote the play, either.’
‘Or who stole it from Montague’s house, or … Damn, that’s someone at the door.’ Byron glanced at the clock. ‘It’s a bit early for callers.’
‘Probably the postman,’ said Jack, getting up to refill their coffee cups.
But it was not the postman. It was Gus, apologizing for such an early morning call.
‘You said you might come here after the Girdlestone Hall visit, Mr Jack, so I thought I’d take the chance. A letter came from Miss Tansy by early morning delivery. The postmark is three days old, and I know you like to see her letters at once—’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Jack, taking the letter. ‘Thank you, Gus.’
Gus surveyed the room, then said, ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Jack and Mr Byron, but it looks as if you’ve only just got back to London.’
‘We have. We think we’ve found out one or two useful details, but we had a bone-rattling and very long journey on a milk train,’ said Byron.
‘Milk trains don’t serve breakfast, do they?’ said Gus, and his eyes went to the open door leading out to the tiny scullery.
‘They do not,’ said Byron. ‘If you’re offering to make us breakfast, Gus, your feet are as beautiful on the mountains as those of the prophet—’
‘And,’ said Jack, who was opening Tansy’s letter, ‘I saw eggs and bread in the cupboards, and since your scrambled eggs are fit to rival those of Escoffier—’
‘Scrambled eggs it shall be, Mr Jack.’
‘Good man. But keep the door open, Gus, so you can hear what Tansy has to say.’
‘Well, I would like to know, Mr Jack, having acted as postman from here to Russell Square, so to speak.’
‘Of course you must know,’ said Jack. ‘You’re as much part of this as the rest of us.’
‘I always think of you as one of the family anyway,’ said Byron, and Gus, looking pleased, went off to find the eggs, as Jack unfolded Tansy’s letter and began to read it.
Dear Jack and Family,
This morning at the Roscius, Florian said he was so sorry, Timon, dear boy, but he would have to leave rehearsal a little early.
‘A luncheon engagement,’ he said. ‘An unexpected invitation I cannot ignore. Someone from my past – in fact a lady about whom I once cherished romantic hopes.’
‘Ah,’ said one of the inquisitive sisters, ‘the “affair of the heart” you mentioned when we were all boarding the train in London.’
‘The one that did not go quite as you hoped,’ put in the other one.
Florian said, very grandly, ‘When she read the newspaper reports of my being in Ireland – that’s to say of the company being in Ireland – nothing would do but for us to meet again. The love of one’s youth, you understand – something never forgotten.’ He sighed, then said, ‘I believe she has come to Dublin especially to see me, and she is very eager to find out about the intervening years since we met – and to hear our plans for the festival.’
‘A romantic afternoon interlude?’ enquired Timon, rather dryly.
‘Luncheon at my hotel,’ said Florian. ‘I shall say no more – her reputation, you understand. I was ever a gentleman in such matters.’
There was a sarcastic snort from the corner where the carpenters were working, and Florian glared at them, then swept out.
Jack, I’m actually quite relieved to hear that Florian is caught up with a lady, because he’s started to be rather embarrassingly attentive. He’s taken to coming to sit with me at rehearsals, and he pats my arm and says I’m doing a splendid job. Yesterday he said he felt we were becoming close friends.
‘I feel as if I am beginning to know you in a special way,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been wondering whether we might have a little late-night supper together?’
That, of course, was my cue to say, ‘Oh, Mr Gilfillan, I am not worthy.’ What I actually said (rather suspiciously) was, ‘A late-night supper?’
‘Some champagne and caviar, perhaps? A little smoked salmon? And then—’
Thankfully I didn’t hear how the ‘And then’ line would have ended, because he was interrupted by Timon, crossly calling out that Florian had missed his cue.
I don’t think there’s any way in which Florian could know who I am, so I can’t think this is anything other than plain old-fashioned lechery – and I’m sorry if Cousin Cecily is with you when you read this. I wouldn’t actually have expected any lechery aimed at Tilly Fendle – what with the patchily dyed hair and an assortment of clothes that look as if they’ve come from an East End rag shop. What I do think is that in my attempts to get information about the hidden scene, I’ve overdone the eager admiration role, and the vain old goat has interpreted it as romantic admiration.
I shan’t, of course, accept the supper invitation – or only if it’s likely to be somewhere with plenty of people around.
Tansy
Jack put the letter down, and said, ‘I hope that old roué, Florian Gilfillan, isn’t suspicious of her.’
‘But he couldn’t know who she is. Ah, Gus, is that our breakfast?’
‘Have you had something to eat yourself?’ asked Jack, as Gus carried in a laden tray.
‘I had some at your rooms before I came out, thanking you kindly. The eggs are in the covered dish, and I’ve made toast, and brought the butter dish. And, begging your pardon, Mr Jack, but did I hear something in Miss Tansy’s letter about champagne and caviar?’
‘You did, Gus. Involving a certain Mr Florian Gilfillan.’ Jack waited, and Gus said,
‘Well, I’ll take leave to say that might have been a good seduction line in Edward VII’s giddy youth, but I shouldn’t think a champagne and caviar approach would be very effective with someone of Miss Tansy’s generation,’ said Gus. ‘Oh, and Mr Byron, there was a pot of marmalade in your cupboard, so I’ve brought that as well.’
TWENTY
Ethne had believed she had put a safe distance between herself and the play said to have been written by her father. She had written a polite reply to Miss Viola Gilfillan’s letter, telling her it could not possibly be Phelan Rafferty’s work and that she did not want her name attached to it in any way whatsoever. It had crossed her mind that there might be an approach from one of the newspapers – from reporters who might want to talk to Phelan’s daughter about the discovery – but there had been nothing, and after a while she had begun to feel safe. Perhaps, after all, the title had simply been an odd coincidence. And perhaps the play had already been discovered for the forgery it undoubtedly was, and would no longer be performed, anyway.
But now had come a newspaper article, mostly about the Dublin Festival in general, but making particular mention of the play.
MOUNTING SPECULATION ABOUT PHELAN RAFFERTY’S RECENTLY FOUND PLAY – AND THE ‘DISGUISED SCENE’
There is increasing excitement about a play which is to open the Féile in Dublin, and is believed to be a recently discovered work by Phelan Rafferty – the distinguished playwright who died five years ago.
The play bears the enticing title The Murderer Inside the Mirror, and this week, Miss Viola Gilfillan, from the Gilfillan Theatre Company, gave a brief interview to us, in which she reminded readers of the ‘mystery’ within the play.
‘As I told your newspaper recently, there were four pages of the script which in effect were disguised,’ she said. ‘They were written in Irish Gaelic, and had to be translated. We do now have that translation, of course.’
[Readers can see this earlier interview in our edition of last month.]
Asked about the content of the disguised scene and the possible reason for it having been wrapped in such mystery, Miss Gilfillan would not be drawn.
‘I shall only say it is a very strong piece of theatre,’ she said. ‘And to honour what we believe may have been Phelan Rafferty’s wish, we are preserving the aura of mystery. The scene will not be viewed until the festival’s opening night at the Roscius. We are rehearsing it in secrecy – behind locked doors, even. The only people who presently know what it contains are the three actors who appear in it – that is myself, Mr Timon Gilfillan, and Mr Florian Gilfillan.’
Asked about the play’s title and the old stage superstition that it brought bad luck to have a mirror on stage during a performance, Miss Gilfillan laughed.
‘We aren’t in the least worried about superstitions,’ she said. ‘That one is purely a safety concern in any case. A mirror can reflect a light, which could temporarily blind an actor – who could end up blundering into a piece of furniture or even walk off the edge of the stage.’
On page 8 our readers can see photographs of the three players, taking the leading roles of Tomás, Maran and Catrina in the play.
When Ethne finished reading this, her heart was racing and her hands were shaking. She had the feeling of the past closing suffocatingly around her.
She had tried to dismiss the play’s title, but this could not be dismissed. The revelation of what Viola Gilfillan had called a disguised scene, taken in conjunction with that title, could surely only mean one thing. That the play really was the story of that long-ago night in Dublin Castle.
Miss Gilfillan had said only the actors appearing in the scene knew what it contained, but if Ethne was right, there were three other people who would know. The three people who had been there – who had played the scene in real life. Phelan Rafferty, Montague Fitzglen, and Ethne herself. It therefore followed that only one of those three could have written that play.
Ethne had not written it, of course, and her father’s death had been announced barely a week after that night in Dublin Castle. That left Montague Fitzglen. He was certainly enough of a man of the theatre to understand how to structure a play, but Ethne could not believe he would have allowed the truth about that night to become known, any more than she would have done so herself. Or would he? He was an actor, and actors were vain. Mightn’t he have wanted to set down the events of that night? To make sure they were not lost – even that his own part in it was recorded for history? Then, once the play was finished, he had hidden it, intending it to remain secret until memories had died down and suspicions had faded. She could easily visualize him doing that, hugging the secret gleefully to himself. But he had died suddenly, and the script had been found.
Although could Montague have written this disguised scene, which apparently was in Irish Gaelic? He had stayed at Westmeath often enough to acquire a smattering of Irish; her father liked to sprinkle his conversation with Irish phrases, and Montague, with his sharp intelligence and inquisitive mind – you might even call it a prying mind – had listened, and frequently replied in the same language. The two men used to laugh over it, Phelan correcting his friend’s pronunciation, Montague demanding to know what this word meant or that one, trying out phrases, jotting down spelling and accents. Viola had told the newspaper that the scene was only four pages long, and Ethne did not think it would have been beyond Montague Fitzglen’s capabilities to write four pages of dialogue in passable Irish. She could almost see him smiling to himself as he did so, murmuring that even if anyone found the play before he was ready, before he considered it safe, this would fool them.
Ethne had long since destroyed everything that might reveal anything about that long-ago night in Dublin Castle. She had torn to shreds and burned every document ever written by Seamus Rafferty; all the letters to and from the Dublin antiquarian, E. L. Maguire, and all the correspondence with the surveyors about the restoration of the castle – including the sketch map. She had even burned the polite note of thanks from Mr Todworthy Inkling who had stayed at Westmeath House and been part of the discussions about those documents. After she had done all that, she had thought herself safe.
But she was not safe. She would have to find out what was in the play being attributed to her father and, above all, she had to find out what was in the disguised scene. And if she was right about what it contained, she must find a way to stop the play being performed.
She read the article again, then looked at the photographs of the three people who would be in the scene. Viola Gilfillan, Timon Gilfillan and Florian Gilfillan.
Florian Gilfillan. The name jumped out at her.
You did not, if you had any pride, write to a gentleman who had seduced you in the orchard of your own home (and very uncomfortably and embarrassingly as well); who had held out a promise of marriage, and then vanished the next morning. She had told herself he was not worth the shedding of a single tear, and life had gone on very much as before.
But he was in Ireland again – as near as Dublin – and it might be possible to lure him into re-entering her life, and then make use of him. Ethne thought for a long time, then sat down to write two letters. One was to book for herself two – possibly three – nights in a small Dublin hotel near the Roscius theatre.
The other letter was to Florian Gilfillan.
Being in Dublin after so many years churned up all the memories, and as Ethne walked out of the railway station, she had the feeling yet again of the past pulling at her, trying to take her back over the years. But this was absurd, and she asked a porter to find a cab for her – she was pleased that she remembered how such things were done – and was taken to her hotel.
Florian had replied to her carefully worded letter almost immediately, expressing himself delighted to hear from her. Of course he remembered her, he said; he had thought of her many times over the years, always with affection and pleasure, but also with some sadness.
‘For you will know your father forbade all further meetings between us, and regretfully I had to accept that. You were so young, dear Ethne, and I could not spoil your life by causing a rift between you and Phelan. I was deeply saddened to read of his death some years ago. Perhaps, though, times will be kinder to us now, and as I am in Dublin for the festival, and as you are apparently also in Dublin for a brief visit, as you say it does indeed seem ordained that we should meet.
‘I see that your hotel is quite near to where I am staying, so I wonder if you would like to come to luncheon in the restaurant here? I am very much involved with rehearsals, but I could be available tomorrow. I await your response with eagerness and hope.’
Ethne sent a note of acceptance, and dressed carefully for the encounter. As she walked into the foyer of Florian’s hotel, he came towards her, his hands outstretched, quoting Shakespeare – saying that age had not withered her, nor custom staled her infinite variety. Ethne smiled an acknowledgement and thought it was a pity she could not say the same about Florian himself. The years had not withered him – on the contrary, he had thickened and coarsened. She wondered how on earth she could have been so foolish as to be charmed and eventually seduced by him.
She had prepared careful remarks to introduce the subject of the play, but he broached the matter himself over their lunch.
‘A remarkable piece,’ he said. ‘I play Tomás – a wonderful role. But you don’t believe it’s your father’s work?’
‘It isn’t his work,’ said Ethne. ‘I would have known – I would have found the manuscript – drafts – notes – in his papers after—’ She broke off, with a gesture expressive of distress, and Florian reached for her hand across the table.
‘My dear—’
‘The play is a fake,’ said Ethne, managing not to snatch her hand back. ‘And it makes me very angry to know that someone has practised such a monstrous fraud – also that your family have been so shamefully deceived.’ She glanced about her, then said, ‘This is perhaps rather a public place for such a discussion. Is there somewhere more private for us to talk?’
‘There’s my bedroom here on the second floor, if you felt you could—’
‘A business discussion, of course,’ said Ethne, but she smiled into his eyes. ‘Although between such old friends—’
His colour deepened at once, and he said, ‘I’ll ask them to send up another bottle of wine. Private discussions are always so much more comfortable over a glass of wine.’
Once in his bedroom, Ethne sat in a chair near the window, while Florian perched on the edge of the bed, and poured the wine.
