When had she made her last film?
Their eyes had met in a glance of amused understanding; they liked each other, a friendship could be put together here of the more detached, long-range sort that women rarely manage.
‘Are they really made of solid gold?’
‘I don’t think so. Mine isn’t,’ said Stella absently. ‘I believe I shall be happy here.’ She was due for a spell of being happy. Everyone had their turn, didn’t they?
‘I hope the building still in process won’t disturb you too much. Don’t worry about security, it’s pretty good. I had special locks and bolts put in. I’ll see you get your keys. We used to have a caretaker on the site, but the last one left without giving notice.’
‘That’s the way it goes.’
‘He’d been here some time, too. I think he had a quarrel with the builders. But I’m interviewing another one. And my brother has the apartment in the tower. He’s a policeman.’
‘I know,’ said Stella. She had seen him around, and kept her distance. ‘I know him. Have done for years. On and off.’
When they had first known each other, he had loved her and she had not loved him back, or not much. When they had next got together, she had loved him more, or so she thought, and he had been more casual. Now they hardly seemed to know each other at all, and that was sad. It was not how it should have been. Somehow, somewhere, they had missed a turning they should have taken.
‘He’s a good bloke.’
Stella had agreed, but to herself she had added: A difficult man. Too much death hanging about him. I mean, she said to herself, what is it when you make love to someone and you smell carbolic on his hands? And you say: My God, what’s that, what have you been doing? And he says: Well, just something I came close to and I thought I’d better … Yes, wash it off. Well, what did that do to you?
The kitchen was small but well arranged.
I might even try to cook again, thought Stella. She looked at her beautifully painted nails. The only bad thing about cooking was the washing up. Her last marriage had foundered on the piles of dirty crockery filling the sink. Marry an actor, marry a successful one, and he hasn’t got time to do the dishes, either! Marry a failure, and it’s beneath his dignity. Somehow they had never got round to buying a dishwasher.
She opened the refrigerator. Letty had left a bottle of champagne inside with a card that just said WELCOME. The refrigerator had a nice freezer on top but this she did not open.
What was that noise she could hear? People talking loudly and a car arriving. Louder voices now. She hoped she wasn’t always going to be so aware of her neighbours.
Correction: the neighbour. The only one she had so far: John Coffin.
In the living-room with a view on to the old churchyard, now turned into a piazza and garden leading to the Theatre Workshop, she paused to realize for the first time that living so close to the job would make her vulnerable to all those members of the cast she might want to avoid. There was always someone, usually more than one, in a company who wanted to argue, complain, cry or even just talk. Her present production was blessed, if that was the word, with a young actress, Lily Goldstone, from a notable theatrical family, who had strong political views. She was always trying to buttonhole Stella.
But the evening sun rested so beautifully on the wall, filling Stella with hope. I can be happy here, she thought, and she poured herself a glass of champagne from the bottle that Letty had left her. Why not? She could go back to mineral water tomorrow.
While she sipped it she stared out of the window. From another window she could see the main road. She stared.
There was a police car, with lights flashing and a party was being loaded into it. She could see a small boy, and two women wearing flowery hats, while a fourth figure seemed to be explaining that he could not leave his cleaning cart.
Good actor, that man, I like his mime, thought Stella, watching the moving figure. I must find out what is going on.
She went into the hall, flinging open her front door with a flourish, but clutching her wine.
She walked straight into John Coffin. They stared at each other.
‘What’s happening?’
He did not answer at once.
‘No, don’t tell me. Who’s dead?’
He still didn’t answer.
Stella shrugged and held out her hand. ‘Well. It’s a way to meet.’ She was half amused, half cross. It was so like their whole career together, which had stretched over many years and endured many ups and downs.
‘I have seen you around. I thought you were avoiding me.’
‘Yes and no.’ Stella showed her glass. ‘Come in and have a drink. Your sister left me a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator as a coming-in present.’
‘More than she did for me.’ But come to think of it, perhaps she had; he hadn’t opened the refrigerator since he moved in, he must take a look.
He followed Stella into the bare living-room. At least he had carpets down and pictures on the wall, he was one step ahead of her.
‘You don’t mind a toothglass?’ Letty’s interior decorator had provided two, one each side of the basin. The basin looked like pale green marble but probably was not. ‘You’re in the tower, aren’t you? What’s it like?’
‘Fine,’ said Coffin, adding cautiously, ‘so far.’
‘And what was all that commotion about?’
‘Nothing that need concern us here.’
‘I hope you are right. I haven’t moved into a murder den, have I? With dead bodies hidden under the floorboards?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So what was it?’
He remembered she never gave up. And then he thought that word would soon get around about the head. Mimsie would see to that, not to mention the road-sweeper and the boy.
‘I suppose I might as well tell you, but keep quiet about it. It was a head. In an urn. And it somehow got mislaid.’ He did not believe that to be true for a minute.
‘And turned up where?’
‘In the gutter and was brought to me here.’
‘Why?’
‘It seemed to be addressed to here. To the church.’ Stella drank some champagne. ‘Your sister told me that no bodies had been buried here for a long while.’
‘That’s quite true.’
Stella poured them both some more champagne. ‘Drink up, it doesn’t keep. So did you recognize the face?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ Hard to distinguish the features in that swollen face. He hadn’t tried very hard. But no, he didn’t think he knew him. Or her.
‘Well, someone out there has lost a head.’
‘Can we stop talking about the head?’
Stella moved a step away, placing herself with unconscious artistry in mid-scene and where the spotlight of the sun fell upon her. ‘I ought to congratulate you on your big success, what you’ve done, where you’ve got to.’
‘Consider it said. What about you?’
‘Up and down. You know how it is in this business.’
‘Letty says you are going to have a big success with your production of Hedda Gabler.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see. Letty has put in a very good actor-manager. Do you know him? Charlie Driscoll.’ Coffin shook his head. ‘He’s formed a theatre club and got Peter Pond to find