Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

‘It’s a good thing Norman had reason to come over here today,’ Katharine said with a small shiver, imagining the consequences if Norman had not arrived on the scene at the right time. She looked down at her hands, and when she lifted her head her eyes held a quizzical look. ‘I asked Norman if he thought Alexa Garrett had done it, and he said no. But he didn’t really convince me. I think Norman suspects her, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Penny responded uncertainly. ‘But I suspect her. I think she’s a bit of a Tartar, that one. I wouldn’t put anything past her. Terry’s had nothing but bad luck since she’s been around. Jinxed him, that she has. I never liked her, stuck-up little piece of nothing. She’s led Terry into bad ways, Katharine. Very bad ways indeed, I don’t mind telling you. But then, Terry never did have much taste in women. Always going for the dolly birds. Except for Hilary Rayne. He should have married Hilary, instead of that last wife of his – Megan. I never liked her either, another stuck-up article, if ever I saw one. Exactly like Alexa. Two peas in a pod, if you ask me, and rotten bloody peas at that.’

Katharine was taken aback at this second reference to Hilary in one day, and intrigued and inquisitive, remembering Estelle’s comments about the party. She said, ‘Yes, I agree with you, about Hilary. She’s a lovely person. But she’s married to Mark Pierce now, so she’s hardly available for Terry.’

Penny was startled. ‘Oh, I didn’t know you knew Hilary. Known her long, have you?’

‘Not very long, but she’s –’ Katharine cut off her sentence as Norman rushed in. He seemed elated and he grinned at them both and made Winston Churchill’s V for Victory sign with two fingers. ‘I think it’s going to work. I had to wake Terry to get him into the bathroom. Right now he’s sitting in a tub of hot water, looking as weak as a kitten and sounding very groggy. He didn’t even want me to shave him. Why don’t you go and boil the milk, Penny love, and then I’ll try to get him to drink it. After that, it’ll be never-never-land time.’

Penny hurried out, and Norman peered at his watch. ‘It’s just turning five-thirty, Katharine. Do you want to get off to the theatre?’

‘No, I’ll wait for you, Norman. Just to be sure everything is all right. We can go together,’ she said.

Norman stood in the wings of the St James’s Theatre, watching the last scene of the last act of Trojan Interlude. And silently he applauded Katharine. She was superb. She had carried the entire play with ease and brilliance and immense flair, radiating her own extraordinary magic, a magic quite unique to her. Peter Mallory, Terry’s understudy, was good, but he lacked Terry’s fire and declamatory ability, and although his performance was sound it was without inspiration.

If the audience felt a little cheated because of his lack-lustre performance, they had been more than compensated by Katharine’s stunning protrayal of Helen of Troy. She had given them everything she had, with every fibre of her being, and Norman decided it was probably her most outstanding rendition to date. She had surpassed herself, had held them in the palm of her hand all night long, and now, as the play drew to its finale, they were her entranced and willing captives, breathless in their seats, hanging on every word. He suspected there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house when the curtain fell in a few minutes.

Norman turned and meandered out of the wings, making his way slowly down the stone stairs to the dressing rooms. He had had to come to the theatre tonight, to dress Terry’s understudy, who didn’t have one of his own. In many ways he had been glad to get away from the flat. It had enabled him to clear his head. Terry had dropped off to sleep before he and Katharine left, and Penny had assured him she was capable of coping with any emergency which might arise. Norman had telephoned his wife several times during the course of the play, and to his great relief she had told him Terry was still out like a light, and probably wouldn’t awaken until the next morning. But as a precaution, he and Penny had elected to stay the night there, just in case Terry needed anything.

And tomorrow he would have a serious talk with Master Terrence. It was long overdue. Norman now chastised himself for not having done so before. He was devoted to Terry, and protective of him, and in the six years he had been his dresser they had drawn extremely close and intimate, were like brothers. Norman, failed and frustrated actor that he was, guarded Terry’s career as he would the Holy Grail, and he was prepared to go out on a limb for him at any time, to ensure his position and standing in the English theatre. Talent such as Terry possessed was rare and precious, and it had to be cherished and nurtured. To Norman it was a national treasure that belonged to the people, to be preserved for them.

Norman hovered outside Terry’s dressing room, waiting for Katharine to come off stage. He had done a great deal of thinking in the past few hours and had at last resolved to confide in her. She was the only person he dare trust with Terry’s secrets. Norman sighed under his breath. Terry’s troubles were becoming too weighty and complex for him to carry alone, and after the nightmarish day he had spent, he knew he must unburden himself, seek objective advice. And quickly, if he was to avert further disaster. He was not sure she could properly advise him, but sometimes it was simply enough to voice fears. Communicating them to someone else helped to clarify them and often produced solutions which otherwise might have remained elusive. And at least Katharine might be able to make Terry see sense.

He heard her laughter as she tripped lightly down the steps, and he went along the corridor to meet her, smiling broadly. He grabbed her, somewhat roughly, but with genuine affection, and hugged her to him. ‘You were smashing, love,’ he exclaimed. ‘Staggering. You pulled out all the stops.’

‘Thanks, Norman.’ She exhaled several times. ‘I did it for Terry,’ she said softly, and with the sweetest of smiles. ‘I acted for both of us tonight. But it was rough going at times. Look at me. I’m soaked to my skin.’

‘You’d better get out of your damp costume immediately,’ Norman ordered in a fatherly manner, bundling her towards her dressing room door. ‘By the way, can I buy you a drink later, love?’

‘That’s so sweet of you, Norman, but I have a date.’

‘Just one. Ten minutes of your time. It’s important, Katharine.’

She noted the anxiety in Norman’s voice, and she thought, Oh God, Terry’s taken a turn for the worse. She said swiftly, and with a degree of nervousness, ‘Is he all right? There’s nothing wrong is there?’

‘No, he’s fast asleep. Actually, I need a bit of advice … About Ter … our boy …’ Norman’s voice trailed off. He gave her a pointed look. ‘Understand what I mean?’

‘Yes, I do.’ She did not have the heart to refuse him. Also, she was worried about Terry herself, and riddled with curiosity about these recent events, and her inquisitiveness now got the better of her. She said, ‘Kim Cunningham’s bringing a picnic over to my flat later. We’re going to have a midnight supper.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s very romantic. Anyway, we can have a drink there, Norman. We have plenty of time to talk before he arrives.’

Norman was hesitant, shrinking away from this suggestion. He always felt faintly ill-at-ease when he was with the nobs. Being the son of a man who had spent forty years of his life in service to one of the premier dukes of England, he had been brought up to know his place. And his place was certainly not at any social gathering, particularly one of this intimate nature. ‘Oh well, if his lordship’s coming courting, perhaps we’d better leave it.’

‘Don’t be silly, Norman. I want you to come. And I certainly want to help you and Terry if I can.’

‘Okay. And thanks, Katharine, you’re a real brick,’ Norman beamed. ‘I’m going to pop along and help Peter, but I won’t be long. Knock on the door when you’re ready to leave.’

‘I’ll hurry. About fifteen minutes,’ she said, disappearing into her dressing room.

Chapter Seventeen (#ulink_c631289e-8295-5622-b438-10e3e2230380)

‘I’d like a pink gin, please,’ Norman said, lighting a cigarette as he sat back on the white sofa in Katharine’s flat.

‘Oh dear, I don’t have any angostura bitters,’ she answered with a frown. ‘But I do have gin. Would you like a splash of tonic water with it?’

‘Thanks, love, that’ll be fine.’

Katharine smiled, returning to the kitchen. Norman glanced around with considerable interest. Very posh, he thought. And expensive. But not to my taste at all. The room was too cold, too sterile and too … hygienic. All this white. It reminded him of a hospital. The only thing missing was the smell of disinfectant and that peculiar medicinal odour which always permeated the wards. The décor was so frigid and icy it was oddly depressing, and despite the warmth emanating from the large electric fire in the fireplace, Norman felt chilled. He had trouble reconciling the room with Katharine and what he knew of her. Earlier, at the theatre, when she had invited him to her flat, he had imagined a setting quite different from this one. She was such a cheerful, open and vivacious girl, with a warm personality and a sweet disposition, and this place where she lived was somehow alien in its austerity and, yes, its lifelessness.

White. It struck an odd chord in his memory. White was the mourning colour in India, wasn’t it? He shivered again and his thoughts swept to Terry. We might have been mourning him, he said inwardly, except for the slip of the knife. The right slip, in this instance. Norman’s chest tightened, and he felt a spurt of intense rage. Deep inside he was furious with Terry for constantly putting himself in such precarious situations, for jeopardizing his career. His brilliant career. And, today, his safety as well.

Katharine arrived with the drinks. She handed the gin and tonic to Norman and seated herself on the chair facing him.

‘Cheers,’ she said with a friendly smile, and took a sip of her vodka on the rocks.

‘Cheers,’ Norman responded. ‘I really appreciate this, Katharine.’ He looked away, wondering where to begin, how to launch into the story and enumerate the terrible worries which plagued him, which could no longer be shoved under the rug. The trouble was, there was so much to tell.

Katharine waited patiently, regarding Terry’s dresser with not a little curiosity, wondering how much he was going to divulge about the stabbing. For undoubtedly that was what he wanted to discuss with her. She had half expected him to say something on their way from the theatre, but he had mostly raved about her performance, not touching on his troubles.

As if he had read her mind, Norman now cleared his throat and blurted out, ‘Terry’s on a path to self-destruction! I don’t know how to stop him, Katharine. I’m out of my mind with worry. Honest to God, I don’t know what to do any more!’

Katharine sat up straight. ‘What do you mean … self-destruction?’

‘The way he’s been behaving, the situations he gets himself into, and with increasing frequency. He’s not very stable.’ He immediately saw the challenge in her large turquoise eyes, the disbelief washing across her lovely young face, and he said with great firmness, ‘I’m not exaggerating! Believe me I’m not! I’ve thought for a long time that he’d come a cropper one day, but it was sooner than I expected. And much worse. Christ Almighty, don’t you realize he could have been killed today! It was a fluke he wasn’t!’

‘Yes, I know.’ Katharine shifted in her chair and leaned forward slightly. ‘Why don’t you tell me about the stabbing, Norman dear. You’ll feel much better if you get it off your chest.’

Norman half laughed bleakly. ‘There’s not much to tell about that incident. I’ve been trying to piece things together as best I could from Terry’s incoherent mumblings, and I’ve come up with one theory at least. I wish I’d talked to you before, and then perhaps this bloody mess might have been avoided. But to be honest, I didn’t want to discuss Terry’s troubles. I … I … felt it would be terribly disloyal.’ Norman took a cigarette, lit it and continued, ‘I know I can trust you though. I mean, I know you understand that what I’m going to tell you about Terry is absolutely confidential –’

‘I would never repeat anything you told me to anyone,’ Katharine interrupted. ‘I promise you, Norman.’

‘Thanks, love.’ His eyes rested on her, searching, as he began slowly, diffidently, ‘I know you suspect Alexa, and so does Penny, but I don’t think she was involved. Terry told me the other day that she was going to Zurich to see her father, and as far as I know she did. I think she’s still there. Actually, I’m sure it was a man,’ he rushed on, his voice gaining in strength and conviction. ‘But listen, love, I don’t want my theory repeated. You’ve got to promise me you won’t say a word to a soul about this matter either.’

Katharine moved to the edge of the sofa, absorbing his words. She said, ‘Of course I won’t. I realize you can’t go around accusing people of attempted murder.’

‘Have you ever seen Terry with a young, good-looking bod? Dark haired, very well dressed, almost foppish?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Katharine said, her brows puckering. ‘Does he have a yellow Jag that he parks in the Haymarket?’

‘That’s the bloke!’ Norman cried. He took a long swallow of the gin and tonic, and said flatly, in a cold voice, ‘I think it was him that did it.’

‘Norman, are you sure?’ Katharine asked nervously.

‘Of course I can’t be sure. I wasn’t there,’ he replied snappishly. In a more even tone he added, ‘But from what Terry said to me, and because of the things I know myself, everything points to him.’

‘But who is he, Norman?’ Katharine demanded.

‘He calls himself Rupert Reynolds.’

‘Calls himself! Isn’t that his real name?’