Death Plays a Part. Vivian Conroy

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      Oliver hitched a brow. ‘And your parents let you?’

      ‘I grew up with my grandmother. I had a lot of freedom.’ Studying the leaflet in her hands, Guinevere frowned. ‘Why re-enact a trial of a man who wasn’t convicted? Couldn’t they make it stick?’

      ‘Maybe the judge was bought? I don’t know the details. I only have to chip in tonight because Jago Trevelyan, who plays the judge, can’t make it for this rehearsal. I just hope I remember my lines.’

      Guinevere asked, ‘Who’s playing Branok the Cold-hearted? It seems like a rather unpleasant personality to don.’

      ‘Arthur Haydock.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘And he doesn’t have to don anything. He’s a modern-day Branok if I ever knew one. A lawyer who has been very successful at taking people’s land away from them.’

      Guinevere narrowed her eyes. ‘And at odds with your father.’ Did that mean this Haydock also wanted to take the castle away from the Bolingbrookes?

      Oliver waved a hand as if to slap her question out of the window. ‘Look, if you want coffee and a sandwich, we’d better go back down before the players have finished it all.’

      ***

      In the hallway a young woman in a bright red trouser suit had just come in through the front door. She wore her blonde hair up in a bun on the back of her head, an efficient hairstyle fitting her rather formal appearance. She breathed fast as if the climb up to the castle had exhausted her.

      ‘Leah,’ Oliver said. He went to her and clasped her hands in his. ‘Good to see you. How have you been?’ He looked her over as if he sought the familiar in her features. Maybe, with Oliver’s travels, these two hadn’t seen each other in a long time?

      Ignoring the question of how she’d been, Leah spied past Oliver. ‘Where’s my father?’ Her tone was urgent, almost anxious. ‘Tell me he’s not alone with yours.’

      Still holding Leah’s hands in his, Oliver turned to the dining room door. ‘In there I suppose. But I warned my father not to pick a fight again.’

      Leah pulled her hands away quickly. ‘As if he’s going to listen. We have to get in there and keep them apart.’ She moved to the door, noiselessly on the trainers she wore. They didn’t match her outfit, but Guinevere supposed you didn’t climb up to the castle in high heels.

      ‘That’s Leah Haydock,’ Oliver said to Guinevere. ‘Haydock’s daughter and a partner in his law firm.’ The latter words carried a tinge of bitterness.

      Guinevere studied his expression to probe the meaning of this.

      Leah was already waving them along to the dining room door. ‘Quickly.’

      Just as the three of them reached it, voices rang out from inside.

      ‘Pointless to mention it again,’ Guinevere caught.

      And another voice: ‘Man, be sensible. You can never keep this.’

      ‘It’s mine. And I’ll keep it. No matter what I have to do for it.’

      Oliver pushed the door open, and Guinevere saw Bolingbrooke and a handsome middle-aged man in a neat grey suit almost nose to nose in the middle of the room.

      Bolingbrooke’s right hand rested on the table where the tray with sandwiches sat. The butler had placed another tray beside it with a ham and a round cheese. A sharp knife was placed at the ready for cutting.

      Bolingbrooke’s fingers closed round the handle of the knife as if he was ready to pick it up and brandish it at his opponent.

      ‘Ah,’ Oliver said in a loud voice, barging into the room. ‘You’re already here. Guinevere, this is Arthur Haydock. Haydock, this is our new recruit: Guinevere Evans.’

      Following suit, Guinevere reached out her hand, and Haydock had to turn away from Bolingbrooke. His brown eyes surveyed her critically. ‘A new addition to our cast, you mean? I didn’t know we still had any parts left to give out.’

      His gaze fell to Dolly, and he snorted. ‘A new addition to your dog park too, Bolingbrooke? Isn’t this one a little small for your tastes?’

      ‘That’s Guinevere’s dog,’ Bolingbrooke barked. ‘And you can rest assured: Guinevere has nothing to do with your silly little play. She’s here to catalogue my books.’

      While speaking, Bolingbrooke inched away from the table and the knife, not looking at Oliver, who shot his father accusing glances. After all, he had warned him about staying away from Haydock and about avoiding a scene like this one.

      ‘So pleased to meet you both.’ Guinevere shook Leah’s hand now. It was clammy as if she had worked herself up about her father’s behaviour.

      ‘Leah is a junior partner in my law firm,’ Haydock said with emphasis. ‘And what kind of work do you normally do?’ He looked Guinevere over with a mix of curiosity and bewilderment. ‘This book cataloguing thing is just a summer assignment, I presume?’

      ‘I work in a theatre,’ Guinevere said. She straightened her back as she spoke, pulling back her shoulders. She was used to people not considering it a real job.

      ‘You’re an actress?’ Leah asked, her eyes lighting up. ‘You have to tell us something about the plays you perform in.’

      ‘No, I do costume design. I also help out backstage during performances.’

      ‘And what do you study?’ Haydock asked in a patronizing tone. ‘I mean, such a job is obviously meant to earn a little something on the side while you get your degree.’

      ‘I already have my degree, in drama and theatre studies. I was very lucky to find a theatre that could take me on right away.’ Guinevere couldn’t resist adding, ‘In London.’

      ‘I would love to live in London,’ Leah said. She had a warm, melodious voice, and her tense expression relaxed as she took to the topic. ‘All those historic sites and museums to visit.’

      ‘Then why don’t you move there?’ Oliver said. His tone was a little too loud for a normal question. It was more like a challenge.

      Leah flushed the same colour as her trouser suit. She held her head up, but her shoulders slumped as if she was physically trying to remove herself from the scene.

      The butler appeared in the door and announced, ‘Kensa and Tegen Morgan.’

      A stout woman in her late forties walked in, carrying a twined basket on her arm. She was already dressed in a woollen garb that gave her a medieval look. ‘I made some changes to the script. I’ll hand out the new information right away.’ She reached under the cloth in the basket she was carrying. Dolly came over to see if there were any treats forthcoming.

      ‘Not again,’ Bolingbrooke said. ‘Why can’t you just leave the play alone?’

      ‘There are no changes to the text,’ Kensa countered. ‘Just a few directions as to where everybody should be standing. Body posture and so on.’ Kensa threw Leah a pointed look as she said the latter.

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