Cast For Death by Margaret Yorke Page B

long, and he certainly did not want the pair of them getting in his way while he talked to Tessa.
    Stratford-upon-Avon, when they reached it, was preparing for Shakespeare’s birthday, which would be celebrated the next day, though the actual anniversary came on the 23rd of April. In recent years the festival had been held on the nearest Saturday. Flagpoles were fixed in the streets, and a huge marquee stood in the gardens beyond the theatre.
    ‘The ambassadors from various nations come and parade through the streets,’ said Patrick. ‘And they have a great luncheon, with speeches and so on.’
    ‘Will some Greek people be here?’ Manolakis enquired.
    ‘I suppose so.’
    Manolakis was pleased to hear it.
    It had been decided that the evening must be made complete for Manolakis with dinner at the theatre after the performance. Patrick went to make sure of their table, leaving Liz to show Manolakis the photographs of leading actors and actresses in the great roles which adorned the walls of the building. When he came back to them, they were beside the fountain looking at the five studies of Dame Peggy Ashcroft over their heads. They seemed to be standing very close together. Patrick hurried down the stairs to join them.
    The stage, when they went into the auditorium, was set with a few pillars representing Venice. About them, the audience rustled with the air of eager anticipation that heralds an exciting theatrical experience. Manolakis was at once aware of the special atmosphere of this place.
    ‘I shall sit between you both,’ said Liz, and slid into place with one of them on either side of her, immediately turning to Manolakis to make sure that he knew what was going to happen in the first act of the play, so that he would not get lost when he heard language that would not be easy for him to follow.
    Patrick was isolated again. He leafed through the expensive programme with which the management guided their patrons through the history of the play. Usually, when he came here, he simply took a free cast list from the slot on a pillar where they were provided, reckoning that he knew much more about all the plays than anyone involved either with the production or the programmes, but he had bought them each one tonight. There was plenty to read, he found, and it occupied him while Liz and Manolakis talked, but soon he grew restive and looked about him again.
    At the side of the dress-circle, in a set of box seats, four men sat together. One had strikingly white hair and a lean profile; the others were younger, one with long hair and the other two neatly trimmed.
    ‘Who’s that up there?’ Patrick turned to Liz, interrupting her tête-â-tête. ‘That chap with white hair. Is he an actor? I know his face.’
    Liz looked up at the men in the box.
    ‘It’s Ivan Tamaroff,’ she said. ‘The pianist.’
    ‘That Russian, you mean? The one who came over?’
    ‘Yes – years ago now. He’s marvellous,’ said Liz, who loved classical music and went to a great many concerts.
    ‘Who are those men with him?’
    ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t recognise any of them,’ she said.
    As she spoke, violins struck up behind the stage. Slowly the lights dimmed. Liz and Patrick forgot about Manolakis, and indeed about everything as Roderigo and Iago entered, and before them began the build-up of circumstantial evidence that would end, some three hours later, in tragedy.

 
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    By the interval, Manolakis had become muddled with the plot, so they took their drinks out on to the terrace overlooking the river while they unravelled it for him.
    ‘It is so clever. All those small things which make for suspicion,’ he said.
    ‘Envy and jealousy,’ said Liz. ‘Self-perpetuating evils.’
    ‘What is envy? What is jealousy?’ asked Manolakis. ‘I think they are the same.’
    ‘Not quite,’ said Patrick. ‘Iago and Roderigo are envious: Othello is jealous. It’s a terrifying play. So much disaster from such a small