Murder at the Theatre Royale by Ada Moncrieff

Author:Ada Moncrieff [Moncrieff, Ada]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473596221
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2021-11-04T00:00:00+00:00

17

The sliver of light was pitiless. Stabbing her forehead, it was as implacable as it was unwelcome. Daphne had closed the curtains last night in a slipshod fashion, and was rueing her haste now, as she lay in bed, her eiderdown and bedspread pulled as high as possible. The sunlight was hell-bent on piercing her cocoon, and, prising one heavy eye open, she saw the ray of light not dancing with but rather charging through the particles of dust hanging in the air.

A groan escaped her as she attempted to roll on to her side to get a better view of the alarm clock that would ordinarily wake her at seven sharp. Five to six? What the blazes was she doing awake at five to six?

Aggrieved and astounded, cheated of a decent night’s sleep by her own throbbing head, Daphne groaned again. Hurling the bedclothes away petulantly, she sat upright. Red wine had never agreed with her; it had positively gone out of its way to pick fights with her in fact, and here she was, bearing the consequences. She hauled herself out of bed, tottering towards the window. Tentatively, she peeped through the curtains to find that the white blanket had not melted. Splendid. Not only would she have to contend with a raging headache, she would also be battling through inches of snow. She turned to the Christmas cards standing on her desk and, as if revenging herself on the festive season, knocked them down with a swift flick of her hand.

‘Daphne, what a horrible little fool you’ve made of yourself,’ she muttered as she turned to assess her face in the mirror that hung on the wall. The dark circles under her eyes were like a scarlet brand, marking her out as a woman who had imbibed far too much wine on a Wednesday night. At least, she reflected, she hadn’t said anything wildly inappropriate or behaved in too unprofessional a manner. Reassuring herself, she concluded that, all in all, the evening – the night – had been a fruitful reconnaissance of Theatreland. Perhaps she could reframe the piece with Martin Halliday as a sort of immersive dive into the world of late-night Soho wine escapades. She shook her head. If she were to make her name as a serious journalist, she really mustn’t start by telling tales about her own lack of restraint and predilection for cheap red wine.

A knock at the door came.

‘One moment, Mrs Booth,’ Daphne called in a voice she attempted to infuse with brightness.

‘Telephone for you, Miss King,’ came the reply.

Telephone? Most likely her mother, wanting to hear which train she was getting today. She groaned yet again. She couldn’t go back to Slough today, not when she was just getting started. And certainly not with a headache like this. Daphne scrambled for some clothes, throwing them on and pushing back the waves of nausea which were attempting to sweep her away. A final look in the mirror confirmed that, yes, she did look a fright.

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