The understudy arrived flat on a trolley.
Victor watched Sal wheel it into the rehearsal room. It was painted green, with a brass knob and a small, quite unnecessary letterbox.
“Is that for me?”
“It’s in case you’re ill,” said Jo.
“I’ve never missed a performance.”
“You’ve got a dental appointment on Thursday.”
“I can move it.”
“You moved it for the technical rehearsal. Your dentist rang the box office.”
Sal tipped the door upright. Its frame stood on two triangular feet.
“Try it,” said Jo.
Sal opened it.
Victor looked away.
“Again,” said Jo.
Sal closed it, then opened it.
“Yes,” said Jo. “That’s fine.”
For six weeks Victor had stood between the kitchen and the drawing room with a brass knob pinned to his waistcoat. When the script called for the door to open, he stepped sideways. When it slammed, he stamped.
It was a small part, but it had kept him in the second act.
“The colour’s wrong,” he said.
“We can paint it.”
“I’m burgundy.”
“You’re wearing your own clothes.”
“Exactly.”
Jo checked her pencil against the rehearsal schedule.
“Let’s take it from Mrs Bell’s entrance. Victor, watch this one. Then we’ll put you back.”
Mrs Bell came in carrying a tray.
“Arthur,” she said, “there’s something I must tell you.”
She reached the door. Her hand stopped an inch from the knob.
“Sorry. May I touch it?”
“Yes,” said Jo.
“It’s only that Victor usually—”
“Yes. This one you open yourself.”
Mrs Bell put the tray on the floor, opened the door, picked up the tray, went through, put the tray down, shut the door, and picked up the tray.
There was a silence.
“We’ve lost the pace,” said Victor.
“We’ll give you a free hand,” Jo told Mrs Bell.
“The tray has the letter on it.”
“Lose the teapot.”
“The teapot conceals the pistol.”
Jo drew a line through something on her schedule.
They tried the burglary.
Arthur entered in his socks, turned towards the kitchen, and listened.
“Now,” whispered Jo.
Arthur slipped through the doorway.
“Shut it.”
Arthur shut it.
“No,” said Jo. “Quietly.”
“I did.”
Sal knelt beside the frame.
They tried the reconciliation.
Mrs Bell stood in the kitchen. Arthur stood in the drawing room.
“I can’t say it while you’re looking at me,” she said.
Arthur closed the door.
“Now,” said Jo.
“I never posted the letter.”
“What?” said Arthur.
“I never posted the letter!”
Jo lowered her pencil.
Victor folded his arms. He had always been particularly good at this scene.
Sal opened the door six inches.
“Try that.”
“I can see him,” said Mrs Bell.
“Turn round.”
“Then I can see him in the mirror.”
Jo looked at the mirror.
“The mirror conceals the safe,” said Arthur.
“I know.”
At five, Sal put the understudy back on its trolley. Victor unpinned the knob from his waistcoat.
“Thursday?” he asked.
Jo rubbed her forehead.
“Keep the appointment. We’ll rehearse the first act.”
Sal was nearly at the exit when Mrs Bell hurried after him with an envelope.
“For the letterbox,” she said. “Before I forget.”
She pushed it through.
The envelope fell beneath the trolley. Mrs Bell stared at it.
“Where does it go when I give it to you?” she asked Victor.
“My pocket.”
Jo turned her schedule over and began writing on the back.