Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (14 page)

‘Mariella?’ Brodie demanded.

‘Bet you he’s got his eyes on Nettie, Horace,’ Pickles exploded momentarily, overlooking his feud with Brodie. ‘Bloody man ruined my career, now he ruins my life.’ Tears of self-pity ran down his cheeks. ‘Nettie,’ he moaned. ‘My Nettie.’ He meant ‘my allowance’.

‘Why don’t you stop it?’ Brodie appeared amused.

‘Stop it? How?’

‘Put your foot down,’ Brodie explained kindly. ‘Insist on your husbandly rights and on keeping your allowance or you’ll sue her for divorce, and drag both their names through the mud.’

Pickles gazed at Brodie. ‘Horace, you’re my friend. It’s him, that Lamb, that’s evil. I want you to know I’ll not forget this, old mate.’

‘Splendid,’ murmured Brodie. ‘Now, shall I go on or will you?’

Beyond the curtain the noise level was rising.

Apart from finding his assistant cook eating a mutton chop at a table rather than preparing to cook for others, all seemed to be in order, Auguste found.

‘Oh, Mr D,’ Lizzie shouted, pink with excitement. ‘I put a touch of sage in the gravy, just like you said.’

‘Did I?’ His mind went blank, but if it pleased Lizzie . . . ‘Splendid,
ma fille.
Perhaps tomorrow, rosemary.’

‘When you’ve a moment, Auguste,’ Egbert remarked somewhat caustically, ‘not that I’d want to interfere with the course of true cuisine.’

‘I thought, Egbert, you were growing interested in the art yourself.’

‘I’ve resigned.’

Auguste sat down opposite Egbert, averting his eyes from the slapdash arrangement of cutlery and plates that was acceptable in the Old King Cole, despite his best endeavours to build Rome in a day.

‘Shall I do yer an ’erring, Mr D?’ Lizzie sang out.

‘Thank you, no.’ A little soup when he reached home, the
fricassee
perhaps, but nothing,
nothing
here. There was the
potage de Crecy
he had made yesterday when John was absent . . . A faint interest in food revived – but not in herrings. Perhaps one of his own pies, however. The faint interest grew stronger and he hurried to get one for himself. This, as he bit into it,
this
was what a mutton pie should taste like.

‘We paid a visit to young Miguel’s home today. Quite upset he was.’ Egbert ploughed on with his chop.

‘What did you find?’

‘Not a thing. Professes himself a true follower of the Portuguese crown, but too busy working to have time for politics. Besides, he’s British, he claims, now he has a British wife.’

‘And the fakers Monsieur Higgins recommended?’

‘Twitch was busy all the afternoon, but so far nothing. All regular customers – he had to tread carefully, you understand. The only special order was one by Sir Henry Irving. But it was a cross.’

‘Somehow I don’t see Sir Henry being involved in
stealing relics from Windsor Castle.’

‘Very perspicacious of you, Auguste. He said he was playing Thomas a Becket, apparently. On the whole, my money’s still on our Miguel. Sometimes, as I said, a chop is really a chop.’ Egbert gazed irritably down at his plate with its unprepossessing remains. ‘Who bought this meat? I reckon Edith’s Mr Pinpole could do better.’

Smarting at this slur on his meat-purchasing abilities, Auguste hurried to his other post once more. Having refused to let his good friend Horace risk his own reputation, Pickles was in full voice on stage. So unfortunately was the audience; for once regulars and Shadwell Mob were of like mood. The Tumbling Twins, awaiting their turn, paled.

‘Perhaps we should take our tights off?’ Violet whispered hopefully but audibly to Marigold.

Auguste’s immediate reaction was that even this drastic measure would have no effect tonight. It sounded bad out there.

‘Would you like me to go on before you, ladies?’ the Great Brodie inquired generously. ‘I would suggest your asking Mr Lamb, but he, alas, is too overcome by love to be sensible to others’ needs.’

‘What
do
you mean, Horace?’ the girls cried in unison with some excitement, his generous offer side-tracked for the moment.

‘I have it on good authority that he is leaving with his loved one at the end of the week.’ He looked at them archly. ‘Is one of you the happy lady, I wonder?’

By the look on their faces it was not.

‘I am happy to take your turn, ladies, if it would assist you,’ he hastily reverted to his first subject.

‘Yes, please, Horace,’ Marigold accepted coolly.

‘No need, no need. I am here to help.’

Evangeline, smug in bright green silk, bore down upon them. All three regarded her with dismay. ‘I have told the accompanist at the piano I shall render “The Lost Chord”. That will silence the ruffians.’

‘Not for long,’ Brodie muttered, as Pickles escaped his stage torment, cast a look of hatred at Horace, remembered he was his friend, and managed a weak grin.

‘I shall go.’ Evangeline prepared to sally forth.

‘By George, you shall not, madam.’ Horace’s words might have had no effect, did not the twins’ forceful pinioning of her arms succeed in persuading her, not in the interests of the Old King Cole, but in the hope there would still be an audience of sorts to perform to once they ventured forth themselves.

Sheer surprise stopped the Shadwell Mob. Horace strode on and tipped his top hat nonchalantly in their direction. No one had informed the stage manager that the Tumbling Twins announced on the board was turning into a lion
comique.
The belated strains of ‘Don’t Wait Up’ hastily switched from the
Mikado’s
‘Three Little Girls from School Are We’, temporarily appeased the mob. Unfortunately it mystified, then enraged Miguel, who arrived panic-stricken in the wings. He clutched Evangeline. ‘I have missed my turn,’ he moaned. ‘Never, never before.’

‘No, you haven’t.’ Evangeline rather enjoyed being closely clutched by a young man of such romantic ancestry. ‘Horace changed places with the twins.’

‘Then I’m running
late.’
He gazed at her, hypnotised.
‘How
dare
he? He has upset everything.’ Miguel’s evening had been carefully timed, and it did not allow for
this.
Everything would have to be planned again.

‘It is
his
fault,’ hissed the lady, glaring at the stage. ‘He has come between me and my dearest Will. Will will not hear me sing for him now. He will already have left the theatre before my turn.’

‘Why should he want to listen to your caterwauling?’ Mariella smirked, fresh from her delivery of one red corset to that repulsive child, and joining the group in the wings.

Marigold giggled, earning a reproachful look from Evangeline. ‘Will likes younger ladies, doesn’t he, Violet?’

Miguel looked darkly from Violet to Mariella, who seemed to be concentrating on her fingernails. ‘Which lady in particular?’ he muttered.

‘Me,’ said Evangeline, Violet and Marigold in unison. Mariella laughed outright.

Auguste, one eye on the stage manager emerging from Will’s room with the precious dagger, wondered how a simple man of forty-odd like Will Lamb could attract such feminine devotion. Yet how far did Will’s simplicity go, Auguste wondered? He was rich by his own talents, he wrote his own songs, he sold the publishing rights, largely organised his own business affairs, save for a booking agent. He remained an enigma enclosed in a circle of admirers. As he went to knock on Will’s door, the Great Brodie strode offstage into the wings, and the twins, emboldened by his success, insisted on adhering to the original programme order, despite Miguel’s fury.

‘Do come in, Mr Didier,’ Will said, as Auguste opened the door. ‘I am still alive, as you see.’

Alive yes, but he looked ill. He was pale, his eyes despondent, and he was slumped in his chair, not yet made up.

‘Are you feeling ill, Mr Lamb? Let me fetch you some tea, camomile perhaps.’

‘No, thank you, Mr Didier.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps a dose of Nettie might help.’

Nettie was with him in a moment after Auguste’s summons. She shut the door politely but firmly on Auguste. ‘Some things,’ she said, ‘are better done by a woman. Even when she’s not a chef.’

Little Emmeline twirled round, hugging her parcel. Where should she hide it till tonight so no one found it? Suddenly she had a brilliant idea. Who was on stage now? She could hide it, and be back ready for her turn. It would fit in very neatly. She pranced out of the dressing room gleefully, expecting to hear the Great Brodie on stage. Instead, to her surprise, Miguel was throwing his silly plates around, and only Fernando was watching in the wings. That meant Will was still in his dressing-room and she would have to talk to Fernando. She was a little wary of Fernando. There had been one occasion when she had removed his leopardskin from the gentlemen’s dressing-room and the resounding thwack when he discovered it adorning one of Mariella’s dogs had lingered for a long time. She had complained to her father, but the result had been disappointing. He had been oddly unwilling to tell Fernando what he thought of him. Fortunately Miguel
came offstage at that moment, colliding with Dolly who had belatedly heard the news of the change of order. Another brilliant idea struck her: with her booty clutched in her arms, she could make further capital out of her secret.

‘Hallo, Miguel,’ she smirked. ‘I know something you don’t know.’

‘I am sure you do.’ He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. He was still smarting over the ruin of all his careful planning.

‘About Will Lamb,’ she added temptingly. This time she succeeded in gaining his attention. ‘He’s going away with a lady at the end of the week.’

A moment’s dead silence. ‘Mrs Turner?’ inquired Miguel.

‘No. And far, far away,’ she emphasised. ‘And she has red hair.’

‘You are mistaken, I think,’ Miguel said pleasantly.

Fernando was taking her seriously. He took a plod onwards, and she retreated involuntarily as she saw the expression on his face. ‘Red?’ he repeated heavily.

‘It’s a secret,’ Emmeline said, delighted with the result of her bait.

‘Mariella!’ Fernando grunted.

‘Nonsense!’ There was fear in Miguel’s face, and he dropped the juggling balls. One rolled back on to the stage to the alarm of poor Dolly.

Emmeline grinned happily, as Miguel dived after the ones that were retrievable. ‘And there’s another secret too,’ she added.

‘What is that, Little Emmeline?’ Miguel hissed.

‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully, but unconvincingly.

‘I am sure you do, my little one. Something to do with the lady and Mr Lamb, perhaps?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was hiding something?’

‘Perhaps.’ Emmeline perceived she was going too fast too quickly.

Fernando was still way back in the conversation. ‘Mariella is leaving with Will Lamb?’

‘No.’ Miguel nimbly leapt between the girl and the advancing strong man. ‘It’s someone else, isn’t it, Emmeline?’

‘Yes,’ she cried gratefully, having seen Fernando’s expression.

Fernando stopped and thought this out. ‘I will ask him.’ He lumbered towards the dressing-room.

‘And there’s nothing else to tell me, dear Emmeline?’ Miguel’s voice was silky sweet.

‘There may be,’ Emmeline said brightly, regaining confidence, ‘but I don’t remember it now.’

‘I could give you a present.’

More corsets? No, what did she want? Emmeline thought quickly. ‘I’ll let you know, Mr Gomez,’ she promised grandly.

Fernando believed in the quickest solution for any problem. The dressing-room door was thrown open with a crash.

‘Good evening, Fernando.’ Will greeted him pleasantly, but with an effort, and Auguste, sensing trouble, edged forward.

‘You, Mariella,’ Fernando said. ‘True you go?’

Will clung to the image of Mariella. She was the only
good thing in his life, his hope, his salvation. ‘Yes,’ he replied, sure Fernando would share his joy. ‘Isn’t that nice? I hope Miguel won’t mind.’

Fernando did not seem to agree it was nice. He turned, and blindly strode out again as Dolly ran offstage. He was intent on strangling the entire Shadwell Mob from the look on his face, Auguste thought, alarmed. From now on he would not leave Will’s side.

Will too seemed nervous. Auguste looked at the trembling hands and the anxious eyes, and wondered how troubled his mind was. Enough to push him over the brink? He seemed perilously close.

‘I have to go on stage,’ Will explained carefully. ‘They want me. I can hear them.’

What he could hear was in fact the Shadwell Mob wreaking its fury on Fernando in order to earn a respite while Will was on.

Will stopped at the door, and clung to it for support. ‘I suppose I shall have to see my solicitor,’ he said forlornly and inconsequentially. He shook his head in a kind of daze, until the pull of the stage overtook him and he slipped into character.

Auguste accompanied him into the wings, and found not only Emmeline but, surprisingly, Miguel there watching. Emmeline greeted him enthusiastically. She had decided she liked Auguste. When she wore her new corset he would stop thinking of her as a little girl. She’d wear a long dress, thin stockings, and she’d drop the Little. Just Emmeline and her fairies. Then he’d love her. And she would scorn him, just like Mariella did to
men who liked her. Meanwhile she nestled up to him. Auguste promptly decided to go through to one of the boxes to get a better view of the stage. There was nothing he could to do protect Will there, and he was worrying unnecessarily about that dagger. It had been in the stage manager’s, then the flymen’s care since the beginning of the performance. In the box he found Nettie who greeted him abstractedly, eyes fixed on the stage. She too looked worried.