Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (21 page)

‘Who was it?’ Egbert cut across reminiscences.

‘In my mother’s case, it was—’

‘The man in the muffler,’ Rose demanded patiently.

‘
The Great Brodie. Horace, I believe, to his many friends.’

Auguste hurried to the back of the
fauteuils
, behind the pit, craning his neck to see what was going on. It was hard to tell from the noise. He was determined to see Lady Westland, as Tatiana would demand a full report on her return, when she knew what interesting developments were taking place, and it would distract her from inquiring what precisely
he
had been doing at the Old King Cole. His presence in the kitchens was not going to be divulged to her. It briefly crossed his mind to wonder why Tatiana had asked Lady Westland, of mature years and figure, to keep an eye on him during her absence, and not, for example, darling Maisie, who was a friend of both of them – though particularly, he was forced to admit, of his, owing to earlier intimate acquaintanceship.

The board showing seven, once Will’s, now the Magnificent Masher’s number, was up and it was hard to tell from the roars and flying objects whether the number was meeting approval or not. Certainly the ‘footles’, the
fauteuils
of his native language, were in favour, and the circle; whether the pit and the gallery were preparing for adulation or war was difficult to determine. He need not have worried. The sight of the upraised silver end of a walking stick appearing from the wings then pausing, followed by a tall top-hat similarly extended brought an immediate howl of approval from members of the audience who could remember that well-known entrance. True, the morning suit that followed it was somewhat broader in the beam
than of old, but as the Magnificent Masher strolled languidly down the footlights, studied her audience through a monocle and declared in bored tones: ‘I’m a Piccadilly lounger, though some would call me scrounger . . .’ he relaxed. The audience was held, and by the time the Masher left the stage, to the tune of ‘A Romano’s Romeo’, was captive. Little Emmeline, usually a prudent judge of her career, had elected to change bill position till after the interval. Orsini, once more finding himself catapulted into an unwelcome spot, flatly refused, and Jowitt rang the curtain down on the Masher’s triumphant note.

Auguste returned to the eating-room for the interval to find Lizzie and Frederick in full, silent concentration on their respective tasks, as the audience began to flock in. Egbert had disappeared. Auguste collided in the doorway with an out-of-breath Joe, bearing a huge bag whose contents were already leaking grease. Auguste seized it, thrusting the objects on to the hot-plate. At first sniff he recoiled. All he could smell was grease oozing through the pastry. Then something caught at his nostrils, and he sniffed again. It was curry powder, and worse, the smell of curry powder with a purpose – to cover that of bad meat.

‘Ere, mate, giv’ us one of them, will you?’ An indignant customer recalled him to duty.

Mrs Mount’s pies, the chops, the herrings, all melted into a terrible stew of eating smells, and the result was far from fragrant. Gas lights flared and hissed before him, oven heat assaulted him, customers’ yells, shouts – and occasionally fists – did the same from behind. As the last customer drifted back to barrack Little
Emmeline, Auguste sank down exhausted. Surely Escoffier would never go through this hell? Why should he, Auguste Didier, have so foolishly offered himself as a herring to the slaughter?

Orsini had a fortunate escape this evening, thanks to Little Emmeline, who had unwisely usurped his after-the-interval spot. The interval had in no way diminished the Mob’s desire for revenge – and they wreaked it. This time Little Emmeline had no reserves, and retired with six fairies in tears, and her own grim expression, as she planned her response. Evangeline lasted less than a minute, and then Percy saw his chance.

‘You next,’ he told his bailiffs amiably. ‘Turn eight, the Cherry Blacks,’ he bawled to the stage manager.

Mr Cherry was in the habit of entertaining his aunts at Christmas, Percy had been given to understand; Mr Black had always fancied himself as a pierrot. They were both therefore attired in gleaming white costumes, with red pom-poms and perky little white clown’s hats. Their appearance stunned the audience into silence, and thus encouraged they advanced confidently to the footlights:

‘Who was that lady I saw you with last night?’ Cherry inquired coyly.

‘That was no lady, that was—’

Black got no further as the entire audience bawled out their own pet variations of ‘my wife’, and the red pom-poms were amplified in the form of squashy tomatoes. Special Branch, unused to meeting their public at such close quarters, reconsidered their position. Half an egg only partly de-shelled arrived smack in Cherry’s mouth and decided it for him. He
fled, with Black at his heels, as Percy Jowitt giggled helplessly into the wings.

‘Glad you find it funny, Percy,’ said Nettie caustically, as she sailed past to the rescue, one turn early. Orsini did not seem disposed to argue the point. She strode down to the footlights, put her hands on her hips, planted her feet firmly and belligerently, and roared at her loving audience:

‘Whoa, there, you donkeys.’

They whoa’ed.

Egbert Rose, knocking at Nettie’s door, was surprised to find himself faced not by Miss Turner but by Lady Westland, now back in suitable attire for her position, with Max Hill. His surprise showed.

‘Max and I are old friends. We met over twenty years ago,’ Lady Westland replied. ‘At the Canterbury, wasn’t it, Max?’

‘The Cyder Cellars,’ Max supplied readily.

‘You may go back that far. I don’t. No, the Canterbury. You were doing your W.G. Ross turn.’

‘Damn your eyes,’ Max snarled.

‘“Sam Hall”,’ exclaimed Rose appreciatively. ‘That takes me back. I was only a nipper when my father took me to see Ross. I always said that’s what made me join the police force. An acquaintance with villains from an early age.’ He could still hear the great Ross singing his famous chilling song of the murderer on his way to execution. ‘And Sam Cowell. Remember his “Ratcatcher’s Daughter”?’

‘Anyone who remembers Sam Cowell’s a friend of mine,’ Max declared. ‘And of Gwendolen’s, too.’

Lady Westland grinned. ‘Max, you’re too much of an old villain yourself to go courting the law.’

‘Blimey, I’d almost forgotten,’ Max replied. ‘I’ll do me best Lord Fauntleroy act for you, velvet knickerbockers and all.’ He paused. ‘Who did it, eh? Who’d want to kill Will Lamb?’

‘You knew him well?’ Rose asked.

‘As well as Nettie. As well as Gwendolen here. And it wasn’t right, killing Will,’ he said hoarsely.

‘We’ll find him,’ Rose said shortly.

‘Music hall’s a funny old world,’ Max continued. ‘There’s the golden hearts, like Nettie, Gwendolen here, and Will. And then there’s the spongers, in it while the going’s good, the fly-by-nights – and the bad eggs. And once they get behind those lights you can’t always tell which is which.’

‘And offstage?’ Lady Westland asked him bluntly.

‘Sometimes, Gwennie, not even then.’

‘What are you doing still here, Miguel?’ Mariella stopped as she rushed into the wings to check the fish tank, dragging her little doggies in frills and hats with her. They were well-trained. They didn’t dare bark. Auguste wondered whether perhaps she dosed them. Perhaps they spent the day in an opium smoking-room, or in a gin palace? He was wrong. Mariella looked after her doggies, not through great love of them, but through the zealous regard of the artiste for her tools.

Miguel disliked dogs, particularly little ones whose grasp of household etiquette was incomplete. He had long discovered, however, that there was little point in protesting. Mariella did as she liked in such matters.
He did the planning, but if she didn’t agree, she didn’t co-operate. Recently, she had been very good, however – too good, perhaps. Was there something he didn’t know?

‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated crossly.

‘I got someone to cover for me at the Shadwell Palace.’ He could not stop himself. ‘You didn’t have any plans
really
to leave with Will, did you?’ he demanded.

‘What foolish ideas you get in your head, my darling,’ she replied lightly. ‘I did as we agreed, that’s all.’

Miguel had foolishly assumed that his own masculine charms were so greatly superior to Will Lamb’s that there was no need to worry. Now, he was beginning to wonder, and badly shaken, both by Will Lamb’s death and other matters, blurted out: ‘I’m sorry, Mariella. I had a shock.’

‘What?’ she asked without great curiosity.

‘I have realised who killed Will Lamb.’

Her eyes narrowed, as she thought hard for a moment. ‘I thought it was you,’ she answered him simply.

At the end of the performance Auguste returned to the eating-room for the last shift. That would be tiring, but not hold quite so much pressure. He seemed to be in some kind of lift constantly shuttling between the unreal world of police investigation, murder and Special Branch, and the equally unreal one of theatre life. Sometimes, it kindly stopped to allow him to step out into this all-too-real eating-room. No matter what happened, people must eat and there must be those
who can cook, whether they be servants, wives, or professional cooks like himself. Food was real, whether it was
filets deperdreaux a la Marena
or pie and mash. Even in the midst of the soberest realities, like Will Lamb’s death, food and eating must continue.

The room was crowded now with jostling good-humoured bodies, even some of the performers joining in. Bright lights, relaxing drinks, food stuffed into mouths, everywhere catchy songs from the evening’s entertainment being whistled or sung. Was it right that Will Lamb should be so apparently quickly forgotten? That the warmth of tonight’s raucous music hall should so quickly paper over the memory of the still body on last night’s stage? Surely not; and then he glanced at some of the couples, regulars probably, and knew he was wrong. Will Lamb’s performances would be securely lodged in their memories, to be brought out and appreciated in years to come. Nettie, Max, Gwendolen and others who were Will Lamb’s friends, had given of their best tonight, for Will, and for music hall, and Will could have no better memorial.

The barman, waiter and Frederick stared at him reproachfully as he went to help them. It was some time before he realised that Lizzie was absent, and even longer before he could discover the reason why. When he at last descended to the cellar, he found tomorrow’s eels as yet unprepared, their bodies looking every bit as reproachful as the waiter’s eyes. From outside, through an open door, came the low murmur of voices, one clearly identifiable. Crossly, Auguste strode to the door. Outside in the dim light from the distant highway, he could see two figures, not locked in each other’s arms,
but at least a foot apart. The man held the woman’s hands, quite silent now. He was gazing at her lank hair, thin face and sharp eyes as though she were a Galaxy Girl, and his eyes shone in adoration.

‘I’m going to kiss you, Lizzie Brown,’ Joe said softly.

Lizzie promptly shut her eyes, leaned forward, and put out her lips.

Auguste knew he should retreat, but he did not.

Joe touched them gently, then drew back. ‘Lizzie—’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you do when you eat one of Mrs Jolly’s pies?’

‘Open me mouth quickly.’

‘Pretend you’re eating one now.’ He drew closer, and this time the kiss took longer.

‘Did you like that, Lizzie Brown?’ he asked after a while.

Lizzie made an attempt at nonchalance. ‘Ma Jolly’s pies are better.’

‘Don’t say that, Lizzie.’

She looked at him, and uncertainly drew him to her.

This time Auguste did retreat, partly because there appeared to be tears in his eyes. For young love, or for self pity, he wondered? Or for his own empty home, however temporary. He stomped upstairs to find himself alone in the eating-room, and to his surprise found he was hungry. He searched in vain for food, until at last he came across one solitary pie over a chafing dish, obviously put aside for Lizzie’s own supper. At least it did not smell of Mount’s curry powder, so it must be one of Mrs Jolly’s. With a sense of justice done, he picked it up and chewed into it.

Chewed? It slid in like the first oyster, indeed it was
the finest oyster, coupled with the tenderest beef, the most succulent gravy— He examined the half-eaten pie in wonder – was that a sliver of carrot? Of onion? No, not the latter, far too strong. Of mace perhaps, or orange itself? He could not stop for his brain to work it out, but let sensual pleasure seize him to the last succulent morsel.

A happy man, and thus greatly daring, he rang his own door bell in Queen Anne’s Gate at gone half past twelve. He and his butler eyed each other, but greatly to Auguste’s surprise there was no reproach in the Great Man’s eyes.

Something was different. He caught at an elusive atmosphere, but could not define it. It was not until he crept into bed he knew what it was. The bed was different, the house was different. The house was alive again, for the bed had Tatiana in it.

‘What,’ Tatiana paused for a moment in her kilometre by kilometre account of her race from Paris to Cannes, as they descended to breakfast, ‘is that large bruise on your head?’