Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (23 page)

Bleak faces met his theory. ‘Bluff.’

‘On my part or his?’ When Cherry and Black made no answer, Rose continued evenly, ‘What have you done with the fake?’

The quick glance between them was ample proof that it was his turn for the dark again. ‘None of your business,’ Bowler Hat informed him kindly.

‘Of course not,’ Rose agreed. ‘I’ll just report to the Assistant Commissioner then that I found it, and perhaps you’ll sign a receipt to the effect you’ve taken it. Just keep the paperwork tidy, eh?’

Greatly to his surprise, Bowler Hat produced a pen and did so.

Rose was still reflecting on this odd turn of events, after they had left, when the Great Brodie marched in, lovingly tended by Inspector Stitch.

‘I suppose there must be some urgent reason why I am summoned to attend you, Inspector?’ Even in the daytime he seemed to keep up his swell appearance, Rose noticed, as he peeled his kid gloves off with great ceremony.

‘Hope I haven’t interrupted you in the middle of anything important?’

‘Indeed you have. Newmarket is almost upon us.’ Brodie laughed.

‘Let’s hope poor old Will Lamb wasn’t hoping to place a bet. Or Henry Irving. You’ll be seeing him soon, no doubt.’

Brodie gazed at him blankly, then took this as a tribute to his genius. ‘It is true that I am to grace the stage up West. I had not heard Sir Henry was to tread the same boards. One of his Shakespearean monologues, perhaps? It all makes for a varied show.’

‘Something you haven’t told us, Mr Brodie?’

‘About what? My career up West?’

‘No. Your movements down East. Last Saturday, to be precise.’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

Rose had interviewed too many men, however, not to be aware of tensing muscles. For all his nonchalance Brodie was wary, he decided.

‘Frederick Wolf known to you?’

‘Not that I am aware.’

‘A sword-swallower.’

‘Good gracious me, Inspector. How should I know a circus performer?’

‘He entertains the queue outside the Old King Cole.’

‘Ah, my queue days are over, both as prospective audience and entertainer thereof. We all have to start somewhere, Inspector, and many start with queues. Those of us who are sufficiently talented quickly move inside to warmer climes and seated audiences.’

‘Very nice too, sir. So if I asked why you gave Mr Wolf
a parcel to take to North Docks last Saturday afternoon, you’d be able to tell me nothing?’

Horace Brodie gazed at him. ‘Do you know, Inspector, I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about.’

‘Mr Wolf recognised you.’

‘Then he is lying.’

‘He don’t strike me as the lying sort.’

‘And I do?’

‘If so, we’ll find out.’

‘How very reassuring. I’m glad I’m moving from here, Inspector. I’m terrified.’ He laughed loudly, and by the time he left, Rose noticed, he didn’t seem at all tense, nor had he asked what the parcel contained. Nor why the police should be quite so interested in it.

‘Ah, Auguste, you’re earlier than I expected.’

‘Tatiana has returned.’ Egbert raised an eyebrow. ‘Naturally, Egbert, that is
not
the reason I am early.’

‘She approves of you broiling chops, then?’

‘I have not mentioned that yet, Egbert. There are, after all, more important issues. However, Tatiana wishes me to help find who murdered Will Lamb, not least for Lady Westland’s sake, so it comes to the same thing.’

It didn’t with Edith, Egbert had found. The means rarely did justify the end, particularly in the case of her cooking and Mr Pinpole’s meat.

‘A couple of odd things, Auguste, you might be interested in. Sir Henry Irving, for one.’ He briefly recounted Special Branch’s triumph and Brodie’s not unexpected denial of knowing Frederick Wolf. ‘And then there’s our chaps from Special Branch itself. I could
swear they’re not crooked themselves, like Meiklejohn and his chums that set the Yard rocking some years back, but they’re up to some game or other.’

‘Not cricket,’ Auguste remarked.

‘Very funny. And now, what have
you
got to tell
me
? You’re as jumpy as a lobster who sees a pot of boiling water.’

‘Have you found Will Lamb’s solicitor yet?’

‘Stitch has just tracked him down. Not easy. No trace of any will at his home, even of correspondence with a solicitor.’

‘I believe you should see that will as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’

‘It may be the key to his murder.’

Jasper Sprinkle, of Messrs Poslethwaite, Sprinkle & Curlie, looked like a Bath bun, Auguste decided, round, cherubic and of little flavour. His office in the large Bloomsbury house spoke not so much of Mr Sprinkle’s personality (whatever it might be) but of the age-old creakiness of Poslethwaite, Sprinkle & Curlie. Mr Sprinkle, he decided, could not be the first Mr Sprinkle, but was more likely the third or even fourth. Perhaps the first Mr Sprinkle had skipped into these Georgian offices the moment the builder’s last trowelful of mortar had been deprived of its load.

Gathered round in eager attentiveness to Mr Sprinkle’s every word were (besides himself and Egbert), the oddly assorted mix of Evangeline Yapp, Max Hill, the Misses Pear, Percy, Mariella, Nettie, Lady Westland, a Mrs Jones, and an aged gentleman who was, Egbert informed him, a retired clog-dancer. He was also Will’s
uncle, and his only living relative. This was the selection Egbert had decided should be present. Mrs Jones, who turned out to be Will’s landlady, was quietly sobbing, the clog-dancer looked bewildered, and Nettie and Gwendolen Westland were very quiet. Mrs Jones, Auguste decided, might feel Will’s death most. Devoted though Nettie was to Will, she was of the stage, and its world was forced to move quickly from new face to face; the inner woman would continue to grieve for Will but his memory would be stored sadly away.

‘Who did this terrible thing?’ wailed Mrs Jones, appealing to the law in the form of Mr Sprinkle.

‘One of his dear friends murdered him,’ Nettie said tartly. ‘Somebody still running loose round the dear Old King Cole.’

‘Bailiffs!’ Percy offered lugubriously. ‘Those two thugs that keep wandering around. They did it.’

‘Why should they?’ Rose asked.

Percy looked surprised. ‘They knew they wouldn’t get their commission if the theatre was saved, of course. So Will had to be got rid of in order to empty my theatre again. I’m surprised you hadn’t
realised
that, Inspector.’ There was reproof in his voice.

‘Thank you, Mr Jowitt,’ Gwendolen retorted. ‘May I take it you are assuming that Miss Turner and I have abandoned you to your bankrupt fate, or are you still expecting us to appear on your boards this evening?’

Percy realised his second major
faux pas
, ‘Forgive me,’ he gabbled. ‘No, no, I mean, yes, yes.’ He abandoned subtlety. ‘You’ve got to be there tonight.’

Nettie laughed. ‘Never changes, the old scrounger,
does he?’ she observed to Max with no fondness in her voice.

‘Dear Percy, what would we do without you?’ Max yawned.

Percy looked at him. ‘Starve.’

‘Possibly,’ Max agreed unperturbed. ‘I prefer to think, die of thirst.’

Mr Sprinkle, sitting upright to take command, began to feel he was already unsuccessful. He coughed and tried a glare. It worked. ‘Mr Lamb’s will is not a simple one, though straightforward.’ (More so than Mr Sprinkle’s sentences, Auguste thought irrelevantly). ‘He was, as you can guess, a rich man by most standards. It is, of course, far from usual to discuss such matters before the funeral, but in view of the circumstances and at the request of the police, and lack of objection from Mr Lamb’s family, I have agreed.’ The clog-dancer did not appear to recognise himself under this description.

‘This will was made some time ago, and to my knowledge Mr Lamb did not make another, though it is always possible he did so, lodging it elsewhere.’ His expression suggested such a course of action was unthinkable, given the expertise of Poslethwaite, Sprinkle & Curlie.

‘This will provides for bequests of fifty pounds to Mr Jowitt, twenty-five pounds to Mr Hill and Mr Brodie, fifty pounds to Mrs Jones, and to Miss Turner. Mr Wilson,’ he glanced at the clog-dancer, ‘receives one hundred pounds.’

‘And the rest?’ Mariella asked hoarsely.

‘You, Mrs Gomez, are his residuary legatee for personal possessions, income from his estate on
publications, copyrights, and phonograph recordings, and,’ he paused, ‘the balance of his other liquid assets amounting at a rough estimate to about eleven thousand pounds.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It is a considerable sum,’ Mr Sprinkle said reprovingly, and turned away. ‘There is one last bequest. This was originally a codicil, but the whole will was replaced five years ago, when his career and wealth were improving rapidly, and it was then incorporated in the main body of the will.’

‘How much? Who to?’ screamed Mariella.

‘About thirty thousand pounds. Mr Lamb had excellent financial advice.’ Mr Sprinkle looked modest.

‘Who?
’

‘Mr Thomas Yapp.’

Evangeline was the first to break the astounded silence of her colleagues. ‘Why
him?
Why not me?’ she cried heartrendingly.

‘I am not at liberty—’ Mr Sprinkle began, only to be interrupted by another shriek from the lady.

‘Will was being careful of my reputation. He wanted no one to know of our great love.’

‘He didn’t love you, you old fat,’ Mariella informed her coldly.

‘Of course he did. But I am a
respectable
married woman. Unlike
some,
’ Evangeline retorted, holding her own.

‘You’ve got
plenty
of Will’s money, Mariella,’ Marigold pointed out in a trembling voice. ‘And any income to come. Isn’t that enough?’

Mariella didn’t bother to reply.

‘Poor old Will,’ Nettie said harshly. ‘Generous to a fault, but he did so hate to be put on. And look what happens, swindled by an auburn-haired cock-teaser.’

Mariella stood up trembling. ‘I loved Will,’ she declared vehemently. ‘I think it’s sweet of him not to have changed his will although I was forced to marry another.’

‘Perfectly sweet,’ agreed Nettie. ‘I wonder who persuaded him not to change it?’

‘Thomas Yapp obviously had a good try,’ Mariella said viciously. ‘I’d not seen Will for years. How could I have influenced him?’

‘Yes, you have,’ Mrs Jones cried indignantly. ‘I recognise you. You’re the lady came upsetting him a few months ago, and that weren’t the first time.’

‘I was asked to by Mr Jowitt, wasn’t I, Percy?’ Mariella shrieked, caught out. ‘He wanted me to persuade Will to come here.’

Jowitt did not reply; he was wondering how far fifty pounds would go in paying off the debts of the Old King Cole.

Mariella, cornered, looked round for someone to kick. ‘Why isn’t old Yapp here? If you ask me, he knew all about it and is keeping out of the way.’

‘Why should he?’ snapped Evangeline, a lioness ready to defend her unexpectedly rich cub.

‘I’ll tell you why. In case our Inspector here gets in into his head that our Thomas might have wanted to hurry his fortune along.’

‘Not half as much as you,’ Nettie declared forthrightly.

‘Miss Turner,’ pink spots of anger flushed Mariella’s cheeks, ‘I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.’

Egbert decided to intervene. ‘She’s implying that the only reason you agreed to run away with Mr Lamb after the performance tonight was that you knew very well he’d be dead by then.’

‘That’s slander or something, isn’t it?’ she shrieked.

‘That depends,’ Mr Sprinkle said brightly, ‘on whether it is true or not.’

‘Here, what is this?’ Mariella demanded, looking round the assembled company, seeing nothing but condemnation in their eyes. She saw only one possible ally. She hurled herself across the room and knelt dramatically at Auguste’s feet, resting her red-gold head in his lap. He regarded the head with less than aesthetic admiration, his nose deducing that the Koko hair oil so liberally adorning it was not of recent application. ‘You’ll save me, won’t you, Auguste?’

He looked in appeal at Egbert, who folded his arms, cast his eyes upwards and gave him no help whatsoever. ‘There,
ma belle,’
he murmured ineffectually. ‘The innocent need fear nothing.’

This did not appear to soothe Mariella at all.

‘Thomas Yapp, the dark horse, eh?’ Egbert remarked thoughtfully to Auguste as their cab jolted its way to Wapping.

‘But he was out front all the while.’

‘He could have hurried in before the performance. Will, we know, had two visitors before the curtain went up. One was most likely your beautiful lady-friend Mariella—’

‘She is not,’ Auguste interrupted fiercely. ‘And how could the other be Yapp? He could not have carried out the ransacking of Will’s dressing-room.’

‘True. But we don’t know that it was the murderer did that. If Yapp’s our man, then money must have been the motive, and whoever went into the dressing-room was looking for the cross.’