Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (27 page)

‘Why?’

‘She attacked me,’ Auguste told him unwillingly. ‘Although I realise that with her husband dead, she will not be feeling in need of love—’

‘In need of
what?’
Egbert stared at him, as he gradually took in his meaning, and the shadow of a
grin came to his face. ‘Well, blow me down, it’s lucky Twitch hasn’t your charms.’

Whether he had them or not, Twitch was extremely uncomfortable, physically and mentally. For once he was more than glad to see the arrival of that blasted Frenchie, not to mention the Chief behind him. Auguste and Egbert Rose found him sitting bolt upright on the sofa, with Mariella’s arm clamping him to her, her auburn head on his shoulder – making his jacket all soggy, as he later explained to a, for once, less than sympathetic Mrs Stitch.

‘Why kill Miguel?’ Mariella wailed as they arrived.

‘When did you see your husband last, Mrs Gomez?’ Rose wasted no time. Not too much sympathy was needed here.

‘This morning.’ Tears filled her eyes again. ‘We were going to have whelks at the George, but Miguel said he had to meet someone.’

‘Did he say who or where?’

‘No.’

‘Usual for him to meet people on a Sunday, was it?’

‘Yes. He had lots of business friends.’

‘In juggling?’

‘Yes.’ Mariella glowered, caught out.

‘In the jewellery business too?’

She opened her blue eyes wider. ‘Jewellers? Whatever do you mean?’

‘I mean Prince Henry the Navigator’s cross, ma’am, as you know full well.’

‘The one you keep thinking Miguel stole?’

‘That very one. Now there’s been three murders. Don’t
you think, you being a clever lady, it’s time you told me about it?’

‘About what?’

‘About how you weren’t involved with that cross business at all. Or how you were forced by your husband to do what he commanded.’ Her eyes flickered. ‘Otherwise,’ Rose continued, ‘we might think you yourself were mixed up with the cross and the murders, or even that it was all to do with wills.’

‘What’s my legacy to do with it?’ she asked sharply.

‘Did I say that, ma’am? You mistook me. I meant Will Lamb’s murder. Him being involved in this nasty cross business too. Political reasons, I expect, above your pretty little head.’

She sat bolt upright, eyes flashing with anger now. Stitch leapt eagerly off the sofa, and retreated to the door. For a moment, Auguste thought Egbert had gone too far, but he underestimated him. He had the measure of Mariella.

Mariella suddenly smiled, the fragile smile of a woman who had been through the distressing experience of learning of the tragic death of a husband drowned in her very own fish tank.

‘I didn’t know about it,’ she pleaded. ‘Miguel was a proud man, and so proud of his country’s great heritage. He was determined to avenge its wrongs, so he decided on this stupid plan to steal the cross. Only it wasn’t stealing, he said, because it rightfully belonged to Portugal. But the captain of the ship with whom he had arranged to take the cross to Portugal was frightened and left early, so that Miguel missed him. He was so worried about being left with the cross so he
had the brilliant idea of asking Will Lamb to keep it until the ship returned. If anyone found it, Will was such an important person no one would investigate further and it would be hushed up. He forced
me
to ask Will, because Will,’ she looked modest, ‘liked me. I didn’t want to, but he
made
me. I told Will it was Auntie’s jewellery, wasn’t that funny? Miguel made me suggest to Will that we ran away together at the end of the week, too.’ She looked at them to see how this was going down. ‘And it wasn’t unkind to Will. It was just fantasy. He would have been terrified if I really had eloped with him.’

‘But he might have changed his will if you hadn’t,’ Rose pointed out reflectively.

‘Never!’ she said promptly, prepared for this one. ‘But then someone killed him,’ she added.

‘And left the cross behind. Odd.’

‘No. They
took
the cross,’ she replied promptly, ‘and left a fake. Wasn’t that nasty?’

‘It was indeed, ma’am,’ Rose agreed. ‘Did your husband happen to mention to you he killed a man in Nightingale Lane?’

‘Kill?
Who?’ She displayed great astonishment.

‘A casual hired by Frederick Wolf to take the cross to the ship for your husband.’

She shook her head. ‘You go too fast for me, Inspector.
Who
is Frederick Wolf? Miguel took the parcel himself.’

‘Then there seem to have been a lot of parcels making for the
Lisboa
that afternoon.’

‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’ she murmured. ‘I do hope you can make sense of all this, Inspector, and find my darling’s murderer?’ Whether darling was in the
singular or plural was not clear from the spoken word.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Gomez. By the time I’ve finished, this case will be as firmly welded as the stones in that cross.’

Had he forgotten the loose garnet, Auguste wondered? Or did Egbert realise it was still to be some time in the welding?

There was no reprieve. Egbert had wanted him present at the Old King Cole on Monday morning. In vain Auguste had pointed out the importance of his own mission.

‘Twitch can do that,’ was all Egbert replied.

The thought of Twitch being told where he was to spend the day almost reconciled Auguste to his fate. ‘May I tell him, Egbert?’ he asked hopefully.

Rose eyed him, tempted to agree. ‘I will,’ he had answered regretfully.

The stage of the Old King Cole was now hosting a large gathering of its performers and management, some more willing than others to be present. Brodie was highly indignant at being recalled so speedily from his new London home, Max was annoyed at appearing in the morning at all. Little Emmeline was excited even under the guardianship of her forbidding parents. Dolly was delighted at seeing Horace again so unexpectedly. The twins had their eyes fixed on Horace too. Fernando looked in vain for Mariella, but was disappointed. No one seemed to notice Miguel’s absence, which had not yet been reported in the newspapers.

‘Any of you come to the theatre yesterday?’ Egbert inquired.

He was answered by looks of astonishment. They were professionals, and Sunday was Sunday. A travelling day if you were unfortunate, but not a theatre day.

‘Apparently not, Inspector. Moreover we would prefer not to be here this morning, since poor Will’s inquest is this afternoon. Why are we?’ Brodie asked mildly.

‘Miguel Gomez was murdered yesterday.
Here.’

‘Here?’ was the first reaction, from Pickles. An odd one, thought Auguste, as though the fact that he had been murdered presented no great surprise.

‘Who by?’ asked Max hoarsely, but Rose did not answer him.

‘Why?’ screamed the twins. Not that they had any great admiration for Miguel, but it served as one more dark episode in their rapidly blackening existence.

‘He was not nice to Mariella,’ Fernando replied.

‘So you think she murdered him, do you?’ Dolly asked brightly.

He stared at her. ‘Fernando not know.’

‘I think you’re all being stupid,’ was Emmeline’s contribution. ‘I know why he was killed. It must have been because he heard what Mr Lamb said when he died,’ she boasted importantly. ‘All murder stories are like that.’

‘By golly, she’s right,’ Rose said to Auguste.

‘The ghost?’ asked Auguste.

‘Of course,’ screamed Marigold. ‘Will told me about it. The ghost sent a raven to keep Will away from the theatre, but it didn’t work. So Miguel must have seen the ghost, like Will. Or the raven. Anyway, the ghost came again when Miguel died.’

‘There’ll be a third. Never two without three. That’s what they say.’ Dolly rose to her feet, and flung her arms round Horace. ‘Take care, my darling, take care.’

‘Do sit down, Dolly.’ Horace sounded bored.

‘No ghost threw Miguel into the fish tank,’ Egbert said bluntly.

‘The ghost might have frightened someone into doing it, though,’ Marigold said obstinately.

‘Somebody,’ Violet amplified breathlessly, ‘very simple – and very strong.’

Slowly Fernando got to his feet. ‘Fernando go now,’ he announced. Egbert made no attempt to stop him.

No one had seen Miguel here yesterday, no one knew of anybody who had planned to see Miguel here yesterday. No one apparently had any evidence to connect Miguel with Will Lamb. Everyone was interested only in their own turns. There was, and could be, no corporate unity here, Auguste realised. Whatever secrets the performers held, they shared with themselves alone, not with their fellow artistes.

There was very little unity in the kitchen either. There too, solus turns were favoured.

‘I don’t need no one to help,’ Lizzie yelled at him crossly. ‘I can manage.’

Auguste looked meaningfully at the piles of unscrubbed vegetables. Love was affecting Lizzie’s work, that was clear. He cared a little about her heart, but the work he cared a lot about, and Lizzie needed an assistant. He set out forthwith to Mrs Jolly’s pie shop. Mrs Jolly, unknown to her, had taken on the role of Mother Earth, and Auguste for one ready to worship at
her shrine, as the answer to all problems.

‘Three dozen of your eel and shallot pies, if I may, Mrs Jolly. And I wonder if your delicious mutton pies are available?’

‘Katt.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ Auguste misinterpreted this ambiguous word, wondering if he had been mistaken in the excellence of the ingredients.

‘Mr Katt’s recipe, that is.’

‘Of the late Kit-Kat club?’ Auguste was dazed. The mutton pies of its host, Christopher Katt, had gone down in culinary legend. Never had he heard mention of a recipe having survived. ‘You know its secret?’ He held his breath.

‘Mine. For me grandchildren.’ She saw his face and relented slightly. ‘Eels is different. I drowns ’em in sherry.’

How simple – of course. That was the taste he had sought to identify.

‘Animals don’t drink sherry liquor,’ Mrs Jolly commented indisputably.

‘That is true. Nor do they have the pleasure of appreciating your pies.’

Mrs Jolly brooded. ‘They don’t worry about things like we do.’

‘That too is true.’ Auguste was happy to agree with anything so long as the Queen of Pies continued her craft.

‘That’s why they don’t drink.’

He gazed at her. ‘I believe Brillat-Savarin made the same observation, Mrs Jolly. In different words, of course.’

‘You tell ’im to come along ’ere, then,’ Mrs Jolly offered generously. ‘I’ll give ’im one of me muttons.’

‘I’m looking for an assistant cook,’ Auguste began.

‘He’s not here.’

‘I thought you might know of a young lad or lass awaiting employment – of a modest kind,’ he added quickly.

She shook her head. ‘No. There’s me nephew, of course, me late husband’s, that is. He’s bone lazy. He’s not doing nothing. Never does. His heart’s in the right place, I’ll say that for him.’

And so was his stomach, Auguste saw, as his aunt yelled for him to descend from the upper floor. He was a veritable Dickensian Fat Boy. He grinned, but the twinkle in his eye suggested more good-humour than dedication to work. Nevertheless, a nephew of Mrs Jolly’s must deserve serious consideration.

‘Charlie Jolly,’ his aunt announced disparagingly.

‘Good morning, Mr Jolly. I have a job for you,’ Auguste announced briskly.

‘Don’t know that I want one.’

‘I do, however,’ Auguste told him briskly. ‘Carry these. You’re the new assistant in the eating-room of the Old King Cole.’ He thrust the huge box of his purchases in his arms, and he and a reluctant Charles Jolly made their way back to the Old King Cole.

‘Lizzie, I have brought your new assistant. Perhaps you would show this young gentleman what to do.’ Auguste injected a note of authority.

‘Where?’ Lizzie peered suspiciously at what appeared to be a walking box. ‘I don’t see no man. Anyway, men is trouble.’

‘For this evening, Lizzie, men is
help
.’

‘Deceivers, that’s what they are.’ Lizzie paused as the box slowly descended to the table, and Charlie’s girth appeared in its place, followed by his grin. A grin of confidence.

‘What you grinning for, Fatsie?’

‘I likes the looks of you, Miss Lizzie.’

‘’Op it. I’m spoken for.’ There was bravado in her voice.

‘I’ll stay.’

‘Oppit!’

‘Staying.’

‘
Out
!’

‘Lizzie—’ Auguste began to plead, but Charlie needed no advocate.

‘Miss Eliza, you’re a corker.’

She bridled, and her eyes slowly fell. ‘Just this evening then,’ she agreed modestly.

‘You should have told us at once, not after your lads had been sniffing around.’ Cherry sounded hurt. Egbert had gone back to his office in the Old King Cole and found his
betes noires
waiting.

‘Why? You haven’t proved any connection between Gomez and your cross, have you?’