Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (32 page)

‘Only, as in so many other things, when there is a risk of discovery.’

‘He’s about to be discovered
now.’
Egbert got up, ignoring the protest of the young lovers next to him, and with Auguste following, made his way to the exit. ‘No need to announce our arrival, I think.’ There wasn’t, for news had travelled quickly.

No sooner had they reached the main entrance than they saw their prey run into the street from the side of the building and half walk, half run, towards the city. Somewhere a cat yowled, perhaps in protest at being disturbed by pounding feet in its night-time contemplation of the starry heavens.

‘That’s all we need.’ Rose took off like an elderly greyhound with a new lease of life, with Max’s fleeing
figure periodically bobbing into sight in the yellow pools of the gas lamps. They ran past the Archbishop’s Palace, and then skirted the Cathedral itself, a dark mass looming above them. Auguste yelped as his foot slipped on the cobbles of Sun Street, thinking sympathetically of pilgrims approaching on their knees.

‘He’s gone,’ Egbert cursed.

‘Into the Cathedral?’ panted Auguste. ‘There are many exits to it, and he could double back the way he came.’

The Cathedral, dimly lit for late worshippers, was quiet. No movement, little sound. Before them rose the piers and arches of the graceful nave, ahead of them stretching into infinity, the choir, altar and Trinity Chapel, around them the heavy silence of the centuries. Worshippers seemed as still as the monuments that surrounded them.

‘There.’ Auguste clutched Egbert’s arm, pointing to the south aisle.

‘Making for that exit on the right,’ Egbert said. ‘Remember?’ They had walked round the Cathedral that afternoon, slightly conscience-stricken in that it could not be classed as ‘work’. Now unexpectedly, work it had become. They walked, as quickly as they dared, trying to keep their eye on the figure that half-merged with the shadows.

‘He’s not going out. He’s going up the steps,’ Egbert hissed, and rushed on towards the Trinity Chapel. Murmuring an apology to
le bon Seigneur
, Auguste hurried to the far side to await Max’s arrival. He waited in vain, for only Egbert rounded the far corner of the chapel and came down to join him.

‘He must be hiding somewhere. He can’t have slipped out.’

The silence seemed even heavier here, where the lighting was dimmer than in the nave. Auguste forced himself to concentrate. He brought to his aid the skills his father had taught him while hunting in the Cannes hills: to be still, to listen, and to understand what the prey was doing, thinking and feeling.

Somewhere he knew Max was waiting, probably watching them. Or was it Max? Here, in this vast place, it was all too easy to imagine that not Max, but Pyotr Gregorin might slink round a pillar, pounce like the animal of prey he was and fell him regardless of place. Auguste shivered. Just so had Thomas a Becket died at the hands of four murderers, only a few steps from where they were now standing.

‘There he is!’

Max suddenly shot out of a side chapel, running back up to the steps to disappear into the Cathedral precincts, and as they followed him outside an indignant cry floated back to them: ‘I’m too old for this sort of lark.’

The receding footsteps in the night air left little doubt which way he had gone or that they would not now catch up with him. In the darkness the remains of the old monastery surrounded them, and a left turn took them the way that Max had undoubtedly gone – down an arcaded passageway with one dim light. Beyond was a large open space, with buildings all round.

‘He could be anywhere,’ Egbert said in disgust. ‘We’re as like to
see
him again as Old Nell the cook.’

‘Who is this lady?’ Auguste asked, puzzled. As he had good reason to know, Edith, with the help of their one maid, was in charge of cooking at Highbury.

‘One of the Ingoldsby legends. Learnt it by heart at school. That passage we’ve just come down is the Dark Entry, and that house on the corner is where the Canon lived. His cook was the jealous sort and killed him with a game pie.’

‘This woman was no true cook,’ Auguste declared indignantly. ‘No true cook could
poison
what should be a work of art.’

‘She seemed to have agreed with you, for she poisoned herself with a bit too, and her skeleton was found underneath here tucked up with the remains. She comes back on Friday nights from time to time.’

Auguste glanced at the cold, dark, suddenly inhospitable passageway. Today was Wednesday, but suppose she was making an exception tonight? The splendours of Mrs Jolly faded as pies loomed before him in all their most unappetising forms. His footsteps quickened.

Only the wondrous invention of the telephone had soothed Egbert’s annoyance at Max Hill’s escape. Baiting Auguste was hardly compensation. But the telephone had enabled him to have Thomas Yapp waiting for him in his office by the time he arrived. Even so, he was not in good spirits. Edith was an exacting mistress where ironing was concerned, and the lack of a fresh shirt sorely affected his temper. Overnight sprees were for sergeants, not chief inspectors.

Thomas Yapp was seemingly unsurprised at his
summons. ‘It is rather sudden, Inspector,’ he began pleasantly. ‘Not that I mind, of course.’

‘I’m glad,’ snarled Rose, sitting at his desk peremptorily pointing Auguste to a corner.

With Stitch also present, Thomas began to appreciate he was firmly wedged into a quartet which was probably all hostile. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, a little less confidently.

‘Quite a lot, Mr Yapp. Why didn’t you tell us you were Will Lamb’s brother?’

‘Ah.’ Thomas looked vaguely around. ‘I was afraid if I did you might believe I had something to do with his death.’

‘And you didn’t, of course.’

‘Naturally not.’ Thomas looked shocked. ‘He was my brother. Anyway,’ descending to practicalities, ‘how could I? I was out front all the evening.’

‘You could have doctored that knife before the performance began.’

Thomas considered this. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Your wife had the opportunity to do the same.’ Rose was in mean mood.

‘But Evangeline did not
know,’
he yelped. ‘That was the whole point.’

‘What point?’

‘I did not want her to know about my relationship with Will or—’ He stopped.

‘The money?’

‘My relationship with Will,’ he repeated defiantly.

‘Why not?’

Thomas Yapp hesitated. ‘My wife,’ he began, ‘is a much misunderstood woman.’

‘In what way?’

‘In every way. She is warm-hearted, impulsive, lovable—’ He broke off, aware he might be overdoing things. ‘She has a great need for affection. I sometimes fear I disappoint her,’ he added sadly. ‘She fancied she was in love with Will, and I decided not to spoil these daydreams. Especially the one that he loved her. It seemed the least I could do. How could I tell her that I was actually Will’s brother, when I discovered it? She would have been in love with her brother-in-law, and it would have spoiled the dream if it had no possibility of a happy ending.’

‘But it might have given her another one,’ Rose pointed out.

‘And what is that?’

‘Will was a rich man.’

‘You mean she would have had hopes of Will’s giving us money. But I would
never
have allowed it. She would realise that.’

‘Did she know he’d bequeathed so much money to you?’

‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘I had no idea myself, so how could she?’

‘Suppose she found out?’

‘How?’

‘Will might have told her to keep her quiet.’

Thomas Yapp rose in wounded dignity. ‘I shall go now.’

‘Sit down.’

Thomas obeyed. Very few would have the nerve not to, faced with Egbert Rose in this mood.

‘Kindly explain how you and your wife had no idea of your kinship to Will for so long.’

‘That’s easy,’ Thomas said, relieved. ‘I’m older than Will was. Our parents were clog-dancers, but my mother ran off and took Will, being a baby, with her. I was left with my father. He gave up clog-dancing and became a chairman instead. The first time I saw him I knew that was my role in life too. He never mentioned my mother or my baby brother after that, and I forgot all about them. The name Lamb meant nothing to me since it was the name our mother took when she left.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Mr father told me just before he died.’

‘And what did you do about it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?
Your brother is the famous Will Lamb, and you did nothing? You expect us to believe that?’ Stitch decided to take part.

Thomas looked anxious. ‘Yes. It’s the truth.’

‘So Will came to find
you
?’

‘Yes. Well, not quite like that. He came to my father’s funeral. It’s very simple really,’ Thomas said apologetically.

‘Too simple.’

‘Some things are.’ There was a touch of defiance in Thomas’s voice.

‘And what happened then?’

‘Will got me a job at the Old King Cole. I was very pleased for it was my first regular assignment. And only one, of course,’ he added sadly.

‘Didn’t Will tell your wife he was your brother?’

‘No.’

‘Why the need for secrecy now?’

‘I’ve told you. Evangeline. You wouldn’t tell her, would you?

‘Are you aiming to give up your inheritance? Won’t she think it a little odd?’

‘No. Evangeline thinks it was really for her, and given to me merely to save her reputation.’

Rose’s good humour was restored. The corners of his mouth twitched, but were controlled. Thomas was not getting away quite so easily. ‘You were one of those suggested Will Lamb was invited back.’ There was no query in his statement, and Thomas looked alarmed.

‘I wanted to see my brother again.’

‘You could have seen him any where. Why here?’

‘I used to meet him in London sometimes, but I never dared suggest the notion. He was
famous.
I thought if Percy asked, it would be good for the Old King Cole.’

‘Although it would stir up your wife?’ Rose asked grimly.

Thomas did not reply, and Rose, to Auguste’s surprise, did not press it.

‘Believe him?’ he asked Auguste after Thomas had left. ‘Think he’s capable of murder, of frightening Max into running away?’

‘I think many people are capable of murder if the incentive is strong enough,’ Auguste said gravely. ‘But Thomas was out front before the performance. He saw Will on Tuesday, not Wednesday. It’s unlikely he could have tampered with the dagger.’

‘And Max?’

‘No one saw him at the Old King Cole early on.’

‘True. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there, though. Pickles?’

Auguste shook his head. ‘He could have done it, but has little motive.’

‘Fernando?’

‘That is more likely.’ He thought of the scene he had witnessed.

‘Mariella?’

‘She has the ruthlessness.’

‘If Max is innocent, Auguste, why doesn’t the blighter tell us what he knows to protect himself? He didn’t run away for nothing.’

‘Perhaps he feared he would incriminate himself in some way.’

‘But we already
know
he’s implicated.’

‘He doesn’t know we know.’

‘Why on earth would we be chasing him otherwise?’

‘He thinks we believe him guilty of murder.’

‘So he ran for sanctuary like Thomas à Becket, eh?’

‘And hasn’t found it.’

Egbert considered. ‘If I were Max, where else would I seek sanctuary?’

‘Only one place,
mon ami.’
There was no need for Auguste to say more. There was only one place to which Max Hill would run.

‘How do you fancy a night at the halls, Auguste? I’ll treat you.’

The Alhambra was as far removed from the music-hall world of the Old King Cole as the Empire. Its Moorish architecture and large auditorium would have quelled the Shadwell Mob before they were over the threshold, for all the Alhambra’s long-standing Bohemian reputation. As Auguste craned his head upward to gaze at the enormous sun-burner in the domed ceiling, he recalled it was here that the acrobat Leotard had inspired audience and song as the daring young man on the flying trapeze flew above the audience’s heads. From their seats in the dress circle he and Egbert had an excellent view of the stage, and the audience was both large and excited. Music hall might be less prominent now at the Alhambra than ballet and spectacle, but when the programme boasted Nettie Turner a full house could be instantly guaranteed. The rest of the programme was almost immaterial, especially when it included the dubious attractions of a young lady called Emmeline. There was, hardly to their surprise, no Max Hill featured on the programme, though the Great Brodie appeared early in the first half.

His turn had not changed greatly since they had last
seen it at the Old King Cole, and perhaps his cross between the coarse and the ambitious masher was pitched even better for West End audiences than for Stepney. He launched himself on to the stage, immediately starting with ‘Don’t Wait Up’. Hearing its by now familiar strains, gave Auguste a strange feeling as though one of Soyer’s soup-kitchen meals had had the temerity to present itself under an Escoffier silver salver. But the audience was responsive, and his airy confidence made them more so. The Great Brodie could well be on his way to top of the bill, Auguste decided without enthusiasm. Doubtless he was being unfair, for the man had had a long struggle to get where he now was. Auguste’s attention began to wander, and was only recalled to the stage as the Great Brodie launched into a song apparently about fish.