Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (36 page)

Fernando left his lodgings with one thought in mind. Mariella. He would see her, apologise, and everything would be all right. He had assumed it would be, once Will Lamb was dead, and it was only his foolishness in approaching Mariella too soon that had upset her. Now she was happy because she was going to be rich, so it would be all right to talk to her, just as he’d planned.

Emmeline was humming. Underneath her pinafore dress nestled the red corset, and her mother hadn’t said a word when she told her. Emmeline felt she’d made an important discovery: money controlled the world. The fees that the Alhambra paid had quickly quelled her parents’ opposition to the reborn Emmeline, and the lesson would not be lost on their daughter. If money could so quickly influence
them
, what else might it not achieve? She might only be thirteen, but nevertheless it seemed to her this might be a sound rule to apply to her future life.

Then she thought of Nettie Turner. Nettie had been good to her. Nettie was famous and rich,
and
she was nice too, so perhaps life wasn’t as straightforward as Emmeline had imagined. Perhaps she would set out to be another Nettie Turner. She cheered up and practised
smiling in the mirror. She was intrigued by the difference it made to her face. Perhaps she should go round smiling at people, and not bother learning their secrets at doors. That wasn’t much fun anyway, since things that grown-up people kept as secrets tended to be dull. True, she had obtained her red corset by this method. She had a sudden memory of that time. She’d been so eager to get the corset it had gone right out of her mind. But now it was clear, so perhaps she’d start off her new career of being nice by telling that funny French chef. Perhaps she’d get a reward. Emmeline hastily reminded herself that money was not going to be all important from now on.

Percy Jowitt reluctantly took off his carpet slippers, pushed them under the armchair in case his housekeeper made yet more disparaging remarks about their condition, and put on his shoes. Normally this was a delightful task that implied their owner was about to launch them in the direction of his beloved theatre. Today, however, it was not quite so pleasant since memories of murder would be resurrected by, it seemed to Percy, the entire security establishment of the British Isles. They would want his office again too.

Box-office receipts were so good now that there had been no threat of bailiffs for a week. Until this morning. Most unreasonably, one creditor – a powerful one, His Majesty’s Government – had grown abusive. This seemed to Percy entirely unreasonable when he was doing his best for his country by providing such wonderful entertainment, but in black and white His Majesty’s Government had threatened a visit from their
representative. Beside this spectre the prospect of sitting next to a murderer this afternoon was small beer indeed. Percy had his own ideas about this murder, and they had nothing to do with crosses. He hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about them because (a) it was police business and (b) it wasn’t likely it would happen again. At least, he hoped not. These things happened in music hall from time to time. Anyway, nothing untoward would take place this afternoon. Not with Scotland Yard present.

Inspector Stitch was keeping a close eye on Max in the hansom, in case Max plunged out into the traffic chaos of Ludgate Circus as off a diving board. This fellow was not going to think he could fool Stitch; he could tell he was looking for ways to escape. He wouldn’t. Not while in Stitch’s custody.

‘Ever been in the Tower?’ he asked Hill genially, as they passed the fortress.

‘No.’

‘You will, laddie,’ Stitch sniggered. ‘Under Traitor’s Gate for you, eh? That’s what you get for double-crossing the crown.’

Max looked unimpressed, and decided to get his own back with a fair impression of Egbert Rose. ‘You allowed to terrorise witnesses, Twitch?’

‘That’s my job . . . Blimey, you sounded just like the Chief.’

‘That’s my job.’

Stitch did not quite follow this, but did realise he was dealing with a very slippery customer indeed, and was relieved when the cab drew up to the front of the Old King Cole. He paid the fare (without tip, since that was
never reimbursed), and firmly took Max by the arm. ‘No slip ’twixt cup and lip,’ he informed his captive.

‘If there’s a drink in it, I wouldn’t let it slip.’ Max was suddenly inclined to be jovial. ‘How about it?’

Stitch was shocked.

‘I’m on duty,’ he choked. ‘My job is to deliver you to the Chief.’ He had a sudden feeling that this was going to be easier said than done as Max pushed his way through the crowd in the eating-room with Stitch grimly clinging on to his arm from behind. Max was an artiste carefully trained in the art of timing; Stitch was not. Two plates of pie and mash rushed by on Lizzie’s tray, and somehow Max was on one side of her with Stitch caught on the other. A lesser man than Stitch would have let go. He did not.

It was Lizzie who landed up on the floor, with Max falling on her, and Twitch on him, and the mash squashed between them. Nevertheless, it was a triumph for law and order. Max Hill was safely delivered to the Chief.

There was only one place large enough to accommodate them all and that was the stage itself. This afternoon its equipment and props were sparse in the extreme. Two Tee-pieces and a standard yielded a meagre glow, and chairs, summoned from all quarters, gave it the air of waiting for a second audience to face that in the auditorium. Egbert Rose eyed his audience. The old familiar faces: Fernando (who had been delighted when Mariella was so sweet to him, and horrified when she suddenly grew angry, all because he didn’t know anything about that stupid cross); Mariella (who was
beginning to realise just who Miguel had gone to meet that Sunday morning, and wonder how much it was worth to her); the Tumbling Twins (who were very surprised at the reception of their news); Dolly (who had at last seen the light about Handsome Horace); Percy (who was mentally budgeting future box-office receipts); Pickles (who was beginning to grow uneasy); Nettie (who had finally come to the conclusion that Will’s death freed her from all obligation to Pickles); Emmeline (who was rather frightened at the results of her little talk); Thomas Yapp (who was in a panic of indecision); Brodie (who was beginning to think women were more trouble than they were worth) – and Max. Max was considering his position. It could hardly escape his attention that Special Branch was hemming him in: Cherry was on one side of him, Black on the other. He wondered if he was being set up. And that wasn’t the only problem he had. He needed to do a bit of thinking, then he might be in a position to trade.

‘You’re all holding bits of this jigsaw puzzle, and none of you has bothered to wonder if they fit,’ Rose began. ‘So now we’re going to do the puzzle together. We’ve got two separate puzzles here. You’ve all heard about the missing Windsor cross; it unfortunately landed up here, and caused one murder, and we’ve got another puzzle in Will Lamb’s murder, which in turn caused another murder. Our mistake was to think there was only one puzzle. There wasn’t, and we
know
it now.’ He emphasised the ‘know’. No one commented, one or two still trying to assimilate the news that the Old King Cole had links to royalty, albeit illegal ones.

‘My friends here from a different department at the
Yard have cleverly worked out what’s happened to the cross,’ Rose continued graciously. ‘All we have to do is find it. It’s still here somewhere, otherwise I don’t think Mrs Gomez would have been so eager to come.’

Mariella stiffened but decided silence was the better part of valour.

‘So we’ll concentrate on Will Lamb’s murder, and that of Miguel Gomez – if that doesn’t distress you too much, Mrs Gomez. We think Gomez was murdered because he guessed who murdered Lamb.’

‘
What?
’ Mariella shrieked.

‘Probably he was blackmailing the murderer,’ Rose continued unperturbed.

‘Nonsense,’ she shrieked again.

‘Or perhaps he murdered Will Lamb himself, and someone took revenge.’

‘No!’

‘Now, there are only a few of you who could both have doctored the dagger and ransacked the dressing-room.’

‘But that was to look for the cross,’ Mariella objected. ‘You said that had nothing to do with Will’s death.’

‘Ah yes. But suppose it was to make it look as
if
the cross, or to be more accurate, what the murderer thought was a bundle of your auntie’s jewellery, was the motive for the murder. It wasn’t, of course. It was quite different, and Miguel Gomez knew it. Now how could he have known? He would have known that his wife, for instance, had no motive for murder, nor probably Fernando, nor anyone who was not involved with the theft of the cross in the first place.’

‘I was involved with the cross,’ shouted Max, seeing a way out.

‘Certainly you were, so you had a motive to murder Will Lamb if it
were
committed for the sake of the cross.’

‘But you said it was for something else,’ Max cried, alarmed, wondering where he’d gone wrong.

‘True, but—’

‘I’m getting out of here,’ Max roared suddenly. ‘It’s too bloomin’ dangerous.’

He sized up Cherry and Black’s positions, pushed his chair back, and then over, and with the expertise of the elderly acrobat, and showing no signs at all of lumbago, somersaulted out on to the stage with a clear passage to the wings, before Cherry and Black could move from their chairs.

‘Get him,’ Rose shouted at Twitch.

Unfortunately he too failed to clarify to whom his order was addressed, and the whole company responded on behalf of law and order, and regardless of Rose’s later countermanding calls, milled into the wings in search of Max. Only Nettie and Auguste remained with Rose.

‘This is a real old pantomime,’ Nettie laughed. ‘Talk about Clown and the stolen sausages.’

‘Only in this panto Clown might be murdered?’

Nettie changed in an instant. ‘Max?’ she asked sharply. ‘More belly-laughs than brains, he’s got.’

‘I’ll go, Egbert,’ Auguste told him.

‘Find Stitch. Get support. You’ll need it.’

The hounds had spread out now. All around him was quiet, though elsewhere in the theatre he could hear faint far-off sounds of movement. Outside or inside. Auguste swallowed, trying to suppress instinctive fear, and replace it with reason. Rational thought told him
that this place had a dozen or so people moving through it, all intent on finding Max, but that it might not be Max who was in the greatest danger. Outside, Egbert would have men posted on every approach to the theatre, back and front. There were too many people around for harm to come to anyone – to Max or to himself. Fear told him that his quarry was beyond reason now, that he was guided by primitive urges, of which the uppermost now would be self-survival, the most powerful of all.

He, Auguste, must find Max, therefore, for where Max was, so would be the person he sought. Max was an elderly man. That somersault must have exhausted him. As an old fox, he’d try to find a lair now.

And where, even in this dark barn of a theatre, would he find that? He heard a distant shout, a woman’s, and stopped. Mariella’s? If she had found Max there would be more noise, more shouts, but there were none. Would Max have gone under the stage? No, too dangerous, for there were no escape routes from it. If he stayed within the theatre he would have made for the auditorium or the pub end, either on the ground or first floor. Yet the corridors and stairs linking the two parts of the building, sandwiching the auditorium in between, were long; would Max risk being caught in a chase along them? No, if he were Max, he would hide outside until the hunt had died down a little and then double back inside to seek a better hiding-place. He could not have gone far since the alleys leading to the roadways were guarded, but he could climb walls on to that waste land, or, if he could reach it, hide in the old churchyard.

Convinced he was right, he ran outside, where the
light was rapidly fading. There was enough to see no one lurked behind the wall facing him. He pulled open the doors of the earth closets – nothing. If Max had been out here, he had already gone. Not to left or right, but back. Not into the theatre, but towards the steps leading down to the basement areas of the kitchens. Heart pounding, as he pulled one door open after another, he realised he was wasting time. Max would never hide in such a confined space. He would be at large where, if cornered, he could run. And that meant the auditorium.

He pulled at the door used as an exit for the gallery. It was locked. He rushed into the kitchens to take the longer way round. Now there were people: Lizzie staring in amazement as he rushed by. Twitch working his way through the pub area, Mariella quarrelling with Fernando in the passageway, even Pickles. Down or up? Up surely, where there was greater choice of hiding-place.

Auguste advanced into the dark silent corridor, intent – too intent – on finding Max. The doors to the auditorium were open, but within all was dark. The stage which showed the merest dim glow of gas light served only to emphasise the blackness around him. Max could have gone anywhere. Behind the circle or gallery seats? He gulped, prickles burning at the back of his neck. No, there was someone closer than that. In this corridor? In one of the two boxes opening off it? He shut his eyes, since they were of no use in this dark, putting out his hands in front of him, ridiculously thinking this might ward off evil. He could almost hear evil breathing.

There was a scream. Not Max, a woman’s, no, a
child’s
, and it was a scream of terror. Then he knew for sure that Max was not the hunted fox. It was Emmeline, ahead of him in the dark, in one of the boxes, trapped with a murderer.