Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (37 page)

He shouted out, to draw attention to their plight. ‘Here, Egbert,
here
!’ and plunged forward. Surely he must be level with the boxes now. He was, his left hand made contact with the door jamb, his right feeling for his path.

Then the door opened, he felt the draught hit the sticky warmth around him, and a hand seized his, doubling it back excruciatingly, then, as he collapsed, the hands moved round his throat, choking him. Surely people must come, they must have heard, they were running – or was it the drumming in his head? Was the life quietly being choked out of him? Would he die too soon? Then a relief, a trickle of light, flailing bodies, and a merciful chance to lie gasping for air on the ground. Gradually he recognised the familiar form of Twitch, blessed Twitch, strong and
here
, who ignoring the temptation to let the Frenchie suffer a bit, had won the struggle and was handcuffing Horace Brodie with the full majesty of the law.

Egbert Rose pushed his way through the group of chattering people surrounding Auguste, back on the stage, where Emmeline was efficiently rubbing butter into Auguste’s tender neck. ‘I told him I knew,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I forgot all about seeing him in the props room because of my corset, and I only just remembered.’

‘Did it not occur to you he might have been a murderer?’ he asked painfully. It was so obvious looking back. Brodie had been listening in too, had heard about ‘Auntie’s jewellery’, had heard or deduced about the will, and that, to him, had meant he must act quickly to eliminate Will.

Emmeline considered. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Not until he came into the box after me.’

‘You’re a brave girl, Emmeline,’ Auguste said in surprise.

Emmeline blushed. Apart from Nettie, no one had ever paid her a compliment. ‘Yes, I was,’ she said aggrieved. ‘It wasn’t fair. I’d said I’d keep quiet if he gave me a bust improver.’

Egbert pushed his way through to his friend. ‘You’re alive, then.’

‘Thanks to Inspector Stitch.’

Something that might have been a reluctant grin hovered on Egbert’s lips. ‘I’m off to the Yard with our chum. Come in, as soon as you’re able. I’ve—’

He was interrupted by Percy Jowitt, striding importantly up to them, and pushing Fernando to one side in order to have space for his dramatic announcement: ‘I’ve got the villain.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m going off to lock him up,’ Egbert said testily.

‘Excellent!’ Percy beamed.

The case was over, Auguste had survived, his days at the Old King Cole were at an end, and he was not sorry.

‘What had he done, exactly?’ Percy inquired hesitantly, after Rose had left.

‘He murdered Will Lamb and my husband,’ Mariella replied viciously. ‘So Mr Didier says.’

‘So it wasn’t you, beloved,’ Evangeline cried, throwing her arms round a stoical Thomas.

‘Are you sure?’ Percy asked, surprised.

‘Yes. Once we realised
why
, everything was clear. It was the song.’

‘Song?’ Nettie repeated sharply.

‘Yes. You remember you told us Will was always generous with his work and handed out songs to anyone who wanted to sing them. I suspect Brodie had sung several over the years, but then “Don’t Wait Up” caught on. On the strength of it he was going up to the Alhambra. People would be humming it, singing it, whistling it, everywhere, and Will would have undoubtedly heard it. But the difference with this song was that he had sold the publication rights in it, and handed over copyright to the publishers as usual. Will’s copyright.’

‘What?’ Mariella’s ears caught the magic words. ‘But that’s
mine.’

‘I’m sure he realised that. He might hope to talk Will round, but if you, Mariella, heard about it, as future holder of his copyrights, you would have insisted not only on your right, but—’

‘Exposing the swine for what he is,’ agreed Mariella without hesitation. ‘And I’m going to.’

‘Will didn’t like being taken advantage of,’ Nettie said pointedly. ‘By
anyone.’

The innuendo passed Mariella by.

‘Brodie had no choice, as he saw it,’ Auguste continued. ‘He had to prevent Will hearing that song.
And once he got to London that would be impossible, so he had to get Will to the Old King Cole. With luck Will wouldn’t hear it, but it didn’t really matter since he had to die anyway.’

‘All for a bleedin’ song,’ Nettie said angrily.

‘Like your Donkey Song, Nettie,’ Mariella said coolly. ‘That was Will’s too, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ Nettie agreed readily. ‘I nicked all the money and gave it to a Society for Fallen Women. So you ain’t lost it.’

Mariella opened her mouth to reply, and changed her mind.

‘Will did hear the song,’ Auguste went on, ‘because he arrived early on the Tuesday night. He had it out with Brodie, and suffered the penalty.’

‘My poor darling Will!’ Evangeline cried.

Thomas cleared his throat, his eyes beseeching Auguste to keep silence on his relationship.

‘Poor Will indeed,’ Auguste said soberly.

‘Everything must have seemed to be going well for Brodie. He arranged to meet Will before the performance and must have doctored the dagger then. Max asked him to change turns, which gave Brodie the idea of ransacking the dressing-room, since he had more time to play with. Then it would appear that Mariella’s jewellery – as he thought – would be a motive. Instead, he was nonplussed to find the cross, and recognising these were uncharted waters, decided to leave it behind.’

‘And Miguel?’ Mariella asked offhandedly.

‘I think your late husband realised, for whatever reason, that Brodie was the murderer. Perhaps he thought again what Will had said and realised the word
was in fact two words, of which the first was “song”, and the second “Bro—”. I doubt Will realised what Brodie had done, but was muttering what was uppermost in his mind. Gomez was greedy, however. His plans for the cross had gone awry. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the fee for stealing the cross,
and
his wife. So he decided to make money where he could, and thus lost his life. Brodie found the fake cross tucked in the mermaid’s tail, and as a red herring threw it to join its fellow fish in the Thames – where it was found, thanks to one of Ma Bisley’s team who saw a suspicious splash, and her nephew’s fishing abilities.’

‘Why set Brodie after me?’ Max asked, aggrieved. ‘I never knew about his bloomin’ song.’

‘He wasn’t after you. It was Emmeline, though doubtless he could be forgiven for thinking you knew who Miguel’s murderer was.’

Max sighed. ‘I ran away because of all you geezers. There’s only one lot can murder in this country and get away with it: the bloomin’ government.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Percy brightly.

‘Moreover,’ Max continued, ‘who was it Brodie decided to have a go at murdering first just now? Emmeline, me, or you?’

There was a silence.

‘Me,’ said Auguste reluctantly.

‘Well, then.’

‘I think,’ said Marigold reluctantly, ‘that he may just have misinterpreted something I said. It has worried me a little.’

‘What?’ Auguste asked grimly.

‘I merely happened to mention to Horace that he
should be careful about little foreigners, and if he didn’t watch out, one of them would soon be his undoing.’

‘I,’ Auguste fixed on the insulting point, ‘am not
little.
I am five feet ten inches.’

‘I meant my baby, only I didn’t have one. Isn’t that nice?’

‘Delightful!’ said Auguste savagely.

The Old King Cole murders were solved, and its life could return to normal. Already the backstage area was filling with both familiar and new faces. Auguste had waved Emmeline off to the Alhambra, together with Nettie and Max Hill.

‘You never know, Max,’ she’d said, ‘they may just need a turn at short notice tonight. Could be your lucky night.’

Here at the Old King Cole he could still see the stalwarts. Dolly was talking to the Misses Pears, no doubt with mutual claims that they had always known there was something odd about Horace, and shivering delicately at the idea of having been in a murderer’s arms. He was more or less right. Marigold was mentally informing her womb how lucky it had been, Violet was making plans to tell their story for money. It could be entitled ‘Ladies in Pink Tights’ were she to sell to a gentlemen’s magazine, or ‘How We Were Deceived by a Villain’, if to a ladies’. They were also congratulating themselves on having accepted Horace’s generous gift of twenty pounds after their little talk about that song Will was so upset about.

Auguste saw Evangeline emerge from the dressing-room in full warpaint for the stage. Fernando was feverishly hunting for some missing prop, Mariella was
leading out her dogs, with a fish tail tucked under her arm. Thomas and Evangeline were in front (Thomas having decided to tell his wife that he was Will’s brother and been happily surprised at her reception of his news, and Evangeline wondering whether Percy’s new warmth towards her turn meant he was in love with her or with her husband’s money – she decided the former).

Percy was contemplating his stage contentedly. All was well at the Old King Cole. It appeared the trouble had all been due to Brodie’s song. He could have told them about that a long time ago. It never occurred to him. That kind of thing was always happening in music hall.

Life was returning to normal, Auguste decided, watching the Old King Cole gather itself together. The stage door opened and a short fat man half-hidden by a one-man-band staggered in. He eyed Auguste strangely, obviously sizing him up as to what kind of turn he might be.

Auguste decided to go to the eating-room, and return later perhaps. There, in the form of Mrs Jolly’s pies, would be comfort. Unfortunately there was not. There was only Lizzie, in tears and with no sign of either Charlie or Joe assisting her, and a very rowdy crowd of would-be customers.

‘Lizzie,’ he asked despairingly, as he rushed to see how great the catering problem was, ‘is this the fault of your love life again?’

She peered round the corner of the apron she was using to dab her eyes. ‘Oh, Mr Didier. No. It’s me career. I’d decided to go in for that Raine’s Charity. You gets
lots of money in St George’s when you marry if you’ve done five unblemished years in service. But how can I? No ’elp. No pies.’

‘Where’s Joe?’ asked Auguste briskly.

‘Gone back to Ma Bisley. I got sick of him always hanging round, always cheerful, “Do you love me, Lizzie?” when I was trying to work. A woman has the right to work in peace, say I.’

Auguste let this pass. ‘And Charlie?’

‘He had to go too, didn’t he?’

‘And the food for this evening?’

‘Frederick and me, that’s all. I ain’t done ’is pertaters for the interval, or the fish, or the ’ash.’

Auguste flew downstairs. No wasting energy on words. What was needed was action. It was fully three-quarters of an hour of frantic preparation before he had breath to ask:
‘Why
did Charlie have to go and – ’ a fearful memory came back ‘– why are there no pies?’

‘Mr D, you are a wonder,’ Lizzie said appreciatively, surveying his work. She had cheered up. ‘The shop burned down this afternoon.’

‘What?’ he shrieked. ‘Mrs
Jolly’s
shop?’

‘Yes.’

‘But Lizzie, what has happened to Mrs Jolly? She was hurt?’

She shrugged. ‘Dunno. Happens all time, don’t it? They’ve nowhere else to go. Workhouse, maybe.’

‘Do not be foolish, Lizzie. The woman is an artiste. People with genius do not go to workhouses.’

‘Don’t they?’ she commented darkly. ‘That’s all you know.’

She was serious. The terrible possibilities of this fate
overwhelmed him. He promptly abandoned his post and Lizzie, in the cause of higher objectives for mankind: the saving of Mrs Jolly. He ran as quickly as he could to what remained of Mrs Jolly’s pie shop.

Both shop and living quarters were burned out. Inside, moving desultory among charred wreckage, Auguste could see a plump figure, picking up black objects and letting them drop again.

‘Charlie,’ he yelled. ‘Let me in.’

‘Hop in, Mr D,’ Charles shouted morosely. ‘No winders left.’

He was right. Once inside, Auguste stood surrounded by destruction. In a twinkle, the shop had disappeared. Gone were the pies of wonder that this morning must have adorned that blackened marble slab, gone the choucroute, the sausages, the tempting cheeses.

‘How is your aunt?’ he inquired anxiously.

‘Having a cup of char next door but one. It’s next door, now. That one went as well.’

‘What will you do?’

‘No more shops, Auntie says. Washing, perhaps. Factory work.’

‘Factory work?’ Auguste almost screeched. ‘And you?’

‘Fancy being a clerk. Nice lot of sitting down,’ Charlie explained. ‘These lady typewriters have a nice life.’

‘But the pies—’

Charlie sighed. ‘Life rises and falls, Mr D. Just like them pies.’

An idea so fantastic suddenly came to Auguste, he knew instantly that it was the solution, the right solution, the
only
solution. ‘Charlie, pull down the shutters,’ he ordered him. ‘Lock up this nightmare and
take me to your aunt
immediately.’
Charlie, he noted, was in the habit of obeying orders, probably because life was easier that way.