Murder Offstage (11 page)

‘
What
people?’ scoffed Posie. ‘Mr Minks?’

Len muttered into his coat collar and flushed a dark red,
but continued walking.

They walked back to Grape Street with no real further
conversation, still awkwardly arm-in-arm, but with Posie feeling she had
crossed some invisible boundary between them, and Len feeling he had been made
to look a prude. When they reached the Detective Agency they were both glad to
take to their own offices, light their own small fires, and close their own
doors on what had been a very long and complicated day.

As Posie was settling down to sleep on the small cream rug
in front of her fireplace, with her brown tweed coat over her as a blanket, she
couldn’t help but think that in among all the strange, wonderful and terrible
things she had experienced that day, something closer to home wasn’t quite
right.

She was so tired…so very, very tired.

She blinked in an effort to keep her eyes open.
Something was missing.

But as she struggled to remember what it might be, she
drifted off on a wave of blissful, welcome, long-overdue sleep.

****

Wednesday 16th February, 1921

Eleven

Grey morning light filtered into the office, and Posie
woke blearily, stiff as a board in front of the cold, extinguished fire. A
flurry of snowy hail smattered against the window.

The office clock showed it was eight a.m., and Posie rustled
to her feet, still wearing the red mousseline dress from the night before. She
picked up her work clothes from the back of her chair and headed off to the
little bathroom to change. She felt grimy and tired, and she was longing for a
hot bath, but she made do with splashing her face with ice-cold water and
Pears’ soap in the tiny cracked basin.

Len was singing in the kitchen, and passing by, Posie saw
him making tea. He grinned at her and passed her a mug, leaning back
companionably against the green melamine counter-top.

‘Good morning!’

‘So you’ve forgiven me then, have you, for selling the story
last night to the nincompoop? You ought to watch it, you know; you’re turning
into Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’

Len shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I was tired. And I figure
you must have your reasons. You’ve never been wrong yet.’

The strength of the sweet tea seemed to revive them both,
and Posie was just turning to leave when she remembered:

‘Where’s Mr Minks? It’s not like him to miss reminding me
it’s breakfast time.’ She strode over to the tattered velvet curtains he liked
climbing in and shook them, as if he might have hidden himself in their folds.

‘I thought he was in with you last night,’ said Len,
frowning anxiously. He cared more about the cat than he would admit to anyone.

That was what had been wrong last night
, Posie
realised with horror. The office just wasn’t the same without Mr Minks. And he
had been missing, even then.

They looked at each other in slow-dawning panic, before
running in opposite directions. They searched all over, which didn’t take long
– the three little offices, the waiting room, the kitchen, the landing and its
tiny bathroom. Len ran up and down the stairs several times, Posie hammered on
the door of the office downstairs and she searched the ground-floor entrance
hall to the building. But no-one had seen the cat.

Back upstairs they started all over again. Cupboards and
drawers and even the fireplaces were searched frantically.

‘What if he got out on the window-ledge looking for a piece
of chicken and fell off?’ Posie voiced quietly, trying to disguise the tremor
in her voice that was breaking through.

‘Impossible,’ said Len, hauling up the sash window and
gulping at the huge drop. ‘We’re always careful never to leave any windows
open. It’s the rule here. Two years and we’ve never had a problem. Mr Minks
would never stray anywhere, he knows he has it too good here. What changed?’

Just then a terrible thought entered both their minds.
Babe
.

As if on cue, Babe could be heard fumbling at the office
front door, jangling her key in the lock. They darted out into the waiting room
and stared at her accusingly. She turned and looked at them with a big-eyed
stare, then smiled uncertainly.

‘I picked up these for you downstairs, off the mat, just
now. One’s a hand-delivery. Say, is something kinda wrong with you all? Gee,
I’m not late, am I?’

Posie grabbed the two envelopes without really looking,
never taking her eyes off the girl’s face:

‘Mr Minks is missing,’ she said levelly. ‘Do you know
anything about it, Babe? And you’d better tell me the truth. You locked up
yesterday. Did you leave any windows open when you left? Have you anything
unusual to report?’

Babe stared at both of them, and shook her head, but for a
brief second a high pink colour flushed her face. Then she burst into tears,
sobbing uncontrollably. Posie sighed, and Len uncrossed his arms and went
across to pat the secretary on the shoulder.

Either this girl is a very good actress, Posie thought
wearily, or else she
really
doesn’t know what’s happened to the cat.
What
was it with actresses and the theatre at the moment?
They seemed to be
surrounding her.

Posie ripped open the first envelope. It was a telegram from
Inspector Lovelace informing her there would be a formal Inquest into Lucy
Gibson’s death at eleven o’clock at Victoria, and their attendance was
required, as they had been the first people to find the body. He went on to say
that Inspector Oats had re-arrested Rufus and that he was being held in the
cells again at Scotland Yard, on very tenuous grounds. Posie was so wrapped up
in thinking about this terrible latest piece of news that she was halfway through
automatically ripping open the second, hand-delivered letter when Len stopped
her with a panicked shout:

‘Wait! Stop! What do you notice?’

Posie looked down at the envelope. It was blue, cheap, like
tissue paper. It was addressed to her in exactly the same hand as yesterday’s
letter.

‘Oh my goodness. It’s from Lucky Lucy!’

She pulled out a single folded sheet of blue paper, but
before she could open it a wad of pale and silky cream-and-brown Siamese cat
hair slipped out, falling to the floor in shimmering strands. Babe yelped, and
Posie felt a fist of fear grabbing at her throat, tears pricking her eyes.

‘Oh Mr Minks! Oh no!’

Len was on the floor gathering up the cat hair, his mouth
set in a grim line.

‘Read the letter,’ he said quietly. Posie read aloud:

Dear Miss Parker,

I warned you someone would get hurt if you didn’t butt
out. I have the cat, as you can see. It’s safe for now, if a little bald in
places.

Drop the whole case and the cat will be returned to you
unharmed. To indicate acceptance, wear a yellow rose in your buttonhole today
where I can clearly see it. If not, accept the consequences. This is only the
first bad thing to happen to you: it will get worse, I promise you.

Yours,

LL

Posie sunk down on the visitors’ couch. She put her
head in her hands. When she looked up she saw Len was opposite her, looking
worried. He was more shaken than he was letting on. Babe was nervously pulling
at a large and shiny amber choker around her neck, twisting it over and over.
Posie ignored her.

‘Something doesn’t add up,’ she said at last, irritably.
‘Dead girls don’t write letters about missing cats.’

‘She wrote it before she died, obviously,’ Len snapped.
‘Thing is, where did she hide Mr Minks? There was no sign of a cat, dead or
alive, in that wretched nightclub yesterday. Maybe whoever killed her killed
the cat too?’

‘No, no, that’s not the problem. Lucy was dead as a doornail
late last night. Remember? But this letter was hand-delivered
just now
.
Both you and I went up and down the stairs earlier this morning, and there were
no letters on the mat downstairs in the hall at all. So the letter has only
just arrived.’

Len nodded. Posie went on, insistently:

‘Either there was a hitch in delivering this note from Lucy,
and it got delayed, or else, it wasn’t written by Lucy Gibson at all, but by
someone else masquerading as her; perhaps someone who doesn’t realise she is
dead, or who does know, but thinks
we
don’t yet know that...’

‘They do a pretty ruddy good job of imitating her writing
then – Rufus believed it was the real deal when he saw the letter yesterday.
But what I don’t understand is
why
take Mr Minks at all?
Why
?’

Posie crossed to her office, frowning uncertainly.

‘Either to frighten me, as the letter says, or more likely,
to show they are in control. They must have realised how much the cat meant to
me.’

‘I don’t like this,’ Len said angrily. ‘If it wasn’t Lucky
Lucy who took the cat it could have been
anyone
.’ His eyes rested
momentarily on Babe, before coming back to Posie. ‘Where do we start? I think we
need to cast the net widely for suspects. Think of some of your
new friends
…perhaps?’

He gathered up his camera.

‘I’m sorry, but I have to go out and take photos of a
naughty Lord a-leaping in someone else’s bed. Want me to buy you a yellow rose
while I’m out in Covent Garden market?’

Posie turned and gave him a watery smile.

‘Of course I don’t, you idiot! We’ll get Mr Minks back
somehow or other. Alive. See you at the Inquest.’

****

At her desk Posie sat thinking, making a steeple of
her hands.

The priority, of course, was clearing Rufus of both of these
murders, but she couldn’t stop thinking about poor old Mr Minks…

She frowned and picked up the cheap blue letter again.
Should
she have more of a suspicious mind?

Should she, like Len, distrust people she felt in her heart
were good people and cast the net wider than Babe Sinclair for potential
suspects? What if – could it be possible – could
Dolly
perhaps have
written that note, and stolen the cat, for that was who Len suspected, wasn’t
it? Her
new friend
…

An image of Dolly rose up before her as she had first
encountered her; her black and silver crescent-moon-tipped cigarette dangling
from her silver-painted fingertips. A nocturnal, strange creature, whose
natural habitat would surely be somewhere like the
La Luna
club…

Len had indicated that he didn’t trust the Wardrobe Mistress
one jot, and it was true that Dolly hadn’t been seen since last night; since
before the shoot-out at the nightclub, giving her ample time to steal the cat
and organise delivery of the note. And Dolly wouldn’t necessarily know they had
found Lucky Lucy’s body last night, either, leaving her wide open to
misguidedly deliver the note to Grape Street this morning.

But for what reason? Simply for money?

Posie found her thoughts were running away in crazy
suspicious directions, tumbling over each other in a hurry. Was Dolly acting
alone in this? Or perhaps, as Len had suggested last night, Dolly was in the
pay of Caspian della Rosa after all…part of some bigger plan. It was true that
Dolly was a tough cookie; a born survivor. And she had seemed short enough of
money to do anything. She worked at the Athenaeum Theatre too, and Posie only
had Dolly’s word for it that she had never been to the
La Luna
club
before, and that she was scared of Count Caspian: perhaps she too was just a
very good actress?

But would Dolly really stoop to such methods of
intimidation, even for a nice pay-check? Posie shivered and felt goose-bumps
break out over her skin.

Get a hold of yourself
, she told herself briskly.
When the only thing you had in this world was your conviction about someone’s
character, your trust in them, you had to hold onto that. She remembered
Dolly’s kindness with the fake fur coat. Of course Dolly was who she said she
was.

Posie vowed she would make contact with Dolly later in the
day. She felt rather guilty that in all the fiasco of finding Lucky Lucy’s body
they had not even managed to put Dolly safely home-bound in a taxi. She would
arrange another tea with the girl, and invite Len too, so he could put any
remaining doubts he might have about her to rest. Something told her Dolly was
set to become a good friend of hers, for a long time…

Seeing the time, Posie hurriedly smartened herself up for
the Coroner’s Court. The weather outside was changing; cloud was shredded all
across the sky, ragged fragments of purple-grey, promising a storm.

She grabbed her black umbrella and charged out of the door.

****

Twelve

The Coroner’s Court was near Victoria Station, housed
in an old, dark, forbidding stone building behind black-painted wrought-iron
fencing.

Two uniformed policemen stood outside the door and ticked
Posie off a shortlist of names. The overpowering smell of disinfectant and a
horrible undertone of rank sweat hit her as she stepped inside, and Posie was
pleased she had never had occasion to visit the place before.

She spritzed herself liberally with her sweet violet perfume
and entered the Court.

****

‘First, I call Miss Rosemary Parker, Private
Investigator.’

Posie got to her feet and stood solemnly in the dark wooden
witness stand at the front of the tiny white-tiled Coroner’s Court. She faced
the Coroner, a beady-eyed little man who reminded her of a sleek black raven,
trained to miss nothing. The Court Official continued pompously:

‘Miss Parker is a key witness and was first to find the body
of the woman known as Lucky Lucy Gibson. Now, give me your right hand and swear
on the Bible that what you tell this Inquest will be the truth, and nothing but
the truth. Do you understand?’

Posie gave her account of the night before, and was followed
by Len, who gave a similar account. Neither of them were asked any questions,
and she saw the Coroner taking notes, nodding grimly.

Sitting down again she took some time to survey the other
people attending the Inquest. It was a ‘closed Court’, which meant all of the
people there had been invited specially, and there was no public gallery, which
meant no nuisance from journalists. There were fewer than twenty people in all,
including herself and Len. She caught sight of Inspector Lovelace and Inspector
Oats sitting together on a wooden bench opposite, both of them looking like
they wished they were not in the other’s company.

Behind them sat a senior-looking black-uniformed man in his
late fifties, taking notes, and Posie guessed he must be their Scotland Yard
superior – a Commissioner or an Assistant Commissioner, perhaps? She spied
Sergeants Binny and Rainbird sitting further back, and a couple of other
policemen whose faces she recognised from the
La Luna
raid. The Police
Pathologist and the Forensics Specialist, both of whom she had seen at the
crime scene the night before, sat on the third wooden bench which made up the
connecting arm of the horseshoe-shaped gallery. Along from where Posie and Len
were sitting, and almost totally obscured from view, sat Rufus, head bent low,
handcuffed miserably between two uniformed policemen. The Tenth Earl was
nowhere to be seen: he had probably not been allowed in, which was probably for
the best.

Next to Posie sat a fat little priest wearing a black
cassock and an old-fashioned black Biretta hat, ceaselessly click-clacking an
enamelled string of rosary beads through his fingers. A Catholic then; Posie
found herself surprised at his presence. Why was he here? Was he a witness? Was
he going to tell the Inquest something interesting about Lucky Lucy? The large
hat almost obscured his face but from the side, Posie caught a glimmer of gold
round-framed spectacles and a pudgy, slack profile. The heavy scent of church
incense wafted up from the folds of his black clothes, strangely reassuring in
the unfamiliar surroundings. The occasional sucking sound which came from
underneath the Biretta, which she had taken at first to indicate the wearing of
badly fitting false teeth, turned out to be a fondness for pear drops, a
crumpled pink bag of which the priest brought out at regular intervals, as if
in a cinema.

The Inquest was running along nicely – the Coroner was an
efficient man who wanted to be out in time for his lunch. The Police
Pathologist, Dr Poots, was called to the stand, bearing a heavy-looking file
which the Coroner looked at with distaste. He came straight to the point:

‘So, was it suicide or murder? Don’t bore me with the
contents of that whole file. Cut to the chase, man.’

‘It was murder, your Honour. Superficially it looked like a
shooting, but I can confirm that in fact it was murder by potassium cyanide,
which accounts for the very pale flushed blue colour in the face. I think she
was forced to drink something, and she put up a fight. Evidenced by the state
of the fingernails. A horrible, painful death – poor kid. But quick.’

There was a collective intake of breath.

The Pathologist continued:

‘The shot-gun wound to the head was incurred
after
death – it was purely cosmetic. A clumsy attempt to make it appear as if it
were a suicide; placing the revolver in the right hand, closing the fingers
around it. But our murderer made an obvious mistake. Perhaps a rushed job?’

‘He made a mistake?’

‘Yes, your Honour. The gunshot wound was on the right side
of the head, but there’s no way Lucy could have shot herself in that manner.
She was left-handed.’

‘You have proof?’

‘Yes. Everything indicates she was left-handed, your Honour.
Her left-hand middle finger bore the typical pronounced callouses associated
with writing, or some kind of artistic employment requiring use of the hands.
Actually, I was quite surprised – you’d normally only see that on a writer, a
journalist, a printer, or an academic person perhaps… And she smoked with her
left hand too; there were singe marks from cigarettes on the middle and index
fingers of her left hand.’

The Coroner took careful notes, ticking his way down a green
piece of paper.

‘So what time did she die exactly, Dr Poots? And spare me
the medical mumbo-jumbo, man.’

The Pathologist nodded, unperturbed.

‘Earlier than we first thought, your Honour. Although she
was found last night, tests indicate she had been dead at that point for over
twenty-four hours. In fact, I can be more accurate. She died of poisoning by
cyanide on Monday 14th, somewhere between around two o’clock and five o’clock
in the afternoon.’

‘
WHAT?
’ bellowed Inspector Oats, standing up and
propping himself up on the wooden barrier. ‘That cannot be right!’

‘Silence in the Court!’ thundered the Coroner, his pen
jabbing the air violently, and Posie strained to hear the black-uniformed
Commissioner whispering angrily:

‘Get a grip of yourself, Oats. An utter disgrace…’

Inspector Oats had turned puce but sat down again, defeated.
His prime suspect had just been given the all-clear. Indeed, Rufus had been
locked up inside the tiny jail cell at Scotland Yard during the whole afternoon
of Monday the 14th, and you couldn’t ask for a better, more cast-iron alibi
than that. In fact,
Inspector Oats
was
the alibi for Rufus, and
Posie smiled in satisfaction at the bitter irony of it. She watched with
pleasure as Sergeant Binny looped around the back of the wooden benches to
quietly inform the uniformed policemen that they could set their prisoner free
and unshackle him. She heard a sound somewhere between a sob and a hiccup from
Rufus’ direction, but there would be time for comforting him later.

So then, Posie thought, Lucky Lucy had gone fresh from her
engagement lunch with Rufus at the Ritz to meet her own death only a couple of
hours later. Which would account for her conservative clothing – but not for
why
Lucy was at the
La Luna
club when she died:
if
she had indeed
died there. The early time of death was interesting for other reasons too: the
two letters which had arrived at the Grape Street Bureau supposedly written by
Lucky Lucy could now definitely be classed as forgeries. Someone had been
deliberately impersonating the girl. But who? And why?

Still puzzling, Posie watched the Forensics Officer, Mr
Maguire, take the stand.

Without any warning he brandished a shining revolver from a
white silk cloth cover. The Court took a collective intake of breath. The
priest bit hard on his sweet, almost choking himself. There came another hiccup
from Rufus’ direction.

‘Less of your amateur dramatics, Mr Maguire,’ ordered the
Coroner, looking at his pocket-watch. ‘What do you have to tell me about that
gun? Something useful, I hope.’

‘Yes, your Honour. I do.’ The Forensics Officer beamed.

‘This is the actual gun recovered from the scene of crime
last night, it was in Lucy Gibson’s hand when she was found. It’s a standard
issue Webley Mark IV revolver, a 1915 model; a beauty, in fact. They were
issued to nearly all officers who served in the Great War. In fact, the British
government kept careful records of
who
the exact guns were issued to.
Each has a special serial number.’

‘And?’ demanded the Coroner, eyebrows raised.

‘I traced the number. This particular revolver was issued to
Lord Rufus Cardigeon before he left for the French Front in August 1915.’

The Court took another sharp intake of breath and all eyes
swivelled around to face Rufus, who had turned red and was shrinking down
against the bench. Posie felt herself growing hot in the face with anger.

Why on earth hadn’t he told her?
And suddenly, with a
horrible stinging sensation she realised he may have been trying to, yesterday
in her office, but he had been overtaken by shame or sheer uselessness under
the scrutiny of his formidable father, unable to admit to yet another failure.

So: Lucy had stolen Rufus’ gun as well as his diamond and
his heart, it seemed.

‘
SEE
?’ shouted Inspector Oats, jumping up again. ‘I
told
you he was in on it! Up to his soft-coddled neck in it!’ Inspector Lovelace
pulled him down.

Rufus stood up. He looked terrible. ‘She stole it from me, I
swear. I only discovered it missing yesterday morning. Honestly, by jove, I had
no idea she had taken it.’

‘Silence,’ ordered the Coroner, almost growling. ‘It is not
the job of this Court to apportion blame or convict suspects. It is merely to
confirm the details of the death, and gather the facts. Continue, Mr Maguire, I
take it you are not finished?’

The policemen sitting next to Rufus looked around
uncertainly, unsure if they should handcuff him again. They made do with moving
in very tightly against Rufus, to make sure he couldn’t go anywhere if he tried
anything rash.

‘Yes, there is more. By matching up the bullets found at the
scene of the, er,
connected
murder of Lionel Le Merle at the Ritz Hotel
on Monday, I can confirm that this Webley was the gun used to shoot Mr Le
Merle.’

Inspector Oats was nodding savagely, sending dark looks
across the room at Rufus.

‘However,’ the Forensics Officer continued, ‘that is a mere
detail, a red herring. I can also confirm that while the murderer placed this
Webley in Lucy Gibson’s hand, perhaps to frame Lord Cardigeon, or simply to
make it look like a suicide,
it was not this gun she was shot with after
death
.’

All eyes were on Mr Maguire.

‘The post-death bullet-wound on her right temple was made by
an altogether different gun. Unusual. I’d say the killer messed up by using it,
as it’s so rare. I’ve never handled one before. It was a US Browning revolver,
the 9mm Model.’

‘American, you say?’

‘Yes, your Honour. Although it was made specially for the
Belgian army. It’s a smart little gun. It was issued to Belgian officers in the
trenches. I should mention that while we don’t have the actual gun, special
bullets from this Belgian gun were also found in one of the corridors at the
La
Luna
club last night, and bullet-holes in the metal walls are entirely
consistent with its being freshly fired. So the same gun used to shoot Lucy
Gibson in the head was being brandished around the club again late last night.
I’d say your killer was in that club last night.’

Len whistled next to Posie. ‘Coo-ee! That means it might
have been your Count Caspian who killed Lucy, don’t you think? We practically
saw him waving a gun around the corridor before he made his escape last night!’

The Coroner was nearly at the end of his green paper. ‘But
without the actual gun, can you trace the bullets to find the owner of the gun,
Maguire?’

Maguire shrugged. ‘I’m trying, your Honour. I’ve put
telegrams through to Brussels and Antwerp, where the army records were kept at
the main recruiting stations. I expect it will be a mare’s nest, though. Not
everybody has kept their guns or bullets from the Great War. In fact, not many
have. It’s not really safe to keep guns on civvy street. Leads to accidents.
Deaths.’

All eyes were again on Rufus, as if judging him for his
sheer stupidity. But Posie was scowling intently at Len who was sitting calmly
at her right-hand side, pointedly avoiding her gaze and looking straight ahead.

‘One last thing. Have you determined if the victim was
killed in the same place as she was found?’

The Forensics Officer shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to
say one way or the other. Sorry not to help more, your Honour.’

‘Thank you, Mr Maguire. That was most useful.’

Pulling together his papers, and putting his sheet of green
paper on top, the Coroner pursed his lips together and rapped his gavel on the
desk.

‘I will now conclude. Lucy Gibson’s death was murder or
manslaughter by person or persons unknown, at a place unknown. Cause of death
was cyanide poisoning, followed by a post-mortem shot to the head using a
Belgian-issued revolver. Time of death was the afternoon of Monday 14th
February. Now, I will just sign off. I say! Hang on a minute…’

The Coroner rustled through his papers, and then again, more
urgently this time. He called over to the Court Official and whispered at him
insistently. The Court Official shook his head dismally.

‘Gentlemen, we have a problem.’ The Coroner turned to the
Scotland Yard Inspectors.

‘It seems that the lady whose death we have been
investigating here today has absolutely
no
official records whatsoever,
save for some old payslips you have provided me with which are no use to me at
all, and the death certificate which I am supposed to sign. Have you no proper
official information about her? I thought she was famous?’