Murder Offstage (6 page)

Her gut feeling told her the man was truly dangerous. She
must get away.

She was conscious of her hand still clasped in what now felt
like his iron grip, and of the dark eyes boring into her, demanding her full
attention.

‘Thank you, Mr della Rosa,’ she smiled gratefully, pulling
her hand away gently but firmly and pretending to adjust her headband a little,
patting the fake fur on her coat down. Casual movements.

‘I am afraid I am otherwise engaged this evening. This was
not my only stop tonight. I am meeting a
friend
in town.’ She put
special emphasis on the word ‘friend’. All the while thinking of Len, damn him.

The man smiled his wolfish grin again:

‘So, you are a very busy lady. I should have guessed as
much. Some other time? Could I perhaps have one of the business cards you gave
to your friend the fat Earl just now? So I can contact you?’

She shook her head. ‘I am afraid that was my only one.’
Posie almost flushed at the lie. Her bag had a good few tucked inside a silk
inner pocket.

‘No matter. I will find you anyway,’ he said, shrugging a
half-smile. Posie breathed hard at the implied threat.

‘Good night, then, Miss Parker,’ and Caspian della Rosa
bowed low to her before disappearing fast through the same hidden door the Earl
had used earlier.

Posie stared after him, feeling relieved and shaken all at
the same time. Then she saw something shiny on the floor which had not been
there a minute before, something which must have fallen from a pocket in the
flurry that Caspian della Rosa had departed in. She was sure it was his. She
bent to pick it up, and saw a small black fold of matches. A crescent moon was
embossed in rich silver foil on the cover, with a distinctive ‘
LL
’
written underneath. It was a favour or a souvenir from some fancy nightclub
somewhere, she supposed.

Posie looked around for the aged Butler who had greeted her
on arrival, or for the club servant to hand the matches to, but both had
disappeared.

She headed over to the pigeon-holes behind the wooden
counter, stuffed full with notes and brown-paper parcels. She scoured the many
names of the club members. But Caspian della Rosa, even allowing for other
variations of that name, was not listed there. Instead, and suddenly feeling
very tired, she dropped the matches into the big pocket of her fake fur coat.

****

With no money left for a taxi, and the thought of her
possible stalker still lurking around outside, Posie did the only thing she
could – she wrapped herself up against the chill and ran for it. She ran back
to the bright electric lights of Piccadilly Circus as fast as her high-heeled
shoes could carry her, and jumped on the back of a Number Ten bus which
happened to be passing. She sat close to the driver the whole way home,
scanning the other passengers continually for anyone who might be being paid to
follow her, or showing a modicum too much interest.

‘You all right, love? You seem awful jumpy,’ said the
conductor in his friendly cockney voice when he punched her travel coupon. She
nodded a smile at him but continued to be on her guard.

She got off at South Kensington and walked the two minutes
to the house she lodged at in Nightingale Mews.

It was only when she was inside and had bolted the door
behind her that she found she could breathe easily again. The sound of her
landlady, Mrs Rapier, singing along loudly with her radio programme, normally
so annoying, and the smell of fried fish wafting up from underneath the tiny
kitchen door downstairs were strangely comforting in that very moment.

Just before getting into bed, Posie checked the street
outside, peering through her thin blue-and-white checked curtains nervously, as
if expecting to see a shadowy stranger lurking for her under the street lamp
directly opposite.

But all she could see was thick snow coming down, and yet
more snow.

****

Tuesday 15th February, 1921

Five

The bail hearing early the next morning in the small
Court at Scotland Yard was a subdued, dismal affair, with Rufus looking so
wretched in his handcuffs and greasy dinner suit that the Tenth Earl seemed
almost eager to stump up the five thousand pounds required for his release.

Posie sat at the back, in the small empty public gallery,
and watched both father and son leave through a door on the left when it was
all over. She had no wish to intrude on their privacy, and she was just getting
ready to leave when she realised that Inspector Oats was standing in front of
her, clutching a piece of paper. She recognised his black ‘OATS – CONFIDENTIAL’
file from the night before. It had looked less sinister then.

He cleared his throat pompously:

‘It seems I have
you
to thank for the name of the
murder victim at the Ritz,’ he said in what sounded less like a thank you and
more like an accusation. He shook the note at her:

‘And Lovelace says that you’ve found out that Lucky Lucy was
working in a theatre here for the past year?’

‘Yes,’ said Posie demurely, ‘at the Athenaeum Theatre. So
was Mr Le Merle, the victim. But Lucky Lucy left a few weeks ago. You might
want to investigate the theatre itself – it seems a strange place. The Theatre
Manager, Mr Blake, is definitely a shady character: he knows more than he was
willing to tell me, anyway.’

The Inspector snorted, placing the note into his file with a
brisk snap.

‘Listen to me, girlie. If I was to spend my days chasing
after every shady character and every strange place in London I’d never get any
real police work done. Now, you take it from me: there’s no need to investigate
the theatre. That particular bird has flown the coop, no point spending
valuable time gallumphing around in an empty nest. I’ll put my men on other
active leads…we’ll see if we can dig Lucky Lucy out. Like a fox from a hole.’

Posie was on the cusp of asking
what
other leads he
might possibly have, having only just found out the identity of the victim, but
she buttoned her lip. The Inspector wagged his finger at her.

‘Lovelace seems to think you’re quite the bees’ knees. But
don’t go getting ideas about fooling around in
my
investigation. I
always hate Private Dicks, but I’ve never yet met a female one, thank goodness.
Take my advice, and stay away.’

Inspector Oats made to leave.

‘But what about the Maharajah diamond?’ Posie asked. ‘Can’t
you look for that at the same time as Lucky Lucy, at least?’

The Inspector looked like he was chewing a wasp. Then he
spoke to Posie slowly, as if she were a particularly dim-witted child:

‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about
that
.
Your pal has gone off with his father to file a missing item report. Once the
paperwork goes through I’ll add it to my list of things to do; maybe I’ll
notify my contacts in Hatton Garden where the diamond dealers hang out. But to
tell you the truth I’m not going to get myself in a spin over it, and if I was
you I wouldn’t go getting your hopes up. It’s probably left the country by now,
on its way to be cut up into a million little pieces and resold in Antwerp or
New York.’

The Inspector put on his homburg hat, that regulation
Scotland Yard staple. He looked at Posie smugly.

‘The beauty of a diamond is in its transportability, like
drugs. Not as cumbersome as gold. Now, I can’t be standing here all day,
talking to you. Good-day to you, Miss Parker, and remember what I’ve told you.’

As she watched his trench-coated back retreating further
down the grim Court room, Posie was struck by something the Inspector had said
to her, but she couldn’t think what exactly. It was as if the Inspector had
given her a clue, ripe for the picking, but it was obscured by a particularly
heavy cloud.

She sighed, hoping the fog would clear.

****

Lyons Cornerhouse on the Strand was very busy. It was
coffee-time and every table was taken, the smart but harassed waitresses
bustling around the hungry customers, serving all manner of cakes and
cream-topped fancies.

Posie located Dolly straight away. She was sitting over by
the window, watching the world go by. She was eating her way steadily through
her own purple tin of Peek Frean’s Marie biscuits, defying Lyons’ rules about
not bringing in food from outside. They greeted each other warmly and Posie sat
down and ordered tea for two and a plate of iced Chelsea buns.

‘My treat,’ she declared and tactfully moved the Marie biscuits
onto the window ledge, out of direct view. In the harsh light of day and out of
the dank theatre cellar Dolly looked even more extraordinary than ever; her
pale elfin face and bleached cropped hair made her look somehow other-worldly,
vulnerable. The silver greasepaint and black clothes of yesterday were gone,
and instead she was wearing crimson lipstick and a matching red-and-white
polka-dot smock. She looked like a little rag-doll.

‘Gasper?’ she asked companionably, offering Posie a black
cigarette from a very scratched silver case. Posie shook her head, and attacked
her sticky cake instead.

In a few concise sentences she told Dolly what she was up to
and why she had needed her help the day before. She even told Dolly about the
murder of Lionel Le Merle, and the fact that Georgie the chorus girl was in
fact a famous criminal known as Lucky Lucy.

Dolly looked at her, open-mouthed, cigarette unheeded, a
mountain of ash steadily piling up on her plate.

Posie gave her one of her business cards, and unlike the
Earl, Dolly looked very impressed. She studied it properly before tucking it
carefully into her own red handbag.

‘Is that what you always wanted to do, then?’ she asked, in
slight awe. ‘Become a Detective? Is that what kept you goin’, during the war?
Was it your dream? Did you think to yourself in all the carnage – after all of
this
,
I’ll run my own Detective Agency?’

‘No. Not really.’ Posie laughed. She had never really
considered it from that point of view before. ‘I just always liked solving puzzles.
I was left a small amount of money when my father died, and I thought, why not?
I had no-one in the world and no place in the world. So I thought, let’s try
London. What about you? Did you always want to be a Wardrobe Mistress in a
theatre?’

Dolly hooted with such a high shriek of laughter that
virtually the whole café turned around.

‘Jeepers, no. Not on your nelly,’ she said, shaking her head
and blowing a well-aimed smoke ring ceilingwards.

‘I always wanted to be a nurse. Trained up for it too, but I
couldn’t get a job for love nor money before the war. The only reason they took
me on in the Field Hospital in Flanders was because they were desperate; not
many would put up with the sights and smells and sounds we had to in the
trenches. And I spoke French too, my mum was French, from Paris, and it came in
handy. I’m proud of what I did there. And I’m equally as proud of what I did
before
the Great War, too.’ Dolly sounded defiant, as if challenging Posie on
something.

‘Sorry?’ Posie was bemused. ‘
What
did you do before
the war?’

‘I was a suffragette. Chained myself up with the best of
them. I was in jail for more than six months. That’s why no self-respecting
hospital in London would have me; no doctor either. You can’t get far with a
criminal conviction on your CV.’

Posie nodded sympathetically. She had not joined the Women’s
Movement herself, but she had admired them from afar.

‘After the Great War I came back to London to find myself in
exactly the same situation as before: no job, no money, no family, same
stinking bed-sit and the blight that will never go away; the spell in jail as a
women’s rights activist. They were dark days for me, I’m tellin’ you.’

‘But you got the job at the Athenaeum Theatre anyway?’

Dolly chortled.

‘That was a rum thing!’ She took a drag on a newly lit
cigarette.

‘About a year ago everythin’ changed at the theatre: a new
owner, a whole new cast and show. Mr Blake too, he was new; came with his
cousin Reggie, the programme-seller. He needed a Wardrobe Mistress quickly and
he wasn’t asking any questions. He was willin’ to pay more than I could have
hoped for, and after two years without a job it seemed like a god-send. I don’t
think he even looked at my CV once! No-one had a clue whether or not I could
actually sew, even myself…but I convinced myself I was so good at stitchin’ men
and bandages together that a few sequins and feathers couldn’t be too hard!’

Posie laughed. She felt brighter than before, cheered by
Dolly’s optimism. She waved at a passing waitress for the bill.

‘You’ll let me know if you hear anything, or
see
anything of Lucky Lucy, won’t you? Or if you remember anything you think may be
helpful. Even about Mr Blake; I’m sure he’s hiding something. The police are
worse than useless, they won’t be questioning anyone at the theatre, so I’m on
my own here. My friend Rufus is very badly in need of help.’

Dolly nodded, packing her things together. Posie noticed she
handled her cigarette case very carefully.

‘It was my young man’s,’ she whispered, following Posie’s
gaze. ‘It was his “lucky” case. He was an old romantic: said it would protect
him from stray bullets if he wore it by his heart, poor blighter. It couldn’t
protect him from drowning in a flooded trench, though, could it? I keep it out
of fondness.’ Dolly tucked it away, smiling sadly.

‘You got a fella?’

Posie shook her head. It was all too much to explain.

She took the borrowed fake fur coat from a brown paper
carrier bag and checked its pockets before handing it over to Dolly for
returning to the theatre wardrobe. Posie pulled out a few hair-grips, her
travel coupon and the strange packet of matches from the night before.

As the morning light caught the silver moon on the packet
Posie had a vivid flashback of Caspian della Rosa from the night before, and
she thought the nocturnal image was somehow appropriate for him: in her mind’s
eye he had become the stuff of nightmares, vampire-ish, deadly.

‘Jeepers!’ Dolly shrieked suddenly, grabbing the matches.
Fear flooded her huge eyes. ‘Do you know where this comes from?’

Posie shook her head, laughing. ‘No idea. A nightclub? For
bright young things? Somewhere fashionable, I’m guessing?’

Dolly spoke in hushed tones, entirely serious.

‘Don’t joke. It’s a members club, it’s called
La Luna
.
I don’t know much about it, but Lucky Lucy was definitely a member. She was
proud of it too. I heard her talking about it once, indiscreetly, when she
didn’t know I could hear her. Only a select few know the exact location of the
place. And it rarely opens, so it’s not your regular club. Some of the
orchestra members go, too. After a performance I’ve seen them bundle off in a
taxi, secret-like. Very cloak-and-dagger.’

‘But what do they
do
at this club?’ asked Posie
nervously, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

‘No idea.’ Dolly shook her head. ‘Truly, I have no idea.
Drink, smoke, take drugs, dance? Who knows? Whatever the case, I’m sure it
spells trouble. Where did you get these from, anyway?’

Posie had told her everything so far. No point missing out
key facts now.

‘I picked them up off the floor when someone dropped them
accidentally last night. The man who dropped them was called Caspian della
Rosa.’

Dolly emitted a small high-pitched squeak and covered her
mouth and nose with her hands, as if she had been physically struck.

‘What? What is it, Dolly? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!
Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘I’ll say,’ she whispered unexpectedly, looking terrified.

‘Jeepers. You mean
Count
Caspian della Rosa; the
richest, most dangerous man in London. He’s the owner of the Athenaeum Theatre.
Scares us all stiff whenever he appears. He’s a nasty piece of work, although
harmless and likeable enough on the surface. Don’t say he’s mixed up in this
somehow?’

Posie screwed up her nose, biting at her lip. ‘It’s
beginning to look like it,’ she said softly.

‘Oh, lovey!’ Dolly said, clutching at Posie’s hand.

‘Be careful. And you should know somethin’ else. You said
these matches were dropped accidentally. Well, as sure as bread is bread I can
tell you that the Count is not a man to do
anythin
’ accidentally. These
matches were dropped on purpose. To lure you in. It’s a trap, Posie. And it’s
got your name written all over it.’

****