Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Of course, Verity and I didn’t get a chance to talk at all the next morning. Dorothy was off for a luncheon date with some of her girl chums and Verity had to go with her. We barely had time to give each other a nod before she was out the front door, and I had no idea when she’d be back.

Things had been so fraught and busy I’d almost forgotten about my conversation with Ethel, the girl at the rooming house of Guido Bonsignore. That was something I
had
to tell Inspector Marks. But how on Earth was I supposed to go and see him when my next afternoon off wasn’t for three days? I’d taxed Mrs Watling’s patience to the limit with our impromptu trip to see Tommy, the week before, and there was no possible way for me to get to Scotland Yard without seriously endangering my position.

It made me snappy and irritable. Poor Doris got the rough end of my tongue more than once, and I could sense Mrs Watling giving me nervous, sideways looks as we prepared luncheon for the servants. As was usual, I made an effort to bite down on my bad temper, but even so, I had to walk into the larder a few times to bury my face in a teatowel and scream out my anger and frustration in a choked-off sort of way.

After lunch, I grew calmer. I’d been thinking about what I had to do and once I’d decided, it made all my histrionics and bad temper seem rather foolish. Before I could prevaricate, I found Inspector Marks’ card, walked to Mr Fenwick’s telephone, and calmly dialled the number.

There was a bit of a kerfuffle before I actually managed to get through to the inspector himself, and by then, my temporary confidence had deserted me. When his familiar voice spoke down the line, I had to stop myself from stammering and stuttering in relief.

“It’s Joan – Joan Hart. Inspector. Sorry.”

“Miss Hart. How are you?”

I stuttered out something about being fine. “I – I—“

The inspector’s voice was warm and kind and I felt myself begin to relax as he spoke. “Do you have something to tell me?”

“Yes. Yes,  I do, but I’m afraid I can’t get out – I mean, I don’t have any more time off so I can’t come and see you—“

I was becoming incoherent again. Thankfully, I heard him say, “That’s quite all right, Miss Hart. I know what’s it’s like for you working girls. I’ll come to you. Are you free this evening?”

“No,” I said in confusion. “Not really. I mean I have to—“

“I’m sorry, I meant, will you get into trouble if I call around to see you this evening? About nine o’clock?”

“Oh.” I could feel the heat in my cheeks. “No, that would be fine. I’ll tell Mrs Watling I’m expecting you.” That made me blush even harder.

“Very well. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

“Goodbye,” I said, scarcely able to talk, and put the telephone receiver back in its cradle. I walked back to the kitchen as if I were in a dream.

Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon. Dorothy only wanted a simple supper that evening, which helped. Pea and ham soup, which was nice and easy, lamb chops with accompaniments and a simple fruit flan for dessert. Mrs Watling and I made a stew for the servants and there was enough of the soup for us all to have a bowl of that as well.

Although it had been a fairly calm afternoon, there was still enough to do to keep me from thinking about what Verity and I had discussed last night. In the cold reality of day, it seemed even more fantastical. Surely I, a lowly servant girl, wouldn’t be able to write a play? Much less have it performed by real actors? I helped Doris clear the dinner table and carried the dirty plates into the scullery for her to wash, working mechanically, not really thinking of the task in hand. Could I do it? Where would I start? What would I write about? And when on Earth was I ever going to get the
time
?

By the evening, I was mentally exhausted from the thoughts fireworking around and around in my head – not to mention my growing anxiety about my upcoming meeting with Inspector Marks. I told myself that I really did have something important to tell him, and I wasn’t making the poor man come all the way across town on a wild goose chase. By the time it got to half an hour before he was expected, I realised I hadn’t even mentioned that he was arriving to Mrs Watling.

“Oh – um, Mrs Watling? Inspector Marks will be popping in this evening, about nine. He wants to talk to us.”  I had no idea why I’d just said ‘us’ instead of me. Perhaps because it sounded a little less embarrassing.

“Inspector Marks? What on Earth does he want to talk to us about?” Mrs Watling, who’d been sitting dozing off in her armchair by the range, snapped awake again. When I saw how much of a panic she was in, I felt bad that I hadn’t mentioned it before. I should have broken the news a little more gently.

“Please don’t worry. I think it’s me he wants to talk to anyway. It’s probably to do with the theatre case.”

Mrs Watling had a fluttering hand to her chest, as if to calm her racing heartbeat. “I’m sure I don’t know why the police have to keep bothering us. You’d hope that would all be finished with at long last, now his Lordship’s case is over.” Her hand stilled a little and she gave me a sideways glance that was at once suspicious and curious. “Hold on a minute, Joan. The Inspector’s coming to see
you
?”

Something in the way she said it made me shuffle my feet. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“Is he married?”

I knew exactly what she was trying to imply and tried to laugh it off, ignoring the rising heat in my face which I knew she would have seen. “He just needs to talk to me about the case, that’s all. Nothing more.”

“That’s not what I asked. Is he married?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But—“

“It’s just that you’re so young, Joan. Don’t have your head turned by a man, even if he is a police inspector. You’ve no female relatives, and I feel it’s my duty to keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t find yourself in any trouble.”

The unworthy thought popped into my head that Mrs Watling just didn’t want to lose her hard worker to marriage. Not that I had any expectations in the direction at all, but… I tried to smile and look unbothered and I said, as firmly as I could, “Mrs Watling, I’m sure the inspector is here purely and simply in a professional capacity, that’s all.”

As if on cue, I heard the doorbell upstairs go, and despite my efforts to remain calm and unflustered, I jumped a little, saw to my annoyance that Mrs Watling had noticed and turned sharply away to refill the kettle, mostly to have something to do with my hands.

I could hear Mr Fenwick’s footsteps overhead and then a double set of footprints approaching the door to the basement at the end of the hallway.

“I’ll be in my parlour,” Mrs Watling said, heaving herself to her feet as the footsteps approached closer. “With the door open,” she added in a dark tone.

As soon as I set eyes on Inspector Marks, my nervousness vanished. Partly it was the kind smile that I received, partly it was something inside me that just settled, as if I’d been rushing around in circles for hours and then all of a sudden, a peace and calm descended. I did have one moment of hesitation, where I wasn’t sure whether to shake hands or not, and covered my confusion with reaching for the full teapot.

“Now, Joan,” said the inspector. “I’ve only got a bare half hour, I’m afraid.”

“That’s quite understandable, sir. I’m very grateful that you’ve come here to save me a journey. Very grateful indeed.” I handed him a steaming cup of tea, hesitated, and then added, “I’m sure you must be wanting to get back to your family.”

The inspector smiled rather sadly. “I’m afraid I don’t have one, Joan. Not one of my own. My wife died several years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so very sorry, sir. That must have been terribly hard for you.”

“It was.” He sipped his tea briefly and I got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I sat down myself opposite him and picked up my own teacup. Then, because I just couldn’t leave it at that, I said impulsively, “I know what it’s like to be all alone in the world, sir. I grew up in an orphanage.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Our eyes met through the rising steam from the cups and I felt again that flash of warmth as we silently understood one another.

“Besides,” I added, in the interest of fairness. “I’ve got my good friend Verity, Miss Hunter. So I’m not all alone, exactly.”

“A good friend is a valuable thing,” agreed Inspector Marks. Then I could see him setting sentiment aside. “Now, Miss Hart – Joan? What did you have to tell me?”

I didn’t prevaricate but came straight to the point. I wanted to match his professionalism and his no-nonsense air of getting things done.

“There’s a girl called Ethel who works at the rooming house where Guido Bonsignore lived. I spoke to her a few days ago, and she told me she’d seen a woman visit Guido a week or so before he died.” I went on to recount, as meticulously as possible, Ethel’s and my conversation. I wavered for a moment as to whether to confess I’d pretended to be a journalist but I was pretty sure that wasn’t a criminal offence and – I’ll be honest – I wanted to impress Inspector Marks, so I was honest about it. He said nothing but I saw him smile.

“Well, I must say you have quite a knack at finding new witnesses, Joan,” was all that he said once he’d scribbled down everything that I’d said in his little notebook. “I’m not sure how my men missed her on our first investigations at the house.”

“Well, sir, she said she wouldn’t talk to the police. And she’s a servant. We’re pretty much invisible to everybody,” I added, with a touch of bitterness.

“Well, thank you, Joan. I think I might be able to persuade Miss Ethel to talk to us after all. Is there anything else?”

“Actually, I have a question for you, if that’s not too impertinent, sir?”

He looked at me curiously. “What is it, Joan?”

I took a deep breath. “Sir, I’m sure I remember you telling me before that you thought Guido Bonsignore was actually a false name.”

“Yes, that’s right. It was.”

I hesitated again. It wasn’t really any of my business, was it? But I really wanted to know… “Do you – do you know what his real name was?”

The inspector regarded me for a  moment, rubbing one finger across his black moustache. For a second, I thought he was going to say just that, that it wasn’t any of my business and then he nodded. “His real name was Gideon Bonnacker.”

I mouthed the words silently and then said them aloud. “’Gideon Bonnacker.” For a moment I felt a little jab of disappointment. Had I expected that the second I heard the real name of the murder victim, that I’d be able to solve the case there and then? The name meant nothing to me. Literally nothing.

The inspector was still watching me. He leaned forward a little. “He was travelling on a false passport. You’d be surprised how easy they are to get hold of, particularly after the war. There was all sorts of black market trade in different identification papers from people killed in the conflict. There still is.”

“Yes, I see.” I turned my teacup around in my hands, thinking. “Why would he come back under a false name? Was there an arrest warrant out for him, under his real name, I mean?”

The inspector looked pleased. “Now you’re thinking like a detective, Joan. It’s a good question, but as a matter of fact, there wasn’t. He’d grown up in England, fought and survived the war, went back out to Europe about twelve years ago, and he’s lived in Italy ever since. Had lived, I should say.”

“So he led a blameless life, sir?”

The inspector’s smile dimmed. “I’m not so sure about that, Joan. People who truly do lead blameless lives don’t tend to find themselves stabbed to death in theatres. But yes, so far as we can ascertain, there’s nothing particularly striking in Gideon Bonnacker’s life, unlike his death. He left his last place of employment in Italy under something of a cloud, it seems, but there were no criminal charges brought. He was sailing pretty close to the wind financially, although his bank account does show some reasonably large cash sums deposited over the last few months. The landlady of his rooming house told my men that there was a pretty regular Friday night poker game that took place there, so it might be that he won it over the cards.”

“I see, “ I said again. Then, thinking of something else, added, “He was a bit of a gambler, then?”

“So it seems. I’ve had positive identification of him at several of the race tracks. Rather bizarrely, it seemed he was also a regular at the local Catholic Church.”

I nodded. Both of those were worlds I knew absolutely nothing about and again, I felt a surge of disappointment, almost of frustration, that I wasn’t being of any more help whatsoever. I did have one other question, though and I hoped I wasn’t pushing my luck by asking the inspector.

“Sir, this might sound strange but did the doctors – did they manage to pinpoint the time of Guido, I mean, Gideon’s death more accurately? You said you were waiting for the post-mortem last time we spoke about it.”

The inspector stared at me, curiously. Then obviously deciding to humour me, he nodded and said “It seems likely that he was killed within the first half hour of the play. It’s not set in stone, but the doctors thought that they could narrow it down that far, at least.”