Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (10 page)

‘It sounds like a scene from an E. Phillips Oppenheim novel,’ Auguste observed. ‘Egbert, does His Majesty know of your suspicions that the cross is still here?’

Rose fixed him with an eagle look. ‘He does. I couldn’t leave it till the
Lisboa
docks, could I, and then say, Oh yes, I forgot to tell you I found a corpse and deduced the cross might not be aboard after all.’

‘Was he – er – put out?’

‘He was.’

‘Oh.’ Auguste rapidly considered his own position, as cousin by marriage to His Majesty. A remote cousin, but not so remote that the royal eye was not carefully upon him.

Egbert grinned evilly.

Nettie Turner, in flowing tea-gown, sailed crossly into the drawing-room of her Islington home, summoned from her afternoon sleep by her housekeeper. She stopped short, far from pleased at the identity of the visitor awaiting her. ‘What are you doing here, Harry?’

‘Just visiting, Mrs Pickles. Looking round, as you might say. Nice place.’ Harry Pickles did not bother to get up to greet his wife, remaining sprawled on the Chesterfield.

‘Mrs Pickles!’ she snorted. ‘How did I land up with a name like that?’

‘Very willingly, if I recall, darling.’ He carefully lit the light in his eye in the old attractive way. It failed to attract her now. ‘Heavy night last night, eh?’

‘Play the fool on stage, Harry, not here.’

‘It used to be me played your lead, not Will.’

‘I was the fool then. No fool like an old fool, Harry, and you took the last laugh in the form of a hefty allowance.
To keep away.’

‘Most generous of you, darling. Mind you, I could do with more.’

‘Push off.’

He came close to her, but she stood her ground.

‘Why should I? Your chum Will ruined my life.’

‘Some days Brodie did, some days Will did. You ruined your own life, Harry, by being too bone-idle to create one.’

‘Poor old cuckolded husband. There’d be lots of sympathy for me, if I divorce you.’

‘You’re crazy.’ There was a note of uncertainty in her voice though.

He caught it. ‘Am I? Perhaps I don’t want a divorce, eh? You’re a fine woman still.’ He ran his hand over her chiffon-covered bottom. She removed it. He caught both her hands savagely, bearing her down on the sofa.

‘Get off me, Harry,’ she said evenly.

He laughed in triumph. ‘I’m your loving husband, Nettie. You can’t stop me.’

‘Loving?’ She laughed in his face. ‘You’ve got as much idea of love as a motorcar piston. In out, in out. Snore.’

His face darkened, strengthening his grip till it bruised her. ‘Will Lamb’s better, is he?’

‘Will?’ She didn’t give an inch. ‘Than a Sabbath to the devil.’

‘The devil still has the best tunes, Nettie,’ he leered. ‘See how you like singing to this one.’

He yanked up her skirts, pinioning her arms with them, forcing her head into the corner of the sofa, lying sprawled across her. She wasn’t going to shout for help, show fear, have the maids rushing in to rescue her. Not Nettie Turner, darling of the masses. So she endured it,
the touch of him on her, in her, the smell of drink-sodden breath stifling her. When it was over and he relaxed his hold, she sent him sprawling on to the floor with one kick, pulled on her clothes again and fought for calmness.

‘No more money, Harry. Not a penny. Blackmail me all you like.’ But for all her brave words, her fears about the coming week doubled.

Egbert Rose opened the door of Wapping’s Seamen’s Rest pub. Behind the bar publican (and fence) James Higgins did not pause in his rapt contemplation of the beer glass he was studying at close quarters, as though cleanliness were his greatest preoccupation in life.

‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asked politely. Already his clientele, hardly fooled by Rose’s clothes, began quietly to edge away. Fortunately Higgins was respected by both sides – up to a point.

‘A silver—’

‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir,’ Higgins cut smoothly across. ‘Muriel,’ he yelled stridently. ‘Egbert wants a few words with us.’

‘What have you been doing, love?’ he asked loudly. Muriel, in battered blouse and black skirt, came sedately up the stairs from the cellar, and led the way to their private sanctum without a word.

‘Handled any old relics recently, Higgins?’

‘Only Muriel, sir,’ was the jovial reply.

Muriel tittered. ‘What had you in mind, Mr Rose?’

‘A silver cross with ivory figure surrounded by precious stones, mainly garnets.’

‘That does sound pretty,’ Muriel observed. ‘I don’t
recall anyone wearing anything like that, do you, James? Mrs Fry, her from Number Eight, was wearing a nice one last week, mind you.’

‘Ever heard of Miguel Gomez?’

‘He’s a juggler on the halls,’ Muriel informed him, as if anxious to be of help.

‘Ever met him?’

‘Nah.’ Higgins pulled his Newgate whiskers thoughtfully. ‘Nor heard a whisper, if you takes my meaning.’

‘I do, Higgins, I do. I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘Worth our while doing what?’ Higgins appeared puzzled.

‘Ah well, must have come to the wrong place,’ Rose said loudly, as Higgins rose to open the door.

‘Where may I reach you, sir?’

‘The Old King Cole.’

Higgins guffawed. ‘Oh dearie me. How are the mighty risen.’

‘Come to the kitchen and complete your merriment.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

‘You’re here early, Will.’ Mariella posed on the threshold of the small dressing-room. She had insisted to Miguel that they should be here before the performance started this evening. She needed to be ready.

‘Nettie isn’t very well. She’s coming later. I came on my own,’ Will told Mariella proudly, jumping up eagerly to greet her.

‘Oh.’ Mariella brushed this insignificant statement aside, as well as the lock of red hair that had conveniently fallen from its perch on her head. How he
loved her hair, its softness, the way it gleamed. She was like the loveliest fairy on the Christmas tree. ‘I’ve brought it, Will,’ she breathed huskily, closing the door behind her, and coming close to him. Attar of roses filled his nostrils and happiness his entire body. She pushed the package into his hands.

‘It’s only a few days now, and then—’

‘I know. We’ll go over the hills and far away.’ He put his arms round her adoringly, and she pushed her body, already costumed in its slight attire (apart from the mermaid’s tail) against him to afford him the infinite pleasure of her whole shapely figure – though she doubted if he appreciated it.

‘I’m so happy, Will,’ she told him softly. ‘Very, very happy. You’ll look after me, won’t you?’

‘I will, Mariella. Words are funny, aren’t they? I will . . . that’s my name. I will.’ He said it over to himself several times, lost in his other world.

‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, darling.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘That’s another joke. You’ve always been so generous to me. You haven’t changed your mind, have you? It’s been a long time, and we haven’t seen each other as often as I would have liked. I dared not. I
couldn’t.
Miguel’s so jealous. But now I’ve had enough of him. He wants to take all Auntie’s jewellery away from me.’

‘Nothing’s changed, Mariella.’

‘You won’t tell Miguel what we’re planning, will you? Or about the jewellery?’

She handed him the packet. ‘You’ll tell no one?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Where will you put it?’

Will looked bewildered. ‘Home?’ he offered eventually.

‘No. Keep it here in this dressing-room. It’s only for a few days.’ Will nodded eagerly, anxious to please. ‘How about in this props basket?’ She threw open the top and lodged it between an assortment of old hats, cases and boxes. ‘I made a mistake in choosing Miguel,’ she sighed. ‘You’re so clever, Will.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed humbly.

She put her arms round him and hugged him. It was like hugging a child, she thought, disengaging herself, until he grabbed her again and this time put his lips to hers. There was nothing of the child in that greedy painful kiss. She hastily pulled herself away and wagged her finger at him. ‘Naughty. Not till Saturday, Will.’

Little Emmeline, listening avidly at the door, backed away hastily as Mariella put her hand on it, and danced off into the dressing-room to see how many fairies had arrived. She was in a very good mood and only slapped one of them. She was in such a good mood it entirely slipped her mind that she’d seen someone going into the main props room next door to Will Lamb’s dressing-room, whom she didn’t see reappear. It meant nothing to Emmeline, for she didn’t know there was a grille in the connecting wall, even better for eavesdropping than doors. And much more private.

Auguste, appalled to hear Will had arrived early, was relieved to find him beaming happily at himself in the small mirror, applying greasepaint to his eyebrows.

‘You’re early tonight, Mr Lamb.’ He tried to keep the scolding note out of his voice. After all, no harm was done.

‘Can we speak to you for a moment, Will?’ The Tumbling Twins, promoted to further down the bill at the Shadwell Grand, followed him in. It appeared unlikely that Violet and Marigold Pears were assassins, but nevertheless Auguste ignored all meaningful glances indicating privacy would be welcome.

‘Mr Didier, this is Miss Pears, Miss Marigold Pears and Miss Violet Pears. Mixed them together for Compote of Pears, that’s compost of pears in English. Two pears make one pair, you see.’ The patter, good or bad, seemed to pour out of Will Lamb automatically and unchecked. Perhaps, Auguste thought, it provided some kind of release – or even a refuge for him. What could he have on his mind that he needed to escape from? ‘Pray do sit down, Misses Pears,’ Will invited them.

They hesitated, as Auguste made it clear he had no intention of moving.

‘Marigold would like to talk to you, Will,’ Violet said sweetly, ‘and
I
shall talk to Mr Didier – outside.’ She took his arm as he looked questioningly at Will.

‘I shall like that,’ Will said haplessly, but he showed no signs of fear, so Auguste reluctantly acquiesced. Not that he had much choice without a physical wrangle, as Violet had him in something closely resembling the letter ‘X’ arrest demonstrated to him by Egbert.

‘Marigold has no evil designs on poor Will,’ Violet said gaily, as she led him out of the dressing-room. From the sounds on the far side of the shabby curtain, the audience was beginning to liven up in readiness for the evening, and on the stage a mysterious green light, that would do little to enhance complexions, seemed beyond the ability of the gasman to remove. The hit-and-miss
approach to staging and lighting was far from the ordered precision Auguste remembered at the Galaxy. Wapping was a long way from the Strand.

‘You’re the new cook, aren’t you?’ Violet smiled brightly.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re very handsome for a cook.’ She eyed him appreciatively, making him feel like a plump
poussin.

Marigold could charm this silly man in a moment, Violet was thinking eagerly, and marry him in two. These foreigners were all the same. She wondered how much cooks earned.

‘Thank you, Miss Violet,’ Auguste replied cautiously.

‘What were you doing in Will’s room if you’re a cook?’ Without waiting for an answer, the beautiful blue eyes narrowed, then flew wide open. ‘Aren’t you the cook who does the detective work?’ she cried indignantly.

‘I am.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Fear entered her voice, and she re-examined her early diagnosis. ‘I read about you in
The Lady.
You’re practically royal. And you’re
married
, she added indignantly. ‘Where is your wife?’

‘She is away.’

‘So you come here to philander. To prey upon us innocent women. Like all men.’

‘No, indeed,’ he replied, somewhat annoyed. ‘Someone has been threatening Mr Lamb, and I am here to protect him.’ No harm in telling her; it could only do good.

‘Threatening him? What with?’

‘Murder.’ She said nothing. Perhaps she had not understood. ‘I hope by my presence to prevent any harm coming to him,’ he added.

To his horror the blue eyes filled with tears, and she threw herself into his arms, clinging to him like a glaze to a piecrust. ‘It’s not me,’ she sobbed obscurely. ‘We just want to talk to him. Gentlemen like pink tights but they don’t want to marry them.’

‘There, there,
ma petite,’
he said soothingly, calming her, stroking her hair in a way that had never failed yet.

It appeared to be failing this time. ‘You don’t realise,’ she hiccuped.

‘What?’

‘We’re nearly
thirty.’

‘Well over,’ a female voice announced scornfully. Mariella, coming to check that nobody had absconded with her fish tank, rather than to appreciate her husband’s performance, had strolled towards them unnoticed. As Violet shrieked her indignation, she sized Auguste up. After all this was over, she wouldn’t mind helping herself to one of this new cook’s chops herself. An armful of Violet was but small beer compared with an armful of Mariella. Tapp’s in full spate out here. You’re on first. Pickles hasn’t shown up.’