Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (24 page)

‘Then why,
mon ami
, did he not find it? And why, incidentally,’ Auguste added,
‘did
Will leave the bulk of his fortune to Mr Yapp?’

There were others anguishing over Will Lamb’s will. Once she had recovered from the shock of discovering she was not the major beneficiary, Mariella applied her mind to how she could break the news to Miguel that she was a beneficiary at all. It was a delicate situation. He might now well believe she had really planned to leave with Will after tonight’s performance. Miguel always was a fool. Both of them were, he and Will. She’d been taken in by Miguel’s dark looks and passionate eyes. She hadn’t known then about his meanness and stupid jealousy. Now was her chance of freedom, of taking her rightful place in Society – without her doggies, without ever singing on stage again. Of course she’d never have run away with Will, but equally she wasn’t going to stay with Miguel. She considered a moment. She would stay with him till she got the money through and then leave before he could get his hands on it. Unfortunately this prudent course of action meant being nice to him – temporarily.

By the time she reached home after an extended visit to Gamages, she needed to be very nice indeed. Miguel had already heard the news, since Egbert Rose had thoughtfully called in to tell him.

He faced her, trembling with righteous rage, arms
akimbo. ‘You were making a fool of me, Miguel Gomez. You were to leave me for Will, and for that he left you all his money.’

‘No, darling.’ Mariella adjusted her smile and came close to him in order that he could smell her new attar of roses. ‘Of course not.’

He flung her dramatically away. ‘After all we had planned for ourselves.
I
was to make you rich,’ he shouted. ‘You did not
tell
me about the will.’

‘I didn’t know about it,’ she wailed from the carpet which she had hit with an alarming degree of force. ‘It was a complete surprise.’

‘I don’t believe you. You
were
going to run away with Will.’

Mariella was beginning to get very tired of those words. She wondered how many more denials would be needed before she could have the cup of tea she was longing for. She made a major effort to suppress irritation, as the quickest way to her objectives. ‘Just think of all we can do with this money. And there’ll be an income too from his books and songs and—’

‘Who knew?’ he demanded suddenly. ‘Who knew Will Lamb was leaving all this to you?’

She shrugged. ‘Will and I referred to it a few days ago in the Old King Cole. That awful child might have realised what we were talking about.’

‘Emmeline? Then everyone might have heard,’ he said thoughtfully, glad he hadn’t wasted money on a bust improver.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Will Lamb is dead, so of course it matters.’ He frowned, then laughed. ‘Me, I shall be your manager,’
he crowed. ‘You think I am just your pimp, but now I shall
manage
you.’

‘For my money, yes, not lovers—’ she shouted crossly, tired of the same old merry-go-round of accusations.

‘So you
do
have lovers.’

This had not been a good idea, Mariella belatedly realised. She had gone astray and every sacrifice had to be made, even if it came before cups of tea. ‘Only you, my beloved.’ She threw off her cape, ripped off her blouse (Mrs Whatever-her-name-was could sew the buttons on again, she didn’t charge much), tore off her skirt, petticoats, and posed invitingly in stays and drawers, then her hands went to the
bebe
blue ribbon that supported the latter, pushed them down, stepped neatly out of them, and seeing she had gained his attention, slowly undid the corset and daintily lifted the long chemise.

Now she had his
full
attention. He was hardly able to blurt out, ‘Where’s your mermaid’s tail, Mariella?’ and join in her merry laughter before the cup of tea was inevitably postponed for at least ten minutes.

The day’s dramas had not ended for Mariella. Miguel, secure in the afterglow of possession, had for once left her alone in the theatre while he pursued some mission of his own. Mariella went out to the shed behind the Old King Cole where her little doggies were left during the performance. (Jamrach’s animal trainer who also had his turn in the second half insisted on it.) Conscientiously she counted the doggies as they dutifully hopped out of their baskets and crept into the somewhat larger baskets that were their temporary home. Tonight something else awaited them, or rather
their mistress, as Mariella opened the door and went into the dark shed. The doggies were delighted to find extra company but she was not, particularly since it took the large angry form of Fernando. He, too, had heard the news of her fortune.

‘He leave you all his money?’

‘Some of it. You are pleased for me, Fernando?’ Mariella tried to say brightly, but aware from the grip of his hand on her wrist that he was far from pleased.

‘You were going to run away with him.’

‘No.’ Exasperation seized her. ‘How many times do I have to say it?’

‘Everybody tell me. I do not believe them. They think me stupid. You too.’

‘Of course not. I’m very fond of you,’ she said wearily.

This was usually a guarantee of arousing Fernando’s ecstatic devotion, but not, she realised to her alarm, tonight. Even in the dark, his eyes held more savagery than devotion. She was uncomfortably aware of his angry face and his enormous strength.

‘You fond of your husband.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you fond of Will Lamb.’

‘Yes.’ Cautiously now.

‘And you very fond of me.’

‘Of course.’ She began to be frightened.

The doggies yapped delightedly, as he seized her in a bear hug with both arms, though not precisely where a bear would traditionally clutch. His intentions were made all too obvious by his tugging at the second blouse which was going to need the attentions of Mrs Whatever-her-name-was, and the large hand was
questing around her skirt in places no self-respecting bear would pick as his first mouthful. Fernando’s mouth, clumsily over hers, stopped any hope of her screaming for help.

Fortunately, Auguste, hearing a noise in the shed and suspecting Lizzie and Joe of yet more philandering when the eels remained uncollared, interrupted them, much to his own surprise. Mariella’s wildly flapping hands made him instantly realise that this was not another of her own seduction attempts.

‘That’s enough, Fernando,’ he said firmly and pleasantly.

Reluctantly Fernando disengaged, sank on to the floor and began to cry. Mariella threw herself into Auguste’s arms. While soothing her and helping her to straighten her clothes, Miguel arrived in search of his wife and misunderstood the situation. Taken by surprise from the rear, Auguste found himself yanked by the collar and sent spinning across the yard to collapse in a painful heap by the fence. He scrambled to his feet, and faced with a maniacal Portuguese outraged husband hastily reacted in his own defence. Mariella’s shriek of ‘It was Fernando, Miguel,’ bought a quick response, which unfortunately left Auguste’s punch without a home. He was precipitated off balance and into another heap on the ground.

‘Mariella, Fernando is dangerous,’ Miguel roared, administering a kick to the sobbing strong man. ‘Please remember that.
Especially
now. Remember the mermaid’s tail.’

Whatever he might mean by these incomprehensible words, Mariella appeared to understand them,
Auguste observed, painfully picking himself up. Sobbing, she promised she would.

By the interval, the Saturday performance bade fair to be a lacklustre anti-climax. There were no catastrophes, but fire and sparkle were noticeably absent. It affected all performers as though each one caught the mood on arrival, and left dissatisfied and petulant. In compensation, barracking too was merely half-hearted, a fact which gave Jowitt great pleasure. Only Nettie’s caustic comments reduced the situation to its true perspective.

The malaise even reached Lizzie, whose beaming smile had been replaced by a scowl. What, Auguste asked her anxiously, was amiss?

‘Love,’ she replied curtly, slapping an innocent herring down on the gridiron with unnecessary force. Auguste winced. ‘Men,’ Lizzie amplified, following suit with the next one.

‘Here you are dedicated to your work, Lizzie. You must put other matters aside if you are to be a true cook.’

‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,’ Lizzie intoned dolorously. ‘’Tis woman’s whole existence.’

Auguste looked at her in astonishment. ‘When did you become acquainted with the works of Lord Byron, Lizzie?’

‘It was written on a picture me ma had. Daft, innit?’

‘Apparently not, if you continue treating God’s gifts of food in such an abominable manner,’ Auguste retorted crossly. ‘Kindly take care with that pie. You have flaked off one corner of the pastry.’

‘Pies!’ she cried scornfully, and burst into tears.

‘What
is the matter now, Lizzie?’ he asked in exasperation.

‘I told Joe off for pinching me pie last night. Now he’s not ’ere no more.’

‘Was it by any chance one of Mrs Jolly’s pies?’

‘You don’t think I’d eat Mrs Mount’s stuff, do you?’

‘So, you have quarrelled with Joe?’ he deduced guiltily, though it took no great detective skill. The situation was serious, not least because there was no one to pick up the pies from Mrs Jolly’s. He instantly considered the choices for relief pieman. There could, in the circumstances, be only one. Himself.

‘Do not cry, Lizzie,’ he said with relief. ‘I will collect the pies myself.’

Oddly, Lizzie howled the louder. ‘I don’t care who gets the bloomin’ pies. I wants Joe.’

Mariella’s tribulations were not over. Violet and Marigold seized the opportunity of being left in the dressing-room alone with her, after Dolly declared her intention of ‘having it out with Horace’.

‘Dear Will, how you will miss him,’ Violet cooed.

‘Oh yes,’ Mariella replied mechanically, still shaken from her encounter with Fernando.

‘Marigold and I are so pleased for you over your good fortune, and do share your grief.’

‘Thank you. What for?’ asked Mariella absently, still worrying lest Fernando crash in.

‘His death,’ Marigold said, shocked. ‘He was. . . he was going to help us, you know.’

‘Who? Fernando?’

‘No.
Will
!’ Violet tried to keep impatience at bay with
a bright understanding smile. ‘Marigold has a little problem, you see.’

‘We all do,’ Mariella replied dismissively.

‘A little foreigner,’ Marigold dispensed with subtlety.

‘Little
what?’

‘Baby!’ Violet followed suit.

Mariella was suddenly all attention, studying Marigold’s outline carefully. ‘You’ve been put up the spout?’

‘He promised us money – so that we could live. He said he might come to live with us and the baby.’

‘What on earth can I do about it? He’s dead.’ Mariella was frantically wondering whether the will could be overturned if the baby were Will’s. Surely not for a bastard. A sudden alarming thought. Will hadn’t been so foolish as to marry the girl, had he? ‘How sad,’ Mariella said brightly. ‘Your baby’s father dead.’

‘No, he’s not.’ Marigold was bewildered.

Mariella stared at her. ‘But, Will—’

‘Will wasn’t the father. He was a friend,’ Marigold said, shocked.

Mariella relaxed. No need to be polite any longer.

‘Who was it – or don’t you know?’ she sneered.

Violet looked meaningfully at Marigold. ‘I think we should tell people. He hasn’t been very nice to us.’

‘It wasn’t Miguel, was it?’ Mariella asked in sudden hope. She would have a real excuse for leaving then.

Marigold looked aghast. ‘No. Surely you didn’t think we were telling little tales on him—’

‘Or trying to blackmail you into giving us money,’ Violet finished for her, smiling brightly.

‘No,’ Mariella replied curtly, disappointing them,
‘It was Horace.’

Mariella grinned. ‘The old lecher. Does Dolly know?’

‘Dolly?’

‘You don’t think she really is an innocent maid up from the country, do you?’

‘We have no idea,’ Violet said coldly, returning briskly to the matter in hand. ‘So you do see our predicament? We need money, and Will didn’t have time to give us any before he was murdered. We thought you might help.’

‘Then you’re as crazy as he was.’

‘There’s no need to be rude.’

‘Go away, dear. Bring the little bastard up to sing “Never go as far as Flo”,’ Mariella giggled.

‘I shouldn’t laugh too much. We know who gave Will the cross.’ Violet was quietly indignant as she and Marigold prepared to wipe the dust of the Old King Cole off their feet. Will had told them of ‘Auntie’s jewellery’ and they could not resist a tiny peep when he wasn’t watching.

Did they indeed? Mariella sat thinking for some time after they had gone.

Dolly too left, hot in pursuit of Horace at his next engagement at the Lyle. He found her waiting for him as he came offstage.

‘You’re off to the bright lights then, Horace?’