Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (28 page)

A pause. ‘Co-operation, we said.’

‘Where’s the cross, then?’

‘The fake?’

‘Either of them.’

‘We’ve found the real one.’

‘Where?’ Rose asked sharply.

‘At the bottom of the Thames.’

Rose whistled, sheer astonishment making him relax.
Heartened, Cherry amplified. ‘A lad called Joe Bisley went fishing for eels, and come up with it all wrapped up in sacking. His Majesty is going to be pleased.’

‘And what have you done with the fake?’

A silence.

‘Well?’ Rose said grimly.

‘Haven’t you got it?’ Cherry asked weakly.

‘I gave it to you.’

‘And we gave it to Gomez,’ Black gabbled. ‘So you should have it back by now.’

‘You what?’ Rose shouted incredulously.

‘There’s factors you don’t know about,’ Cherry said portentously.

‘I can see that.’

‘So now Gomez is dead – where is it?’ Cherry clearly thought offence was the best method of defence.

‘Tell you what,’ Rose said furiously. ‘You find me Gomez’s murderer and I’ll find you the fake.’ He paused. ‘This cross you found in the Thames. How did you know it was the real one?’

‘Because we gave the fake to Gomez.’ Cherry failed to see the fallacy of this argument.

‘Excellent. Well done, gentlemen.’ Rose returned cordiality. ‘He probably gave it back to Sir Henry Irving. All right, was it, your cross? Not harmed in any way?’

‘No.’ Cherry’s confidence had returned. ‘His Majesty’s going to be very pleased.’

Rose did not comment. In his trouser pocket was a red garnet.

Auguste arrived at the Old King Cole early, after the inquest on Will Lamb. It had been a depressing
experience, packed with newspapermen and the prurient, together with, it seemed, half the theatrical world of London. The proceedings themselves seemed to have little to do with the dancing clown that would live in Auguste’s memory. The verdict had been murder by persons unknown, which had provided a climax as melodramatic as any in the theatre, given that the press were still working on the lines of its having been a tragic accident.

The cast, such as it was, was also ready early, simply because none of its members had other engagements that evening. The other local music halls had suddenly dropped them, fearing that murder might well stalk in their wake. Even the improved houses at the Old King Cole did not encourage them. And these improved houses looked doomed to fade rapidly if a better programme than tonight’s could not be found, Percy thought despairingly. No Nettie, no Magnificent Masher, no Will Lamb, not even Miguel Gomez – Max Hill had been promoted to the first half at a moment’s notice, but old Max could hardly compensate for all the gaps.

Auguste found Lizzie rapt by the attentions of her new-found love, rather than attending to customers. Trusting that the stars would rub off from her eyes and scatter themselves over her cooking, he tore himself away, and found a desperate Percy assessing the mood of the crowd as they pushed in. Thomas Yapp, with the stage between him and inquisitive questions about his inheritance, was already out front, pondering whether his good fortune would improve his status with the Shadwell Mob. There was no sign of Egbert, and Auguste hurried upstairs to find him in the front office.

‘Did I tell you they’ve found the cross?’ Rose was standing at the window, watching the last of the queue disappearing into the hall, and the flying hands of Frederick Wolf, as he handed over one last potato. Fifteen minutes ago he had just watched him swallow half a sword, and on the whole potatoes looked preferable.

‘The real one or the fake?’ Auguste asked.

‘I’m getting tired of those words. The real one, they think. The idiots gave the fake to Gomez, and are convinced I’ve found it. I told ’em Gomez probably gave it back to Irving.’

Auguste laughed, just as Twitch burst in, eager to impart news.

‘I thought you should know immediately, sir.’

Below at the music-hall entrance, there seemed to be some kind of disturbance. Cries of pleasure – or horror were they? Auguste could distinguish Jowitt’s voice and he was certainly pleased about something.

‘I’ve done as you asked,’ Twitch told Egbert loudly, ignoring Auguste, ‘and went to Somerset House. And you, sir, were quite right. There
is
a link.’

Auguste’s attention was torn between his desire to discover the meaning of the commotion below, and to hear Twitch’s news. Once before he had been instrumental in sending Twitch to Somerset House, with far less dramatic success.

‘Lamb must have been a stage name,’ Twitch continued. ‘When I tracked back – hard work it is, sir – there’s no doubt. Thomas Yapp is Will Lamb’s
brother.’

‘Well done, Stitch,’ Rose said cordially.

‘You’ve worked hard, Inspector Stitch,’ Auguste said.
He meant it. The transitory world of the stage impersonated real life and could successfully bury its secrets. Disinterring them could be difficult. Impersonated real life?
Impersonated!
‘Egbert,’ he cried, ‘what did Sir Henry Irving and the Great Brodie have in common?’

‘Is this a riddle?’ Twitch asked, annoyed his great news had not had the reception it deserved.

‘No, Stitch. I think,’ Rose replied after a moment, ‘Mr Didier means they were both probably recognised by their voices.’

Before Stitch could frame his come-back, the door was flung open once more and Lady Westland swept in, with Percy pink with excitement at her heels.

‘The Magnificent Masher has returned to help me again,’ he cried with jubilation. ‘Lady Westland insists on telling you the good news herself.’

‘No, I don’t, you old fool,’ Gwendolen said crossly. ‘Nettie wanted me to play here this week to keep houses up. And now I find Max Hill’s not here yet, and he should be. Percy told him he was playing number two spot.’

‘Don’t worry, Lady Westland. We’ll change the order,’ Percy offered eagerly. ‘You go on just when you wish.’

‘Never mind about the order. Where’s Max?’ she demanded.

Rose looked at Auguste. ‘Impersonators.
Where’s Max
, Auguste?’

Too late. Why did he always have his best ideas too late? Like adding the ginger to the
ecrevisses a la Maisie
just as the sauce was ready to serve?

‘Max might just have been delayed or be ill,’ Auguste pointed out.

‘Max is a trouper, Mr Didier,’ Gwendolen said. ‘He is never ill. Or if he is, he would send a replacement, or at the very least ample warning.’

‘I heard nothing,’ Jowitt wailed plaintively. ‘It is too bad of Max, and I will tell him so. I will dock his wages. No, I can’t. I haven’t paid him recently. He’s a good chap. He hasn’t complained.’

No, merely worked for Gomez instead, Auguste thought, with sinking heart. All so obvious, now he thought back. Max the Portuguese ambassador, Max who took the cross to have the fake made, Max who took the cross to Frederick Wolf. ‘Surely he is not a murderer, Egbert?’

‘It’s hard to see him in
that
role, I grant you,’ Egbert agreed reluctantly. ‘But he hasn’t wasted much time making himself scarce, has he?’

‘Nonsense.’ Lady Westland decided to intervene. ‘Of
course Max is not a murderer. Nettie and I have known him for years.’

‘Perhaps he’d never had occasion to murder anyone before, ma’am,’ Egbert pointed out. ‘Surprising what people will do when they’re scared.’

‘Scared of what?’ she asked.

‘Discovery, perhaps. Any idea where he might have gone?’

‘I do not.’ Gwendolen said stiffly. ‘That is your task, Inspector. And
mine
is to do something about that terrible rumpus in the auditorium.’

‘Rumpus?’ Jowitt repeated plaintively. ‘I heard nothing.’ He listened. There was certainly noise, and it was certainly growing. Evangeline must be on. She and Orsini were the natural targets for the Shadwell Mob’s mirth. They hadn’t given up. They seemed to be good-humoured at the moment, but working up to something else.

‘We should have closed the place down after Lamb’s murder,’ Egbert said to Auguste, as Gwendolen marched purposefully downstairs to her dressing-room.

‘I would doubt if that would have saved Miguel,
mon ami.’

‘Perhaps it would, and perhaps saved Max too.’

‘Max? You think he’s in danger? But from whom once Miguel was dead?’

‘It might be connected with Miguel’s death.’

‘You mean you think he might have done it?’

‘He could have fallen out with his old pal.’ Auguste was silent. ‘I know you like him, Auguste,’ Egbert added kindly. ‘But that’s not relevant, you know that.’

Auguste did. It underlined the difference between
them, Egbert the professional, himself the amateur. In the last resort, Egbert played with chessmen on his board; friend or foe had to be immaterial. Auguste had the privilege – if that was the word – of choice, but not if he were playing in Egbert’s team.

‘Max did not leave when Will was killed,’ he said at last.

‘He liked Will. He didn’t care for his being murdered and believed Miguel had done it. That’s my theory.’

‘So Max then killed Miguel?’

‘Any proof to the contrary?’

‘No,’ said Auguste unwillingly.

‘Who are his chums round here? You’ve seen more of him that I have.’

‘He was often in the eating-room with Clarence Bishop, lightning sketcher and ventriloquist.’

‘One of those lads who draws you in two ticks of a puppy dog’s tail? One of them got Edith to the life. She didn’t like it because he left two of the cherries off her new hat.’

‘Clarence Bishop is not a pavement artist. He tells a story and does sketches of the scenes on the pad, and also sketches animals and people, using them as his ventriloquist’s dummy.’

‘Sounds rather high falutin’ for the Old King Cole.’

‘Perhaps that is why his turn is buried in the middle of the second half.’

‘Then we’d better talk to him now. At least he may know where Max lodges, which is more than Percy seems to.’

Auguste ran downstairs to find the Magnificent Masher, clad in a makeshift costume of check trousers
left behind by Brodie, Pickles’ waistcoat (too small for the Masher’s now ample bosom), and Percy’s battered top-hat, striding purposefully past him. She did not notice him, not did it occur to him to wonder why she had not brought her costume with her. All her energy was concentrated on the stage and the need to woo an audience that was quite sure it had already won whatever battle it imagined it was fighting tonight.

From his vantage point in the wings, Auguste saw the tip of the cane shooting on to the stage, its owner, back to him, out of sight to the audience. Things were bad. The well-known signal made no difference. The noise paused, then redoubled. Gwendolen took a deep breath, signalling to the orchestra to strike up with ‘I’m a Mayfair masher . . .’

She strode on to the stage, then rested, bored, on her cane. She twirled it idly. She made no attempt whatsoever to quell the audience, but let them roar away. When a well-aimed potato hit her, she removed her gloves, and examined her hands, then replaced the gloves with great care. Finally in sheer astonishment at her indifference, the Shadwell Mob ceased their shouting and waited to see what would happen next.

‘You may be wondering where I got these trousers . . .’ She glanced down at the check in disgust. ‘Well, I’ll tell you – if you listen.’

It appeared, eventually, they would; and by the time they had been told a rigmarole of money-lenders, betting gentlemen, drinking bars and Newmarket, they were laughing and singing with her.

Clarence Bishop was not singing. He was shivering in his shoes in the eating-room at the thought of being
thrown to the lions in the increasingly near future.

Auguste caught him by the arm, and led him firmly upstairs. ‘When people are in that mood, anything will set them off. There’s nothing you can do to avert it. You will not believe this, but one evening last week some came into my eating-room and threw tomato catsup everywhere. I did not take it personally, however.’

That is not what Lizzie would have said, had she been privy to this conversation, as she had been to the hurt pride of Auguste Didier that evening. He had, after all, put the catsup (his own recipe) on the tables himself and had not expected it to be literally thrown in his face.

‘It’s hard not to take it personally,’ Clarence said dolefully, ‘when a rotten tomato arrives smack in the face of your hippopotamus.’

‘
Je m’excuse?’

‘Hippopotamus. I do an excellent hippopotamus roar when I do my sketch of exciting adventure in Africa. They didn’t seem to like it on Saturday, however.’

‘You are destined for better things.’ Auguste clapped him heartily on the back. It was all he could think of to say.

Clarence brightened. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I do,’ Auguste confirmed quickly, as he ushered him up to Egbert’s office.

‘Ah. You’re Max Hill’s chum,’ Rose greeted him.

‘I’m not responsible for his not being here,’ the chum squawked quickly. ‘All artistes are responsible for their own timekeeping.’