Mayhem for Her Majesty (A Cozy Beatles Mystery Series Book 2)

by Kal Smagh

  Jenkins was pointing and accompanied by two policemen.

  Pigeons took flight as the trio ran between the fountains.

  At the equestrian statue of Charles the Whatever, I made for the bridges.

  Did I lose them?

  Up the embankment, onto the pier.

  Spying an open ticket booth I gulped air, "One ticket."

  I entered a tourist boat.

  Come on, let's go!

  I found a seat amid a scattering of others, families, tourists. I gasped, struggling to catch my breath, trying to stay low and out of sight.

  The engines began and the boat sputtered off into the Thames, to safety.

  I was free from him.

  But now what would I do? Where was I going?

  It didn't matter, I was away.

  I smelled him first. That aftershave mixed with his sweat smelling like vomit.

  He was behind me.

  His rough hand grabbed me hard on my arm.

  Jenkins hissed, with cold glee, "You are under arrest."

  Mortified, I yanked my arm and tried to stand. Where would I go?

  He held firm, staring at me with beady eyes, holding me in my seat.

  "I will scream if you don’t let me go."

  That seemed to make a difference. He was supposed to be discreet, just like I was.

  He raised his other hand, snapping his fingers once and a Bobbie across the way turned toward us.

  Then coming the other way was a garbage scow with heaping piles of rubbish on its flat surface.

  It was now or never.

  Yanking my arm away from his slackened grip I leaped over the rail falling twenty feet onto the top of the barge.

  I landed with a thud.

  And a squish.

  Eww. I was on top of wet garbage.

  Atop my throne of filth, I looked up at him leaning over the rail, shock and disgust covering his red face.

  My audience of families also leaned over the rail, children pointing at me.

  It smelled bad, and I smelled bad. Almost as bad as Jenkins.

  Mixing with my sweat were the tears streaming down my face. But I was free from him and floating away in the opposite direction.

  Now what would I do?

  The barge continued down the Thames and made a stop to collect.

  A crusty sailor-garbage collector shouted at me, the smelly stowaway, "Hey! You can’t be here."

  "Just leaving."

  Exiting into the sanitation yard, running through the work area amid piles of rubbish, legs feeling like rubber, my lungs still burned.

  Now what would I do? What could I do?

  Back out to the street, I decided on the unthinkable.

  What no one would be expecting.

  With no credentials and swarms of Beatles fans awaiting.

  I was heading back to the Mapleton.

  To meet the Beatles, who were only moments away from arrival.

  Chapter 16: Beatlemania, Baby!

  What a crowd!

  Warily on Coventry Street I came to see the friendly mob being held back by black uniformed Bobbies assembled on the other side of white sawhorse barricades lining the streets.

  Traffic was at a complete standstill.

  Girls in dark overcoats and boys in smart jackets stood together laughing and shouting and sometimes screaming, all eager for a glimpse of the Beatles whenever they would arrive. They lined the streets and made a sea of humanity.

  In the year I had been working for the Beatles fan club and for Brian I had grown to love the fans and their incredible ability to find out information and stake out locations just for the opportunity of having a quick look at one of the Beatles.

  When the Beatles typically arrived, it was a hasty entry in a car as the crowds swarmed around them.

  They would make a quick exit and go straight into a building, I was sure of it.

  The reason why is because a surging crowd often had a mind of its own and people lost their normal selves in groups where everybody was screaming and overexcited.

  It had become this way everywhere they went.

  Beatles fans were amazing, doing all of this out of love. It couldn’t possibly be right that this was not good for the country.

  I heard a shout, "It's Beatlemania, baby!"

  Beatlemania was exactly what it was.

  This was something special, a community experience celebrating our own Boys. I'd read it in the papers after they'd been on the Palladium television show a few weeks earlier.

  But what about me getting through this melee?

  Seeing the crowd assembled and the Bobbies attending and wary, and having no credentials required all of my remaining wits.

  I could go back to the Theatre, but I would just as likely be arrested there by any one of the authorities -- Jenkins, Andrews, security.

  I could try to sneak into the hotel, but with so many police around it was unlikely I would be able to cross the cordon line.

  What would I do?

  And then I saw them.

  No, not the Beatles...even better...the representatives for Marlene Dietrich, walking down the street with their blue credentials on full display, lanyards flapping in the wind, drinks in green cups held in hand.

  I would tag along with them, and find a way into the venue, and back into the hotel. I just needed them to vouch for me. They didn't need to know Jenkins wanted me arrested, and that I'd been kicked out.

  I hustled across the street and came up behind them, saying, "Hello, there. How are you two today?"

  The lady turned first, a sneer came over her face when she recognized me, and likely saw a piece of garbage hanging off me for all I knew.

  Wrinkling her nose, her lip curled up, "You smell awful."

  The man, still in his black and white houndstooth suit jacket turned and then covered his nose, "Goodness. Have you been swimming in the river? And what is this wet mess on you?"

  I still had the spilled tea soaked through into my clothes. I had forgotten about that original mess in all the running.

  I tried to turn the conversation. I warned, "You need to know that there’s a danger."

  That seemed to catch their attention. The man spit out, "Danger about what?"

  "They’re looking to take Marlene Dietrich off of the playbill."

  They both looked at each other with alarm.

  The man scoffed, "Don’t joke. There is no way that’s going to happen. She is famous."

  The lady’s mouth just hung open in shock, finally speechless at my audacity.

  At least something would shut her up.

  "I overheard that they were scratching her from the playbill."

  Now the lady challenged, her eyes narrowed, "Where did you hear that?"

  "From security," And then I thought to add, "and the show producer."

  The man jeered, "Preposterous. What grounds?"

  "Something about her having German roots."

  The man was derisive, mocking me, "Of course she has German roots. Many people have German roots. But she grew up in the United States and she’s been a famous actress for a long time." He pointed emphatically at my face, "And a show performer, she entertained the troops in World War II for god sakes. That makes no sense at all."

  The lady taunted, "You’re just jealous, because your Beatles have been scratched." She raised an open palm to the crowd, "And look at all of these stupid people, waiting for nothing."

  The man added, "...but heartbreak. Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  "I’m going to fix that."

  The man burst out in laughter, "A girl? I wish you well."

  They both laughed again sipping their drinks and striding forward. Flaunting their credentials in my face.

  I could not count on them, there was nothing that they would be able to do to help me, and they seemed less likely to even want to hear my pleas.

  So, I did something that I would never do, and I don’t recommend anybody else do it.

  I grabbed th
e credentials from around her neck and yanked hard, snapping the string.

  "Take that... jerky...jerks!"

  Dammit! I needed to think of something meaner but couldn’t come up with it on the spot.

  I ran forward, weaving in and out of fans, ahead of the Dietrich people and their whining shouts, covering a city block in no time.

  I burst upon the checkpoint showing her credentials, breathing heavy, my garbage aroma following me and I'm sure catching up in an invisible cloud.

  The Mapleton's attendant ushered me forward with an open palm, nodding to a Bobbie, identifying me as legitimate.

  "Come through."

  He grasped the credential in his hand, asking, "Annette Chisholm?"

  I nodded my head yes several times in acknowledgment, glancing behind me at the crowd and the Dietrich people making their way through it.

  "I am she."

  Noticing my clothes and my wafting smell he whispered a little too loud to another attendant, "The Dietrich people don’t smell too good."

  I said loudly, "Oh yeah. We’re a stinky bunch. The worst."

  In the distance I could hear Ms. Chisholm and the man shouting, coming closer.

  "Stop her!"

  The attendant waved me through and I ran forward before they could catch up.

  The crowd was going berserk, filled with a sudden adrenaline rush.

  I turned to look and Ms. Chisholm was pointing and shouting, out of my earshot, and the Bobbies had locked arms and were holding back the tidal wave of humanity.

  Her swearing was lost in the rising crowd noise.

  This swelling to concert level could only mean one thing: the Beatles were here.

  I entered the lobby with Annette Chisholm’s credentials flapping over my shoulder, my dirty clothes and flyaway hair causing people to turn and look.

  Chapter 17: Ms. Chisholm

  My breath caught in my throat.

  I was always so immediately struck by the sight of them together. The moppy hair, the playful grins, even their eyebrows looked gorgeous.

  Ringo pointed at me.

  Ahead at the counter stirred the Beatles, with Brian, surrounded by hotel staff and a newspaper reporter snapping photographs.

  There was some kind of misunderstanding.

  Brian was talking and pointing down at the registry book while the clerk had her hands held up as if to say there’s nothing she could do.

  Brian saw me, waving me over in a panic, one hand on his hip.

  Ringo was the first one to speak. He was wearing a black overcoat. "Helen! Good, you’re here."

  George turned, observing, "You’re breathing heavy again." His eyebrows shot up as he made the connection, "Were you outside in all that?"

  There was no way I could explain the whole sordid story.

  John and Paul turned and smiled.

  Paul patted me on the shoulder, striking once.

  To my shock he suddenly looked like he’d touched dog poo, pulling his hand away and looking at his open palm, his mouth falling open, grossed out.

  I cringed knowing there was something sticky on it.

  John looked me over, "Are you just getting in from last night's party? Been through the wringer is how you look."

  I felt like the swamp monster, and didn’t even have a chance to say hello other than to begin a smile.

  Brian cut in, speaking over the top of everyone, "Helen. What is this all about? We’ve had our reservations taken away after tonight. And they say we are no longer welcome at the hotel tomorrow."

  John asked, "How are we supposed to play a show on Monday? Do they want us to drive off into the night?"

  I gulped, feeling a weighty shame, "I’m sorry. It gets worse."

  Paul asked, "Worse how?"

  I saw him glance at my shoulder again. What was on me?

  Voices shouted across the lobby, it was the dreaded Mr. Jenkins, and he was furious, his face red like an apple.

  He approached the Beatles pointing at me, uttering through gritted teeth, "Is this girl with you?" He was angry enough to crush me between his hands.

  Good luck. He'd just end up getting my garbage onto his fingers.

  Brian struggled to place Jenkins’ face, then a wave of recognition came to him, "Yes, she is."

  He glanced at me, his brow furrowing, trying to understand.

  The Beatles formed a half circle around me standing up to the angry Mr. Jenkins, George and Ringo to my immediate sides.

  George covered his nose, my smell hitting him like a wall of sewage. He went a step further, setting down a bag, and closed two hands around his nose and mouth.

  I wanted to crawl away.

  Mr. Jenkins grit his teeth, "Your girl has made threats against the royal family. And because of that the Beatles have been cut from the show. You needn't check in. Go on someplace else."

  George, his voice low through his cupped hands, "Helen, what are you involved in?"

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

  And then entering the lobby was the sour-faced male representative for Marlene Dietrich, also furious and red faced. He shouted, also pointing at me, "She’s stolen those credentials!" he gasped for breath, "from my co-worker!"

  Ringo looked at me and I felt very small with all of these men pointing and shouting.

  He gently reached for the string pulling the blue credentials from over my shoulder and held it up to read, as Paul looked on.

  "Hello, Annette. Is that your middle name?"

  At a loss to explain anything, feeling so jumbled, I was glad it was a question I knew the answer to, "It’s Martha."

  Chapter 18: Who Needs Permission?

  It was a dungeon.

  With a creaky bed.

  Confined to my room, under house arrest by Mr. Jenkins, with charges against me from Mr. Jenkins and the tart-faced Dietrich man...

  This was the London good life I was looking forward to. If my friends could see me now...

  Who was I kidding?

  Outside my door was a hotel security man. Mr. Jenkins had directed him to stay there and not to let me out. Also, I was allowed no visitors.

  I was in the equivalent of a first-floor jail of a fine hotel with my boss and the Beatles very bewildered in their sixth-floor rooms. Or suite. I didn’t know which ones they had as I had been escorted away and put back into my small room.

  I splashed water on my face and tried to clean up as best I could. My clothes smelled of rotten fruit and my scant makeup was smeared like a clown freed from an insane asylum.

  How would I find my way out of this?

  The worst part was that it was all lies and I didn’t know why, other than the blackmail going on. I had learned that much.

  I gazed out my window to the alleyway and there I saw Lord Guilford stop his maroon-colored regal looking car. Lady Guilford exited the passenger seat.

  With the surging crowd they had likely been diverted to come behind the hotel so that they would not be swarmed. That would be in case fans mistakenly thought any Beatles were in their car.

  He just as quickly sped off. No kiss between them. They looked like it was all work between them, and they were on a mission.

  What were they up to?

  In the distance were also the red coated Buckingham Palace staff just finishing up work at the Theatre. Leaning against the bumper of a vehicle I recognized Archie by his red hair, his shoulders sagging.

  I opened the window and waved, calling to him, "Archie!"

  One of his coworkers tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to look at me, frowning, shaking his head to the negative.

  What did that mean?

  He looked like he was in trouble. I motioned him to come over and he shook his head again.

  I motioned harder and finally he stood up, looking resigned, with slumping shoulders as if he was carrying a tremendous burden. Trudging over he came under my window.

  I shouted down to him, "What happened to you?"

  "Been sacked."


  "Why? What did you do?"

  He looked down at the ground, embarrassed, "I took you over there in the cart. That security man and the manager, Jenkins and Andrews, had me fired. Because I helped you."

  My stomach fell. Oh what a mess I had made.

  He nodded his head, acknowledging my thoughts. "Why are you in your room?" He paused, asking, "Are the Beatles here now?"

  "Yes, they’re here. And I am under house arrest."

  His eyebrows shot up, "Because you ran? Or because you were eavesdropping? Or did the Beatles have you arrested for dropping them from the playbill?"

  He smirked.

  That last part was meant as a joke, but it stung.

  His smile reduced, turning weak. We were both in sad shape.

  I said, "All of that. I need your help again."

  He hung his head and then looked at me sincerely, his jaw set, "I don’t think I can stand to help you anymore."

  We looked at each other. It was better to fight the injustice of it all rather than let it take me down. "I’m going to climb out of this window. And I need a hotel uniform. Do you know where I would find one?"

  He held his arms outstretched, "You’re in the maid's quarters. Perhaps there is a uniform already in there?"

  It had not even occurred to me to look for one in here, holding my index finger up, "Wait there."

  I turned and opened up the nightstand; of course, nothing. I tore open the wardrobe; there was only my little black dress hanging up and my own gray work clothing.

  Where else?

  Reaching my hand on top of the wardrobe I could feel nothing. I pulled over a chair, stepped up on the seat, and peered on top of the wardrobe.

  Magic!

  Archie was brilliant.

  There in a bag was a maid's uniform with Mapleton Hotel stitched on the breast pocket.

  I quickly tore off my dirty gray garbage and tea-stained clothes and put on the top and greenish skirt.

  In the mirror I had to admit I didn’t look that different from how I usually dressed. It was functional, that was it.

  And I had no chance to just walk out. I would never make it out the door, not with the guard posted there. I came back to the window and I saw Archie’s eyes light up as he noticed my changed clothes.