Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  “Only four?” Vickery asked.

  Grives laid his hat on the sofa beside him and began counting off on his fingers. “First, there’s the wife – the crime of passion is more common than you’d think. Second, there’s the son, who stands to inherit a substantial sum, I think we’ll find. Then there’s Danny Holcroft, who was the victim’s business partner, so we might suspect a financial motive there too. Though I believe we can safely rule him out because he was also attacked.”

  “And finally?” Vickery asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said four potential suspects,” Vickery said.

  Grives looked down at his fingers and did a quick recount. “The fourth suspect is the wife’s lover,” he said decisively.

  “Does Marlene McNair even have a lover?” Malloy asked, his tone sceptical.

  “I don’t know,” Grives said, “that’s for you and Sherlock there to find out.”

  “You would like us to continue our enquiries into this matter?” Vickery asked.

  “I would like you to climb to the top of something tall and jump,” Grives said. “But the higher-ups seem to think this investigation can best be handled by an amateur. I confidently predict they’ll be changing their tune before very much longer.”

  “There’s no need for you to feel excluded, Inspector,” Vickery said. “And nothing to prevent you from proceeding with your own investigation – I’m sure we won’t get in each other’s way.”

  Grives picked up his hat again. “That’s very true,” he said, “there are certain lines of enquiry that I think should be pursued,” he said.

  “Excellent!” Vickery said. “With two great minds at work, the case will be solved in short order and the murderer brought to justice.”

  Malloy raised his hand and rubbed his nose again.

  “Please don’t let us keep you from your work any longer,” Vickery said, getting to his feet.

  Grives stood, looking perplexed. “Yes, well,” he said, “don’t forget to keep me informed of your progress.”

  “I shall be in regular communication,” Malloy said, rising and opening the sitting room door.

  Grives turned his hat in his hands. “What – that is – where will your investigation take you next?” he asked. “I only ask so that I can make sure that we don’t get in each other’s way like you mentioned.”

  “I’m sure there’s little danger of that,” Vickery said. “Mr. Malloy and I will be going in search of one or two people who weren’t on your list of suspects.”

  “You will?” Grives said. “Obviously, those four were only my initial list. There are others who we will need to speak to during the course of our investigation, and who may need to be added to the list.”

  “Jolly good,” Vickery said. “You and Mr. Malloy can compare notes when you next meet.”

  “You won’t hold anything back?” Grives asked.

  “When it comes to the police, I never hold back,” Vickery said. “Good evening, Inspector.”

  Grives jammed his hat back on his head and marched out. Malloy closed the door behind him.

  “That was a bit naughty, wasn’t it, pretending we had suspects he didn’t know about?” Malloy said.

  “You thought I was pretending?” Vickery asked. “I do hope the Inspector didn’t think so. There really are others who ought to be questioned in relation to Charlie’s murder, you know.”

  “There are? Like who?”

  “A professional rival and fellow magician, and a mysterious woman,” Vickery said.

  “There’s a mysterious woman in this case?” Malloy asked.

  “There’s always a mysterious woman, Jamie.”

  “Who is she?”

  “If I knew that, she wouldn’t be a mystery, would she?” Vickery said.

  “Shall I bring the car round?” Malloy asked.

  “Yes,” Vickery said. “I think it’s time we paid a visit to Raymond Skelhorn.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Malloy looked up at the white pillars across the front of the Alhambra Theatre. “This is a step up from the Palais, isn’t it?”

  “You have to pay more for a ticket here,” Vickery said, noncommittally. “There is some lovely Victorian marble in the Gents – there’s time to have a look if you want, he’s bound to keep us waiting.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Malloy said.

  They gave their names to the young man at the box office and then loitered in the lobby. Malloy wandered up and down, hands in his pockets. “Did you ever perform here?” he asked.

  Vickery shook his head. “I was asked. Twice. But the owner holds certain views with which I disagree.”

  “Ah,” Malloy said, not quite sure what this meant.

  Seeing his confusion, Vickery smiled. “The plays of Oscar Wilde have never been staged at the Alhambra,” he said.

  “Ah!” Malloy said. “No Marlowe either?”

  “No Marlowe,” Vickery confirmed. “Though Shakespeare gets the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Women dressed as men, and men dressed as women are fine, are they?” Malloy asked, nodding towards a framed poster of the Christmas 1902 production of Aladdin.

  “Oh, yes they are,” Vickery said in pantomime fashion. “Box office always trumps moral qualms.”

  They wandered further along the lobby, looking at the posters.

  “You knew Charlie McNair,” Malloy said,

  “For the best part of thirty years.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  “He had his faults, like all of us – but I would say he was never less than honest and generous to the people who knew him.”

  “Not the sort of man to make enemies?”

  “I can’t think how anyone who would wish him harm,” Vickery said.

  “Everyone loved Charlie,” Malloy said. “But someone murdered him. And the only person who might, possibly, have a reason to want him dead, is a rival from twenty years ago.”

  “That is certainly how it appears – on the surface at least. We are going to have to dive deeper, in search of the hidden undercurrents.”

  “I should have brought my bathing trunks.”

  “Mr. Skelhorn says he will see you now,” the box office attendant said, appearing beside them.

  “How very gracious of him,” Vickery said.

  “Do you know your way backstage, sir, or shall I lead you?”

  “I know the way, thank you,” Vickery said, pressing a shilling into the young man’s hand.

  The young man grinned. “Very good, sir.”

  “I think he liked you,” Malloy said, as they made their way along a red-carpeted corridor.

  “Compared to Skelhorn, I am a prince,” Vickery said. He adopted a booming, pompous voice: “One should never tip the underlings – it discourages them from bettering themselves!”

  Behind them, they heard the box office attendant chuckle.

  Malloy knocked on the dressing room door.

  “Enter!” A booming voice from within.

  Malloy opened the door and stepped back to allow Vickery to enter. Vickery squared his shoulders and stepped across the threshold.

  Raymond Skelhorn stood as they entered. He wore a dove grey double-breasted suit, and the jacket was stretched across a huge egg of a belly. His shirt was a crisp, blinding white, and he wore a broad, burgundy-coloured silk tie. Hair was receding at his temples and was a uniform brown colour that obviously wasn’t natural. His goatee was a darker brown and showed flecks of white. Thick eyebrows arched over dark glittering eyes, and moist lips seemed to be set in a perpetual sneer. He was immaculately turned out, but next to Vickery he still managed to look slightly rumpled.

  The two magicians stared at each other like prize-fighters brought together in the ring. They made no move to shake hands. Malloy half-expected them to whip out magic wands and begin some sort of sorcerous duel.

  “You’ve grown old, Benjamin,” Skelhorn said.

  “And you, Raymond, have grown fat,” Vi
ckery said.

  “Good living,” Skelhorn said, placing his fat, hairy hands on his stomach and grinning in a self-satisfied way.

  “It must make even a cheap suit expensive,” Vickery said.

  “Waspish, as ever,” Skelhorn said.

  “You bring out my finer...”

  “Who’s this?” Skelhorn asked, interrupting rudely. “Did you think you needed to bring along a bodyguard? Or is this ape here to intimidate me?”

  “This is my associate, Jamie Malloy. Jamie, Raymond Skelhorn.”

  “Or should I call you Mr. Spectacular?” Malloy asked, offering his hand.

  Skelhorn ignored the offered handshake. He looked Malloy up and down as if he was appraising horseflesh and the curl of his lip became more pronounced. “Where do you pick them up, Vickery?”

  Vickery cast him a warning glance, so Malloy stepped back, withdrawing his hand, the tips of his ears glowing red.

  “On the subject of strange bedfellows,” Skelhorn said, “I hear you’re working for our old pal Inspector Grives.” He bared strong, white teeth, but there was no humour in his smile. “Did he think you’d have better luck talking to the theatricals?”

  “I’m more used to the backstage reek than him,” Vickery said. “I’m never sure whether it’s Jeye’s disinfectant or desperation.”

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Skelhorn said, “I thought you’d slunk into retirement with your tail between your legs.”

  “Dragging the same old act around the theatres doesn’t appeal to me,” Vickery said, “I have found other ways to spend my time.”

  “Making a fool of yourself in the moving picture industry?” Skelhorn sneered.

  “Leo and Margot are old friends, I was happy to help them.”

  “Two dead on your watch, wasn’t it? Not the sort of help they had in mind, I’ll wager. And here you are again. You two hover around dead bodies like bluebottles, don’t you? How long before we can expect another corpse this time?”

  “Not long at all,” Malloy said, teeth gritted.

  Skelhorn laughed, a deep throaty sound. “This is the one you saved from the gallows, is it? I’m not sure I’d trust him enough to turn my back on him – you should be careful, Vickery.”

  “You have heard so much about me, and I have heard nothing about you, Raymond. What have you been up to?” Vickery asked.

  “We were hoping to meet Mrs. Skelhorn,” Malloy said brightly.

  Skelhorn’s face darkened and he glared at Malloy.

  “Raymond never married, did you?” Vickery said.

  “Ah, my mistake,” Malloy said. “Not the marrying kind, eh?”

  “I’m not like you, if that’s what you mean,” Skelhorn said.

  “You just never met that one special person – I understand,” Malloy said.

  “Toby mentioned you’d been touring in Europe,” Vickery said. “A handful of theatres where it’s coldest were his words, I think.”

  “Toby Crabbe is an imbecile. But, yes, that’s what people were supposed to believe – a brief tour of Eastern Europe.”

  “Ah,” Vickery said, nodding sagely. He turned to Malloy. “Raymond isn’t allowed to say, but he’s sometimes asked to provide assistance to His Majesty’s government – in an unofficial capacity.”

  “Wherever did you hear that?” Skelhorn said, his tone suggesting the idea was nonsense, but his chest puffing up like a proud pigeon.

  “I’ve heard you say it yourself, on a number of occasions,” Vickery said.

  “I’m sure I have done no such thing. Rumours of my work for the secret service are something that I could never confirm.”

  “Come, come, Raymond – why else would you be visiting such a collection of out-of-the way towns, in out-of-the-way countries, appearing second on the bill to a Russian psychic?” Vickery said.

  Skelhorn’s chest was deflated by these words. “The nature of the communications between myself and Madam Allochka is not something I am permitted to divulge. You wouldn’t appreciate the diplomatic delicacy of such situations, Vickery.”

  “Indeed, I am but a retired magician,” Vickery said. “Did Madam Allochka tell you that your eyes were looking out from an old soul and that in a former life you had been a great leader – an emperor even? She told me that once.”

  From the look on Skelhorn’s face, these words were familiar to him, Malloy thought.

  “She could not back the vodka better than any man I ever met,” Vickery said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me, given the sort of men you associate with,” Skelhorn said. He didn’t spare Malloy a glance.

  “I’m trying to remember where Madam Allochka said she was from...” Vickery said.

  “A little town near the Black Sea. Where the Cossacks come from,” Skelhorn said.

  “Croydon,” Vickery said. “Or was it Clapham? Alice Beattie, her maiden name was.”

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Skelhorn said quickly.

  “No, it was definitely Beattie – her father’s brother was the rag and bone man. He had a horse called Mavis Trott. It’s amazing what you can recall if you put your mind to it.”

  “Are you going to stand prattling all day?” Skelhorn said.

  “Alice Beattie,” Vickery said nostalgically. “She used to do a mind-reading act with her brother Tommy. Until he was sent down for bigamy and attempted arson.”

  “Attempted arson?” Malloy asked.

  Vickery nodded. “He tried to burn down the Wagon and Horses at Clough Cross. But all he managed to set fire to was his jacket sleeve. Awful scars, from his wrist to his elbow – it made a real mess of his tattoo.” Vickery rubbed his upper arm and gave a little shudder.

  Skelhorn was looking from Vickery to Malloy and back, his expression slack.

  “Marlene sends her regards, by the way,” Vickery said.

  A succession of emotions seemed to wash over Skelhorn’s face.

  “How is she?” he asked, voice quiet.

  “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” Vickery said. “You haven’t spoken to her?”

  “Not for a number of years,” Skelhorn said. “I did send my condolences.”

  “Holcroft brought you news of the tragedy, I’m sure,” Vickery said.

  “I read about it in the newspaper,” Skelhorn said, “the following morning.”

  “And how did you feel when you read about poor Charlie’s death?” Vickery asked.

  Skelhorn stared at him, nostrils flared. “I have no reason to lie to you,” he said. “When I heard Charles was dead, I was not sorry – I was glad. I’m sorry for Marlene, of course. It must be a terrible thing for her. I sent flowers.”

  “You won’t call on her?” Vickery asked.

  “I really don’t think she’d appreciate that,” Skelhorn said.

  “Holcroft advised you to stay away?” Vickery asked.

  “I have never spoken to Daniel Holcroft,” Skelhorn insisted.

  “My mistake. I thought from something he said that you wanted to speak with him,” Vickery said.

  “I do not,” Skelhorn said.

  “Where were you on the night of the murder, Mr. Skelhorn?” Malloy asked.

  “Murder?” Skelhorn looked confused. “I understood Charles had taken his own life.”

  “That is what the murderer wishes us to believe,” Malloy said.

  Skelhorn turned to Vickery. “Is that true?”

  Vickery nodded. “Tell us where you were that night.”

  “Surely you can’t think that I...”

  “Of course we do,” Malloy said, “you have been engaged in a feud with Charlie McNair for twenty years. Who else would the police suspect?”

  Skelhorn opened and closed his mouth several times, but formed no words. “Murder?” he said finally.

  Vickery nodded again.

  “I was on stage that night. Here,” Skelhorn said.

  “Did anyone see you here?” Malloy asked.

  “I was on stage in front o
f an audience!” Skelhorn said.

  “A handful of witnesses, then,” Malloy said to Vickery.

  “I couldn’t kill Charlie on stage at the Palais at the same time as I was on stage here,” Skelhorn said.

  “That is very true,” Vickery said.

  “But Charlie McNair wasn’t killed on stage, was he?” Malloy asked Vickery.

  “No, he wasn’t,” Vickery said, “he was killed at least an hour before the curtain went up, and possibly as much as two hours before.”

  Skelhorn stared at them, his mouth open.

  “Will you be performing at the Alhambra until the end of the month?” Malloy asked.

  Skelhorn nodded.

  “Good, then we’ll know where to find you,” Malloy said.

  This time, the stunned Skelhorn did shake Malloy’s hand.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, we’ll see ourselves out,” Vickery said.

  “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?” Malloy said as they walked back to the car.

  “He’s mellowed over the years,” Vickery said.

  “Mellowed?” Malloy said, laughing.

  “Oh, yes. He used to be an utter bastard.”

  Malloy shook his head and they climbed into the Alvis. It was stuffy and smelled of hot leather inside.

  “You certainly called his bluff about the mysterious Madam Allochka,” Malloy said.

  “That was rather cruel, wasn’t it?” Vickery smiled.

  “Skelhorn isn’t a government spy?”

  “Of course not. What use would he be – except as a distraction? Intelligence work requires subtlety.”

  “And intelligence,” Malloy said.

  “Don’t underestimate Raymond on that score. He’s smart. And very dangerous.”

  Malloy started the car and pulled away from the kerb. “How long have you been a member of the secret service?” he asked.

  Vickery glanced sideways at him. “I should remember not to underestimate you either,” he said. “I am not employed by them, but I have done work for them, on occasion.”

  “Is that why Skelhorn hates you?”

  “Raymond hates everyone – or didn’t he make that plain?” Vickery said.

  “Everyone except Marlene?” Malloy said. “He still carries a torch for her, I think.”

  “Raymond never loved her. He just hated someone else taking her away from him.”