Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  Clara was not sure if Leong was lying. She might have been following Clara for a while, the odds of this being a chance meeting seemed slim, but she made no hint of her concerns.

  “Well, I hope I can be of assistance to you. I would not like to think you got wet on my behalf for no reason.”

  Leong had that disturbing smile on her face again. It was at once self-satisfied and malevolent. Clara felt a chill run down her spine, and doubted it was a product of the rain alone.

  “No doubt my situation is one you hear of a lot,” Leong began. “A family matter. You must have had much experience in situations involving estranged family members?”

  “Most of my cases involve a disagreement between relatives,” Clara nodded. “If I was of a maudlin nature, I might reflect on how depressing it is that so many families find themselves wrenched apart by petty arguments and feuds.”

  “But you are not maudlin,” Leong twitched the edges of her lips.

  “It is not who I am. I prefer to see the good in everyone and everything.”

  “That must be a challenge,” Leong raised her eyebrows. “Especially in your line of work.”

  “Not really,” Clara said. “I deal in hope, Miss Leong, as strange as that might seem. I deal in the hope of bringing resolution to people, maybe to bring justice. Though there are sad elements to every case, overall I believe that I make the world a little bit better with each mystery solved.”

  “A very noble attitude,” Leong did not appear to be being sarcastic. “Perhaps then you can solve my mystery.”

  “I shall try my best,” Clara assured her, though she really did not mean that. She could not think what Leong wanted from her and if it was to turn a blind eye to her illegal activities, she was certainly not going to do that. But, for the moment, she was trying to keep the woman on her side and not tip her off that she knew who she really was. “What is your problem?”

  Leong did not immediately speak as just then their tea arrived. Once they were again alone, she leaned forward and spoke softly.

  “My brother has gone missing.”

  “Oh,” Clara said, not really sure how to respond. “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Leong waved her hand as if to imply this was not a matter of great sadness for her.

  “I think you know my brother, Miss Fitzgerald, he has been in Brighton before. His name is Brilliant Chang.”

  “Oh,” Clara said again, trying to feign surprise and not sure she succeeded. “You have different names.”

  “Same mother, different fathers,” Leong shrugged. “You know all about my brother I assume?”

  “Brilliant Chang is a criminal, one who moves in quite exalted circles. We have crossed paths a couple of times, but nothing I could have him arrested for.”

  “Though you would like to,” Leong grinned.

  “He ran down a policeman,” Clara pointed out. “He interfered in a theft case I was working on. Whenever he appears in Brighton, there is usually trouble. Fortunately for me, he tends to confine himself to London.”

  “Until recently.”

  “What has happened recently?” Clara asked innocently.

  “I already said, he has vanished. Disappeared. Evaporated into the night,” Leong clenched then unfurled her hand in the air to symbolise something disappearing in a flash. “No one knows where he went.”

  “That must be inconvenient for his criminal organisation,” Clara remarked. “Lost, with no leadership.”

  “Exactly,” Leong purred. “However, my interest is not for his illegal activities, my interest is to know what has become of my brother. We may not be close, but it would be remiss of me not to discover where he is and if he is well. Our mother is distressed.”

  Clara hid that she knew Leong and Chang were orphans, let the woman play her game as long as it meant she had no idea Clara was already working for her brother.

  “I imagine you are going to ask me to locate him?” Clara said. “But why me? Why here in Brighton? Surely there is a detective in London better placed to find him?”

  “From the little I have learned, I believe my brother is in this town,” Leong explained. “Brighton has always held an appeal to him, it is the place he likes to retreat to. If he has gone anywhere to lay low for a while, it will be here.”

  Clara frowned, and this was not feigned, there were holes in Leong’s story that even had she not known what the woman was up to would have concerned her.

  “Do you know why Chang vanished?”

  “No. It was very abrupt,” Leong said with no hint she was lying. “You see why I am concerned?”

  “Perhaps your brother is trying to hide from something? Perhaps it would be safer, considering his occupation, to let him remain hidden?”

  “I am not the enemy, I am his sister,” Leong said, her sweet tone not able to mask her insincerity. “No harm would come from me finding him. I just need to know he is well and safe, for the sake of our mother. She worries so.”

  Clara was becoming annoyed by Leong’s glib lies. She shoved down the emotion, taking a sip of her tea as she composed herself.

  “I have no qualms taking on your case, Miss Leong, but if your brother is determined to remain hidden, I fear that I shall not be able to find him. I know a little of Chang and he is a cunning, careful man. As much as I believe in my abilities, I also believe he is capable of proving my match.”

  “You put yourself down, Miss Fitzgerald, unfairly I should say,” Leong managed to force a bit of warmth into her eyes. “My brother is good, but you have cornered him more than once. While you might not have ensured the police snared him, I know you foiled his schemes. I think if anyone can find him, it is you.”

  “And if he is not in Brighton?”

  “Then you shall tell me that and I shall pay you all the same,” Leong made it all sound so easy. “Will you take the case, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Clara knew she could not refuse. Whatever game Leong was playing – whether this was her testing Clara because she suspected her of working with Chang, or because she genuinely thought she could use Clara to get to her brother – she had to go along with it.

  “You just want me to find him?” Clara asked.

  “Yes. I only want to know he is well and safe. Miss Fitzgerald, my brother is a criminal, I have no illusions about that, but he is still my brother and I would not see harm come to him. I don’t know what trouble he is in or why he is running, but I will do all I can to help him. That is why I ask for your help. Do you see?”

  “I do,” Clara said. “I shall do what I can, Miss Leong, if he is in Brighton I shall find him.”

  Leong’s grin moved into Cheshire Cat territory.

  “I shall be forever grateful to you for this,” she bowed her head to Clara. “When you learn anything, you can reach me here.”

  She handed Clara a card from one of the smarter hotels in Brighton. Clara knew how much that place charged a night and she must have shown some of her astonishment in her face.

  “You see you need not have concerns about me paying my bill,” Leong was amused as she stood up. “I hope to hear from you soon, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  Leong took her umbrella and left the teashop. Clara sat alone, feeling utterly bemused by this turn of events. What was Leong doing? Was she hoping that Clara would locate her brother and betray him to her? If she did not suspect Clara was already working with Chang than that seemed the likeliest scenario. Leong guessed her brother was in Brighton, but could not find him herself, so she was hoping an outsider could.

  It was all too confusing, but the one thing Clara knew for certain was it was too dangerous to seek out Chang and warn him. No, she would have to wait for another time when he came to her. Until then, she would make the pretence of looking for him in case Leong’s thugs were watching her.

  Clara had to be careful. Very, very careful.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  How remarkable that a morgue could feel safe and comforting after a confrontation with Jao L
eong. Clara walked down the steps at the entrance, heading below ground. The walls were tiled in white and situating the morgue as deep as was possible meant it was cool all year round. In winter it was positively freezing, and Clara had seen icicles forming on the ceiling before now. Like some icehouse for the dead, the perpetually cold morgue enabled Dr Deáth, the police coroner, to keep the dearly departed suitably chilled.

  Dr Deáth was not the sort of person you would imagine in a morgue, though his name did seem to dispose him to working with the deceased. Many of his family members were doctors to the living, which seemed mildly disturbing considering their appellation. More appropriately (or not depending on your viewpoint) his cousin worked as a funeral director. Dr Deáth was always cheerful, often found humming to himself as he worked. He did not become depressed over the bodies that found their way to him, instead he treated them with thoughtfulness and respect, but not with a grimace on his face. He had once explained to Clara that just because you were dead didn’t mean you wanted to see everyone around you looking morbid.

  Clara could hear the good doctor humming as she entered the main room of the morgue. He was stood at a table, working on the body of an elderly man, wearing his thick rubber apron that protected his clothes from the inevitable splatter. Fortunately, he had not yet begun cutting into the corpse when Clara appeared.

  “Dear Clara!” He said brightly. “Excuse poor Mr Wiesz, he suffered a fall down the stairs of a certain hotel and there are some questions about how it came about. I don’t suppose I can answer them, seeing as how a shove to the back or even tripping by foot is not something likely to leave a mark on the body. Still, we do our best.”

  Clara had become somewhat immured to dead bodies since her early days as a detective. She cast her eyes on Mr Wiesz without any real sense of horror or fear, the commonest reactions people felt to a body. She was not even shocked at the sight of a corpse these days, which perhaps said a little too much about her daily activities.

  “That would explain that nasty lump on Mr Wiesz’s forehead.”

  “Ah, you would assume so. However, I have been informed that most likely happened when he fell out of bed a short time before his, erm, plummet,” Dr Deáth had a peculiar look on his face.

  Clara took the bait, aware he wanted her to ply him for further information.

  “Old men fall out of their beds from time to time,” she said.

  “Usually, however, they are either alone or with their wives. Mr Wiesz was with a scantily clad young lady.”

  “Oh,” Clara saw the picture he was attempting to paint, “and in a certain hotel too. Might Mr Wiesz have died in a brothel?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say,” Dr Deáth grinned. “Though it has occurred to me that that is quite an exciting way to go when one has passed a certain age. A lot better than dying in a hospital bed.”

  “I wonder if Mr Wiesz would agree,” Clara smiled, her eyes twinkling with hidden amusement.

  “If only we could ask,” Dr Deáth chuckled to himself. “Now, how may I help you? Ah, it will be about the Hutson case?”

  Dr Deáth walked towards a wall lined with what might look like metal cupboards. They glinted beneath the illuminated lightbulbs. Deáth opened one in the middle, revealing a deep, narrow chute, within which rested a corpse. The large proportions of the body, which only just squeezed into the tight space, confirmed the man was Stanley Hutson.

  He emerged from the chute feet first.

  “Had I been Mr Hutson’s doctor when he was alive, I might have had a conversation with him about his lifestyle,” Dr Deáth noted as he pulled the drawer tray out to its full extent so Clara could see his bloodless face once again. Hutson looked relaxed in death, as if he was sleeping. “The liver showed signs of cirrhosis, a result of drinking too much. I would say the man had been an alcoholic in the past, thought I didn’t notice any signs of recent alcohol consumption. All his organs were surrounded by fat and I noticed the arteries of the heart were clogged and hardened. I should say he was perilously close to having a heart attack, if he had not already had a minor one or two. The lungs were also very black and shrunken, I would say he was a heavy smoker.

  “There was water retention in the legs that was not a product of death, but something he suffered from in life, and there were one or two signs that made me suspect he was in the early stages of diabetes. Quite frankly, he was not a healthy man and I would have given him a year or two, at the most, if he did not make some serious effort to improve his health.”

  Clara looked at the former dame, who had made his career from being larger than life, in all ways. Sad to think that beneath the bright wigs and gaudy costume, here was a man living perilously on the cusp of serious illness and death.

  “His murderer clearly did not know this,” Clara observed. “Or else was impatient.”

  “Yes, that person’s actions certainly scuppered Mother Nature’s plans,” Dr Deáth pointed to a thin line around the corpse’s neck. He had done a good job of cleaning the wound and positioning the head in such a way that the line was virtually invisible. “I’ll sew it up before he goes to the undertakers. Until then, I have to leave it for the police to inspect. Not that I imagine Park-Coombs will want to take another look.”

  “Can you tell me about the killing stroke?”

  “There were three, actually,” Dr Deáth gently moved Hutson’s head back a fraction, revealing the bloody gash in his throat. “The first was relatively short, a slightly tentative stroke, perhaps. Either that or the killer was not as near as they would have liked to be. In any case, the first cut though not long, was sufficient in depth to begin a fatal process of bleeding.

  “The second stroke I daresay was dealt quickly afterwards, before Hutson had much chance to react. This one was longer and went up along the jawline, nearly striking the earlobe. The stroke was deeper too, and would have cut through the windpipe, effectively preventing Hutson from calling out.

  “Now, there was a bump to the back of Hutson’s head that indicates he fell back hard to the floor. The bruise occurred when he was alive, and I suggest, though I cannot be certain, that it was after the second blow was struck that he fell back. The third slice is significant, because the angle is different. The first two indicated the killer cutting at an upward angle, the tip of the weapon piercing beneath the jaw, with the slice marks indicating the knife was held at an angle of around 45 degrees.”

  Dr Deáth held his finger to his throat to indicate how the thrust was performed.

  “Now, this implies the killer was holding the weapon in the hand rather like you might hold a fire poker, or certainly the way you thrust with a knife. However, the last stroke was different,” Dr Deáth changed the position of his hand, now he was pointing his finger parallel to his throat. “The last blow, I would say occurred when the killer was on top of Hutson. He was thrusting down, rather than upwards, the cut clearly different to the first two, with the point of the weapon going horizontally into the neck, rather than piercing upwards. That is why I think Hutson had fallen at that point, banged his head and the killer was crouching over him.

  “That last blow was wholly unnecessary. Hutson was doomed by the second stroke. The third cut was savage enough to penetrate to the spine and scrape the bones of the vertebrae. It nearly severed the head. I would imagine Hutson died very rapidly after that.

  “Oh, and there is a defensive wound on his hand that probably occurred on the second slice. The index finger is cut to the bone.”

  “Nasty,” Clara sighed, thinking of the brutality of the killer. “What does this tell us about the murderer?”

  Dr Deáth became thoughtful.

  “The angle of the first two strokes suggest someone smaller than our victim, so they had to cut upwards. I doubt they were the same height as Hutson.”

  Clara quickly ran through her mind the relative heights of Hutson and Mervyn Baldry. Having seen them on stage together, she was fairly certain they were of a similar stature. Hutson wor
e high heels when he was dressed as the dame, which would have made him slightly taller than Mervyn. Without those on, he must have been close in height to his comedy partner.

  “Was Hutson wearing shoes when he was removed from the laundry basket?” Clara asked.

  “No,” Dr Deáth replied. “His feet were bare.”

  Since no shoes had been found at the murder scene, the likeliest supposition was that Hutson had taken them off the moment he left the stage and had walked down the corridor barefoot. She doubted the shoes were terribly comfortably, especially for a man of Hutson’s girth. He would slip them off the second he could, but she could check that to be sure.

  In any case, the angle of the strokes, and the lack of shoes, seemed to indicate Mervyn was out of the picture as the killer. He would have been too tall to cut Stanley in such a way.

  “How much shorter would you say the killer must have been?” Clara asked.

  Dr Deáth gave this a considerable amount of thought, then he held up a hand before himself, as if judging his own height.

  “As we are both aware, I am not a tall man,” Deáth grinned. “My feeling is that the killer must have been of a similar height to me or smaller. Hutson was a good six foot in bare feet, his murderer could not have been much more than five feet.”

  Clara was surprised by this, such a small killer also would rule out the implicated Erikson, who was as tall, if not a fraction taller, than Mervyn Baldry. She racked her memory for who among the performers might fit such a height deficit.

  “You know, this suggests one of the women members of the cast. I can think of none of the men so small as you mention.”

  “Nothing is set in stone,” Dr Deáth hastily pointed out. “There might be another reason the killer cut at such an angle, but my instinct would say it was due to the person being smaller than Hutson.”

  Clara studied the body again.

  “How many of your men did it take to remove Hutson from that laundry basket?”

  “Two,” Dr Deáth said automatically. “And they were strong lads. He was a heavy fellow in life, and nothing like being dead to make you even heavier.”