Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  “You see what I am thinking?” Clara said. “Supposing the killer to be a woman, no more than five foot in height, how could she drag Hutson to the laundry room and stuff him in a basket?”

  Dr Deáth nodded along.

  “She couldn’t and, quite frankly, dragging this corpse along the floor would have left a blood smear. No, Hutson had to have been carried to that laundry basket after he had bled to death. Still would have been a risk of blood drops, but those could be missed. He may have been carried in a blanket, anyway.”

  “Killers,” Clara mulled over this possibility. “Or one killer and her accomplice. Still, even with help a woman would have struggled to carry Hutson. It almost makes me think there was a third person present to dispose of the body. Those laundry baskets are tall, not easy to heft a heavy man into, especially when you are short.”

  “That is a fair assumption,” Dr Deáth agreed. “But how does that help you?”

  “I’m not sure it does, as such. If three people were involved, well, they could easily give each other an alibi for the time of the murder, say they were all out in the alley together. That means I can no longer rely on those alibis. It also means that people I previously thought could not have been involved, are back in the frame.”

  In her head, Clara reminded herself that among those back in the picture was Mervyn Baldry. He might not have killed Hutson, but he could have been responsible for hiding his corpse. Clara felt all her previous assumptions coming crashing down around her ears. She was suddenly back to where she had begun – except for one thing.

  “A female killer,” she muttered. “The height thing, it points to a woman plainly, and there are not that many on the cast. There are the dressers of course, but most of the stage crew are male. No, I have only a handful of women to consider.”

  “I’m sorry I was not more helpful,” Dr Deáth said with genuine disappointment. “I fear I have made things more complicated for you.”

  “No, you have been helpful,” Clara promised him. “I just have to consider how this new information fits into what I already knew.”

  Dr Deáth pushed Hutson’s corpse back into his narrow, metal tomb and closed the door. For the time being he could tell them nothing else.

  “You know, I watched Mr Hutson perform many years ago,” Dr Deáth said with a wistful look in his eye. “I thought him rather good, not that I had much experience of pantomimes to compare his performance with.”

  “From what I have heard, every pantomime wanted him as their dame,” Clara agreed.

  “Well, that is something I suppose. I mean, we all seek a certain immortality from our time on earth, and Mr Hutson has his. The country’s greatest dame that ever performed, not a bad epitaph.”

  Clara thought it could be better, if he had not been slaughtered so brutally. That was going to be the thing most remembered now.

  “I best let you get on,” Clara said to Deáth. “Thank you for your assistance. I am sure Mr Wiesz is getting impatient now.”

  Dr Deáth smiled at her, a glimmer in his eye.

  “The dead are never impatient, Clara, that is the preserve of the living and, I must say, it is what draws me to working with the deceased.”

  Clara was not quite sure how to take that, but she smiled to the curious doctor and said a final goodbye, deciding it was time to head back to the theatre.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rupert Maddock found Clara backstage, staring into the redundant space where the ropes of the disused pulley system hung. She was staring at the distinctive, dark brown stain on the floor. If she half closed her eyes, she could almost make the ominous spread look like the shape of a man, rather than a deformed puddle.

  “Miss Fitzgerald,” Maddock distracted her. “Any news about Mervyn?”

  Clara drew back from the rope room and blinked her eyes as the bright light of the corridor replaced the darkness of the tiny space.

  “The evidence of the coroner indicates the killer was considerably shorter than Mr Hutson. That rules out Mervyn as the killer.”

  Maddock let out a sigh of relief.

  “At last, some good news! When will the police release him?”

  “I cannot say for sure, but this new evidence is pretty conclusive. There is one problem, however.”

  Maddock’s expression of delight descended to dejection.

  “Oh?”

  “The coroner is also certain it would have required at least two people, possibly three, to carry Hutson from this place to where he was found in the laundry basket, and that means everyone is back to being a possible suspect.”

  Maddock flopped against the nearest wall, looking deeply distressed.

  “What now?” He asked weakly.

  “I want to see all the costumes,” Clara said. “I am guessing the killer wore Erikson’s royal guard costume, since it was covered with blood. But the accomplices would likely have blood on their clothing too. Not so much, maybe only spots if they were careful and carried Hutson in a blanket, but I am hopeful they did not get away without some trace of blood being left on them.”

  “What if the costumes have been washed,” Maddock pointed out.

  “Blood is very durable. I have to try, at least.”

  Maddock showed her to the costume racks backstage. The dressers were not present, and Clara had her leisure to work through all the clothing. She was disappointed to realise that many of the outfits were red, black or dark brown, which could easily hide a drop of blood. She concentrated on the lighter coloured costumes, but it seemed the killer and their accomplices had been clever enough to don outfits that would hide the spatter. It made sense, considering the killer had borrowed Erikson’s royal guard uniform for the purpose. There had been some careful planning involved in this crime.

  Failing to find what she was hoping for, Clara stood back from the racks and stared out onto the empty stage. Supposing the accomplices were not from the cast, but from the stage crew? For that matter, supposing the killer was one of the dressers, both of a suitably small height? They would have taken their clothes away and washed them thoroughly. Clara sighed. It was a dead end.

  “Nothing?” Maddock asked with despair in his tone.

  “No,” Clara replied quietly. “Mr Maddock, I believe this killer may have been a woman, and there are only a handful of them among your cast and working backstage.”

  Maddock nodded slowly, taking in this information.

  “A woman?” His eyes widened. “That is quite horrible, to think a woman could do such a thing.”

  “Actually, women are typically as bloodthirsty as men,” Clara answered him. “If a woman is driven by anger or some other passion, she can do terrible things. How many women are in this production?”

  Maddock seemed to be trying to rally his thoughts back into order. The revelation had stunned him.

  “Erm… there are six women in the cast. Miss Burns and Miss Allen, of course, and then four girls in the chorus.”

  “What about backstage?”

  “Working you mean? Oh, there are the two dressers, that’s it. The heavier work is all done by men. We keep the pantomime on quite a tight budget, so there is no one helping the cast with their hair or make-up, and backstage crew are kept to a minimum. In fact, most of the stagehands are employees of this theatre and I do not personally pay them.”

  “What of the dressers?”

  “Maud and Dolores work for the company. I need reliable dressers; they have to know their job inside and out.”

  “My point, Mr Maddock, is this crime though designed to look like a sudden act of violence, really appears to have been carefully planned out. I don’t think this was done in the heat of the moment, rather someone had concocted this scheme prior to the night it occurred and had been thoughtful about how to go about killing Hutson while diverting suspicion from themselves,” Clara explained. “This indicates the people involved were very familiar with Hutson. They had to have been to have had a motive to want him dead. They were n
ot people who barely knew him.”

  “I see,” Maddock was solemn. “Then, we have to wonder who among the women here had a reason to want him dead? Maud and Dolores have been with the company for around a decade and have worked with Hutson several times in the past.”

  “What of your two leading ladies?”

  “Audrey is quite new to the scene, very up and coming, as they say,” Maddock spoke softly, seeming troubled by the thought someone might overhear him. “She has been in a handful of amateur performances before this panto. She auditioned for me and I was sufficiently impressed to offer her the role of Aladdin. I can see this being a stepping stone to greater things for the young lady.”

  “Had she worked with Hutson before?”

  “She had never done a panto before and Hutson only does pantomimes these days. It’s a long season, what with the first rehearsals, then the dress rehearsals and the three months of performances. All told it can be five or six months of rehearsing and performing. Stanley was finding it increasingly exhausting and would take three or four months after panto season to recuperate. Then he would come to me and we would start talking about what the next pantomime should be.”

  “I didn’t realise Hutson was that involved in the panto,” Clara said, surprised by the news.

  “Oh, Stanley had a huge say. We worked together to pick the pantomime, then we worked together on the script, picking out the songs we wanted and commissioned new ones,” Maddock came to a halt as the words slowly hit him. “I am going to really miss him, you know. It shan’t be the same, writing a pantomime without his input. He always did the jokes.”

  Clara smiled at the unfortunate director in sympathy. His loss went beyond being simply a professional problem, he had lost a friend, someone who in many ways he had come to rely on. Only now was Maddock realising what had been snatched from him.

  “What about Miss Allen,” Clara nudged him a little, to remind him what they were discussing.

  Maddock blinked.

  “Grace Allen has been on the theatre scene a few years now. Started out in child roles but has made the transition to adult work. That does not always happen, you see. Miss Allen has been somewhat underwhelming as Princess Zara, if I am truly honest,” Maddock shrugged. “The charms of childhood mask a myriad of flaws in acting ability. I’m afraid I rather erred in hiring Miss Allen.”

  “That is quite a harsh assessment,” Clara remarked.

  “You saw her performance the other night, honestly, what did you think?”

  Clara took a moment to remember the other night. It seemed an awfully long time ago that they were sat in the theatre watching the panto and with no knowledge that the dame was about to be murdered.

  “I can’t say I really remember her performance,” Clara admitted.

  “Precisely,” Maddock nodded. “Though, at least it is better she is forgettable than if she was memorable for being so bad.”

  “Why did you hire her if she is such a poor actress?” Clara asked.

  Maddock almost seemed to start as her question sparked his memory.

  “Why, it was because Stanley said we should. He near enough insisted we hire her.”

  Clara jumped onto this new information.

  “Why would Hutson say that? How did he know Miss Allen?”

  Maddock was frowning, trying to remember those early discussions about who should play what role.

  “I think Miss Allen had performed in pantomimes before, as a child. Stanley must have known her from then and wanted to help her find her feet as an adult actress.”

  Clara wondered if it was just a simple act of kindness that had brought Grace Allen to this company, or whether there was far more to the story. Could Grace have a grudge against Stanley? Might she consider him a thief for some reason?

  “I need to talk to Grace Allen,” Clara said firmly.

  Maddock gave a small groan, perhaps fearing another of his cast would be disappearing to a police cell, then he glanced at his watch.

  “She should be here shortly. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”

  ~~~*~~~

  Grace Allen arrived a couple of hours before the matinee was due to begin and went straight to her dressing room. That was where Clara found her. As a leading lady, Grace had the small, cupboard-like room to herself, and that meant Clara could talk with her privately. She knocked on the door and waited to be asked to enter.

  “Miss Allen?”

  Grace was sat at the narrow dressing table, putting the first stages of make-up on her face. She looked at Clara with clear disdain, then groaned to herself.

  “If I had known it was you, I would not have said you could enter.”

  Clara stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her. Now she was here, she was not going to give Grace the chance to kick her out.

  “I need to talk to you about Stanley Hutson.”

  “I really don’t have time,” Grace muttered. “I have so much to do.”

  “It won’t take long if you are cooperative,” there was one spare chair in the room and Clara sat on it, making it plain she was not leaving. “Had you worked with Hutson before?”

  “Straight to the point, then?” Grace grumbled, thumbing greasepaint from a pot. “Am I a suspect? I thought they arrested Mervyn?”

  “Mervyn is not the killer,” Clara said firmly. “The coroner’s evidence has proven that conclusively. And I have my doubts about the witness who supposedly saw him following Hutson.”

  Grace had frozen in place. Clara was starting to wonder if she had hit on something.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”

  Grace came to life again, taking greasepaint up on her finger and applying it to her forehead.

  “I don’t, no.”

  “I think whoever went to the police and told them Mervyn had followed Stanley Hutson was trying to place the murder upon him. They suspected he was the culprit, but knew there was not enough real evidence to prove it, unless someone saw him go after Hutson,” Clara did not add, that another motive for pointing the finger at Mervyn would be to distract attention from the real killer. Let Grace think she was suggesting she was motivated by thoughts of justice, rather than something more sinister.

  Grace gave an awkward cough, as if her throat had gone dry, and then applied more greasepaint.

  “Well, if Mervyn is not the killer, who is?”

  Clara was not thrown by the less-than-subtle, change of subject.

  “I’m working on that,” she said. “I hear you knew Hutson quite well?”

  “We had been in some pantos together before,” Grace shrugged. “He was a kind man.”

  “He persuaded Mr Maddock to cast you as Princess Zara,” Clara pointed out.

  Grace hesitated again, and though Clara could only see her face via her reflection in the dressing room mirror, she was certain there was a hint of sadness to her expression.

  “I didn’t know that,” she said. “Stanley always took an interest in me. He was very good friends with my mother and father. My father writes songs and music for stage productions, he wrote a number of the tunes in this pantomime. My mother was a great actress, before her sudden death.”

  “It seems Mr Hutson was watching out for you,” Clara said softly. “You must have been angered by his murder.”

  Grace had given up on the greasepaint. Her hands rested lightly on the dressing table, her eyes stared off into some distant place.

  “He was a friend. It hasn’t been easy for me getting work as an adult actress. I’ve had to use my mother’s name more than once to obtain roles. I never realised Stanley had helped me get this part. That was good of him.”

  “Strikes me he was well liked by most people, which makes it strange he was murdered.”

  “Yes. Yes, I thought that. He didn’t seem the sort of person anyone would want to harm,” Grace frowned. “But, you know, there was all that talk about Mervyn Baldry’s fight with him years ago, and it seemed lo
gical that maybe he snapped again. People were whispering Mervyn was a little unhinged.”

  “And is that why you went to the police and told them you had seen Mervyn follow Stanley? Because you wanted Stanley’s killer to be brought to justice?”

  “He could have done it. It made sense he did it. But the police wouldn’t ever notice him if they weren’t pointed in the right direction,” Grace caught herself. “I never said he killed Stanley. I only made them think.”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “If you think me awful, so be it, but Mervyn seemed a likely killer. He attacked Stanley once before and… and you are right, I didn’t want to see this turn into one more unsolved murder. There are too many of those.”

  Grace dropped her head forward. She did not appear to be crying, but Clara felt her grief and anger over Stanley’s murder was genuine. It seemed she was close to ruling out another suspect.

  “How did you know Mr Hutson was dead?” Clara asked.

  Grace took a heavy breath.

  “I saw him slumped in the pulley room. His throat cut,” Grace struggled to say the words. “I couldn’t say anything because I was not meant to be there, you see? Even though it was horrible.”

  “Not meant to be there?”

  Grace’s head drooped even lower.

  “I go to the pulley room to smoke. I’m not supposed to smoke because it wrecks my singing voice,” Grace mumbled. “Mr Maddock gets very angry about it. I needed a cigarette and it was the only place that is empty, but that’s where he was, Stanley. I thought at first he had done himself in, so I hurried away, pretended I had not seen it. Only later did I think that it looked more like he was murdered and then I remembered Mervyn being right behind Stanley and that terrible thing that happened in 1913.”

  “And you leapt to a conclusion.”

  Grace shrugged.

  “It made sense, who else would have a grudge against Stanley? I don’t like Mervyn, anyway, he says odd things about my acting.”