Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  “At least I know now,” Park-Coombs said calmly. “You ever need help Clara, you just call me.”

  “I feel terrible, Inspector. I came here and accused you of accepting bribes and you still want to help me.”

  “You did not accuse me,” the inspector smiled. “Besides, I already told you that I had made a good job of making it look like I was corrupt. I actually feel quite pleased I fooled you. Hopefully that means I have fooled Leong too. Anyway, we are friends.”

  Clara still felt guilty, but his words were comforting.

  “I hate all this,” she said. “I hate that I am being used, or at least that is how it feels.”

  “You are not being used,” Park-Coombs told her firmly. “You are using them. I have every faith you are cunning enough to play Leong and Chang off each other. Between us, we shall find a way to resolve this mess and make Brighton safe again.”

  “I hope you are right. Well, in the meantime I need to find the killer of Stanley Hutson.”

  Park-Coombs pulled a face.

  “Killer and accomplices. Dr Deáth said it might have taken three people to move that body,” Park-Coombs winced at the thought. “And if Mervyn is ruled out, we are somewhat stumped.”

  “I am certain the solution lies with this Albert Long and the rumours that Hutson stole his part,” Clara said. “I just need to figure out who might be taking revenge for a dead man.”

  Clara glanced out of the window at the rain. Would it ever be dry again? Her fingers felt chilled and she was not looking forward to the long walk to the theatre.

  “Does it sound odd that dealing with an ordinary murder, one not tied up with conspiracy and criminals is rather a relief. I think this case may be keeping me sane.”

  “I think I understand,” Park-Coombs chortled. “Give me a bog-standard case of sheep rustling, any day. Which reminds me, I need to go over to White Farm and see if the constable I left out there has any news. Would you like a lift home?”

  “No, thank you, I think it would be best if we maintain our distance for the duration,” Clara sighed, thinking a drive in a car would have been nice. “Anyway, I am going back to the theatre.”

  “If you see Mr Maddock, tell him his Buttons will be released by noon.”

  “I am certain that will delight him,” Clara smiled.

  “I hope so, he has been moping around the station with a face like thunder since the arrest. I don’t think he fully appreciates that a man has been murdered and that takes precedent over his little pantomime.”

  “I imagine he would see things completely opposite,” Clara remarked. “The show must go on, and all that.”

  Park-Coombs twitched his moustache at the adage, clearly not impressed.

  “Damn the show, I deal with justice and finding a killer no matter what it takes.”

  “Some would argue that the needs of the living are greater than the needs of the dead,” Clara suggested.

  The dirty look Park-Coombs gave her in return summed up his feelings on that particular statement.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clara returned to the theatre with Tommy. She had a short list of possible suspects, now that nearly all the men had been ruled out. She was hoping that Eustace Drake might shed some light on who could be responsible for the crime, who might be keen to avenge Albert Long.

  They approached the theatre by the back alley, as the main doors would be locked at this time of day. They found Erikson there, sitting on the step before the door and smoking a cigarette. He looked miserable.

  “Morning,” Clara called out.

  Erikson lifted his head and stared at her with a look of dazed sombreness.

  “Who is around?” Clara added when Erikson failed to respond.

  “Mostly everyone,” Erikson took a drag of his cigarette.

  “You look down in the dumps,” Tommy observed. “What’s troubling you?”

  Erikson shrugged.

  “Ah, women problems,” Tommy said at once. “Never knew anything else that can cause a man such heartache as a woman.”

  Erikson flicked what remained of his cigarette away.

  “Yeah, well, too good to be true, I suppose,” he muttered. “Been thrown over, not any use to her now, I guess. I’ve been a bloody fool.”

  A sudden flash of memory jolted Clara.

  “That would be Audrey Burns who plays Aladdin?”

  Erikson was taken aback that she knew so much about him.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It was mentioned you were stood out here with her during the fire,” Clara replied. “I believe she also was quick to speak up for you being out here with her when I was asking people about where everyone was the night Stanley Hutson died.”

  Erikson shivered at the mention of Hutson’s name.

  “I’ve been trying not to think about him,” he said. “Anyway, Audrey told me to sling my hook this morning. You can’t trust women, you know.”

  Erikson did not seem to realise the irony of his statement, spoken as it was to Clara.

  “You can trust me,” Clara said. “Besides, a girl like that is not deserving of your sorrow. If she is so cutthroat, you are better off without her.”

  Erikson grimaced.

  “Yeah, probably,” he mumbled, then he rose and headed into the backstage of the theatre as quickly as he could.

  “Young love,” Tommy said in a mocking tone.

  Clara elbowed him.

  “Don’t be mean, Erikson was clearly enamoured.”

  “These theatre romances never last, name me an actor who has remained married to the same woman all his days?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Clara said, certain there must be at least one who had broken the mould. “But you know what it is, people always assume they shall be different.”

  “Erikson was the chorus boy and Audrey was the lead, that was never going to end well.”

  “You are such a pessimist.”

  “I prefer the term pragmatist. Men don’t cope well when the women in their lives are more successful than them. Simply the way things are.”

  Clara shook her head, not wanting to believe that statement as she entered the theatre. It did not take them long to stumble across Maddock.

  “Good news, Mervyn should be released in time for the evening performance, if not the matinee,” Clara told him.

  Maddock’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  “One piece of luck at last,” he groaned. “Wait, does that mean the police have identified the real killer?”

  “Not yet,” Clara said. “But I am getting closer.”

  Maddock nodded, still looking fraught.

  “I would beg you to hurry, Miss Fitzgerald, the company is in turmoil wondering who did this terrible thing.”

  Clara knew there was simply no way to hurry an investigation, it dictated its own pace, but she did not say that.

  “Can you point me in the direction of Eustace Drake?” She asked.

  Maddock suddenly went pale.

  “You don’t suspect him? He is a stalwart of the stage!”

  “No, no, that’s not it,” Clara told him swiftly. “I simply want to ask him about Hutson’s past. Specifically about a fellow actor named Albert Long.”

  Maddock looked puzzled.

  “Albert Long has been dead nearly four years,” he said. “Poor man could not face the fact he had wasted his talent. It was a terrible tragedy. Stanley spoke at his funeral.”

  “I have heard rumours that suggest Hutson stole aspects of his dame performance from Long, being Buttons to his dame in their first pantomime and then taking over the role when Long became ill.”

  Maddock shook his head.

  “Jealousy, that was all that was,” he said. “Actors are catty creatures and there are plenty who are envious of Stanley’s success. I wouldn’t pay any heed.”

  “Yet, if someone else did take those rumours seriously, and had reason to be deeply upset by Long’s suicide, then they might consider
taking revenge, whether the stories were true or not. That is a motive and a reason for writing ‘thief’ on Hutson’s clothing.”

  Maddock seemed to reel back from this revelation. He was more than a little shocked by the news.

  “Those rumours have been doing the circuit so long, no one really listened to them,” he said, mostly to himself. “Stanley never, ever caused Albert any harm. He felt sorry for him, tried to always make sure he had a part in the productions Stanley was involved with. That was who he was. He wanted to help. Stanley was always helping.”

  “As he helped Miss Allen to get her part in this panto?” Clara asked.

  Maddock gave a slight groan.

  “Yes, he insisted, said she deserved a chance. He was too kind, you know? Sometimes he failed to see the reality of a situation. Miss Allen is a has-been, a child actress who is unremarkable as an adult performer. She just has to accept that. But you could never explain these things to Stanley. If I was not careful, I would end up with every role in the panto being filled by Stanley’s charity cases.”

  Maddock was distracted by a stagehand appearing and calling his name. There was an issue with one of the backdrops that had snagged the evening before and torn. Maddock excused himself to deal with this minor emergency, pointing as he left to Eustace Drake’s dressing room.

  “Sometimes I think if anyone was going to get murdered it would be Maddock,” Tommy whispered to Clara. “He says some harsh things about his cast. I didn’t think Grace a bad actress.”

  “Were you possibly distracted by the skimpy costume and exotic dancing she did?” Clara teased him. “If I recall, she had extremely limited lines and did a lot of sitting around looking pretty.”

  “That’s slightly harsh.”

  “I was merely observing that her performance was rather uninspiring.”

  Clara knocked on Eustace Drake’s dressing room door and a male voice asked her to enter.

  “I think that somewhat mean, there was the cave scene,” Tommy continued their conversation without interruption.

  “If I recall that involved her screaming and swooning,” Clara raised an eyebrow as she opened the door. “If that is acting, the theatre has truly gone downhill since last I was here.”

  Clara appeared in Eustace’s dressing room with a smile on her face. The older man was sat on a sofa eating a hearty sandwich and reading the newspaper. His vizier costume remained on a hanger, waiting for him to don it.

  Eustace Drake had turned sixty-four just a few days earlier and out of his make-up he rather looked his age. He was stout with a jowly face and a lot of wrinkles. His hair was grey verging on white and cut short for the purposes of wearing his vizier head dress. In his day he had been well known for his roles in Shakespeare and other sophisticated plays, now he tended to only appear in pantomimes, spending the rest of his year at his country estate where he happily enjoyed his semi-retirement. Unlike many in the company who either seemed bitter or despondent about their careers, Eustace was perfectly content. He liked his roles, he liked his life. He had settled into a routine that suited him and if some might argue he wanted for ambition these days, he would soon remind them that it was a worthy ambition to be happy and to enjoy life.

  He smiled pleasantly at Clara.

  “Hello, Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Clara said. “I wondered if you had a moment to talk?”

  Eustace grinned.

  “Certainly. I don’t have to start getting ready for ages as yet,” Eustace motioned to a pair of chairs by his dressing table and Clara and Tommy sat down. “I imagine this is about dear Stanley? That hit me like a brick. To think he was murdered.”

  “Actually, I hoped you could help me in regards to another actor. Mr Albert Long?” Clara asked.

  Eustace wrinkled his brow, his face becoming a map of tiny lines.

  “Long has been dead for a while now.”

  “I know, I just wondered if it was possible someone blamed Hutson for his death. You see, someone wrote the word thief on Hutson’s clothes, and that had to be for a reason. I then discovered rumours that Hutson had stolen his dame performance off someone and wondered if that someone was Long.”

  Eustace seemed troubled by the suggestion.

  “Albert played a dame once, yes, but he took ill and was replaced.”

  “By Hutson,” Clara pointed out.

  Eustace thought about this for a while.

  “Albert was unlucky, I think that was the way of it. His health was suspect and he never could make a breakthrough to bigger roles. That first dame part should have been his ticket to a brighter future, but to suggest Stanley stole it from him is to misunderstand the circumstances.”

  “People don’t always see things correctly,” Clara explained. “Especially when they are unhappy with their lives. They blame others. It is a form of jealousy.”

  Eustace still seemed confused. He contemplated his sandwich for a bit, then placed it back down on a plate.

  “Albert’s dead, you know?”

  “Yes, but I wonder if there is someone looking for revenge on his behalf?” Clara said. “Someone who did not take his death well and places blame for it wrongly upon Hutson’s shoulders.”

  Eustace tilted his head to one side.

  “Albert had friends, but none I could imagine doing this.”

  “It may help you to know that I suspect the killer of Hutson is a woman.”

  Eustace’s eyes widened. He was silent a while, his eyes straying to his costume. What he was thinking was a mystery, maybe he was contemplating his journey through the theatre and the jealousies and spite that had followed him. He had found a peaceful place to exist now, but he might well remember earlier days when securing a role meant pushing someone else out of the way.

  “Albert was a complicated soul. He didn’t really have many women friends, not… not like that,” Eustace was not meeting Clara’s eyes. “He preferred male company. In all ways.”

  “You are suggesting Mr Long was inclined towards men romantically?” Clara said cautiously.

  “Happens a lot in the theatre,” Eustace said nonchalantly. “You rather take it as the norm. Not that I am that way inclined, but I know plenty who are. They even once said that Albert and Stanley were something more than friends during that first panto season, but that was a lie. Stanley liked women. My point is that I can’t think of any woman friend of Albert’s who could have done this. He didn’t have that many and none are on this cast.”

  “What about his family?”

  “Parents are dead,” Eustace said. “He had a sister. She lives in Gloucester, I think. She has nothing to do with the theatre. Married an accountant, which is about as far away as you can get from an actor.”

  Eustace chuckled.

  “What was her name?”

  “Lizzie,” Eustace said. “Which I suppose was short for Elizabeth. I remember her coming to the theatre where Albert was performing a few times in the early years, then she drifted away. I saw her at Albert’s funeral. She clasped my hand tight after it was all over and said she remembered us all so well, from those happier times.”

  “Were Albert and his sister close?” Tommy asked.

  “Once, before she married,” Eustace replied. “Sadly, the husband disliked Albert. I think he was one of those prudes who get sensitive about a man who likes men rather than women. It is all nonsense, nothing wrong with that sort. I’ve worked with so many over the years and some of them are really big names, men everyone thinks of as being womanisers. Anyway, Albert and Lizzie lost touch and I think we all rather felt that contributed to his death.”

  “What happened to Albert?” Clara asked. “I mean, why did he do it?”

  “No one really knows,” Eustace sighed sadly. “He had a part and for once it looked like things were going well for him. I think he was a little lonely, but we all get like that from time to time. I’m not married, you see, which is why I like the pantomime season. Christmas can be a tim
e when you notice being alone more than ever. I guess Albert just couldn’t cope with it anymore.”

  Clara felt terribly sad for this man she had never met, even if his death had been the possible catalyst for a murder.

  “Do you know the name of the man Lizzie married?” Clara asked.

  “Nope. He never came around the theatre and I was certainly not invited to their wedding. Albert went, of course,” Eustace looked apologetic. “Sorry, that isn’t helpful is it?”

  “Not your fault,” Clara smiled at him. “I don’t suppose you have seen Lizzie recently?”

  “Not since the funeral,” Eustace shrugged. “There would be no reason.”

  “No, no there would not,” Clara decided they had learned all they could. She rose, thanked Mr Drake and departed the dressing room.

  Outside, she paused with Tommy.

  “Another dead end?” Tommy spoke.

  “I don’t know,” Clara admitted. “I don’t want to let go of this just yet. It is the only lead we have got and the only motive we know about.”

  “Then we try to find out more about Lizzie Long?”

  “Yes, I think so. Else it is back to the drawing board.”

  Tommy pulled a face that mimicked Clara’s thoughts about that. This was proving a tricky problem, with no obvious motive for murder and all the suspects seemingly accounted for.

  “You see, if Albert had a niece, she could be in the cast,” Clara mulled. “Might have followed in her uncle’s footsteps.”

  “And avenged his death?” Tommy looked grim. “All right, that’s our next step. Trace a niece and hope for the best.”

  “Or try to find someone else with a motive.”

  Clara was looking down the corridor at Grace Allen, who had just entered her dressing room.

  “Either way, it’s time we solved this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On the way home from the theatre, Clara excused herself to go into a shop and buy an umbrella. She had spotted a nice dark red one for sale in the window. Tommy said he would meet her at home and carried on his way. Inside the shop, Clara discovered the umbrella was not of the quality she had anticipated from viewing it in the window and was somewhat disappointed. She was debating whether or not to purchase it, the price tag being slightly extravagant for what she was getting, when a male voice spoke behind her.