The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  His plan would be to make one of the slots at the rear slightly wider than the others to allow a blade, driven with extra force, to be directed and driven through the heart. He would need to rehearse this most carefully.

  The doors opened, the cabinet magically empty, the blood on the stage seen as a prop, who would suspect? Closing the doors and withdrawing the swords, he would cut the illusion short by not opening them again to reveal the young occupant unscathed. At the end of the act, with the curtain closing, the accident would be discovered, he himself pale with shock, comforting a weeping Amelia, beside herself with horror.

  Could anything be more convincing? And once the police investigation was over, he would soothe away her grief and she would turn to him in her hour of need and they would be married. With all the things he could give her, she would soon forget.

  But it must be gone over very carefully, and the sooner the better. He would get to work on the cabinet, enlarging one slot enough for a blade to be manoeuvred where he wanted, no room for mistakes – merely wounding him would have her running to his side, and there would never be another chance. No, this had to be carefully rehearsed.

  He would tell Martin that he did not consider her up to contorting her body into such a small space as the Sword Cabinet so soon after her illness. Martin would be more than willing to see her excused.

  Going back into the bedroom, he was surprised to find Amelia not there. Nor was she in the kitchen. Theo felt his chest tighten on him. She could only be with Martin. Striding across the hallway, he hammered frantically on his door, to have it answered by the startled young man holding a half-completed letter, quite obviously having been interrupted in the middle of writing it.

  ‘Where is she?’ Theo bellowed, blind rage destroying all reason. ‘I know she’s in there.’ His eyes alighted on the notepaper. ‘Who’s that for?’

  Martin blinked. ‘I’m writing to my parents.’ He was offended and annoyed, forcing Theo to take a deep breath to calm himself.

  ‘Amelia is not in the apartment.’ He was damned if he’d apologise to a man whose end he was planning.

  ‘Then she must be out.’ Martin’s tone was still angry. The man was too confident. Had they planned to meet somewhere later? His scheme must be put into operation much sooner than he would have liked. An idea came to him. Why not have the accident happen here? Amelia being out could be fortunate – foolish not to take advantage of the opportunity. It was fate.

  ‘I wanted to go over a part of our act this morning,’ he said. ‘I needed her. I have to go out this afternoon. I need to perfect something urgently. If she isn’t back in half an hour, you will have to stand in for her.’

  Martin compressed his lips but nodded his assent. ‘I’ll come through when I’ve finished writing this letter to my parents,’ he said pointedly.

  Theo smiled grimly as the door closed. Things were all going his way. He returned to his own apartment in a fever of excitement, still wondering where Amelia could have gone to, and why. But his mind was more on the next half hour. Before Martin appeared he must enlarge that slot in the sword cabinet, test where the sword would pierce and make sure the false back of the cabinet stuck to prevent escape, the occupant’s mysterious disappearance.

  Ben sat at the bar of the Duke’s Arms in a grubby little side street. It had been open since early morning as were most pubs all over London and other big cities, catering to the thirst of night workers cleaning streets while others were asleep, and that of other working men.

  This time of the morning it was pretty full but he sat alone. He needed to be alone, to think. He sat over his pint of brown ale trying to form a plan, but all he could see was Emma’s ravaged expression, her face all stained with tears, her eyes staring. Not the self-assured Emma he’d always known – the sister who stood up to him, or anyone for that matter. Where had that girl gone? That bleeder had taken that girl away and replaced her with someone he no longer recognised.

  His blood seethed as he gulped his beer. Revenging her had become a wasp buzzing and stinging inside his brain. Yet it would be stupid going into this blindly. The way he was feeling at the moment would make any plan useless. Revenge, on his or anyone else’s part, needed to be cooled before being carried out, with a cool head and in cool blood. As in boxing, coming in blind just asked for trouble. It had to be thought out before climbing into the ring.

  He’d bide his time until he’d cornered the scum in some dark alley. There he’d beat him to a pulp or within an inch of his life – a lesson he’d never forget. First though, follow him, mark where he went, wait for him outside where he was living, not the theatre – too many people about. Then, bash-bash-bash! Maybe with a good strong cudgel to back up the fists.

  It must be done soon, before March got too well under way and the evenings stayed lighter.

  Two blokes be knew had wandered in. Cheering up, Ben bought them a drink. For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of asking them, one a hefty Irish road mender named Frank Mahoney and handy with his fists, and the slighter Dick Diamond who knew of lots of geezers ready to do anything for a few quid, to come in on this plan of revenge. But that would be sort of broadcasting his intentions, so he put that aside for a while to enjoy a few more beers before going home to Clara and Jack.

  Emma finished the cup of tea Mum had made, feeling more comforted, but with no appetite to touch the biscuits she’d put on the table. At the back of her mind was the likelihood of Theo’s annoyance that she had left without saying she was going.

  ‘I’d best be off, Mum,’ she said, putting the cup back on its saucer and getting up.

  ‘Yer ain’t been ’ere all that long,’ came the statement, her mother too getting to her feet, a little stiffly, not quite so agile these days.

  ‘I’ve been here over an hour,’ Emma reminded her.

  In that time, without Ben to interfere, she’d told her about Martin and how they’d fallen in love with each other, how sweet and considerate he was, and that he didn’t really want for money.

  ‘Then why does ’e work fer this Theo?’ Mum had asked.

  ‘I think it’s because he’s always been smitten by the stage.’

  ‘Well,’ had come the disparaging remark. ‘It ain’t much of a job fer a young bloke with people what’s got a good family business. He’d be better off puttin’ ’is mind ter doin’ what ’is Dad wants rather than mucking about on a stage. I should think ’is family must be very disappointed in ’im. But if you feel like that about ’im, my advice is to leave yer fancy man an’ go off and get married ter this Martin.’

  Sympathy on learning about Martin had changed to vague impatience even before Emma decided to leave.

  ‘It’s simple enough. What annoys me is you comin’ ’ere with yer tears, tellin’ me yer let that brute talk yer into getting rid of what was ’is doing, then telling me there’s a good man just waitin’ ter take yer away from all that. Trouble is, yer don’t know what side yer bread’s buttered, do yer?’

  ‘Martin doesn’t know about me being pregnant and getting rid of it.’

  ‘Then I should tell ’im if I was you.’

  ‘I can’t explain that sort of thing to him.’

  ‘Then don’t tell ’im. But if yer don’t, it’ll ’ang over yer, there in the background ter plague yer marriage.’

  She appeared to assume that her daughter would leave this Theo bloke and marry this Martin chap.

  ‘One day it’ll all come out, maybe in a bit of a row or somethink and he’ll never forgive yer for not ever ’aving told ’im. Best always ter be open an’ honest.’

  One thing about Mum, she had always been open and honest, too often to her own detriment, getting on the wrong side of people by revealing exactly how she felt and what she thought.

  ‘But if I cross Theo,’ Emma had wailed, ‘he might tell him and Martin won’t be able to bear to look at me ever again. I know just what Theo can be like.’ Her mother had given her a shrewd look.

  ‘
I don’t think this Martin will see it that way. If this Theo is like yer say ’e is, then this Martin will see through ’im and take your side – if he loves yer that much. But yer won’t know until yer find out, will yer? Well that’s my advice, anyway.’

  After that she’d not shown much interest in Emma’s troubles, shrugging her shoulders as if already solved when Emma tried to pursue the matter. Finally, Emma got up to leave.

  At the door Mum tilted her cheek for her goodbye kiss and closed the door the moment Emma turned to go down the status, not waiting with a farewell wave. That was Mum all over. But Emma wasn’t upset, her mother’s good advice was being slowly absorbed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It took a time for Theo to regain his composure after having embarrassed himself before Martin. He now made ready to summon Martin for the short rehearsal. He would apologise for his outburst, saying that he’d been worried at Amelia going off without so much as a by your leave. Martin knew where his bread was buttered, would do as he was told. By the time she returned home it would be all over. He found himself almost gloating. She would find him in shock, the police already called, and they would break the terrible news.

  The strain was making his heart pump inside his chest as though it were a drum. This was no light thing he was embarking on. That business on the cliff edge all those years ago had been unforeseen, a prank gone wrong. This would be deliberate, only made to seem accidental. The tension was making the muscles of his chest feel tight and even brought a dull ache to the arm muscles too.

  Talking to Mum had made her feel a lot better. Letting herself into her apartment, she was full of determination. Some time in the week she and Martin would creep away together, go as far away as possible and never come back. But first she must explain about the baby and pray that, understanding though she knew him to be, he would find just that bit more understanding, enough to forgive her.

  She felt a certain satisfaction in knowing Theo would be left high and dry. Even though his was a selfish love, it was still what he saw as love and there would be such an emptiness left inside him. Would his career falter as it had once before? Next time there might not be someone to help him pick himself up. Would he find someone else willing? In truth, she didn’t care; she only hoped that he wouldn’t be down for long and might not be so tempted to seek revenge and spoil her life with Martin.

  Theo wasn’t in. A note said that he had gone to see his agent and would be back around lunchtime. She felt a prickle of anger. The fact that she had left this morning without saying a word to him hadn’t apparently bothered him – no reference to it in his note – nothing. Perhaps just as well.

  Letting herself out of the apartment, she went to Martin’s door and tapped lightly on it. ‘Are you there, darling?’ she whispered.

  Soon, she thought as Martin answered her call, she wouldn’t have to do this any more.

  Theo’s mood was thunderous. With Amelia safely out of the way, he had gone to summon Martin, but this time had received no reply. Anxiety deepened into fury as it dawned on him that this had been pre-planned: they had arranged to meet somewhere.

  Of course, Martin would say that he had slipped out to buy cigarettes. He’d even mentioned last night having only a couple left in a packet – a good ploy but he wasn’t fooled.

  Biding his time, he knocked a little while later to find Martin had returned. Asked where he’d been, he said he had indeed been out for cigarettes. Liar! came the silent accusation as he blandly informed Martin that he was off to his agent and would be back around lunchtime. Too late to carry out his previous plan today but it would cement his decision if returning earlier he caught them together. When he did return, Amelia was alone in the lounge, sitting by the window reading. Yet the glow on her cheeks betrayed her. They had been together. He’d been just a little too late.

  After lunch, which he always insisted all three ate together, he curtly told Martin that they wouldn’t be rehearsing this afternoon.

  ‘I do not wish to tire you, Amelia,’ he said to her across the table. ‘I need you to be strong again. I shall not be using the Sword Cabinet on stage for the next couple of performances. After that we will use you, Martin, for that illusion. It will allow Amelia more time to regain her suppleness.’

  More to the point, he needed to spend time in the spare room where his props were, working on the aperture that would perfectly direct the sword to where Martin’s treacherous heart lay beating so joyfully at this very moment.

  Their next three performances continued as usual in all other aspects, but his plan was becoming an obsession, watching the two of them, making certain they were never left alone together, that he was with one or the other.

  He was unable to sleep. The moment Amelia slept, he would creep off to examine his Sword Cabinet for any flaw that he might have missed. But it was perfect. All he needed now was the opportunity. Would it be better to carry it out here in privacy while rehearsing, or on stage in full view of everyone? It would give him witnesses to this horrific accident, where here, foul play might more easily be suspected.

  Swinging between the one idea and the other was making him nervous and that stood no illusionist in good stead. This had to be done soon. Perhaps it should be done here after all – less publicity. If he could get Amelia out of the way … to exonerate himself in some way, and out of concern for her, he didn’t want her present for him to witness her horror as she saw the blood. She must be out of the way and then gently told of the tragedy.

  ‘You look pale, sweetheart,’ he told her after another two days of nothing yet accomplished. ‘Why don’t you meet a friend or two for coffee?’

  She had many friends, most of them theatre folk, many well known, among them the beautiful Victoria Monks, Gertie Gitana the only slightly less pretty but charismatic comedienne, one or two girls from the Tiller troupe – Nellie Whiting and Nellie Turner, Cissie Loftus, the bubbly impersonator who had been a friend for a long time now. There were others whom she’d met at the parties she’d been to with him, but try as he might she remained ensconced in the apartment.

  ‘At some point you must begin socialising again,’ he urged her, frustrated and increasingly edgy by the end of the week. ‘I know you have been unwell, but you need some recreation away from all this. You cannot stay in day after day. It’s unhealthy.’

  ‘We have to be on stage every evening,’ came her cold reminder.

  She was sitting, stiff and very upright, on the extreme edge of one of the armchairs, her fingers fiddling agitatedly with the corner of one of the linen antimacassars protecting the chair arms. Everything about her betrayed unfriendliness. He needed to be gentle with her.

  ‘But you need fresh air and sunlight, my darling,’ he said as tenderly as he could. ‘You should be taking advantage of this spring-like weather while it lasts.’

  He was forcing himself not to pace around and let her see how stretched his own nerves were

  ‘It worries me to see you so pale and lacking energy. You’re becoming too cooped up. For your own sake, why not telephone one of your friends to meet them for an hour or two, maybe a walk in the park? You would enjoy it,’

  ‘You know I hate the telephone,’ she parried.

  ‘That’s ridiculous, my dear.’

  A touch of anger was creeping into his tone. He fought it. ‘We live in modern times. You should be completely at ease with it by now.’

  All she did was shrug, as she often did these days, leaving him even more frustrated and at a loss.

  To combat his frustrations he had taken to going out for ten minutes or so after returning home from the theatre. A stroll through a few of the back streets, ill-lit though they were, served to settle his mind, grateful for a little solitude in which to contemplate the task ahead of him, and think of the day when he’d have Amelia to himself once more.

  Once rid of Martin, he would expand his act in competition with people like Mr Chung Ling Soo. With female assistants only, Amelia would hav
e no temptations. After his first wife, he hadn’t dreamed it could all happen again. The quicker he got rid of Martin the better. What he was about to do was the only way to keep her for himself.

  This evening he walked slowly, deep in thought, savouring the silence, the darkness, the stillness, far preferable to the brilliance of the main thoroughfare with its hustle and bustle of people and traffic. No one queried these brief, lonely walks and Amelia didn’t seem to care where he was. She was no longer the starry-eyed young person he’d first met. This business with Martin had dulled her eyes to a brooding sullenness.

  After a glorious day tonight was chill with promise of an early morning frost. The dark street was even more deserted but for one person who passed him with head bent. His mind clearing, he was ready to return home. He had been out longer than usual. While Amelia slept, he would make use of a couple of hours going over again and perfecting what he knew must appear to be a pure accident. It would happen tomorrow evening. He had but the one chance and nothing must go wrong. It must be foolproof.

  He took in a few deep and regular breaths to help him relax. All was quiet. The theatre crowds had long since departed, on their way home or on to a restaurant for a congenial supper with friends. Only some distant sound of singing from some pub or other wafted on the still air.

  He turned slowly for home, pausing first to light a cigarette, flicking the match into the gutter. For a moment he gazed after it lying there, a thin, pale thread among the ancient mud and old muck that was hardly ever disturbed – only the more important streets of London were cleaned nightly, the dim and dingy back streets and their denizens largely forgotten much as the rats in the sewers were.

  He drew in a lungful of sweet smoke and gazed contemplatively up at the stars, in this unlit street, bright as diamonds in that black and moonless sky.