Death and Cinderella (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 11)
Page 3
Wait a minute! This wasn’t his bed. It was just a narrow bunk! Struggling to his feet he encountered not a window but a tiny, circular porthole giving a rather circumscribed view of the passing scene.
‘Ruben,’ called a female voice. ‘Our guest’s awake.’
There were the sounds of careful progress and Andrew could visualise his presumed captor working his way along a side deck and dropping with a thump into the cramped living-quarters of what could only be a working narrowboat.
‘Morning sir! Welcome aboard. I trust you slept well?’
‘Well, I slept,’ grumbled Andrew. Whatever they had put him out with, he didn’t want any more of it in a hurry. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right chap?’ he asked. ‘It seems a little unlikely.’
‘Mr Andrew Haigh of Flat five, twenty-seven Kempton Park Road, Wembley?’
‘Well, that’s me,’ admitted Andrew. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Staffordshire. But not you. We’ve instructions to put you on a homebound train on Monday. That’s if all goes according to plan.’
Somewhat hampered by the handcuffs, Andrew looked at his watch but it had stopped. ‘Do you mind telling me what day it is?’
‘Friday, sir.’
‘And you’re releasing me on Monday? Hardly seems worth it.’
‘Those are my instructions, sir. Can you manage breakfast at all?’
‘I believe I can. Thank you. But what I’d really like at this juncture is to relieve myself.’
Their immediate environs, Andrew discovered, were decidedly rural, and, as one might expect on a January morning, rather bleak. The canal, with its still waters and leafless, dripping, willows, was here unsullied by industry or even human habitation, with only the occasional passing boat to enliven the scene. The horse, the usual sturdy cob, was standing a few feet away on the muddy towpath, contented munching the contents of his nosebag.
Back aboard, Ruben’s wife, Matilda, handsome and raven haired, if barely less sturdy than the horse, was frying bacon, eggs and sausages. The heavenly smell in the fresh morning air was almost painful.
‘Beer, sir?’ offered Ruben.
‘That would be marvellous. Aren’t you joining me?’
‘We had our breakfast at dawn, but I’ll keep you company in a pale ale. And if you give me your word not to try to escape, I’ll take them cuffs off you.’
‘Parole gladly given. Care to tell me who has condemned me to this living hell?’
Ruben, a short but heavily muscled man, chuckled. ‘Can’t do that, sir. Sorry.’
‘Well, I suppose I can guess. What I can’t work out for the life of me is why.’
◆◆◆
The dress rehearsal was performed with full orchestra before an audience of what had become known as the “mouse-mummies,” their diminutive offspring dancing near enough to time and on cue, with Clare’s camera busily flashing. The Ugly Sisters’ antics brought tears of laughter even to the most cynical and the only technical hitch was the still-recalcitrant pumpkin’s refusal to metamorphose into a golden coach, having to be manually grabbed and dragged away by an all-too-obvious stage-hand.
The prompter in his box had remarkably little to do and, best of all, Prince Charming stumbled satisfactorily through the performance, receiving for her efforts a sincere and heartfelt ovation from cast and crew, though she seemed rather subdued than elated and had little to say for herself.
‘Not bad for four days, I thought,’ said Clare to Jane afterwards. ‘You were fantastic, by the way.’
Jane thanked her but offered no comment on Betty. ‘Are you bringing John?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he’ll be here, if he can get away.’
◆◆◆
The big day dawned damp and inclined to drizzle. In her dressing room, Jane put on tights, leotard and tap shoes (made to look like clogs) and observed herself in the mirror. She knew she looked good but it had been nice to hear it from Andrew and nicer still to lie again in his arms. She sighed. Why was love so hard?
Passing the Ugly Sisters, miming in slow motion a vicious fight with mops and brooms, Jane ambled onstage where the orchestra could be heard running through their programme. ‘Can you give me the mouse dance, Frank?’
‘For you, sweetheart, anything. Ready, chaps?’
Sam Snow came bounding in. ‘Not so fast there! Buttons has arrived.’
Meanwhile, Figgy, in the hated pink tutu, was silently mouthing the panto’s introduction. Her landing and take-off had been carefully rehearsed beforehand and the struggle to leave the ground removed from the script, with the necessary adjustments.
Alastair appeared, clipboard in hand. ‘Anyone seen Vladlena?’
Figgy shook her head. ‘Not me.’
‘What about Mr Sullivan?’
‘Nope, haven’t seen him either.’
‘I presume he brings her in?’
‘She usually gets the bus, I think.’
‘She ought to be here by now. It’s not good enough.’
‘It’s only ten-something. Plenty of time, surely?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. Suppose she doesn’t show up? Think of all the changes we’d need to make. We’d be hard-pressed to get it done if we started now. That’s why I like you here early, under this roof.’
Figgy followed him into the wings, away from the orchestra. ‘Have you any reason to suppose she won’t appear?’
‘No, but she’s an unknown quantity. I wouldn’t be so bothered if it was anyone else. Is she always this late in?’
‘Not usually, no.’
‘Right, I’m going to ring her landlady, and failing that, Sullivan.’
The dancers came over, joined by Millicent. ‘Problem?’ asked Jane.
‘No Vladlena,’ said Figgy. ‘And no Sullivan either.’
‘I can’t say I’m very surprised, actually,’ said Millicent.
Alastair came back, looking harassed. ‘Right, summon the troops. He marched across to the still-playing orchestra. ‘Can you give us a minute, Frank?’
◆◆◆
‘Ouch!’ complained Millicent. ‘That’s my lifeblood you’re spilling.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jane. She removed a mouthful of pins. ‘It would help if you didn’t wave your arms about.’
‘I’m just so cross!’ said Millicent. ‘All that disruption and the silly bitch doesn’t bother to turn up. If Alastair’s got any sense, he’ll sack her, which is what he should have done in the first place.’
‘It’s nearly twelve o’clock,’ said Jane. ‘It would be too late if she did turn up now. There you are, all done. Just follow the dotted line.’
‘Thank you, darling, I do know how to sew.’
‘I can’t, and I freely admit it,’ said Figgy. ‘I didn’t get the vote to labour like a lady’s maid.’
‘No, you just make me do it,’ said Jane. ‘Come on. I need to put those darts back in your doublet.’
Chapter Four
‘Full house, by the look of it,’ smiled John Nash, peering about the noisy auditorium.
‘Isn’t it exciting!’ said Clare, bright eyed. ‘Part of me wants to watch and part of me wants to be backstage with them. Look, there’s Madge from the box-office, selling refreshments.’
‘She’s coming back. I expect it’s going to start.’
The lights dimmed and the overture struck up, silencing the surrounding children.
‘Put your hand out,’ said Clare. ‘Bar of chocolate.’
The curtain rose on a woodland scene and in the foreground a portly fairy came swinging down from on high to perform an untidy landing. ‘I hate these short runways,’ she said in a plummy voice. Everybody laughed. Turning she seemed to notice the audience for the first time. ‘Good evening, children!’ she cried. ‘Are we going to enjoy ourselves?’
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‘Yes!’ shouted everyone.
She cupped an ear. ‘You’ll have to do better than that! Louder!’
‘Yes!!’
Clare frowned. ‘This is all wrong,’ she whispered. ‘It’s supposed to be Figgy doing the fairy. I hope she’s not poorly. No, here’s Figgy as the prince.’
‘And Jane has gone blonde!’ exclaimed Nash. ‘Not sure it suits her.’
They settled down to watch the show, laughing at the antics of the Ugly Sisters and oohing and aahing with everyone else at the cuteness of the mice.
At the interval they made their way to the little first-floor bar, finding it packed.
‘We’ll never get served,’ said Nash. ‘It’s hopeless.’
‘Oh yes we will,’ smiled Clare, and two glasses appeared miraculously before them. ‘Thanks, Madge.’
‘Er, how?’
‘I ordered them last night. Bought and paid for.’
‘That’s what I call foresight!’
Alastair appeared in black tie, easing himself through the crowd. He had Millicent and Sam with him, still in costume. ‘Dahlings!’ he cried. ‘So glad you could come.’
‘We’d have walked through fire to get here,’ said Clare. ‘Millie, you were marvellous! So were you, Sam. And weren’t the mouses sweet! But what happened to Vladlena?’
‘Suffice it to say that Miss Ossipova’s theatrical career has ended before it began,’ said Alastair. ‘Come and meet my wife. She’s rather a fan of yours, Clare. She’s even got your book.’
◆◆◆
The second half was as entertaining as the first, the Nashes enthusiastically joining in with cries of, “He’s behind you!” and “Oh no it isn’t!” and even the silly songs.
At length the Fairy Godmother again appeared, raising up the weeping Cinderella in her rags and tatters and decreeing, ‘“You shall go to the ball!”’ At a wave of her magic wand the lights went out, and when they came back, it was to reveal not a papier mache pumpkin and scuttling mice but a diminutive team of horses, a golden coach and a courtier in knee-breeches and gold-embroidered coat to drive it. Cinders, too, stood transformed, being dressed in a hooped multicoloured ballgown with her now-blonde hair piled high, eighteenth-century style.
There were cheers and clapping, as with a flourish from the orchestra the bewigged flunky stepped forward to open the coach’s door.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ he said.
For sitting awkwardly sideways with his back to the audience was revealed an anonymous little bald man where no man should be. Unsupported by the door, he now toppled backwards to land with a distinct thud half in and half out of the coach, staring sightlessly at the audience from upside down. There was a moment’s silence, a few titters of laughter, and a woman in possession of opera glasses cried, ‘That man’s dead!’
‘It’s Charlie Sullivan,’ gasped Clare. ‘What on earth is going on?’
There was a deal of shouting and a few of the men in the audience rose to their feet, looking irresolutely about them. Nash stood up too. ‘This is the police!’ he cried. ‘Kindly stay in your seats, everybody, and remain calm.’ And to Clare, ‘Go and phone Miles. Failing that, the Yard.’ He searched in his wallet for Felix’s card. ‘I’ll go and see what I can do.’
◆◆◆
By the time Nash arrived onstage the curtain had been brought down. A number of people were standing around the deceased bookmaker, now fully extracted from the coach, and Betty Bagshaw was noisily weeping over him.
‘Never so glad to see a policeman,’ said Figgy. ‘Where’s Clare?’
‘Phoning the boss.’
‘Definitely a goner,’ said Alastair, coming over to them. ‘He seems to have been shot.’
‘Shot!’ cried an Ugly Sister. ‘Oh, my dears!’
Millicent rolled her eyes. ‘I knew those two were trouble as soon as I clapped eyes on them.’
‘So you said.’
‘Well I did.’
‘Would you like me to speak to the audience, Alastair?’ offered Nash, instantly wishing he hadn’t.
‘Would you?’ said Alastair gratefully. ‘Voice of authority and all that; then I’ll take over.’
‘All right,’ said Nash. ‘In the meantime, nobody is to touch or move anything. That’s important. Is this lady connected with the deceased gentleman?’
‘Come on, Betty,’ said Figgy, drawing her to her feet. Let’s find you somewhere to sit down.’
‘It was such a shock!’
‘I know.’
Taking a deep breath, Nash slipped round the curtain, and waited until the audience quieted down, as he’d seen Felix do once or twice.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention. My name is Detective Sergeant Nash of Scotland Yard. By chance, I was with you in the audience tonight and I don’t yet know much more than you do, except that the gentleman who tumbled from Cinderella’s coach was not, of course, supposed to be there.’
‘Is he dead?’ cried someone.
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that. There is, however, no cause for alarm and you are all quite safe. If you would oblige me by staying in your seats for a few minutes until a senior officer arrives, I should be grateful. And in the meantime, I believe the theatre director would like a word with you.’
◆◆◆
‘He’s on his way,’ said Clare, reappearing.
‘Oh, good,’ said Nash. ‘I was afraid they might send Dewsnap. Was I alright? Public-speaking is not what I signed up for.’
‘You were magnificent, John, wasn’t he Alastair?’ said Jane. ‘You ought to offer him a job.’
‘At the rate things are going, we’ll be lucky to have one ourselves,’ said Alastair gloomily. ‘We can hardly restart now, even supposing we’re allowed to. We’ll have to give them their money back.’
‘Any idea who did this, Alastair?’ asked Clare.
‘None whatsoever.’
Figgy came over, bringing with her a still-weeping Betty. ‘We’re going to get a cup of tea,’ she said.
‘Sorry to be a nuisance, everybody,’ sniffed Betty.
Millicent eyed her suspiciously. ‘Only an English person would say that! And what happened to your accent? You’re not Russian at all, are you?’
‘Best tell them, don’t you think?’ said Jane.
Betty shrugged indifferently. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? My name is Betty Bagshaw if you must know. And, yes, I’m English.’
‘Where did she spring from,’ said Iwan, watching them depart. ‘I thought she’d run away.’
‘I saw her going into her room, just as the overture started,’ said Jane. ‘We didn’t speak as there wasn’t time. I think she’d been to the lavatory.’
‘Then she could have been here for hours, lurking?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Here’s Miles,’ said Clare.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Nash. ‘Thanks for turning out.’
‘You were lucky; we were just going out to dinner,’ said Felix, who, like Alastair, was wearing black tie. ‘I’ve managed to contact the others; they’ll be along shortly.’ He looked around him, waiting to be introduced.
‘This is Chief Inspector Felix, my boss,’ said Nash. ‘This gentleman is Alastair Bethencourt, the company’s artistic director, and these ladies are, as you see, members of the cast. Miss Herring and Miss Figg, are friends of ours. I’m afraid I don’t know . . .’
‘This is Mrs Millicent Maidment,’ said Clare, ‘and these gentlemen are Iwan Parry and Arthur Penfold. The ugly sisters are Messrs Butler and Cook.’
With bows and smiles and a handshake for Alastair, Felix crossed the stage and careful of his dress trousers crouched over the now-sheeted form of Charlie Sullivan. ‘Hmm, dead some time. Doctor Benison, the police surgeon, is on his way but perhaps we can
get some pictures before he arrives. Clare, have you got your Leica with you?’
‘Yes, always. I’m not too well off for flash bulbs though.’
‘Would John be able to borrow it?’
The couple glanced at each other. ‘Yes, of course, but it might be better if I do it,’ said Clare. ‘John can tell me what he needs.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Nash doubtfully.
‘I really don’t mind.’
Jane and Millicent joined them.
‘They’re starting to get a bit noisy out there,’ said Millicent. ‘We were wondering . . .’
‘I should think about half the audience consists of children,’ added Jane.
‘That had occurred to me too, Miss Herring,’ said Felix. ‘Does anyone know of any just cause or impediment why we shouldn’t let them go?’
‘I doubt they’ll have seen anything we didn’t,’ said Nash. ‘Also, Clare got a shot of the stage immediately afterwards, so we have a record of that.’
‘Really? Well done!’ said Felix. ‘Any objections, Mr Bethencourt?’
‘They might as well go home, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Alastair resignedly. ‘I’ll go and tell them.’
Dr Howard Benyson appeared in the wings. He was accompanied by Detective Sergeants Yardley and Rattigan. ‘Is this my cue?’ he asked wryly.
‘You’ve missed it, I’m afraid,’ said Felix. ‘We’re already here.’
The Yard’s chief forensic officer was notorious for always arriving before the police.
‘These gentlemen flagged me down at a bus-stop,’ said Benyson. ‘Most unfair.’ He went straight to the body and knelt beside it, opening his Gladstone bag.
Bill Hutchings beckoned to the nearest stagehands. ‘Can you lads heave those flats across here, give the doctor a bit of privacy?’
They could hear the last of Alastair’s impromptu speech followed by a subdued rustle and murmur as the disappointed audience began to leave.