‘Find Andrew Haigh?’
‘Yes. He’s the man, isn’t he? We need to eliminate him anyway.’
‘He might be able to tell us about Penfold’s racecourse gangsters.’
‘Possibly, although if there’d been any trouble of that sort brewing, I think we’d have known about it. If Haigh’s away for the weekend, of course, he may not have heard he’s out of a job. That’s going to be a shock for him.’ He reached for the telephone. ‘Let’s put Hilliard on it. He can check on the Sullivan household at the same time. He might have acquired a housekeeper or a daily, or even a secretary, assuming Haigh isn’t it.’
‘Charlie wasn’t married, I suppose — estranged or something?’
‘He might have been for aught I know. Ah! Good morning, young lady. Felix here. Can you find me Inspector Hilliard?’
◆◆◆
‘Dabs, sir,’ announced Yardley, waving a sheaf of glossy eight by tens.
‘Anything any good?’
‘Not the pumpkin coach. Pretty hopeless, as I expected. There are some nice, clear ones in the dressing rooms. Plenty belonging to the tenants of the rooms, of course, and there’s a fair bit of visiting about.’
‘What about Miss Bagshaw’s room?’
Yardley consulted his notebook. ‘Lots of hers. Also, Charlie Sullivan, Mr Bethencourt, and various members of the cast: Miss Herring, Miss Figg and Mr Parry. Also, John’s Clare. And we found a couple of Andrew Haigh’s, whom you mentioned. I had a feeling I’d seen the name so I checked the records.’
‘Well remembered, Paul. He was up before the beak a time or two, some years ago now, but they couldn’t make anything stick. Were there only two of those?’
‘That’s all I could find. Quite nice ones. I got the impression, though, that he’d just leaned in to speak to someone. There was also someone I couldn’t identify: one good dab and a few probables.’
‘What was Sullivan doing?’
‘Sitting in the reading chair; his dabs are all on the arms, and the door. There are various others. It’s the only comfortable one so seems to have been well used.’
‘Blood?’
‘Not that we could find.’
‘That’s disappointing. Hello, John, what have you been up to?’
‘Talking to the girls, sir; they’ve just come in.’
‘That’s very fortuitous.’ He stepped outside. ‘Miss Herring!’
‘Sah!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound so peremptory. Would you and Miss Figg be so good as to come in here please.’
‘Now?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ He waited for them to make their way through the catacomb. ‘We have here,’ he said, ‘a list of the people who have left their fingerprints in Miss Bagshaw’s room, including you ladies and Clare. We’d like to know what you were all doing there, and when. For elimination purposes of course.’
‘That would have been last Monday, said Figgy. ‘We were all three talking to Miss Bagshaw. I don’t think we’ve been in there since. I haven’t anyway.’
‘Is this when you unmasked her as an English rose and not a Russian?’
‘Yes, but there wasn’t a row about it or anything like that; it was all very civilised. She got a bit upset at first but we parted friends. Clare had spotted it immediately but we promised Betty we wouldn’t tell anyone, especially not Mr Sullivan. We really only wanted to be sure she could manage the part of Prince Charming, and she convinced us that she could. It wouldn’t have been good for the show if the Principal Boy had fluffed his lines. In the event, of course, she didn’t appear.’
‘I was actually in there earlier that day,’ said Jane. ‘Out of the kindness of my heart I volunteered to act as Betty’s dresser for her photocall, trying to turn her into a man. I wish now I hadn’t bothered.’
Felix smiled. ‘Rather a daunting task, I should imagine. Now then, I’m hoping you can help us. We still have some unknown dabs in that room whose owner we’d like to identify. Can you think of anyone else who might have gone in there?’
They looked at each other doubtfully. ‘Mr Parry seems friendly with her,’ offered Figgy.
‘Yes, we’ve got Mr Parry. We don’t think it can be a member of the company.’
‘What about Mr Sullivan’s assistant, Mr Haigh?’ said Jane. ‘He might have brought her a message or something.’
Felix turned to Rattigan. ‘Have we interviewed Mr Haigh yet, Sergeant?’
Rattigan feigned to check his notebook. ‘I don’t think we have, sir,’ he said. ‘We haven’t even met him, have we?’
‘You don’t happen to know this gentleman’s address, I suppose?’ asked Felix. ‘No? Never mind, we’ll find him. Thank you, ladies. Let us know if you think of anyone else.’
‘Today’s young gels,’ said Rattigan in his best old buffer voice. ‘No respect!’
Felix smiled. ‘Not so very young. Miss Figg is twenty-eight. If they were married, would you view them the same?’
‘Possibly not. Do you think he’s Miss Herring’s boyfriend?’
‘Haigh? There’s something there, isn’t there? The flash of an eye, a little check in the voice. And their ages fit. But why would she want to hide it from us? I shall be interested to see the fellow again.’
‘Lucky man anyway.’
‘You agree, then? Something rather special about her.’
‘Yes, there is. I’ll tell you one thing though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She might be an old policeman’s dream but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. No more than the Bagshaw girl, I wouldn’t.’
‘Policeman’s dream, eh? Don’t you prefer Miss Bagshaw?’
‘No.’
‘Interesting! Hello, Mr Bethencourt, what can we do for you?’
‘I thought I’d let you know the bosses are on their way,’ said Alastair. ‘They’re wandering about upstairs at the moment.’
‘Right, thanks.’ He turned to Rattigan. ‘Make notes, Teddy, but surreptitiously.’
◆◆◆
‘You’ll remember my old dressing room, sir?’ said Alastair, ushering them in. ‘It’s a bit warmer down here, as you’ll have noticed. Mr Ezra Hubbard, this is Detective Chief Inspector Felix of New Scotland Yard and this is his deputy, Sergeant Rattigan.’
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Felix, shaking hands. ‘Can we offer you a seat?’
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector,’ said Hubbard, sinking gratefully down. ‘Not as steady on the old pins as I was, I’m afraid. This is a terrible business, what? I was just saying to Mrs Maidment, we quite realise how devastating it must be for the company. And having to refund the ticket sales. Terrible! Have you made any progress at all? No, of course you haven’t, you’ve barely arrived.’ He looked around him. ‘Where’s that Robin gone? Not that I can’t guess.’
‘Here, Grandfather,’ said the grandson from behind them. ‘How do you do, Chief Inspector. I’ve just been extending my condolences to Miss Ossipova. Or rather, Miss Bagshaw, which I now discover is her real name. Where was she last night, Bethencourt? I don’t remember seeing her.’
‘Let’s call it stage-fright,’ said Alastair diplomatically. ‘Miss Figg stood in for her. Just as well she did, in the event.’
‘Quite so. Quite so,’ said Ezra Hubbard. ‘Dreadful shock for the girl.’
‘Were you both in the audience, sir?’ asked Felix.
‘Only my wife and son and I,’ answered Robin. ‘He’s thirteen and I think he finds himself a bit embarrassed by panto. Ghoulishly excited by the murder and mayhem, of course. We thought your sergeant did a good job of calming the audience, by the way. I believe he’s the husband of the official photographer. Clare, is it?’
‘Yes, he is. Is there anything either of you can tell us about this business
at all?’
‘We’ve talked about it, naturally,’ said Robin, ‘but we can’t think of anything useful. I do try to take an interest in what the company are doing, and I’ve spoken to Mr Sullivan and various members of the cast on several occasions, though scarcely enough, I’m afraid, to get to know any of them well.’
‘Did you speak to Miss Bagshaw?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘In her dressing room?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a stage-door Johnny,’ confided the older man dryly.
‘It’s a poor tale if you can’t chat to the actors in your own theatre,’ said Robin defensively.
‘The reason I’m asking, sir,’ said Felix, ‘is because you probably left some fingerprints there.’ He went out of the room for a moment. ‘Nash, Yardley, can you come and take this gentleman’s dabs, please? It only takes a moment or two, sir. Purely for elimination purposes. Can you tell me when you were in there?’
‘Now, when was it?’ said Robin thoughtfully. ‘I think it must have been Wednesday or Thursday. In fact, Thursday because I was in Margate on Wednesday. Thursday morning, at about this time. Other people will be able to confirm that, I daresay.’
‘Not Friday night?’
‘No, not Friday.’
‘Did Miss Bagshaw make any comment about Mr Sullivan at that time?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t have much to say at all. She seemed shy and I didn’t stop long. I thought perhaps it was the language problem but clearly not! I find myself a little confused about that.’
‘There’s another one I wouldn’t trust,’ said Rattigan, when they’d gone. ‘We’re surrounded by them.’
‘“Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!”’ said Felix. ‘Old Ezra’s got his number anyway. Not my favourite type, I have to admit.’
Chapter Eight
‘Couldn’t find hide nor hair of him,’ admitted Derek Hilliard, gratefully accepting a cup of tea. ‘His landlady did confirm I’d got the right man. He rents a furnished flat in a block that she owns and also lives in – nothing special sort of place, over some shops – but she hasn’t seen him for a day or two, and she’s got no contact details for his family, only for Sullivan. He was there on Thursday, she thought, and either went out or came back very late. He’s got one of those Morgan three-wheelers, rather noisy, which is still there. She also hears his front door go because his flat is on the same landing as her own. I asked if he had a friend or girlfriend that I could contact but she doesn’t think so, not now. There used to be a little, auburn-haired girl, very pretty, but she hasn’t seen her for a while and she thinks she must have gone because now it’s just the usual try-outs as she put it. Nice, quiet chap, she said, apart from the car — no trouble, no rowdy parties or anything, model tenant.
‘I managed to find his local watering hole but the landlord doesn’t know much about him. Said he sounds like a toff but doesn’t appear to live up to it. He also mentioned the girl; an actress, he thought. Couldn’t be one of this lot, could it? He suggested I try Kempton Park, which I was on my way to anyway. Nobody much around on a Sunday, but those I spoke to all knew him there. Nice chap and well thought of was the usual response, but seems to guard his private life pretty thoroughly. You didn’t see much of Sullivan nowadays, they said. If there was business to be done you went to Haigh but at Sullivan’s address. One of them reckoned he was loaded. Sullivan, I mean. Rich as Croesus he said. Bit of an exaggeration, I daresay. He also seems to have been generally liked and trusted. I didn’t say he was dead in case you didn’t want it coming out.
‘Anyway, I finally went to Sullivan’s flat; very nice, very respectable, in a modern block. I rang the bell, more in hope than expectation, and a neighbour came out, a Mrs Green, middle-aged widow. Pleasant enough. I thought I’d best tell her, if I told no-one else, her being next door and all, but asked her to keep it under her hat for now. I didn’t give any details of what happened. She hadn’t heard, so it doesn’t seem to be generally known yet. Very shocked. She keeps a key and would have opened the place up for me, but I said my boss would probably want to deal with that and that I was specifically looking for Haigh. He comes in most days, she said, but not always at weekends, so he might just be away for a day or two, which I suppose is quite likely. There’s a cleaning lady, by the way, Tuesday mornings, nine to twelve, but no other staff. No secretary or anything like that. I’ve got Mrs Green’s number – she’s mostly at home, she says – and the cleaning lady’s address. She’s not on the phone.’
‘We were right, then, about Miss Herring,’ said Rattigan. ‘I wonder that she mentioned him at all.’
‘Probably knew we’d ask about him. That way it looks as though he’s nothing to do with her. Mind you, it sounds as if they’ve split up, which might explain her reticence.’
‘Then it was a girl from here?’ said Hilliard.
‘Seems so.’
◆◆◆
After some enquiry, Felix found Jane leaning on the balustrade in the front row of the dress circle, gazing down at the stage. She was wearing her tap shoes and some remarkably brief shorts but had thrown on a baggy old sweater.
‘Hello, Miss Herring. All by yourself?’
‘No-one ever comes here,’ said Jane. ‘That’s the beauty of it.’
‘Ah! I’m intruding. Sorry.’
‘No, it’s all right. Were you looking for me?’
‘Just a couple of questions. Been practicing?’
‘Yes, as ever. We have to keep moving or we stiffen up. It’s rather a bore sometimes, like cleaning your teeth, but that’s dancing.’
‘Who is “we”?’
‘Me and Sam Snow. We’re the only hoofers in this production, apart from a few waltz steps with Figgy at the grand ball. She usually manages to stay upright.’
Felix smiled. ‘What do you think of young Sam?’
Jane pulled a face. ‘Same as you, probably.’
‘Cocky?’
‘He’s a tiresome little show-off. Trouble is, he’s a good dancer so we’re stuck with him. I don’t think he’s murderer material, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s more likely to be on the receiving end.’
‘I think we can agree on that. Is that what you mostly do — dance?’
‘Not so much nowadays. I’m allowed to play with the big boys and girls now and say actual lines; though I’m not very good at remembering them. I drive Figgy mad.’
‘You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?’
‘I adore her, but . . .’ She gave a half shrug.
‘She cramps your style a little?’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Been together long? In your flat, I mean.’
‘Three years nearly. It’s tiny: one room, kitchen and bathroom, but it’s cheap and only five minutes away.’
‘Good that you’re both actresses, then?’
‘It wouldn’t work otherwise.’
They sat in silence for a while, Jane continuing to gaze at the stage.
‘What about Betty Bagshaw?’ he asked. ‘What do you think of her?’
Jane frowned. ‘Do you ask these people what they think of me?’
Felix chuckled. ‘I did ask Clare. You came out of that rather well. However, you’re not a suspect; you have the perfect alibi, as does Miss Figg.’
‘Is Betty one, then?’
‘I would describe her as a person of interest.’
‘Suppose I were to tell her that?’
‘You won’t.’
‘All right,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t know who she is or what she is but she’s false; she’s playing a part. She’s probably no more Betty Bagshaw than she’s Vladlena Ossipova.’
‘I’m inclined to agree. Though it may not have to do with the murder, of course. It could be entirely innocent.’
�
��Jane suddenly brightened. ‘Look, it’s Butler and Cook, practicing their fight. They’re forever putting little bits in or taking them out. It drives Alastair mad — the timing, you know.’
‘Is it that tight, then?’
‘Lord, yes. To the minute if possible. Ouch! That must hurt!’
‘I had an actress girlfriend once, centuries ago,’ said Felix.
‘Oh? Who was that?’
‘Vanda Beaufort-Smyth. Know her?’
Jane turned to him open-mouthed. ‘You went out with Miss Beaufort-Smyth?’
‘You don’t have to sound so surprised,’ said Felix. ‘I was quite the gay blade in my salad days if you want to know.’
‘She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?’ enthused Jane, ‘and such a good actress. Wait till I tell Figgy! It’s like the song, isn’t it? I danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales.’
‘Not entirely like,’ said Felix, feeling obscurely put out. ‘You haven’t actually danced with me for one thing and I have danced with Vanda. What are you doing up here anyway, if I may make so bold?’
‘Thinking,’ said Jane. ‘This is my thinking place. I’m trying to save you the trouble and work out who killed Charlie Sullivan.’
‘Care to share your conclusions?’
‘I haven’t drawn any yet. I’ll let you know when I have.’
‘I shall await them with interest, Miss Herring,’ said Felix, rising. ‘I’ll leave you to exercise the little grey cells, as Mr Poirot would say. In the meantime, if you would kindly tell Mr Haigh that we urgently need to see him, it would be a most valuable contribution to our investigations.’
Jane watched him go with considerable relief. ‘Phew!’ she said.
◆◆◆
‘At which she blushed to the roots of her hair,’ said Felix, not without a certain satisfaction. ‘I’m never quite sure with that young woman whether she’s taking the mickey, and I don’t care for it. I did think she seemed rather nervous when she’s usually so self-assured, though she hid it well. What do you think of her, John?’
Death and Cinderella (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 11) Page 7