The October Cabaret

by Nancy Buckingham

  “Charles has kept on and on at me about him, how I came to know such a person, ever since you first mentioned his name last Saturday. And now, seeing me so upset...”

  ‘‘You’ll just have to keep your fingers crossed that he hasn’t spotted it,” I said. “There’s nothing else you can do.”

  She put a hand on my arm, nearly making me swerve into a Corporation bus. “You’ll help me, won’t you Tess? I... I know I haven’t behaved very well to you, but ...”

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” I told her.

  The house at Rottingdean looked even more solidly prosperous in bright daylight. I swung between the stone gate piers and ran the mini into the double garage, parking it alongside Charles’s immaculate green Rover. As Pearl and I walked to the front door, I was conscious of her reluctance in every step she took.

  An evening paper was stuck through the letterbox, and I pointed to It. “Does that mean your husband isn’t at home, after all?”

  Pearl shook her head. “He wouldn’t go out without his car. I expect he’s working in his greenhouse.”

  “Well, hopefully he’ll think this didn’t get delivered today.” I dragged the paper out and folded it smaller, cramming it into my shoulderbag. Pearl looked on in dismayed protest.

  “But if Charles rings the newsagents to complain ... if he gets a copy later and reads about Luke, he’ll know that I deliberately concealed it from him.”

  I gave an impatient sigh. “Would that make matters any worse? This way, you’ll at least have a sporting chance that he won’t find out.”

  She was right about her husband being at home. As we went in Charles Ratcliffe also entered, by way of a rear door. He was dressed for gardening but there was nothing casual about his appearance. He wore a very clean beige cotton jacket, and as he came towards us across the hall he drew off a pair of wash-leather gloves, rolling them into each other before tucking the neat wad into a pocket.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning at Pearl. “Why are you home so early, and Tess with you?”

  She seemed to be struck dumb, terrified, and I stepped in hastily.

  “Pearl wasn’t feeling too well, so I thought I ought to drive her home. I suggest she gets straight to bed and rests.”

  “What’s the matter with you, darling?” His brusqueness suggested a certain impatience. “Is it an infection, or something you’ve eaten?”

  “No, Charles, I just...” She dried up, and glanced at me for help.

  “I think it must be flu coming on. We had a hectic morning at the shop, and it didn’t help.” I gave him a straight look, daring him to argue. “I think the best thing is for her to take a couple of pills and get some sleep.”

  Pearl stood hovering indecisively, so I went on in a brisk, bossy voice. “Why don’t you go straight upstairs? There’s no sense hanging around feeling the way you do. Bed’s the best place for you, Pearl.”

  She nodded, her amber eyes pleading with me to give her courage. But what more could I do? The important thing, the safest thing, was to play the situation down so that Charles wouldn’t get suspicious.

  “I hope you’ll soon be feeling better,” I said, and turned to the front door. “Ring me tomorrow if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I’m sure we won’t need to trouble you, Tess,” her husband put in smoothly. “I’ll see Pearl has everything she needs. Er ... how will you get back? Shall I phone for a taxi? Or you could borrow Pearl’s car.”

  “Please don’t bother. I can easily catch a bus.”

  “If you’re sure?” He saw me out, with flowery phrases about being so grateful.

  Back in Brighton I got off the bus at Old Steine, but I didn’t head straight for the Lanes. The thought of returning to the shop held no appeal. And anyway, I reasoned, it was hardly worthwhile reopening for what little remained of the afternoon. My new career as a businesswoman wasn’t getting off to a dazzling start—but that was the least of my worries.

  I wandered aimlessly under the trees, skirting the Royal Pavilion with its whimsical onion-shaped domes and fretted stonework, and found that I’d reached the arched gateway to the Pavilion Gardens. A pleasanter place to kill time than in the crowded streets.

  Away to my right, a pantechnicon was disgorging instruments for an orchestral concert at the Dome Theatre (originally built as the Royal stables, I recalled). With a pang, I thought of the time I’d gone there with Ben to see a ballet performance. Ahead, by the Pavilion itself, tourists were gathering for admission to view the Royal apartments. I’d been there, too, with Ben, and he’d given me a potted history of the Prince Regent’s ill-starred liaison with the beautiful Mrs. Fitzherbert. His legal wife, but never his queen. I had listened spellbound—but then, in those days I’d listened spellbound to every word that fell from Ben Wyland’s lips.

  The benches scattered around the gardens were all occupied, so I stepped over the low railing and joined the dozens of others who were lazing on the grass in the sunshine. Leaning back, propped on my outspread arms, I tried to make myself relax. Luke Webster was dead, and everything was explained now... well, almost everything. The memory of that savage thrust which had sent me sprawling in the path of Ben’s car would always give me shivers of horror. But by now I’d reasoned myself into accepting the fact that it couldn’t have been directed at me personally. Some impatient oaf, or a vicious hooligan out for kicks. A few other details were still not tied up, but what did that matter? The thing was finished. It had to be.

  So why couldn’t I let myself believe that it was over?

  From somewhere behind me a voice called my name, and I swung round to see Peter waving at me from across a massed bed of scarlet and yellow flowers. He skirted round the end to come and join me, throwing himself down on the grass and dumping his briefcase at his feet.

  “Caught you out, have I, Tess?” he laughed. “Skiving off work on a nice sunny afternoon. I suppose Pearl Ratcliffe is holding the fort for you?”

  “No, I’ve just taken Pearl home. She’s not well.”

  “Nothing catching, I hope?”

  I shook my head. “She’s had rather a bad shock.”

  “Oh?”

  “I... I can’t explain,” I stammered. “And please, whatever you do, don’t say anything to Pearl about it if you see her. Or her husband. You really mustn’t.”

  Peter gave me a questioning look, not so much curiosity about Pearl, I sensed, as about my own fraught state. I felt sure he was genuinely concerned, and I had an urge to confide in him. After all, he was my solicitor, wasn’t he?

  “If I tell you something, Peter, will you promise to keep it to yourself?”

  “Of course, Tess. You can trust me, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I can. Well, there was an accident last night, and Pearl found out about it at lunchtime. A young man named Luke Webster was killed on his motorbike.”

  “Seems to ring a bell.” Peter bit his lower lip in recollection. “Yes, I read about it in the Argus. Why should Pearl be so upset?”

  “He was her son.”

  “Oh, that’s tough. I didn’t realise she was married before.”

  “She wasn’t,” I said, and looked at him. “It happens, you know. Luke was born when Pearl was very young, only about seventeen, and she had him adopted.”

  Peter’s glance was shrewd. “And her husband doesn’t know of the son’s existence?”

  “No, and he mustn’t. It would mean disaster for Pearl if Charles found out, and she’s upset enough as it is.”

  “You’re very concerned about her all of a sudden. I’d got the impression there was no love lost between you two.”

  “There isn’t, but that doesn’t stop me being sorry for her now. Pearl is too bossy by half for my liking, and it’s very clear that she resents me. Almost from the start I regretted asking her to stay on and work for me.” I gave Peter a straight look. “Did you know that she and Uncle Maynard were having an affair?”

  “Really?”


  “It had been going on for a long time, and I guess Pearl thinks she’s got more right to the shop than me. You see, just before he died Uncle Maynard asked her to marry him.”

  Peter stared. “Are you sure?”

  “Gervaise Duvillard told me, and he should know.”

  “Let’s get this straight... Pearl was going to divorce Charles Ratcliffe and marry your uncle?”

  “She was thinking it over. Deciding where her best interests lay, so I gather. The thing was, her long-lost baby son had turned up and started to blackmail her ...”

  “Blackmail?”

  “What else could you call it? Luke was demanding money for not putting Charles in the picture. Pearl was terrified of him finding out, so Uncle Maynard suggested the best solution for her was to tell Charles she wanted a divorce, and marry him instead. Only before Pearl had weighed up the pros and cons, Uncle Maynard was dead.”

  Peter avoided my gaze. He was frowning.

  “I’m sorry if you think I’m being bitchy and bitter,” I said defensively, “but I can’t help it. I know it must have been a rotten situation for her... it’s hard to imagine anything worse than being blackmailed by your own son. If she’d been in love with Uncle Maynard it would have been different, but she was just using him. She wasn’t ready to give up all the perks that go with being the wife of someone like Charles Ratcliffe ... even though theirs is a peculiar sort of marriage.” A sudden thought struck me and I burst out, “Peter ... that ‘generous offer’ you had to buy me out, was it him?”

  “Charles Ratcliffe?” He threw me a strange look. “What gave you that idea? Why should Charles Ratcliffe want to buy up Pennicott’s Emporium?”

  “God knows. To please Pearl, maybe—or for some other devious reason? He might have been aware all along of her affair with Uncle Maynard, and he’s jealous as hell where she’s concerned. Anyway, was it him?”

  Peter sighed. “I told you before, Tess, that I’m not at liberty to divulge one client’s business to another.”

  I gave him a sour look to show how low I rated him for standing on his professional dignity, and he smiled back at me sheepishly.

  “Why not let’s drop the subject of the Ratcliffes?” he went on. “It’s a pity about that chap being killed, but from what you’ve told me he’s no loss to anyone. Forget about Pearl and her problems ... they’re not your concern.”

  “But they are, Peter. There’s a lot more you don’t know about.”

  “Oh?”

  I hesitated, much tempted to use him as a sounding board. Peter said encouragingly, “I’ll go and fetch us cups of tea from the kiosk over there, then you can clue me in.”

  “No, someone might overhear.” I glanced around, nervous, even though the nearest people were a good twenty feet away across the grass.

  “There’s a simple answer to that.” Peter pushed himself to his feet, and held out a hand to me. “We’ll go back to your place and you can provide the tea.”

  “But what about your office, don’t you have to get back?”

  He brushed that aside. “There’s nothing urgent on my desk this afternoon. I’d better just give Beryl a ring on your phone to check if there are any messages.”

  We left the gardens by the nearest gate. Dodging across North Street at the traffic lights, I wondered if I was making a mistake. Hadn’t Ben been emphatic that I was to tell no one about the Romanov Cabarets? But Ben Wyland didn’t have any place in my life now. I had a perfect right to confide in whomever I chose. Anyhow, the situation had changed completely with Luke’s death and his confession to his mother.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I made a pot of tea while Peter stayed down in the shop to phone his office. It was several minutes before he came upstairs.

  “Sorry I was so long,” he said, “but I had to make another call to a client.” He put two spoonfuls of sugar in his tea and stirred it absently. Then he jerked back to the present. “Now, what’s this all about, Tess?”

  “I don’t know quite where to start,” I said.

  “Start at the beginning, and keep right on going to the end.”

  I didn’t take his advice, though. I kept darting here and there as each new thought occurred to me. So I found that I had told him about the Romanov Cabarets before remembering to mention the photographs that had first set Ben and me on the trail.

  “I’d like to see those photographs, Tess.”

  “I haven’t got them now. They must still be in Ben’s wallet, and he’s in India at the moment.”

  “So I heard.” By way of explanation, Peter added, “Someone I was having a drink with yesterday happened to mention it. When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “A few days, I expect.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I to take it that you don’t care all that much?”

  I hardly hung back before telling Peter the simple truth, and I guess it must have come out sounding very gauche. “I discovered after Ben left for India that he’s married.”

  “You didn’t know?” I couldn’t quite read his expression. Sympathy for me on the surface, hope for his own chances lurking deeper down? “Perhaps he just hadn’t got around to telling you.”

  I met Peter’s glance steadily. “Ben deliberately avoided telling me. I’ll never forgive him for that.”

  In the silence, voices of people passing along Meeting House Lane drifted up through the open window. They sounded infinitely remote, inhabitants of some other world. A seagull wheeled across the opposite rooftops, shrieking, a white slash of wings in the blue sky.

  Peter said, “Those photographs, Tess... do you happen to have the negatives?”

  “Oh yes... I hadn’t thought of that. I think I shoved the wallet into a drawer in the bedroom. Just a minute.”

  I went up to fetch it, and found that the negatives of the sugar box were all on the same narrow strip of four. Peter held it up to the window, half-closing his eyes.

  “They’re too small to make out much detail,” he said. “May I hang on to them? A chap I play squash with is a keen amateur photographer, and I’ll ask him to do another set of prints.”

  “If you like.” As he slipped the strip of negatives back into their transparent sleeve and put it in his pocket, I went on, “All things considered, Doris Lambert was right about the Romanov Cabarets being unlucky. They’ve been connected, indirectly, with three deaths recently.”

  “Three?”

  I nodded. “I can’t help thinking it must have been something to do with this business that made Uncle Maynard so forgetful about his carbohydrate balance that day. It was so unlike him.”

  Peter gave me a long, slow look. “You said that before, I remember, when I first met you.”

  “Well, don’t you agree?”

  “I scarcely knew your uncle, Tess, so I couldn’t say.”

  “And then there’s Ruth Willoughby. The October Cabaret undoubtedly brought about her death.” I paused thoughtfully. “It’s rather odd about that, though ...”

  “What’s odd?”

  “When Ben and I were at her cottage that day and Luke Webster turned up, I slipped out to the garden to avoid meeting him. So I didn’t actually see what happened. But Ben said that Luke looked shaken when he saw the porcelain was missing. Why, if he’d taken it himself?”

  “Putting on an act?”

  “No point. There was no reason why he should ever have known about the existence of the porcelain. Yet Ben said that although Luke pretended to be casually strolling about the room, he deliberately went right up to the china cabinet in the alcove. And when he looked inside, he turned pale as a ghost. He couldn’t have acted that, could he?”

  “Ben Wyland must have been mistaken.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s curious ...”

  Peter lifted his broad shoulders. “That’s one little mystery you’ll never get sorted out, with Luke Webster dead. Do you really think he killed himself deliberately?”

 
“I don’t know what to think. It could have been just an accident, I suppose, but Pearl said he was an expert motorcyclist.”

  “Suicide was a bit drastic, wasn’t it? There was a fair chance he’d get away scot free.”

  “Maybe he had too much weighing on his conscience.” A new aspect struck me. “He might have believed he was responsible for a second death. It must have been Luke who broke into L’Oiseau Bistro last night, and when he knocked Gervaise unconscious he might have thought that he’d killed him, too, like Miss Willoughby. Or if not, he’d know it was very possible that Gervaise had got a good look at him, in which case the police would be sure to catch up with him in the end. Luke must have been scared, out of his wits.”

  “But Duvillard didn’t see who attacked him?”

  “No, he said it was too dark. He just saw a shadowy figure.”

  Peter said reflectively, “I wonder what’s happened to that Sèvres sugar box.”

  “Luke smashed it, I imagine, like he did the rest of the set.”

  “Why bother, if he was going to kill himself? Still, if he had it on him when he crashed, it’s certain to be smashed by now.”

  I sighed, feeling weighed down by my problems. “Peter, what ought I to do?”

  “What can you do? Only stir up a lot of mud, and no benefit to anyone. As that cabaret thing is now destroyed ...”

  “But there’s the other one,” I reminded him. “Doris Lambert’s.”

  “According to what she told you,” he said, “it was purchased from her quite legally. The man made her an offer for it, and she agreed to sell.”

  “He swindled her out of a small fortune, though.”

  “Swindled is an emotive word, Tess. It’s a different matter trying to prove something in a court of law.”

  “But the name he gave of the firm he was supposed to represent, Benfields of Bond Street... it doesn’t exist.”

  “Which makes the chap untraceable.” Peter picked up his teaspoon and played with it abstractedly, twirling it in his fingers. “Did Mrs. Lambert happen to tell you what he looked like?”

  “Yes, she did. Ben was rather crafty, actually, the way he winkled a description out of her.”