The Jazz Files

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “I’m only in this to find the truth, Rollo.”

  Rollo smiled at her like an indulgent parent. “There are many interpretations of the ‘truth’, Poppy, and many ways to get them. You’ll learn.” He picked up his pencil and pointed to the mindmap. “Now, back to work.”

  Poppy left Rollo’s office promising to check in with him later. She walked through the newsroom, slaloming between desks strewn with crumpled handkerchiefs. Didn’t these journalists think to take them home to launder? If she got through the next few days without catching whatever was going around, it would be a miracle. She was happy to see Lionel’s desk chair was empty. Rollo had told her that he had called in sick the day after their encounter and they hadn’t seen him since. He said he was looking into the possibility that Lionel could be The Globe’s mole.

  There was nothing for her to do in the newsroom, so she went downstairs to the archive, hoping to get some files from Ivan. It was locked.

  “He’s gone to lunch. Doesn’t trust anyone in there without him.”

  Poppy turned to see Daniel coming up the stairs. Her heart lurched and then sank. She straightened up. “Good day, Mr Rokeby.”

  “Good day, Miss Denby.” He smiled at her boyishly and leaned his shoulder on the wall. “So how was Leamington Spa?”

  “Leamington… Oh yes, it was very… restful. Nice of Rollo to arrange it for me.”

  Daniel looked at her intently; Poppy turned away.

  “You don’t look very rested.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “Flu took it out of me. I’m fine though, if you were worried…”

  “I wasn’t worried. I telephoned your house to see how you were. You seemed to be doing all right.”

  Daniel straightened up. “Oh. I didn’t know you’d called. Who did you speak to?”

  “Two delightful children that I didn’t know you had. And then –”

  “Look, Poppy, I can explain. I was going to tell you at dinner, I really was. I –”

  “Hello, you two… Is there something I can do for you?”

  It was Ivan lumbering up the stairs like a great bear in a fedora hat.

  Poppy sidestepped around Daniel to face the archivist. “Yes, there is, Mr Molanov. I need to look at some files.”

  Ivan put out his arm. “Please, Mees Denby, call me Ivan.”

  Poppy laughed and hooked her arm through is. “And you, sir, must call me Poppy.”

  Ivan unlocked the door and escorted Poppy into the archive. Neither of them gave Daniel a backward glance.

  CHAPTER 27

  Poppy arrived at The Old Vic at five o’clock, the time that Delilah had said she would be getting out of rehearsal. She was to wait for her in the foyer. She explained her presence to the man in the box office, who was selling tickets for that evening’s show, and took a seat behind a large potted fern. Delilah had explained that there were three shows on the go at the theatre: the current run of a ballet, the rehearsals of Midsummer, which would replace the ballet at the end of its run, and auditions for the show after Midsummer. On the wall were posters for the three shows: Coppélia by the theatre’s own ballet company, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, directed by Robert Atkins, and Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, directed by Constantin Stanislavski. The name rang a bell with Poppy and she made a note to do an article on it once this story had been wrapped up.

  Golly, she thought, I’m beginning to think like a journalist. This story was her life, and that of her friends and family – not just a source of column inches. But she realized she would not always be this close to the stories she worked on. At least she hoped not, as she repositioned herself to ease the ache in her ribs.

  Poppy watched theatre folk criss-crossing the foyer: paper-thin ballerinas sucking on their cigarettes as though their lives depended on it, a flustered Robert Atkins asking all and sundry if they’d seen Puck, a wardrobe mistress pushing a rail of costumes, a gentleman with a silver-tipped cane talking animatedly to an anxious young man in an accent similar to Ivan Molanov’s. Could that be Stanislavski?

  Through the glass panes of the outer doors, Poppy saw a silver Rolls-Royce pull up. A chauffeur wearing a top hat emerged and opened the door for his passenger. A pair of dazzling black shoes stepped onto the pavement carrying Lord Melvyn Dorchester. Poppy made herself as small as possible behind her fern.

  Dorchester swept into the foyer as if he owned the place, heading straight for the box office. He too carried a cane and he slammed it down on the box office desk.

  “My tickets.”

  “And may I enquire in whose name they are, sir?” asked the clerk.

  Dorchester glared at him and rapped the cane in rapid staccato. “Lord Melvyn Dorchester.”

  The clerk flicked through a file and then flicked through it again. Then in a very timid voice said, “I’m sorry, sir, but there is no record of any tickets being bought in your name. Is it for Coppélia?”

  “It is. And they were not bought. They are comps.”

  “Ah,” said the clerk, “that explains it. Let me check.” He opened another file and flicked through it. And then flicked through it again. Looking as though he wished the floor would open and swallow him, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, but there is nothing here either.”

  “Nothing here? Nothing here? Call Miss Baylis at once!”

  “Yes, sir,” said the clerk, and picked up the telephone on his desk and dialled an internal number.

  As he did so something dawned on Poppy. The telephone. That’s it! That’s how Alfie knew I was going to Paris. He somehow listened in to my telephone conversation with Rollo from King’s Road. Is that possible? I’m sure it would be, if he’d bribed the operator to eavesdrop on that number… What else has Alfie heard? What else does he know?

  “Lord Dorchester. I believe you wish to see me.”

  A large lady in her fifties, with dark brown hair and round spectacles, walked calmly into the foyer. As she did, the hustle and bustle seemed to settle like autumn leaves.

  Dorchester raised his cane and strode towards her. They met like two prize fighters in the middle of the floor. “Ah, Miss Baylis. I’ve come for my comps for the ballet.”

  Miss Baylis, in the quiet but authoritative tone of a school mistress, declared: “You have no complimentary tickets for the ballet.”

  Dorchester’s nostrils flared and he pulled himself to his full height, reminding Poppy of the day she had interviewed him. He took a step closer to Lilian Baylis. Miss Baylis held her ground.

  “As a… patron of this theatre, I expect a certain courtesy.”

  Miss Baylis smiled indulgently. “As an… investor in a specific show you will get your cut of the box office as we have agreed. But only of that show. However, if you would like to invest in other shows, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement, but that will be under a separate contract. For now, you are an investor in The Cherry Orchard, not Coppélia. We are only a small theatre and need to sell as many seats as we can. If we gave away free tickets to every Tom, Dick or Harry who invested in any show at any time we would have none left to sell to the public. And, I’m sure you’ll agree, Lord Dorchester, that would not make good business sense.”

  Theatre folk had begun to gather around the edges of the foyer, watching their champion take on the challenger. Dorchester rapped his cane on the polished wood floor. “Miss Baylis, I am not a Tom, Dick or Harry. I am a peer in His Majesty’s House of Lords.”

  “We have many peers who invest in us, Lord Dorchester, and they don’t come begging for free tickets.”

  A collective gasp went up. Dorchester raised his cane and Poppy was convinced he would have struck Miss Baylis if they were not in such a public place. But with a herculean effort of self-control he lowered his cane and balanced his shaking hands on top of it. “Then, Miss Baylis, I shall be investing elsewhere. I have never been comfortable with your Bolshevik director anyway.”

  “Mr Stanislavski is not a Bolshevik.”

  “He is still ba
sed in Moscow, is he not?”

  “He is.”

  “And he is on first-name terms with Lenin and Trotsky?”

  “Many people are on first-name terms with Vladimir and Leon.”

  A titter spread through the foyer. Dorchester looked as if he was about to explode. But Miss Baylis stood firm. To Poppy’s relief he sucked in his breath, turned on his heel and strode out of the foyer. However, as he did so, his eyes locked with hers. He stopped, mid-stride, and used his cane to part the fern.

  “You! I thought you were –”

  Poppy, like a trapped dog, snapped back. “Dead? No, Lord Dorchester, your son didn’t manage to kill me when he ran me down.”

  Another collective gasp went up.

  Dorchester’s cane pointed between her eyes.

  “I think it is time to leave, Melvyn, before someone gets hurt.” It was Lilian Baylis. She pushed down Dorchester’s cane with her hand. Behind her, the theatre folk gathered to see what was going on in the corner.

  Dorchester, still managing to retain his poise, turned to face her. “Consider our contract terminated, Lily, and rest assured I will be having a word with the Lord Chamberlain’s office about this theatre promoting revolutionary ideas.”

  “You do that,” said Miss Baylis, and with a raised finger pointed him towards the door.

  As Dorchester’s Rolls pulled away, a cheer went up in the foyer. Lilian Baylis allowed herself a quick smile before barking out: “What are you all doing? We’ve got a show to put on!”

  Poppy thought Lilian would stop to interrogate her, but she didn’t, and she returned to wherever she had been before Dorchester tried to steal the show. But as soon as she was gone Delilah ran up to her. “Poppy! Did you see that? Wasn’t Lily wonderful?”

  “Indeed she was,” said Poppy, still shaking from the encounter. “Are you off now? I really need your help.”

  “Yes, I am, but I need to be back first thing tomorrow, so no late night.”

  “Oh? You don’t normally have early morning rehearsal. Have you been naughty again?”

  Delilah laughed. “Quite the opposite. Robert has asked me to be understudy to the understudy for Titania! With all this flu going around, he’s paranoid we won’t have a leading fairy on opening night.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news!”

  “Isn’t it just? And guess what else? Mr Stanislavski watched my rehearsal and asked me to audition for Anya.”

  “Anya?”

  “The Cherry Orchard. It’s a masterpiece. And Stanislavski is a genius. If it hadn’t been for the revolution I was going to study at his academy in Moscow. But papa didn’t think it safe. But now he’s here. In London. Oh, Poppy, isn’t it just spectacular!”

  Poppy marvelled at her friend’s ability to be crying over the possible murder of her mother one day and celebrating about her job the next. But, she supposed, that was how she survived. Didn’t she do a similar thing with Christopher? And her aunt with her handicap? But it was time to focus on the job at hand, and she once again needed Delilah’s help.

  “Delilah, do you perhaps know where Mr Thompson the window cleaner lives?”

  Delilah looked at her curiously. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. But I can ask Mrs Jones.”

  “Who’s Mrs Jones?”

  “My cleaning lady. She should be at the flat now. I usually pay her on a Tuesday.”

  She grasped Poppy’s hand. “Come on. If we hurry we can still catch her.”

  Elizabeth Dorchester stared at the mould stain on the wall. It had definitely spread since last week. Then, there had been three blotches forming a motley cloud; now there were five. And was that the start of a new one? Elizabeth squinted in the fading evening light. She wasn’t sure. She would check again in the morning. Or perhaps not.

  The thought of facing one more night listening to the screams of other patients, one more morning forcing down watery porridge and waiting in line to use the bathroom, one more day reading and rereading the same old books and watching the mould spread on her wall…

  She started to pray, but stopped, realizing they were the same prayers using the same words; that the same hope rose and fell ever so slightly, and the same comfort rested less than it had yesterday and less again than the day before. Those that wait upon the Lord… What was that verse? She couldn’t be bothered to reach for her Bible on the windowsill. Those that wait upon the Lord shall… shall… renew their strength… and… rise up on wings… like… like eagles. Now that would be useful. Imagine if she had wings like an eagle and could fly out of her room, out of the asylum, over the walls and past the Battersea towers. What would she see? Families in the park? Wagon men lining up to cross Chelsea Bridge? The river winding its way to somewhere… She would follow the river and then… and then…

  Yes, the mould had definitely spread.

  CHAPTER 28

  Mr Thompson was settling Bess down for the night. The hay was fresh, the water cool and the bucket of oats warm and filling – just the way the old horse liked it. He spoke quietly to Bess as she snuffled the oats, stroking her gently on her flank.

  “The flu’s ’bout again, Bess. Would you Adam and Eve it? Not as bad as the last time. Only a few’ve popped their cloggs – some old folk, some kiddies. Don’t think I’d survive a second bout. What d’ya think, old girl?”

  The mare lifted her head and snorted a reply before returning to her supper.

  Mr Thompson straightened up, his spine creaking like an old winch. “That’s what I thought.”

  He lifted the paraffin lamp off the hook and shut the stable door. Then he checked to see that the tarpaulin was tied securely on his wagon, which filled most of the small courtyard outside his East London house. The house itself was an end-of-terrace, two-up-two-down; he paid extra for use of the shed for Bess. The rent had been going up year on year, but Mr Thompson’s income had not. If it hadn’t been for the washing that his wife took in and strung across the courtyard when he and Bess were off during the day, the family would be struggling. Although the family was much smaller than it used to be. First it had been the twins: barely out of nappies when consumption took them. Then his boy in the war. Now there was just the girl, Vicky, named after the old queen. And if the fishmonger’s son had his way, she would soon be moving out too.

  Mr Thompson was just about to go into the house to join his wife and daughter, when the sound of a motorcar backfiring startled him. Bess stamped and snorted in the stable and he made soothing noises through the door. If she didn’t settle, he’d have to go back in. The motor belched again… bleedin’ modern contraptions!

  The vehicle pulled up outside Mr Thompson’s house and two young ladies, both wearing motoring goggles and scarves, alighted. The taller of the two approached the gate.

  “Mr Thompson?”

  “Who’s asking?” He held up his lamp to see her more clearly.

  “It’s Poppy Denby, Dorothy Denby’s niece. From 137 King’s Road?” She pulled back her scarf and a shock of blonde curls caught the light.

  It was the girl he’d helped up the ladder this morning. And the shorter one, on closer inspection, was the dark-haired Marconi girl from the posh apartments down the road.

  “Evenin’, ladies. You’re a bit off your patch, aren’tcha?”

  “We are,” said the Marconi girl. “And we’re sorry to bother you, but Mrs Jones told us where we could find you.”

  “She did, did she?” He’d need to have a word with his pal Jonesy to tell his missus to mind her own business. Nonetheless he was intrigued to hear why these two toffs were slummin’ it in the East End.

  “What can I do for you then?”

  “Do you think we can come in?” asked the Denby girl. She looked over her shoulder, then leaned in and whispered, “It’s of a rather… private nature. It’s about… Well, it’s about your son.”

  Mr Thompson felt the blood rise from his neck as he did anytime anyone mentioned his son. What did these girls know about it? What right did they hav
e to scratch up old wounds?

  “No. You’ll not be coming in. I clean your windows and keep me nose clean. And I’d be much obliged if you did the same.”

  He spun around and caught his ankle on a loose cobble. He winced, but didn’t falter.

  “But Mr Thompson, I’ve just got back from Paris. I met someone who was there the day your son died. She – she said she held him until he was gone. And he told her the truth about what really happened that day. The truth about Alfie Dorchester.”

  Mr Thompson stopped in his tracks as the front door opened and his wife called out, “What’s going on out there, Bill? Bleedin’ hurry up, will ya? Supper’s on the table.”

  Mr Thompson breathed in deeply and turned to face the young ladies on the other side of the gate. Then he called over his shoulder, “We’ve visitors, Doris. Put the kettle on.”

  Mrs Thompson lifted the heavy black kettle off the range, holding the handle with a thick wad of cloth. She had instructed seventeen-year-old Vicky to unpack the best china from the trunk that also kept the fine linen she’d been given the day she married Bill Thompson.

  Delilah had said they oughtn’t bother making such a fuss and that ordinary china would do, but Poppy had been on enough pastoral visits with her parents to know that people weren’t putting on airs and graces for their guests but for themselves. She told Mrs Thompson that her great aunt Gertie in Morpeth had a set very similar. Mrs Thompson nodded in appreciation.

  When the tea was poured in the front room, they sat with teacups and saucers perched on their laps while Mrs Thompson offered each of them a lump of sugar with a pair of silver tongs. Mr Thompson’s stomach grumbled loudly, and he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of his supper growing cold on the kitchen table.

  “We’re very sorry to interrupt you at supper time. We won’t keep you long,” said Poppy.

  “No bother at all,” said Mrs Thompson, sipping her tea as delicately as Queen May. Vicky nodded enthusiastically beside her. Young Vicky appeared to be in awe of the visitors, and kept brushing her long hair self-consciously behind her ear as she took in their fashionable bobs. When Poppy explained that she worked for The Globe newspaper, Vicky nearly fainted in admiration.