Death in the Stars

by Frances Brody

  I felt sure that Billy hadn’t tampered with his own cigar. So, who had? In a sudden burst of generosity, he might have handed the cigar to one of the astronomers, even the Astronomer Royal. One of the cleverest men in the country might have been done in through a comedian’s magnanimous gesture.

  I closed my eyes for the rest of the journey, aware that I was simply going round and round in circles. Leeds was our final destination so there was no fear of my being carried on along the rail lines beyond my station. In spite of shutting my eyes, sleep did not come.

  I stepped out onto the platform, conscious of the precious cargo in my pocket, having wrapped the handkerchief in a page from my notebook and put it inside an envelope.

  Not expecting to be met, or for anyone to know of my arrival, I strode towards the barrier. It was a surprise to hear someone call my name.

  The man placed himself directly in front of me and said again, ‘Mrs Shackleton!’

  It was Selina’s manager, Trotter Brockett, not a man or a name one would easily forget.

  ‘Mr Brockett, hello.’

  ‘At your service, Mrs Shackleton.’

  He looked beyond me and I thought he must be waiting for someone else.

  When it was clear everyone from my train had gone through, he took a breath. ‘This isn’t funny.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did he put you up to it, one of his pranks?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ And then I knew what he meant. He did not believe that Billy had died.

  ‘Mr Brockett, I wouldn’t dream of playing such a nasty trick. I’m so sorry. My call from the hospital was genuine.’

  ‘Oh.’ He deflated like a collapsing Yorkshire pudding. ‘No.’

  I took his arm. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back to your hotel.’

  ‘Not Billy, not Billy.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ I thought back to my telephone call to him. When Mr Brockett had received the dreadful information about Billy with barely a comment, I thought that was due to shock. He and Billy must have had an odd sort of friendship if he thought that Billy would ask me to pretend something so, well – fatal.

  Mr Brockett could barely put one foot in front of the other. ‘He liked to play jokes on me. And sometimes, he wouldn’t want to go on stage any more, when he was down. He once sent a message – tell Brockett I’ve died and gone to heaven. I thought he’d put you up to giving me a punch line, a punch, a punch.’

  I practically held him upright, helping him back to the hotel. He was winded. His breath came in gasps. ‘Pranksters. We were merry pranksters, we two. I was thinking of some way to pay him back. I knew he wasn’t well when I heard from Beryl that Selina had come back without him. I’ve arranged a replacement. That call, couldn’t believe your call. It had to be one of his cruel jokes.’

  Surely no one would joke about something so serious.

  Mr Brockett stopped and looked round. ‘He’s going to jump out, isn’t he? That quip of his, he’s still joking. This isn’t true.’

  ‘I am sorry. What a dreadful shock for you, Mr Trotter.’

  ‘I was going to feign surprise. Say I’d cancelled the performance.’

  In the grubby smoke-ridden station, passengers hurrying to and from their trains turned to steal a quick glance at us. Even at his most sober and distraught, Trotter Brockett looked healthy, tanned, and distinctly un-English. He was once more dressed in a pristine linen suit, this time with a mourning band on his arm. Presumably he had donned this band as a response to the ‘joke’. His shirt was the palest blue and he wore a black tie. The attempt at sobriety had not detracted from his naturally jaunty manner when I spotted him first. Now that jauntiness had fled.

  We left the station and stepped into the bright light of day. The sun shone on young women in gay cotton dresses and a clerk in his shirt sleeves, jacket draped over his arm. A delivery boy on a bike sped past a horse and cart, the blinkered horse sweating in the afternoon sun.

  Across on City Square, a young couple lingered by the statue of a nymph.

  After a few more moments, I thought Mr Brockett steady enough that I could release his arm. He took mine. ‘Come to the hotel. I’ll order coffee. You must tell me… tell me what happened.’

  ‘Coffee would help.’ It would fortify me for the visit to my friendly chemist. But if Alex was right and the poison might evaporate, I must lose no time. We reached the entrance to his hotel. ‘Mr Brockett, I’ll see you in and settled with a brandy. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes. There’s something I must do that won’t take long.’

  He gave me the look of an abandoned child.

  The commissionaire quickly noticed that something was wrong. He glanced at me.

  ‘Mr Brockett is feeling unwell. I’ll be back very shortly. Would you kindly find us a quiet table?’

  The waiter led us to a table by the wall. He pulled out the chairs.

  Mr Brockett sat in a kind of trance. I waited until brandy was brought and he had taken a few sips. ‘Don’t move. I’ll be back.’

  I left the hotel and hurried along Boar Lane, still wondering why on earth Mr Brockett thought I would ring him from the hospital and pretend that Billy had died. He must have convinced himself that it could not possibly be true – an extreme case of refusing to acknowledge a horrible truth. I of all people ought to understand that. I tried to remember precisely what I had said to him.

  The voice startled me. ‘Mrs Shackleton, hello! You’re off to the Grand Pygmalion. Snap!’

  At first I could not place the man and then realised that it was Maurice Montague, master of music, player of twenty-nine musical instruments. He is a middle-aged man with greying hair, an air of sorrow and a well-brushed shabby suit.

  ‘Mr Montague, hello. No I’m not shopping.’

  The Grand Pygmalion is a much prized and enchanting department store, but today I had other priorities.

  Mr Montague assumed a jaunty air, as if practising for a time when pleasantries would be required. ‘I see from the papers that you were lucky in Giggleswick.’

  Lucky in Giggleswick. It would be a good title for a bad poem. ‘We saw the eclipse, and it was extraordinary. Unforgettable.’

  ‘I’m so glad. Now can’t stand here chatting.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Man to see about a dog, or rather a piano. But lovely to have seen you.’

  ‘You too, Mr Montague.’ I hurried on. What a charmer, to make it sound as though I had attempted to waylay him. It was a relief that he had not tarried, nor asked me about Selina and Billy.

  Feeling guilty at having abandoned the distraught Mr Brockett, I hurried towards my favourite chemist’s shop, Brownlaws. Bright young Mr Ernest Brownlaw mixes his potions in the rear of the premises.

  Fortunately, I arrived at a quiet time. Ernest Brownlaw’s face lit with pleasure when he saw me. He somehow divined that I had not come for a packet of aspirin.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Brownlaw.’

  ‘What can I do for you today?’

  I lowered my voice. ‘This is an odd request.’

  ‘I would expect no less of you.’

  ‘Would you please test this cigar for poison?’

  ‘Ah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. I can do that.’

  I passed the envelope containing the handkerchief-wrapped cigar across the counter.

  ‘Is there any indication of what I am looking for?’

  ‘Cyanide.’

  To his credit, he did not blink an eye. ‘Right-i-ho. Will you take a seat?’

  I chose the spindly chair by the cabinet that held eyewashes, eyebaths and bottles of iodine and Indian brandy.

  Penny Scott, the fair-headed assistant, was showing an anxious-looking woman two different sorts of shampoo guaranteed to cure dandruff.

  When the customer had made her purchase and left, I took the opportunity to buy some rather luxurious rose-scented soap flakes. By the time my soap was wrapped, Mr Brownlaw beckoned me to
the counter.

  ‘Would you mind leaving this item with me? I have your telephone number and I will give you a call about it. Only I have just remembered old Mr Ponsonby will be in for his prescription on the dot and he hates to be kept waiting.’

  I hesitated. I would have liked to know straightaway, and would have sat it out. But I remembered the distraught Mr Brockett and my promise to return.

  He sensed my hesitation. ‘Honestly, if it turns out that you’ve captured a poisoned cigar I won’t keep you waiting.’ Mr Brownlaw looked rather cheerful at having been asked to conduct the test. ‘Did you ever read that spy story, Mrs Shackleton, by – oh what’s his name? – William something.’

  ‘William Le Queux, and no I didn’t, but I’ve heard of it. Are you able to tell me anything about the cigar?’

  ‘Oh yes, I can do that all right. It’s what they call a puro, that’s to say the filler, binder and wrapper are made of the same leaf. That means it’s a good quality. It’s Cuban and it has a distinctive scent that I must say has been somewhat diminished by being carted around in a hanky. It might be a Bolivar but don’t quote me. A friend’s father smokes them and they’re not to my taste.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brownlaw. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  ‘Might I look forward to sending some dabbler in cyanide to the gallows?’

  I made light of my curiosity. ‘Oh, it’s just something that came up.’

  ‘Something that would come up only for you, Mrs Shackleton!’

  ‘But you will give it early attention?’

  ‘Of course. This isn’t something to dawdle over. If it’s a positive, you’ll hear soon enough.’

  Thirteen

  Over The Moon

  What I really wanted to do after leaving Brownlaws chemist’s shop was to catch the next tram home and soak in the bath. Ass’s milk and rose petals might do the trick or, failing that, warm water and Brownlaws rose-scented soap flakes.

  But I set off walking back along Boar Lane to the Queens Hotel, hoping that a glass of brandy had done Mr Brockett at least a tiny bit of good. Retracing my steps, I reached the entrance to the Grand Pygmalion just as Maurice Montague was stepping out. And he really was stepping out, like a man with springs under his soles, making me think of the cow that jumped over the moon. He was grinning, and nodding, as if some invisible person had just palmed him a brand new five pound note. He was not looking at this street, these people, this world, but into a rosy future. I know it’s a good shop, but just what had he found in there to tickle his fancy?

  ‘You look chirpy, Mr Montague.’

  ‘We meet again, and so soon!’ Brightness lit his eyes. He rocked on his heels. ‘Not following me, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not! I’d do a better job.’

  ‘Glee is the word, Mrs Shackleton. And if I don’t tell someone I shall burst. May I rely on your utter discretion?’

  That word again. I should adopt it as a trade mark. ‘Of course you may.’

  ‘You are looking at a man with a job, a proper job, a day job, with certain hours – just now agreed. I am a man who has leapt over the moon.’

  ‘Really? What about your theatre work?’

  ‘I shall fulfil my commitments until the end of the tour. Our other engagements are all within reach. For a man whose work stops at a civilised hour catching a train to Huddersfield or Halifax will present no impediment.’

  I congratulated him. ‘May a discreet person ask the nature of this new job?’

  ‘I am to play the piano in the music department of the Grand Pygmalion and offer advice to customers on choosing the correct musical instrument.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘But not a word! I shall break the news myself at the right moment.’ He looked about, to make sure we were not overheard. ‘A certain person has his golden boys and girls and if you are not among them then future prospects are dim, regardless of talent and the public’s esteem.’

  I understood him to mean the ‘certain person’ who was at that very moment waiting for me to return to the Queens Hotel. ‘I wish you well, Mr Montague, and you can rely on me.’

  He raised his hat. ‘In life a person must know when it is time to go. People must jump before they are pushed.’

  We parted company, his cheeriness leaving me fortified for the difficult task of facing Trotter Brockett.

  It had taken me less than half an hour to go to the chemist and to exchange words with Maurice Montague. The hotel commissionaire was looking out for me. He opened the door. ‘I told the waiter you were coming back. He’ll bring your drinks and sandwiches. Poor Mr Brockett looks shocking.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I found Mr Brockett in exactly the same position as I left him, shoulders slumped, his face a mask. The Riviera tan had turned the colour of mustard. He looked at me with a puzzled air.

  ‘Sorry I had to leave you.’ His brandy glass was empty. ‘The doorman tells me we’ll be served soon.’

  He gave the slightest of nods.

  ‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear enough on the telephone. It must have been a terrible shock for you.’

  How much clearer might I have been other than to say that Billy was dead?

  He wet his lips with his tongue. ‘My fault, my stupid fault for believing Billy to be invincible.’

  I sat down beside him, unsure what to say that would not be platitudinous.

  He reached out and patted my hand. ‘Not your fault. I was a bit of an ass on the telephone. It was good of you to ring. You caught me at a moment when I was with a chap who is going to stand in for Billy tonight. He’d just let loose a torrent of jokes and so… I was laughing at the jokes and then…’ He sighed.

  ‘How did you know to meet me at the station, Mr Brockett?’

  ‘When I realised that you had kindly stayed with Billy so that Selina could go home and rest, I thought the least I could do was meet your train. You see, I expected Billy to be with you – oh, not fit and ready for duty, something of the wounded soldier, but I thought he might be coming back with you. I have always regarded him as indestructible. Such plans I had for him, for him and Selina.’

  The waiter brought tea and sandwiches. I poured and stirred sugar into his tea. ‘Do have some sweet tea. It will help you get over the shock.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘And eat something. You have difficult times ahead.’

  He gave a small smile. ‘Something must have kept you in Giggleswick. I met two previous trains, one from there and one from Settle.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had the inconvenience.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He shook his head. ‘And I’m forgetting my manners. No one has helped you off with your coat. I daresay it was chilly enough when you set off in the early hours.’

  ‘It was, but I’ll keep it on thank you.’

  ‘You’ve had the most appalling time, Mrs Shackleton. I am grateful to you for taking care of Selina. I only wish I had been there to shoulder the burden.’

  ‘I’m glad that she came back on the aeroplane. I wasn’t sure at first that I’d done the right thing, with she and Billy being so close.’

  ‘An artiste needs her rest. Beryl will take good care of her.’

  ‘She is very much more than Miss Fellini’s dresser then.’

  ‘She is indeed. Selina relies on her a great deal. Selina is too kind for her own good. Beryl shoos away the hangers-on and scroungers.’

  Tiredness ought to have dulled my senses. Yet Billy’s untimely death sharpened my every thought. Billy was a man who pulled his weight. But what about the two other deaths Selina had mentioned, the second-rank animal act performer and ventriloquist? Might they be hangers-on to be shooed away? Was Beryl the real power behind this empire of entertainment?

  I wondered whether my estimate of Billy was correct. He was a damaged man, a drug taker, a survivor. ‘Had Selina and Billy worked together long?’

  ‘Oh yes. They go way back, personally and professionally.’ He sighe
d. ‘I had plans for them both. This is confidential. We were still in the talking stage but quite far on.’

  ‘Planning for a new show?’

  ‘In the West End, pairing the two of them. He has a good singing voice, you see, and they are the most popular entertainers in the land. It would have been…’

  It was my turn to pat his hand.