She knew all the shortcuts. That was a source of pride. Put a person in a motorcar and they forget their knowledge of back streets, cut-throughs and ginnels. Mrs Sugden knew her way around Sheepscar, having once upon a time gone regularly to Sheepscar Library to change books for an old lady who attended the Congregational Chapel.
She felt confident that she would do this little job better than either Mrs Shackleton or Mr Sykes. It never hurt to have a proper division of labour. Jim Sykes had gone to interview the working man in York, the tram driver who knocked down Douglas Dougan. Later he’d be talking to Miss Clever Clogs, she with the amazing memory. Mrs Shackleton had set off to talk to the woman who lived in the house of the former chief constable, mother-in-law of the variety star.
Mrs Sugden had a feeling for Sheepscar. She knew the kind of house the ventriloquist’s widow lived in. The woman might be an attender at the chapel and borrow books from the library. If so, that would provide the opening of a conversation. She would tell her of knowing a neighbour of hers, Mrs Crisp, who kept her marbles till the end. The old lady liked to read romance as long as it wasn’t too soppy, crime if it wasn’t too silly, but nothing about war or cowboys and nothing that included whales and sea captains.
Mrs Sugden turned into Back Barrack Street. She found number 14 and went into the yard. The curtains were clean enough, cream lace which wouldn’t need as much washing as the white. She knocked. There was a bit of shuffling about inside. The door opened. A girl of about fourteen stood in the doorway, her round face pale as the moon, with big brown eyes and her hair in pigtails. She looked Mrs Sugden up and down. The girl had a very childish air about her, wore a check frock, white socks and black plimsolls.
‘Is Mrs Lloyd in?’ Even as she asked, Mrs Sugden spied a woman in her sixties seated at a table, busy at something.
‘Gran, it’s someone to see you.’
‘Tell her to come in.’
‘Come in.’
Mrs Sugden stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. The girl went back to the table where there was a pile of stockings. The old lady, her gnarled hands moving rapidly, folded a pair of stockings. The girl took the stockings and wrapped them in tissue paper. There were boxes on the floor full of the wrapped items.
‘Have they sent you?’ Mrs Lloyd looked her visitor up and down. ‘Only we’re not finished and won’t be for an hour.’
‘Oh no. I’ve come from seeing Miss Fellini who asked me to call on you.’ That was a simpler explanation than involving Mrs Shackleton and the detective agency.
‘Oh well then, come and sit.’ She turned to the child. ‘Move the boxes, pull out the stool for yourself and give this lady the chair.’
The child did so. Mrs Sugden sat down.
‘Keep on with wrapping,’ the grandma said to the girl. ‘You’re doing a grand job, but shut your little lugs, this will be grown-up talk.’
Mrs Sugden put the envelope on the table. ‘Miss Fellini sends her regards and this envelope from the…’ She hesitated to say charity. That word rankled with many poor people. ‘From the group she founded and represents.’
Mrs Lloyd nodded. ‘You won’t mind if we keep on folding and wrapping?’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
She eyed the envelope, picked it up and put it in her pocket without opening. ‘Tell her we appreciate it and it’s come at a right time. We’re just on the lookout for a new lodger.’
With some regret, Mrs Sugden decided against chatting about the old lady, long gone now, and her choice of library books. However, not all her knowledge of Sheepscar went to waste. ‘Have you thought of enquiring at the library, whether they know of anyone looking for digs? Librarians know everything and everyone. Or you might try the chapel.’
‘I might just do that. I’ve only spoken at the post office and at Appleyards – you know, the motor firm.’
‘You have it all covered then.’
‘You have to have your wits about you. Will you have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you. I just had one, and I don’t want to get in the way of your work. But I wouldn’t mind a rest for my legs and a chinwag if that doesn’t trouble you.’
‘Feel free. We’ve little enough company, eh Lorna?’
‘That’s a nice name.’
The girl smiled. She did not look up from wrapping the stockings, which were of a fine material. Both of them were taking great care with the work.
‘She was named by her granddad, weren’t you, love? He thought she might follow him onto the stage and be Lorna Lloyd. It has a nice ring to it.’
‘It does. You must miss him.’
The girl slowed down a little in her folding. ‘He was a good granddad. He left me his doll, Manny Piccolo.’
‘That was nice.
Mrs Lloyd sighed. ‘Poor love. He’d paid tuppence a week for his burial, and his friends chipped in. And he left us his dummy. It was allus the dummy with him, his little Manny Piccolo.’ She looked suddenly hopeful. ‘Did Miss Fellini say whether she found anyone who’d like to have the dummy?’
‘She didn’t mention it. Are you hoping some other ventriloquist will take it?’
‘I did hope someone would make an offer but they all have their own favourites, and Lorna would be loath to part with him, eh, sweet pea?’
‘I would, Gran. He keeps me company. I hope you won’t send him away.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing, though he’s well-made and was popular. No one else could give him the same voice.’
‘I could,’ the little girl said. ‘When Granddad was here we all talked together, Granddad, Manny and me. Then I talked to Manny on my own and Manny talked to me. He does still. If I sit quiet with him and talk to him, he’ll tell me all sorts.’
‘He loved that dummy.’
‘He’s not a dummy, Gran! He’s Little Manny Piccolo.’ Lorna placed a pile of wrapped stockings into the carton on the floor.
‘Bless him, Floyd did his best. He was always on the verge of a big success.’
Mrs Sugden nodded sagely. ‘Aye. It’s hope that keeps us all going.’
Mrs Lloyd handed a pile of folded stockings to Lorna. ‘This time it might have happened. A gentleman from the broadcasting company took Floyd to the studios and gave him a try-out on the wireless. There was talk of a programme, a variety programme.’
‘That’d be a nice change from listening to orchestras and the news and them annoying pip pips on the hour, forever reminding a person of the passing of time.’
‘You have a wireless, do you?’
‘Not one of my own, but I have harked to it now and again.’
‘Aye well, it came to nothing, that wireless business. It was thought it might go ahead, even after Dougie died.’
‘Dougie? Do you mean Mr Douglas Dougan who had the performing dogs?’
‘Yes, Dougie Doig was his stage name.’
‘So he was part of the plan for a wireless broadcast?’
‘Aye, him and his dogs.’
‘What would performing dogs do on the wireless?’
‘Oh, didn’t you ever see them? Tell her, Lorna.’
The girl smiled. ‘They could sing “Nellie Dean” in barking language. They could stand on their back legs and bark “God Save the King”.’
‘That all sounds wonderful. I’m sorry that never came over on the cat’s whiskers. Would it have been a regular thing?’
‘They talked about it being on every week. I can tell you, we wouldn’t be here folding stockings if that had come to fruition.’
‘No, you would not. But we never know what’s round the corner.’ And Mrs Sugden wondered about this coincidence, that the two men who would have startled the world with their talents had each met a sticky end. Perhaps there was something in it after all and that Silver Songbird Selina Fellini was onto something. ‘Was anyone else to have taken part in this programme?’
‘Miss Fellini of course. She would have been the big draw, and the memory woman, Miss Sechrest.’
&nb
sp; Mrs Sugden felt a bit of a chill. Two out of four. Who might be next. ‘Anyone else?’
‘There might have been if the business had got further along.’
Lorna stopped folding. ‘I could have done it. Granddad said I could have joined in.’
Mrs Lloyd reached across and stroked her granddaughter’s hair. ‘Bless you, little one, we don’t know what you’ll grow into but it’ll be good.’
‘I’m not little. And Manny talks to me.’
‘Oh aye? What does he say?’
Lorna jumped from her chair and ran upstairs. She returned moments later with a doll dressed in white trousers, red blazer and straw boater. She moved her stool to the corner of the room by the empty fire grate and sat the doll on her lap. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Mr Manny Piccolo?’
The doll’s head tilted. His mouth opened and in an uncannily high voice, he said, ‘Hello, hello, hello, who have we here?’
‘I’m Mrs Sugden, Mr Piccolo, and very pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise I’m sure. Give me a pair of stockings for my sweetheart.’
Lorna answered, ‘You don’t have a sweetheart.’
‘Oh yes I do. I met a very nice girl.’
Mrs Lloyd laughed. ‘Tell him that’s enough out of him.’
‘Did you hear that, Manny? Anything else to say for yourself before you go back upstairs?’
The doll’s head moved from side to side and up and down. ‘Not much. Only your granddad Mr Lloyd tells me I have to cry murder, bloody murder!’
Mrs Lloyd stopped folding. She parted her dry lips and gulped. ‘Why did you make him say that?’
‘I didn’t. He says what he likes, don’t you, Manny?’ The dummy nodded. ‘I do that. I please meself, me.’
‘Shall I ask him something else?’
The grandmother shook her head. ‘Put him back, put him back and get on with the stockings.’
Mrs Sugden felt responsible for the change in Mrs Lloyd’s mood. In an attempt to make amends and leave discussion of the ventriloquist on a happier note she asked, ‘Did Mr Lloyd enjoy all his travelling?’
‘He loved that life, he did. We never saw as much of him as we’d have liked but our loss was others’ gain. Floyd had a second family with his theatre friends. He was like an uncle to the young ones. He told me that if the broadcast business had come off, he would have changed the name of his act to Uncle Floyd and his little Manny Piccolo.’
Mrs Sugden sighed her regrets on behalf of the widow and child. She set her bag on the floor, picked up a pair of stockings and began to help with the folding.
Three pairs of hands made light work. They had almost finished when Mrs Sugden asked, ‘This wireless idea, when they were all going to do a show, who put the kibosh on it?’
Mrs Lloyd shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. Floyd was too upset to talk about it.’
Lorna looked as if she might say something but then coloured up and kept her lips tight shut until all the stockings were in the box.
‘Mrs Sugden, would you like to see me and Manny have another little chat?’
‘I would indeed, if your gran doesn’t mind.’
Mrs Lloyd took a five pound note from the envelope Mrs Sugden had brought. She stood. ‘You must stay for a cup of tea then. I’ll see about getting three buns.’
‘That’s kind.’
‘Least I can do for your help and your visit.’
When Mrs Lloyd had left, Lorna took her stool to a spot by the window. She sat Manny Piccolo on her knee. ‘Manny, this lady has a question for you.’
Astonishingly, the dummy appeared to perk up. Mrs Sugden wondered what string the child had pulled.
The dummy spoke. ‘Ask away, lady, ask to your heart’s content.’
‘Manny Piccolo, who put the kibosh on your life as a smart boy on the wireless?’
Twenty-Seven
Sykes Meets His Match
As Sykes drove to Roundhay Park, he felt satisfied with himself over this morning’s visit to the tram driver. It was the first time he had ever turned up to interview a person and directed that person towards a new job. Perhaps Alf would turn the corner and the heavy weight of blame he carried for Douglas Dougan’s death would lessen enough to allow him to go on living his life in a useful way.
Sykes had asked Alf to let him know if that dream of his ever gave him the face of the person in black, who may or may not have pushed Dougan under the tram, or tried to save him. It was entirely likely that the deaths of Douglas Dougan and Floyd Lloyd were unconnected and that both deaths were, as described by the respective coroners, accidental. Yet he had a feeling that there was something dodgy about this oh-so-friendly and talented group of performers. Which one of them would he cast as villain?
In spite of the tragic consequences, this whole business struck Sykes as having the elements of a party game rather than a serious investigation. What’s more, it was a party game where no one knew the rules. He needed to narrow down the scope of the enquiry. To do that, it was imperative to find out who was in the vicinity at the time the accidents had befallen Douglas Dougan and Floyd Lloyd.
He liked this part of the job, where he followed up possibilities and kept an open mind. There was usually some person who floated to the top and refused to sink.
On this fine warm afternoon, it was good to have the excuse of visiting Roundhay Park and taking a walk around the lake. This was where the memory woman took her daily constitutional when in the city. She was regular as clockwork in her habits. That much he had learned from Mrs Shackleton who had made it her business to find out. He thought of what Miss Sechrest’s life was like as she toured the country, keeping herself apart from the usual theatrical digs. In every place they played, she made sure of knowing the nearest wood or park and finding her lodgings nearby. She was a planner and a thinker, just the kind of person to get away with murder.
He had high expectations of Sandy Sechrest. Others might waffle and waver. She was the one person in that company of performers with a powerful memory and the sense to provide a necessary shortcut or two.
Madam Sechrest knew the dates of new moons but he had an inkling that she was too wise to wrap that knowledge in webs of superstition. Truth to tell, he felt a little in awe of the woman and wished there had been some unobtrusive way of making an appointment. There would be no point in pretending that he had just bumped into her. She would see through that wheeze.
Unless she was in the habit of taking a detour, all he had to do was walk the perimeter of the lake and he would meet her.
Who might have been able to slip unseen from the theatre and push Douglas Dougan under a tramcar? Which performer was in the theatre prior to Floyd Lloyd coming to rehearse his new routine, in his usual spot on stage? It would need to be someone sufficiently agile to climb up into the flies, tamper with the fixings and let loose a sandbag.
That would be his first big question mark. Who had the opportunity? Followed by the second big question, what was the motive? It could be personal or professional jealousy, or some ridiculous quarrel that was allowed to fester.
Beryl, the dresser, had supplied the programme for each of the theatres. This gave the names of those performing and the order of performance, which was, annoyingly, subject to change.
As Sykes walked around the lake, now stepping aside to avoid a puddle, now pausing to watch a child push out a small boat, he thought about the woman he hoped to bump into. The Woman Who Remembers Everything. That struck him as being more curse than blessing. Imagine wading through life able to recall how many peers sat in the House of Lords in 1910 and which team knocked Accrington Stanley out of the FA Cup in the 1906–1907 season .
It was rare for Sykes to feel that the business of following his chosen occupation might be intrusive. But what if the memory woman was even now, as she walked, committing to memory some new sack of facts? She would not welcome his intrusion.
He must think of something, some believable reason for waylaying her.
>
And here she came. Offstage as on, she wore black, a black skirt, stockings, cardigan and floating scarf. From her sleek black hair, decorated with an ebony comb, to her soft much-polished ankle boots, Sandy Sechrest eschewed colour. She stepped carefully, now looking at the ground, now looking ahead. The effect was of a certain dramatic glamour. Sykes did not often imagine the people he met inhabiting other worlds but it struck him that Sandy Sechrest would not have been out of place in Paris, sitting in a café by the Seine, as French people are said to do, listening to intellectual conversations. He imagined her listening rather than speaking because she would gather in others’ thoughts and knowledge, select what was of interest and toss away the rest. She would judge and find others wanting. On the rare occasions when she did speak to this imagined group of artists, writers and Bohemians, those about her would listen, and not be disappointed.
Death in the Stars Page 23