From the auditorium he had thought her pale and interesting. As she came closer, he saw that her habit of brisk walks lent a pink glow to her cheeks; windburn not sunburn.
‘Miss Sechrest, excuse me.’
She stopped and stared at him.
‘My name is Sykes. I am the person who asked you a question in the theatre.’
‘You asked two questions. I recognise your voice. You work with Mrs Shackleton. What do you want?’
She continued walking. He fell into step with her, feeling ill-at-ease. If some fellow did this to Rosie while she was out walking, he would deal with him pretty sharply.
‘I am sorry to disturb your walk but I hope to talk to you, either now or at a convenient time.’
‘What about?’
‘Earlier today I spoke to the York tram driver who knocked down your colleague, Mr Douglas Dougan. The driver cannot get over the tragedy. It threatens to ruin his life.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that but I don’t see why you have come to talk to me about it.’
‘I wonder whether there is anything you could tell me about that evening, about Mr Dougan’s state of mind? Perhaps he was distracted, or had been drinking?’
‘As to distraction, I cannot answer. As to drink, not according to the post mortem.’
‘Was there anything at all that struck you as odd about his actions that night?’
‘He did not take his dogs with him. If he had been going to an off licence, which would be cheaper than buying a drink in the theatre, he would have taken his dogs for the outing. Had he been going to a public house, he would have taken his dogs in order to be bought a drink by other patrons. I don’t know where he was going. I assume he would have been back in time for curtain call if he had not collided with the tramcar.’
‘Did you say this at the time, the oddity of his not taking the dogs, I mean?’
‘I was not asked.’ She turned and looked at him with big liquid eyes that had soaked up tomes of knowledge and reams of facts. ‘Did Miss Fellini suggest that you speak to me?’
‘Not directly.’
‘Ah. I believe I understand. Selina did not ask you directly but she is behind this enquiry.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘If I am right, you are a policeman, or a former policeman. You attended the theatre with your wife, who did not know the true purpose of your visit and was embarrassed that you made a show of yourself in public by asking what she thought of as ridiculous questions. Those questions were intended to determine whether I made a connection between the phases of the moon and the deaths of my fellow performers. From these deductions, I take it that you are an investigator. Selina always suspected, or came to suspect, that Dougie’s death, and Floyd’s death, were suspicious. Am I correct?’
Sykes sighed his defeat. ‘You are correct, Miss Sechrest.’
‘There is nothing innately strange about the fact that those two deaths occurred near or in a theatre. That was the place of work for both men. All work and workplaces have their particular hazards. However, if there was foul play, then the likelihood was that another performer either had information or was the guilty party.’
‘That is a possibility.’
‘To add to that mix of possibilities is the tragic death yesterday of everybody’s good chum Billy Moffatt, whose moods were like the light and dark side of the moon.’
I am outclassed, Sykes thought. She definitely belongs in Paris. He wondered had she studied philosophy. He would love to hear the story of her life from the moment of her birth, and beyond into past generations of clever Sechrests.
They came to a bench. She stopped. ‘Let us sit down. You may wish to take out your notebook.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. I do this for Selina.’
Sykes took out his notebook and pencil. ‘You were part of the company in York when Douglas Dougan was run over by the tram.’
‘Yes.’
With this woman, he would need to speak plainly. He thought of Alf, the tram driver, the dark night, Alf’s subsequent dreams of a man dressed in black, or was it a man? ‘I wish either to eliminate the possibility of foul play in connection with Mr Dougan’s death, or find evidence to the contrary.’
‘Your question?’
‘Mr Dougan was knocked down by a tram at 8.20 pm. To be blunt, was there any fellow performer who may have had the opportunity to leave the theatre and to push him under the tram?’
‘Put me at the top of the list. I was on stage at 8.35 pm. I am quick on my feet.’
‘Thank you. Anyone else?’
‘Twelve dancers from the Daisy Chain troupe. Do you want their names now?’
‘Not if they are the names listed in the current programme.’
‘Delete Maria Bowker and Lizzie Haworth. Add Jenny Crawford and Tilly O’Hara.’ She waited until he had finished writing. ‘Others for your list of suspects would be Floyd Lloyd, ventriloquist; Billy Moffatt, comedian; Maurice Montague, master of music; Pip Potter, strongman; Charles de Beauvoir, singer; the Powolski twins, acrobats; Selina Fellini; Beryl Lister and Trotter Brockett. I cannot answer for the stage hands.’
Sykes prided himself on writing quickly but he struggled to keep up. It would have been simpler to ask her who might be in the clear.
She waited for him to finish writing. ‘Any one of them might have left the theatre and slipped out behind Dougie.’
‘Were people in the habit of going out of the theatre when not on stage?’
‘If you saw the size of our dressing rooms you would not need to ask. Do you wish to know the order in which they appeared on stage?’
‘That won’t be necessary, but you remember the exact times?’
‘There would be no reason for me to commit that information to memory but there is an order, a pecking order you might say. Dougie and his dogs would have been off the stage by ten past eight.’
‘Mr Dougan did not waste much time before going out. I wonder where he was going? Perhaps for a bottle of beer.’
She stared at him as if he had spoken in Japanese. Sykes realised that no one usually asked her to speculate.
‘Is there anything else you wish to ask me?’
‘Regarding the accident at the Sunderland Empire, were you present?’
‘I was not present in the theatre when Floyd Lloyd was rehearsing his new routine with Manny Piccolo. It was afternoon. We had no matinée that day. Anyone could have gone in. There was a police investigation. My fellow performers were deeply disturbed by the event. The thought was that the accident might have happened to any one of us.’
A duck waddled towards them from the lake, examined the ground, looked to see whether they were eating and then retreated.
‘So at least twenty-three people would have had the opportunity to leave the theatre and push Douglas Dougan under Alfred Packer’s tram.’
‘Yes.’
Sykes hesitated before his next question, because it involved speculation rather than facts. ‘And regarding motive?’
‘Loyalty to Selina would be a motive and so leave my name on your list of suspects. Both Dougie and Floyd exploited Selina’s good nature. They ate up her time and sympathy, borrowed money, told sob stories that she believed. In addition, Dougie was demented and deluded. He used to say his dogs kept him sane but I never believed that. If he had not died under that tram, insanity would have caught up with him.’
‘Did others in the company feel as you did about the two men?’
‘You would have to ask them. There was a feeling in the company that they let the side down, both of them. They should have retired years ago but you see most of us cannot retire.’
‘Because you are devoted to the work?’
‘Because we would die of starvation.’
Sykes looked at her, and then lowered his head. It was a sign of the times that we had come to this pretty pass with thousands struggling to stay on the breadline. ‘One more question, if I may.’ S
he waited. ‘Did you see Billy Moffatt with a cigar, or taking a cigar, or being given a cigar?’
‘That is three questions, Mr Sykes.’
Twenty-Eight
A Smell of Gas
Our walk through the underground passageways had given me serious shivers. I stood on the top step, Mrs Compton so close behind me that if I leaned back an inch she would topple down the stone steps. Having knocked as hard as I could on the dilapidated door that barred our way, a feeling of dread enveloped me. Perhaps there would be no one on the other side. Worse still, there might be the steep drop of my imagination and a demon killer waiting patiently for innocent callers, so as to have the pleasure of watching them tumble to a dark cold death. Had I worn hiking boots I should have tried to kick down the door rather than return to the tunnel and see the ghostly deserted hotel on the way back to the Empire Palace.
The sound of footsteps was reassuring. Coming face to face with a fiend from hell would be a more attractive prospect than retracing our steps. I whispered to Mrs Compton, ‘Be ready! Have your torch handy as a weapon.’
At last, the door opened. In the dim light, I looked up at a figure in black trousers and jacket, a white silk muffler around his neck.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Good thing this door opens inwards or I might have sent you flying.’
‘Jarrod!’
There was not room for two of us on the top step and Mrs Compton would have toppled me but her son opened the door wider and held out his hand. A moment later, I was standing in a cellar with flagged floor. The cellar was bitterly cold, but after the tunnel it felt like a haven of normality.
He helped Mrs Compton in and closed the door. ‘Mother? What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you, you great idiot.’
We must have been an odd sight emerging from the narrow and crumbling stone steps, me in summer dress and motoring coat, Mrs Compton in her skirt and blouse, carrying a disintegrating woollen coat.
What ghosts, vagabonds or misfits inhabited that awful place from whence we came? If that was where Jarrod Compton had rested his head, I felt pity – and disgust. But this cellar looked cosily done out. It was lit by a single gas mantle.
‘Mrs Shackleton, this is my son, Jarrod. Jarrod, meet Mrs Shackleton who has kindly helped me along the way.’
‘How do you do, Jarrod? I’m relieved to find you here.’
‘How do you do, and how did you get here?’ He stared from one to the other of us.
Now that we had reached a place of relative safety, Mrs Compton assumed a winning air of nonchalance. ‘Oh you know, from the Empire Palace. We were just in the Kardomah opposite, having a coffee, and I thought we might find you here. Mrs Shackleton was intrigued by the thought of tunnels under the city and I’ve always wanted to take a gander myself.’
I looked beyond him, at battered furniture, chairs and table, a small cupboard placed against the bare brick wall. This was only partly to assess the place. I wanted to avoid staring at his face. One side was quite perfect, handsome even. The other side of his face was a taut reminder of what it once was. Tight and scarred skin covered a hollowed out cheek. A closed lid marked where his eye had been. Whatever surgeon had operated should be congratulated. It was not a face any man would have chosen, but Selina’s description had prepared me. I could not stop the thought that came on an instant. At least he came back.
He ushered us to two deep chairs. Patting an arm of the nearest chair, he sent up a cloud of dust. Nearby, a saucepan bubbled on a primus stove. ‘I was just heating some beans. I could eat them cold but it’s more cheering to see the flame and smell the Primus. Are you hungry?’
I took my cue from Mrs Compton who told him of our snack in the Kardomah. Act naturally. ‘Not for me, thank you.’
‘You won’t mind if I carry on?’
‘Please do.’
He emptied his beans onto a tin plate, carried the pan to a sink in the corner and filled it with water. He rinsed a spoon. Now that he was not watching me, I could watch him. His movements were very precise. He pulled out an old straw plaited chair and put his plate on the table.
Mrs Compton began to tell him of the letters she had received from his brother Rodney in California, and his sister Eliza in Paris. ‘Eliza will be coming over at Christmas.’
‘Good. And did Rodney say anything about the picture we hope to make, starring Selina?’
‘He did mention it. I don’t quite see how a singer will be a suitable star for a moving picture.’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘You will. Wait and see.’
When he had finished eating, he took his tin plate and spoon to the sink and rinsed them carefully. ‘I can make a pot of tea.’
We both thanked him but refused. ‘I’ll float if I drink any more,’ Mrs Compton assured him.
He brought his chair closer, and saw the state of his mother’s coat. ‘Isn’t that the cardigan Beryl knitted for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘I wasn’t entirely sure of the way through from the Empire. Mrs Shackleton bought four little balls of string to mark the way.’
It was my turn. ‘It was our trail for getting back, but we ran out. Your mother had the idea of unravelling her coat.’
Mrs Compton turned to me. ‘If you’d bought five balls of string I’d still have my coat.’
Jarrod scratched his head. ‘You could have come in from Swan Street, or by the alley from the Headrow.’
Mrs Compton sniffed. ‘We were curious about the passageways from the Empire.’
‘You thought I was sleeping down there?’
‘It was a possibility.’
In spite of the shawl, which she had given to me and I had given back to her, Mrs Compton was shivering. She put on the unravelling coat.
Jarrod stood. ‘I’ll gather up your wool for you.’ He went to the door.
Mrs Compton was on her feet in an instant. ‘Don’t go down there.’
‘I can see the end of the strand there on the second step. I’ll have it for you in a jiffy, and your string too if you want it.’
He was gone.
Mrs Compton groaned. ‘What if he doesn’t come back?’
‘Surely he won’t leave us here?’
‘No. No, of course he won’t. He always liked me in that cardigan coat.’
I looked about the room. There was a door on the wall opposite the one we had entered. ‘I hope that takes us into the theatre.’
‘I never came at it from this end.’
We sat in silence for long enough for me to become concerned. Mrs Compton, too. She stood, went to the door that led to the tunnel, and listened. ‘He seemed calm, like his old self, but something comes over him. That’s when he bolts. He makes a dash for it like a frightened horse.’
But Jarrod was as good as his word. He returned with a small ball of wool and a single large ball of recovered string. ‘I expect you’ll want to be off home, now you’ve seen me.’
‘Won’t you come back with us?’ Mrs Compton tried to keep her voice light but the tone of pleading came through.
‘I might do that. I might follow you up on the bike.’
Two ‘mights’ in two sentences did not bode well. A nudge would not hurt. ‘Selina mentioned you wanted to type up some work. I have a feeling she is keen to see a typed copy.’
He turned and looked at me with renewed interest. ‘What did Selina say about the songs?’
‘She loved them.’
He brought his chair round and faced me and his mother. ‘I might do that then. I might come and do some typing, if people will leave me alone.’
Mrs Compton spoke softly. ‘Or you could rest. You look so tired.’
‘I am tired. It takes everything. No one knows how much energy it takes. But I’m nearly done, nearly finished.’
‘If it takes too much out of you, don’t do it, son. Let her sing the old songs. You don’t look well.’
His laugh so
unded almost merry. ‘One doesn’t look well with a goodly portion of face ground to dust, but writing makes me feel better. It’s something I can do for Selina. I’ve nothing else to give.’
Had there been another room, I would have left the two of them together.
Death in the Stars Page 24