Death in the Stars

by Frances Brody

  I unrolled a sheet of paper from the machine. There were five typed verses of a song and under that ‘THE END’.

  Marco came to help. After Mrs Compton had brushed petals and soil from the platen and keys, he took the machine from us. Carrying it like some holy relic, he placed it in the cupboard under the stairs.

  Mrs Compton covered it with the tablecloth.

  ‘A good typewriter mechanic will have it back in working order in no time,’ I said, attempting to be encouraging.

  Marco said, ‘Selina is weeping.’

  ‘She would!’ Mrs Compton went towards the stairs.

  ‘Wait!’ I stopped her by the banister. If I were Selina, I would be weeping. ‘You didn’t finish telling me about Jarrod’s plans for what he has been typing. We should make sure he doesn’t destroy the manuscript.’

  ‘I told you my younger son Rodney works in the moving picture business in California. Their plan has been that Jarrod will write, Selina will star, and Rodney will produce and direct.’

  ‘What does Selina say?’

  ‘What mothers tell their children. She says, “Wait and see”.’ Mrs Compton reached the bottom stair, but turned back. ‘If Jarrod goes on like this, he’ll end up mad or dead or behind bars.’

  Marco patted her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, we will take him to the Gaumont. That will calm his nerves.’

  ‘The Gaumont won’t be open.’

  ‘It will if I ask. We supply their ice cream. We might see Charlie Chaplin. Last time I went we saw two very interesting little extra pictures describing how to get the best from your hens and another about growing big marrows. Jarrod will be soothed.’

  I marvelled at his confidence in the therapeutic power of flickering images. Did that really work, or was Marco adding a powder to the ice cream he supplied?

  Mrs Compton continued walking up the stairs. Halfway, she stopped. ‘Why am I climbing the stairs? What use am I to him or her, to anyone?’

  Selina emerged from the landing, tying her satin robe. ‘Is the kettle on?’

  Mrs Compton glared at her. ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’ She began to walk down. ‘If we’re going to pass on the stairs, you better say bread and I’ll say butter. I don’t want more bad things happening.’

  They passed on the stairs.

  ‘Bloody bread.’

  ‘Bloodier butter.’

  Thirty-Three

  The Insurance Question

  Jim Sykes had been undertaking investigations for Mr Hector Travis of Jorvick Insurance for several years now. Their relationship was cordial. Mr Travis, lord of all he surveyed in the small, stuffy upstairs office on Goodramgate, brought a file from the army issue green metal cabinet. He sat down and straightened his spectacles, which had a habit of slipping down his nose.

  Sykes knew him well enough to be aware that Mr Travis liked the line of least resistance, or any course of action which would not require too much effort on his part. Nevertheless, he was a stickler for detail and correctness. Sykes saw that he was not yet ready to open the file on the insurance claim on Douglas Dougan’s life.

  ‘I appreciate your bringing Alfred Packer to my attention. He will suit me very well. His references from the tram company are impeccable.’

  ‘I’m glad. He’s a good man and needs a change. I’m sure he will learn a lot from you, Mr Travis.’

  Travis now opened the file and looked down, tracing a nicotine stained finger along the print. ‘I hardly need to look. Douglas Dougan’s case was a big news item locally. I dealt with it myself.’

  Sykes was good at reading upside down. Mr Travis knew this. Sykes saw that the payment, while not substantial, was a respectable figure, and that the beneficiary was Trotter Brockett.

  There was nothing unusual about this. Mr Brockett had a financial interest in his performers. In the event of death preventing a performer from fulfilling his contractual obligations, it was only to be expected that the manager would arrange to be compensated.

  When he had glanced through the paperwork, Mr Travis looked up. ‘Not a word about a pre-existing condition when the policy was taken out. Now if Mr Dougan did indeed have a fatal disease and if such a disease was contracted after the commencement of the policy, then there is nothing to investigate. It should have been reported, of course. If, however, the proposer knew of the condition when the policy was taken out, that is a different matter, even though the disease was not the cause of death.’

  ‘Yes, as you say, it bears examination.’

  ‘The information you had regarding the condition, was it reliable?’

  The answer: No, it was invented by me on the spur of the moment, would not do.

  ‘It came from one of Dougan’s fellow performers.’

  ‘I see. And did that person indicate the nature of the disease?’

  Keep it simple, Sykes told himself. ‘If so, that was out of my hearing. I will make enquiries and if possible trace Mr Dougan’s medical records.’

  Sykes liked the idea of that. Given that Mr Dougan and his dogs travelled the country, in all likelihood there would be no medical records.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sykes, and for coming so promptly. I thought at the time there was something not quite right about this death, but of course the coroner’s word set a seal on the matter.’

  They shook hands.

  As Sykes descended the rickety wooden staircase, a strange thing happened. Fleetingly, he caught sight of a figure in a black cape at the foot of the stairs, only there was no one there.

  He gave himself a little shake. That’s what comes of mixing with people who have too much imagination and not enough sense.

  Thirty-Four

  Beryl’s Story

  We were sitting in the Jowett, ready to set off for the infirmary. I waited until Selina had fastened her silk headscarf, the only brightness about her. She wore a costume of midnight blue and slate grey. ‘Something puzzles me, Selina.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You have both Mr Brockett and Jarrod believing you will do either a play or a moving picture.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you do both?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, but not at present.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I started the motor.

  ‘What would become of everyone else in the company next season? There’d be no place for them in Trotter’s play, and certainly not in Jarrod’s picture.’

  ‘Alternative work?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And is Jarrod’s story for the pictures workable?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Jarrod says we could all move to California, including Reggie. I am never sure whether it is Jarrod or his mania that speaks to me. He even has a singer in mind to be my co-star, and this singer, Al somebody or other, will be singing in a picture before the year is out.’

  ‘That’ll be exciting. I suppose it could catch on. What would happen to your friends in variety then?’

  She sighed. ‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know. There’s always the end of the pier.’

  ‘Would Mr Brockett still be your manager?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’

  A uniformed police constable gave us a nod and opened the door of Beryl’s private room in the infirmary.

  I closed it behind us. It was a little box of a space and must have been partitioned because it shared only a narrow portion of the tall window.

  Beryl lay back on her pillows, eyes closed.

  Two spindly chairs had been brought in. Selina took one, near the head of the bed. I sat in the other, watching as Selina took Beryl’s hand.

  ‘Nah then, daft lass, what ails thee?’

  Beryl opened her eyes. ‘You took your time.’ She looked at me. ‘What’s yon doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to tell the police what you need to say to Selina that you won’t say to them.’

  ‘And will yo
u?’

  I indicated the door, and that someone may be listening. ‘Of course. I’m obliged to.’

  She looked back to Selina, mouthing. ‘Will she?’

  Selina said, ‘I’m afraid she must.’ She shook her head and mouthed, ‘She better not. I’ve given her a cheque for two hundred quid.’

  It was the wrong moment to think this, but I wondered what an American audience would make of Selina in the talking pictures.

  Selina helped prop up Beryl. I poured a glass of water.

  Beryl took a sip. ‘I have to talk to you on your own, Selina.’

  ‘Someone gave you a cup of tea, Beryl, who was it?’

  ‘Perhaps I gave it to myself, only whatever was in that cup knocked me out.’

  ‘Kate’s on our side. She’s helped me arrange for Jarrod to see a doctor in London.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘I’m naming no names and then there’ll be no telling of tales.’

  I scribbled a few lines in my notebook and handed it to her: Was it someone who has a doctor’s appointment in London?

  Beryl looked at her fingers on the counterpane as if they belonged to someone else. ‘I’m not saying.’ And then she nodded, adding, ‘Why would a person do that?’

  I went to look through the glass in the door. The policeman on duty was not listening. He was talking to one of the nurses. Either he was in dereliction of his duty, or Inspector Wallis trusted me.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You can speak.’

  Beryl waited until Selina gave her the nod. ‘Jarrod popped in, wanting to know had you read his script. I told him you had, and that so had I. He wanted it back, to type it. I gave him it. He went off and then he came with a cup of tea.’

  Selina lowered her head. ‘Will you eat and drink now you’ve told me?’

  Beryl nodded. ‘I vaguely remember thinking to myself, that’s one for the books.’

  Selina frowned, and waited.

  When Beryl showed no signs of continuing, I asked, ‘What do you mean, one for the books?’

  ‘Well Jarrod had what he wanted, and off he went to do his typing, and he’s never in his life made me a cup of tea, and besides that…’

  ‘What?’ Selina asked.

  Beryl took another sip of water. ‘I’m trying to think, I’m trying to think what it was that struck me.’

  Eventually, she said, ‘I know what it was.’

  ‘Go on.’ Selina leaned forward.

  ‘Am I going home with you?’

  ‘They’ll want to make sure you’re well enough to leave.’

  ‘I’ll be well enough when I get out of here.’

  Selina showed signs of impatience.

  I edged closer. ‘Beryl, you’ve had an ordeal. Take your time, but what thought came to you after Jarrod brought you the cup of tea?’

  She stared at the window, and then closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Jarrod doesn’t know I like two and a half sugars. It’s not the kind of thing he takes notice of. The tea was sweet.’

  ‘Was that it?’

  ‘No, there was something else.’ She put down the glass of water. ‘He didn’t have time to make a cup of tea. He went out with that scrunched up script of his and then he came back with a cup and saucer, almost straightaway. Someone must have put the cup in his hand.’

  We sat, contemplating the white walls and the high window. Here was a case that turned on the crucial point of who made a cup of tea with the correct amount of sugar.

  I took a slip of paper from my notebook. ‘I’m going to write a name on here, fold it over and pass it on. It’s my guess regarding who poured the tea, and I want each of you to do the same.’ With my small silver pencil, I wrote a name, folded the paper, and passed it to Selina.

  Beryl glared at me. ‘Mrs Kelly makes the tea. She takes it round.’

  ‘So did Mrs Kelly hand the tea to Jarrod to pass to you?’

  Beryl thought for a moment. ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘She’s chesty. I would have heard her wheezing, and she would have no reason to come along that corridor because she didn’t know I was in.’

  Selina wrote a name.

  Beryl’s handwriting was a little shaky, mine blockprinted, Selina’s a scrawl.

  The same name appeared twice.

  Selina and I had written, Trotter Brockett. Selina said, ‘I didn’t see it until now. It’s to do with having me do what he wants. Jarrod would get in the way.’

  Beryl had written, Mrs Kelly.

  Beryl shook her head when we showed her Trotter’s name. ‘He doesn’t make tea either. Have you ever known him lift a finger in that direction?’

  ‘No he doesn’t, but he takes two and a half sugars, same as you, when we can get it.’

  Selina handed me back the silver pencil.

  We called at the Varieties to question Harry, but Harry had slipped out on an errand.

  This information came from an elderly woman, tiny and wizened. Selina introduced her as Mrs Kelly.

  Moving slowly, Mrs Kelly squeezed out her mop. She paused in her mopping to sit on the stage door bench next to Selina. ‘How is our Miss Lister?’

  Before Selina had time to tell the truth, I said, ‘We’re still waiting to hear. Perhaps there’ll be news later today. Did you see her yesterday?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see her.’

  I sat down beside Selina and nudged her to ask Mrs Kelly who she saw yesterday.

  ‘Anybody else come in from our company?’ Selina asked.

  ‘I saw young Adam Powolski. He mithers the stage hands about the safety of his high wires. I took tea tray round’t offices. Give tea to Mr Waterhouse. He was going over the accounts with Mr Brockett. Miss Green, the cashier, was at her books. Oh, and Mr Harry Laycock was here at his desk.’

  Selina thanked her.

  ‘You’ll give my good wishes to Miss Lister?’

  ‘I will. Mrs Kelly, did you make a cup of tea for my dresser yesterday, for anyone else to give to her?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was in. I poured another for Mr Brockett. He’s fond of his tea. Came back for a second cup.’

  We thanked Mrs Kelly, and left the theatre.

  Selina looked shaken. ‘I wrote his name because I didn’t want to write Jarrod’s name. But your inspector only asked you to find out who gave Beryl the tea, and that was Jarrod. What can we do?’

  ‘Let’s see what else we can discover. I want to talk to Maurice Montague. Do you know where he might be?’

  ‘We’ll go to Whitelock’s,’ Selina announced. ‘Some of the chaps will be there.’

  ‘Good idea. We just need to keep on picking up little pieces of information until we can complete the jigsaw.’

  ‘We’ve barely enough to know what the picture is,’ Selina said, ‘much less complete a jigsaw. Even if we did, who might we convince besides ourselves? You saw Mrs Kelly. She is hard of hearing and with poor eyesight. She’s kept on out of charity. Sometimes she doesn’t remember what she did yesterday.’

  ‘I believe she knows what happens to her cups of tea. Brockett added something. When he saw Jarrod coming out of the dressing room with his script, he cleverly passed the tea to him.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Which side would Beryl come down on if she had to advise you between taking up Brockett’s stage show and Jarrod’s picture script?’

  ‘Well Jarrod’s, naturally, but I could do both.’

  ‘Brockett won’t see it that way.’

  Thirty-Five

  Whitelock’s

  From Swan Street, we turned into Briggate.

  I had never been to Whitelock’s. It is a very old public house and has a reputation for attracting Bohemians, actors and journalists as well as local businessmen. ‘This is a good idea, Selina.’

  ‘I do have them occasionally.’

  ‘Let’s hope Maurice Montague is there, and anyone else from the company who might have something to
say.’

  ‘Of course I should warn you, ladies aren’t allowed to go to the bar or sit in the men’s area. I’ll enlist the help of a waiter, or we could shout across the pub until we’re ejected.’