Death in the Stars

by Frances Brody

  ‘Let’s hope they will join us, wherever we are allowed to sit.’

  One could easily miss Turk’s Head Yard, but Selina did not. Recognising Selina, the doorman escorted us to the ladies’ area and waited until we were seated.

  It was still early and there was a table free beside ours.

  ‘Are any of the chaps from the Verts in?’ Selina asked.

  ‘I’ll go take a look, Miss Fellini. Would you want them to join you?’

  ‘I would indeed.’

  ‘Don’t you mind the smoke floating across?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s less smoke this end. Besides, for Jarrod, I’d risk my voice.’

  I looked about the place, glad of having come into this hidden citadel of chops and ale. It was a cosy spot, dimly lit but with a soft glow of warmth from the coloured leaded light windows and the gently glowing lamps.

  The waiter came over, pad and pencil in hand. Selina consulted me and recommended steak and kidney pie and stout which she proceeded to order in a very definite manner. Heads did not turn but she drew many sidelong glances.

  Moments later, master of music Maurice Montague, strongman Pip Potter and the suave Charles de Beauvoir came in single file towards us, each carrying a plate of food and a tankard.

  With Selina, Maurice and I sitting on the bench and Charles and Pip Potter taking chairs, we fitted ourselves around one table.

  ‘Thank you for joining us, gentlemen.’ Selina smiled winningly at the three men. ‘I hope you will be able to help. My friend Kate here is conducting an enquiry into the three deaths that we have suffered as a company and into the outrage of someone attempting to gas Beryl.’

  All three looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  It was my turn. ‘First of all, my sympathies to all of you at such an upsetting time. I’m sorry for interrupting your dinner.’

  Simultaneously, they each put a forkful of food into their mouths, as if hoping I would direct my attention to the person who wasn’t chewing.

  I asked Maurice about the night of the party. ‘You were one of the last people to talk to Billy before we left for Giggleswick. This sounds an odd question, but do you remember what you talked about, you and Billy and Jarrod?’

  ‘It was about future plans,’ Maurice said, giving me a meaningful stare to indicate that he had not yet revealed his own future plans to work in the Grand Pygmalion department store.

  ‘What kind of plans?’ Selina asked.

  The waiter brought drinks for me and Selina.

  ‘Why, you’ll know this, Miss Fellini, but Billy talked of a stage show and Mr Compton about his plans for a moving picture. I thought there might be a bit of hard feeling as the moving picture plans didn’t seem to include Billy. But there was no needle between them.’

  Selina had reached for her glass. She put it down again.

  The strongman spoke next. ‘How did Billy die, Miss Fellini?’

  She was unable to speak.

  I answered for her. ‘We don’t yet know. Natural causes I think.’

  ‘There! I told them so. They were linking it with the accidents to Dougie and Floyd.’ He uttered a derisory grunt. ‘I know a dozen ways to kill a man. None of them includes a tramcar or a sandbag.’

  Charles de Beauvoir shook his head sadly. ‘Non. Poor Billy. I liked him. I liked Dougie and Floyd too. As for your good companion Beryl, I am most fond of her. How is she?’

  Selina simply shook her head.

  Charles reached for Selina’s hand. ‘You suspect foul play. I am a lover, not a fighter. I hate no man. I love all women.’

  Selina pushed his hand away. ‘Cut out your nonsense, Charles.’ She looked from one to another of them. ‘Were any of you in the theatre at all yesterday afternoon or early evening, even for the shortest time?’

  Maurice put up his hand like a boy in a classroom. ‘I called into the theatre, an hour before the performance, just to make sure my instruments were in order. Beryl had already been taken to the infirmary by then. After that I came out for a quick pint.’

  The waiter brought our pies. I cut into the pie and realised that I was hungry. ‘Maurice, is there anything else you can tell us, about the other accidents, Dougie’s or Floyd’s?’

  ‘No. My work is cut out for me. I care for twenty-nine instruments. There is always something to go wrong, some nasty railway worker intent on criminal damage, some nifty temporary stage hand with an eye on my ukulele. I don’t have time to pay attention to other people.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the night of the party. You seemed to be enjoying yourself there. Think carefully. Did you see anyone give Billy a cigar?’

  ‘I did not.’

  Escorted by the doorman, she came up behind him like an avenging angel in her sweeping black dress. ‘That is not correct, Maurice. I saw you.’

  Maurice spluttered into his beer. He turned his head although he did not need to. Sandy Sechrest’s voice was as distinctive as her appearance.

  ‘Me? You saw me?’ Maurice’s voice came out like the squeak of an out of tune violin.

  ‘Yes. You were under the trees and you handed Billy a cigar. He put it in his top pocket.’

  ‘Oh that, that cigar. I didn’t want it. No use developing a taste for something you can’t afford.’

  ‘Can’t afford or won’t afford,’ Pip Potter murmured. ‘He only smokes the Somebody Else’s Fag brand.’

  The waiter approached and pulled out a chair for Sandy. Pip Potter and Charles de Beauvoir shuffled up to make room. Sandy sat down.

  ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’ the waiter asked.

  Sandy ignored him. ‘I stayed silent too long. I should have known that when a former policeman asks a pointed question, there is a point to it.’

  Selina raised a finger to the waiter. ‘She’ll have what we’re having.’

  The waiter departed.

  We all looked at Maurice. ‘I was staying under your roof, Selina. I wouldn’t bring in a Woodbine, much less a cigar. Not after all the… I was going to say fuss, but you don’t fuss, you just don’t like smoke, do you?’

  ‘It’s not me that objects, Maurice. It’s my throat. Now, where did you get that cigar?’

  ‘I’m an unfortunate man. My luck has been bad, very bad. I thought Mr Brockett was tired of me and impatient. The writing was on the wall. But at the party he was kind. He said, anyone can have a bad patch, and he gave me the cigar.’ His eyes widened. ‘Is that what killed Billy?’

  Slowly, Maurice looked from Selina, to me, to Sandy. Without anyone uttering another word, it dawned on the unfortunate man that he was Trotter Brockett’s intended victim. His face grew pale. He pushed away his plate, rose from the table, and hurried towards the door.

  He turned. ‘He won’t find anyone else who plays twenty-nine and more instruments as well as I do.’

  The doorman bowed him out.

  Remembering Mrs Sugden’s warnings about the fragility of underappreciated performers, I turned to the strongman, who had fortunately finished eating. ‘Would you mind going after him, Mr Potter? He might do something desperate.’

  Pip Potter did not hesitate.

  Selina smiled at Monsieur de Beauvoir. ‘Charles, be a darling and go after them. Pip will be able to pull Maurice from the river but he won’t know how to talk to him.’

  He came to his feet on the instant, and bowed. ‘Now I understand Mr Trotter’s reputation. He terminates no contracts, or not in the usual ways.’

  Sandy took the chair vacated by Pip Potter, sat erect and looked from Selina to me, waiting for one of us to ask the right question.

  One always feels rather dense in the company of a person who knows both the answers and, often more difficult, the right questions. We now knew the answer to who killed Douglas Dougan, Floyd Lloyd and Billy Moffatt, and who almost killed Beryl; or thought we did. How would we prove that Trotter Brockett had done anything other than take good care of his performers?

  I gave in first. ‘What is the question, Miss Se
chrest?’

  ‘How does everyone know where they were at the moment the armistice came into being?’

  Selina answered. ‘Because of the time, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.’

  ‘But how did they know the precise moment? Not everyone has a clock.’

  My thoughts went back to that day. ‘A boom was sounded from the Town Hall.’

  ‘Correct, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘And all the church bells rang.’

  ‘Correct, Miss Fellini. Do you know where you were at that moment?’

  ‘I do. I was with my mother-in-law. We both cried.’

  ‘Where were you, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘I was walking in the little wood behind my house, picking up fallen twigs for kindling.’

  In the fashion of some professor with dim students, Miss Sechrest was giving us a hint as to what question we should ask. ‘What might be the connection to the Sunderland Empire and Douglas Dougan’s death?’

  Selina and I looked from one to the other. The tram driver might have known the exact moment of Mr Dougan’s death, because of his timetable. Anyone on the tram who looked at a watch would know.

  Selina had another answer. ‘The dogs howled. All three of Dougie’s dogs howled so loudly they were heard in the auditorium. Brandy, Biscuit and Snap.’

  It was a brilliant stroke of deduction from Miss Sechrest. Unfortunately, a year had gone by and anyone might change the history of where he or she was at that fateful moment when the three performing dogs told the world that they had lost their master.

  The waiter approached. ‘Excuse me, ladies, but the gentlemen who were with you, they all left without paying their bills.’

  Thirty-Six

  A Confab in Park Square

  Heads turned to look at Selina in her midnight blue and slate, the dramatically black-clad Sandy Sechrest and me in my grey with white piping as we walked up to Park Square on this day of bright summer frocks. Had there been a greater physical resemblance between us, people might have taken we three for undertaker’s daughters. We sat on the grass in a spot of our own where we would not be overheard.

  The Town Hall, abode of Inspector Wallis, was a few moments’ walk away. ‘I’ll have to tell him, Selina. Just try and keep Jarrod out of sight for now.’

  Selina nodded. ‘Marco will keep him safe. With a bit of luck, we’ll have him on the aeroplane before he can be questioned.’

  ‘That might look suspicious.’

  ‘I don’t care how it looks. You saw him, Kate, Jarrod is ill.’ She twisted the strand of hair that had escaped from her chignon. ‘We could be lucky. Harry or someone else might have seen Mrs Kelly give the tea to Trotter. Someone might have noticed him slip something in it.’

  That seemed highly unlikely but I did not want to dash her hopes.

  Sandy brushed grass from her skirt. ‘I think we all know who it was, and why.’

  Selina stared at her. ‘The who, yes, but it’s so hard to believe. He has always been such a thoughtful and caring manager.’

  ‘Selina, you see the good in people. I deal in facts. Mr Brockett no longer finds us profitable. You are the one who draws the crowds. You are the one who hesitates to leave her friends behind. He wants you to play London theatres and to tour musical plays. We are the drag, we support acts.’

  ‘That would be so callous.’

  Callous seemed to me too generous a word for a man with at least three murders to his name.

  Sandy spoke quietly. ‘You are his shining star, Selina. The rest of us are the dim planets that only come into view when a watcher has stared at the night sky for a long time.’

  While I listened to the two of them, I wondered how might the urbane and confident Mr Brockett be shown up for what he had done. A plan, somewhat half-baked but nevertheless a plan, began to form in my mind.

  ‘Does the arrangement for Jarrod to go to London tomorrow still stand?’

  ‘Yes. Charlie and Joe will bring the aeroplane to Soldiers Field at around one o’clock.’

  ‘Will you assemble everyone at your house, Selina, at eleven-thirty on Saturday morning? Say you have invited them for a late breakfast or an early lunch.’

  ‘The promise of food would bring them in, but why?’

  ‘Mr Brockett has no idea that we suspect him. We can surprise him, take him off-guard.’

  Sandy Sechrest looked doubtful but said nothing.

  ‘I’d better go see Inspector Wallis. Wish me luck.’

  They walked with me to the Town Hall. We parted at the steps. ‘I’ll talk to you both before the day is out, and it will be up to you to prime the others.’

  As I climbed the steps towards the offices of Leeds CID, I wondered what gave me the courage to speak with such confidence when I had only the merest inkling of how to proceed. And I could be wrong.

  Thirty-Seven

  Little Manny Piccolo Speaks

  Whoever designed Selina’s house had done a magnificent job. At 11.30 on Saturday, the great room was filled with sunlight. The doors to the veranda stood open. The large table was spread with cold cuts of meat, bread and butter, cheese and hard-boiled eggs. A large tea urn had been rustled up. The performers had arrived in good time, all looking their best.

  Inspector Wallis came last. He and Sergeant Ashworth made themselves unobtrusive beyond the grand piano.

  Selina welcomed them all. ‘We have our last performances in Leeds this afternoon and this evening. I know some of you will be catching the milk train to go home until Monday, so I wanted to put on a bit of a treat as a thank you for being such a great bunch and also to welcome back Beryl, after her ordeal.’

  Beryl smiled at the round of applause and calls of well wishing.

  The stand-in comic who had taken Billy Moffatt’s place spoke up. ‘Our tour ain’t over yet, Miss Fellini, so thank you.’

  Adam Powolski whispered in my ear. ‘People do not like that he takes some of Billy’s catchphrases and turns them for himself.’

  The inspector caught my eye. I went over to him as the performers began to help themselves to food. ‘What are you up to? You said Jarrod Compton would be here.’

  ‘He will, Inspector.’

  People perched on the sofas and chairs to eat, and wandered out onto the balcony. Mr Brockett preferred to be at the table. I joined him there.

  He was his usual beatific self. ‘This is my Selina for you, largesse, feeding the multitude.’

  ‘She’s very kind.’

  ‘Too kind for her own good. There’ll be no changing her ways but when she is with an elite set of actors for a showcase of her own, things will be different.’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’

  Beryl, still pale but much recovered, took charge of the tea urn. She brought a cup for me and for Brockett. ‘Here you are, Mrs Shackleton, tea no sugar. Here you are, Trotter, tea with two and a half sugars. We always remember that because we take the same, don’t we?’

  ‘We do indeed, Beryl. Thank you.’

  Selina once more stepped up and stood in front of the piano. She clapped her hands. ‘I shall leave this announcement to Mrs Shackleton.’

  Maurice Montague, master of music, stepped up. He opened the piano and gave me a few introductory chords.

  I took a deep breath. To perform in front of performers is rather daunting.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may wonder whether Miss Fellini had another reason for inviting you here today, other than this being near the closing point of a very successful tour of northern theatres. You have Huddersfield, you have Halifax and then it will be time to disperse. There has been unease among you during the past year because of the unfortunate incidents concerning fellow performers. So much so that some of you have decided on a new course of action in the wake of this tour. Now is the time for your announcements.’

  Sandy Sechrest stood, looked around the company, and said, ‘For some time I have been assisting, by correspondence, Professor Meier at the Un
iversity of Bern. He is conducting research into memory. I am to join his faculty in September. I will be taking up residence in Bern immediately after we close our show in Halifax.’

  There were congratulations, applause and cheers.

  Sandy urged Maurice to his feet. He glanced about the room. ‘I know what you think of me. I’m a moaner, I’m a scrounger, but think on this, how would you like to cart about twenty-nine instruments, on and off trains, being thought nothing of a musician because you can play every one of them and more? Jack of all trades. Ha ha. Well I’ve had enough. I will finish out Huddersfield and Halifax but in the daytime you will find me playing the piano on the music floor of the Grand Pygmalion department store on Boar Lane. A proper job with proper hours and the possibility of tuning pianos in the evenings.’