Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  I still hadn’t reached a conclusion when the second act came on stage, a red-nosed comedian with a stock of mother-in-law jokes. “I was talking to a bloke down the pub. He said, ‘My mother-in-law’s an angel.’ I said, ‘You’re lucky, mate, mine’s still alive.’” The audience roared but Fanny looked faintly shocked.

  She cheered up when the next act appeared – Professor Pettigrew and his Pixilated Poodles. The professor, an old boy who must have been pushing seventy, strolled onto the stage in front of four little podiums. He whistled and the four poodles – two white, two brown – scampered on stage and jumped on the podiums. I’m not a great fan of animal acts, but the professor had thought up a cute angle. The idea was that the dogs – Peggy, Perdy, Polly and Poppy – were out of control. Every time he ordered them to do something, they’d do the opposite. He shouted: “Come” and they sat and shook their heads. He placed bones on the stage and ordered: “Leave.” The dogs rushed forward and gnawed them. He commanded: “Play dead.” And they all scampered round in circles.

  The climax of the act came when the professor lectured the dogs on the dangers of fire. He pointed to a bucket of water to put out flames. Then he set fire to a hoop and ordered Poppy not to go near it. Instead, she drank from the bucket, charged round the stage and leapt through the burning hoop. Then she turned and leapt back again. The audience applauded wildly.

  Fanny whispered in my ear: “I’d love dogs like that. They’re so tricksy.”

  Yes, I thought. And perhaps it takes one to know one.

  We’d sat through a blowsy soprano – as Pinker predicted, she sang I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls – a ham-fisted juggler who dropped his Indian clubs, and a final dance routine from the chorus girls, before the lights came up for the interval.

  I hurried Fanny out of her seat and we hustled down the aisle to the door which led backstage. We threaded ourselves through the narrow passage beside the wings.

  The stage manager was berating the juggler: “You couldn’t catch a train.”

  “The lights made my hands sweaty.”

  “So do your act in the dark. The audience won’t miss much.”

  We found Professor Pettigrew in a dressing room at the end of a corridor which led to the property store. Not exactly star treatment, but I guess the management wanted to keep the dogs away from the other performers.

  Pettigrew sat on a stool in front of a table littered with make-up sticks, cigarette packets and dog biscuits. On stage, he’d looked tall and slim with slicked-back grey hair and pleasantly lined features. But close up, even the heavy make-up couldn’t hide the wrinkled forehead, bags under the eyes, sagging flesh around his jaw.

  The dogs were lying in identical baskets along the far wall. Three of them stirred as we entered. They looked at us with those half-curious, half-hostile eyes dogs have when they’re deciding whether to lick your hand or bite you on the bum. The fourth dog jumped out of its basket, trotted over, sniffed my crotch and decided there was nothing there worth getting excited about.

  Pettigrew said: “Meet Poppy. She’s the leader of the pack. No doubt about that.”

  “She’s lovely.” It was Fanny speaking. She was kneeling on the floor, tickling Poppy behind the ears. Poppy gave Fanny a friendly lick. She laughed with delight.

  “I’ve come for the interview,” I said.

  “Delighted. But I can’t see why the local rag is interested in an old trouper like me.”

  “Human interest.”

  “About dogs?”

  Pettigrew had a point. Still, animal stories are always popular with readers and I’d promised Pinker I’d deliver three hundred words. So I fished out my notebook and asked the first question.

  “Have you always liked dogs?”

  “No. Hated the beasts as a child. Ma and Pa kept a wolfhound called Nebuchadnezzar. Damned stupid name for any dog.”

  “Why did you hate it?”

  “Brute towered over me as kid. Knocked me down the stairs. Did what it liked. Crapped on the carpet. It was Persian.”

  “The carpet?”

  “The dog. Pa picked it up on war service in the Middle East. That would be the first war – the one to end all wars.”

  Pettigrew rummaged on the dressing table. Found some dog biscuits. Handed them to Fanny.

  “You seem to be getting along with my little treasures. They need a snack during the interval,” he said.

  Fanny looked like a natural with the animals. They’d all jumped out of their baskets and were crowding round her for the biscuits.

  I asked Pettigrew: “So how come a man who hates dogs ended up with a dog act?”

  “I dreamed of becoming a ventriloquist but I couldn’t stop my lips moving.”

  “Spoils the effect,” I said.

  “So I had to find something else and as luck would have it, I was sharing a compartment on a train with a lady from Stow-in-the-Wold. She’d been to see a show a couple of nights earlier where a dog act had been the hit. Well, I had to find something. I couldn’t sing, play a musical instrument, tell jokes, juggle or perform conjuring tricks. What else was there? I did hear of one bloke who’d put together an act out of waggling his ears. But I couldn’t do that either.”

  I looked over at the dogs. Fanny had Perdy on her lap. She tickled Polly’s tummy. Peggy and Poppy looked up at her with mooneyes and their tongues hanging out.

  I asked Pettigrew: “Where did you get the dogs?”

  “There’s a bit of a story to that. The four were all from the same litter. But originally, I had only three from the breeder – Peggy, Perdy and Polly. The fourth had already been sold to a haberdasher’s wife in Walthamstow.

  “Well, it soon became clear that the three were missing their sister. They were sullen and listless – not like puppies should be. They didn’t respond to anything I tried. So in the end, I teased the haberdasher’s address out of the breeder and took the tram to Walthamstow.”

  “And found Poppy?” I said.

  “Not immediately. The wife – a Mrs Slyburn, I remember – would barely speak to me. I had to do a bit of sniffing around and eventually I found Poppy tied up in the back yard of the haberdasher’s on a short cord barely long enough to reach her water bowl. Not that there was any water in it. The poor mutt was lapping the drips from a muddy puddle when I saw her.

  “A bonfire of rubbish from the shop was shooting flame and filling the yard with smoke. It was like keeping the animal in Hades. You wouldn’t do it to a dog. But, of course, they were.”

  I scribbled some shorthand in my notebook and nodded to Pettigrew to continue.

  “Any roads, when Poppy saw me poke my head round the gate she started barking. Strained on her lead to get to me. I reckon I was carrying the scent of the other three about me and she recognised it. Her bark brought the Slyburn woman to the door. She shouted at me to clear off – and then everything seemed to happen at once.

  “Poppy slipped her leash, and raced towards me. The Madam Slyburn moved across the yard at an angle to cut her off. Poppy headed for the gate but the bonfire blocked her only means of escape. The fire was red hot, too. It seemed that Slyburn must catch her by the collar and tie her up again. Poppy simply ran for the bonfire and leapt it. She was out of the gate before Slyburn had taken another step. And with me heading after her as fast as I could run.”

  “Did Mrs Slyburn ever come after you?”

  “No. For a start, she didn’t know who I was. And I don’t expect she’d have wanted it known among her customers that she’d been keeping a dog in those conditions.”

  “And I suppose that’s where you got the idea that a dog could leap through fire in the act?” I asked.

  “Never trained an animal to do it before. But Poppy is a true leader – she’ll do anything. Courage of a lion. Mind you, she needs a little strengthener before doing the business.”

  “Of what?”

  Pettigrew pointed to a bottle of Sandeman’s Tawny Port on the dressing table.

 
; I smiled. “So that bit in the act when she drinks from the bucket before leaping through the fiery hoop – she’s drinking port?”

  “And lemon. I give it a good dash of lemonade.”

  I closed my notebook. Looked over at Fanny. She had a couple of the dogs on their hind legs begging for biscuits.

  I said to Pettigrew: “Looks like you’ve got a competitor for your act.”

  “You let me know if you fancy treading the boards, miss,” he said. “At my age, I could use an assistant. What do your legs look like in fishnet tights?”

  Fanny frowned. I intervened: “Miss Archer has obtained an important position at the knicker factory,” I said.

  “Begging your pardon, miss.”

  We stood up. I shook hands with Pettigrew and told him the article would be in Saturday’s paper. Fanny gave the dogs a final pat and ear tickle.

  Pettigrew reached for the port.

  “Poppy needs a strengthener before her next show?” I asked.

  Pettigrew pulled out the cork. “She’s not the only one who needs a drop of Dutch courage before going on stage.”

  The second part of the show raced by.

  My mind was only half on the performance. I vaguely remember a witless ventriloquist who had the audience roaring every time his dummy said “bum” and a honky-tonk pianist who had the crowd singing along to old music-hall favourites. The headliner was a comedian best known from his time hosting a television quiz show. He seemed only to get laughs by endlessly repeated his catchphrase: “What a kerfuffle!”

  My mind was still on what game Fanny was playing.

  So as the curtain came down, after another routine from the chorus girls, I whispered in Fanny’s ear: “Let’s go for supper.”

  I guided her backstage again and we left through the stage door.

  If, as I suspected, she was Jim Houghton’s nark, I didn’t want them passing secret signals after the show.

  Chapter 13

  I led Fanny through the back-doubles to Meeting House Lane.

  I planned to grab a quiet table in the Four Aces where I could ask her a few searching questions. I needed to discover exactly what she was up to.

  So as we pushed through the restaurant’s door, I gave Casey, the proprietor, my usual conspiratorial wink. He’d know it meant we wanted to be as quiet as possible. He led us to an alcove at the back of the ground-floor dining room. A curving red banquette formed a semi-circle around a small table. An electric candelabrum cast a mellow light and illuminated a single painting – a sideways view of a seated elderly lady in a long black dress and a white bonnet.

  Fanny raised her eyebrows when she saw it. “What’s Whistler’s Mother doing here?”

  “What mothers usually do,” I said. “Making sure we don’t get up to any mischief.”

  Fanny giggled.

  Casey handed us menus and, while we studied them, I ran through a few opening gambits in my mind. I obviously couldn’t accuse Fanny outright of being Houghton’s stool-pigeon. She’d deny it, probably storm out and I’d have another unresolved mystery on my hands. As if Fred Snout’s killing, the missing Milady’s Bath Night and Venetia’s letter to Marie weren’t enough.

  Casey took our order – smoked salmon and chicken chasseur for Fanny, pate maison and beef bourguignon for me. I asked him to bring a bottle of Medoc.

  Fanny handed her menu back to Casey, turned to me and said: “So, do you bring all your conquests here?”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d surrendered.”

  “Let’s just say I’m thinking of calling off the sentries.”

  “I didn’t realise there were guards on the gate.”

  “After your invitation this morning, I thought I’d better be on my watch, especially when you chose the quietest table in the restaurant. Don’t think I didn’t notice your wink. Regular code, is it?”

  “You make me sound like a cross between Casanova and Bluebeard,” I said.

  “I just sensed that there might be another girl around the corner.”

  “Female intuition?”

  “You could put it down to that. But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  This wasn’t turning out how I’d planned. But, perhaps, if I was frank with Fanny I would lure her into lowering her own defences.

  So I said: “There was another girl. Last summer. Her name was Shirley. She came from Australia. She’d been working her way around the world and pitched up in Brighton.”

  “But it didn’t work out?”

  “I thought it was going to. There was a time when I thought Shirley did, too. But Shirley had wanderlust. Walkabout she called it. Like the aborigines. Except that she said anyone could do it. As a way of finding their true self.”

  “And her walkabout took her away from Brighton?”

  “Yes. I only hope she finds her true self.”

  “Perhaps she’ll come back,” Fanny said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  The waitress arrived with the wine and filled our glasses. I raised mine and said: “Here’s to your new job at the knicker factory.”

  Fanny blushed. “I’d forgotten. Of course, my new job in the underworld.”

  “Don’t you mean underwear?”

  “Of course. I suppose that must be a Freudian slip.” She sipped her wine and replaced the glass awkwardly on the table.

  The waitress reappeared with our smoked salmon and pate maison. We picked up our knives and forks and ate.

  I said: “Have they given you a job title in your new position?”

  “Not really. I’m very junior.”

  “I suppose when you’re working in a knicker factory, you have to start at the bottom.”

  Fanny giggled again.

  I said: “What will your work involve?”

  “Mostly shorthand.”

  “Pitman’s or Gregg’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both? That’s most unusual.”

  “Sorry, no, only one. The first.”

  “Pitman’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s your speed?”

  “Fast enough. I gather I’ll be mostly taking down letters – usually replies to customers wanting to know why they haven’t got their knickers.”

  “That must be embarrassing.”

  Fanny blushed. “I didn’t really mean it that way.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, you sound like you’re interviewing me for a job. Tell me about yours.”

  “Well, I’ve been crime correspondent of the Evening Chronicle for two years.”

  “A life of crime. Do you meet any criminals?”

  “Sometimes. But not when they’re working.”

  “Are you working on any big stories at the moment?” Fanny asked.

  “Nothing particular,” I lied.

  “I think I saw something in last night’s paper about a murder on the pier.”

  “That’s right. But I don’t think it’ll amount to much.” I lightly brushed by nose to make sure it wasn’t growing too long.

  We fell silent. The waitress came in and took away our plates. I poured Fanny some more wine. The waitress returned with the chicken chasseur and beef bourguignon.

  I said: “Did you enjoy the show.”

  Fanny chewed on a piece of chicken. “If I’m honest, some of it. The comedians were crude. But I loved the dogs. And it was a real treat to be able to pet them backstage.”

  “You seem to have a real way with animals. Do you have a dog of your own?”

  “Yes… that is to say, no. My parents have a dog but now I’m living in a flat in Brighton and out all day working, it’s not practical.”

  “Trials of a working girl, eh?”

  Fanny shrugged. She cut into her chicken. “This is delicious. The restaurant is quite a find. It’s not what it seems from the outside.”

  No, I thought, nothing is quite what it seems from the outside. But I’d thought of a way to prove whether Fanny was a shorthand typist – or a spy.
/>   Over the coffee, we talked some more about the show – and especially Professor Pettigrew’s poodles.

  Finally, I said: “I’ve enjoyed this evening. Could we meet again tomorrow? This time, there won’t be any work. Perhaps we could go dancing at Sherry’s.”

  Fanny smiled. “That would be nice. Where shall we meet?”

  “How about outside the ice rink in West Street?”

  “I think I can remember that.”

  “Just to be sure I’ll write it down for you.”

  I tore a page out of my notebook and wrote some shorthand. I handed Fanny the page.

  “There,” I said, pointing at the perfect Pitman’s. “Outside the ice rink, West Street.”

  Fanny read the shorthand: “Outside the ice rink, West Street,” she said.

  I smiled. Now I knew she’d been lying.

  My shorthand had read: “Not the knicker factory in Portslade.”

  I left the Four Aces without winking at Casey.

  Fanny had been sharper than I’d originally given her credit for. I knew she was playing a game, but I wondered whether she knew that I knew. Yet my trick with the shorthand had left me with a further puzzle. I was certain she was no shorthand typist. But if Fanny knew Jim Houghton well enough to act as his informer, the chances were that she would also be a journalist. In which case, she should’ve had at least a working knowledge of shorthand. I’d enjoyed the supper – for a spy, she made good company – but I felt I was no further forward.

  Outside the Four Aces, Fanny leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Thank you for a fab evening,” she said. “I’ve really enjoyed it.”

  “My car’s only parked in Ship Street. I could give you a lift back to your flat,” I said.

  “It’s right up in Woodingdean – too far out of your way. I can get a bus in North Street.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  Fanny turned, gave a little wave and headed down the lane. “Until tomorrow evening.”

  I watched her turn into North Street, then started to walk in the opposite direction towards Ship Street. I took half a dozen steps – and stopped.

  Nothing about Fanny made sense. I knew she’d lied to me about being a secretary at Kayser Bondor. Could she also be lying about living in a flat in Woodingdean? I turned round and headed towards North Street.