by Lynne Truss
‘She’s the station charlady,’ Mesmer said.
‘Pardon?’
‘She’s the station charlady? She mops the floors?’
‘Yes.’ Twitten shrugged. ‘And she makes jolly nice cups of tea.’ And she kills people and she’s devious and she’s up to something, but I can’t bally well think what it is!
Mesmer gave a big smile to the audience. He signalled for a drum roll from the pit. Twitten closed his eyes.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest to this young man that Palmeira here, who makes jolly nice cups of tea is, in cunning disguise, a master criminal.’
‘Oh, my good gawd,’ exclaimed Mrs Groynes, as the audience tittered with laughter.
‘Good heavens,’ gasped Steine. ‘The idea!’
‘And that you, with your gigantic intellect, have worked out that this funny cockney charlady is behind all sorts of robberies and murders!’
Time stood still. The drum roll was still going. Steine was agog. Mrs Groynes was agog. The whole place was nothing but agog. All eyes were on Twitten. Had it worked?
‘But she is!’ cried Twitten, as cymbals clashed, and the audience began to applaud. ‘She was behind the Aldersgate Stick-up, sir, that’s what I wanted to tell you. And she shot Mr Crystal at the theatre the other night, and she had me coshed in London – coshed, sir – and she’s got umpteen henchmen operating in this very theatre at this minute. This is maddening, sir!’
‘Incredible!’ exclaimed Steine, jumping up and clapping. He patted Mesmer’s arm in congratulation, while the audience cheered and applauded and drummed their feet. What an amazing display of mind control.
‘Stop! Stop applauding!’ Twitten begged. ‘It’s a trick!’
‘Of course it’s a trick, dear,’ said Mrs Groynes, wiping her eyes.
‘Of course it’s a trick,’ agreed Mesmer. ‘It’s a really good one.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you something else!’ Twitten was shouting to be
heard, and had to wait for the laughter and applause to die down. He was stolidly refusing to be a sport about this. ‘I’ll still believe she’s a master criminal even after you’ve said “Einstein” again.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Mesmer, smiling.
‘But it’s true, sir! I’ll still say she shot Mr Crystal. So how are you going to explain that? Go on. Say “Einstein” again, Professor Mesmer. Say it now and we’ll see whether I’m right or not.’
Mesmer turned to the crowd. ‘Shall I say it, ladies and gentlemen?’
There was a roar of mixed ‘No!’ and ‘Yes!’ – with the ‘No’ contingent definitely in the majority.
‘I can’t quite hear you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mesmer. ‘Shall I say it?’
Which was when the tragic events of the evening suddenly irrupted. While the audience were shouting ‘Yes!’, and ‘No!’, and Mesmer was exaggeratedly cupping a hand to his ear, two young women rushed down the aisle of the auditorium from the back; a blonde woman Steine vaguely recognised as an actress from the Theatre Royal, and another – dark and intense-looking – with a telltale bulge in her raincoat pocket.
Brunswick – who had been shouting ‘No!’ along with most of the excited audience – spotted these two figures coming, and stepped out to block their path.
‘Now calm down, ladies,’ he said, gripping the arm of the blonde woman. ‘Where do you think you’re going? There’s a show on here.’
‘Let me go, Sergeant,’ said the blonde, which was when he realised it was Penny Cavendish, and that the other woman was Jo Carver.
‘Bobby!’ cried Penny, trying to push past him.
‘Bobby!’ shouted Jo.
‘Bobby?’ said Brunswick, confused. He looked up at the stage and for the first time (at last!) clocked the identity of Professor Mesmer. ‘The Professor is Bobby Melba?’
But there was no time for the unfortunate sergeant to process such a huge piece of new information, or to start the arrest procedure. While the audience were baying their answers at the stage (‘I can’t quite hear you, ladies and gentlemen!’), Jo Carver produced a gun from her pocket and shot Sergeant Brunswick in the leg.
* * *
The audience kept on shouting. It was only when Jo (with Penny close behind) climbed onto the stage – and Professor Mesmer backed away from them with his hands up – that people realised there was something wrong. All the previous calm and control gave way to confusion and alarm.
‘What’s she doing here?’ muttered Mrs Groynes.
‘Penny, you shouldn’t have come!’ said the Professor.
‘That woman’s got a gun!’ said Steine.
The audience began to react – some people got up, but many remained frozen in their seats, watching events unfold. Was this part of the act, or not? On the stage, no one moved, but Bobby Melba’s arms dropped to his sides as Jo moved closer to him and held the gun at arm’s length, aiming it at his chest.
‘Who’s this woman?’ said Steine.
‘Bobby, you framed me,’ said Jo.
Bobby swallowed. He breathed heavily. ‘I did, Jo. It was unforgivable. But please put down the gun. I’m so sorry.’
‘Who’s Bobby?’ asked Steine. ‘Who’s Jo?’
‘You planted a wig and some jewellery in my dressing room.’
‘We can talk about it, Jo. There’s no need for the gun. It was a stupid thing to do – an unkind thing to do. I can only say I was desperate. The police were on to me, and they thought I’d committed a murder. But you know I’d never kill anyone!’
While he was talking, Bobby was slowly removing his hat, and peeling off his eyebrows and beard. He said, quietly, ‘Does anyone know if this gun is loaded?’
To which Brunswick called out from the auditorium, ‘Of course it’s flaming loaded! She flaming shot me!’
The bemused audience tittered nervously. Whatever else came out of this astonishing scene, poor Sergeant Brunswick’s Brighton underworld catchphrase was now destined to change from ‘Eating flaming ice cream’ to ‘Of course it’s flaming loaded!’
Bobby stood before her without his Professor Mesmer paraphernalia. His voice was steady and reassuring, but if you looked closely you would see that his hands were shaking. Steine noticed for the first time that the ends of his fingers were odd-looking, somewhat like little hammers. Again, this information rang no bells in particular.
‘Look, it’s only me, Jo. It’s your friend Bobby. Give me the gun, dear. Give me the gun.’
‘It’s a trick!’ said Twitten. ‘It’s a put-up job! I am virtually certain that this is all a put-up job!’
But even Mrs Groynes was looking very serious. Meanwhile Penny’s expression was one of utter terror. Her lips were moving as she said to herself, ‘Give him the gun, give him the gun… don’t shoot him… please don’t shoot him… give him the gun.’
But Jo did not give Bobby the gun.
‘How about you give me the gun, dear?’ said Mrs Groynes, gently. ‘There’s a good girl.’
But Jo did not look round. Instead, she cocked the hammer.
Steine wondered whether he ought to be joining in with this negotiation himself, and made a decision. ‘Twitten,’ he ordered, ‘instruct this woman to give you her gun.’
But Twitten didn’t get the chance.
‘I thought you cared about me, Bobby,’ Jo Carver said. ‘I thought some day –’
Bobby lunged for the gun, catching Jo by the wrist – possibly forgetting that she had the strongest wrists of any woman who ever lived. He screamed when she easily bent back his hands. As the two of them dropped to the stage and began to fight, with the gun out of sight between them, Penny rushed forward but was held back by Mrs Groynes.
‘Bobby, no!’ Penny cried.
People in the audience were standing on the seats to get a better view of Bobby and Jo, rolling around downstage. They shouted excitedly, ‘He’s on top now!’ and ‘She’s on top now!’ and ‘He’s back on top!’ and (from those who hadn’t quite caught u
p with what was happening), ‘This is what I call entertainment!’
And then Bang! – the bodies stopped rolling, with Jo on top, crying, ‘Oh, Bobby, I’m sorry.’ All gasped in horror. And then there was another Bang! And Jo went limp, and both of them lay still.
‘Bobby!’ wailed Penny, still being held back by Mrs Groynes.
‘No!’ groaned Mrs Groynes.
‘Crikey,’ said Twitten.
‘Oh, good heavens,’ said Steine. ‘Shouldn’t somebody do something?’
There was a momentary silence, and then Brunswick yelled, ‘Call for a flaming ambulance! And no one leaves this theatre!’
Twitten was stunned. It was all too much.
‘So, do you still think this is a trick?’ said Steine. ‘With two people dead?’
As if on cue, Bobby stirred, groaning. The audience gasped, while Twitten ran to his side. ‘Say “Einstein”, Professor Mesmer!’ he begged. ‘Please, say “Einstein”!’
The audience booed. Steine booed as well. What a selfish – and perfectly shocking – reaction to this tragedy.
Twitten knelt beside Bobby, and took his hand. ‘Just say “Einstein”, sir. Please?’
But Bobby spluttered and mouthed the words, ‘I’m sorry’ – and that was it. The curtain was lowered, and in the auditorium, Maisie began to scream.
* * *
The rest of the evening was undramatic by comparison. A man with a Greek accent barged onto the stage and took control, directing men from the St John’s Ambulance as they lifted the bodies onto stretchers and removed them. Someone identified him as the Punch & Judy man from the beach, but Steine didn’t know or care if this was true, as long as someone took those awful bodies away.
Meanwhile Brunswick’s leg was attended to – and Brunswick forgave a weeping Maisie when she said she was sorry for making him worried about her all day. She said she’d been perfectly safe, and there had been no man called Twitty responsible for her disappearance. She’d just wanted to give him and Vince a fright, to see how much they both cared about her. (What she neglected to say was that Mrs Groynes had promised her two tickets to Frank Sinatra at the Albert Hall, to get her to do it.)
‘Well, you certainly did give me a fright, Maisie,’ said Brunswick, wincing and clutching his leg. ‘But I wish you’d chosen a better day to do it. I was close to flaming arresting that man for the murder of Jack Braithwaite, and now I never can!’
Twitten sat on his chair, stunned. He still wanted to believe it was all a trick – but how to account for Penny Cavendish, who was genuinely distraught with shock and grief? Throughout all the proceedings, he had watched Mrs Groynes, and she had stopped looking triumphant the moment Jo and Penny had arrived in the theatre. ‘What’s she doing here?’ she had said. Obviously his own hypnotising had been part of a plan – but the shooting, too?
Right now, however, he couldn’t ask her. She was busy apologising to Inspector Steine, who was looking dazed and had undone the top button of his tunic.
‘I’m so sorry I got you here, dear. It’s all my fault you saw this! Look at you now, all undressed.’
‘Now, don’t be silly, Mrs Groynes. It’s not your fault at all.’
‘No, dear. I’m afraid I have to tell you something – something I kept from you. The thing is, dear, I got a message today to telephone some people. Some people from the programme This Is Your Life, dear.’
‘What?’ said Steine, affecting disbelief. ‘This Is Your Life? What did they want to talk about?’
‘Well, you, dear. They wanted to talk about you.’
‘What, to be the subject of a This Is Your Life programme? Me? I’m sure I’m not famous enough!’
Mrs Groynes laughed her agreement (a bit tactlessly, in Steine’s opinion). ‘I know! I was surprised myself. I mean, I know you’re famous, but I didn’t think you were that famous. I mean, no offence, but I wouldn’t watch it myself if you were on, and I’m someone who knows you! Anyway, that’s why I asked you to come here tonight. It was a ruse, dear. Nothing more than that.’
Steine looked at the floor where the two bodies had been. ‘There’s not a speck of blood, look,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s because they were face to face.’
‘So I just wanted to say sorry, dear, not to have told you the truth. But they said it had to be a secret. “Don’t let on,” they kept saying. “If he knows, it will be ruined!” And then when they phoned again at six o’clock to say it was all off, I didn’t see how I could tell you it was off – not having told you it was on in the first place!’
She laughed, weakly. He tried to laugh too. ‘So it was called off, you say?’
‘Yes, dear. They were furious. Eamonn Andrews was really looking forward to it, he said. But I thought, well, the inspector doesn’t even know about it, so he can’t be upset. I mean, what you don’t have, you don’t miss – that’s what they say, isn’t it?’
Steine sighed. He looked round, remembering the scene on this stage as he had pictured it earlier: Eamonn Andrews with his big red book, and arrayed on chairs, all smiling at him and singing his praises, former police colleagues, old friends from the Operatic Society, childhood arrestees(!), glamorous royal personages, and his elderly mother in that strange khaki safari outfit that she nowadays always wore, with the long brown knee-socks, and around her neck a big silver locket containing a picture of the dear departed Hugh Lees-Chetwynde.
In place of that vision, what he saw now was a scene including his prone sergeant, bleeding from the thigh; a hysterical actress wrapped in a blanket; and a gibbering constable who had been hypnotised into thinking that all the crime that ever happened in England had been orchestrated by the inoffensive, wittering charlady currently confessing to a highly understandable white lie.
‘Any idea why they cancelled it?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, dear?’
‘Why did they cancel it?’
‘Oh. Something about Princess Margaret, they said.’
‘Princess Margaret!’ It came out as a wail so loud and agonised that many people looked round.
‘Princess Margaret was going to come?’ the inspector whispered.
Mrs Groynes put her hand on his arm. ‘She was, dear. She wanted to. But that’s why they cancelled, you see. It turns out your mum disapproved!’
A Bit After That
Twelve
The following Monday, at 8 a.m., Constable Twitten reported for duty for the second time at Brighton Police Station. He found it deserted, aside from Mrs Groynes, who welcomed him warmly and made him a cup of tea.
Since the events at the Hippodrome, Twitten had spent time at home in Oxfordshire with his parents, recuperating and considering his future as a policeman. He’d had a lot to think about. For example, was he too young to retire at twenty-two? Should he join the church instead? Or should he turn his talents to anthropology – as his father had always hoped? After all, those kinship systems in the Fens wouldn’t untangle themselves, would they? (That was indeed part of the problem.)
But he had to ask himself: was he suffering from real disillusionment with the career he had chosen, or was it simple wounded pride? It was very hard to take, after all: that on the same night as he was proclaimed a genius (by an expert), he had been roundly outwitted by this middle-aged woman in a housecoat and turban, who was currently having difficulty shaking fig rolls from a packet onto a little tin tea-plate.
‘You came back, dear,’ she said, smiling. ‘I wasn’t sure you would.’
‘I needed to ask you a few things.’
‘Fair enough, dear. Fig roll?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, go on. You know you want to.’
‘Oh, very well, then. Yes, please.’
He looked round for a place to sit down, and she indicated Sergeant Brunswick’s desk. This was all very awkward, especially as Mrs Groynes was behaving as though nothing was the matter.
‘He’s off with his leg for the time being,’ she explained. ‘But he’s lovi
ng the glory of it, so don’t feel sorry for him.’
‘I went to see him in the hospital yesterday, as it happens.’
‘That was nice of you.’
‘I told him I needed some facts.’
‘And I’m sure that cheered him right up, dear.’
Twitten was not amused. ‘Well, I did express sympathy too. It was just as well I went to see him, actually, as he’d started to form a theory that I was a psychopath.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Where’s Inspector Steine?’
Mrs Groynes sat down beside him and put her hand on his knee, as if they were the best of friends. ‘He’s only down at the Palace Pier, being filmed for the newsreels! Always falls on his feet, that one. Actually, you’ll be interested in this, dear. It’s only being made public today, it was very hush-hush. You know that Deputy Chief Whatsit in London – what was his name, Peplow?’
‘DCI Peplow, yes. From the Met. I worked for him for about a week. He really disliked me for some reason.’
‘For being too clever?’
‘Well, more precisely for saying, “I wonder what’s under this rug, sir?” I think.’
‘Well, you’ll like this, then. He’s dead, dear.’
‘Crikey. What happened?’
‘Fell through the Pier with that Harry Jupiter in bizarre circumstances. And before you go jumping to conclusions, I had nothing to do with it. It was a godsend to the inspector – a bit like a miracle, as it happens – but I had no hand in it no-how.’
Twitten drank his tea, and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day. On his walk to the police station, he had stopped to look at the sparkling sea, and watch the seagulls swooping. He had also seen a female pickpocket bump into a nicely dressed holidaymaker in broad daylight, giggle an apology and lift a wallet from his stripy blazer. If he went back to studying those fascinating, interbred semi-aquatic people of East Anglia, wouldn’t he miss all this?
‘Well, since we’re alone, Mrs Groynes, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’
‘You want to ask me to clear things up for you. It’s only natural.’