Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8)

by Myers, Amy

  Left alone, Auguste and Lizzie faced each other.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Didier,’ Lizzie announced consolingly. ‘You’re just getting too old to run fast enough. She’s always doing this sort of thing, if she can get away from the Jaunty Juggler. That’s why the cooks are always leaving. She thinks he won’t catch her down here.’

  Relief that she had not misjudged the situation was mingled with hurt pride. ‘Too old?’ Auguste repeated, picking on the salient point. ‘I’m only forty-three.’

  ‘Forty-three?’ There was amazement in her voice. ‘Me dad’s only thirty-seven, and he’s past it. No wonder you was running away from her.’

  ‘Lizzie, the eels, if you please.’

  Lizzie giggled.

  ‘Well?’ Rose looked up eagerly as Twitch came in.

  The latter shook his head dolefully. ‘Nothing. The men have crawled all over this place. Not a thing. And we covered their home again, too. Not a cross in sight. The only thing the men got excited about were some naughty postcards of Mrs Gomez. There was one in a bath –’ Stitch reddened, as he saw his Chief’s ironic look and decided not to elaborate further.

  ‘Too much to expect, I suppose,’ Rose grunted. ‘Gomez is hardly likely to have hidden it in his own home knowing we might search it.’

  ‘A risk,’ Twitch pointed out rather obviously, unconsciously taking in that the Chief was talking to him like a human being for once. ‘Of course, we don’t know they’re mixed up in it.’

  ‘Far too smug not to be, if you ask me. But what were they planning to do with it? My money’s on their sending the fake to the Portuguese royal family by the next ship, and selling the true cross to the highest bidder.’

  ‘Selling it, sir?’

  Rose looked at him. ‘You’re right to pull me up, Stitch. Not much market, except, of course, to those Republicans.’

  ‘So it’s probably sold already,’ Twitch deduced pompously. ‘They were holding the fake until the ship arrived, didn’t want it at home because they guessed we’d be searching it, so. Mrs G sweet-talked Will Lamb into holding it for her.’

  Rose thought this over. ‘Doesn’t explain why they bothered to have a fake at all. Why not just a straight theft?’

  Twitch surpassed himself. ‘It would take the heat off them if the Portuguese royal family believed they’d got the real thing.’

  ‘But if Gomez is our man, and he pinched the loot from Windsor, why bother to go to all the trouble of hiring a casual in Limehouse and murdering him?’

  To this Twitch had no reply.

  ‘Is Gomez in the theatre yet?’ Rose continued.

  ‘I’ll find out, sir.’ Twitch escaped thankfully. At least this was a task which would produce a firm yes or no.

  ‘Send him up if so. And Mr Didier, if you can find him.’

  Twitch departed with a slightly less light heart, but brought back both with the air of one much tried. Auguste was only too thankful for a reason to escape Lizzie’s conspiratorial sympathetic eye.

  ‘Why you want to see me again?’ Miguel demanded passionately.

  ‘Not for the delightful company,’ Rose replied curtly. ‘A nice silver cross with garnets turned up in Will Lamb’s dressing-room, you see, and not long before we found it, someone tampered with his dagger and he died. Murdered. Remember now?’

  Miguel shrugged. ‘Why me?’

  ‘You were hanging about in the wings while he was on stage, which you don’t do normally. That a good enough reason?’

  ‘Will was a great artiste,’ Miguel muttered.

  ‘And a bon ami of your wife,’ Auguste amplified.

  ‘Enemy?’ Miguel looked startled.

  ‘Ami. A good friend of your wife. Forgive me, I speak and think still in French, as you no doubt in Portuguese,’ Auguste continued meaningfully. ‘We remain what we were born.’

  Miguel’s face darkened. ‘What does it matter where I was born? I am from Europe, from the world. I travel since I am born.’

  ‘No great allegiance to Portugal?’ Rose asked mildly.

  ‘Not where crosses are concerned,’ Miguel replied, pleased he had not fallen into this cunning trap.

  ‘Funny how rumours fly around a place like this,’ Rose said conversationally. ‘You should hear what goes on at the Yard. All sorts of stories about me being a hard man. Don’t beheve a word of it. And those about your wife about to run off with Will Lamb are nonsense too, you say.’

  Miguel smirked. ‘Of course. We are never parted.’

  ‘Just rumours,’ Rose reflected. ‘Of course, if you had happened to believe them, you being a passionate man, you might have wished harm to come to Will Lamb.’

  Miguel glared. ‘I did not.’

  ‘Or perhaps your wife? Had Will changed his mind about running away with her?’

  ‘She did not. We did not. We are nothing to do with murder!’ He went into a flood of Portuguese. ‘Look for the ghost. It was the ghost he said did it.’ He stopped suddenly, and stared at them.

  ‘Where were you last Saturday?’ Rose asked.

  ‘At home. With Mariella,’ Miguel replied quietly, his voice oddly flat.

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘Mariella.’

  ‘Where were you before the performance yesterday?’

  ‘On my way here from the Britannia. I did not arrive till after the performance had started.’

  ‘Not earlier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s odd, Mr Gomez. You usually do, your wife was, and you said you were never parted. Especially on her birthday. Only it wasn’t her birthday yesterday, like you told us, was it, Mr Gomez?’

  ‘Are you cooking tonight, Auguste?’

  Auguste eyed him. ‘If you can spare me, Egbert,’ he said cautiously. This was too good a chance to miss.

  ‘I’m coming too. I want to see Ma Bisley’s sword-swallower.’

  It was just as well. Auguste’s presence was not only desirable but essential. He was aware of Egbert’s sardonic eye on him from the fastnesses of his secluded window seat. The hastily trumpeted return of the Magnificent Masher, not to mention Nettie Turner performing on the very stage where Will Lamb had died, was enough to draw the entire population of Wapping, Shadwell and Limehouse, not to mention most of the newspapermen in England. Auguste gazed panic-stricken through the window. Demand was obviously going to outstrip supply despite his increased orders that morning. That Mob had a lean and hungry look, and tonight it was not merely for barracking, it was for sensation.

  ‘Can we obtain more pies?’ he asked desperately.

  Lizzie looked doubtful. ‘Not from Mrs J’s, we won’t.’ This was double-Dutch to Auguste. ‘Joe could try Mrs Mount’s . . .’

  ‘The pie shop?’ Auguste clutched at this straw. ‘The establishment by Tobacco Dock with the rather large lady in charge?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Lizzie dived under the counter to extract a new box of catsup bottles.

  Auguste regarded the soles of her feet contemplatively, struggling with his integrity. Could he so compromise his standards as to buy and sell produce under his name purchased from the large lady with the dirty cap and apron at Mount’s Pie Emporium? Her beaming grin made no difference. The haphazard displays that suggested a large hand merely tumbled new offerings from the oven on top of those unsold from previous bakings, the unappetising bowls that lay around all too conspicuously as a new batch went in for baking, the greasy pole that was kept handily on the floor for prodding food into submission in the ovens, the dead bluebottles in the window, feet upright in surrender (had they tasted the pies?) – all these things convinced him honour should reject this solution. Another glance at the Shadwell Mob outside suggested honour should be conveniently lost for this evening, and that in any case, Lizzie’s usual supplier, this Mrs J, was no doubt equally repulsive.

  ‘What an excellent idea, Lizzie,’ he agreed hollowly.

  A raucous rendering of ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ outside suggested the Mob was limberi
ng up. He could see Frederick doling out potatoes, so quickly it looked like a juggling turn by Miguel Gomez. No time for sword-swallowing this evening.

  Egbert patiently sipped ale, eyeing Auguste as he rushed from cellar to eating-room and back again, bearing plates, and fresh supplies ready for the onslaught. Outside the voices grew louder, and more raucous, song giving way to demands for admittance. Percy Jowitt pattered past the entrance to the eating-room en route for the front door. To open five minutes early was a surrender of his power, but tonight, any price was worth it. Frederick, sensing the tightening of muscles ready for the surge, quickly infiltrated the front ranks, swept aside by the surge and the peeling off into the eating-room, breathless and bruised. He went straight to his post, greeting his pile of fresh potatoes as a challenge to be welcomed. His eyes gleamed as he realised the hot-plate was unattended, and that tempting offerings awaited him. Egbert was there before him.

  ‘Ah, Mr Wolf, allow me to present you with a chop.’ Egbert flipped one over on to a plate with all the expertise of one evening’s experience.

  ‘How very generous of you, sir.’ Frederick’s eyes lit up.

  Goodness knows how a throat rasped with so much sword-swallowing could cope with a mutton chop, Auguste thought, as he rushed by to take his place by the fish hot-plate. He was even more impressed that Frederick managed to consume his chop while juggling potatoes to early comers already thrusting eager hands over the counter.

  ‘Allow me to present to you one of my best potatoes, sir,’ Frederick bawled to Rose over the rabble. One hand pursued his chop, the other expertly opened a potato over a plate with one hand, buttered, peppered and salted it and pushed it proudly to Egbert.

  ‘Very good of you.’ Rose eyed the crumbs without much enthusiasm, and retreated to devour it, one eye on his intended prey. ‘Tell me,’ he began half an hour later after the performance had begun, ‘you ever heard of a lady called Ma Bisley?’

  ‘No,’ said Frederick simply, devouring a second chop thrust under his nose as an inducement.

  ‘She’s heard of you.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Frederick took this as a tribute to his art. ‘The Wolfs have a long tradition of sword-swallowing.’

  ‘Cast your mind back to last Saturday, Mr Wolf, if you would.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Frederick was eager to oblige, especially if another chop came his way.

  ‘Nightingale Lane mean anything to you?’

  ‘Indeed it does. My mother, a splendid lady, six foot three, you know, always told me, “Frederick, never go near Nightingale Lane. There are goblins down there. And pirates. And ghosts.” I have obeyed her. She—’

  ‘What were you doing last Saturday afternoon?’ Rose cut in. Frederick’s mother was unlikely to be relevant to the case.

  ‘Let me think. Ah, yes, the day of my commission. I earned two shillings.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Net.’ Frederick ruminated on his triumph. ‘It was a secret mission, so I thought carefully as to how to perform the task. I decided to take the package to a third party and to pass on part of my fee. I made this sacrifice out of duty, you understand.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It was secret.’

  ‘Want another chop?’

  ‘How kind.’

  ‘To the docks, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How percipient. Yes. North Dock. I selected a likely courier, pulling my muffler down over my face as disguise.’

  Disguise? Auguste, hovering unashamedly, wondered how anything could disguise that lanky frame.

  ‘From the Three Tars in Limehouse?’

  ‘And some of that delightful catsup, if you please, sir. Yes.’

  Auguste noted the stickiness of the bottle, the elegant way in which Frederick wiped the excess catsup from the lip with his finger and licked it appreciatively and wondered if there might be hygiene disadvantages in his scheme for regular catsup bottles on tables.

  ‘Who gave you this mission?’ Egbert asked.

  ‘A gentleman also with a muffler. The day was not inclement, though wet, and I deduced he did not wish to be recognised. That’s what gave me the idea of following his example.’

  Auguste repressed a grin as he saw Egbert’s face.

  ‘Very helpful, Mr Wolf. You’ve no idea who it was?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Naturally. Throats are, after all, my profession. I recognise the wrinkles and creases, much as I understand horticulturists recognise lines in tree trunks. A mere muffler is a rather insignificant disguise to a sword-swallower. If carelessly arranged it covers the mouth and nose, but not the throat. I remember my dear mother saying, “Frederick, you recall Mr—”.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Egbert cut across reminiscences.

  ‘In my mother’s case, it was—’

  ‘The man in the muffler,’ Rose demanded patiently.

  ‘The Great Brodie. Horace, I believe, to his many friends.’

  Auguste hurried to the back of the fauteuils, behind the pit, craning his neck to see what was going on. It was hard to tell from the noise. He was determined to see Lady Westland, as Tatiana would demand a full report on her return, when she knew what interesting developments were taking place, and it would distract her from inquiring what precisely he had been doing at the Old King Cole. His presence in the kitchens was not going to be divulged to her. It briefly crossed his mind to wonder why Tatiana had asked Lady Westland, of mature years and figure, to keep an eye on him during her absence, and not, for example, darling Maisie, who was a friend of both of them – though particularly, he was forced to admit, of his, owing to earlier intimate acquaintanceship.

  The board showing seven, once Will’s, now the Magnificent Masher’s number, was up and it was hard to tell from the roars and flying objects whether the number was meeting approval or not. Certainly the ‘footles’, the fauteuils of his native language, were in favour, and the circle; whether the pit and the gallery were preparing for adulation or war was difficult to determine. He need not have worried. The sight of the upraised silver end of a walking stick appearing from the wings then pausing, followed by a tall top-hat similarly extended brought an immediate howl of approval from members of the audience who could remember that well-known entrance. True, the morning suit that followed it was somewhat broader in the beam than of old, but as the Magnificent Masher strolled languidly down the footlights, studied her audience through a monocle and declared in bored tones: ‘I’m a Piccadilly lounger, though some would call me scrounger . . .’ he relaxed. The audience was held, and by the time the Masher left the stage, to the tune of ‘A Romano’s Romeo’, was captive. Little Emmeline, usually a prudent judge of her career, had elected to change bill position till after the interval. Orsini, once more finding himself catapulted into an unwelcome spot, flatly refused, and Jowitt rang the curtain down on the Masher’s triumphant note.

  Auguste returned to the eating-room for the interval to find Lizzie and Frederick in full, silent concentration on their respective tasks, as the audience began to flock in. Egbert had disappeared. Auguste collided in the doorway with an out-of-breath Joe, bearing a huge bag whose contents were already leaking grease. Auguste seized it, thrusting the objects on to the hot-plate. At first sniff he recoiled. All he could smell was grease oozing through the pastry. Then something caught at his nostrils, and he sniffed again. It was curry powder, and worse, the smell of curry powder with a purpose – to cover that of bad meat.

  ‘Ere, mate, giv’ us one of them, will you?’ An indignant customer recalled him to duty.

  Mrs Mount’s pies, the chops, the herrings, all melted into a terrible stew of eating smells, and the result was far from fragrant. Gas lights flared and hissed before him, oven heat assaulted him, customers’ yells, shouts – and occasionally fists – did the same from behind. As the last customer drifted back to barrack Little Emmeline, Auguste sank down exhausted. Surely Escoffier would never go through this hell? Why should he,
Auguste Didier, have so foolishly offered himself as a herring to the slaughter?

  Orsini had a fortunate escape this evening, thanks to Little Emmeline, who had unwisely usurped his after-the-interval spot. The interval had in no way diminished the Mob’s desire for revenge – and they wreaked it. This time Little Emmeline had no reserves, and retired with six fairies in tears, and her own grim expression, as she planned her response. Evangeline lasted less than a minute, and then Percy saw his chance.

  ‘You next,’ he told his bailiffs amiably. ‘Turn eight, the Cherry Blacks,’ he bawled to the stage manager.

  Mr Cherry was in the habit of entertaining his aunts at Christmas, Percy had been given to understand; Mr Black had always fancied himself as a pierrot. They were both therefore attired in gleaming white costumes, with red pom-poms and perky little white clown’s hats. Their appearance stunned the audience into silence, and thus encouraged they advanced confidently to the footlights:

  ‘Who was that lady I saw you with last night?’ Cherry inquired coyly.

  ‘That was no lady, that was—’

  Black got no further as the entire audience bawled out their own pet variations of ‘my wife’, and the red pom-poms were amplified in the form of squashy tomatoes. Special Branch, unused to meeting their public at such close quarters, reconsidered their position. Half an egg only partly de-shelled arrived smack in Cherry’s mouth and decided it for him. He fled, with Black at his heels, as Percy Jowitt giggled helplessly into the wings.

  ‘Glad you find it funny, Percy,’ said Nettie caustically, as she sailed past to the rescue, one turn early. Orsini did not seem disposed to argue the point. She strode down to the footlights, put her hands on her hips, planted her feet firmly and belligerently, and roared at her loving audience:

  ‘Whoa, there, you donkeys.’

  They whoa’ed.

  Egbert Rose, knocking at Nettie’s door, was surprised to find himself faced not by Miss Turner but by Lady Westland, now back in suitable attire for her position, with Max Hill. His surprise showed.

  ‘Max and I are old friends. We met over twenty years ago,’ Lady Westland replied. ‘At the Canterbury, wasn’t it, Max?’