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

by Myers, Amy

  ‘The Cyder Cellars,’ Max supplied readily.

  ‘You may go back that far. I don’t. No, the Canterbury. You were doing your W.G. Ross turn.’

  ‘Damn your eyes,’ Max snarled.

  ‘“Sam Hall”,’ exclaimed Rose appreciatively. ‘That takes me back. I was only a nipper when my father took me to see Ross. I always said that’s what made me join the police force. An acquaintance with villains from an early age.’ He could still hear the great Ross singing his famous chilling song of the murderer on his way to execution. ‘And Sam Cowell. Remember his “Ratcatcher’s Daughter”?’

  ‘Anyone who remembers Sam Cowell’s a friend of mine,’ Max declared. ‘And of Gwendolen’s, too.’

  Lady Westland grinned. ‘Max, you’re too much of an old villain yourself to go courting the law.’

  ‘Blimey, I’d almost forgotten,’ Max replied. ‘I’ll do me best Lord Fauntleroy act for you, velvet knickerbockers and all.’ He paused. ‘Who did it, eh? Who’d want to kill Will Lamb?’

  ‘You knew him well?’ Rose asked.

  ‘As well as Nettie. As well as Gwendolen here. And it wasn’t right, killing Will,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Rose said shortly.

  ‘Music hall’s a funny old world,’ Max continued. ‘There’s the golden hearts, like Nettie, Gwendolen here, and Will. And then there’s the spongers, in it while the going’s good, the fly-by-nights – and the bad eggs. And once they get behind those lights you can’t always tell which is which.’

  ‘And offstage?’ Lady Westland asked him bluntly.

  ‘Sometimes, Gwennie, not even then.’

  ‘What are you doing still here, Miguel?’ Mariella stopped as she rushed into the wings to check the fish tank, dragging her little doggies in frills and hats with her. They were well-trained. They didn’t dare bark. Auguste wondered whether perhaps she dosed them. Perhaps they spent the day in an opium smoking-room, or in a gin palace? He was wrong. Mariella looked after her doggies, not through great love of them, but through the zealous regard of the artiste for her tools.

  Miguel disliked dogs, particularly little ones whose grasp of household etiquette was incomplete. He had long discovered, however, that there was little point in protesting. Mariella did as she liked in such matters. He did the planning, but if she didn’t agree, she didn’t co-operate. Recently, she had been very good, however – too good, perhaps. Was there something he didn’t know?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated crossly.

  ‘I got someone to cover for me at the Shadwell Palace.’ He could not stop himself. ‘You didn’t have any plans really to leave with Will, did you?’ he demanded.

  ‘What foolish ideas you get in your head, my darling,’ she replied lightly. ‘I did as we agreed, that’s all.’

  Miguel had foolishly assumed that his own masculine charms were so greatly superior to Will Lamb’s that there was no need to worry. Now, he was beginning to wonder, and badly shaken, both by Will Lamb’s death and other matters, blurted out: ‘I’m sorry, Mariella. I had a shock.’

  ‘What?’ she asked without great curiosity.

  ‘I have realised who killed Will Lamb.’

  Her eyes narrowed, as she thought hard for a moment. ‘I thought it was you,’ she answered him simply.

  At the end of the performance Auguste returned to the eating-room for the last shift. That would be tiring, but not hold quite so much pressure. He seemed to be in some kind of lift constantly shuttling between the unreal world of police investigation, murder and Special Branch, and the equally unreal one of theatre life. Sometimes, it kindly stopped to allow him to step out into this all-too-real eating-room. No matter what happened, people must eat and there must be those who can cook, whether they be servants, wives, or professional cooks like himself. Food was real, whether it was filets deperdreaux a la Marena or pie and mash. Even in the midst of the soberest realities, like Will Lamb’s death, food and eating must continue.

  The room was crowded now with jostling good-humoured bodies, even some of the performers joining in. Bright lights, relaxing drinks, food stuffed into mouths, everywhere catchy songs from the evening’s entertainment being whistled or sung. Was it right that Will Lamb should be so apparently quickly forgotten? That the warmth of tonight’s raucous music hall should so quickly paper over the memory of the still body on last night’s stage? Surely not; and then he glanced at some of the couples, regulars probably, and knew he was wrong. Will Lamb’s performances would be securely lodged in their memories, to be brought out and appreciated in years to come. Nettie, Max, Gwendolen and others who were Will Lamb’s friends, had given of their best tonight, for Will, and for music hall, and Will could have no better memorial.

  The barman, waiter and Frederick stared at him reproachfully as he went to help them. It was some time before he realised that Lizzie was absent, and even longer before he could discover the reason why. When he at last descended to the cellar, he found tomorrow’s eels as yet unprepared, their bodies looking every bit as reproachful as the waiter’s eyes. From outside, through an open door, came the low murmur of voices, one clearly identifiable. Crossly, Auguste strode to the door. Outside in the dim light from the distant highway, he could see two figures, not locked in each other’s arms, but at least a foot apart. The man held the woman’s hands, quite silent now. He was gazing at her lank hair, thin face and sharp eyes as though she were a Galaxy Girl, and his eyes shone in adoration.

  ‘I’m going to kiss you, Lizzie Brown,’ Joe said softly.

  Lizzie promptly shut her eyes, leaned forward, and put out her lips.

  Auguste knew he should retreat, but he did not.

  Joe touched them gently, then drew back. ‘Lizzie—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you do when you eat one of Mrs Jolly’s pies?’

  ‘Open me mouth quickly.’

  ‘Pretend you’re eating one now.’ He drew closer, and this time the kiss took longer.

  ‘Did you like that, Lizzie Brown?’ he asked after a while.

  Lizzie made an attempt at nonchalance. ‘Ma Jolly’s pies are better.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Lizzie.’

  She looked at him, and uncertainly drew him to her.

  This time Auguste did retreat, partly because there appeared to be tears in his eyes. For young love, or for self pity, he wondered? Or for his own empty home, however temporary. He stomped upstairs to find himself alone in the eating-room, and to his surprise found he was hungry. He searched in vain for food, until at last he came across one solitary pie over a chafing dish, obviously put aside for Lizzie’s own supper. At least it did not smell of Mount’s curry powder, so it must be one of Mrs Jolly’s. With a sense of justice done, he picked it up and chewed into it.

  Chewed? It slid in like the first oyster, indeed it was the finest oyster, coupled with the tenderest beef, the most succulent gravy— He examined the half-eaten pie in wonder – was that a sliver of carrot? Of onion? No, not the latter, far too strong. Of mace perhaps, or orange itself? He could not stop for his brain to work it out, but let sensual pleasure seize him to the last succulent morsel.

  A happy man, and thus greatly daring, he rang his own door bell in Queen Anne’s Gate at gone half past twelve. He and his butler eyed each other, but greatly to Auguste’s surprise there was no reproach in the Great Man’s eyes.

  Something was different. He caught at an elusive atmosphere, but could not define it. It was not until he crept into bed he knew what it was. The bed was different, the house was different. The house was alive again, for the bed had Tatiana in it.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘What,’ Tatiana paused for a moment in her kilometre by kilometre account of her race from Paris to Cannes, as they descended to breakfast, ‘is that large bruise on your head?’

  ‘I acquired it in the course of being looked after by Lady Westland, your friend,’ Auguste replied innocently. His head had not yet recovered from the p
revious day, but his spirits seemed to have lifted remarkably.

  ‘And I had thought she would be safe from your attentions,’ his wife replied worriedly, with equal innocence.

  He laughed in sheer pleasure at seeing her again. ‘I will tell you the entire story,’ he assured her. ‘After, of course, you have completed the exciting tale of why you are home early and of the three hundred and thirty-seventh kilometre.’

  ‘I burst the right front tyre cover,’ she began, ‘but fortunately—’ Tatiana eyed him suspiciously. ‘You really wish to hear this?’

  ‘But of course.’ He placed a suitably shocked expression on his face.

  ‘Then I will tell you before we take breakfast.’

  Perhaps while we are eating, ma mie.’ Time was important. So was the choice of breakfast from the vast array of chafing dishes that John saw fit to provide for breakfast each day. In vain, he had pointed out that the stomach must be gently wooed and comforted at such a time, not assaulted by sausages, kidneys and chops. Both contenders in this battle had entrenched their positions, and as usual it was Tatiana who negotiated a truce by gently pointing out to Auguste’s soft heart that uneaten food from upstairs undoubtedly found a happy reception downstairs where it was a welcome addition to diet. His counter request for poached fish – most reasonable in his opinion – had not met with the same generosity in his opponent. Kedgeree was grudgingly provided, but its consistency varied from cloggy lumps of rice bound together by starch and processed curry powder with the occasional whisper of over-smoked haddock to a passable (by Auguste’s exacting standards) light concoction of rice, cream, and delicately smoked fish and eggs with a mere hint of Indian spices.

  Today was one of the latter. Could this be anything to do with Tatiana’s return? Auguste was aware that he was not the most popular member of his household to his own kitchen staff, but it did not worry him unduly. High standards engendered not affection but respect in those destined to achieve them for others. Dedicated as both he and John were to the temple of gastronomy, Auguste saw no reason to lower his own standards. If pushed he was forced to admit he might possibly be persuaded to give way graciously over the matter of how to prepare gravy, but he would stand firm on the blancmange. This ancient and delicate savoury dish should not be allowed to sink forever into the tasteless sugary porridge of a Mrs Beeton nursery.

  ‘Red corsets,’ Tatiana commented thoughtfully some time later as he finished both his kedgeree and his account of the events of the Old King Cole, and was distracted by the realisation that once again only marmalade had been provided on their table. French recipe it might be, but his French palate required something sweeter at this hour.

  ‘Delightful,’ he agreed absently. ‘You are wearing one?’

  Tatiana laughed. ‘If I sat in a chafing dish, you would pay more attention to me, mon amour.’

  Guilty, Auguste jerked back to full attention. ‘Ah, red corsets.’

  ‘Why did this child possess one, and why did she hide it in Will’s room?’

  ‘As to the first, I cannot guess.’

  ‘I can. She was forbidden to wear them at home. With me, it was the opposite,’ she said ruefully. ‘Useless armour.’

  ‘And on the second, she told me it was because no one would ever look there.’

  ‘Now why should a child think of that? I would think something or someone put the idea in her head.’

  Auguste tried to concentrate. The smell of the Old King Cole’s greasy food must be pickling his brains, as well as his clothes. His valet was not impressed, but again Auguste was indifferent to his suffering. His previous acquaintance with valets had been on equal terms at upper servants’ dining tables, and he had managed perfectly well to dress himself for forty years, minus two or three when his mother performed the service for him. He had seen no reason to change the status quo on his marriage, just because he was storming the green baize door into high society.

  Tatiana had agreed with him. Society was humbug. All society, was it not? It was. Then why, she inquired, had he so passively submitted to the hierarchical self-imposed practices of the upper servants when working in large houses? Was it not because it was accepted practice? It was, he admitted (reluctantly). ‘Then why cannot you and I, Auguste, accept the practices of the world we live in, and yet live our lives, not theirs? You cook, I teach motoring.’

  He had opened his mouth to protest, and then found that he had no argument to make. In theory, that was. Practice had proved a little more difficult, but over a year of marriage had made him impervious to disdainful expressions on the faces of his staff.

  ‘I know something you don’t know . . .’ Little Emmeline’s voice seemed to be piping in his head, insisting she took precedence over valets and marmalade. She implied she’d merely overheard general gossip, but he’d seen that look on her face on those of countless parlourmaids and footmen. The look of the smug keyhole-listener. He leapt up from the table.

  ‘You are going already, Auguste?’

  ‘My job, my love.’

  ‘Does His Majesty know you have a job?’

  ‘Of honour,’ Auguste added hastily. ‘And merely investigation. Nothing to do with cuisine.’ (This was of course true – how could the Old King Cole aspire to cuisine – it merely provided food). ‘Moreover the job was given to me by a lady whom you chose – as I shall inform His Majesty, should he ever inquire.’

  Her eyes gleamed. ‘Very well, Auguste. I trust he never discovers – although I understand from you he is somewhat involved through the stolen cross.’

  ‘I must leave. I am going to see a young lady.’

  ‘I am so glad.’

  ‘Of thirteen years old.’

  Little Emmeline’s home in Holloway was surprisingly modest. Either Little Emmeline’s fees were equally modest, or her parents were industriously investing them in ‘the Funds’ against a rainy day. And with Little Emmeline that rain was already threatening, in Auguste’s view. Her dancing talent would not outlast her curiosity as a child performer.

  When Auguste confessed he was neither prospective agent nor manager, her parents speedily lost interest and left Auguste alone with their precious offspring in the bleak Sunday parlour, which they now obviously regretted opening up merely for the likes of him. Emmeline was unusually subdued, which he put down either to her being alone with him, or to a guilty conscience – until he realised that this might possibly be Emmeline’s normal self in her home surroundings. Only away from Holloway and her parents did she take vengeance on them by launching herself aggressively at her fellow players and audiences. Here, clad in a somewhat longer drearier pinafore dress than her stage costume, she looked a model, if somewhat forlorn, young girl, no longer a child.

  ‘Emmeline, were you a friend of Will Lamb’s?’

  ‘No.’ She eyed him with scorn. ‘Not likely, is it? He took all my applause, his turn coming before me like that. It wasn’t fair. I was glad –’ she hesitated, and finished weakly ‘– he was going to be unhappy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Auguste asked sharply, the hesitation duly noted.

  ‘He was going to run away with that woman, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Now how did you come to know that?’

  ‘Everyone knew. I told you that.’

  ‘Did she mean it?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘How should I know?’ Emmeline said guardedly. ‘Women say things, don’t they?’

  ‘They do indeed,’ Auguste agreed. For a moment, there was accord between them. Now was the time. ‘Did you overhear Mariella and Will Lamb talking from Miss Turner’s room, or from the props room on the other side? You must have been very clever not to be noticed.’

  ‘I am clever.’ Emmeline looked complacent as she considered whether or not she needed more admiration from Auguste. ‘It was easy. No one thinks children are doing any harm when they just hang around doors like I do.’

  ‘And you were doing harm?’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘You did.
’

  ‘No, I never.’

  Auguste gave up this dead-end trail. ‘Did they talk about anything else interesting?’

  She shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You’d like to help find who murdered Will Lamb, wouldn’t you?’

  She considered this. ‘Why?’

  Auguste tried to keep a pleasant smile on his face. ‘It could bring you to the attention of lots of people. You’d be famous.’

  ‘I’m famous already.’

  ‘Only in this part of London. You would be known all over the country.’

  ‘In Northumberland?’

  ‘Even there,’ he assured her readily. Why Northumberland, he wondered? He could not know that Little Emmeline had a fantasy life in which she played the role of Grace Darling, and had decided her future lay in her heroine’s birthplace, clad in a red corset or otherwise.

  ‘I remember she was asking him whether he’d changed something in the last few years.’

  ‘His love for her?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘His shirt?’ He tried a light-hearted joke, which she did not even bother to answer. She was frowning, trying hard to remember.

  ‘I think there was something else too.’

  ‘What?’

  Such eagerness was unwise with Little Emmeline.

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘You must tell me,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It could be important. Very important.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said delightedly, power in her hands.

  ‘Emmeline, do more than think. Tell me, and tell no one else. No one.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ he hesitated. He did not wish to alarm her, but one person had been murdered. The punishment was the same for two murders as for one. ‘Because if anyone else knows, it could be dangerous for you.’ Her eyes lit up with excitement.

  He continued quickly: ‘And you will never get to Northumberland.’

  Left alone, Emmeline went on frowning. If only she could remember.

  Cherry and Black, clad in smart suits and bowler hats, arrived via the stage door to see Egbert Rose early on Friday afternoon, as though they wished to distance themselves as far as possible from yesterday’s pierrot humiliation.