by Myers, Amy
‘I am so glad.’ Tatiana stood by the window, her attention suddenly caught by the street below.
‘A little diplomacy is all that is required. English mutton requires larding, parboiling and broiling, whereas John seems quite determined to ignore such elementary procedures. I am afraid there he is a little obstinate and has boiled throughout. The very least one could do to achieve a satisfactory result is to provide a soft sauce soubise to complement its blandness, but no, he would maintain a butter caper sauce was preferable.’
‘But you persuaded him in the end?’
‘Naturally.’ Auguste took his glass of champagne cup.
‘Then why, Auguste, is John walking across Bird Cage Walk into St James’s Park with a very determined stride and his hat and overcoat on?’
Auguste leapt up and joined her hurriedly at the window, guilt creeping over his face.
‘Go after him, Auguste,’ Tatiana suggested sweetly.
‘Mais—’
‘Please, cheri!’
Egbert studied his drink with great interest, as Auguste, the epitome of injured pride, hurried out, and he and Tatiana watched from the window as Auguste, running by now, went in pursuit of his errant cook, and after a few moments’ consultation, the two figures walked back, if not in harmony, at least in the right direction.
‘Leaves are changing colour in the park, I see. Fine sight, eh?’ Egbert remarked, on Auguste’s somewhat crestfallen re-entry into the drawing-room.
‘It is,’ Auguste replied shortly.
‘Wish I could have a stroll myself, but duty calls. You’ll forgive me, Tatiana, but this ain’t entirely a social visit.’
‘Naturally, Egbert. You have two crimes to solve, both of great urgency and national importance.’
‘Two murders, and perhaps two separate crimes,’ Egbert reminded her.
‘Prince Henry the Navigator’s cross is an icon of national honour.’ Tatiana sighed. ‘Such symbols become a burden, and heritage a duty, not a pleasure.’
‘Still has to be done.’
‘Indeed, yes, Egbert. My third cousin, the Czar, is a man of simple tastes, and his wife also, but they have inherited the trappings and riches of a family and must look after them for the nation’s sake. Or that is the way he sees it. No one stops to ask why or at what cost to that nation.’
‘With all due respect to your other third cousin, Tatiana, King Bertie doesn’t seem to have the same attitude. Careless, letting two thieves walk off with a priceless relic.’
‘You think so?’ Tatiana looked directly at Egbert, and Auguste, catching the glance between the two of them, felt for a moment he had missed an idea that was communicating itself between them.
‘His Majesty, Egbert, is not such a straightforward case as the Czar. He may seem to be, but he has had a long time to wait while his mother occupies the throne. He may have spent it with ideas of his own. Now that he is King, he may feel he has not a great deal of time to put them into effect.’
‘Ideas on what?’
‘The future of Europe, for instance,’ she answered soberly. ‘Did you know there are those who believe the Great Pyramid foretells the future of the world if only one can interpret it correctly? Those that so far think they can do so believe that Europe’s future trembles in the balance at this very moment, and that there is the shadow of a great war approaching which will affect the whole world. Whether this is so or not, His Majesty has strong views on the need to preserve the unity of Europe.’
‘Some say, ma belle,’ Auguste joined the conversation suddenly, ‘he merely wishes to keep France sweet so that he can continue to enjoy the pleasures of the Can-Can, and Gay Paree.’
Tatiana laughed. ‘I fear Auguste is not altogether an admirer of some of my relations.’
‘Not those who divide an artiste from his craft.’
‘You and cooking, Auguste?’ Egbert asked, amused.
‘You were talking about pies in your sleep, Auguste,’ Tatiana revealed. ‘I wonder why that could be? I suppose the Old King Cole does not by some mere chance have a restaurant?’
‘It does not, my love,’ Auguste replied firmly. This was true. How could its abominable eating-room be termed a restaurant?
‘And you cried out to a Mrs Jolly. It seems this is a lady you love with great passion,’ Tatiana continued inexorably.
‘I believe,’ Auguste said hastily, ‘we are being summoned to luncheon.’ The door had providentially opened to reveal their butler, Jones, with the welcome news.
Enjoying himself hugely, Egbert held out his arm to Tatiana, leaving Auguste to bring up the rear of their small procession, as they descended the staircase to Sunday luncheon.
The Old King Cole took on the unreality of a Grimm fairy-tale, as they discussed the case over luncheon. Auguste’s face darkened as he realised the sauce was indisputably better than soubise. Moreover, the mutton had been nowhere near a gridiron. But with Tatiana’s eye on him, and Egbert’s loud praises at John’s efforts, he managed to turn his thoughts from luncheon (so far as this was possible) to Egbert’s problems.
‘If Will Lamb was murdered for the sake of the cross, it doesn’t make sense for the murderer to leave it behind.’
‘Suppose someone stole the true cross and substituted a fake?’ Auguste suggested, trying to subdue a sneaking feeling that discussion of the cross was as helpful as John’s rehashing of yesterday’s baron of beef. It kept the problem alive without striking the slightest spark from the tinder-box of cuisine (or detection).
‘Sir Henry Irving had the fake made, and Will Lamb went to Windsor to nab the cross. That what you believe, Auguste? You’ll be telling me next that HM played a part in this too.’
‘It so happens I am to visit the Palace tomorrow,’ Tatiana remarked innocently. ‘His Majesty asked me to make some purchases in Paris on his behalf.’
Again a glance between Egbert and Tatiana. Was he missing something? Auguste wondered. ‘I believe the cross is a red herring, Egbert, so far as Will’s murder is concerned, and the cause of it must lie in the Old King Cole. Will gets letters warning him off, the raven is released to frighten him away, he sees ghosts everywhere. Perhaps someone thought the will might be changed because of the cross business.’
‘Or maybe the will was the reason someone was anxious to get him there in the first place. My word,’ Egbert’s attention was suddenly diverted, ‘you’ve got a good cook here.’ He plunged further into the apple charlotte.
Auguste gulped, refraining from comment with great effort. ‘We do not yet know who.’
‘I wonder what old Jowitt’s doing this afternoon?’ Egbert said resignedly.
Old Jowitt had put on his carpet slippers, determined to ignore the bright sunshine of the Sunday afternoon, when the rest of the East End of London was disporting itself, children in sailor suits, husbands and wives in Sunday best, strolling round Victoria Park. He favoured the newspaper, a bottle of whisky, and a pipe. A stuffed parrot glared at such indulgence from under his glass jar, the dark-coloured curtains were eagerly awaiting the moment when they could be drawn, a small fire burned in the grate. A plate of crumpets, butter and toasting fork lay on the hearth. Percy was a remarkably happy man. The bailiffs seemed to have vanished, he had had fifty pounds bequeathed to him and he had found friends in high places: Scotland Yard, Magnificent Mashers, Nettie Turners – all had the good of Percy Jowitt at heart. None of them would let poor Percy starve. He was, nevertheless, painfully aware that next week’s programme did not display the same élan and flair of the performers of the week before. Percy believed in looking on the bright side, however, and the bright side told him that there was unlikely to be another murder to upset the proceedings, even if the programme did include Little Emmeline and Evangeline, and now lacked Nettie, Horace, Will Lamb and the Magnificent Masher. It suddenly occurred to him that now Thomas was a rich man, he too might desert the ship, but he comforted himself that Thomas would never do such a thing, for he was far too loyal. Even if he
did, there would be compensations: at least he would take Evangeline with him.
The unexpected knock on the door disturbed his afternoon. He remembered with annoyance that he’d given the girl the afternoon off and that meant he’d have to open it himself. He was not pleased. He was even less pleased when the reality intruded in the form of his ex-bailiff and his cook. It took some moments for him to recall that they were in fact something to do with the police.
‘Cosy little den you have here,’ Rose remarked as Percy grumpily led the way into his living-room. The parlour hadn’t been opened since Maud died twenty years earlier.
Gratified, Percy cheered up. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He shifted a pile of newspapers on to the floor to free a second chair and looked round helplessly for a third. If cooks ever sat. Did they sit? He had a vague idea that they stood all the time, waiting for orders. Still it was Sunday, and Percy was an obliging man. He spotted a piano stool submerged under the summer curtains which had been taken down by the girl last month and left there, presumably for spring. He tipped the pile on to the floor and dragged it forward.
‘Cast your mind back, Mr Jowitt.’
Percy tried to look helpful. ‘To when?’
‘To when you decided to ask Miss Turner and Will Lamb down here. Which of them was your first choice, for example?’
Percy looked scared. ‘I really cannot recall.’
‘Try again.’
Percy cast wildly around in his memory. ‘Do you know,’ he cried, well pleased, ‘I do believe it was Will. What do you think of that?’ Well satisfied, Percy placed his hands on the paunch that might have been there if he ever remembered to feed it properly.
‘And it was your idea? That right?’
‘Naturally.’ An air of hauteur replaced satisfaction.
‘Even though he’s been murdered?’
Percy grasped the point. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t entirely mine. I believe someone or other mentioned the name which gave me the idea.’
‘Try to remember exactly.’
‘During our little celebration.’
‘For what?’
‘I found it was forty years since the Old King Cole music hall opened. Magnificent day. So I said why don’t we all have one of Mrs Jolly’s pies – no disparagement to Mr Beezer our then cook, naturally – and a bowl of punch. The punch was extraordinarily good. Mr Brodie got quite carried away, indeed we all became a little tipsy.’
Rose’s eye went to the whisky bottle, but he said nothing.
‘Yes, I do remember,’ Percy continued. ‘It all began as a joke.’
‘What you need is Marie Lloyd and Dan Leno, Percy,’ Horace Brodie roared.
‘Percy couldn’t afford to pay Leno for a half a minute,’ Pickles jeered.
‘The Great Chirgwin?’ twittered Dolly.
‘Not while Fm here,’ Horace roared again, smacking her bottom affectionately.
‘Hope that won’t be long,’ Pickles shouted.
‘You’re right. I’m off to Gay Paree, fellows.’
‘And I know who’s coming with you,’ trilled Dolly dancing on the table, not taking him seriously.
‘Don’t wait up, don’t wait up for me, Dolly,’ Horace hiccuped, entirely seriously. ‘Who are you going to replace me with, Percy?’
‘I’d like to meet Dan Leno,’ sighed Mariella.
‘I’m sure you would. You like short men, don’t you?’ her husband informed her.
‘Like Will Lamb?’ Pickles giggled. ‘What about Marie Lloyd or Nettie? I notice you don’t want to meet them again.’
‘Dear old Will,’ Thomas Yapp tossed back his second glass of punch, surprised it had such a delightful kick in it. Percy wasn’t usually that generous. ‘Why don’t you invite him?’
‘Dear old Will,’ chorused Pickles. ‘Yes, let’s have him down, Percy. Invite Nettie too, and Will can cheer up the box office, and all our bloomin’ wives, Nettie, Mariella, and even Evangeline here.’
Evangeline attempted to draw herself up with dignity. ‘Do not,’ she said with dignity, ‘speak like that of the man I love.’
Thomas’s hands tightened on his glass, as Percy looked blearily around. ‘I’ve had a good idea,’ Percy told them importantly. ‘It’s just come to me. I’ll give Will Lamb a week’s booking.’
‘It was most odd. Suddenly everyone was talking about Nettie and Will. So the idea came to me – I think.’
‘Who was talking most?’
‘Pickles, I believe, Thomas, perhaps others.’ He looked appealingly at Rose. ‘Somehow, though as you know I’m not a fanciful man,’ he admitted humbly, ‘I felt my regulars were very, very eager that Nettie and Will should come. An artiste like me is sensitive to atmosphere.’
The atmosphere here was getting overpowering, and Auguste was glad when Egbert got up to go.
‘Ah well.’ Percy brightened. ‘Pity there are not enough crumpets for three.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Mr Er – er, I must tell you, I’m not impressed. You should improve your herrings. I had a complaint only the other day – only one, it is true—’ he added hastily as he saw the thunderclouds gather on Auguste’s face.
‘You’ll have to find yourself a new cook,’ Rose told him, quickly averting trouble. ‘I’m going to need Mr Didier’s help.’
‘He’s a bailiff as well as a cook?’ Percy asked, muddled.
‘I’m a detective.’ Rose was irritated. ‘You’ve had a murder here, remember?’
‘I remember,’ Percy agreed gloomily.
Egbert cast a look at the crumpets and took his revenge. ‘And I’ll ask you, Jowitt, to be so good as to accompany us to the theatre now.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Percy asked plaintively.
‘It is.’
‘But I have to find a new cook.’
‘Appoint Miss Lizzie,’ Auguste told him firmly. ‘She is untrained save by experience, but she has the right instincts.’
‘Who’s Lizzie?’ her employer wailed.
‘The young lady who assisted me last week.’
‘You mean the girl?’ Percy looked puzzled. ‘Can she cook herrings?’
‘Much better than I.’ Self-sacrifice was well worth it in the interests of Lizzie’s career.
The Old King Cole on a Sunday smelled of stale air, of stale food and greasepaint, of human sweat on costumes from which their owners had temporarily departed.
‘What do you want to see?’ Percy asked complainingly, lumbering through the stage door.
‘This.’ Egbert flung open the door of the props room adjoining Will’s dressing-room. ‘You two go next door and have a chat, will you?’
Auguste shivered as he went into the still untouched room, with Percy reluctantly following. The Old King Cole seemed infected by evil, not just by the stillness of a Sunday. It was more even than that a death had taken place. It was as if there were undercurrents here that divided each of these performers in suspicion and hate.
‘She can’t manage,’ Percy pronounced loudly.
‘Who?’
‘The girl.’
‘Get Miss Lizzie an assistant.’
‘Pay someone you mean?’ Percy asked, horrified.
‘Mr Jowitt, if you pay good wages your trade will improve.’
Percy thought this over. ‘My niece’s husband has just lost his job as a coalman, he could do it.’
‘Coalmen are not cooks. I will arrange it.’ He would begin by asking Mrs Jolly if she knew of someone suitable.
Jolly – what odd names people had in this country. In China he had heard people had names like Night-of-the-Shining Moon. Perhaps he could institute such a system here. Auguste of the Cailles Farcies. Monsieur Auguste Eel Pie—
‘Auguste,’ Egbert was shouting sharply. ‘Come here!’
When Egbert used that tone of voice, Auguste ran. He found him, not next door, but in the wings looking into the corner.
‘Look at that fish tank.’
Auguste did so.
Mariella’s fish
tank contained more than its usual rocks and chute. It contained a human body. Eyes staring, black hair streaming, it was Miguel Gomez and he was dead.
Auguste felt cold and sick. Some hours later the oppressive evil of the Old King Cole had not yet lifted, although the body had now been taken away. It had turned out to be one of the most unpleasant afternoons of his life. He and Egbert had had to haul Gomez’s body with great difficulty out of the tank to establish what they both already knew – that he was dead. Washing in the inadequate facilities of the theatre, and drying themselves and their clothes in the trapped warmth of the dark kitchens had resulted in even lower spirits. A police doctor, photographer, and fingerprint sergeant had busied themselves at their tasks. Stitch had been despatched to break the news to Gomez’s widow, and Percy abandoned hope of crumpets; they remained a far-off ideal only to be contemplated when the horrors that afflicted his beloved theatre had vanished.
‘Stunned and then drowned.’ Egbert came over to Auguste at last. ‘Dead a few hours when we found him.’
‘Not last night, after the performance?’
‘Possible, but unlikely. We’ll know more after the pathologist has had a look. His wife will tell us, anyway.’
‘Unless she—’ Auguste broke off.
‘Did it,’ Egbert finished for him. ‘Not the easiest of methods to murder your husband.’
‘And if it was because of the cross, why should she murder Gomez so soon after Will Lamb’s death and draw attention to herself?’
‘Mariella inherits under Lamb’s will so you wouldn’t think she’d want Lamb involved in the cross affair at all, for fear he’d change his mind over the will. He seems to have been an old-fashioned sort of chap, Will Lamb. He wouldn’t take kindly to robbing England to pay Portugal. So it must have been planted on him.’
‘Except that if the Gomezes did involve Lamb, he would provide some protection, would he not? Scotland Yard would hardly put him in the Tower, and that would shelter them too.’
‘Especially if Henry Irving ordered the fake.’ Egbert sighed. ‘This is a madhouse, Auguste.’
‘No, mon ami. A theatre, the home of illusion. There is a carefully planned script somewhere.’