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

by Myers, Amy

  ‘That’s how I cook them, sir.’ Emphasis on the ‘I’ did not go unremarked.

  ‘In that case I suggest your technique could be improved.’

  ‘Ten minutes was good enough for the Duke of Davenport, sir.’

  ‘The Duke of Davenport is dead,’ snapped Auguste, patience exhausted. His tone, he conceded, possibly implied this was due to his cook.

  ‘He enjoyed his eggs—’

  ‘Then let him pay your wages.’

  It was at this point Tatiana had entered the room, instantly taking in the situation – as did John.

  ‘Are you asking me to leave, sir?’ There was a distinctly artificial quiver in his voice.

  Auguste gritted his teeth, infuriated by the man’s hypocrisy. He must stick to his principles, despite Tatiana’s reproachful eye. ‘I am sure you are not, are you, Auguste?’ his wife said.

  What on earth had possessed him? Some age-old recollection of man’s need to be master in his own household. ‘If you cannot cook a simple egg correctly, then I am.’

  This, he had prided himself, would be the subtle answer. Give the man a challenge, put him on his mettle. It had been greatly to his surprise that John had immediately replied: ‘Very well, sir. It’s been a pleasure working for you, madam.’ And that was that.

  If husbands could be so instantly dismissed, Auguste realised he would rapidly be following in John’s wake.

  ‘Now,’ Tatiana remarked, ‘all our staff will leave.’

  ‘You blame me?’ He was hurt beyond belief.

  ‘No, yes – oh, Auguste, how could you? You know how difficult it is to find good servants.’

  ‘He was not good. Leave it to me. I will solve this problem.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Have I ever let you down?’ Sometimes the general was preferable to the particular in reply.

  She thought about this rather too long for comfort. ‘Not intentionally,’ she said at last.

  This was not the answer he could have wished, and it aggrieved him greatly on top of a bad indigestible egg.

  ‘I will find the answer.’

  The last sight he had was of Tatiana’s despairing face. He covered guilt by telling himself now he was a detective. Such disputes belonged to his former life as chef, one he had been forbidden to follow by his wife’s family. He was not fairly treated. He stomped to the motorcar. He had the feeling from Manners’ stiff back that news had travelled fast in the servants’ hall, and he knew only too well just how fast that could be. John had been no more popular with the staff than with him, he told himself, though he knew Tatiana was right. A criticism of one member of staff was a slight against all, in the unofficial trade union of the servants’ hall. It was for this reason that the sight of Max calmly enjoying what looked like an excellent breakfast was hardly likely to endear him to Auguste.

  ‘I have come to escort you. Now.’

  ‘You’re going to lock me up,’ Max said gloomily. ‘I’ll never be seen alive no more.’

  ‘Nonsense. Inspector Rose has a few more questions, that is all.’

  It took much persuasion, wailing, and more persuasion, before Max condescended to accompany him, and it was eleven o’clock before Auguste delivered his charge into the loving arms of Inspector Stitch, who greeted them at the front entrance of the Yard, managing to convey somehow he had been working since five in the morning.

  Max was silent as he was led higher and higher into the far reaches of the Yard, and once installed in Rose’s office, folded his arms, and looked as nonchalant as though this venue would be his first choice for morning chats.

  ‘Horace Brodie tells us you asked to switch turns at the Lyle, the evening Lamb was murdered, Mr Hill. That correct?’ Rose asked him.

  Max nodded cautiously.

  So much for theories. Auguste’s hopes subsided quicker than a soufflé. If Brodie had been lying . . .

  ‘And why was that?’ Rose pressed on.

  Max took his point immediately. ‘Not because I killed poor old Will. Look, Brodie’s turn at the Lyle was before mine, not after. So that proves it. Why would I want to do an earlier turn if I had plans to kill Will and burgle his dressing-room?’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘To give yourself an alibi, perhaps,’ Rose suggested irritatingly. ‘No one said the chap who burgled the dressing-room tampered with the dagger too.’

  ‘Now look here—’

  ‘Did you simply change places in the programme, or did you impersonate him and then do your turn much later in the programme, say the second half?’

  ‘What would I want to do that for? Not then I didn’t. I won’t say I haven’t, mind, but not then,’ Max agreed.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure,’ Max roared indignantly. ‘I had somewhere to go.’

  ‘Ransack Will’s dressing-room?’

  ‘Blimey, how many more times? No. I was trying to find out what Gomez was up to. The bleeding State should be grateful to me, not trying to put a rope round me. You coppers are all the same. Nick the first innocent that comes along. And it had to be me.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hill, you’re right,’ Rose agreed cordially. ‘And it’ll still be you unless you play your cards right.’

  ‘I’ve played ’em straight into your loving hands, it seems to me. Like I said, I was out following Gomez.’

  ‘Dressed like the ghost of William Terriss? Will cried out “Ghost” as he died.’

  Max regarded him with scorn, and didn’t bother to answer.

  ‘Does the word sombra mean anything to you?’ Auguste asked hopefully.

  Max sniggered. ‘Going on the streets as a Dr Cure-’em-all, are you? One of them quack remedies? I’ve had my whack of that. Liver pills was my line. Could have made a fortune if it hadn’t been for my lumbago. No, it don’t.’

  Egbert was meanwhile making a telephone call. ‘All right,’ he told Max, ‘the manager of the Lyle confirms you both performed that night, and for all he knows you might have changed position.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Max sarcastically.

  ‘So now we just need to know exactly where you went after you left the Lyle.’

  ‘It wasn’t to the bleedin’ Old King Cole,’ Max said firmly. ‘I weren’t there till the second half, and no one can say they saw me, ‘cos I weren’t there.’

  ‘There’s such a things as back windows.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as lumbago, mate,’ Max rejoined fervently. ‘Look, the reason I ran was I thought you and those Special Branch johnnies were all in it together. Can you blame me? I thought you were going to bump me off so you didn’t have to tell His Majesty you’d gone and lost his cross. That one in the bowler hat killed Gomez, I reckon.’

  Rose considered this entrancing theory and reluctantly discarded it as unlikely. ‘No, but I still think there’s something you know we don’t. That’s why you’re coming down to the Old King Cole this afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’ Max asked suspiciously.

  ‘We’re going to play jigsaw puzzles, and to make sure you’re right there, playing with us, you’re going to have luncheon in a nice warm cell.’

  ‘With Inspector Stitch as waiter,’ Auguste added.

  ‘So that’s the red herring squashed,’ Egbert said to Auguste, when Max had been led away. ‘Pity. I fancied Horace Brodie in preference to Max.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Auguste said wistfully, reluctant to see his theory vanish.

  ‘Not me. The manager. I reminded him he told you he hadn’t actually seen Brodie, only heard him singing his blinking song, and was he quite sure it wasn’t Max? He said he was quite sure Brodie was there to do his turn, whether in Max’s position or not, because he went backstage and found him fondling his wife.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He said there’s no way she’d mistake Max for Horace.’

  ‘Oh. But he still—’

  ‘Could have done it? So could lots of them, including Max. Too many cooks, like I said.’

  ‘P
lease do not mention that word.’ Auguste winced.

  ‘Trouble in the kitchen, eh? Lizzie?’

  ‘No. Tatiana is not pleased with me, but it is not my fault,’ he declared passionately.

  ‘Love’s old sweet song, eh?’

  ‘Precisely, Egbert. And that, I still think, is the sauce for our goose.’

  Mariella was not as happy as she might have been, considering her purchase of six new frocks from Madame Latour of Bond Street, not to mention her legacy. There were two reasons: firstly, she had discovered that solicitors did not work as quickly as legatees might desire, and secondly, that wretched cross was still hidden somewhere, a fact of great interest to a group of gentlemen who had made it clear to her they were prepared to abandon claim to this title if she failed to find it for them. In a way, therefore, she had no objection to spending the afternoon at the Old King Cole. Much as she dreaded meeting Fernando, she had to talk to him, and the presence of Scotland Yard as well as her fellow artistes should ensure that neither Republicans nor Special Branch could openly attack her. Nevertheless it still meant putting her head in a definite lions’ den, and the risks were high. The doors might close on her before she could escape. And lions were not as biddable as little dogs.

  ‘I’ve come to give you a ride in style, Harry,’ Nettie said shortly.

  ‘You’re a wonderful woman, Nettie.’ Pickles adopted his old caressing voice, attempting to leap up nonchalantly to the carriage, but failing at his first attempt.

  ‘Forget all that. It’s too late.’

  ‘You don’t seem able to. Why else do you come?’ The smiling caress in his voice grew more forced.

  ‘Because I’ve a reputation to think of, and you’re still my husband in name,’ she told him briskly. ‘It’s not going to do me any good if you’re carted off to prison.’

  ‘What for?’ His face grew pale.

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You still think I killed Will,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘And they’re still looking for that cross. I wouldn’t put it past you to have had a hand in that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Come on, Harry. If they’re after you for that, I’ll help you all I can. But not if it’s for Will’s murder.’

  Our loveable Pickles did not reply, but whistled a merry tune, as though he had not a care in the world.

  The Misses Pear obeyed their summons to the Old King Cole, both on the whole happy ladies, for Marigold had just discovered it had all been a horrible mistake. A result of too many acrobatics and too little cabbage, her doctor had told her. Dear Mama had always told them to be sure to eat lots of suet every day, and that an apple a day kept the doctor away. If only it kept the Horaces of this world away too . . .

  There was only one dark spot about coming to the Old King Cole this afternoon, and it made them a little uneasy.

  ‘Marigold?’

  ‘Yes, Violet.’

  ‘After today, shall we go away?’

  ‘Do let’s, Violet.’

  ‘I suppose we should do it?’ There was hope in her voice. If only Marigold suggested they needn’t talk to anyone about anything.

  ‘Will would want us to,’ Marigold said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Violet agreed bleakly.

  Blackguard Horace was returning to his alma mater, the Old King Cole, with mixed feelings. He was, he told himself, an established star now and could gloat over lesser lights. He had achieved eminence solely through his own efforts. He grinned. However, there were problems. One of them was Dolly, who was still for some reason out for his blood. The twins hardly entered his calculations, so distant was their memory. Scotland Yard and Special Branch’s presence worried him slightly. He had no opinion of their brain power and that was the problem. They might pick on anyone, even in sheer stupidity on him. The sooner he could get out of this and back to the fleshpots of the Alhambra, and the flesh of that delightful lady in the green tights, the better. Odd, it had been ladies’ legs started it all. He’d had a passion for legs in tights ever since he fell in love with the darling of the gods, Nellie Farren, when he was eight. In her days as principal boy in burlesques, Nellie had been far removed from his orbit. She was long dead now, but that had never lessened his determination to join the galaxy of the great, just as she had done. So it was all the more important that the police did not accidentally blunder their way to him.

  Fernando left his lodgings with one thought in mind. Mariella. He would see her, apologise, and everything would be all right. He had assumed it would be, once Will Lamb was dead, and it was only his foolishness in approaching Mariella too soon that had upset her. Now she was happy because she was going to be rich, so it would be all right to talk to her, just as he’d planned.

  Emmeline was humming. Underneath her pinafore dress nestled the red corset, and her mother hadn’t said a word when she told her. Emmeline felt she’d made an important discovery: money controlled the world. The fees that the Alhambra paid had quickly quelled her parents’ opposition to the reborn Emmeline, and the lesson would not be lost on their daughter. If money could so quickly influence them, what else might it not achieve? She might only be thirteen, but nevertheless it seemed to her this might be a sound rule to apply to her future life.

  Then she thought of Nettie Turner. Nettie had been good to her. Nettie was famous and rich, and she was nice too, so perhaps life wasn’t as straightforward as Emmeline had imagined. Perhaps she would set out to be another Nettie Turner. She cheered up and practised smiling in the mirror. She was intrigued by the difference it made to her face. Perhaps she should go round smiling at people, and not bother learning their secrets at doors. That wasn’t much fun anyway, since things that grown-up people kept as secrets tended to be dull. True, she had obtained her red corset by this method. She had a sudden memory of that time. She’d been so eager to get the corset it had gone right out of her mind. But now it was clear, so perhaps she’d start off her new career of being nice by telling that funny French chef. Perhaps she’d get a reward. Emmeline hastily reminded herself that money was not going to be all important from now on.

  Percy Jowitt reluctantly took off his carpet slippers, pushed them under the armchair in case his housekeeper made yet more disparaging remarks about their condition, and put on his shoes. Normally this was a delightful task that implied their owner was about to launch them in the direction of his beloved theatre. Today, however, it was not quite so pleasant since memories of murder would be resurrected by, it seemed to Percy, the entire security establishment of the British Isles. They would want his office again too.

  Box-office receipts were so good now that there had been no threat of bailiffs for a week. Until this morning. Most unreasonably, one creditor – a powerful one, His Majesty’s Government – had grown abusive. This seemed to Percy entirely unreasonable when he was doing his best for his country by providing such wonderful entertainment, but in black and white His Majesty’s Government had threatened a visit from their representative. Beside this spectre the prospect of sitting next to a murderer this afternoon was small beer indeed. Percy had his own ideas about this murder, and they had nothing to do with crosses. He hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about them because (a) it was police business and (b) it wasn’t likely it would happen again. At least, he hoped not. These things happened in music hall from time to time. Anyway, nothing untoward would take place this afternoon. Not with Scotland Yard present.

  Inspector Stitch was keeping a close eye on Max in the hansom, in case Max plunged out into the traffic chaos of Ludgate Circus as off a diving board. This fellow was not going to think he could fool Stitch; he could tell he was looking for ways to escape. He wouldn’t. Not while in Stitch’s custody.

  ‘Ever been in the Tower?’ he asked Hill genially, as they passed the fortress.

&nbs
p; ‘No.’

  ‘You will, laddie,’ Stitch sniggered. ‘Under Traitor’s Gate for you, eh? That’s what you get for double-crossing the crown.’

  Max looked unimpressed, and decided to get his own back with a fair impression of Egbert Rose. ‘You allowed to terrorise witnesses, Twitch?’

  ‘That’s my job . . . Blimey, you sounded just like the Chief.’

  ‘That’s my job.’

  Stitch did not quite follow this, but did realise he was dealing with a very slippery customer indeed, and was relieved when the cab drew up to the front of the Old King Cole. He paid the fare (without tip, since that was never reimbursed), and firmly took Max by the arm. ‘No slip ’twixt cup and lip,’ he informed his captive.

  ‘If there’s a drink in it, I wouldn’t let it slip.’ Max was suddenly inclined to be jovial. ‘How about it?’

  Stitch was shocked.

  ‘I’m on duty,’ he choked. ‘My job is to deliver you to the Chief.’ He had a sudden feeling that this was going to be easier said than done as Max pushed his way through the crowd in the eating-room with Stitch grimly clinging on to his arm from behind. Max was an artiste carefully trained in the art of timing; Stitch was not. Two plates of pie and mash rushed by on Lizzie’s tray, and somehow Max was on one side of her with Stitch caught on the other. A lesser man than Stitch would have let go. He did not.

  It was Lizzie who landed up on the floor, with Max falling on her, and Twitch on him, and the mash squashed between them. Nevertheless, it was a triumph for law and order. Max Hill was safely delivered to the Chief.

  There was only one place large enough to accommodate them all and that was the stage itself. This afternoon its equipment and props were sparse in the extreme. Two Tee-pieces and a standard yielded a meagre glow, and chairs, summoned from all quarters, gave it the air of waiting for a second audience to face that in the auditorium. Egbert Rose eyed his audience. The old familiar faces: Fernando (who had been delighted when Mariella was so sweet to him, and horrified when she suddenly grew angry, all because he didn’t know anything about that stupid cross); Mariella (who was beginning to realise just who Miguel had gone to meet that Sunday morning, and wonder how much it was worth to her); the Tumbling Twins (who were very surprised at the reception of their news); Dolly (who had at last seen the light about Handsome Horace); Percy (who was mentally budgeting future box-office receipts); Pickles (who was beginning to grow uneasy); Nettie (who had finally come to the conclusion that Will’s death freed her from all obligation to Pickles); Emmeline (who was rather frightened at the results of her little talk); Thomas Yapp (who was in a panic of indecision); Brodie (who was beginning to think women were more trouble than they were worth) – and Max. Max was considering his position. It could hardly escape his attention that Special Branch was hemming him in: Cherry was on one side of him, Black on the other. He wondered if he was being set up. And that wasn’t the only problem he had. He needed to do a bit of thinking, then he might be in a position to trade.