by Myers, Amy
‘You’re all holding bits of this jigsaw puzzle, and none of you has bothered to wonder if they fit,’ Rose began. ‘So now we’re going to do the puzzle together. We’ve got two separate puzzles here. You’ve all heard about the missing Windsor cross; it unfortunately landed up here, and caused one murder, and we’ve got another puzzle in Will Lamb’s murder, which in turn caused another murder. Our mistake was to think there was only one puzzle. There wasn’t, and we know it now.’ He emphasised the ‘know’. No one commented, one or two still trying to assimilate the news that the Old King Cole had links to royalty, albeit illegal ones.
‘My friends here from a different department at the Yard have cleverly worked out what’s happened to the cross,’ Rose continued graciously. ‘All we have to do is find it. It’s still here somewhere, otherwise I don’t think Mrs Gomez would have been so eager to come.’
Mariella stiffened but decided silence was the better part of valour.
‘So we’ll concentrate on Will Lamb’s murder, and that of Miguel Gomez – if that doesn’t distress you too much, Mrs Gomez. We think Gomez was murdered because he guessed who murdered Lamb.’
‘What?’ Mariella shrieked.
‘Probably he was blackmailing the murderer,’ Rose continued unperturbed.
‘Nonsense,’ she shrieked again.
‘Or perhaps he murdered Will Lamb himself, and someone took revenge.’
‘No!’
‘Now, there are only a few of you who could both have doctored the dagger and ransacked the dressing-room.’
‘But that was to look for the cross,’ Mariella objected. ‘You said that had nothing to do with Will’s death.’
‘Ah yes. But suppose it was to make it look as if the cross, or to be more accurate, what the murderer thought was a bundle of your auntie’s jewellery, was the motive for the murder. It wasn’t, of course. It was quite different, and Miguel Gomez knew it. Now how could he have known? He would have known that his wife, for instance, had no motive for murder, nor probably Fernando, nor anyone who was not involved with the theft of the cross in the first place.’
‘I was involved with the cross,’ shouted Max, seeing a way out.
‘Certainly you were, so you had a motive to murder Will Lamb if it were committed for the sake of the cross.’
‘But you said it was for something else,’ Max cried, alarmed, wondering where he’d gone wrong.
‘True, but—’
‘I’m getting out of here,’ Max roared suddenly. ‘It’s too bloomin’ dangerous.’
He sized up Cherry and Black’s positions, pushed his chair back, and then over, and with the expertise of the elderly acrobat, and showing no signs at all of lumbago, somersaulted out on to the stage with a clear passage to the wings, before Cherry and Black could move from their chairs.
‘Get him,’ Rose shouted at Twitch.
Unfortunately he too failed to clarify to whom his order was addressed, and the whole company responded on behalf of law and order, and regardless of Rose’s later countermanding calls, milled into the wings in search of Max. Only Nettie and Auguste remained with Rose.
‘This is a real old pantomime,’ Nettie laughed. ‘Talk about Clown and the stolen sausages.’
‘Only in this panto Clown might be murdered?’
Nettie changed in an instant. ‘Max?’ she asked sharply. ‘More belly-laughs than brains, he’s got.’
‘I’ll go, Egbert,’ Auguste told him.
‘Find Stitch. Get support. You’ll need it.’
The hounds had spread out now. All around him was quiet, though elsewhere in the theatre he could hear faint far-off sounds of movement. Outside or inside. Auguste swallowed, trying to suppress instinctive fear, and replace it with reason. Rational thought told him that this place had a dozen or so people moving through it, all intent on finding Max, but that it might not be Max who was in the greatest danger. Outside, Egbert would have men posted on every approach to the theatre, back and front. There were too many people around for harm to come to anyone – to Max or to himself. Fear told him that his quarry was beyond reason now, that he was guided by primitive urges, of which the uppermost now would be self-survival, the most powerful of all.
He, Auguste, must find Max, therefore, for where Max was, so would be the person he sought. Max was an elderly man. That somersault must have exhausted him. As an old fox, he’d try to find a lair now.
And where, even in this dark barn of a theatre, would he find that? He heard a distant shout, a woman’s, and stopped. Mariella’s? If she had found Max there would be more noise, more shouts, but there were none. Would Max have gone under the stage? No, too dangerous, for there were no escape routes from it. If he stayed within the theatre he would have made for the auditorium or the pub end, either on the ground or first floor. Yet the corridors and stairs linking the two parts of the building, sandwiching the auditorium in between, were long; would Max risk being caught in a chase along them? No, if he were Max, he would hide outside until the hunt had died down a little and then double back inside to seek a better hiding-place. He could not have gone far since the alleys leading to the roadways were guarded, but he could climb walls on to that waste land, or, if he could reach it, hide in the old churchyard.
Convinced he was right, he ran outside, where the light was rapidly fading. There was enough to see no one lurked behind the wall facing him. He pulled open the doors of the earth closets – nothing. If Max had been out here, he had already gone. Not to left or right, but back. Not into the theatre, but towards the steps leading down to the basement areas of the kitchens. Heart pounding, as he pulled one door open after another, he realised he was wasting time. Max would never hide in such a confined space. He would be at large where, if cornered, he could run. And that meant the auditorium.
He pulled at the door used as an exit for the gallery. It was locked. He rushed into the kitchens to take the longer way round. Now there were people: Lizzie staring in amazement as he rushed by. Twitch working his way through the pub area, Mariella quarrelling with Fernando in the passageway, even Pickles. Down or up? Up surely, where there was greater choice of hiding-place.
Auguste advanced into the dark silent corridor, intent – too intent – on finding Max. The doors to the auditorium were open, but within all was dark. The stage which showed the merest dim glow of gas light served only to emphasise the blackness around him. Max could have gone anywhere. Behind the circle or gallery seats? He gulped, prickles burning at the back of his neck. No, there was someone closer than that. In this corridor? In one of the two boxes opening off it? He shut his eyes, since they were of no use in this dark, putting out his hands in front of him, ridiculously thinking this might ward off evil. He could almost hear evil breathing.
There was a scream. Not Max, a woman’s, no, a child’s, and it was a scream of terror. Then he knew for sure that Max was not the hunted fox. It was Emmeline, ahead of him in the dark, in one of the boxes, trapped with a murderer.
He shouted out, to draw attention to their plight. ‘Here, Egbert, here!’ and plunged forward. Surely he must be level with the boxes now. He was, his left hand made contact with the door jamb, his right feeling for his path.
Then the door opened, he felt the draught hit the sticky warmth around him, and a hand seized his, doubling it back excruciatingly, then, as he collapsed, the hands moved round his throat, choking him. Surely people must come, they must have heard, they were running – or was it the drumming in his head? Was the life quietly being choked out of him? Would he die too soon? Then a relief, a trickle of light, flailing bodies, and a merciful chance to lie gasping for air on the ground. Gradually he recognised the familiar form of Twitch, blessed Twitch, strong and here, who ignoring the temptation to let the Frenchie suffer a bit, had won the struggle and was handcuffing Horace Brodie with the full majesty of the law.
Egbert Rose pushed his way through the group of chattering people surrounding Auguste, back on the stage, where Emmeline was
efficiently rubbing butter into Auguste’s tender neck. ‘I told him I knew,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I forgot all about seeing him in the props room because of my corset, and I only just remembered.’
‘Did it not occur to you he might have been a murderer?’ he asked painfully. It was so obvious looking back. Brodie had been listening in too, had heard about ‘Auntie’s jewellery’, had heard or deduced about the will, and that, to him, had meant he must act quickly to eliminate Will.
Emmeline considered. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Not until he came into the box after me.’
‘You’re a brave girl, Emmeline,’ Auguste said in surprise.
Emmeline blushed. Apart from Nettie, no one had ever paid her a compliment. ‘Yes, I was,’ she said aggrieved. ‘It wasn’t fair. I’d said I’d keep quiet if he gave me a bust improver.’
Egbert pushed his way through to his friend. ‘You’re alive, then.’
‘Thanks to Inspector Stitch.’
Something that might have been a reluctant grin hovered on Egbert’s lips. ‘I’m off to the Yard with our chum. Come in, as soon as you’re able. I’ve—’
He was interrupted by Percy Jowitt, striding importantly up to them, and pushing Fernando to one side in order to have space for his dramatic announcement: ‘I’ve got the villain.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m going off to lock him up,’ Egbert said testily.
‘Excellent!’ Percy beamed.
The case was over, Auguste had survived, his days at the Old King Cole were at an end, and he was not sorry.
‘What had he done, exactly?’ Percy inquired hesitantly, after Rose had left.
‘He murdered Will Lamb and my husband,’ Mariella replied viciously. ‘So Mr Didier says.’
‘So it wasn’t you, beloved,’ Evangeline cried, throwing her arms round a stoical Thomas.
‘Are you sure?’ Percy asked, surprised.
‘Yes. Once we realised why, everything was clear. It was the song.’
‘Song?’ Nettie repeated sharply.
‘Yes. You remember you told us Will was always generous with his work and handed out songs to anyone who wanted to sing them. I suspect Brodie had sung several over the years, but then “Don’t Wait Up” caught on. On the strength of it he was going up to the Alhambra. People would be humming it, singing it, whistling it, everywhere, and Will would have undoubtedly heard it. But the difference with this song was that he had sold the publication rights in it, and handed over copyright to the publishers as usual. Will’s copyright.’
‘What?’ Mariella’s ears caught the magic words. ‘But that’s mine.’
‘I’m sure he realised that. He might hope to talk Will round, but if you, Mariella, heard about it, as future holder of his copyrights, you would have insisted not only on your right, but—’
‘Exposing the swine for what he is,’ agreed Mariella without hesitation. ‘And I’m going to.’
‘Will didn’t like being taken advantage of,’ Nettie said pointedly. ‘By anyone.’
The innuendo passed Mariella by.
‘Brodie had no choice, as he saw it,’ Auguste continued. ‘He had to prevent Will hearing that song. And once he got to London that would be impossible, so he had to get Will to the Old King Cole. With luck Will wouldn’t hear it, but it didn’t really matter since he had to die anyway.’
‘All for a bleedin’ song,’ Nettie said angrily.
‘Like your Donkey Song, Nettie,’ Mariella said coolly. ‘That was Will’s too, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Nettie agreed readily. ‘I nicked all the money and gave it to a Society for Fallen Women. So you ain’t lost it.’
Mariella opened her mouth to reply, and changed her mind.
‘Will did hear the song,’ Auguste went on, ‘because he arrived early on the Tuesday night. He had it out with Brodie, and suffered the penalty.’
‘My poor darling Will!’ Evangeline cried.
Thomas cleared his throat, his eyes beseeching Auguste to keep silence on his relationship.
‘Poor Will indeed,’ Auguste said soberly.
‘Everything must have seemed to be going well for Brodie. He arranged to meet Will before the performance and must have doctored the dagger then. Max asked him to change turns, which gave Brodie the idea of ransacking the dressing-room, since he had more time to play with. Then it would appear that Mariella’s jewellery – as he thought – would be a motive. Instead, he was nonplussed to find the cross, and recognising these were uncharted waters, decided to leave it behind.’
‘And Miguel?’ Mariella asked offhandedly.
‘I think your late husband realised, for whatever reason, that Brodie was the murderer. Perhaps he thought again what Will had said and realised the word was in fact two words, of which the first was “song”, and the second “Bro—”. I doubt Will realised what Brodie had done, but was muttering what was uppermost in his mind. Gomez was greedy, however. His plans for the cross had gone awry. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the fee for stealing the cross, and his wife. So he decided to make money where he could, and thus lost his life. Brodie found the fake cross tucked in the mermaid’s tail, and as a red herring threw it to join its fellow fish in the Thames – where it was found, thanks to one of Ma Bisley’s team who saw a suspicious splash, and her nephew’s fishing abilities.’
‘Why set Brodie after me?’ Max asked, aggrieved. ‘I never knew about his bloomin’ song.’
‘He wasn’t after you. It was Emmeline, though doubtless he could be forgiven for thinking you knew who Miguel’s murderer was.’
Max sighed. ‘I ran away because of all you geezers. There’s only one lot can murder in this country and get away with it: the bloomin’ government.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Percy brightly.
‘Moreover,’ Max continued, ‘who was it Brodie decided to have a go at murdering first just now? Emmeline, me, or you?’
There was a silence.
‘Me,’ said Auguste reluctantly.
‘Well, then.’
‘I think,’ said Marigold reluctantly, ‘that he may just have misinterpreted something I said. It has worried me a little.’
‘What?’ Auguste asked grimly.
‘I merely happened to mention to Horace that he should be careful about little foreigners, and if he didn’t watch out, one of them would soon be his undoing.’
‘I,’ Auguste fixed on the insulting point, ‘am not little. I am five feet ten inches.’
‘I meant my baby, only I didn’t have one. Isn’t that nice?’
‘Delightful!’ said Auguste savagely.
The Old King Cole murders were solved, and its life could return to normal. Already the backstage area was filling with both familiar and new faces. Auguste had waved Emmeline off to the Alhambra, together with Nettie and Max Hill.
‘You never know, Max,’ she’d said, ‘they may just need a turn at short notice tonight. Could be your lucky night.’
Here at the Old King Cole he could still see the stalwarts. Dolly was talking to the Misses Pears, no doubt with mutual claims that they had always known there was something odd about Horace, and shivering delicately at the idea of having been in a murderer’s arms. He was more or less right. Marigold was mentally informing her womb how lucky it had been, Violet was making plans to tell their story for money. It could be entitled ‘Ladies in Pink Tights’ were she to sell to a gentlemen’s magazine, or ‘How We Were Deceived by a Villain’, if to a ladies’. They were also congratulating themselves on having accepted Horace’s generous gift of twenty pounds after their little talk about that song Will was so upset about.
Auguste saw Evangeline emerge from the dressing-room in full warpaint for the stage. Fernando was feverishly hunting for some missing prop, Mariella was leading out her dogs, with a fish tail tucked under her arm. Thomas and Evangeline were in front (Thomas having decided to tell his wife that he was Will’s brother and been happily surprised at her reception of his news, and Evangelin
e wondering whether Percy’s new warmth towards her turn meant he was in love with her or with her husband’s money – she decided the former).
Percy was contemplating his stage contentedly. All was well at the Old King Cole. It appeared the trouble had all been due to Brodie’s song. He could have told them about that a long time ago. It never occurred to him. That kind of thing was always happening in music hall.
Life was returning to normal, Auguste decided, watching the Old King Cole gather itself together. The stage door opened and a short fat man half-hidden by a one-man-band staggered in. He eyed Auguste strangely, obviously sizing him up as to what kind of turn he might be.
Auguste decided to go to the eating-room, and return later perhaps. There, in the form of Mrs Jolly’s pies, would be comfort. Unfortunately there was not. There was only Lizzie, in tears and with no sign of either Charlie or Joe assisting her, and a very rowdy crowd of would-be customers.