by Shéa MacLeod
“Exactly,” I said, excitement making my heart race. “He was very insistent the night before about their meeting. Why would he have given up so quickly? Besides, she was right there at the club. He could have sent the manager to get her or something. I need to see that note again.”
“The police likely have it.”
“I don’t suppose you could pull a few strings again.” The fact that Varant had so far supported my machinations only bolstered his appeal as far as I was concerned.
He smiled slowly, bedroom eyes darkening. “Perhaps.”
“HERE YOU GO.” NORTH dropped the note in front of me.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” Varant said in his perfectly proper accent. “I’ll be sure to mention this to the Commissioner.”
North grimaced, but didn’t say anything. Smart man.
I carefully inspected the note, frowning a little as I compared the date and time to the handwriting in the note. “Detective, did you notice the time?”
“Of course. One nineteen. A minute before death.” He said, clearly considered the smashed pocket watch the last word in time of death.
“But look at this.” I tapped the page. “The date and the note itself... it seems different from the time. See, the numbers are thicker. A different size. And here, the date. The zeros are a bit different. Barely noticeable.”
North squinted at the paper, opened his desk drawer, and drew out a magnifying glass. “By jove. You’re correct.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“I don’t think these were written by the same person.”
“Nor do I,” North admitted, albeit with obvious reluctance.
“It seems unusual, don’t you think, that Mr. Musgrave would leave a note in the first place?” I suggested. “I mean, he and Helena were supposed to meet during the first set so he could go over the books. And clearly, he was already going over the books during the first set. Why would he write a note about being unable to wait? And then add the time, as well?”
“It is dashed strange,” Varant agreed.
North mumbled something unintelligible, but it was clear to me that he was forced to agree, too. “The whole thing is dashed strange,” he added.
“We need to talk to Mabel again,” I said.
“Who the deuce is Mabel?” North demanded.
“Really, Detective Inspector, I would have thought you’d have talked to her right away. Mabel is the dresser at the club. And, in my experience, people like Mabel know everything.”
Chapter 12
We found Mabel backstage at the club, ironing a gown. Her graying hair was up in a floral scarf and her cheeks were ruddy with heat. “Lady Rample!” she exclaimed when I entered her domain. I’d left the men at the bar, assuring DI North that Mabel would be more likely to talk to me than a man of the law. “You’re back.”
“Yes, Mabel. I need your help again.” I took a seat at one of the dressing tables.
“I’ll do what I can, Milady, but I’m not sure what else I can tell you.” She picked up her iron again. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’m on a schedule.”
“Of course not. Go right ahead. Mabel, do you remember the night Musgrave died?”
“’Course, m’lady. Such a night.” She shook her head and made a tutting sound as she glided the iron over layers of lemon-colored taffeta.
“Who let him in to Helena’s office?”
“Why, I did, m’lady. Mrs. Fairfax was busy out front, so she gave me the key to let ‘im in.”
“What time was that?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Half past midnight, I reckon. He weren’t no early bird. Most of ‘em ‘round here ain’t.”
“What happened after you let him in?”
“He sent me for whiskey and sommat to eat. Which I brought.”
“When?”
“Ten to one. I remember ‘cuz he tol’ me Mrs. Fairfax was to meet him at one sharp and could I make sure she came. I tol’ him where he could stick it. I got work, I do.” She said the last with her nose tilted slightly in the air of one who takes pride in her work and has no time for nonsense.
“You truly told Musgrave where to, ah, ‘stick it?’” I could almost imagine her doing it, too. Even if it did cost her a job.
“Well, no,” she admitted. “But I thought it real hard. I did tell ‘im I was busy. Like I said, I ain’t got no time to waste.”
“Indeed.” It amused me imagining Mabel telling off the nasty Alfred Musgrave.
“In any case, I left him his whiskey and some sandwiches and whatnot, and went back to my work.”
“You didn’t see or hear him again?”
She frowned. “Well, about ten minutes later there was this cough, you see. I figured he was feeling poorly. The whiskey, you know. He didn’t drink much usually.”
Interesting. Could that have been the shot that killed Musgrave? The shot I heard at been at twenty past one, much later. Were there, somehow, two shots? And if what Mabel heard was a gun firing, then why did it sound like a cough? “What time was that? The cough, I mean.”
“Musta been about one. The office is right next door, so that’s prolly why I heard it. Otherwise that noise up front is too loud to hear meself think straight.” She whisked the taffeta dress off the board, eyed it carefully, and hung it on the rack.
I rose from the chair. “Thank you, Mabel. That’s very helpful.”
“Is it?” She looked only mildly interested.
“It is,” I assured her. I just wasn’t sure how. As I turned to leave, she stopped me.
“Lady Rample, before you go, I think you should have this.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out an earring. It was a flower shaped bauble of marcasite. Not expensive, but pretty.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking it from her. It glittered in my hand. A vague memory nudged at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t quite pull it to the forefront.
“That be Miss Josette’s earring. I found it in Mrs. Fairfax’s office. I was cleaning after they took the body away, and there it was. Under the desk as pretty as you please. I wasn’t sure what I should do with it. Thought about giving it to the police, but you know how they are. And I didn’t want to just put it back, case it were important. Figured you’d know what to do.”
“Yes, thank you, Mabel.” Odd that the police wouldn’t have found it when they searched the room. North might be an idiot about some things, but he wasn’t lazy. There was no way on God’s green earth he’d have missed a sparkly earring lying next to a dead body at the time the office was examined. “Was Josette wearing these earrings the night Musgrave was killed?” I was certain she’d been wearing another pair. Green stones.
“No, m’lady. She was wearing her emeralds.”
“Has anyone been in Mrs. Fairfax’s office since the murder?”
“Other than Mrs. Fairfax? Caught that Coco sneaking about. Don’t trust her, Milady. Not far as I can throw her. Which ain’t far at all, iffen you know what I mean.” She eyed my own generous curves as she let out a cackling laugh.
I grimaced. The whole modern obsession with thinness was annoying at best. “Is Coco here?”
“She’s up practicing. With Josette in jail, she’s gonna get the spotlight tonight.”
Wouldn’t she be disappointed when she discovered Josette no longer locked up. “Thank you, Mabel.”
Sure enough, I found Coco Starr on the stage, crooning into the microphone. She was the antithesis of Josette. Her skin was the color of rich mahogany and her dark hair had a wide streak of white on her left side. She was a handsome woman, rather than classically beautiful, with high cheekbones and full, sultry lips. I’d put her age somewhere about forty. Her figure would have been in fashion twenty years ago, but in these days of sylph-like figures, she would kindly be called plump. But her voice... oh, her voice would make the angels weep with envy.
That deep, magnificent voice echoed through the small space, so heavy with emotion that my throat thickened and my eyes welled. She sa
ng of sorrow and loss and love gone wrong. Of betrayal and mourning. It was all I could do to keep my composure. That British stiff upper lip. I’d never had a mere voice affect me so.
When the song came to an end, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. I noticed the pianist—not Hale, but a skinny Englishman—subtly wipe a tear from his eye.
I cleared my throat and approached the singer. “Coco Starr?”
She lifted one brow. “Yes?”
“Lady Rample.” I held out my hand in the American fashion.
Coco gave me a cool look, then shook. “What can I do for you, Lady Rample?”
I held out the earring. “I’m curious about this.”
Coco paused as if seriously considering her answer. Then she smiled. “Didn’t fool you, did I?”
“Not for a bit.”
She sighed. “I need a drink. Follow me.” She grabbed a bottle and two glasses from behind the bar, then led me to one of the small tables for two. She sloshed a bit of amber liquid in each glass, then sipped delicately. I followed suit. Whiskey. My kind of woman. “I was trying to save Beau and the rest of the band.”
I sipped my whiskey. “I’m listening.” I could listen to her voice all day.
She leaned back with a sigh, looking suddenly tired. “It was always me and the boys. For five years we traveled the South with our music. Then that monster walked into our lives. Told us we would make it big in England. And we believed him. What we didn’t know was that we’d basically be indentured servants to that piece of...” She shook her head and took another gulp of whiskey. “That’s over now. He’s gone. Don’t know what we’re gonna do next, but at least we’re free.”
“Where were you when Musgrave was killed?” I vaguely recalled Helena saying something about laryngitis. Or was that Josette? It seemed so long ago now, though it had only been a couple of days.
Coco touched her throat. “Touch of laryngitis. Doc told me to rest. Can’t be damaging these pipes, you know. They’re my bread and butter.” She said it like butt-ah, her voice a smooth drawl. Very unlike Hale Davis’s more precisely clipped tones. “I was back at the hotel, resting as ordered.”
“Is there anyone who can verify that?”
“You mean give me an alibi?” Her eyes twinkled as if she found that funny. “I s’pose the hotel staff could. One of ‘em brought me tea. Nasty stuff, but it did wonders.”
“How far away is the hotel?”
She shrugged and tossed back a finger of whiskey before pouring herself another. “I reckon about three blocks or so.”
So she had an alibi of sorts. She’d been seen at the hotel, but it was close enough she could have nipped out, murdered Musgrave, and got back without being seen. I wondered if North had bothered to check it out. Probably I should do it myself. To be safe. “Why frame Josette?”
Her expression hardened. “She stole my man. Figured I’d get her back and get Beau out of jail at the same time. Stupid fool.”
“So, you and Beau?”
“Married the last four years. Fell for the first pretty face come along. Idiot.” From her tone, it sounded like this wasn’t the first time.
“What about the note?” I asked.
“What note?”
“Telling Josette to meet backstage or you’d tell Musgrave about her and Beau.”
She snorted. “I’d never do that. Musgrave would kill Beau. I wanted to get rid of Josette, not my husband. Whoever wrote that note, it wasn’t me.”
I believed her. So, who wrote the note luring Josette backstage? Whoever it was, it had to be the killer.
“HOW ODD,” AUNT BUTTY said, slathering a crumpet with copious amounts of butter before popping a bite into her mouth. “All these notes and earrings and whatnot. Bloody confusing.”
“Language, Aunt Butty.”
“Dash it all. I’m of an age I can swear if I bloody want to.”
I grinned. Frankly, I didn’t care one wit if my aunt swore a blue streak. It amused me to point it out and have her get her dander up. “Yes, it is all rather confusing.”
“Perhaps we should go through the suspects one by one and see who has a motive.”
“Good plan.” I leaned back with my cup of tea, wishing it was a highball. This whole thing had been rather tiring.
“In murder, one always looks to the spouse, correct?”
“Sure. But Alfred Musgrave wasn’t married.”
“Children? Siblings?”
“None that I know of.”
She sighed heavily and stuffed more crumpet in her mouth. A few crumbs fell to her ample bosom. She absently brushed them off. Today she was wearing a cherry red and white patterned silk crepe dress. Much too light for the chilly, wet weather. Not that such things ever stopped Butty from wearing exactly what she pleased. “Lovers, then.”
“I believe he had two.”
Her eyebrows went up. “That odious little man?”
“Life is full of surprises. Yes, Helena Fairfax, and the singer, Josette Margaux. Neither of them were happy about it.”
“So, he was coercing them.” Her expression hardened. “Nasty little man. Glad he’s dead.”
I didn’t chastise her for the sentiment. I rather shared it. If anyone deserved bumping off, it was Alfred Musgrave. “Let’s start with Helena Fairfax. They owned the club together, and I understand he was trying to force her out. Not to mention he was cheating on her.”
“If he was coercing her, she should have been relieved,” Aunt Butty pointed out.
“True.” Which was what made her supposed jealousy over Musgrave so unlikely. “There was also the threat he’d tell her husband.”
“She stood to lose her livelihood, her family, and her reputation. All excellent motives for murder,” Butty said decisively around a mouthful of buttered crumpet. “What about this singer? Josette?”
“She was in love with the saxophonist, Beauford Parks. Who, by the by, is married to the other singer, Coco Starr.”
“Now there’s a fine kettle of fish. What’s Josette’s motive?”
“She was afraid Alfred would discover her affair with Beau and kill him. Or both of them. Which, from what I know of Musgrave, isn’t that far-fetched. Plus, Musgrave had been forcing himself on her for some time. Good motive for murder there.”
Aunt Butty nodded. “Good motive for Beau, too.” She selected a pink-frosted petite four from the tray and eyed it closely before taking a bite of it.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Except Josette and Beau both have alibis.”
“What about this Coco person?”
“Coco Starr. Stunning voice. She had plenty of motive to kill her husband or Josette, not much to kill Musgrave, although she clearly didn’t like him and was worried about what he’d do to Beau. I need to double check her alibi, but I’m not convinced she did it.”
“I suppose it’s the same for the rest of the band,” Butty muttered as she selected another petite four.
“Unfortunately, yes. Not much motive other than vague dislike.”
She held up one finger. “But Mr. Fairfax had an excellent motive. Musgrave was diddling his wife!”
I winced at her choice of words. “Rather. However, I met the man. Let’s just say his faculties are rather impaired by his penchant for opium.”
She dropped another lump of sugar in her tea and stirred vigorously. “Which doesn’t let him off the hook.”
“True,” I agreed. “He could have found out about Musgrave and Helena and killed the man in a drug induced jealous rage, but he doesn’t seem the type. Still, I suppose I should keep him on the list.”
“Anyone else?”
I remembered a mousy man with glasses. “John Bamber.”
“Who the blazes is he?”
“The club manager. He looked very nervous when he overheard Musgrave and Helena talking about the audit. What if there was something fishy in the books? Helena all but admitted she’d been skimming. Surely she would have needed help with that.”
“Tha
t wouldn’t look good for Bamber. And if Musgrave took over the entire club, he’d fire Bamber for sure,” Aunt Butty said. “Possibly have him thrown in prison.”
“Exactly.”
She sighed, leaning back with her teacup clutched to her bosom. “Four strong suspects, if you count Helena. All with very good motives. How are we going to figure out the real killer?”
That was the question. One for which, currently, I had no answer.
Chapter 13
The hotel where Coco and the rest of the musicians had been staying was precisely three and a half blocks from the Astoria Club. It was an easy walk which had taken less than five minutes. Easy enough for Coco to get to the club, kill Musgrave, and get back without anyone noticing she’d been gone.
The place looked more like a flop house than a proper hotel, complete with a faded sign over the door which read “Valmont Hotel: Rooms to Let.” The narrow brick building was crammed tight between the Cambridge Pub and a coffee shop popular with the artistic set. Across the street, the elegant turrets of the Palace Theatre in all its elegant Victorian glory rose against the leaden sky. I sighed. Looked like rain again.
As far as I could see, the only way out of the hotel was through the front door. And while there was no doorman—shocking, I know—a chubby young man with a wispy, blond attempt at a moustache perched behind the registration desk just inside the door. Glad I’d worn my chocolate brown gauntlet gloves, I pushed open the door. Elegant and would hide any dirt I might pick up. The place did not look clean. The carpet was a ghastly array of cabbage roses in greens and reds, faded and thread-worn. The faint smell of cabbage permeated the air.
“Pardon me.” I used my most Lady Rample of tones. As if I were the Queen herself coming to visit.
The boy—for he was hardly more than that—glanced up from his magazine. “Oh! Oh, Milady.” He was instantly flushed and flustered. “What can I... What are you... This ain’t no place...”
I slapped down a pound note with a slightly flirtatious smile. “You are aware of the musicians from America staying at this establishment.”