‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a professional.’
‘And so am I.’
‘Well, I must say, you don’t always show it.’
‘What time do you want me on the Heath?’ Charlotte asked, through gritted teeth.
‘Two o’clock, if that’s not too inconvenient for someone with a busy social life like yours.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Of course, if your friend Sam — whoever he is — finds that he can’t spare you for a couple of hours’
‘I said I’ll be there!’ Charlotte screamed, before hanging up the phone.
She listened carefully for the sound of anyone moving around, and then decided that she was quite as alone in the whole apartment as she’d found herself to be in her bed.
She had told Sam Blackstone that all she could offer him was one night of companionship, she thought.
And this was the result! He’d gone without waiting for her to wake up. He didn’t seem to have even left a note.
Well, you laid out the rules, she told herself, so you can’t blame him when he follows them to the letter.
* * *
Patterson stood at the window of the office, looking out over the Embankment. There were a few clouds in the sky that morning, he observed, but a betting man — which he had ceased to be the moment he got engaged — would have put his money on it turning out to be an almost perfect day.
He turned around to look at his boss, who was sitting at his desk with the telephone to his ear. There was something very strange about the inspector that morning, he thought — some-thing he couldn’t quite put his finger on, however much he tried.
‘That was Dr Carr who was just on the phone,’ Blackstone said, hanging up the ear-piece.
Dr Carr? Patterson thought. Not Ellie, but Dr Carr? ‘She’s up early this morning, isn’t she?’ he said.
‘Not exactly,’ Blackstone replied. ‘She told me she’d never actually been to bed.’
‘Now that’s what I call real dedication to her work,’ Patterson said admiringly.
Blackstone frowned. ‘Yes, I suppose that is what you would call it,’ he agreed.
What the hell was wrong with him? Patterson wondered. It was almost as if Ellie had done something to really hurt Blackstone. But how was that possible when she’d spent the entire night in her laboratory?
‘Did Ellie — Dr Carr, I mean — have anything interesting to tell you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she did. Which is only what you’d expect from someone as dedicated as she is,’ Blackstone said. ‘But before we get on to that, why don’t you tell me about your evening with Miss Simmons?’
‘Didn’t turn out to be much of an evening after all. Ten minutes after you left, she was gone herself.’
‘Which is very strange, considering how eager she seemed to be to talk to you — and how little she seemed to want me there when she did,’ Blackstone mused. ‘Did she give any reason for her abrupt departure?’
‘Yes. She told me it was because she’d said something she shouldn’t have said.’
‘And what did she mean by that?’
‘I don’t honestly know,’ Patterson admitted. ‘I’ve spent most of the night puzzling over it, and still couldn’t come up with an answer. But I think I have managed to work out what it was that I said which seemed to disturb her.’
‘And what was it?’
‘I reminded her that Martin Swinburne had been in love with her. And I use the word reminded deliberately — because Tamara seemed to have forgotten all about it.’
‘Well, maybe he wasn’t ever in love with her,’ Blackstone said disdainfully. ‘You know what these theatrical people are like. Sex has very little at all to do with emotion, and they sleep with each other — or anyone else, for that matter — at the drop of a hat.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Patterson, who’d never slept with anyone at the drop of an anything — in fact, had never slept with anyone at all. ‘But even if there was no love involved, it was still an affair, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she seemed to have forgotten even that.’
‘That’s women for you,’ Blackstone said.
What was the matter with him? Patterson wondered.
‘You were going to tell me what Ellie has found out,’ he said aloud.
‘Ah, so I was,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘She’s now almost certain that William Kirkpatrick was killed by a toxin obtained from a poison arrow frog. Furthermore, she’s had her assistant, who’s called Severn or Mersey, or some other peculiar name of that nature’
‘Trent,’ Patterson supplied. ‘Jed Trent.’
‘Just so,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘She’s had Trent checking around to see if he can find out where the murderer might have laid his hands on the poison. And as far as he’s been able to establish so far, the only specimens of that particular deadly frog in London — and possibly in the whole of Europe — are to be found at a penny sideshow on the Mile End Road, where they’re part of the act of a woman calling herself Princess Tezel.’
‘So we go and see this princess, do we?’ Patterson guessed. ‘So we go and see this princess,’ Blackstone agreed.
* * *
At some point in the middle of the night, Jed Trent had finally decided he’d had enough of playing the faithful assistant for a while, and had gone off in search of a bed in one of the empty isolation wards. Now, after a couple of hours sleep — and with two cups of hot black coffee inside him — he felt strong enough to return the lab and make one last attempt to persuade Ellie Carr that sleep was a good thing for clever young doctors, too.
He found Ellie Carr standing over one of the cages with a pocket watch in her hand.
‘Victim Number Seven?’ he asked, making a quick count of the cages that were already empty.
‘No, it’s Specimen Number Seven, Jed,’ Ellie Carr corrected him automatically.
‘You look completed exhausted,’ Jed said. ‘Do you want help in dosing this one?’
‘I thought policemen were supposed to be observant,’ Ellie replied, somewhat waspishly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Or are your powers of observation something you have to hand in at the desk along with your truncheon and your whistle when you retire?’
‘Now don’t you go taking your tiredness out on me, Dr Carr,’ Trent chided her.
To her credit, Ellie looked a little ashamed.
‘Have a look at the rat’s neck, Jed,’ she suggested.
Trent did as he’d been instructed. There was a small red spot clearly visible on the neck.
‘So you’ve already poisoned him?’
‘That’s right.’
Trent took a closer look at the rat. It seemed to be in some discomfort, but it was clearly far from dead.
‘So what’s gone wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. Perhaps the frog which I used to extract the toxin from wasn’t as poisonous as the others. Or perhaps this particular rat has an immunity to the poison which the rest of them simply didn’t. But I’m rather hoping there’s a third explanation.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘I introduced the poison into the other specimens shortly after
I’d drawn it from the frog. This time, I let the poison dry first.’
‘So maybe when it’s dried out, it’s not poisonous anymore?’ Trent suggested.
‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Ellie Carr admitted, ‘but it’s not the only one. It’s also possible that when the poison has dried, it simply takes longer to have an effect.’
The rat had begun to quiver as they were speaking, and now its legs gave way, and it collapsed.
Ellie looked at her pocket watch. ‘Twenty-five minutes,’
she said. ‘And it’s not even dead yet. This is a major break-through, Jed.’
‘Is it?’
‘But of course. We now know that in different states, the poison has different de
grees of toxicity.’
‘But will that be of any help to your pal Inspector Blackstone?’ Trent wondered.
Ellie looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The whole point of you doing these experiments was to help the police to solve their murder, wasn’t it?’
‘You’re right,’ Ellie admitted. ‘I do seem to have lost sight of that, don’t I? It must be the tiredness.’
‘Or it could be that you’re like a kid in a toyshop — so wrapped up in your own little world that nothing else exists.’ Ellie grinned. ‘Guilty as charged,’ she said.
‘So, to repeat my question, Dr Carr, will what you’ve just found out about the poison be of assistance to Inspector Blackstone when it comes to solving his murder?’
‘Most certainly it will. Which reminds me, once Sam’s arrested his murderer, I must ask him if it’s possible to obtain a souvenir for the admirable Princess Tezel. I don’t think a finger or toe is really practicable, but perhaps he might manage a lock of the killer’s hair.’
Trent sighed. ‘Getting a straight answer out of you is harder than pulling teeth,’ he said.
‘But I gave you a straight answer,’ Ellie replied innocently. ‘You asked me if what I’ve found out will be of any help to the investigation, and I’ve told you it will.’
‘But how?’ Trent asked in an exasperated voice.
Ellie’s grin widened. ‘If you think about it, Jed, I’m sure you’ll be able to work that out for yourself,’ she said.
* * *
The penny sideshow — in common with all the others operating in London — did not normally open its doors to its customers until the late afternoon. But the article in the London Evening Chronicle had changed all the rules, and when the Hansom cab containing Blackstone and Patterson pulled up outside the door of the ex-undertaker’s establishment, there was already a large queue building up for a hastily-scheduled morning performance.
‘Death sells tickets,’ Patterson said.
‘It certainly does,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘It worked for the George Theatre, and it’s working here.’
The two detectives were shown into the ante-room where the princess held her audiences. This morning, she was draped in an old grey coat which had been out of style for at least twenty years, and when she looked at her visitors from her broken cane chair, her blank face told them nothing at all about whether she welcomed their visit or merely resented it.
* * *
‘We have some important questions that we need to put to the princess,’ Blackstone told the Indian who acted as her interpreter. ‘Please make it clear to her that as long as she answers those questions as truthfully as she is able, she will not be in any trouble.’
The interpreter translated, and then listened to the reply from the blank-faced princess.
‘What did she say?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Princess say that head-hunters in jungle trouble,’ the interpreter replied. ‘Cannibals trouble, and hungry jaguars trouble. You not trouble. Don’t have spears. Don’t have blow pipes. Don’t have claws. She answer questions if she want, she don’t answer if she don’t want.’
‘We could lock her up in prison if she refuses to help us, you know,’ Patterson said.
‘Shut up, Sergeant,’ Blackstone said. ‘Can’t you see that kind of talk simply isn’t going to work with her?’
But what would work, he wondered.
Ellie Carr had managed to get the princess to co-operate without threatening her with gaol. Ellie Carr had come away with everything she wanted.
‘Does she remember the woman who came to see her yesterday?’ he asked the interpreter.
‘She say she not stupid,’ the interpreter replied, after another exchange with the princess. ‘She say, yes, she remember.’
‘Then tell her that the honour of that woman is at stake.’
‘Honour?’
‘Tell the princess that if she doesn’t help us, the woman will almost certainly lose face.’
The princess digested the information, and nodded to her retainer.
‘The woman is princess’s chosen sister,’ the Indian said. ‘What you want know?’
‘I need to know if she’s sold any of her poisonous frogs while she’s been in London.’
‘Sell one yesterday, to man who work for newspaper,’ the Indian said evasively.
‘But did she sell any before that,’ Blackstone insisted.
The Indian conferred with his mistress again. ‘Sell one other frog,’ he admitted. ‘Five, six day past.’
‘I need to know who she sold it to,’ Blackstone said, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
‘Sell to small old man,’ the Indian said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte Devaraux stepped down from the cab and walked towards the stage door of the theatre.
She had not expected to be there at that time of the morning. Since there was no matinée that day — since even Sebastian George had seen the need to give the cast a little rest — she had been planning to spend the day quietly in her apartments.
George’s phone call had changed all that.
‘I’m a professional,’ the bloody little man had said to her — had dared to say to her!
As if — by implication — she was not!
She had been an actress for nearly fifteen years. She had started at the very bottom of the ladder, taking parts that even Tamara Simmons would have considered beneath her. She had studied the performances of other actresses, and worked hard to polish and perfect her own skills. She had given her all to productions which she personally despised — in roles she hated — because she knew that particular play would be popular, and hence good for the company.
Yet after all that, Sebastian-bloody-George — the dilettante, the dabbler, the sideshow-manager-posing-as-impresario — had had the nerve to suggest that he was the true professional, not she.
Well, she would show him what professionalism really meant! She would put on a performance on Hampstead Heath to match any she had ever given in the theatre.
The reporters and photographers gathered there would be so entranced by the way she played her part that they would forget for the moment that she was Charlotte Devaraux, the actress, and see only Lady Wilton, the dramatic heroine.
And she would forget it, too, of course. As long as she was Lady Wilton she could brush aside the miseries and frustrations of her life — as long as she was Lady Wilton it wouldn’t matter that Sam Blackstone had gone without even leaving her a note.
She knocked on the stage door, and was admitted by the porter. She had never liked the spotty little man, but — perhaps out of compassion for his affliction — she had always forced herself to be nice to him.
‘Do you happen to know if the wardrobe mistress is here at the moment, Mr Wilberforce?’ she asked.
‘Do I happen to know, Miss Devaraux?’ the porter repeated, as if she’d just insulted him. ‘If she was here, I’d definitely know. I know everything that goes on in this theatre. It’s my job to know.’
There were some people it just didn’t pay to be nice to, Charlotte Devaraux thought sadly.
‘When I ask a direct question, Wilberforce, I expect a direct answer,’ she said, using the same thrilling voice she had employed to play Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest.
Wilberforce actually cowered under the assault. ‘Of c… course, Miss Devaraux,’ he stammered.
‘Well, then?’ Charlotte demanded, in much the same way as her Lady Bracknell had said, ‘A handbag?’
‘The wardrobe mistress isn’t here, Miss Devaraux. Neither is her assistant. It’s a bit early in the day for either of them.’
‘Then who is here’?’
‘Only me. And young Horace, of course — he’s always here.’
‘But not Mr George?’
‘No, he left half an hour ago.’
So much for dedication! Charlotte Devaraux thought. So much for professionalism!
<
br /> ‘But you have keys to all the doors in the theatre, don’t you, Wilberforce?’ she asked.
‘Indeed I do,’ the porter said proudly. ‘Mr George knows a man he can trust when he sees him.’
‘Then you can let me into my dressing room?’
Wilberforce looked troubled. She had scared him a few moments earlier, but there were other bullies — bullies he saw much more often — who also had to be considered.
‘I said, you can let me into my dressing room, can’t you, Wilberforce?’ Charlotte repeated.
‘Well, I’m not sure I know about that, Miss Devaraux,’ the porter said doubtfully. ‘Mr George didn’t leave me any instructions about —’
‘It is my dressing room, and I am the leading lady of the company,’ Charlotte pointed out.
‘So it is, and so you are,’ Wilberforce agreed.
‘Well, then?’
‘I suppose it will be all right — but if there’s any trouble, you will tell Mr George that you insisted, won’t you?’
* * *
It would have been easier to put on her costume if her dresser had been there to assist her, but she managed well enough alone. She would have appreciated the advice of the makeup artist, too — what looked effective on stage would not necessarily have the same impact in the open air on Hampstead Heath — but she had applied enough of her own make-up in her time to have a fair idea of what would work, and what wouldn’t. So it was that, less than half an hour after she had entered her dressing room, she was looking in the mirror at a perfect image of Lady Wilton.
‘With this knife, I will have my revenge for the evil you have visited on me,’ she told her reflection.
And then, because it seemed ridiculous to be uttering the line when she didn’t have a knife in her hand, she giggled.
She slipped on a light cloak over her Lady Wilton costume, and was ready to leave.
This would show Sebastian George what she was made of, she thought, as she walked down the corridor towards the stage door. She looked like Lady Wilton, and though — unlike her character — she was afraid of heights, she would act like Lady Wilton.
She left the theatre, and hailed a passing cab. It had only just pulled away when the one bringing Blackstone and Patterson from the penny sideshow arrived at the theatre door.
Blackstone and the Stage of Death (The Blackstone Detective series Book 5) Page 20