Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 (6 page)

That evening, over a plate of pie and mash, I made a resolution. I would begin to find out about writing professionally – if it was even possible for someone like me to do such a thing.
You only live once, Joan
.

“It must have its downsides,” I said to Gwen, thinking that I had better be realistic about my ambitions.

“Oh, yes, of course. The way some of the actors treat the costumes is just shocking. Rips and stains… I’m up half the night mending them, sometimes, so they’ll be ready for the show.
And
—“ she went on, in a darker tone, “sometimes things go
missing
, if you see what I mean.”

“Stolen?” I asked in a suitably shocked tone.

“Well, I wouldn’t like to use
that
word out loud, but yes, it does happen. Only a week ago or so I had a whole costume disappear. I thought I’d mislaid it, but perhaps someone came along and pinched it—“

She was interrupted by Verity’s urgent summons. “Joan, it’s five and twenty past ten. We
have
to go.”

“Yes, we must.” I smiled at Gwen and shook her hand. “It was so nice to meet you, Gwen.”

“And you too. You and Verity must come and have tea with me someday.”

“I would like that very much. Goodbye, Tommy, and thanks so much for the meal.”

Tommy kissed us both. “You’re very welcome, my darlings. Glad you liked the play. I’ve got an audition for pantomime next week so who knows? You might be able to come and watch me in that too, after this run finishes.”

“It might go on for much longer,” Verity said, giving him a hug. “You three are so good in it, it deserves to be seen by everyone.”

We said goodbye once more and battled our way out to the street. Running for the underground on a full stomach wasn’t very comfortable but it had to be done. We pelted down the steps, down the escalators, across the platform and into a waiting train, just as the conductor was about to clash the metal gate closed. He gave us a disapproving look but we took no notice, casting ourselves upon the seats, hardly able to speak for laughing.

Chapter Ten

It was too late by the time Verity and I got home to have a proper read of the article about the dead man, now identified as Guido Bonsignore. The first thing I did the next morning, as soon as I was able to take a break from work, was to snatch up the paper and sit down to read that article word for word. Not that it was a particularly long article. The story had already moved off the front page – news doesn’t last long in London, even that of a brutal murder. Guido Bonsignore had apparently lived in a rooming house in Victoria, but the police believed he had only been in the country for six months or so. There was no mention of the fact that he may have been using a false name. Surely Inspector Marks had mentioned that to me? Or had I imagined it? Why would he have told
me
and yet the papers be unaware of it? I read again the sentence which mentioned the dead man’s lodgings. He had lived in a rooming house in Ashbourne Grove, Victoria. Would it be worth going there to see if I could find anything out? Surely the police would have thoroughly searched the place by now. What on Earth did I think I could find that specially trained officers couldn’t?

“Well, Joan,” Mrs Watling said, bustling in and making me jump, so engrossed had I been in reading about the murder victim. “We’ve got something a bit different tonight. Her ladyship is hosting a cocktail party, so there won’t be a dinner as such, but there’ll be a lot of hors d’oeuvres, some light dishes and so forth. They’re not as much work as a full dinner but they take more time because of all the fiddling about, so we’d better get started right away.”

I shook myself back to reality and put the paper to one side. “What about the cocktails, Mrs Watling?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Mr Fenwick will deal with the drinks, and I think her ladyship has a cocktail bartender coming in specially.”

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. Mrs Watling sat down at the kitchen table and began dashing off a list of increasingly complicated
amuse-bouches
. She looked up at me, her brow creased in consternation. “Caviar, Joan. We must have some caviar.”

“I’ll ring the fishmonger,” I said. Making my way into the hallway in search of the telephone, I met Verity, who was just coming down the stairs.

“Morning, Joanie,” she said with a yawn.

“I don’t know what you’re yawning for,” I said a little grumpily. “I’m the one who should be yawning. You were snoring away when I left this morning.”

“Got out of the wrong side of bed this morning, did we?” She gave me a poke in the ribs and I laughed, despite myself.

“Listen,” I said, drawing her to one side. “Did you read the article about the man – you know, the man at the theatre?”

“Not yet.”

I gave her the
precis
of the article. “His boarding house was in Victoria. I was thinking of going there on my next afternoon off, see if there was anything to find.”

Verity looked at me with her eyebrows quirked. “Joanie—“ She hesitated and then said, “Well, it’s up to you, of course. But don’t you think the police will have found out anything there is to be found?”

Despite me having those exact thoughts just half an hour earlier, I was still a little stung. “It was only an idea,” I muttered defensively.

“Well, it’s up to you. I can think of nicer places to go on my afternoon off. When
is
your next afternoon off?”

“Saturday. Dorothy normally dines out on Saturday, doesn’t she?”

Verity nodded. “Normally. She’s having a shindig tonight, did you know? Well I suppose you do. Look, I’ve got the guest list here.” She dug in her dress pocket and flourished a piece of paper at me.

I took it and read it curiously. Most of the names meant nothing to me apart from a few of Dorothy’s old friends. But there was one name on there that made me suck in my breath.

“What is it?” asked Verity.

“Look. The Honourable Cleo Maddox.” I pointed to the name with a finger that was not quite steady. Verity looked blank. “She was Delphine Denford’s friend. You know, at Asharton Manor.”

The name of the Manor had its usual effect on Verity. She blinked and recoiled slightly. “Talk about the past coming back to haunt you,” she murmured, and we both looked at Cleo Maddox’s name in silence, which was broken by Mrs  Watling’s shout from the kitchen.

“Joan! I need you.”

“Oh, blast, I need to call the fishmonger. Here, take this back.” I thrust the paper back at Verity and ran for the telephone.

Once back in the kitchen, and chopping away industriously, I let my thoughts drift back to the Honourable Cleo Maddox and the place where I’d first encountered her, Asharton Manor. The first place where Verity and I had become involved in solving a crime. By now, the fishmonger’s boy had brought a crate of smoked salmon, shrimp and caviar, all packed in ice, and I dipped into it and removed the ingredients I needed, wincing at the pain in my freezing fingers. The smoked salmon and cream cheese pinwheels were the very devil to roll up. Eventually I managed it and affixed each one with a toothpick. I must say, I was quite surprised that Cleo Maddox hadn’t married by now. She, like Dorothy, was rich, high-born and beautiful. Perhaps, like Dorothy, the events of the recent past had put her off the idea of matrimony.

The hustle and bustle of the morning’s work had driven the thought of Guido Bonsignore from my mind. While I was helping Doris clear the servants’ hall after luncheon, I began thinking of him again. Why was I so determined to find out what had happened? There were plenty of murders in London that I had not the slightest interest in, or the desire to solve the mystery of who had committed them. Was it because I’d actually been there and hadn’t seen the killer? Or hadn’t seen the killer well enough to identify them? But how could I have seen them properly? The darkness of the theatre had been an effective disguise.

I stopped, with a dirty plate in my hand. Just then there had been a moment; a quicksilver flash in my brain, of
something
– something important. I strained after it, trying to recall the thought but, frustratingly, it was gone. What had it been?

“Can I ‘ave that plate, Joan?”

I brought myself back to reality and handed Doris the piece of crockery. No matter. Surely if what I had thought was important, it would come back to me.

Dorothy’s cocktail party began at eight o’clock. Because there hadn’t been a full meal to prepare, the servants were able to sit down to a more leisurely evening meal than they would normally have had. Only poor Andrew, Mr Fenwick and Nancy had to remain upstairs to cater to every whim of the guests. For Nancy the pain was lessened, it appeared, by being able to remain in the vicinity of the temporary cocktail barman, who apparently could have been the double of Rudolf Valentino. She told us this, with much fluttering of the hands and rolling of her eyes, when she came down for some extra dishes.

“You should see him, Joan. Eyes like coals, and he’s got one of those warm deep voices that just makes you melt…”

“Really?” I said in a non-committal sort of tone, but funnily enough, both Doris and I volunteered to help her carry some of the dishes back up the stairs so we could catch a glimpse of this Adonis.

The person who first caught my eye when I sidled into the drawing room was not the bartender, however. It was Cleo Maddox, standing over by the far wall in a beautiful dress of peacock blue satin, with shimmering gold tassels that edged the neckline and were arranged in tiers over the skirt. She wore a gold band in her black hair, which was still cut in the geometric flapper bob that it had been at Asharton Manor. She looked older, though; beautiful, as ever, but older, harder, her eyes ringed in dark shadow.

There was an awkward moment when our eyes met; she must have sensed me staring at her from across the room. There was a flash of – not recognition, exactly, but something – and then she snapped her gaze away from mine as if I weren’t there.

Feeling hot in the face, I carried the dish of
hors d’oeuvres
over to the table where the other food was set. After a cursory glance at the bartender – he was good looking enough, I supposed, but not really my type – I collected Doris and we made our way back downstairs, leaving the cigarette smoke, the alcohol fumes, and the brittle, drunken laughter behind us.

Chapter Eleven

The week rolled on uneventfully. The usual routine of work continued; preparing meals, serving meals, clearing up after the meals, and ordering the next day’s food. After Dorothy’s cocktail party there were no other big meals to prepare for a while. Apparently, according to Verity, Dorothy had to spend the entire next day in bed recovering after her shindig, so she obviously didn’t feel up to any more entertaining at the moment. By Friday night she’d recovered enough to dine out, which made for a nice, relaxed evening for me and Mrs Watling.

The only other moment of note was on Friday morning, when Tommy called round to tell Verity that he’d got the pantomime role. Pleased as punch, he was, and of course, we had to invite him in and toast his success with a good pot of coffee and some of the fresh-baked scones Mrs Watling had prepared that morning.

“But what about
Voyage of the Heart
?” I asked. “I thought that was due to run up to Christmas?”

Tommy shook his head, his face rueful. “They’re shutting it down early. The crowds are falling off and the backers are worried it’s going to end up being a flop after all.”

“It can’t be,” exclaimed Verity. “You’ve had wonderful reviews. You all have.” She meant Caroline and Aldous as well as Tommy.

“I know. And believe me, it’s going to stand me in good stead. But you know what an actor’s life is, Verity. It’s the constant uncertainty as to whether you’ll be able to eat and pay the rent at the end of every month.” Tommy drained his coffee cup and put the cup back on the table. “I don’t blame Caroline for getting out while the going’s good. I’d do the same myself, if I could.”

Mrs Watling looked a little bit mystified by this part of the conversation. Biting back a giggle, I congratulated Tommy once more on landing the new part in the pantomime. “You’re not playing the Dame, are you?” I asked and then blushed because that sounded rather…pointed.

Tommy laughed out loud. “No, not me. I’m Buttons, faithful side-kick to Cinderella. You and Verity will have to come and see me.”

“I’d love that,” I said, and Verity added her agreement.

The next day was Saturday and I had my afternoon off to look forward to. Sometimes, Verity and I were able to coordinate our afternoons so that we could spend our time off together, but it didn’t always work like that and today was one of those days. Verity was accompanying Dorothy to a fashion parade in the West End and wouldn’t be back until quite late. Putting away the last few dishes after luncheon, I wondered how to spend my precious free time. Should I go and see a motion picture? Or perhaps visit the book shops of Charing Cross Road – I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy anything but you could get away with reading quite a lot during a browse of the shelves, if you were careful about it. I closed the door of the dresser, folded the tea towel neatly and hung it over the handle of the range. Perhaps I’d just travel into the centre of London and see where the mood took me. Mrs Watling and Doris had tonight’s meal under control, and Dorothy would be dining out again tonight, so I had nothing to hurry back for. What a glorious thought.

I ran upstairs quickly, got changed, re-pinned my hair and affixed my hat to my head. It was quite a good hat, a cloche in a lovely dark red velvet, one of Dorothy’s cast-offs which she’d passed to Verity, who’d passed it to me. As I regarded myself in the small mirror that hung over the dressing table, I felt, for a change, quite satisfied with my appearance. My coat was old but I’d pressed it and starched the collar so it looked quite smart, my gloves were fairly new (a birthday present from Verity) and the hat’s colour suited my dark hair. I dabbed my face with powder, touched up my lips and took up my handbag.

For late autumn, it was a lovely day; bright and fresh with the sun shining from a clear blue sky. Not warm though and you could feel the chill of winter in the breeze. I had been going to take an omnibus but I decided against it and made my way to the nearest Underground station, where it would be smoky but would at least be warm.

A kind man offered me his seat and I took it with a grateful smile. Then, because he showed slightly worrying signs of wanting to flirt with me, I quickly unfolded the paper I’d picked up at the entrance to the tube and opened it up, shielding my face from his attention.

As always, I looked for more news about the theatre murder, or even about Lord Cartwright, but on both accounts there was nothing, although I read the paper from cover to cover. I was soon so absorbed that I forgot both the man hovering over me and the fact that I’d meant to alight the train at Oxford Circus. I looked up from the back page of the newspaper with a start to realise that the train had passed through the centre of London and was now approaching Victoria.
Victoria
… That was where Guido Bonsignore had lived in his rooming house.

Acting on impulse, I leapt from my seat as the train drew into the station, and before I knew it, I was out on the platform and walking up the stairs to the main train station and the exit. I came out into the open air, feeling rather breathless at my daring. Because I was – yes, I really was – going to find his rooming house and see if I could have a look around.

I didn’t have a map on me but after asking several passersby for directions, I found myself in Ashbourne Grove, a rather down-at-heel road lined on either side with tall, drab houses. You could see that they had once been very grand residences, but now the paint was peeling from their exteriors, the windows were grimy or on occasion broken, and the pavement was littered with rubbish. I walked slowly and nervously up the street until I came to number 81, the rooming house where Guido Bonsignore had lived.

I don’t know what I expected – to see a crowd of police outside, perhaps or some gawking onlookers. There was nothing like that, just a defeated looking old man shuffling down the steps from the tatty front door. He passed me without a glance as I climbed the steps, feeling more jittery with every one I climbed.

Faced with the solidly shut front door, I hesitated. Then I reached out and rang the doorbell marked ‘Management’. I could hear it chime on the other side and I waited, not really knowing what I was doing. 

After a wait of what seemed like hours, but was probably only five minutes, the door opened and a hard-faced, pinched-mouthed woman stood there, in a grubby overall, with a look of deep suspicion on her face. She looked me up and down properly before snapping out, “Yes?”

“Um – I was wondering—“ It was only now I realised how silly I was not to have thought up a good story as to why I wanted to get into the house. “Um – I’m looking for a room.”

I got the up-and-down glance again. “Oh, you are, are you? And who might you be?”

“My name’s Gladys Smith,” I said quite firmly, surprising myself. “I’m a typist at a bureau in Victoria and I need to find new accommodation. Is there a room free?”

The woman sniffed. “I don’t normally ‘ave young ladies rooming here. Just men.”

“Oh.” I was stumped for a second. Then I rallied. “Well, perhaps I could come in and have a look? I’ve got good references, and I can pay the first month’s rent upfront.”

That had an effect. The woman, whilst still wearing a frown of deep suspicion, sniffed again and then, after a moment, stood back a little, pulling the door a little wider. “Well, I don’t know as this is the sort of place for you, but I suppose you can come in and ‘ave a look. Just for a moment, mind.”

“Thank you.” I tried to sound suitably grateful. I stepped forward and into a dark, cluttered hallway where my nostrils were assailed with the mingled scents of boiled cabbage, stale beer and unwashed socks. Possibly unemptied chamberpots as well. Trying not to breathe, I followed the old harridan up the narrow flight of stairs.

“I heard that room twelve was empty,” I gasped as we got to the first floor. That was a mistake.

The woman swung round to face me, suspicion etched ever deeper on her already heavily lined face. “’Ere, what’s the story? That’s that bloke’s room, that geezer who was murdered. What d’you want with that one?”

“Nothing,” I stuttered. “I just heard it was free, that’s all.”

The woman swore. She leant forward, peering at me through the dimness of the corridor. “You a journalist? Poking your nose in here when it’s not wanted? This is a respectable ‘ouse, nothing like what the papers reported. Go on, get on out of it. I don’t know why I fell for it in the first place.”

Although I’d been a servant for my whole working life, I wasn’t used to people being so nakedly aggressive towards me. I tried to stand my ground, stammering out something about not being a journalist, but the woman came towards me, actually shaking her fist.

“Go on, get out! Bloody parasites, coming round ‘ere and poking your nose in. I din’t know  him, you ‘ere me? I din’t know him from Adam, so you’re wasting your time. Go on, out with yer!”

Shaken, I hurried back down the stairs and out through the front door, the woman’s admonishments following me and growing fainter as I shut the front door hurriedly behind me. I almost fell down the steps, so desperate was I to get away. Oh dear, what a mess I’d made of it. I hoped the landlady wasn’t even now calling the police. Now, she wouldn’t do that, surely? Hurriedly I walked back out into the street and paused for breath. The smoky air of Victoria tasted quite fresh after the miasma I’d encountered in that rooming house. I wasn’t much of a private detective, really, was I, turning tail and running away at the first bit of opposition I encountered…

I was still too shaken by my recent experience to realise that someone was hovering right behind my shoulder, waiting for my attention. Nerves singing, I whirled around, expecting it to be the landlady, ready to give me a walloping but to my great relief, it was a slovenly sort of girl, probably no older than seventeen, dressed in a dirty overall and eyeing me with mingled fascination and dislike.

“Got a light?” was all she said.

I always carry a  box of matches around with me in my handbag – they come in handy more times than you might think. I nodded, bringing myself back under control and struck a match for her to light her cigarette.

She took a deep drag for a second and the smoke hung in the cold air like a wavering blue scarf before dissolving away. The girl jerked her head towards the house.

“Sent you packing with a flea in your ear, did she?”

I smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid so.”

“You a reporter?”

I opened my mouth to say ‘no’ and found myself saying ‘yes’ instead. “Yes, that’s right. I’m freelance. Why, do you have something to tell me?”

The girl eyed me again. “Any dosh in it? I tried to talk to some of the others who came, after that Guido was killed, but she wouldn’t let me talk to any of them, mean old bitch.”

I assumed she meant the harridan landlady. “Do you work there, then?” The girl nodded, rolling her eyes. I took a deep breath, assuming, once again, the persona of someone different. “Well, what’s your name?”

“Ethel.”

“Ethel, can you talk to me now? I mean, will you get into trouble if you come with me now?” Unprepossessing as the girl was, I didn’t want to be responsible for her losing her job.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. I don’t start for another half an hour.”

“Well, then.” I was going to do this, it seemed. I felt a leap of excitement and anxiety. I wondered if this was how actors felt before they started a performance?  “Ethel, I
would
like to talk to you. Is there a good pub somewhere around here we could go to?” I looked around at the rundown street and corrected myself. “I mean, is there a pub around we could go to?”

“Yeah. The Queen’s ‘Ed, down the end, there.”

“Fine. Let’s go then. The drinks are on me.”