Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (11 page)

Violet shrieked, rushing back into the dressing-room to find Marigold.

Mariella smirked. Every spangle glistened as she eyed her prey. ‘First time I’ve ever seen one without the other. And no wonder.’ She looked him up and down. Oddly, instead of feeling like a
poussin
in the market, he now felt more like one recently roasted, and reminded himself hurriedly of his married state.

‘Marigold is talking to Will Lamb.’

‘What about?’ she asked sharply.

‘I have no idea.’ Even in the darkness he could see she was annoyed.

Mariella quite forgot she had been bent on seducing him but a moment before. She had her mind very firmly set on other, more urgent, matters now.

Will appeared from his dressing-room in the wake of the flying figures of the Tumbling Twins. He looked preoccupied, but greeted Auguste cheerfully enough. ‘I’m going to watch the show from the wings, like I used to,’ he said happily. ‘Marigold said I should.’

‘The twins were here ten years ago when you first came here?’

‘Oh my goodness, yes. They’ve never left. I’m going to look after them, you know. They deserve it. Both of them.’ He trotted into the wings, and Auguste followed, watching the twins take their brief nervous bow just as the gasman managed to switch the green light for a softer hue. Then he watched Miguel, as he juggled what seemed to be an entire dinner service in the air. Auguste disapproved. There were better uses for dinner plates. There was a sense of purpose to the wings now, as dim shapes of stage hands and performers gathered one by one to wait their turn.

The smart-suited figure of the Great Brodie sauntered up to them. ‘Good to see you, Will.’ There was some condescension in his voice. ‘Supporting your old mates, eh?’

‘I like to watch everyone. And particularly those I used to know. The Misses Pears asked me to.’

‘Doesn’t it put them off?’ Horace said dismissively. ‘Does me.’

‘Does it?’ Will asked anxiously. ‘I’m sorry, Horace.’ He glanced on to the stage where Miguel was taking a bow, just as the remains of a baked potato sailed over his head.

‘Suit yourself, Will. We’re honoured to have you.’

He didn’t sound very honoured, Auguste thought. Rather the contrary.

Miguel exited, clearly relieved to have escaped with one such tribute. There was no Shadwell Mob this evening, and the audience was disposed to be generous while waiting for Will Lamb.

‘Evening, Miguel,’ the Great Brodie greeted him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get them going.’

‘Going home, perhaps,’ snarled Miguel, hurrying away.

Horace Brodie shrugged and laughed. ‘Jealous!’

So much for comradely support offstage, Auguste thought.

Horace straightened up, adjusted his waistcoat, and strolled to the curtains, as Yapp’s voice could be heard proclaiming: ‘Our very own lion
comique
. . .’ He vanished on to the stage, and launched into ‘Don’t Wait Up’. Dolly Dadd stood admiringly at Auguste’s side, though the admiration was all directed on to the stage.

The next arrival in the wings, towards the end of Horace’s act, was a rebellious assistant cook, Egbert Rose.

‘I’ve left the washing-up to your sword-swallower, Auguste. I’m more interested in what’s going on here. Evening, Mr Lamb.’

Will took no notice. He was talking to Percy Jowitt, who was making his ritual five-minute visit to
encourage his troops, and it was Percy who, with a strangled yelp, broke his own rules about noise, gave a startled yelp and pointed a quivering finger at Egbert Rose. ‘He’s here
again.
’

Auguste grinned at the sight of Egbert’s furious face. ‘Ah, yes, Mr Jowitt,’ he whispered blandly. ‘I find the best thing to do with bailiffs is to feed them and set them to work.’

‘Me? Employ a bailiff? Never, over my dead body.’

‘I hope not,’ Egbert replied unforgivingly. ‘I’m with the Yard.’

‘Scrap?’

‘Scotland.’

Jowitt gazed at him, as he slowly absorbed his meaning. ‘Scotland Yard is in debt to that extent?’

‘I’m
not
a bailiff,’ Egbert said through gritted teeth.

‘Then why say you were?’ Percy asked, reasonably enough in his view.

Not in Egbert’s. As the Great Brodie roared into his final chorus, Egbert took Jowitt firmly by the arm and marched him off protestingly for a quiet chat. Horace strode offstage and Dolly replaced him. Auguste joined Will, who to his concern he noticed was looking strained.

‘Are you all right, Mr Lamb?’ he asked, alarmed.

Will managed to smile. ‘Perfectly, thank you.’ As if hypnotised, he stared at the stage where Dolly was bursting into song. She clasped her hands before her. ‘A pretty maid up from the country, A vile seducer he . . .’ Her face was innocently confiding to the audience, but inside was turmoil.

‘That new cook is a
detective,’
Mariella hissed at Miguel
outside the stage door, on his way to find a cab to take him to the next engagement.

‘What?
How did he get here?’ her husband demanded sharply. ‘Have you been talking?’

‘No.’

‘You’re coming with me.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got my turn to do here.’

‘You can come back again. You must not be with him.’

‘He’s rather handsome.’

Miguel glowed with rage. ‘If he is sniffing after you, I will—’ He made an elegant gesture across the throat. ‘
His.
’ To make it quite clear.

‘I’m terrified,’ she said scornfully.

‘You had better be,’ he told her slowly.

She stopped. She’d gone too far. When Miguel got that look in his eye, he was dangerous.

‘I’ve done all you asked,’ she said sullenly.

‘I do not trust you, Mariella.’

‘But I’m your wife.’ She appeared hurt.

‘That’s why I
know
I can’t trust you. You don’t have any ideas about putting our plan into practice, do you?’

She lifted her large eyes to his. ‘Of course not.’

Miguel decided to make sure someone kept an eye on her. He couldn’t afford not to know exactly what Mariella was up to. Max perhaps, or better still, Fernando.

Max was at that moment lolling on a chair in the eating-room, an empty plate and half-empty glass before him. ‘A mutton chop, if you please.’ He waved a lordly hand towards Egbert Rose, who had decided he’d learn as much at his unofficial post as elsewhere – and not all about the art of broiling, either.

Egbert flipped the chop dexterously over on the hot-plate to give it a last warm. Nothing to this cooking game. Nice bit of mutton suet, and there you were. Typical of Auguste to spend half an hour lecturing him on gridiron heat, smoke, angle to fire and where you stick the fork. You put it on and you took it off, and that was that. ‘Don’t you have to go on stage, Mr Hill?’

‘Mr Hill never goes on stage.
I
go on stage as Will Lamb, as Horace Brodie, as Nettie Turner, as our Gracious King himself. Mariella is a trifle beyond my range, I fear, but as for any other characters in this blessed isle of ours, Max is your man.’ He gulped loudly, draining his glass. ‘Let me introduce you, my dear sir, to your new employer, Mr Didier.’

He stood up, a trifle unsteadily. Then twenty years slipped from him.

‘Ah non, merde,’
he cried. He danced up and down in self-approval. ‘Zis mutton chop it is great art, naturally for eet ees cooked by me, Auguste Didier, the Brillat-Savarin of 1902.’ He pored lovingly over an imaginary stove, peered anxiously into pots, tasted non-existent soup in ecstatic bliss. Then eyes flashed dangerously. ‘What is
zis
? he cried ominously, hands waving vigorously. ‘Eet is—’ He stopped. ‘Ah, Auguste, my dear chap,’ he greeted the unexpected arrival genially.

Auguste was mystified. Who was this self-important Frenchman he was mocking? A terrible thought came into his head. Could it be—

‘And let me do an impression of an inspector of Scotland Yard,’ roared Max.

Egbert slung down the implements of his new-found
trade. ‘You’ve been inside, haven’t you?’ he said grimly. ‘Stir.’

‘In my youth,’ Max told him grandly. ‘I am a reformed character, you might say. Evil I forswore many years ago.’

‘You can always tell.’

‘As I can tell the Old Bill, my dear sir. I have this one advantage over you, however, I am no longer one of the criminal classes, but you will remain indelibly identifiable as a copper for ever – even if cooking my chop?’ The query in his voice went unanswered.

‘Max!’ Miguel came into the eating-room and stopped, seeing the assembled group. He smiled deprecatingly. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, a word with my fellow artiste, if I might.’ What he had to say was nothing about their art, however.

It had all seemed a great adventure with a fairy-tale ending about to come true. Like a fairy-tale there was a wicked witch in the form of dreams and the raven, but surely that meant everything was going to be even more wonderful than he’d imagined, Will told himself stoutly. He remembered the first time he’d seen Mariella. She’d been plain Mary Elizabeth Pigg then, and eighteen years old, with great soft eyes and face and hair. So sweet, and she hadn’t changed at all. Nor had he. She was just as loving, just as gentle. When she was eighteen she hadn’t loved him, but now she did. Just like a fairy-tale. He hadn’t had any more dreams either. So that must mean William Terriss was happy that everything was all right. Everything except . . . But that was such a little thing, though he
did like everything being
tidy
in life, and he didn’t like to feel he’d been take advantage of. Old Jowitt, for instance, had been eager enough to ask him to come here and he’d willingly accepted because he owed him a lot. But he hadn’t forgotten how ten years ago Jowitt, having given him the chance, was willing to abandon him at the first sign of difficulties from the Shadwell Mob of the day. Nettie had saved him, darling Nettie.

The stage manager self-importantly popped his head round the door. ‘Board’s going up, Mr Lamb.’

Will heard the roar of the audience, he heard Yapp’s voice . . . ‘The lion lies down with the lamb at the Old King Cole. You’ve had the lion, the Great Brodie, now for the Great Lamb.’ How he loved it. It wasn’t that his vanity needed to be fed, it was more than it propelled him into that queer fantasy world of his, into which he leapt when the real one presented problems, both nice and nasty. Like now.

By the time he reached the stage he was beaming, oblivious of anything save his audience and the need to make them happy. He checked his stage dagger was correctly dancing on is wires in the flies. That dagger had travelled a long way with him. He launched himself at the stage, waiting to be swallowed up in the warmth he was giving and receiving, rushed to the footlights, towards
them
, his public; he took them into his confidence and his heart. ‘So I met this bard, and he said, why not come along? I’ve got a part for you. A part of what, I asked . . .’

From the front, seated importantly near her husband, Evangeline watched as her beloved Will leapt on to the
stage. He was playing for
her
alone. She knew it. What an artiste he was. He needed her loving care though, that was obvious. So far she had had no chance of purveying this important news to him, since someone or other always seemed to be hanging round his dressing-room. With some pleasure she suspected Thomas might be arranging this, since naturally he was jealous of her affection for Will. She was almost sure it was his voice she’d overheard talking to Will. She watched proudly and proprietorially as Will tumbled and twisted, the patter never faltering. It was never the same patter twice, but it always came back to the fixed point of the
Macbeth
speech. They were both artistes. Oh, how she understood the problems and triumphs of the artiste in a way Thomas could never appreciate.

‘Thomas,’ she hissed. ‘I am going backstage.’

‘Keep away from Will Lamb,’ he pleaded desperately. Even Percy Jowitt had warned him to keep her here, and the chairman could hardly abandon his post to dash out of the hall after his wife.

But he was looking at an empty space, the large empty space where his wife had been sitting. He decided to try not to worry. After all, Will had seemed pleased to see him, and they’d had a nice talk. Furthermore, there was nothing he could do to avert any catastrophe that might fall, so he tried bravely to smile in the face of disaster, however fast it might be rushing towards them.

Leaving the capable (in her own inimitable way) Lizzie in charge, Auguste hurried back to his post to greet
Will as he came offstage. How much he would have preferred to stay tutoring his raw assistant than to pursue a probably imaginary death threat, or hunt a wild-goose in the form of a probably non-present missing cross.

He reached the dressing-room only to be physically swept aside at the door by a large lady in crimson whom he identified as Evangeline Yapp.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said coldly. ‘I believe I was here first.’

In fact, it was merely her corseted bosom and outstretched arm that had arrived first but in any case both were immaterial.

‘I beg your pardon, madam, but I must be present.’ He gently pushed the arm aside and opened the door.

Alarm leapt into Will’s face as he saw who was behind his guardian. ‘No,’ he cried, leaping up and backing away.