Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (13 page)

‘I’ve someone to see,’ he replied simply. ‘I’m not a bit tired, Nettie, really.’

‘Mariella, I suppose. Oh, Will, you are a fool.’

He flushed and she was annoyed at having gone too far. She put her hand on his. ‘Don’t mind me, Will. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

‘You’re not ill, Nettie?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I wouldn’t like that.’

‘Chronic disease, Will. Harry.’

‘Pickles?’

‘Our Pickles himself,’ she continued bitterly. ‘I’ve stopped his allowance, Will, so he’s not pleased with me.’ She tried to laugh, but failed.

‘Money,’ he agreed succinctly.

‘They all want it,’ she continued. ‘They never realise how hard we had to work for it, do they? Remember you told me you had to earn farthings doing the double shuffle to queues before I met you?’

Will giggled, and kicked his feet appreciatively on the carriage floor.

‘And there was me wasting my and the audience’s time burbling about fairies in fairyland, till I realised what’s really wanted.’

‘What is that, Nettie?’ he asked curiously.

‘Me, me old darling. They want to devour me whole.
Never satisfied.’ Her face was very serious. ‘And when they’ve gnawed away at me long enough, they’ll turn to someone else.’

He looked despondent.

‘Not you, Will,’ she reassured him. ‘You’re different. But me, I’m a woman. Replaceable. Others will always come along. Dolly, for instance. She’ll do well when she stops being an innocent maid from the country and finds out what she’s really made of. By that time, I’ll be torn to bits between the audience and Our Loveable Pickles.’ She grimaced.

‘Don’t you love him any more, Nettie?’

‘Love
him?’ she burst out, caught unawares. ‘Yesterday he forced himself in on me, half strangled me, tore off my clothes and put his cock in me, Will. What do you think? Would you do that to Mariella? ’Course not. An old hen like me doesn’t matter, he says.’

The instant she’d spoken she regretted it. Will had nothing to do with that kind of talk; he didn’t understand the kind of life it came from. She looked at him to see if she’d upset him. His eyes were blank for a moment. Perhaps he hadn’t understood what she meant, she thought hopefully. Then he opened his mouth to speak. What’s he going to say? Panic swept through her at the thought she might have pushed him over the edge again.

But Will seemed to speak quite normally: ‘I usually get my pies from Mrs Scrawny Todd. Do you know Mrs Scrawny? You’d certainly know her pies again. She puts a lot in her pies, does Mrs Scrawny. I don’t know what Jack Sprat would have done, that’s his secret. I’ve got a
secret too, I
think
it’s a secret anyway, it’s a nice one. About Mariella and me, Nettie.’

Nettie went cold. What had that bitch been up to now? It had been a mistake to come back to the Old King Cole. She’d known it would be, and she’d been proved right. She should have talked Will out of it.

‘Not a nasty one,’ he was saying. ‘Not like you and Pickles. I don’t think I like Pickles now. I’ll tell him so when I see him, Nettie. Perhaps I’ll even tell him about Bill—’

‘Bill?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘Bill Terriss,’ he explained, surprised she could have forgotten. ‘Oh yes, I dreamed about him last night. Or did I see him? I forget. I went to lunch at Gatti’s today and he was there. Dressed in grey, as usual. Be careful, Will, said his voice. At least I think it was, or did I dream it? Oh I will, said Will, I will have only three dozen oysters, so I will. Moderation will prevail. I think it
must
have been a dream, for Mrs Jones said she cooked sausages for luncheon. But I’m so sure I did see him, Nettie. And heard him.’

The carriage stopped outside the stage door of the Old King Cole. This time Nettie got out first — just in case. No raven appeared, nor the ghost of William Terriss, but Nettie shivered all the same. Auguste heard the carriage and came to the door to meet them. He saw Nettie, pale and trembling. Will was smiling happily, in a world of his own. Auguste sympathised here; he too was beginning not to know which was fantasy and which was fact. As Will came into the building though, his expression changed. He clung to
Nettie’s arm, and when he glanced at Auguste there was deep fear on his face.

‘I’ve arrived. Come here.’ The stage door went back with a crash. Auguste, standing at the doorway of Will’s room, was privileged to see the arrival of Little Emmeline and all six fluttering fairies (albeit prosaically clad in button-through wool skirts). He did not obey the summons.

A gleam appeared in Little Emmeline’s eye. She marched over to him, but not in a spirit of defeat. ‘I’m hungry. I want a chop.’

‘When I return to the kitchens, I will ask my assistant to bring you one.’

‘Now.’

‘No.’

‘Now.’

‘Non.’
He folded his arms.

Emmeline eyed him. ‘You,’ she whirled on a fairy. ‘Go and get me a chop.’

‘Tell Miss Lizzie, mademoiselle, that Miss Emmeline requires a most succulent, dainty chop, fit for an artiste. And that I, Auguste Didier, say so.’

The fairy scuttled off, Auguste went into Will’s room and closed the door.

Emmeline smarted. It was not a good day. Her mother had forbidden her to buy that nice red corset on the grounds that her public expected her to be a little girl, and a little girl in a corded bodice she should be. Her parents were determined to milk the golden goose that had so unexpectedly fallen their way. Emmeline was commercially minded enough to appreciate this argument, young enough to kick and scream as a result.

She had failed to kick Auguste, so she looked around for someone else. Her fairies did not answer this need for they did not dare kick back. Where, oh where, would she find someone who would? Grumpily she changed into her fairy-queen costume, pouting anew at the straining bodice, and emerged in search of a worthy opponent. Fate was kind. She crept up and tapped Mariella on the behind with the point of her wand. The point was sharp and Mariella’s costume was not thick.

‘If you do that again, you little cow, I’ll give you a good spanking.’

Little Emmeline was delighted, especially as she remembered the interesting scene she had overheard yesterday. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Scorn dripped from every syllable.

‘Wouldn’t I? Better still, I’ll get Fernando to do it.’

Little Emmeline grinned maliciously. ‘I’ll tell Miguel of you.’

‘What about?’ Mariella asked sharply.

‘What I heard yesterday, that’s what.’

Mariella relaxed a little, then panic began to set in.
Where
had she heard her? ‘You didn’t hear anything. It was your imagination,’ she replied offhandedly.

This was a mistake, for she had played into Emmeline’s hands. ‘I’m going to tell Miguel about how you’re leaving with Will Lamb at the end of the week.’

‘Nonsense.’ Mariella eyed her warily. This might be serious.

‘And
about something else.’

Worse. ‘What?’

‘You know what.’

Mariella wondered why this monster had not been
strangled at birth, or exposed on a hillside. ‘I’ll give you a sovereign if you won’t tell. At the end of the week,’ she added prudently.

‘Don’t want money.’

‘There must be something you’d like.’

Emmeline considered. Imagination roved, hovered, centred. ‘As a matter of fact, I want a red corset.’

‘What?’ Mariella giggled.

‘You heard,’ Emmeline snapped frostily.

‘I’ll get you a corset for tomorrow night,’ Mariella agreed hastily, rapidly sizing the monster up physically and mentally.

‘All right. Then I won’t tell Miguel you-know-what.’

‘You’d better not,’ Mariella said viciously.

‘I won’t,’ said Emmeline meekly. The fairies could have warned Mariella that Emmeline was never meek without a purpose. The purpose this time was that she hadn’t promised not to tell anyone else.

‘There is no need to stay, Mr Didier. I shall be quite all right.’ And as Auguste showed no signs of moving, ‘There is someone I have to see before the curtain rises.’

‘Someone you trust?’

‘Oh yes.’ Will looked surprised. ‘After all, Bill Terriss was killed on his way in to the theatre, not inside it.’

‘But that does not mean to say someone might not plan to harm you inside the theatre,’ Auguste pointed out baldly.

‘“If it be not now it will be to come”,’ Will quoted softly. ‘I will knock on Nettie’s wall every five minutes. Will that make you happy, Mr Didier?’

‘
It is certainly better,’ Auguste conceded, ‘but I would like to—’

‘There, you see?’ Will cut across him firmly. ‘Always a solution somewhere, even under the darkest bush.’

Defeated, Auguste went to report to Nettie, who nodded absently when he told her Will’s plan.

‘Is anything wrong, Miss Turner?’ he asked hesitantly, noticing that she seemed preoccupied.

‘Quite a lot, chum, but nothing you can do.’ She sighed.

‘I can listen,’ he offered.

She glanced at him. ‘That’s good of you. Tomorrow, perhaps? What was it you were saying about Will?’

‘He will knock on the wall every five minutes to let you know he’s safe. He is expecting a visitor.’

‘Daft old fool he is,’ she said softly. ‘Mariella, that’s for sure. Anybody other than Will, and they’d want a quick curtain-raiser. Will just wants to hold her hand. She knows what she wants, that young lady. She’s planning something with Will, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. He’s excited and worried at the same time. Still, I suppose there’s no need to worry. She’s not going to bump off the golden goose, is she? He’s safe enough in that way. She’ll guard his life like a coster his pennies.’

True enough, but his uneasiness did not evaporate. Lizzie must cope by herself. He would stay here, in the backstage area, watching Will’s door. Though there were other more insidious ways of entry, it occurred to him. ‘What about poison, Miss Turner? Could anyone harm Mr Lamb that way?’

She shook her head. ‘He only takes water at a
performance, and I had some from his flask earlier on.

‘And his props?’

She thought for a moment. ‘There’s only the dagger, and he guards that like a baby. The stage manager comes for it before the performance starts, and takes it up to be flown.’

‘And the windows?’

She snorted. ‘Doubt if these windows have been opened since the coronation. Victoria’s. Look at ’em.’ He agreed she was right. They seemed welded shut by greasy dirt.

From the noise, the doors to the hall had opened and the rush for seats was beginning. The noise was not all good-humoured. A knock at the door, and Fernando filled the threshold, trousers and waistcoat donned over his leopardskin.

‘Me front of house.’

‘You do that, Fernando,’ Nettie approved. ‘It’s going to be one of those nights,’ she said as he went. ‘He doubles as thrower-outer.’

‘I must leave too, Nettie.’ Auguste was uneasy. True, it was unlikely harm could come to Will in a dressing-room so politically situated, and with so little time to spare. But for the first time in his life, he almost regretted that he was a cook, as he turned back to his post to check preparations for the interval rush.

‘My dear fellow,’ Horace said, apparently pained, as he appeared in the wings to find Pickles gazing in terror at the curtain buckling with the weight of thrown missiles. All too shortly it would be drawn to reveal him.
‘I’m merely offering to let you have the best position on the programme, and take this somewhat venturesome one myself.’

‘Why are you so big-hearted all of a sudden?’ snarled Pickles.

‘I’ve explained. This is my last week. My timing of my turn at the Lyle cuts it extremely fine after my own turn here is over. I’m prepared to change places, that’s all.’

‘Like when you did me out of my place on the bill at the Ratcliffe Metropole.’

Brodie shrugged. ‘The best man won in a straight race.’

‘You set that chirruping mob on me. Ruined my career.’

‘Last week I understood you to say Will Lamb had had that honour.’

At this affecting moment, Little Emmeline arrived sparkling in pink satin and sequins. She saw her opportunity. ‘You’ll be safe now, Mr Pickles. He’s leaving.’

The two men broke off and gazed at her plump confident face.

Brodie cleared his throat. ‘I shall merely be here for a few more days, Miss Emmeline,’ he said agreeably, ‘but Mr Pickles will be far from safe when I have departed. He will not have me to rescue the performance from disaster after his turn.’

‘Not you,’ Emmeline said impatiently, forestalling Pickles’ outburst. ‘Old Lamb, Mr Mutton himself.’ She giggled at her joke.

‘Push off, nipper,’ Pickles told her rudely. ‘Don’t you think I bloody know Lamb’s only here for a week?’

‘He’s going away for good,’ Emmeline shrieked in temper.
‘With
someone. A lady.’

‘Who?’ Brodie asked, interest captured.

‘My lips are sealed,’ Emmeline announced importantly. After all, she hadn’t received her corset yet.