Smoke and Mirrors (15 page)

Often she found that if she looked at her lists long enough they started to merge and overlap, providing possible leads and connections. Tonight, though, the names seemed irritatingly separate, refusing to cooperate. And, instead of making brilliant Holmes-like deductions, Emma was irritated to find herself writing, almost unconsciously and with loops and swirls worthy of Annie herself, one name over and over again.

Mrs Emma Stephens.

Roger Dunkley was a burly man, more like a PT instructor than a theatre director. The impression of action was compounded by Dunkley’s inability to sit still. During the course of the interview he rocked to and fro in his chair, twice got up to answer an imaginary knock on the door and, whilst up, performed a series of squats and knee-bends as if preparing for a race.

‘Sorry,’ he said, seeing Edgar watching him. ‘I get a bit stiff if I stay still. Old age, you know.’

Roger Dunkley didn’t look old, thought Edgar, but maybe things were measured differently in the theatre. It was, once again, about an hour before curtain-up on the matinee. Dunkley had denied having any nerves (‘When you’ve been in the business as long as I have . . .’) but he certainly seemed jumpier than any man had a right to be at one o’clock in the afternoon. However, he answered Edgar’s questions calmly and without extraneous details. Yes, he had visited both schools with Nigel, the writer. Nigel had been a teacher, only it had given him some sort of nervous breakdown. Had he ever done anything like that? No, the theatre was in his blood (banging his chest and bringing on a brief coughing fit); he couldn’t see himself as a schoolmaster. But he’d enjoyed the afternoons with the students. No, he couldn’t remember Annie and Mark specifically but he’d been very upset to hear what had happened to them. That’s why he and Nigel had gone to the funeral, to show their respect.

Roger didn’t show any disquiet on being asked about his movements on the twenty-sixth. In fact he laughed and stretched out his arms as if preparing to lift weights.

‘I had a meeting with the producer. The great Bert Billington. We had dinner at the Grand. Now, that’s not something you forget.’

Edgar remembered Max saying that Bert had made a rare visit south to see the director. As alibis went it was pretty good.

He asked, without much hope, if Roger had any photographs of the drama sessions at the school. To his surprise, the director jumped to his feet.

‘I’m a bit of a devil with a Box Brownie. I’ve got some here.’ He dug in his desk drawer and bought out a Kodak envelope. He spread the pictures out and Edgar moved his chair forward to look.

All the pictures seemed to be of the boys’ school. There were a group of boys making hammy gestures to each other. Was that Mark in the glasses holding a spear? He couldn’t be sure. Another photograph showed the masters in the audience, laughing and applauding.

‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’

Edgar had recognised the voice so he wasn’t too shocked to find himself looking into the florid face of a fully made-up Denton McGrew. The Dame, in his hooped skirts, made his way forward, uninvited.

‘What’s this? Photos? Goodie . . .’

‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the beginners’ call?’ asked Roger, rather feebly. Edgar remembered Max saying how important the Dame was to a pantomime. Roger clearly didn’t want to offend his star.

‘Just taking a peek. Oh my God.’ Denton was shocked back into his normal voice. ‘That’s Marty Hammond, the old tart, all dressed up as a teacher.’

*

‘I knew he was hiding something,’ said Emma.

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Bob, with the stubborn look that meant he was finding something difficult to understand. ‘Denton McGrew, Widow Twankey, says that he’s seen Dr Hammond, Mark’s headmaster, in a club for queers.’

Edgar winced slightly at the terminology. ‘Yes. Apparently Martin Hammond was a frequent visitor to a private club near the Seven Dials that’s popular with homosexuals.’

‘But he’s a headmaster.’

Emma laughed. ‘Homosexuals are real people, Bob, doing real jobs. And it’s not that surprising really. Brighton’s famous for that sort of club. What about the Star of Brunswick and the New Pier Tavern?’

‘According to Denton,’ said Edgar, ‘when the navy were billeted at Roedean School during the war, so many sailors used to go to the Star of Brunswick that it was declared out of bounds.’

He expected Emma to laugh but, to his surprise, she blushed and looked away.

‘I’m not from Brighton,’ said Bob, implying that he thanked God every night for his good fortune in this respect.

‘The point is,’ said Edgar, ‘being homosexual does not make Martin Hammond a suspect. In fact, this could explain his rather furtive behaviour when Emma interviewed him.’

‘But if he lied about this, he could have lied about other things.’

‘He didn’t lie,’ said Emma. ‘He just didn’t mention it and I don’t blame him. He must be terrified of losing his job. He’s taking a real risk, you know, going to a club like that.’

‘Maybe not that much of a risk,’ said Edgar, ‘Denton said the place was very discreet.’

‘Well, Denton wasn’t very discreet,’ retorted Emma. ‘No wonder Dr Hammond didn’t mention the theatre people coming to his school. It must have been far too close to home.’

‘Did Widow Twankey say anything else about Hammond?’ asked Bob.

‘His name’s not Widow Twankey,’ said Edgar. ‘And he said that Martin Hammond was well known but he wasn’t one of the more outrageous club members. He would have a few drinks, chat to his friends, then go home.’

‘Did he have any special friend?’ asked Bob. Edgar sighed. Bob’s attitude was starting to annoy him, even though it was probably shared by people like Frank Hodges. In the past, the police had raided clubs like the one at the Seven Dials, seeking out men whose heinous crime was loving other men. Well, that wouldn’t happen while Edgar was in charge.

‘Denton didn’t know if Hammond had a lover,’ said Edgar. ‘They move in different circles anyway. Apparently Denton dressed up as Marlene Dietrich for the Sussex Arts Ball at the Aquarium. I can’t imagine Martin Hammond doing anything like that.’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘He seemed rather frightened by the flamboyant side of the theatre. He kept saying that Mark wasn’t “that sort”. It was almost as if he was trying to distance himself from it.’

‘Maybe he does,’ said Edgar. ‘Maybe he feels very torn by the two sides of his personality. Maybe that’s why he works so hard to keep them separate.’

‘Are we going to talk to him again?’ asked Bob.

‘No,’ said Edgar. ‘He hasn’t committed any crime. It’s part of the picture, that’s all. This afternoon we’re going to interview people who were at the children’s wake, find out who Daphne Young spoke to. Then you two should go home at a decent time. I don’t want you cracking up.’

‘I won’t crack up,’ said Bob. ‘I’m a man.’

Edgar sighed. ‘Come on, let’s get to work.’

*

Back at the theatre Max was in the wings, watching Denton McGrew push Wishy Washy (a gangling young actor called Kenneth Neil) into the washing machine. A few turns of the mangle and a cardboard cut-out Kenneth would emerge, to the delight of the audience. Then it was Max’s cue.

Max thought about Denton, who as a boy had been in a pantomime where a girl had died horribly on stage. Why would you carry on in the business, if that was your beginning? He watched Denton timing his double take perfectly. ‘Ooh, Wishy. You
have
lost weight.’ He was a pro, all right. Roger had told Max about Denton identifying the dead boy’s headmaster as one of his clubbing friends. Roger had been quite upset (‘He could lose his job, Max’). Well, Ed wouldn’t be jumping to any stupid conclusions but there was no doubt that the teacher would find himself in a distinctly awkward situation. Why had Denton done it? Because, if an actor knows anything, he knows when to make his move.

‘I wish I could find myself a real man.’

The green smoke billowed and Max entered, stage left.

In the next few days there was a distinct dip in energy amongst the team. Edgar had experienced this before in murder investigations. You can only keep up the frantic pace for so long, however terrible the crime or however much you long to find the perpetrator. Edgar saw Daphne’s parents once more and then they departed for Shropshire, taking their daughter’s body with them. The funeral would be in Daphne’s home village and none of the police officers were invited. So that was another ending, of a sort. Rather to Edgar’s surprise, Nigel had come up with the name of Daphne’s university boyfriend: Douglas McPherson. Edgar had contacted him and found that McPherson was a doctor, working in Glasgow. He had unimpeachable alibis for both murders and was, in any case, very far from being a suspect. Would Daphne have done better to marry a doctor, as her sister had, and bury herself in domesticity? There was no doubt that her parents thought so.

The team had interviewed everyone who had been at the wake. It seemed that Daphne had, very properly, spoken to both sets of parents and to those of her pupils who had attended the funeral. She’d spent a lot of time talking to Annie’s siblings. ‘So sweet, it was,’ said one onlooker. ‘You could see how she really cared for them.’ And Edgar thought she had cared. Much as he suspected that Daphne liked doing things for show, liked being seen as the perfect, caring teacher, he thought that she had genuinely been fond of the children, especially Annie. She had told her parents that she wanted to adopt Annie and, even if she hadn’t gone any further with this idea, it showed a strength of feeling that went beyond the usual teacher/pupil relationship. What had Daphne’s mother said?
Daphne thought she could give her a better life, one filled with music and art and stories.
Well, music and art and stories hadn’t got Daphne very far. Had they even contributed to her death? Edgar asked if Daphne had spoken to the two theatricals – Roger and Nigel – at the wake but no one could remember her doing so.

By Wednesday night Edgar felt so low that he succumbed to temptation and went for a meal with Max and Diablo. Because of the evening performance, they didn’t set out until ten and then Diablo insisted on popping into the Colonnade Bar ‘for a snifter’. It was nearly eleven by the time they got to the restaurant but it was one of Max’s secret, backstreet Italian places and so, although the sign said closed, the owner was only too happy to lay a table for them. As Enzo poured them home-made wine and offered them food that didn’t appear on the menu, Edgar thought how little the austerity years had seemed to affect Max. Even in the days of powered egg and spam, Max always seemed to find be able to find a place where he could be served
melanzane parmigiana
. Diablo too, in his ancient fur coat, seemed to belong to a more glamorous and decadent age, swirling the dark-red wine in his glass and talking about the vineyards of Montepulciano. These days, when people spoke about Italy, it was usually just because they’d served there in the war. Diablo and Max remembered the years when you could travel for pure pleasure. Maybe that’s why Edgar always found it fascinating when Max spoke Italian, as he was doing now, his face more mobile than usual and his hands in constant motion. Diablo might have been thinking the same thing because, when Enzo had left, he said, ‘I always forget that you’re half-Italian, dear boy. It explains a lot.’

‘What does it explain?’

‘Well, your good looks for one thing.’ Diablo took a generous swig of his wine. ‘And a certain pessimism. People always say that the Italians are so jolly – those crowds happily cheering Mussolini and then just as happily cheering his murderers – but it always seems to me that they’re a people in love with death. That’s what Catholicism does to you, of course.’

Once again, Diablo surprised Edgar. He was right, there was a deep ingrained pessimism about Max. It was probably this that made him so determined to enjoy himself.

‘We can’t all be as cheery as you,’ said Max.

‘And Edgar, of course, is an incurable optimist.’ There was no stopping Diablo now.

‘Am I?’

‘Of course you are, dear boy. That’s why you always get so upset by these tragic cases. You expect people to be better than that and so you’re disappointed. Me, I always expect the worst of people. That’s why I’m so cheery.’

Edgar remembered Diablo saying something very like this once before. He said, ‘What about Denton McGrew. Do you expect the worst of him?’

‘Do I expect him to be a scene-stealing, upstaging old ham? Yes. But I don’t expect anything worse of him, if that’s what you mean.’

Diablo leant back as Enzo put three plates of delicious-looking pasta in front of them. He tucked his napkin into his shirt and prepared to dive in.

‘What was Denton like as a child actor?’ asked Edgar. He thought of the changeling creature in the dressing room, the glee in his voice when he’d recognised Martin Hammond in the photograph.

‘Oh, the usual sort,’ said Diablo. ‘Pushy parents. There were three of them in the cast, I remember, Denton and his two younger sisters. Denton wasn’t a bad little actor, though. I remember he could cry on cue. He was very proud of that.’

‘How did he get on with the little girl, Betsy?’

‘Betsy wasn’t a little girl,’ said Diablo. ‘She was as tough a pro as any I’ve seen. She’d been on the boards for ever. None of us really liked Betsy much, to tell you the truth, but when she died like that . . . it was such a shock . . . The management actually wanted us to go on with the show. Can you imagine?’

‘Denton said that you were one of the main people who wanted the show taken off.’

‘Yes, well . . . it wasn’t decent, was it? That poor girl hardly cold, her parents grieving. Besides, who would have come to see it? The papers were full of the murder. It was the worst possible publicity.’

Is all publicity good publicity? wondered Edgar. He had read some of the newspaper reports and it was true that they were prurient in a way he would not have thought possible in 1912. The conversation seemed to have depressed Diablo, though his appetite was unaffected. He buried himself in his pasta.

‘Anyway . . .’ Max was obviously trying to lighten the mood. ‘Denton’s a bloody good Dame.’

‘I’m coming to see the show on Saturday,’ said Edgar. ‘My sister and my nephews are coming down specially.’

Diablo brightened perceptibly. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister. You must introduce us.’

‘I will,’ said Edgar. He had a sinking feeling that Lucy and Diablo would get on very well.

‘And tell me the boys’ names. I’ll mention them in one of my speeches.’

‘Nigel Castle will love that,’ said Max.

‘That boy has to learn to lighten up,’ said Diablo. ‘He’ll give himself an ulcer one day.’

*

It was well after midnight when they left the restaurant. Even though Diablo said he knew of an all-night club where they could go for a nightcap, they began a circuitous route home that took in Diablo’s digs near the Steine, then Max’s on Upper Rock Gardens and finally the long walk up the hill to Edgar’s lodgings. It was very cold and fresh frost crackled under their feet.

‘Always loved the stars,’ said Diablo, reeling across the Pavilion Gardens. ‘Used to lie there and look at them when I was a boy. Orion and the Bear and the Great Dolphin.’

Edgar was confused.
Was
there a constellation called the Great Dolphin? But it was a lovely clear night, the stars as bright as stage lights, spelling out the celestial names.

Diablo stood in the middle of the lawn, transfixed. Edgar allowed his policeman’s eye to roam around the gardens. There was usually some crime in this area, though tonight it was probably too cold for even the most hardened pickpocket or prostitute. The Pavilion loomed in the background, a monstrous bloated shape. There were rumours that Brighton hadn’t been bombed in the war because Hitler planned to make the Pavilion his summer palace. Edgar couldn’t quite see how this fitted with Hitler’s Aryan delusions but there was no doubt that the building was impressive, a farmhouse that became an Indian palace, a transformation scene worthy of any pantomime.

They walked past the shadowy minarets. At the gate Max stopped to light a cigarette. Diablo was still babbling about the heavens. But Edgar saw, like a scene-changer caught out when the curtain comes up, a dark figure moving across the light to disappear into the darkness of the shrubbery. And he was almost sure that it was Roger Dunkley.