Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) Read online

  In the darkness a huge black shape hurtled over them in a clatter of wings, descending then swooped round twice more before flying away, black against the darkness of the sky. Will stood stock still, staring after it, until Nettie seized his arm and frogmarched him into the building, Auguste at their side. Will was shaking with terror.

  ‘The raven,’ he gibbered. ‘The raven.’

  Coincidence, was Auguste’s immediate hope. Surely it was merely one of the Tower of London ravens strayed from its home territory? Then he realised with a chill of fear, that the window above the door was still slightly open. It might be no coincidence. Duncan had entered Macbeth’s palace, the raven had spoken. It remained only to see if Duncan would be foolish enough to remain within these walls. Leaving Nettie to see Will into his dressing-room, Auguste rushed up the narrow steps to the next floor, part attic, part stage machinery, part props room. By the open window were several huge baskets, most with restless animal movement within. One stood empty. He thrust the window open, and in the branches of the tall tree opposite, a large black shape regarded him balefully.

  On stage Fernando was standing bewildered. He was used to noise. He was used to being barracked. He just ignored it. But he was not used to being pelted with rotten vegetables and jeers. He liked approving roars, and gasps of amazement, as he performed his feats of strength. He growled and raised his club threateningly. The pit and gallery exploded into mirth. Puzzled, he decided to change the order of his act. He marched to the side of the stage, where the props table was prepared, and picked up six knives. Swiftly one after the other he threw them at the cloth dummy monkey swinging from the dummy tree against the jungle backcloth. Each one of them hit its target admirably. He lumbered up to reclaim them and faced his audience with a grin. There was a tentative clap after the sudden silence. So he began his feats of strength again.

  ‘As bad as that?’ Nettie asked. ‘You really think Will’s in danger?’

  ‘I do,’ Auguste replied gravely.

  ‘Then you do have to leave, love. I’ll do the work on my own,’ Nettie informed Will robustly.

  Will stood up, still shaking. ‘Perhaps I should, Nettie. Thank you, Mr Didier.’ He took Auguste’s arm and they walked to the door. But before they reached it, it opened. In came a young woman of about thirty, with hair of flaming red. She was still in her ordinary clothes, for her turn was not until near the end of the show, but it did not diminish her beauty. She smiled, and the light shone from her large blue eyes.

  ‘Hallo, Will. Where are you off to?’

  ‘He is indisposed, madame,’ Auguste answered quickly for him. ‘He must return home.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Mr Didier,’ Will Lamb beamed. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Hallo Mariella.’

  Winkles, whelks and the approaching interval could not be ignored forever. His duty, now Will Lamb was well protected by others, lay in the eating-room. Outside the dressing-room, Auguste realised, the noise from the auditorium had resumed and redoubled. Fernando staggered towards him with tears rolling down his face. He threw himself into Auguste’s arms, sending him back against the wall with his weight. The stage door once more opened and a small imperious figure swept towards them, attracted by the noise. She was young, she was fat, she had a very strong jaw.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she jabbed a finger at Fernando’s heaving back.

  ‘It is a noisy house this evening.’

  ‘The Shadwell Mob, is it?’ the ringleted phenomenon demanded.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ll settle them. Put me on next,’ she yelled at the scared manager.

  ‘Do it.’ Percy appeared from nowhere, waving flustered despairing hands.

  Six young ladies flitted from the dressing-room, attracted by their leader’s voice, all dressed in pale blue frilly skirts and tights, and waving wands. They watched their young leader carefully; when she glared, they glared, a titter from her, a titter from them.

  ‘Who are you?’ the little girl demanded of Auguste.

  Auguste now realised she was a matron of about thirteen, rather than the eight that her short pinafore dress and ringlets suggested. ‘Auguste Didier, master chef,’ he replied as best he could, half choked by Fernando’s embrace.

  ‘That’s a stupid name. What’s a master chef?’

  ‘One who cooks better than anyone else.’

  ‘Not better than my ma.’

  ‘I can see that,’ he replied politely, eyeing her podgy build.

  It was not lost on her. ‘I don’t like you,’ she announced, a gleam in her eye. ‘Come on, fairies.’

  From the auditorium he heard Thomas Yapp shouting with quavering voice: ‘Little Emmeline and Her Fairies.’ The roar that went up did not bode well for a mere child, and Auguste found it in his heart to be sorry for her.

  Sometimes winkles and whelks sounded positively wonderful. He detached himself from Fernando, dashed to Will’s dressing-room to check he was not alone, and then hurried back to the eating-room. As he did so, he heard the Shad well Mob in full voice, highly delighted at such easy prey. Auguste wavered, decided he could not miss the downfall of Little Emmeline, and crept into the back of the pit. He saw the girl’s stout figure in its white pinafore dress and black stockings. He saw it instantly change its stance as she fixed her beady eyes on the Shadwell Mob. A softer, gentler Emmeline materialised before his eyes. She cast her eyes up to her Maker – and the gallery. She quavered. ‘Oh please, don’t shout me down. My ma’s sick and so’s my baby brother, and Pa said he’d beat me if I don’t come home with me money. Oh please . . .’ She spread confiding little hands, as her trusting eyes appealed to her audience. There was a silence; the Shadwell Mob were temporarily shamed, but still suspicious. Little Emmeline squatted down to the conductor, carefully showing white frilly drawers, and whispered. A solitary violin began to play, and in a childish untuneful pipe Little Emmeline began to sing. Her fairies, used merely to their usual routine of dance, and their leader’s monologues, hastily adapted themselves to a suitable mournful pose.

  ‘Oh Father, dear Father, come home with me now . . .’

  Auguste tore himself away from this fascinating scene, and returned to his true domain. Lizzie hardly seemed to notice he’d been absent, a fact that suggested more about his predecessor in the job than Auguste himself.

  He found himself obediently whisking plates of shellfish and tubs of jellied eels onto tables at her command. One plate was dextrously commandeered by newcomers lurching into the eating-room.

  ‘Lizzie, dear heart, come hither and let me chuck you under your chin.’ The elder of the two, a man in his early sixties, slumped at the table. ‘Beer, young man,’ he ordered of Auguste. ‘Gone are the days,’ he observed sadly, ‘when a dozen servants served my every whim.’

  ‘Garn,’ snorted Lizzie, as she dashed to the table plonking down pie and mash twice.

  ‘It is true, Miss Lizzie. But pray tell me what has happened? Mine eyes dazzle, you’re transformed. You glow. Have you fallen victim to this rich man’s whim?’ A glance at Auguste, who informed him grimly, ‘She has not. I am temporary chef to this establishment. Auguste Didier.’

  ‘The Auguste Didier?’

  Auguste instantly warmed to him. Perhaps he had misjudged this character. ‘The same.’

  ‘He’s bamboozling you,’ Lizzie said indignantly. ‘’E’s never heard of you, no more than I had.’

  The man rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘’Tis true, I fear. Permit me to introduce myself, Mr Didier. I am Max Hill, character studies unlimited. My companion,’ he waved a disparaging arm, ‘is Clarence Bishop, illustrator, ventriloquist, and shoulder for aged actors to lean upon.’

  Clarence, a willowy, wispy elderly young man, grinned. ‘How do. What happened to old Beezer?’

  ‘Gorn to the Savoy,’ Lizzie told him happily.

  ‘Ah, his prowess with soused herring, I presume.’ Max paused. ‘Is Will Lamb here yet?’

  ‘He’s on now,’ Auguste to
ld him.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You are on in the second half, Mr Hill?’ Auguste asked, as he rushed over a second plate of whelks.

  ‘No performance complete without the Magic Max,’ Hill told him complacently, scooping another whelk from its shell with practised dexterity.

  ‘The bells, the bells,’ yelled Lizzie suddenly and dramatically, clutching one hand to her bony chest. ‘You should see ’is ’Enry Irving.’

  ‘I shall make a point of it,’ Auguste replied politely.

  Clarence sniggered, commandeering the rest of the whelks.

  ‘He follows Nettie Turner,’ Lizzie commented.

  ‘Sooner you than me,’ Clarence said jovially.

  Max looked sad. ‘It is the way of the world as one grows old.’

  ‘Then comes our Evangeline,’ Clarence explained. ‘Then ’tis I. ’Umble High.’

  ‘No, you got it wrong. Orsini comes after Max. Evangeline’s after the interval. Always is.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Clarence said smugly. ‘Sue put her foot down.’

  ‘And a remarkably heavy foot it is,’ Max said. ‘Unfortunately Orsini’s can be heavy too.’

  Auguste listened to a torrent of information. A conjurer, a comic singer, a chorus of young ladies singing and dancing patriotic songs. And Mariella herself singing her famous Mermaid Song. Not to mention an animal act from Jamrach’s just down the street.

  ‘Animal act?’ Auguste asked curiously.

  ‘Jamrach’s Emporium of Wild Animals. One of their fellers does this turn with ’em. Jack, his Talking Raven and Amazing Monkeys. Ever so good it is.’

  Auguste swallowed. The now good-humoured roar from the hall suggested Will’s act had ended. Reeking of shellfish and vinegar, and hoping his former maître, Auguste Escoffier, safe in the Carlton’s kitchens, would never hear of this, Auguste made his way backstage again to check on Will’s movements. Nettie was singing in the next but one spot after the interval, and after that she would escort Will home and his own duty – so far as being a personal detective was concerned – would be done. As to the very real threat he was now aware there was to Will, his task was only just beginning.

  In the wings there was little camaraderie to be seen. On the contrary, a large woman in red satin was alternately shouting at and assaulting with her parasol a handsome but scared-looking young man of Latin looks. Two boards with numbers on them were being pulled back and forth out of the frantic stage manager’s hands, until at last one board remained uncontested.

  Alfredo Orsini, vocalist, had won the dubious honour of the post-interval turn. Remarkably few people were interested in ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’, but at the end of his act the audience swelled to full house. Nettie Turner was on next.

  Usually the business of clearing up a kitchen after diners had departed could be enlivened by heartwarming memories of a soufflé well received, a delicate timbale appreciated, a daring combination of ingredients triumphantly rewarded. There was no such gratification to be found in the detritus of kippers and mutton chops, and Auguste saw no need to hurry back to it.

  From the wings, keeping one eye on Will’s dressing-room door, until he departed with Nettie, Auguste watched the rest of the performance, brought to a close by Mariella’s clever act, which centred on her six performing dogs, a large fish tank, and her Mermaid Song. He was curious to see Will’s beloved in performance. She was as striking to look at on stage as off, especially poised with fishy tail atop a rock in the tank.

  ‘Who’s going to love a little mermaid

  When she’s only got a tail . . .’

  The dogs, who then slid down a chute into the tank and paddled feverishly towards their mistress, were succeeded by a group of dancers, who if they did not provide the excitements of the pink-hosed Trumbling Sisters at least supplied a decorative and unobjectionable finale. Up on the stage, grumbling and sweating hands were removing the tank, praying for the day when Mariella would tire of mermaids. His duty towards Will over, Auguste returned to the delights of kipper bones and cold pease pudding, still deeply troubled. There had been one hitch in the programme on stage. The act from Jamrach’s had been cancelled owing to indisposition. Through inquiry, he discovered the indisposition was of one of the supporting cast rather than the human element. The talking bird had been indisposed to remain in the building, apparently preferring to lodge on the roof of St George’s-in-the-East church. No doubt now that the threat to Will lay within these walls.

  As for himself, home, Queen Anne’s Gate, could not now, surely, be far removed in time. Frederick was valiantly plodding through the washing-up, but there was no sign of Lizzie. Auguste was too tired to speculate on this, assuming she had gone home, until a now familiar screech told him otherwise all too quickly. Auguste rushed downstairs to the steaming underworld below, since the sound seemed to emanate from there, but there was no sign of her. Then sounds of altercation outside sent him hurling through a side door to the outside world, where amongst unappetising bins of rubbish he found Lizzie backing away from the open door of an outhouse, new print dress half on, half off, the old one draped over a bin.

  ‘He leapt out at me, Mr Didier. Ooo-er!’ She threw herself into his protective arms as the villain of the piece grimly stepped forward.

  Auguste stared, stunned with shock, at the furious dirty face that glared in equal horror at him.

  At the top of the flight of steps leading to the road level, Percy Jowitt peered down nervously. ‘If you’re the Shadwell Mob I advise you – my dear Mr Didier, I do apologise, I quite forgot to tell you. I took your advice while you were out and locked up that dastardly bailiff in the cellar. Pray do take care.’

  ‘You may safely leave this villainous bailiff to me, Mr Jowitt. He will assault no more young ladies.’ Jowitt promptly and eagerly disappeared, and Auguste’s mouth began to twitch.

  It was Egbert Rose.

  Half an hour later Egbert had been somewhat mollified by a pint of ale and a mutton chop. Lizzie had been sent home in a cab and the glorious kitchens of the Old King Cole were devoid of life, save for themselves and the vermin which Auguste strongly suspected were enthusiastically planning their nightly assault at this very moment.

  ‘I take it you’ve not taken leave of your senses, Auguste?’ Egbert asked grimly, not yet prepared to yield completely, and looking pointedly at the smelly sack of fish bones.

  ‘Nor you of yours, Egbert, I trust?’ Auguste threw back at him, eyeing the cap and filthy jacket.

  A pause. Then Egbert reluctantly grinned. ‘There’s good reason. You’ve heard of Prince Henry the Navigator’s cross?’

  ‘Who has not?’ For years the warfare between those who felt the cross was Portuguese and those who firmly maintained it was English, had always been English, and by jingo, should remain English, had been desultory. Now its theft had been blazoned across the newspapers together with the news that Scotland Yard was baffled, it had reached fever pitch.

  ‘Henry was the son of Philippa, daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Mean anything to you?’

  ‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptre’d isle . . . This precious stone set in a silver sea,’ Auguste declaimed. ‘Shakespeare’s Richard II.’

  ‘There are even those who claim that last line is an oblique reference to the cross. Well, Philippa married the King of Portugal, and gave the cross to young Henry on her deathbed. He took it with him on his voyage to recapture Ceuta from the Muslims and that victory set Portugal off on its era of sea-going greatness and empire building. When Henry died, there was a battle royal, literally, as to who should have the cross, since Henry never married. The English crown was now in the hands of the Lancastrians, who said it should revert to them, the Portuguese claimed they should have it.

  ‘We won of course, but every so often Portugal gets hot under the collar, and decides it represents their national honour. Unfortunately, there are powerful forces here who think just the same. It is made worse by the fact Portugal h
as got precious little left of Henry’s, because everything disappeared in an earthquake a century or two later. The controversy has blown up again since Dom Carlos of Portugal is coming on an official visit here in two months’ time and His Majesty King Bertie’s going to return the compliment next April. There’s going to be a lot of bad feeling if there’s no news of that cross by November.’

  ‘Not so much as if we refused to return it.’ Auguste’s head seemed to have a steak mallet thrashing inside and he longed only for bed. ‘Besides, surely it is likely that the Portuguese have stolen it themselves?’

  ‘Not as simple as that.’ Egbert embarked on an explanation of the background. Accommodating him by listening seemed the quickest way to achieve his objective – home – so Auguste struggled hard. He fastened on what seemed to him the salient point.

  ‘There is a murdered body, a missing cross, a ship that left early and a programme from this music hall. But you have no evidence any of these ingredients are linked to any of the others.’

  Rose looked at him balefully. ‘I can smell a connection as clearly as I smell bad herrings.’ He chortled at Auguste’s affronted look. ‘You down here gathering a few tips on what to cook for His Majesty, then?’

  Auguste stared at him coldly. ‘Egbert, I have an excellent suggestion. If you are so convinced of the link, and you feel drawn to such a subtle disguise, I suggest you retain your present garb and remain here to investigate, in the position of—’ He paused temptingly.