The Deadly Mystery of the Missing Diamonds (A Dizzy Heights Mystery)

by T E Kinsey

  ‘She had to see to Charlie,’ said Millie. ‘The fainting.’

  Blanche removed the napkin that had been inexpertly wrapped around Millie’s arm and began to examine the wound. ‘Can someone get me a bowl of water and some more clean napkins, please? Or tea towels?’ She looked more closely before re-covering the gash and pressing the napkin tight. ‘I think this is going to need stitches, Millie dear. If there’s a suture kit in the bag, do you mind me doing it? Or would you rather we get you to a hospital?’

  Millie smiled. ‘You were a nurse in the war, they said?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Then by all means, go ahead.’

  The water and napkins arrived and Blanche set about making running repairs to Millie’s arm.

  ‘Where did you serve?’ asked Millie. Her arm was beginning to feel extremely sore and she wanted to take her mind off it.

  ‘Oh, all over France,’ said Blanche as she worked. ‘Wherever they needed us.’

  ‘You must have some stories to tell. Was it dangerous?’

  ‘Not so much. We were always a fair way behind the lines.’

  ‘But you had to be close by. I’m not sure I could ever have done anything like that.’

  ‘The Advanced Dressing Stations were a little further up, it’s true, but we were never in any real danger from the fighting. Well, I say that. We weren’t completely safe but the closest I ever came to proper danger happened when I was at home on leave. I got back to find myself posted to another station because ours had been destroyed.’

  ‘My goodness,’ said Millie. ‘What on earth happened? Was it shelled? One heard about atrocities like that. Shelling hospitals. Barbaric.’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ said Blanche. ‘It was an aeroplane. A German Albatros, they said. It had been shot down. The story was that the pilot could have bailed out, but he stayed in the plane trying to steer it away from the dressing station. He didn’t manage it. Everyone was killed.’

  Millie said nothing; she just sat there, looking up at the former nurse.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ said Blanche. ‘Didn’t mean to bring the mood down. There we are. All done.’ She pinned the end of the bandage in place. ‘I’d see your doctor in a day or two to get the dressing changed and the wound checked, but you shouldn’t have any trouble. I’ve seen people get better from much worse. You’ll have a scar, but I’ve made a neat job of sewing it all up – even if I do say so myself – so it should only be a tiny one.’

  ‘What with that and the limp, I’m beginning to look like an old soldier myself,’ said Millie. ‘Thank you so very much. If there’s ever anything I can do for you . . . anything at all.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ said Blanche. ‘All in a day’s work for the Dizzy Heights. Songs, jokes, and emergency medical attention. That’s us.’

  ‘Jokes? I didn’t know you did jokes.’

  ‘We try not to let them do it very often, but Skins and Dunn fancy themselves as a comic turn. They think it adds a little extra zing to the proceedings.’

  ‘We have them rolling in the aisles some nights,’ said Skins.

  Puddle had brought a glass of brandy for the casualty. ‘Some nights. Most nights they just stare blankly at you before telling you to shut up and play another song.’

  ‘Early days yet,’ said Dunn. ‘Early days.’

  Charlie’s head appeared round the door. ‘Hello, all. What news from the dressing station?’

  ‘All stitched up and ready to return to the front,’ said Millie. ‘Are you all right now?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, that. Right as rain. Come back and join us. Will you chaps be ready to play again soon? The natives are getting restless.’

  ‘We’ll be on in a little while,’ said Blanche. ‘Give us a few minutes to tidy this lot up.’ She indicated the bowl of bloody water and the even bloodier napkins.

  Charlie whitened and wobbled slightly. ‘Don’t worry about that – I’ll get the staff to see to it. If you’re all fit, we’d rather you played. We’ve dancing to be getting on with.’

  The Dizzy Heights gathered themselves together for the second set.

  The dance ended without further incident and the next few days were similarly excitement-free. Barty Dunn had once again entirely failed to find a date and was giving serious consideration to Ellie’s suggestion that he look closer to home, to someone with whom he actually had something in common. To Blanche Adams.

  She was clever and funny. She was talented and capable – watching the businesslike way she had tended to Millie’s injury had been something of a revelation. And obviously they shared a taste in music. Now he came to think about it, she was quite good-looking, too. She was a few years younger than him, he reckoned, but that shouldn’t be an obstacle. It couldn’t be more than, what, eight years? Nine at the absolute outside. And it might be much less. She might be older than she looked. And age didn’t always matter, did it? He was a catch, after all. Well, sort of. He didn’t have a steady job, as such, but he’d not been out of work for nearly twenty years. That had to count for something.

  He would ask her to dinner after the dance lesson. Probably. Or the pictures. Everyone loved going to the pictures. There was a new Clara Bow film, he was sure. Or Buster Keaton. There must be a Buster Keaton film on somewhere. There always had been in the past.

  The Augmented Ninth had been closed on Monday night for decoration, so they had left their instruments at the Aristippus Club. This meant that their journey to Mayfair on Tuesday evening should have been easier than usual. Except that it was raining. Dunn had hopped off the tube at Russell Square and together they walked the half an hour to the Aristippus Club, with Dunn complaining even more energetically than usual about not having a van.

  ‘Or even a car,’ said Dunn. ‘Couldn’t you afford a car? You could do without at least one of your servants.’

  ‘I offered to pay for a cab,’ said Skins, ‘but you were having none of it. You’re fine with me blowing all my cash on a car, but a few bob for a taxi is beyond the pale, apparently.’

  ‘Well, the next time I suggest walking a mile and a half in the rain, tell me I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘The next time. This time I’m a man of principle and honour.’

  ‘And waterlogged boots.’

  ‘Them, too.’

  They finally arrived, moistened and bad-tempered, and set about lugging the instruments out of the storeroom and into the ballroom.

  ‘You know how Puddle and Blanche keep on about us getting a manager?’ said Dunn.

  ‘They’ve got a point, don’t you think?’ said Skins.

  ‘Definitely. I reckon it would be worth taking a drop in our share of the takings just to have everything properly organized – someone to make sure there are clean towels in the dressing room, a few bottles of beer for after. That would be more than worth it, come to think of it. But I was wondering if managers help lug things about.’

  ‘I’d pay extra for one who’d do that. Or for a porter. Could we hire a porter between us?’

  ‘That would be swanky, wouldn’t it?’ said Dunn as he heaved a couple of instrument cases on to the stage. ‘Would he bring us drinks? Press our clothes?’

  ‘Like a batman? I like the way you’re thinking, old son.’

  It took several trips, but they finally had everyone’s gear on the stage, with the chairs in their usual places. There was still three-quarters of an hour to go before things were due to kick off, so they set off in search of someone who might be able to supply them with a couple of towels and a warming drink.

  The club bar was the place to be, it seemed, and it was there that they met Charlie and the rest of the Alphabet Gang. Alfie, Bertie, Danny, and Ernie were engaged in some sort of indoor version of croquet, using the club’s leather chairs and the older members sitting in them as natural obstacles. Charlie was umpire.

  Once he saw the state the two musicians were in, Charlie kindly arranged for them to be su
pplied with the necessary hot toddies and towels.

  ‘I’m pretty sure we can get those clothes a bit drier for you, too,’ he said. ‘At least get them pressed – that should make a difference.’

  ‘It’s all right to sit about the club in our underwear, then?’ said Skins. ‘I mean, I’m game, but I didn’t think it was that sort of place.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘We keep a supply of bags and shirts for just such occasions. Accidents will happen, and all that. I’m sure we’ll have something in your size till your own things are a bit drier.’

  They allowed themselves to be led off to another room to change. On the way out, they met Millie.

  ‘Oh, hello, you two,’ she said. ‘You look like a couple of drowned rats. Are they looking after you?’

  ‘Just off to get our clothes dried,’ said Dunn. ‘See you later?’

  ‘If you can bear it. You’re quite the best band I’ve worked with. You’re all set up?’

  ‘Everything’s ready to go. We just need the rest of the band and some dry clothes, then we’re all yours.’

  ‘Good-o,’ she said. ‘See you in half an hour.’

  They left her waiting for an escort to take her into the bar.

  Skins and Dunn were in a small side room in the club where one of the servants had laid out clean, dry clothes for them. They were still in their underwear and trying to decide if it would be funny for them each to spend the rest of the evening in the trousers intended for the other.

  ‘We could just put them on and not say anything,’ suggested Skins. ‘It would be a scream.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, short-arse, but how would I even fit in yours?’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ insisted Skins. ‘Just try it.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘We’re not decent,’ said Skins in a falsetto.

  The door opened and Blanche popped her head round. ‘Are you two idiots nearly ready? Eustace wants to warm up.’

  Skins giggled, still in falsetto. ‘But we’re still in our unmentionables.’

  ‘I can see that. Hurry up and get some bloody trousers on.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain.’

  ‘Oh, Blanche,’ said Dunn. ‘Umm . . . before you go . . . can I . . . can I have a quick word?’

  ‘Only if you’re wearing trousers,’ she said.

  ‘Right you are.’

  He struggled into the nearest pair, which happened to be the ones intended for Skins. Before he could complain, Skins had pulled on the other pair and was heading out the door.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, mate,’ he said. ‘Got to check the drums.’

  He waddled off in his oversized trousers.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ said Blanche. She raised an eyebrow as Dunn attempted to button up the much smaller trousers.

  ‘Skins’s idea,’ he said. ‘He thought it would be funny if we were wearing each other’s kecks.’

  ‘Hilarious,’ she said, dryly.

  ‘I’ll get him back so we can swap. So . . . well, now . . . the thing is . . .’

  ‘Spit it out, darling. It’s not like you to be tongue-tied.’

  ‘It isn’t, is it? But . . . you see . . . what I was wondering . . . Do you fancy dinner one night?’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘A tryst? An . . . assignation?’ She paused. ‘A date?’

  ‘Well, dinner, at any rate. Do you fancy it? Just the two of us? Somewhere up West? Nice bottle of plonk? Bit of a chat? See how things go?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘All right, then. Why not?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was wondering when you’d ask, to be honest.’

  ‘Wizard.’

  ‘But it’s all off if you ever say “wizard” again.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘Thursday evening? Pick you up at eight?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  He smiled broadly. ‘Could you do me a favour now, though, please? Could you go and get our idiot drummer? I’m not playing for the Alphabet Chumps in these.’ He indicated the ill-fitting trousers.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think you look rather dashing.’

  But she set off in search of the puckish percussionist nevertheless.

  To the surprise of no one in the band, the dance lesson was another hilarious mess. In fairness, the participants clearly didn’t expect much else, either, so the whole thing was extremely good-natured. Millie gave her instructions, the band played a few phrases of an appropriate song, the Alphabet Gang galumphed about, Millie shouted, the band stopped. Repeat until exhausted.

  Millie called for the halftime break just as the beer and sandwiches arrived. She excused herself and left by the door at the other end of the room as the trays were being brought in through the main door. The Alphabets descended on the drinks table and helped themselves. Danny, the awkwardly angular, shy Alphabet, brought one of the trays over to the band.

  ‘We were a bit remiss last time,’ he said timidly. ‘We only supplied beer. The other chaps – the Muswell Hill Mugwumps or whatever they’re called – had a young lady playing the horn thing—’

  ‘Saxophone?’ suggested Dunn.

  ‘That’s the chap. Anyway, she preferred a Sidecar. One week it was a Gin Rickey. So I brought one of each for the ladies.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful, sweetie, thank you,’ said Blanche. ‘What do you think, Pudds? Gin or cognac?’

  ‘I’m a gin girl all the way,’ said Puddle. ‘You know me.’

  They took the proffered glasses, clinked them, and raised them in a toast to the Alphabet Gang.

  ‘Here’s mud in all your eyes,’ said Puddle.

  Danny smiled and handed out beer to the rest of the band.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ asked Blanche once he had returned to his pals.

  ‘Here’s mud in your eye. Barty said it the other day. It’s the latest thing, apparently.’

  ‘From America,’ Dunn confirmed. ‘Got to stay hip in our game, doll.’

  Blanche gave an exasperated shake of the head and took a sip of her cocktail.

  ‘That’s very tasty,’ she said, smacking her lips. ‘The members can’t dance, but someone on their staff makes a damn fine Sidecar.’

  The break lasted just long enough for the drinks to be drunk and the sandwiches to be eaten – the Alphabet Gang were itching to get back to their lesson. Millie had promised that if they showed her they’d made some progress with the basic Charleston steps, she’d show them something new to wow everyone at the next Friday night dance, even though they might not use it in the contest. They hadn’t actually made much progress, but she cheerfully agreed that they’d been working hard, and assured them that the secrets of the new steps would be vouchsafed them after the break. To a man, they agreed that ‘impressing fillies on the dance floor’ was more important than drinking beer, and pressed eagerly for a return to work.

  Of course, it was a slog. The usual suspects – Alfie and Ernie – made a complete dog’s dinner of it, failing entirely to marshal any of their limbs to follow the instructions given them by the ever-patient Millie. Bertie, his hair so thickly coated with Brilliantine that it now looked as though it had been replaced with a Bakelite wig, made a half-decent fist of it but still seemed unable to introduce his head and neck into the action. Danny’s interpretation was more or less accurate, but still hampered by his tendency to jerky angularity. Only Charlie looked as though he actually belonged anywhere near a dance floor, and he was soon being ribbed by his pals who accused him of cheating.

  ‘Cheating how?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you’ve got Millie here giving you all the inside information,’ said Alfie. ‘Tips and whatnot. Bet you’ve been practising this in secret all week.’

  ‘I’ve been here all week with you, you idiot. When would I have . . . Oh, never mind. You just concentrate on trying to remember which is your left foot and which is the right. How did you ever manage to march in the army?’

&nb
sp; ‘Colour sergeant took pity on me. Used to tap the old left leg with his stick. “Don’t you worry, Lieutenant,” he’d say. “I’ll see you right.” And I’d say, “So that’s the right, then?” And he’d say, “No, sir, that’s the left.” Not much call for parade drill in the trenches, though, so it turned out not to matter much, what?’

  ‘I suppose not, no,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Can we try it one more time, please, gentlemen,’ called Millie, sounding not entirely unlike a colour sergeant herself. ‘From the top, please, Dizzies.’

  Skins counted them in. The band played. The Alphabet Gang stomped and stumbled. And then the music stopped. The Alphabets were confused – they thought they’d been doing well. They looked to Millie, but it was nothing to do with her. They turned to remonstrate with the band for ruining their most successful effort so far. And that was when they saw why the band had stopped playing and were out of their seats and yelling for help.

  Lying on the floor, her saxophone beneath her, was Blanche Adams.

  ‘Someone call a doctor,’ shouted Puddle.

  Benny had already set down his trombone and was kneeling beside his stricken colleague, trying to find a pulse.

  ‘I think it might be too late for that,’ he said calmly. ‘I think she’s dead.’

  Chapter Five

  One of the senior members of the club was a doctor. Danny found him in the reading room and he hurried to the ballroom but there was, as everyone already knew, nothing he could do. He called the police to report the sudden death and made arrangements for Blanche’s body to be taken to the local public mortuary.

  ‘Has to be done, I’m afraid,’ he said when Puddle tearfully protested. ‘Sudden death like this with no obvious explanation has to be reported to the coroner. There’ll have to be a post-mortem to determine the cause. Was she in good health?’

  The band had been in a shocked huddle since Benny’s pronouncement. No one answered for a few moments.

  Finally, Elk looked over. ‘Fit as a flea,’ he said. ‘Never took so much as a day off work sick. We’ve all been on the crocked list at one time or another, but not Blanche.’