by T E Kinsey
‘So what do we do?’ said Dunn.
‘You leave it to the police,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I know we’ve not got a frightfully good track record of leaving things to the rozzers ourselves, but they do know what they’re doing for the most part. Are they doing anything?’
‘We don’t know yet. Sunderland said an inspector would probably pay us a visit, but we’ve seen no one.’
‘When did she die?’ asked Flo.
‘Last Tuesday,’ said Dunn.
Lady Hardcastle put down her menu. ‘Almost a week and no one’s spoken to you?’
‘Well, Sunderland said they only found out for sure it was murder on Friday,’ said Skins. ‘When he spoke to us he wasn’t even sure who was on the case.’
‘But it’s Monday now,’ she continued. ‘Time is everything in a murder inquiry. I know that much at least.’
‘Maybe he just hasn’t got round to us yet.’
‘Perhaps. Ah, here comes our waiter. Is everyone ready to order?’
They were, and they did.
Conversation turned to more convivial things while the waiters fussed about them, bringing first the champagne (the 1915, as it turned out) and then their first courses.
Lady Hardcastle played the gracious hostess for a while, as she contemplated the best advice for her old pals.
‘Who are your possible suspects?’ said Lady Hardcastle when the conversation lulled after the next course had arrived.
‘Suspects?’ said Skins. ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it. We don’t know who to suspect.’
‘Very well, then, let’s look at it another way. Who could it possibly be? Who was at the club when it happened?’
‘Well, there’s the Alphabet Gang,’ said Skins. ‘And Millie Whatshername.’
‘The entire staff of the club,’ said Ellie. ‘Don’t forget them.’
‘Blimey,’ said Skins. ‘All right, then, so we’d better include all the other club members as well.’
‘And you,’ said Flo.
‘What?’ said Skins. ‘Me and Barty?’
‘Technically, yes. But I actually meant the band.’
‘You mean one of us could have killed her?’ said Dunn. ‘That can’t be right. Not one of us.’
‘The point is that anyone who was there could have killed her,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Although, since it was poison,’ said Flo, ‘they didn’t actually have to be there at all.’
‘So you’re saying we need to consider the entire population of London?’ said Skins.
‘Not quite,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘The people who were actually in the building will be enough to be getting on with. I find it’s easier to start at the middle and work outwards. Work your way through the Alpha-Omega Conglomerate . . .’ She grinned at Flo, waiting for the correction that never came. It was still one of her favourite things – deliberately getting some simple thing wrong and waiting for an exasperated Flo to correct her – but Flo was having none of it. ‘. . . the dance teacher, and the band. If you get nothing there, move on to the chap who brought in the food and drink, and the kitchen staff who prepared it. Then the other club members. Then food suppliers. Then, as you say, the rest of the population of London. Although if you’ve got nothing by the time you move on to suspecting people who weren’t even in the club at the time, you’re probably never going to catch them.’
‘And when you say “work your way through” them,’ said Dunn, ‘what exactly do you mean?’
‘Talk to them. Find out about them,’ she said.
‘You also need to work out a handful of other things,’ said Flo. ‘You need to know how she was killed—’
‘Poison,’ said Skins.
‘Yes,’ said Flo. ‘But how was it administered? Once you know that, you might be able to work out when it was done. And when you know how and when, you might be able to rule some people out.’
‘Alibis,’ said Ellie.
‘Exactly so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And while you’re doing all that, you need to fathom out why someone wanted her dead. If we’re assuming it was a deliberate act and not a terrible accident, then someone wanted to kill someone. Was it her they wanted to kill? Or did they just want to kill anybody who happened to be there at the time? And if it was her, then why? Why pick poor Blanche Adams?’
‘Motive,’ said Ellie.
‘You’re well up on the terminology,’ said Flo with a smile.
‘I learned from the best. I have a dear friend who solves mysteries for fun.’
‘But there must be a million different motives for murder,’ said Dunn. ‘How do we even start?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Although you can boil it down to three for most practical purposes: passion, money, and the need to cover up another crime. Outside those, you have the motiveless killings of the madman, but he’s a last resort – most killers kill for a reason.’
‘And we can find all this out by talking to people?’ said Skins.
‘That and a bit of poking about where you’re not wanted,’ said Flo. ‘That’s my favourite bit.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Ellie, ‘have you had any luck with your newspaper contacts? Any new gen on the treasure?’
‘Not yet. I’ve put out some feelers, but no responses so far.’
‘What’s all this?’ said Skins.
‘We know someone at the Bristol News,’ said Flo. ‘I asked if she wouldn’t mind calling in some favours to get some of her London newspaper pals to have a look through their archives. You know – see if there was anything about the 1805 robbery. I told her what we already know and she had a few ideas for other things we could look for. General articles about the club, that sort of thing. There might be clues in there no one has ever noticed.’
‘We appreciate you going to so much effort on our behalf,’ said Ellie. ‘Don’t we, boys?’
‘We do,’ said the boys together.
‘In the meantime,’ said Dunn, ‘it’s just talking to people and “poking about”? Sounds like a lot of work.’
‘It is, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That’s why I suggested leaving it to the police. They have the patience and the manpower for all that sort of thing.’
‘If they get round to it,’ said Skins.
‘Well, quite. We shall have to call at Scotland Yard before we leave and see if dear Insp— dear Superintendent Sunderland can shed any light on the identity of the investigating officer and why he might be dragging his feet.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ellie.
‘You do have one advantage over them, though,’ Lady Hardcastle said. ‘You knew the victim well. You worked with her for . . . how long?’
‘Band’s been together since ’23,’ said Skins, ‘but we bumped into her here and there before that. The jazz world is quite small. So two years of working together and a few odd days before that.’
‘We only met her a couple of times, I think. She seemed nice enough. What was she really like?’ asked Flo.
‘She was a bit of a girl. Not anyone’s idea of a shrinking violet. She never talked about her past much, but I know she was a Fanny in the war. Posh family, I always assumed. But she knew what she liked and wasn’t afraid of going out and getting it, if you know what I mean.’
‘I think I can remember,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘I think some people were a bit intimidated by her, to be honest,’ said Dunn. ‘She wasn’t rude, but she didn’t hold back.’
‘So she could have upset someone,’ said Flo.
‘Maybe,’ said Skins. ‘But she wasn’t that sort. She shocked a few people in her time, but she was never rude.’
‘Sublime player,’ said Dunn. ‘It was like it came from somewhere deep inside her. Like you could hear her soul breathing out through her saxophone.’
‘She sounds like a remarkable woman,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘She was,’ said Skins.
It fell to Flo to break the contemp
lative silence that followed. ‘Have we met all the other members of your band?’
‘Do you really think it could be one of them?’ said Skins.
‘No idea. I’m just interested, that’s all. We got the lowdown on the Alphabet Gang when we spoke to Sunderland, but I wanted to add the band to my mental list.’
‘I think you probably have. There’s me and him, obviously.’
‘Best rhythm section in London,’ she said with a smile.
‘You better believe it. Then there’s Elk – Jonathan Elkington – on banjo. We first met him in France in ’17. His battalion had sent a few blokes to a big concert at the rear and we put together a scratch band. Nice bloke. Tiny bit . . . gormless, but he’s all right. We bumped into him again when we were putting the band together and he’s been with us ever since.’
‘Could he kill?’
‘We can all kill,’ said Dunn. ‘We learned that the hard way.’
‘All right,’ said Flo. ‘Could he kill in cold blood?’
‘No,’ said Skins. ‘Not Elk. Soft as puddin’. Hasn’t got a nasty bone in his body.’
Flo smiled but said nothing.
‘Eustace Taylor plays trumpet,’ said Dunn. ‘He’s a snob, but he’s harmless.’
‘A snob?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Classically trained, or so he says. He played with some symphony orchestra down on the coast, we know that much for sure. He thinks he understands jazz better than the rest of us because he knows a diminished ninth from a paradiddle. Puddle has forgotten more than he’s ever learned, but that doesn’t stop him lording it over her, an’ all.’
‘Puddle?’ said Flo.
‘Isabella Puddephatt.’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle gleefully. ‘What an absolutely delightful name.’
‘Delightful girl,’ said Skins. ‘Plays clarinet and alto sax. And she definitely is classically trained. Royal College of Music, if you please. Another posh girl. Posher than us, any rate.’
‘And are either of them killers?’ said Flo.
‘Eustace is shy and insecure,’ said Dunn. ‘He might lash out if he’d finally had enough.’
‘“Had enough”?’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘Did Blanche bully him? You said she was a forthright woman. Did she pick on him?’
‘Everyone’s had a go at him at some time or other,’ said Skins. ‘He’s that sort of bloke. He provokes people.’
‘Except you,’ said Dunn. ‘He doesn’t seem to get to you.’
‘Nothing much gets to Ivor,’ said Ellie.
Skins laughed. ‘Where’s the profit in getting worked up over what other people do? I can’t control it, so why let it bother me? But I don’t think Blanche ever had a go at Eustace.’
‘She backed down the other day, though, remember? I can’t think what she said, but she apologized straight after. Maybe he’d warned her off after some other thing we never saw.’
‘It can’t be him, though,’ said Skins. ‘Doesn’t make sense.’
‘Can’t be Benny Charles, either,’ said Dunn. ‘West Indian bloke. Plays trombone. He’s too . . .’
‘Kind,’ said Skins.
‘Yes, that’s exactly it. Too kind. He’s everyone’s Uncle Benny. Pretty sure he could snap you in half if he had a mind to, but he’s not that sort of bloke.’
‘And then there’s Mickey Kent,’ said Skins. ‘Dodgy as you like, but he’s more likely to try to sell you a case of knocked-off scotch than poison you.’
‘What does he do?’ asked Flo.
‘He’s our chanteur – he prefers that to “singer”. A bit of a charmer. Not in Barty’s league, obviously, but he’s no slouch with the ladies.’
‘He’s extremely dishy with it,’ said Ellie. ‘Although still not in Barty’s league, obviously,’ she added hurriedly.
‘But not the murderous sort,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Definitely not,’ said Skins. ‘Like Barty said, it can’t be one of us.’
‘Our own experience has shown that almost no one is the murderous sort until they actually find themselves committing murder. But unless you can think of any jealousies or resentments that might have hardened into cold homicidal fury, it’s not especially likely to be any of your pals.’
‘So they should start with the Alphabet Gang?’ said Ellie.
‘They should,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And we should start wondering what to have for pudding. I see a waiter approaching with menus.’
The boys were playing the Augmented Ninth as usual that evening, so Ellie had invited Dunn to spend the afternoon with them in Bloomsbury.
‘You’ve no real reason to go home,’ she’d said. ‘Your suit will cut quite a dash at the club so there’s no need to get changed. And Emily sent that box of cakes and treats to your landlady, so you don’t even need to deliver that. Come back to our place and put your feet up for the afternoon. It’ll look cute with you and Ivor snoozing in armchairs in the drawing room. It’ll be like a gentlemen’s club.’
He had accepted, but there seemed little chance of Ellie allowing him and Skins to have the promised snooze. Coffee had been called for, and she was sitting with her journal and pen.
‘We need a proper plan,’ she said once Lottie had delivered the coffee. ‘We can’t just keep bumbling on and hoping for the best.’
‘We?’ said Skins. ‘You’re involved now, then, are you?’
‘You better believe it, buster. You two will just slouch about, making jokes, laughing at the posh boys and getting nowhere. And you’ll get on the police’s nerves while you’re about it. I can add a little . . . structure. A little discipline.’
‘I see just one tiny flaw, Mrs M,’ said Dunn.
She raised her eyebrows.
‘It’s a gentlemen’s club,’ he continued. ‘You’re not allowed in.’
‘How many times have you come home and whined about how you need a manager, Ivor?’
‘I do it at least weekly,’ said Skins. ‘More often if I’ve been getting it in the neck about the lack of champagne in the green room, or there being no paper in the ladies’ loo.’
‘Meet the Dizzy Heights’ new manager,’ she said.
It was Skins and Dunn’s turn to raise their eyebrows.
‘Not for real,’ she reassured them. ‘I can’t think of anything I want to do less than try to wrangle a herd of needy musicians. But the stuffy old fuddy-duddies of the Aristippus Club don’t need to know that. I’ll put on some natty duds, carry a briefcase. They’ll splutter into their whisky and sodas and loudly ask what the world is coming to, but what are they going to do then? The youngsters have already staged their coup d’état and allowed a jazz band into the place with lady musicians. If another lady turns up and says she’s the band’s manager, what are they going to say?’
‘They’ll say, “Get out, madam”,’ said Dunn. ‘I think they have a lot of experience of saying that.’
‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘I can be quite persuasive.’
‘She can,’ said Skins with a nod. ‘Very.’
‘You’ll have to let the band know,’ she said. ‘We don’t want them “blowing the gaff”, as you guys say. They’ll have to go along with it.’
‘We can manage that,’ said Dunn. ‘Benny and Puddle already know we’re looking for Sunderland’s deserter. Eustace, Elk, and Mickey won’t mind. They all served. They’ll get it.’
‘But we’ll be looking into Blanche’s murder as well, don’t forget.’
‘Yeah, but they’ll be all right with that, too.’
‘They might be,’ she said. ‘But is it safe?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Skins.
‘Remember what Emily and Flo said? It could be one of them.’
‘Theoretically,’ said Dunn. ‘But it’s not, is it? We’re going to be poking about asking questions, getting to know people. Our lot aren’t anything to do with it and it’s better to have them on our side.’
Ellie thought for a moment. ‘Very we
ll, then, let’s get them involved.’
Throughout the conversation she’d been making notes in her journal. She finished her sentence, put the cap on her pen, and stood.
‘If you two are going to maintain your reputation as the best rhythm section in London,’ she said, ‘you’d better try to get some rest before tonight. Your usual guest bedroom is made up if you want it, Barty. I’m going to my study to have a think.’
Chapter Seven
During one of the breaks at the Augmented Ninth, the Dizzy Heights had talked among themselves and had once again confirmed their commitment to playing for the dance classes at Tipsy Harry’s. They would do it as a tribute to Blanche. Mickey had taken the opportunity to pass on a request from the club that they also play for a second lesson, on Wednesday evenings, and they agreed to that, too.
In an earlier discussion they had decided that it wouldn’t be crass to replace Blanche – her parts were vital in some of the more complex arrangements – so Puddle had drafted in one of her old music-school friends to sit in on saxophone. He was keen to help out and he even said he would try to rearrange his Wednesday teaching obligations to fit around the extra dance lesson.
‘Do it for Blanche’ became the band’s unofficial motto, replacing Skins’s usual suggestions of ‘Don’t get your hopes up’, ‘Prepare to be disappointed’, and ‘Music for people who are too drunk to know any better’. He had wanted someone to translate them into Latin so they could put them on their calling cards, but they didn’t know anyone posh enough to be able to.
Skins and Dunn arrived early for the Tuesday session, intending to use delivering the good news as an excuse for chatting to a few members of the Alphabet Gang. But when they finished carrying their instruments to the ballroom and went to the bar in search of their quarry, they discovered that the Alphabet Gang were busy. With the police.
Skins approached Alfie, who was sitting on his own in a slightly battered Chesterfield armchair. ‘What’s going on?’
Alfie looked up from his newspaper. ‘I think it’s an alpaca. Whiffy Wingrove brought some back from Peru. Says he’s going to raise them for wool. Worth an absolute packet, apparently, alpaca wool.’
