by T E Kinsey
Skins frowned in puzzlement and looked at Dunn for help. Dunn simply nodded in the direction of the bar. A group of men were clustered round a pleasant-faced, middle-sized, docile animal that looked like a cross between a small humpless camel and a sheep. That, thought Skins, must be the alpaca.
‘What did he bring it in here for?’ he said.
‘For a scotch and soda?’ suggested Alfie. ‘Spot of lunch? It would be nice to imagine so, don’t you think? A chap going to his club and taking his alpaca for a drink and a bit of scran. But I think someone said it just followed him. Only lives round the corner – keeping them in the back garden of his London place until he can get them moved out to Norfolk. He has a massive pile in Norfolk. Acres of land. Perfect for alpacas, he says. They come from the mountains, d’you see?’
‘Isn’t Norfolk very flat?’ said Skins.
‘Is it?’ said Alfie with a frown. ‘Are you sure? I’m a bit of a duffer when it comes to geography.’
‘Famous for it,’ said Skins.
‘Ah. Then I might have got that wrong.’
‘Those blokes seem rather taken with it,’ said Dunn.
‘With Norfolk? Never been. Had an aunt who lived in Kettering, though.’
‘That’s in Northamptonshire,’ said Skins.
Alfie smiled ruefully. ‘Told you I was a duffer.’
‘I meant they’re taken with the alpaca,’ said Dunn.
‘Behaving like a bunch of kids if you ask me,’ said Alfie. ‘One of the masters at my school had a spaniel. Used to bring it to lessons sometimes. Boys went gaga over it.’
‘But not you,’ said Skins.
‘No, not me. I was always wary of dogs. Got bitten on the backside when I was tiny. Never trusted them.’
‘And that applies to all animals now?’ said Dunn. ‘Is that why you’re not over there making a fuss of the alpaca?’
‘No, not all. But that chap looks too much like a furry camel. Can’t abide camels. Got bitten during the war.’
‘You were in Egypt, then? Libya?’
‘What?’ said Alfie.
‘In the war,’ said Dunn. ‘In the Middle East somewhere. When you were bitten by a camel.’
‘Oh,’ said Alfie, the penny finally dropping. ‘I see what you mean. I was in Egypt for a time during the war, as it happens, but the camel incident occurred at London Zoo. Took a girl there when I was on leave. Thought it would be romantic. Camel pinched my hat and then bit my arm when I tried to get it back.’
Skins laughed. ‘I’ll be honest with you, though, Alfie – you don’t mind if I call you Alfie?’
‘Not at all, dear boy. Absolutely everyone does. Well, not Ma and Pa, obviously – they call me Cornelius. And Nanny always called me Corny. I miss her.’
‘Thank you. The thing is, I wasn’t actually talking about the alpaca. I was more interested in what’s going on over the other side of the room there.’
‘Ah,’ said Alfie. ‘Got you. The rozzers are here. Interviews. Talking to Charlie now, it seems. About your pal. Sympathies, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dunn. ‘Who’s the geezer in charge?’
‘Inspector Something-or-other.’
Skins and Dunn rolled their eyes in unison.
‘Oh. It’s got a B in it,’ said Alfie suddenly.
‘Thanks, Alfie,’ said Skins. ‘I don’t suppose you caught the names of the two uniformed blokes with him?’
‘Not a clue, old bean. Sorry.’
The inspector, meanwhile, had stood up. He shook hands with Charlie, who ambled casually towards the bar. The inspector stretched and looked around the room. Catching sight of the two fashionably dressed musicians, he started purposefully towards them.
He held out his hand to Skins. ‘Good afternoon. I’m Inspector Lavender.’
‘See?’ said Alfie triumphantly. ‘Told you it had a bee in it.’
It was the inspector’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re the musicians Superintendent Sunderland told me about.’
‘We are,’ said Skins. ‘What gave us away?’
The inspector beckoned them to follow him to a quieter part of the room. ‘The cut of your suits. Very . . . à la mode. This lot’s tailors haven’t quite caught up with the latest fashions. Probably never will. I’m investigating the murder of your friend Blanche Adams, though – you have my sympathies. It must have been a terrible shock.’
‘It was,’ said Skins. ‘She was a dear friend.’
‘I understand,’ said Lavender. ‘I’ve had a fairly complete account of the evening’s events from Mr Chandler.’ He pointed across the room to where Charlie was ordering himself a drink from the bar. ‘I’d like to hear from the two of you, see if you can add anything.’
‘Of course,’ said Skins. ‘Well, it was last Tuesday night. We came to play for their dancing lesson.’
‘You usually do that?’ said the inspector.
‘It was the second time. We got the job when the Finchley Foot-Tappers let them down.’
‘Oh, we do like them, my wife and I. My wife is very keen.’
‘Right,’ said Skins. ‘Well, we thought we were just filling in – nice easy job. Money for jam. Or for a jam session, you might say . . .’
The inspector looked at him blankly.
‘So we were all set up to play by seven,’ continued Skins. ‘The lesson started. We played for about three-quarters of an hour, then stopped for a break.’
The inspector checked his notebook. ‘Beer and sandwiches?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you all had the same?’
‘We did.’
‘No,’ said Dunn. ‘No, we didn’t. The nervous one . . . Danny? Yes, Danny. He brought a couple of cocktails for the girls.’
‘Did he now?’ said the inspector, making a note. ‘Danny, you say. I don’t suppose you remember what these cocktails were?’
‘One had gin in it,’ said Dunn. ‘I remember because Puddle wanted the gin. Likes a bit of gin, does our Puddle.’
‘You’re right,’ said Skins. ‘A Sidecar and a Gin Rickey. I’d completely forgotten that. I thought they both had beer.’
‘No,’ said Dunn, ‘that was after the dance when they were complaining there was no champagne in our green room.’
‘So Miss Adams had the Sidecar,’ said the inspector.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Skins.
‘And it was this’ – he looked down at his notebook – ‘this “Puddle” who made the choice.’
‘Isabella Puddephatt,’ said Skins. ‘Yes. Then we played a bit more, and suddenly everything stopped when Blanche collapsed on the floor.’
‘Was she still breathing at this point?’
‘Benny got to her first,’ said Dunn. ‘He said not.’
‘Benny?’
‘Benjamin Charles,’ said Skins. ‘Our trombonist.’
‘I see,’ said Inspector Lavender. ‘So the men had the beer, the ladies had their cocktails, and you all ate the same sandwiches?’
‘As far as I know,’ said Skins.
‘And it was this “Danny” who brought the cocktails.’
‘It was,’ said Dunn. ‘He made a big thing of it. He said the sax player in the Foot-Tappers preferred a cocktail in the break. It seemed like a kindly gesture.’
‘Kindly,’ said the inspector. ‘Yes. Very. And Miss Puddephatt made sure Miss Adams got the brandy. Strong flavour, brandy. What else is in a Sidecar, I wonder? No matter. It would all work together to hide the flavour of a poison. Did anyone keep the glasses?’
‘What?’ said Skins and Dunn together.
‘So we can examine them for poison.’
‘Wasn’t that your man’s job on the night?’ said Dunn.
‘He didn’t know she’d been poisoned.’
‘Nor did we,’ said Skins. ‘You reckon we’d just grab the glass and put it in a box on the off chance you might need it a week later?’
In
spector Lavender narrowed his eyes. ‘All right, then. Did your Miss Puddephatt know this Danny character? Might they have been colluding?’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting—’ began Dunn.
‘My job is to keep an open mind, sir,’ said the inspector.
‘You’re an idiot,’ said Dunn.
‘I should watch your tone if I were you, sir.’
‘And I would most definitely do my job with a damn sight more compassion and sensitivity if I were unlucky enough to be you, Inspector.’
‘I understand you’re upset, sir, so we shall say no more about it.’
Dunn made a pfft noise and walked off.
‘Did she have any enemies in the band, Mr . . .’
‘Maloney. No.’
‘So your pal is’ – once again he leafed through his notebook – ‘Mr Dunn?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And had she fallen out with anyone at the club?’
‘She didn’t have time. None of us have. We come in, we play, we go home.’
‘I see. And this Danny character – what do you know about him?’
‘As much as we know about any of them – nothing.’
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘You’ve certainly corroborated Mr Chandler’s account, if nothing else. If you’d be good enough to let my constable have your address, we’ll be in touch if we need anything further.’
‘The band will be here every Tuesday and Wednesday evening until the dance contest, and every Friday night for the foreseeable. We’re easy to find.’
‘Dance contest? When is that exactly?’
‘Friday the twelfth. But they’ll need two lessons a week from now until it happens just to come in second.’
‘Out of how many, sir?’
‘Two.’
Inspector Lavender smiled, closed his notebook, and walked off to talk to one of the uniformed policemen.
‘You’ve got to take it easy, mate,’ said Skins as he caught up with his friend at the bar. ‘We need that bloke on our side.’
‘We need a decent copper on our side,’ said Dunn, grumpily. ‘Old Sunderland wouldn’t be that much of a . . . of a . . .’
‘Of a what, mate?’
‘He’s just so . . . I mean, starting to accuse Puddle. He can see how upset we are.’
‘He can now. I’ve got to admit even I didn’t know you were taking it so hard.’
Dunn looked directly at his oldest friend for the first time in the conversation. ‘I asked her out.’
‘Blanche?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell, mate. You never said. Even when we were talking to Ellie. You should have said. I didn’t even know you were—’
‘What was I going to say?’ said Dunn quietly. ‘I mean, I didn’t love her or anything. Well, not yet. Maybe I could have, though. Maybe she was “the one”. I don’t know. But I’ve not lost any more than anyone else has.’
Skins put a comforting hand on Dunn’s shoulder. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said.
‘So your wife keeps telling me,’ said Dunn. ‘At least I’m not as much of an idiot as that Lavender.’
‘No, he’s hardly the Met’s finest.’
‘If he suspects the band, why did he interview us together? Should have split us up. Anyone knows that.’
‘He didn’t suspect anyone till it occurred to him that it could be the cocktail.’
‘But it could, couldn’t it?’ said Dunn.
‘I suppose so. Got to admit I didn’t even remember they had different drinks from us.’
‘Didn’t strike me till just then, either.’
‘But who would do it? And why?’
‘There’s definitely something not quite right about Danny. He doesn’t seem to fit in. All the others are so brash and cocky, but he twitches and fidgets and makes shy offers of cocktails to the girls . . . I mean, it takes all sorts and all that, but birds of a feather.’
‘What’s this, Barty Dunn’s Tired Old Saw Show? A smile, a song, and a worn-out cliché?’
‘My lack of original phrasing doesn’t make it any less true, does it? How come a timid bloke like Danny fell in with the Alfies and the Charlies of this world?’
‘None of them fit, mate,’ said Skins. ‘That’s why they fit. Who else would have them? They’re mates because they’re all a bit . . . you know . . . odd.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Still doesn’t explain why, though. Why kill Blanche? What had she done? Turned him down, maybe?’
‘It’s not something you kill for, though, is it? If I did that, half the birds in north London would be buried in Mrs C’s backyard.’
‘Unless he’s one of Lady H’s madmen,’ said Skins. ‘Motiveless murder, just for the sake of it.’
‘You never know. There’s that thing about Vera being ill, after all. The Foot-Tappers’ sax player. Danny made her a cocktail, too. What if he’s like Jack the Ripper, only he’s going after lady sax players instead of prossies. Or that bloke in the war . . . in France . . . killed all those women . . .’
‘I know who you mean. The Bluebird of Somewhere. But wasn’t he nicking their money?’
‘Bluebeard,’ said Dunn. ‘But what if Danny’s got something against the saxophone? Maybe he was traumatized by one as a child. Or lady musicians? What if a lady musician broke his heart and he’s taking it out on all of them?’
‘Traumatized by a saxophone?’
‘You never know. Stranger things have happened. There was that lad we met when we did that concert at GHQ in ’17 – he was afraid of soup spoons.’
‘As Ellie would say, “I remain unconvinced.” But we do need to talk to him.’
‘The soup spoon lad? I’m not sure where we’d find him now. He was probably laid low by a ladle in the mess and all his fears were realized.’
Skins shook his head. ‘You’re an idiot. Let’s go and find Danny.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Skins. ‘Why don’t we have a bit of a nose-round “on the way”? See if we can see any sign of this treasure vault. If anyone challenges us, we can just say we’re lost.’
Dunn smiled and shook his head. ‘So you reckon the two of us can just walk round a corner and solve a puzzle that’s baffled everyone for a hundred and twenty years?’
Skins frowned. ‘At the very least, we could get a better idea of what the place looks like.’
‘Come on then, Adventurer Jim. You reckon they’ve got some safari jackets and pith helmets we could borrow?’
They set off in the direction of the smoking room, as indicated by the signs on the wall, but turned off down another corridor before they got there.
‘What are we looking for, then?’ said Dunn.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Skins. ‘There’s not going to be a big sign up saying “Hidden Treasure This Way”, is there?’
‘Exactly. And so why—’
‘Just shut up moaning and keep your eyes open. It could be anything. Look at all this old tat on the walls, for a start. And all them paintings on the other side. What are they telling us?’
‘That rich blokes like to have their portraits painted?’
‘Well, that’s a given. But who are they?’
Dunn looked at the tiny brass plaques on a couple of the pictures.
‘Club presidents,’ he said.
‘Didn’t Sunderland say the Mayfair Murderer was club president?’
‘Something like that. Sir Dionisius Something-or-other.’
Skins scanned along the wall, travelling backwards in time through the club’s history.
‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Sir Dionisius Fitzwarren-Garvie. That’s a big old cravat if I ever saw one. He doesn’t look like a murderer, though.’
‘I think it’s the same as with hidden treasure – they don’t wear signs.’
‘What’s he got in his hand?’ said Skins.
Dunn looked closely. ‘A key?’ he suggested. ‘A big gold key? They’ve all got it, look.’
On closer inspection, the other club presidents were, indeed, holding the same golden key.
‘The key to the secret vault,’ said Skins.
‘No one’s ever thought of that, I bet,’ said Dunn. ‘Come on, you ’nana, let’s go and see Danny like we planned.’
They turned back.
Eventually, they reached the smoking room. Tastefully decorated with green silk wallpaper on the walls and a luxurious Axminster rug on the floor, the smoking room was where the older members of the club went to doze away the afternoon. With a fug of pipe and cigar smoke hanging above them, and portraits of long-dead club members looking down from the walls, the old men sat in overstuffed armchairs of dark brown leather in silent companionship, and snoozed through the long hours between lunch and dinner. Bookshelves lined the walls, and tables were piled high with newspapers and periodicals of all types, but only one member was reading – Dudley ‘Danny’ Daniels.
Skins and Dunn looked uncertainly at each other. They had played manor houses and public houses, jazz clubs, gentlemen’s clubs, and working men’s clubs. They were at home anywhere, but despite their cheerful confidence, there were always one or two places where they knew they didn’t belong. And the smoking room of the Aristippus Club in Mayfair was just such a place. Somehow neither of them could summon the will to step across the threshold and into the hallowed sanctum. It was as though the hand of some invisible guardian were pushing them back, telling them that their sort wasn’t welcome here. Oiks.
Danny must have seen them out of the corner of his eye. He put down his book and waved at them to come in. Still they hesitated. He smiled. He waved them in again and mouthed, ‘It’s all right – come on in.’
Almost on tiptoes, the two musicians crept into the room. A sleeping man near the door – bald but for two unruly tufts of white hair above his ears – snored suddenly, making one of his neighbours wake with a start. The newly awakened man regarded them suspiciously.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded croakily. ‘You the chaps from the War Office come to measure the horses for their ball gowns?’
‘Don’t worry, Sir Edgar,’ said Danny. ‘They’re guests of mine.’
‘Just you make sure they don’t get any axle grease on the boiled mutton,’ said the man, and he settled back to sleep.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Danny as they approached. ‘Were you looking for me?’
