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

by T E Kinsey

  He broke off for a moment to order a round of drinks from a passing Cuthbert.

  ‘Tell me honestly, though, chaps,’ he said once the flunkey had gone. ‘How do you rate our chances in the dance contest? It’s this coming Friday.’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Dunn.

  ‘Now then . . .’ said Skins.

  ‘You see, the thing is . . .’ said Dunn.

  ‘It’s not that we . . .’ said Skins.

  Charlie laughed again. ‘Nuff said.’

  ‘Seriously, though, mate,’ said Skins, ‘you’re rubbish. And if you’re honest, you know you are. Actually, you’re better than the rest of them, but as a group, you’re hopeless. But that’s all right. I mean, we don’t have a clue what the opposition’s like – I’d be happy to put ten bob on them being hopeless, too. And you’re much better than you were.’

  ‘Your Millie has worked wonders,’ agreed Dunn.

  ‘Whose Millie?’ said a woman’s voice behind him. ‘I’m very much my own Millie, don’tcha know.’

  ‘Hello, darling,’ said Charlie. ‘I was just sounding the boys out about our chances on Friday.’

  ‘Oh, you’re absolutely useless,’ said Millie. ‘Truly terrible. Your one hope is that the Wags Club boys are even worse. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘And you’ve got the comedy act to fall back on,’ said Skins. ‘Alfie and Ernie’s pantomime horse act.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I think it could be the clincher, actually,’ said Millie. ‘If we can keep everyone’s attention on how funny it is to see a pantomime horse doing the Charleston, they might not notice how badly it’s doing it. You must thank your wife for us, Skins.’

  Skins looked puzzled. ‘Ellie?’

  ‘Yes – wasn’t it her idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought it was Ernie’s.’

  ‘Oh, was it? Well, she gave the two of them the encouragement and confidence they needed. We owe her a great debt.’

  ‘She’ll take cash or cheque,’ said Skins.

  ‘Another canny one, eh?’ said Charlie. ‘I know what that’s like. Can’t get away with anything.’ He reached out and touched Millie’s arm affectionately.

  ‘I’ve got your number, certainly,’ she said. ‘And talking of numbers, we’d better finalize the numbers you’ll all be dancing to on Friday. Do you have any preferences?’

  ‘I’m happy to let you decide,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s between you and the band. As long as we can dance to them without looking like fools, it’s up to you.’

  ‘They’re musicians, darling, not magicians. You’ll look like fools whatever they play. But we’ll settle on something.’ She turned to Skins and Dunn. ‘The chap from the Wags Club has sent a list of tunes they’ve been practising to. All on gramophone record, apparently. They say they’re happy to dance to any of them and that, since we have a band, it depends on what you’re able to play.’

  ‘What we’re able to play?’ said Skins. ‘Cheeky bleeders.’

  ‘They can be a bit oafish like that,’ she said, ‘but they mean well. There’s no malice in it – they just don’t realize it’s a little insulting. They’re not used to dealing with anyone other than their servants and lawyers. Everyone else is a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘It gives your lot even more of a home advantage,’ said Dunn. ‘Their own ballroom, their own home crowd, their own band, and their own versions of the tunes. I’d give you twenty-three to one we don’t play them exactly like the versions they’ve got on their records.’

  ‘Those are strangely specific odds.’

  ‘All scientifically worked out.’

  ‘Are they, indeed? Well, perhaps we can have a chat about the tunes on the way to the ballroom, and you can explain your method.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Dunn.

  Skins nodded. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  ‘Lay on,’ said Dunn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s “lay on”, not “lead on”. Everyone gets that wrong.’

  ‘Lay on, Macduff?’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘Hence the name of that piano player. It all makes sense now.’

  ‘That’s where he got it – Léon Macduff.’

  Skins turned to follow Millie, who had already walked off shaking her head.

  ‘Did you ever see him?’ he asked. ‘He used to accompany that burlesque dancer, “No Time” Toulouse.’

  ‘Although when we met him he was playing for Ma Blarch,’ said Dunn. ‘Great singer. She used to be part of a duo with her father-in-law, Billy Corner. But he had some trouble with the law so she had to hide Pa Corner, and the act wasn’t the same without him.’

  ‘She’s not listening to us,’ said Skins.

  ‘Can’t say I blame her. Perhaps we should do something with “-ologists” after all.’

  The rest of the band were already on the stage warming up, and Millie interrupted them for a few moments to agree the three songs they would play for the contest on Friday.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll let the Wags know as soon as possible so they have at least two practices with the proper tunes as well.’

  The band was ready to begin. Millie was ready to begin. But only three-fifths of the Alphabet Gang were present. Alfie and Ernie were missing.

  Elk started vamping some chords on his banjo. Dunn joined in, swiftly followed by Skins, who added a little swing to the proceedings and reined in Elk’s tendency to let the tempo wander. Puddle picked up her saxophone and began to improvise a tune, with Benny and Eustace chipping in with perfectly timed brass stabs. After a few phrases, Puddle gave Eustace the nod and he took over the solo.

  By the time Benny’s turn had come around, Millie and the Alphabets were dancing. Without having to follow the formality of a recognized “dance”, Bertie, Charlie, and Danny were making a pretty decent fist of moving in time with the music.

  Puddle was about to take the lead again when there was a commotion at the door and a stag’s head peered into the room. The Dizzies kept playing, but the Alphabets stopped to watch as the stag’s head entered the room, with Alfie holding the wooden board upon which it was mounted. Behind him, bent double and with his hands on Alfie’s waist, was Ernie. Or they assumed it was Ernie. It was difficult to tell with the old army blanket draped over him. They joined the group just as the band stopped playing.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Alfie.

  ‘You’re going to be a pantomime stag now?’ said Bertie.

  ‘What? Oh, I see. No, this is a . . . What did you call it, Ernie?’

  Ernie stood, and the blanket fell to the floor. ‘A prototype,’ he said. ‘A mock-up. We thought it would demonstrate the concept and give us a chance to work out our moves before we got the proper costume. You see here? Alfie isn’t going to be able to use his hands in the suit, so he’s holding the stag’s head from the smoking room. I’ll not be able to see, so I’m draped in a blanket. It’s how we design things down at the workshop.’

  ‘By draping yourselves in blankets?’ said Bertie.

  ‘You’re an ass, Bertie,’ said Ernie.

  ‘Better an ass than a pantomime horse.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Millie. ‘We have only two of these sessions before Friday. Let’s not waste them.’

  ‘He started it,’ said Ernie.

  Millie put her hands on her hips and glared.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Positions, everyone?’

  The lesson began.

  Ellie had timed her own journey so that she arrived at the Aristippus Club once the dance lesson was already underway. She approached Cuthbert the porter, who was behind the front desk.

  ‘Good evening, madam,’ he said with a smile. ‘How wonderful to see you again. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve cleared it with the committee and it’s all right for you to sign yourself in now. I hope you understand I had to follow the rules the other day.’

  ‘Of course . . .
?’ She smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Cuthbert, madam.’

  ‘Ah, yes, my husband did tell me. Think nothing of it, Cuthbert. I’m very used to having to follow rules. We nurses were as bound by rules and regulations as any of the Tommies at the front.’

  ‘You served in the war, madam?’ He seemed impressed.

  ‘I did. First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. I’m sure a lot of your members served. So many young men did. I think most of the dancers we’re playing for were all soldiers. The Alphabet Gang, they call themselves now.’

  ‘Not all, madam. I believe young Mr Cashmore – Ernie – was involved in important war work at his father’s engineering firm.’

  ‘Oh, do you know, I think you’re right. I think Ivor told me something about that.’

  ‘“Ivor”, madam?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘The one they call Skins?’

  ‘That’s the fellow. He’s a drummer, you see? Drum skins. A childhood nickname I’ve never persuaded him to abandon.’

  ‘Ah, it makes sense now. I’d heard the gentlemen calling him Skins. I wondered if it was a middle name – Skinner, perhaps. Then I speculated that his family might have been tanners.’

  ‘Nothing so romantic. He’s been a drummer since he was a lad. I should have remembered about Ernie, though. But I’m sure the others were all soldiers.’

  ‘That’s my understanding, madam. Jolly proud of their service, the lot of them. And rightly so. I tried to join up, but they wouldn’t have me. Caught a bullet in the leg in the Transvaal and they said I was unfit for service. Too old, too, they reckoned. I told ’em they needed some old sweats to show the youngsters the right way to do things, but they weren’t having none of it.’

  ‘I think you were well out of it, to be fair.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘And I know it doesn’t become one to talk about people behind their backs, but could you honestly imagine being led into battle by the Alphabet Gang? I think Charlie – Mr Chandler – might have had his wits about him, but the others . . .’

  Cuthbert chuckled. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I heard tell that Mr Chandler was quite the hero, actually. Saw action all over. Decorated, they say. Field promotion to major, as well. I’d have been all right under him. He’d have looked after us.’

  ‘I’m sure he would. He’s a lovely chap.’

  ‘Fine fellow, madam. Fine fellow. But they all are. In their own way.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘In their own way. I imagine Mr Daniels would have made a good leader, too. Thoughtful.’

  ‘Don’t know much about their Danny, madam. Never talks about his war service. Very private gentleman. Have you seen his paintings?’

  ‘His paintings?’

  ‘Yes, he runs an art gallery. Modern rubbish. Can’t bear it meself – don’t make no sense. But he did some lovely watercolours for the committee room. Pictures of the club and the street outside. Proper paintings, if you take my meaning. None of that . . . what do they call it? Abstract?’

  ‘Abstract, yes,’ said Ellie. ‘Have I been in the committee room?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, madam, but I shouldn’t think so. The members don’t use it much – too big for anything other than committee meetings.’

  ‘Then I shall prevail upon a member to show me the paintings one day. I should like to see them.’

  ‘You definitely should, madam. Although now that your presence has been approved by the committee and you’re officially signed in, you may come and go as you please. It’s one of the club rules. Nothing is out of bounds.’

  ‘That’s good to know, Cuthbert, thank you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Although I’d better get along to the ballroom and see the Dizzies. They should be taking a break now.’

  ‘Right you are, madam. Enjoy your evening.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for your time – it was nice talking to you.’

  And with that, she set off.

  Ellie followed a tray-bearing Cuthbert into the ballroom and stood by the door while the drinks and sandwiches were set out on the table. The band were mid-song and were ‘hot’, as Skins liked to say. Or were they cool? Ellie struggled to remember. They were good, anyway.

  The dancers, meanwhile . . .

  The dancers were still terrible, but they were terrible in a new and exciting way that Ellie really rather enjoyed. While the individuals hadn’t managed to cast off their personal quirks and were still gawky and awkward, the group was now a coordinated dance ensemble who might just have a chance as long as the Wags were equally giftless. The Alphabets’ training from Millie, and the comedy element added by Alfie and Ernie’s animal antics, could conceivably give them the edge.

  The song came to an end and Ellie clapped enthusiastically. To her surprise, the band put down their instruments and joined in the applause. The Alphabet Gang took a bow.

  Ellie left them to their well-earned beer and joined the band on the stage. She sat down in the empty seat next to Puddle.

  ‘Where’s the deputy sax player?’ she asked.

  ‘He had a long-standing prior engagement. He’ll be back tomorrow evening. And on Friday, obviously,’ said Puddle.

  ‘Have you found a permanent replacement yet?’

  ‘We’ve not looked, to be honest. The word’s gone out, though – the jazz world isn’t so large as you might imagine. If there’s someone out there who fancies the seat, they’ll tell us soon enough.’

  ‘Do you know when the funeral is yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Puddle with a sigh. ‘The police still won’t release the body until they know for certain how she was killed.’

  ‘Still no closer, then? Have you heard anything from Lavender?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. Have you?’

  Ellie frowned slightly in puzzlement. ‘No,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Well, unless he’s spoken to Ivor and he’s not told me.’

  Puddle glanced around conspiratorially. ‘How’s the’ – she lowered her voice – ‘you know . . . how’s the “other matter” coming along?’

  ‘We seem to have reached a dead end as far as I can see. We met Superintendent Sunderland yesterday and passed him a bunch of new information, but until he’s had time to check it out we’re kinda stuck.’

  Skins had come to join them. ‘She’s not kidding. I’m beginning to wish we’d never agreed to help. It seemed like such a laugh when he first mentioned it, but I’m starting to feel like we’ve been taken for mugs. He’s quite the charmer, old Sunderland. He’s got that “just one of the boys” way about him, but he’s an officer sort underneath it all. He knows how to manipulate people to get what he wants.’

  ‘Should my ears be burning?’ Charlie had arrived, unnoticed, at the stage.

  Skins looked over and smiled. ‘Not you, old son. Just someone we know.’

  ‘Sounds like a piece of work.’

  ‘He’s all right, really,’ said Skins. ‘He’s just a bit of a . . . a bit of a puppeteer, I think you might say.’

  ‘Excellent quality in an officer, that. Always good to be able to get the best out of your men without shouting and bawling. Leave that to the NCOs, what?’

  ‘Is that how you did it, then?’

  ‘I should say so,’ said Charlie with a laugh. ‘You catch more flies with honey, and all that.’

  ‘A motto to live by,’ said Ellie. ‘So where did you do all your fly-catching? You Alphabets have such fascinating stories.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Charlie, breezily. ‘Flanders, France – the usual.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Skins. ‘It was all the same in the end. Up to our armpits in mud and munitions – didn’t really matter what the locals called it.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so. But let’s not talk about all that. I came over to thank you all once again for your wonderful work. You really have been quite tremendous.’

  ‘Entirely our pleasure, old son,’ said Skins. ‘Just win and it’ll make it all worth it.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘I’ll get you some
beers.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Next morning, Ellie and Skins were sitting together in the drawing room of their Bloomsbury home, sharing a pot of tea in the unaccustomed peace and quiet. The children’s nanny had taken Catherine and Edward to Regent’s Park to feed the ducks.

  ‘What are you going to feed them to?’ Skins had asked when they told him of the plan.

  They had both looked at him blankly, but after a few seconds Skins was delighted to see a smile lighting up Edward’s face as he worked out what the question meant.

  ‘We’re going to feed them to my dragon,’ he said. ‘He likes eating ducks.’

  Catherine didn’t quite understand what was going on, but it didn’t sound good. She looked to her mother for reassurance.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said Ellie. ‘It’s just the boys being silly. No one’s feeding the ducks to anything, and certainly not to Edward’s dragon. You’re going to give them some lovely food.’

  ‘Porridge isn’t lovely,’ said Edward. ‘It’s horrid.’

  ‘He’s got you there,’ said Skins.

  ‘If you were serving them a bowl of porridge, I’m sure they’d be most unhappy,’ said Ellie. ‘But Mrs Ponton has given you a bag of oats. They like oats.’

  ‘I thought they liked bread,’ said Skins.

  ‘Mrs Pointy said she couldn’t spare any bread,’ said Edward. ‘Are we poor?’

  ‘Too poor to have bread?’ said Skins.

  ‘Yes. When people don’t have enough money, they sometimes don’t even have enough for bread. Nanny said. She said there are lots of poor people now.’

  ‘Nanny’s not wrong,’ said Skins. ‘But you don’t have to worry. Mrs Ponton must have other plans for the bread.’

  Eventually they had left, each clutching a tiny paper bag full of porridge oats, and their parents had retired to the drawing room.

  Ellie took a sip of her tea. ‘Did you mean what you said yesterday?’

  ‘I said a lot of things yesterday,’ said Skins. ‘I meant at least half of them.’

  ‘At the club. When we were talking to Puddle.’

  ‘About wishing we’d never bothered?’