by T E Kinsey
‘Mess about with it?’ said Skins. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Open it up, put it together . . . anything at all.’
‘Not us,’ said Dunn. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, it’s probably nothing. It’s just . . . well, the ligature was on upside down.’
‘The boys probably know what you’re talking about,’ said Ellie. ‘But indulge me. What’s a ligature?’
‘Oh, sorry, darling,’ said Puddle. ‘Umm . . . you know the mouthpiece – the pointy black bit?’
‘With you so far.’
‘There’s a flat reed on the underneath – that’s what makes the noise.’
‘You know, when I was a kid I used to think they hummed into them like a kazoo,’ said Ellie.
‘If only it were that simple. So, the reed is held in place with a band – the ligature. I like the metal cage ones, but Blanche had a fondness for an old leather one she picked up from a music shop in Paris. Anyway, it wraps around the mouthpiece and tightens up with a little screw so it can grip the reed. Mine can only go on one way round, and the screws are always on the right-hand side. Blanche’s could go on either way, but out of habit, everyone always puts them on the same way, with the screw on the right.’
‘Still with you,’ said Ellie. ‘Was there something wrong with it?’
‘There was. The screw was on the left. It was on the wrong way round.’
‘Maybe she was already feeling the effects of the poison,’ said Skins. ‘You know, a bit disorientated. Just put it on wrong without really thinking about it.’
‘Maybe,’ said Puddle. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you have to think about, though. I mean, when you pick up a pair of drumsticks, do you have to work out how to hold them every time? You just grab them and they fall into place without you giving it a second thought. Same with putting on a reed. We do it without thinking.’
‘Well, we definitely didn’t muck about with it in the shop,’ said Skins. ‘So it was like that when it went in. Which means it was like that when it left the club.’
‘Did anyone touch it there?’ asked Ellie.
‘She fell on top of it,’ said Dunn. ‘When the ambulance men carried her off, it just sat there on the stage. We were all just sort of milling about the ballroom after that, while the police asked their questions. Anyone could have touched it. Why?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Ellie. ‘But it’s out of the ordinary, isn’t it? In the detective stories it would definitely be a clue.’
‘Someone wanted us to look to the left?’ said Skins. ‘Someone knew who it was but couldn’t say, so they left the adjustment screw on the mouthpiece pointing at the killer.’
‘Don’t be a goof, Ivor, it doesn’t become you.’
‘It’s my most striking characteristic, I’ll have you know. You can’t take that away from me. All I’ve got is being a goof.’
Ellie shot him a look. ‘Was everyone still there?’
‘All the Alphabets?’ said Dunn. ‘Yes, all present and correct.’
‘And Millie?’
‘I don’t remember. Skins?’
‘I think so,’ said Skins. ‘To be honest I wasn’t paying much attention. There was a lot of coming and going, but I think she was there most of the time.’
‘Most of the time?’ said Ellie.
‘Well . . . you know. People were in and out of the room a lot. Calls of nature, private moments and whatnot. I wasn’t keeping track, but I’m pretty sure I saw her in the room a couple of times when I looked round.’
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Puddle.
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Ellie. ‘I’m just trying to come at it from a different angle. We’ve only been thinking about the boys so far. We’ve never talked about Millie much.’
‘Why would we?’ said Dunn. ‘We’ve been on the lookout for an army deserter. We ruled her out early on – it would be a bloody good disguise if old Arthur Grant was posing as Millie Mitchell the dance teacher.’
‘What do we know about her?’ said Ellie. ‘What have you learned from three weeks of ogling?’
‘I was not—’ said Skins and Dunn together.
‘I bloody was,’ said Puddle. ‘She’s gorgeous. You know how some people just . . . I don’t know . . . shine? Glow? She draws all eyes to her.’
‘Other than her obvious physical charms, though, what do you actually know about the woman herself?’ said Ellie.
‘Definitely a professional dancer,’ said Skins. ‘She moves like she’d been training since she was a kid.’
‘Apart from her limp,’ said Dunn.
‘Her limp what?’ said Skins with a grin.
‘Are you going to do that gag every time?’ said Puddle. ‘It’s not getting any funnier.’
‘It was Barty last time,’ said Skins. ‘But give it a chance. Fifth time you hear it, you’ll not be able to stop yourself giggling.’
‘I noticed her limping,’ said Ellie. ‘A dance injury?’
‘We asked her about that,’ said Blanche. ‘She said she went over on her ankle and it never healed right. Damaged her AQMG or something.’
‘Assistant Quartermaster-General?’ said Dunn.
‘Probably not,’ said Puddle. ‘But it was initials. And it started with A.’
‘Oh, she’s right,’ said Skins. ‘AT-something.’
‘ATFL?’ suggested Ellie. ‘The anterior talofibular ligament is down there. You might tear it if you go over on your ankle.’
‘She was a nurse, you know,’ said Skins with a wink.
‘Was she?’ said Ellie.
‘No, you chump – you. You were a nurse.’
‘Oh, I was, yes. That’s how I know what a torn ATFL is. Because I was a nurse . . .’
Chapter Fifteen
‘I’m well aware that he’s busy, Sergeant,’ said Ellie with growing irritation. ‘And I know what he’s busy with. Which is precisely why we very much need to speak to him now. How much actual effort would it entail to call him and tell him we’re here? What would it cost you? If he tells you to tell us to . . . to “bugger off” – which he won’t, by the way, he’s much too much of a gentleman for that – well, then, what’s the worst that can happen? You’ll get a flea in your ear for bothering him? You’re afraid of someone being a bit tetchy with you? That’s hardly the attitude that won us the war.’
‘I’m quite sure “we” didn’t win the war, madam. It had been going more than two and a half years before your lot turned up.’
‘And yet you fought on without us all that time. If only the Bosch had known that all they needed to do was speak sternly to you and you’d fold like a broken umbrella, we’d not have had to turn up at all. And you’d be speaking German.’
‘Now, you look here—’
‘Just make the call, Sergeant,’ said Puddle. ‘You know she’s right, and we all know she’s not going to back down.’
Skins and Dunn just smiled.
The desk sergeant scowled, but picked up the telephone from his desk.
‘Put me through to Superintendent Sunderland, would you, please, love?’ he said while still scowling at the four friends. ‘I know what he said, but can you put me through anyway?’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘I told you.’ He uncovered it again. ‘It’s Fenimore, sir. Front desk . . . Yes, I know, sir. I’m very sorry, sir. But there are four individuals here who insist I interrupt your important work.’ He looked pointedly at them. Then he looked down at the paper on his desk. ‘Mr and Mrs Maloney, Mr Dunn, and Miss Pontefract . . . It could be Puddephatt, sir, yes.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Can’t read me own writing sometimes . . . Right you are, sir . . . Right away, sir.’
He replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle.
‘Cooper!’ he called loudly.
Constable Cooper arrived.
‘Take this lot to Superintendent Sunderland’s office, lad. Third floor.’
Without looking at the four friends, he returned to his work and left Cooper to co
nduct them up the stairs.
Sunderland’s voice drifted out from his open office door.
‘. . . and put some of those new McVitie’s biscuits out, too, please. The chocolate ones.’
An eager young constable scurried out.
‘And put them on a plate this time,’ called Sunderland.
The constable gave the friends an embarrassed smile as he set off down the corridor.
Cooper knocked on the open door and said, ‘Your visitors, sir.’
He stood aside to let them in and Sunderland stood to greet them.
‘Welcome, all,’ he said, warmly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come over. Perfect timing. Do sit down. There’s tea on the way. And biscuits.’
‘We heard,’ said Skins.
‘On a plate,’ said Dunn.
‘He just piled a handful on the tray last time. I mean, I ask you. Is it too much to ask for a plate?’
‘Got to maintain standards,’ said Dunn. ‘Whole place’ll go to pot.’
‘You’re teasing me now, and quite right, too,’ said Sunderland. ‘But all I wanted was a plate. Anyway, good to see you all again. Or see most of you again. We’ve not met . . . Miss Puddephatt, I presume? Oliver Sunderland.’
He held out his hand and Puddle shook it.
‘They call me Puddle,’ she said.
‘Do they? Do they, indeed? And do you mind?’
She laughed. ‘I rather like it.’
‘Splendid. I have news about your friend. But you must have known that or you’d not be here.’
‘No,’ said Ellie, ‘we’ve not heard a thing. Actually, we have news of our own.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll start, then you can tell me what you’ve learned. Mine is rather grim news, I’m afraid, but it does move things along. The police surgeon examined Miss Adams again at my insistence and discovered traces of an unknown substance in her mouth, mostly on her tongue. He’d missed it before, but when we spoke about her stomach being free of poison I insisted he take another look. He’s not entirely sure what it is, but he’s inclined to suppose it could well be some sort of toxin, absorbed through the’ – he consulted the file on his desk – ‘mucous membranes of the mouth. He lists a handful of possible agents. He said such a poison could take anything from a few seconds to an hour to have its effect, but when death came it would be sudden.’ He pushed the file to one side. ‘I’m terribly sorry – poison is all but confirmed, and it happened at the Aristippus Club.’
Puddle had gone white, but they had to wait for the young constable to finish fussing with the tea he’d brought in before they could ask her what was wrong.
‘Are you OK, honey?’ said Ellie when the young policeman had finally gone. ‘You look dreadful.’
‘It was the sax,’ said Puddle. ‘And it could have killed me.’
‘The saxophone?’ said Sunderland. ‘Miss Adams’s saxophone? How could it have killed you?’
‘I played it yesterday. For her brother. He’s still devastated.’
‘Then it can’t have been the sax,’ said Ellie. ‘You’ve been absolutely fine.’
‘The killer swapped the reed,’ said Puddle. ‘Don’t you see? You remember I told you the ligature was on the wrong way round? Someone swapped it after she died. The killer swapped it.’
‘Slow down a moment, please,’ said Sunderland. ‘Actually, let’s go back a step or two. You’re saying the poison was on the saxophone’s mouthpiece? What makes you think that?’
Puddle briefly told the story of their visit to Wimbledon the day before. She explained how the reed was attached to the mouthpiece, and about her momentary confusion at seeing the ligature on the wrong way round.
‘The reed touches the tongue when we play,’ she continued, ‘and you said the poison was on her tongue. So, what if the killer poisoned the reed, then swapped it for an untainted one after she was dead so that no one would suspect how it was done?’
‘That would be ingenious indeed,’ said Sunderland. ‘Though not without risk. He must have known that interfering with the instrument a second time would double his chances of being caught.’
‘Perhaps the second time wasn’t planned,’ said Puddle. ‘If he swapped the reed for a poisoned one but had the original reed in his pocket, he might have seen an opportunity to put things back to normal while everyone was milling about waiting for the police to finish their questions.’
‘It’s a starting point,’ said Sunderland. He made some notes in the case file. ‘I have other news,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘We finally managed to track down your Mr Daniels’s record.’
‘Is he our man?’ said Dunn. ‘Is that why he was being so cagey?’
‘No,’ said Sunderland. ‘No, the reason for his reticence was that he was a conscientious objector.’
‘A conchie?’ said Skins. ‘Danny? He doesn’t come across as the type. I thought they were all religious sorts. “Thou shalt not kill” and all that.’
‘Many were, it’s true. His record doesn’t give his reasons, but it does tell a remarkable story. He was an ambulance driver in the RAMC and he was awarded the Military Medal for carrying the wounded from no man’s land under fire during a major offensive. He saved eight lives.’
‘Blimey,’ said Skins. ‘And you’re sure it’s the same bloke?’
‘He’s known to the authorities,’ said Sunderland. ‘They kept tabs on him after the war – it makes me wonder if his objections were more political, actually, now I come to think of it. But it’s definitely him.’
‘A lot of conscientious objectors joined the medical corps,’ said Ellie. ‘I met a few.’
‘Some did,’ agreed Sunderland. ‘Not as many as the stories suggest, but there were a few, as you say. And Dudley Daniels was a particularly brave one.’
‘So that leaves Charlie,’ said Dunn.
‘It’s looking very much like it,’ said Sunderland. ‘None of the Robert Chandlers we’ve looked at so far match the Alphabet Gang’s “Charlie”, so I’m very much thinking of pulling him in and having a quiet word.’
‘Before you do, though,’ said Ellie, ‘can you check one more thing for me?’
Sunderland frowned quizzically. ‘You have something else?’
‘Just a hunch,’ she said. ‘Can you look and see if there was a nurse called Millie Mitchell in the Fannies or the VAD?’
‘I can ask. She’s the dance teacher, yes?’
‘She is.’
‘And you think she might have been a nurse?’
‘It was something she said to Puddle. She has a limp and said she got it when she tore her ATFL. She said exactly that. She didn’t say “a ligament in my ankle”, or even give it its full name. Just the initials, like a medic might.’
‘You think they’re in it together?’ said Skins.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘But it’s suspicious, don’t you think? A military man whose records are difficult to track down and a dance teacher who uses medical jargon.’
‘I’ll make some calls and see what I can dig up,’ said Sunderland. ‘Any more bombshells before I order more biscuits?’
‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘I think that’s it for now.’
‘Excellent. Just a word of warning – I’m about to shout very loudly. Please don’t be alarmed.’ He paused for a second before calling, ‘Curtis! More biscuits, please!’
They left Scotland Yard and went their separate ways. It was Friday – the Friday of the dance contest, no less – and both Puddle and Dunn needed to get home for a rest and a change of clothes before the big night. It was a special night for the club, so the band had decided that best bib and tucker were in order.
Ellie and Skins went back to Bloomsbury with no real plans at all. Skins quite liked the going-back-to-bed option suggested by Dunn, but he was open to suggestions. Ellie didn’t have any suggestions – she wanted to call her friend Flo to ask for some advice.
By the time they were ready to leave for the club, Skins had had his n
ap and a bath, and Ellie had spoken to Flo – so they were both content that things had worked out well.
‘What do you reckon?’ said Skins as he laced his dress shoes. ‘Cab or Shanks’s pony?’
‘It’s a lovely evening for a walk,’ said Ellie. ‘But maybe not in these shoes.’
She, too, had decided to dress up for the evening and was wearing an extravagantly embroidered cocktail dress of gold silk, set off with a pair of gold-coloured shoes decorated with velvet.
‘You’re probably right. These won’t be much better.’ He indicated his own two-tone brogues. ‘They look the part, but they need a bit of breaking in before I’ll be happy traipsing all the way to Mayfair in them. I’ll go out and see if I can flag a cab.’
‘Get Lottie to do it,’ said Ellie as she adjusted her headdress. ‘That’s what we have servants for.’
‘Poor kid doesn’t want to be standing out on the street whistling at taxis. I’ll do it.’
He left Ellie to finish getting ready.
He returned five minutes later. ‘Got one. You all set?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ she said.
‘You make it sound like we’re off to something awful. It’s the dance contest. It’ll be a laugh.’
Ellie said nothing as she followed him out to the cab. They clambered in and settled down in the back.
‘What are you up to?’ he said.
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘You look like you’re up to something, that’s all. I know you.’
‘Just concentrate on keeping the band in time. I’ll look after myself.’
‘You’re not doing anything to reassure me.’
‘Ivor?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Shut your trap, there’s a good boy.’
‘Right you are, my angel.’
Once they’d arrived, Ellie left Skins to join the band in the green room while she went to talk to Cuthbert the head porter.
‘Good evening, madam,’ he said. ‘All set for the dance contest this evening? The club is fair buzzing with it.’
