by T E Kinsey
‘On to us? Don’t make me laugh. How could they be on to us? No one knew what we were doing.’
‘You were going to open the secret vault with the “Key of Keys” after the opening ceremony and make off with the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer.’
Millie’s mouth fell open. ‘You knew about . . . How did she know about that . . . Bob . . . Charlie? Did you blab?’
Charlie was still trying to free himself from the horse costume. ‘Bit busy at the moment, my sweet. You deal with it, there’s a good girl.’
‘The only thing we couldn’t figure out,’ said Ellie, ‘is where the entrance is.’
Millie laughed. ‘And I suppose you imagine I’m going to tell you while you threaten me with . . . Oh, no. Actually, I’m the one with the gun, aren’t I? I think the location of the door to the vault will have to remain a secret. If we can’t have it, no one can. Hands on head, on your knees, and face the wall.’
Ellie didn’t move.
‘Don’t think I won’t shoot you, you soppy Yank,’ said Millie. She pulled back the gun’s tiny hammer with her thumb and it clicked menacingly into place.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt you’ll try,’ said Ellie. ‘Great weapon, the Colt M1911. Designed by John Browning, you know. Fires a .45 slug that can stop a full-grown man in his tracks.’
She took a step towards Millie.
There was another metallic click.
‘But only if the gun is loaded,’ said Ellie, holding out a handful of gleaming brass and lead cartridges. ‘You idiot.’ She let them cascade to the floor.
Millie let out a roar of rage and charged towards Ellie, swinging the empty pistol at her head.
Ellie stepped inside the swing and brought her open palm up into Millie’s unprotected jaw. Millie went down – as Skins would have said, had he been there – like a sack of spuds.
Charlie, meanwhile, had managed to disentangle himself from the pantomime horse and had turned to follow Millie. He saw his lover’s prostrate form and the savage glower on Ellie’s face, and thought better of trying to take her on. Better, perhaps, just to charge straight past her and get away.
As he ran at her, Ellie dropped into a crouch, getting her body low. The corridor should have been wide enough for him to breeze past her without any trouble, but Ellie wasn’t keen to let him pass. When he was almost level with her, she launched herself at his waist, wrapping her arms around him and bringing him down with an almighty ‘Oof!’ from the pair of them.
He caught his head on the wall as he fell, and by the time he hit the floor he was out cold.
‘I say,’ said Ernie’s muffled voice. ‘Is everyone all right? You couldn’t get us out of here, could you? We’ve got a dance contest to get to.’
Chapter Sixteen
Superintendent Sunderland’s men had arrived within minutes of Cuthbert’s call, and had cleared the ballroom quickly and efficiently once Charlie and Millie were arrested. The names of all those in attendance had been taken, along with brief statements, and the majority had been given leave to return to their homes. Or, more likely, to find a nightclub where they could sink a few cocktails and talk about the extraordinary night they’d just had at Tipsy Harry’s.
The only ones still there by the time Ellie had finished giving her account to Sunderland were the Dizzy Heights and what remained of the Alphabet Gang. Alfie and Ernie had been freed from their costume but had declined to get changed, preferring instead to sit in their vests, still wearing the horse’s legs as trousers. They didn’t want to miss anything.
The two groups were at opposite ends of the ballroom, with the band on the stage and the four remaining Alphabets sitting around a table in the far corner. Sunderland left Ellie with her friends and set off towards the centre of the hall, making a few more notes in his ever-present notebook as he went.
The Alphabet Gang huddled together slightly and then Danny leaned back.
‘I think you owe us all an explanation,’ he said. ‘Just what exactly has been going on here?’
‘I rather think you are owed an explanation, sir, yes,’ said Sunderland. ‘Might I prevail upon you to come down here by the stage so I don’t have to shout?’
The four men stood. Alfie grabbed the open champagne bottle, which prompted the others to turn back for their glasses. Bertie took another two bottles, both unopened, from tables as they passed, while Danny and Ernie made an effort to gather enough glasses for the band. They settled themselves at a table by the stage and Mickey and Elk scampered down to get drinks for their colleagues.
‘So, Charlie was a wrong’un, then?’ said Alfie.
‘As wrong as they come, sir, yes,’ said Sunderland.
‘And he did for that poor gel in the band?’
‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘That was Millie.’
‘Good lord,’ said Alfie. ‘Millie the dance teacher?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sunderland.
‘But she was an angel,’ said Alfie, still somewhat confused.
‘Let him explain, Alfie,’ said Danny. ‘You can ask your questions afterwards.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sunderland. ‘A couple of members of the band already know most of the story. I don’t want to burn anyone’s bridges for them, but I always think honesty is the best policy. About a month ago I got in touch with two gentlemen I first met in a little village in Gloucestershire in 1908. They were your Mr Maloney and Mr Dunn. The . . . rhythm section of the band. Is that right? Rhythm section?’
There were nods and murmurs of agreement from the Dizzies.
‘When I first met them I was a humble inspector in the Bristol CID, but now I’m a superintendent with the Metropolitan Police, attached to the War Office. And my current assignment is tracking down deserters.’
There were more murmurs, this time from the Alphabet Gang, and they weren’t quite so approving.
Sunderland held up his hand and the muttering ceased. ‘One particular deserter had popped into our line of sight – a man by the name of Arthur Grant. He was a farm labourer from Norfolk who was conscripted in 1916, and then disappeared a year later with something that wasn’t in any way his to disappear with. Deserted his post, deserted his pals, and did a bunk with twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of uncut diamonds.’
There were appreciative whistles this time.
‘Quite,’ continued Sunderland. ‘A very rich Belgian man was suddenly a very poor Belgian man, and Arthur Grant was on the run. Nobody knew what happened to him. Until now. Thanks to Messrs Maloney and Dunn, and especially to Mrs Maloney and Miss Puddephatt, we’ve been able to fill in the rest of the story.’
More murmurs of appreciation and a pat on the back for Puddle.
‘We now know that Grant didn’t escape alone. He went on the run in the company of a young nurse by the name of Annie Madigan. By all accounts she was a nasty piece of work, and I shan’t be surprised if we learn that she was actually the brains behind everything. Grant was a lazy chancer according to his record, and I’ve always wondered how he managed to go from skiving sentry duty to masterminding a jewel theft in the space of a couple of months. Now I think I know – it was Madigan. Anyway, the pair of them vanished. They couldn’t get home without papers, and even crossing France was a risk, but it seems they had a stroke of luck. Tired and hungry, they happened upon an Advanced Dressing Station – this is supposition, mind you, but they certainly ended up at such a place. I’d wager the plan was for Madigan to bring her “patient” in, get some food for them both and a bed for the night, and vanish again in the morning. Tragically – but to the immense good fortune of Grant and Madigan – a German plane crashed into the aid station. It had been shot down and witnesses said they could see the pilot was trying to get the aeroplane clear, but there was nothing he could do. Everyone was killed.’
‘Good lord,’ said Alfie.
‘Madigan, it seems, wasn’t quite as shocked as you, Mr Rawson,’ said Sunderland. ‘She saw only opportunity. They must have searched the wreckage
of the aid station until they found what she was looking for – identity papers and records for two likely candidates – and came upon Captain Robert Chandler and Nurse Millie Mitchell. Once they had what they wanted, they went on their way, leaving the chaos behind them. I can’t be certain how they managed to see out the last few months of the war and get home, but somehow they did. We had trouble tracing the whereabouts of the real Robert Chandler because his records were incomplete at the War Office. When we learned of the dressing station story I was able to see that that’s where the Chandler trail ended. It made it seem possible that Grant had turned into Chandler and had then vanished again. With a small fortune in diamonds behind them, they were able to set themselves up in considerable luxury in London with genuine papers and no one aware that the real Chandler and Mitchell had died in France. Madigan had been a chorus girl before the war and it seems she went back to it before an injury put a stop to her ambitions for good. Then they fell in with you gentlemen. We knew nothing of their whereabouts until we had a couple of tip-offs from one of our informants.’ Sunderland had no intention of revealing that the informant had been Cuthbert, the head porter – a reliable man inside a gentlemen’s club was too good a resource to waste by revealing his identity. ‘We learned that Grant had somehow been linked with a group of new recruits to the Aristippus Club. And we also heard that someone was planning to steal the legendary Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer. We reasoned it might very well be our man Grant.’
‘Mayfair Murderer, indeed,’ said Bertie. ‘Are we still going on about that? Load of old tosh if you ask me. Ain’t no such thing.’
‘Charlie – or Grant, I suppose I should say – knew different,’ said Ellie. ‘Or he thought he did, anyway. He and Millie – Annie – were down in the senior members’ wine cellar with the “Key of Keys” and the “Tree of Trees” thinking they could open the secret vault containing the lost treasure. It didn’t work. I heard Millie saying something about a diary so my guess is that Charlie bought a diary from a man in a pub, believing it held the secret to the treasure. He was conned.’
‘That’s my assumption, too,’ said Sunderland. ‘So, thanks to Mrs Maloney, we caught Grant and Madigan before they could do a bunk to the Continent. It’s a shame the diary was a fake in a way – I’d quite like to know if the treasure is real. But anyway, the rest of the story you know.’
‘We bloody don’t,’ said Danny. ‘What about Miss Adams? And how did you come to find all this out? What about the Dizzy Heights? How have they helped you?’
‘Credit where it’s due,’ said Sunderland. ‘I think Mrs Maloney ought to explain that.’
‘Oh,’ said Ellie. ‘Umm, OK. Well, I only gave the superintendent an idea of where to look for the records and the story. It was Millie’s ankle injury, you see. She referred to her torn ligament using a bit of medical jargon. I knew it because I was a Fanny – shut up, Ivor – but no one else would have.’
‘Hardly conclusive, though, what?’ said Bertie.
‘No, you’re right,’ said Ellie. ‘But later I remembered something about her arm as well. She gashed her arm at a dance one night and Blanche stitched her up. A couple of days later, she told me she’d removed the stitches herself. It didn’t strike me as particularly odd at the time because I could remove my own stitches as well. But then, I’d been a nurse. Which suggested that she might have been one, too. And that, I suspect, was what got Blanche killed. When Blanche stitched her up in the green room she was chatting away and Blanche told a story about the war. She said she’d been home on leave and was on her way to her ADS but never made it because it was destroyed by a crashed aeroplane. Millie must have had kittens when she heard that. Fancy bumping into someone after all this time who had actually been on their way to the very same ADS. What if she knew people there? What if she remembered why she knew the name Millie Mitchell?’
‘Oh,’ said Puddle, ‘of course. That first night we met Millie at the dance lesson. Blanche reacted to the name like she knew it but couldn’t place it.’
‘And Annie couldn’t take the risk. Blanche would surely have remembered in the end,’ said Ellie. ‘Once she’d started reminiscing about the plane crash at the Advanced Dressing Station, Blanche’s cheerful chatter sealed her fate. Millie decided she had to get rid of her – she couldn’t be sure what she knew.’
‘And how did she manage that?’ asked Ernie. ‘How did she poison her?’
‘Her saxophone reed,’ said Puddle. ‘Before that second lesson she must have had time to put poison on the reed. The instruments were left in here while we all milled about the place. Then afterwards she swapped it for a clean one, but put it on wrong – I noticed when I played it.’
‘More supposition?’ asked Ernie.
‘No,’ said Sunderland. ‘We found a bottle of poison and a discoloured saxophone reed in a tobacco tin in her bag.’
‘Fast-acting poison?’ said Ernie.
‘Relatively,’ said Sunderland.
‘Then if she swapped the reed before the lesson, why didn’t Miss Adams die until after the break?’
‘Oh,’ said Sunderland. ‘Oh, that’s a very good question indeed.’
There were murmurs of disappointment.
Puddle let out a little squeak as she realized the answer. ‘It was the songs we were playing,’ she said.
‘The songs protected her from poison?’ said Ernie.
‘In a way, yes,’ said Puddle. ‘Before the break she’d been playing the clarinet. She didn’t pick up her sax until we started again after our drinks.’
‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ said Alfie. ‘So old Charlie wasn’t Charlie at all. And Millie wasn’t Millie. And the clarinet wasn’t a saxophone. Just goes to show, what?’
‘It definitely goes to show something,’ said Sunderland. ‘We’re holding them both at the local nick. I’ll let them sweat for the night and question them in the morning. If there’s anything different in their stories I’ll let you all know. I’ll eat my hat first, but I’ll let you know.’
It took a while for everyone to digest the news, but eventually the Alphabets and the Dizzies went their separate ways.
Calm descended on the Maloney household for the weekend. The Dizzy Heights had played a private party on Saturday night but that was nothing new for Skins, and life continued around him while he snoozed through most of Sunday morning.
It was business as usual by Monday, though, and the entire family was happily engaged in the usual round of lunchtime shenanigans when the doorbell rang. Mrs Dalrymple knocked on the dining room door to announce a visitor just as Skins and Edward were putting the finishing touches to their mashed-potato model of a horse.
‘There’s a Mr Daniels to see you,’ said Mrs Dalrymple. ‘Are you at home?’
‘To Danny?’ said Skins. ‘Definitely.’
‘Show him in to the drawing room, would you?’ said Ellie. ‘Then fetch Nanny to take care of these two. I’ll stay here, honey. You go and see to our guest.’
Skins beeped both Edward’s and Catherine’s noses and made his way through to the drawing room.
‘All right, Danny?’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Nice to see you. Make yourself at home.’
‘Hello,’ said Danny, shaking the proffered hand. ‘I say, I’ve not interrupted your lunch, have I?’
‘Not at all, mate. Not at all. Fancy some tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee would be wonderful, thank you.’
Skins rang the bell. Before he’d had a chance to sit down, Lottie arrived at a run.
‘Yes, sir?’ she said.
‘Can you get us coffee for three, please, Lots? And check with Nanny in case the kids need anything else.’
‘Of course, sir.’
She left as quickly as she’d arrived.
‘Nice gaff you’ve got here,’ said Danny. ‘For some reason I never imagined you living in a place like this.’
‘You’d have been right if I weren’t married to Ellie,’ said Skins. ‘Family mo
ney.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, it’s all very charming.’
Ellie joined them and greeted Danny warmly.
‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘What’s very charming?’
‘Your home,’ he said. ‘And in a lovely area, too.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’re very happy here.’
Danny smiled. ‘I was just saying to Skins – I hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to thank you.’
‘Good heavens. Whatever for?’
‘For keeping my war record to yourselves. I spoke to Superintendent Sunderland at the weekend and he told me how he’d delved into our backgrounds based on your conversations with us all. You know all about me now, and there’s no need for you to keep mum, but you have anyway. And I greatly appreciate it. Thank you.’
‘It’s none of anyone’s business, far as I’m concerned,’ said Skins. ‘You had your reasons for doing what you did, and you’ve got your reasons for keeping quiet about it. It’s up to you.’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ said Danny. ‘At first I was afraid of being called a coward, then I was afraid of being called a hero. I think I just don’t like being the centre of attention.’
‘There’s nothing cowardly about standing up for what you believe in,’ said Ellie. ‘The cowards were men like Grant who skulked away from their duty. It must have taken great strength to say no to fighting when you knew the whole country would be jeering at you. A coward would have faked a wound or hidden in the woods until it was all over.’
‘Well, thank you, anyway. I’d rather my pals didn’t know and I’m grateful to you all for not letting on.’
‘We’ll keep it between ourselves,’ said Skins. ‘And you can trust Barty and Puddle, too. It’s not directly about him so he’ll forget all about it by the end of the week, and she’s . . . well, she’s Puddle. Nothing to worry about.’
He smiled. ‘Well, that’s thing the first out of the way. On to thing the second. I mentioned my pals.’
‘The Alphabet Gang,’ said Ellie.
