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

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Yes, indeed. The Alphabet Gang. You know, we either need to recruit a new C or change our name. Lord knows it was confusing enough as it was, what with Alfie’s convoluted naming system, but with a missing C it makes even less sense.’

  Skins thought for a moment. ‘The Common Cold Cheese Boys,’ he said after a while.

  Danny and Ellie looked at him blankly.

  ‘Well, you’ve lost your C, so you’re A, B, D, E. You could be BADE, BEAD, or EDAB. Like the Dutch cheese, but said when you’ve got a cold with a bunged-up nose. Edab.’

  Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘Abed? The Sleepy Gang.’

  Danny laughed. ‘Let’s not rush into anything just yet. At least not without the others. But whatever we’re called, we worked dashed hard on those blessed dances and I’ve been co-opted to seek the assistance of the Dizzy Heights in accompanying the contest once more.’

  ‘The Friday night booking is still in the diary,’ said Skins. ‘We’re happy to play Tipsy Harry’s until you get fed up with us.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but it seemed like a sound idea to get your specific assent to do the contest. You have an agreed programme of songs and whatnot?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about us,’ said Skins. ‘We’ll be there.’

  Lottie arrived with the coffee.

  ‘How are the rest of your buddies?’ asked Ellie once they all had their drinks.

  ‘Not wonderful,’ said Danny. ‘I’m not entirely sure the whole business with your Blanche had properly registered with them before. If it doesn’t directly involve them, they don’t really pay it much attention. But when it all suddenly turned out to be one of their pals and his girlfriend, it all got a great deal closer to home. There’s been lots of agonizing and “Why didn’t we spot he was a wrong’un?” Obviously, that comes with a hearty helping of “Of course, I knew there was something fishy about him from the start.” Not to mention “A gel that pretty must have been up to no good.” They feel betrayed, I think. No one likes finding out that someone in their midst isn’t who they suppose him to be.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘You really must stop fretting about that,’ said Ellie. ‘They’ll never find out about you. And if they did, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts they’d not think anything of it.’

  ‘Ernie spent the whole time machining metal doodahs for military whatnots, after all. You saved lives. Eight families still have sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, because of you. I know your pals – they’d be proud if they knew.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Danny.

  Skins leaned forward. ‘While we’re on the subject of the club, though . . . I don’t suppose . . . well, has anyone said anything . . . ?’

  ‘About the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer? They’ve not stopped talking about it. Trouble is, no one knows anything. The club officials deny all knowledge; the staff haven’t got a clue. None of the members, either. Seems the only one to have had even a vague idea was Charlie, and everyone says he was barking up the wrong tree. Other than assuming it has something to do with the “Key of Keys” and the “Tree of Trees”, we’re all just as much in the dark as always.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ said Skins. ‘There’s likely some club rule about you all having equal shares in the club’s riches, and no good ever comes of being fabulously wealthy.’

  Danny laughed. ‘You’re very wise for a drummer. To be honest, I think it’s much more interesting if we don’t know. It’s nice to have a mystery. But there’s one mystery about to be solved: who are the best dancers, Tipsy Harry’s or the Wags? How do you rate our chances?’

  Ellie and Skins exchanged glances.

  ‘Well . . .’ said Skins. ‘You’ve certainly got the best horse.’

  Ellie decided she wanted to go along to the Augmented Ninth that night. She loved watching the band play, and even after all these years she still got a thrill from seeing Skins behind his drum set. She remembered that first time she’d seen him at the hotel in Weston as though it had happened fifteen minutes ago, not fifteen years.

  She went to the Augmented Ninth often, but usually in the company of one or two of her more raucous friends. Tonight, though, she wanted to be with her other friends, the musicians she’d shared the past few weeks with. Most especially Puddle. She’d known the bubbly woodwind player for quite a while, but recent events had brought them closer together. Ellie wanted to check that she was all right.

  Skins and Dunn had set off to collect their instruments from the shop on New Row, leaving Ellie and Nanny to get the monsters into bed with a story and, to Ellie’s surprise, a few songs. Nanny Nora, it turned out, possessed not only an unusually pleasant singing voice but also a ukulele of which she was quite an accomplished player. Ellie helped out with the harmonies, and the children joined in the choruses. It was quite the jamboree.

  Once everyone was settled, Ellie changed into a cocktail dress and poured herself a gin, which she drank while reading a magazine and listening to gramophone records. Eventually she decided it was time to go, and sent Lottie out to find a cab. By nine she was at her usual table by the stage in the Augmented Ninth.

  The band, as Skins was later to say in the tiny green room when they were done, were on fire.

  ‘I thought we were cool,’ said Puddle.

  ‘No, we were definitely hot,’ rumbled Benny as he disassembled his trombone. ‘Trust me, I know hot.’

  ‘Well, I thought you were pretty good,’ said Ellie. ‘How’s everybody holding up?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Mickey. ‘Pretty relieved, tell the truth. Glad it’s all over, like.’

  Elk was replacing a string on his banjo. ‘Got that right. I don’t half miss old Blanche, but . . . well, it was hard to settle, weren’t it? I mean, not knowing. It feels like we can say a proper goodbye now.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Puddle. ‘I heard from Bill this afternoon. The funeral is on Friday. Eleven o’clock at Richmond Cemetery. We’re all welcome. He’s her only family, so it would be nice if we were all there.’

  Eustace looked up from applying a tiny amount of oil to the valves of his trumpet. ‘That would be most appropriate. Would it be fitting to play one of her tunes at Tipsy Harry’s afterwards, do you think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Dunn. ‘How about something with a bit of oomph like “The Mayfair Stomp”? That always goes down a storm. She’d like to be remembered for making people dance.’

  ‘I reckon she would,’ said Elk. ‘And . . . you know . . . we’ll be in Mayfair an’ all.’

  ‘That we will,’ said Dunn. ‘That we will.’

  ‘They’re going ahead with the dance contest, yes?’ said Benny.

  ‘They are,’ said Skins. ‘They thought it would be good to carry on after they’d done all that work for it.’

  ‘Can’t disagree with that,’ said Benny. ‘Best bib and tucker again, then?’

  ‘All the matching clobber,’ said Skins. ‘A send-off for Blanche, and look our best for the contest.’

  ‘They’re going to be a man short,’ said Mickey.

  ‘You offering?’ said Skins.

  ‘You’ve seen me dance, mate. What do you think?’

  Skins laughed. ‘Funny how we’re the hottest—’

  ‘Or coolest,’ interrupted Puddle.

  ‘You’re not going to let that lie, are you? We’re great musicians, but we can’t dance for toffee.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m a great little mover.’

  ‘Their biggest problem,’ said Ellie, ‘is that they won’t have a coach. Millie-Annie might have been an evil murdering witch, but she knew how to get those boys dancing.’

  ‘You could do it,’ said Dunn.

  ‘I most certainly couldn’t.’

  ‘No, he’s right,’ said Skins. ‘They know the steps – all they need is someone to gee them up a bit. Give ’em the old “Once more unto the breach” and let them take care of the rest.’

  ‘I can do that, I guess,’
she said.

  ‘Course you can. Get them to stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood. They’ll love a bit of that.’

  ‘As long as the other lot don’t take unkindly to the idea of the band’s manager giving the opposition a pep talk,’ said Dunn. ‘You’re supposed to be impartial.’

  ‘It’s not as though you actually are our manager, though, darling, is it?’ said Puddle. ‘We still don’t have one.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘No, but they don’t know that.’

  ‘Well, I think I might have the solution to both problems. My sister—’

  ‘Your sister again, Puddle?’ said Mickey. ‘Are you still on about that?’

  ‘Hear me out. Katy is an absolute organizational wiz. We always rely on her for family parties and whatnot – she put on the most splendid do for Mummy and Daddy’s silver wedding. And she keeps the books for her husband’s business. She’s the ideal candidate.’

  ‘Yes, but what does she know about the entertainment business?’ said Eustace. ‘It’s a cut-throat dog-eat-dog world, you know. It’s no place for a woman.’

  ‘Entertainment dogs armed with knives?’ said Dunn. ‘It does sound terrifying, you’re right.’

  Eustace just glared at him.

  ‘What do any of us know?’ said Puddle. ‘We just muddle along as best we can at the moment. She’s a wiz, I tell you. She’ll get the hang of it in no time. She’ll have London’s club owners eating out of her hand.’

  ‘I’ve no objections,’ said Benny. ‘We could do with someone taking care of the business side of things.’

  ‘I’m all for it,’ said Skins. ‘Show of hands?’

  Mickey, Benny, Elk, Skins, Dunn, and Puddle raised their hands.

  ‘Against?’ said Skins, though he knew there was only one objection.

  Eustace raised his hand.

  ‘The ayes have it, then,’ said Skins. ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘It’ll all end in tears,’ said Eustace. ‘You mark my words.’

  ‘I’ve got another proposal, since we’re all in a voting mood,’ said Puddle.

  ‘You’re on a roll, after all,’ said Dunn.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Some of the arrangements have struggled a bit without Blanche, and Mark isn’t going to be able to sit in any more – he’s got a chair in an orchestra in Manchester.’

  ‘Who’s Mark?’ said Elk.

  ‘Puddle’s mate from college,’ said Skins. ‘Been sitting in on sax. Keep up.’

  ‘I’ve been calling him Percy,’ said Elk.

  ‘He won’t have taken it personally,’ said Puddle. ‘And it doesn’t matter now anyway, because he’s heading up north. So . . . umm . . . well, how do you feel about Vera?’

  ‘From the Finchley Foot-Tappers?’ said Mickey.

  ‘Yes. She’s fed up with them – they don’t treat her at all well – and she’s looking for a new seat. I said I’d ask.’

  ‘Anyone heard her?’ said Mickey.

  ‘We saw her play at that place in Islington, didn’t we, Barty?’ said Skins. ‘She’s not half bad.’

  ‘She’s great,’ agreed Dunn. ‘She’s no Blanche, but Pudds can show her the ropes.’

  ‘Two blooming women in the band again,’ said Eustace.

  ‘Have I met her?’ said Elk.

  ‘You’d know if you had,’ said Dunn. ‘Short blonde hair. Laughs like a sea lion.’

  ‘Oh, her,’ said Elk. ‘She’s good fun. I vote “yes”.’

  ‘Show of hands again?’ said Skins.

  The vote went the same way, with only Eustace objecting.

  ‘Motion carried,’ said Skins. ‘Give her the nod, Pudds. If she wants the job it’s hers.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Puddle.

  ‘So does this mean I’m free to coach the Alphabet Gang now?’ said Ellie.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Skins. ‘Can’t see anyone having any objections if you’re not our manager any more.’

  ‘I bet Eustace could think of an objection, couldn’t you, son?’ said Dunn.

  ‘What’s the point of pretending we’re a democracy if we don’t get a chance to voice our opinions?’ said Eustace. ‘I was only saying what I thought.’

  Dunn smiled but decided not to antagonize him any further.

  ‘A good night’s work, all in all, then,’ said Benny. ‘And we’ve got the rest of the week off. If anyone wants to meet for a drink, I’ll be at Flapper Sam’s on Wednesday night, otherwise I’ll see you at the funeral on Friday.’

  He picked up his trombone case and headed for the door.

  ‘We’d better be off, too,’ said Skins. ‘I’ve got to get the cart back to Covent Garden before I turn into a pumpkin. Or the cart does. There’s pumpkins involved, anyway. With drums on.’

  The rest of the band agreed that it was time to go, and everyone headed out into early-morning London. Ellie managed to find a cab, while Skins and Dunn wearily pushed the instrument-laden cart back to New Row.

  Bloomsbury

  June 17, 1925

  Dearest Flo

  Well, that was bracing, as Emily might say.

  I’m sure you’ll have read in the newspapers that Arthur Grant and Annie Madigan were arrested last Friday, thanks, in no small part, to yours truly. And the boys. And the rest of the band. And Supt Sunderland. And, of course, you, my dearest friend. Thank you for all your help.

  The newspaper reports are reasonably complete, and surprisingly accurate, though I did notice there has been no mention of where the ceremonial regalia (the ‘Key of Keys’ and the ‘Tree of Trees’) were found. I managed to slip down to the wine cellar that features so heavily in all the accounts before everything was squared away and found the key in a carved niche in the wall, and the staff inserted in a socket in the ground a few feet away. It could be just coincidence – maybe the holes were for something else entirely and whoever forged the diary thought they’d be just right for fooling a credulous and greedy man – or . . . You know, Flo, I can’t give up on the thought that there’s something in it.

  The whole thing about the ‘Key of Keys’ and the ‘Tree of Trees’ and the . . . Oh, Flo, I’ve had a thought. The ‘Knee of Knees’. Part of the ceremonial nonsense was a joke thing about one of the guys’ knees. What if . . . But no. It’s all bunkum. Of course it is. Shut up, Ellie.

  It’s been a thrilling few weeks, though, so thank you for mentioning the boys to Sunderland and getting us all involved.

  In all the excitement, I completely forgot to tell you that we took Catherine and Edward to the Empire Exhibition in early May to see the London Defended show. It was quite a rousing affair, with horse displays, the fire brigade, and, Edward’s favorite, what the advertisements called ‘The breathless exploits of the Royal Air Force’. There were planes flying over the stadium, firing blank ammunition at the crowd. It was thrilling and Edward was utterly mesmerized. So . . . I was wondering . . . do you and Emily still have friends in the aeroplane business? Might you be able to show him a real plane close up? He desperately wants to fly and he can carry on dreaming about that, but I wouldn’t mind him getting to touch a plane . . . maybe sit in one?

  Perhaps we could talk about it the next time you’re in town.

  Thank you again for opening the door to your exciting world.

  My love to you both.

  Your friend

  Ellie

  Chapter Seventeen

  Blanche’s funeral was in equal measures heartbreaking and uplifting. The sadness of saying farewell to a sister and friend whose life had been tragically cut short by someone else’s greed was offset to some extent by sharing stories of the joy and laughter that had followed her wherever she went.

  Blanche had many more friends than her brother Bill had realized. The graveside service was so well attended by musicians, club owners, and even one or two jazz fans who had been following her career, that he worried they might not all fit into the function room he had hired at a local hotel for the funeral reception. As it turned out, it w
as crowded but comfortable.

  Bill gave a moving speech about Blanche’s childhood, and the scrapes they had got into together. Puddle told a few stories about her life as a working musician. And Skins regaled the assembled friends with a few of the racier tales of Blanche’s exploits. Ellie winced at the inappropriateness of one of the stories, but she had badly misread the room. Instead of the tutting and disapproval she had feared, there was only warmth and laughter. The bit about the French waiter and the plate of oysters even earned a cheer and a round of applause.

  Despite the competition among local bands for the limited number of bookings, there was no real rivalry between them and they were all pleased to be celebrating the life of one of their own. To Ellie’s surprise, there wasn’t even any friction between the Dizzy Heights and the Finchley Foot-Tappers when Vera announced her move.

  ‘I think they’re glad to be rid of me, to be honest,’ said Vera when Ellie asked her about it. ‘They never quite knew what to do about having a woman in the band.’

  ‘How’s your sight-reading?’ said Dunn. ‘Fancy coming along with us tonight? We’re playing Tipsy Harry’s – it’s their dance contest.’

  ‘Rather,’ she said with a grin. ‘I love it there – we played for the Alphabet Gang for a bit, don’t forget. Shame about whatshisname. Charlie, wasn’t it? He was rather a dish.’

  ‘Kick-off’s at nine,’ said Skins. ‘We set up about eight, but Barty and I will be there from about seven to get our gear in.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Vera. ‘I’ll see you all there.’

  ‘Buy. A. Bloody. Car,’ grunted Dunn as they heaved the handcart up a kerb in Soho later that day.

  ‘Be cheaper to persuade Tipsy Harry’s to buy a drum set,’ said Skins.

  ‘I don’t much care how you do it, but there has to be a better way of carting this lot round London.’

  ‘You can be a right miserable bleeder sometimes, you know.’

  ‘What can I say? You bring out the worst in me.’

  They arrived at Tipsy Harry’s and started setting up on the stage. The Ents Committee had pulled out all the stops for the second attempt at the dance contest, and the ballroom was bedecked with banners, bunting, and streamers. In the week since the first abortive attempt, the committee had decided that it would definitely be an annual event and the banners proclaimed this to be ‘The Aristippus Club Dance Contest 1925’.