Death at the Wychbourne Follies

by Amy Myers

  ‘It was sex of course. It always boils down to that,’ Lynette Reynolds remarked, once the party settled in the drawing room and Nell was inconspicuously (she hoped) superintending the coffee trolley. ‘Take Noël Coward’s plays. Sex of all sorts,’ Mrs Reynolds continued. ‘Tobias’s death will boil down to that in the end.’

  In Nell’s experience, boiling down could be a long patient business. Perhaps that’s what sex was like too, she thought, then quickly took her mind off that subject. What was past was past, and what was to come— No, she wouldn’t think about that either. Not with Alex Melbray close at hand. ‘Tobias was a lech,’ Mrs Reynolds pronounced. ‘That’s what happened to Mary Ann. He was disappointed with his own sex life, so he muscled in on other people’s.’

  ‘He couldn’t have done the night she left us,’ Lady Kencroft said patiently. ‘Now Gerald has told us what has happened, we know that Mary Ann was leaving with her lover, and that wouldn’t have been Tobias.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Katie,’ Alice Maxwell objected. ‘Some wolf was continually and mercilessly harassing her. It could have been Tobias or someone else. One of the troubles we women have. Fortunately, I can stand up for myself.’

  Nell saw her point. Miss Maxwell was a sturdy woman and Nell wouldn’t want to cross her path.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ Lord Ansley intervened, ‘that I’ve been told by Chief Inspector Melbray that Tobias had an impeccable alibi for that night. He can’t have murdered her, but as you say, Alice, he could have been the man who was pressing his attentions on her and scaring her so much.’

  ‘That could equally well have been any of the Gaiety backstage staff or any of the cast,’ Lady Kencroft pointed out, clearly annoyed.

  ‘I still maintain Tobias was in some way responsible for her death,’ Miss Maxwell declared.

  ‘You seem very sure of that, Alice,’ Lord Kencroft observed.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ she retorted.

  ‘No, although I agree the situation suggests it. She told me on several occasions about this menace.’

  ‘Did she name him?’ Mrs Jarrett asked.

  ‘I fear not, and perhaps that was because he was one of us,’ Lord Kencroft calmly pointed out.

  ‘By us, you must mean anyone at the theatre,’ Mr Jarrett said impatiently. ‘Constance, as I informed you earlier, I am not at all well. I shall retire to my room.’

  Here we go again, Nell thought, as Mrs Jarrett rose to her feet to accompany him. What a guest! Any difficult situation and he does not feel well. How does that nice woman stand him?

  ‘That’s Hubert’s way of escaping the fire,’ Mr Heydock observed, after they had departed.

  ‘Darling, what do you mean by that?’ Mrs Reynolds whipped back smartly. ‘Can it be you agree that it all comes down to sex?’

  Mr Heydock flushed. ‘Think about it. Hubert married Constance very quickly after Mary Ann’s departure. And didn’t you tell me that Constance joined you in Romano’s restaurant at some point that evening? She and Hubert had been in a private room upstairs and so he must have left early.’

  ‘Not feeling well, perhaps,’ Lynette said languidly.

  ‘I suggest,’ Lord Ansley said quietly, ‘that we change the subject. It’s all too easy to speculate without evidence.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Miss Maxwell agreed. ‘Mary Ann loved the Gaiety and loved all of us. Let us remember that.’

  Mr Heydock would not be deterred. ‘Whoever he was, I still believe that the man who was persecuting her was behind her disappearance, and probably her death too, then or later.’

  ‘We may never know,’ Lady Kencroft said firmly. ‘But Alice is right in saying that Mary Ann loved us. If she had escaped safely away from the Gaiety and its problems she would have sent some sign that all was well. We heard nothing. Let her rest in peace.’

  ELEVEN

  Tobias’s home was in Radpath Gardens, which was only a short walk from Earl’s Court station in west London. For that Nell was extremely grateful, as travelling with Ethel Palmer had been difficult, naturally enough, she supposed. Once the legal formalities had been ironed out, Ethel would have the task of disposing of his possessions. Would Ethel resent or welcome her presence while she was sizing up her inheritance? You’ll be treading on eggshells, she warned herself.

  The tall, white-painted terraced buildings looked attractive even in the harsh grip of winter and suggested that Tobias Rocke had had a comfortable life but not an ostentatious one. She could hazard a guess as to why he had decided to live here. These houses were in the hinterland of society, well positioned without being at the centre of the glittering world of theatreland or part of fashionable Chelsea. Here he could have watched without drawing attention to himself.

  A ring at the bell in the stately porch brought the housekeeper to the door. Dickens would have approved of her, Nell thought. Beaming and substantially built, she looked the picture of welcome and reliability. Her husband, even more powerfully built, loomed behind her.

  ‘You’ll be Mr Rocke’s widow,’ the housekeeper addressed Ethel. ‘You come in, dearie. I’m Mrs Jolly. Jolly by name and jolly by nature, that’s what Cyril always says.’

  Behind her, Cyril murmured agreement.

  ‘I’ve a cup of tea waiting,’ she reassured them. ‘We’d have been at the funeral if it hadn’t been for my rheumatics.’

  The beaming continued while Nell was introduced, but she noticed it became somewhat forced, when it was mentioned she was here at the police’s request.

  ‘Thought they’d finished,’ Cyril grunted, as Mrs Jolly led the way into an austere and obviously little used room off the hallway, where teacups were laid out on a table. The fact that she then had to disappear to the basement to bring up a large teapot herself underlined the decrease in servant numbers since these houses were built well before the war.

  ‘We’ve been wondering,’ Mrs Jolly said firmly, once settled, ‘what you’ll be planning to do with the house, Mrs Rocke. Once everything is settled, that is.’

  For a moment, Nell thought Ethel was going to snap back, ‘That’s my business,’ but to her credit she was diplomatic. ‘I’ll have to think about that, Mrs Jolly. If I sell it of course I’ll make it clear you and your husband go with the house.’

  Mrs Jolly’s beam stopped being forced. Relief was evident on both their faces.

  ‘You’re from the police then,’ Cyril grunted, still regarding Nell with great suspicion.

  ‘Here at their request,’ she amended.

  ‘That Inspector Melbray wanted to know a sight too much if you ask me,’ he muttered. ‘Wanted to know who Mr Rocke’s guests were, rummaged through all his belongings. Nose into everything. Nothing to be touched or removed, but for what? Nothing, because they’ve got the bloke who did it banged up, begging your pardon, missis.’

  Ethel stiffened at such lack of tact. ‘That’ll be all, Mr Jolly, Mrs Jolly. We’ll begin looking round now.’

  ‘We’d best show you.’ Mrs Jolly immediately rose to her feet.

  For all the housekeeper’s beams, Nell suspected some items might already have made their way into the Jollys’ quarters. Enough, Nell, she reproved herself. Good sleuths don’t make premature judgments. Anyway, whatever Alex Melbray thought she might find, it was hardly likely to be valued in gold and silver.

  ‘We’ve given everything a nice tidy-up,’ Mrs Jolly announced proudly.

  So much for the inspector’s order that nothing should be touched, Nell thought ruefully. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled as warmly as she could in the higher interests of the task ahead.

  ‘Much appreciated, I’m sure,’ Ethel said less warmly.

  ‘Was Mr Rocke a tidy man in his habits?’ Nell asked, looking round at the main room on the ground floor – an uninspiring dining room.

  ‘He was, Miss Drury. Except for his study,’ Mrs Jolly added. ‘But you won’t find anything of interest there,’ she assured them. ‘The inspector went through it. There’s a basket where Mr Rocke
kept his lucky tokens – daft, these actors are. Fancy taking a hare’s foot to the theatre for good luck. “You ought to try some real work,” I felt like telling him.’

  Nell was beginning to tire of the Jollys. ‘Nevertheless, I’d like to see the study.’

  Reluctantly, the couple led them upstairs past a characterless drawing room at the rear of the first floor, and then to the far more interesting-sounding study at the front. ‘In there.’ Cyril Jolly pointed.

  The study was indeed a contrast. Bookshelves with drawers beneath them and stuffed with papers, files and books of all sizes covered three walls of the room. A table with a typewriter stood by the window, and a large basket spilling over with what looked like cuddly toys was wedged between the table and the nearest bookshelves-cum-drawers.

  ‘Just look at that pile of old rubbish,’ Mrs Jolly sniffed.

  Nell didn’t see rubbish at all. She saw a pile of something interesting. For a middle-aged man a basketful of toys – and now, looking closer, she could see other knick-knacks – was an unusual choice. Is that the sort of thing Alex Melbray wanted her to consider? For instance, she recognized a Steiff teddy bear that was only designed a year or two ago so this couldn’t be a collection of Tobias Rocke’s childhood memorabilia.

  ‘I remember that rabbit,’ Ethel said suddenly, peering over Nell’s shoulder. ‘Picked it up at some theatre when we first came to London. To think he still had it. Silly old chump. And that’s the vase from The Flower Shop Girl. I remember it because Miss Darling was so fond of it and, bless me, if that isn’t Mr Heydock’s toy lion. Called him Henry, don’t know why. It went everywhere with him.’

  Nell studied the collection for some time, wondering what stories might lie behind the items. Perhaps none, but perhaps some that might possibly tie in with something else. The more she learned about Tobias Rocke the greater her chances of finding the link to his murder. But frustratingly Ethel recognized no more of the now abandoned toys.

  ‘I’ll begin looking through the files now, Mrs Palmer,’ Nell said firmly.

  Ethel sniffed. ‘Nothing much here that I can see. Only old papers.’

  Only! Nell disagreed with that word. Here must surely lie some answers. The study was overlooking the street not the garden, although that might have been quieter. But Tobias Rocke wouldn’t have been interested in peaceful places. He wanted to look out over the street where the world was passing by. He seemed to have been the sort of person with a nose into everything, a picker-up of unconsidered trifles. That to him would constitute power over people and their lives.

  ‘If that’ll be all, Miss Drury, I can show you the bedrooms,’ Mrs Jolly announced edgily.

  ‘Don’t let me hinder you,’ Nell said sweetly. ‘As you can see, I haven’t yet finished.’

  Ethel was on Mrs Jolly’s side. ‘I haven’t got all day either.’

  Time to call a halt to this situation, Nell decided. Ethel was tactfully despatched to make an inventory of the rest of the house and the Jollys sent to accompany her, thus leaving Nell on her own. The Jollys had not been happy about that.

  ‘I’ll telephone to Scotland Yard for permission if you wish,’ she had told them anxiously. That pleased them even less, and grudgingly they departed, leaving her to explore further. This room was her oyster, and she was going to make full use of it.

  ‘Blithering bloaters, Tobias Rocke,’ she muttered to herself, looking round at the giant task ahead. ‘What on earth is this all about?’ If he was indeed a blackmailer, then there had to be something in this chaotic study to indicate it. He had expected to return here and wouldn’t have removed incriminating material before he left for Kent. Thankfully it was clear that the Jollys had no interest in papers and their ‘tidying up’ had not included this room.

  She began with the easier tasks, on the grounds that if she tackled the files and papers first she might overlook the obvious by mistake. Good plan, but unrewarded. She could see nothing of interest on the table or in its drawer that contained only writing materials and spare typewriting ribbons. There was no paper conveniently left in the typewriter, and the only file on the table itself was a household budget book, which revealed merely an interest in fine wines.

  Next she tackled the books on the shelves. They seemed just what might be expected from a theatre lover and performer: The Stage Year Book going back to well before the war, John Hollingshead’s book on the Gaiety theatre, Macready’s diary, books by Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Everyman pocket series play texts, and hundreds more. Nothing there for her, she decided.

  The heavy loose-leaf files must surely be a different matter, she hoped, as she withdrew them one at a time. They didn’t carry titles, but they all had the same content: page after page of newspaper clippings, with the dates and sources neatly noted above them and with photographs, either postcards or drawn from magazines, interspersed with them. The clippings appeared to be reviews of every play under the sun, from Euripides to Coward, together with articles on actors and actresses from The Era, Play Pictorial and other magazines dating from the 1880s until modern times.

  She studied them for a few minute. Was there a link between the files? If so, it wasn’t a record of all the plays in which Tobias Rocke had appeared because there was no mention of him in many of the cuttings she looked at. Then she spotted the name of Lynette Allison, Mrs Reynolds’s maiden and stage name, in two clippings on one page and closer study revealed that every clipping in this file was of her. So that’s all it was. Each file was centred on one of his friends.

  Friends? She had been about to put the file down when it fell open at the last page. A large photograph of a young Lynette took up most of the page – and it had a huge black cross crayoned over the face.

  What the devilled duck is this about? Nell shivered. Was this a glimpse of the real Tobias Rocke at last? Alex’s men could well have passed over it, thinking it an insignificant detail, but yet it was just the sort of thing that he had asked her to look out for. Take it slowly, she thought as she began to check other files. Be sure of where I’m going with this. Only a few files had photographs similarly defaced at their end, despite the fact that all of them had photographs of differing sizes within the main content. Some of the files had more than one subject, so it was not always easy to pick up the name that had interested Tobias Rocke. And wasn’t it odd that she hadn’t found a file for Lady Ansley or for Lady Kencroft?

  And Mary Ann Darling? Would there be one for her? Feverishly, she hunted through them, passing files with familiar names, including Hubert Jarrett, Alice Maxwell and Neville Heydock. Only one for Constance Wilson, now Mrs Jarrett, carried a black cross so heavy it almost obliterated her face. And then Nell found Mary Ann’s. It was packed full of reviews and photographs, but not all of her. There were a few provincial newspaper reviews of an Elsie Hawkins, dating from the 1880s. There was only one photograph with these, a studio picture which was undoubtedly a young Mary Ann Darling but carrying the legend Miss Elsie Hawkins. That must have been her real name. Nell rejoiced. One mission accomplished at least.

  Of Mary Ann herself, there were many photographs; she smiled out from every page, but in trepidation Nell turned to the end of the file. There was Mary Ann, a black cross so savagely drawn across her face that it had cut into the stiff card of the photograph. The hatred that had been behind it shouted out at her.

  She had to force herself to go on with the search even though she felt like turning tail and running. This whole room now seemed poisoned with hate. What else might she find? There was a key in the lock of two of the drawers beneath the bookshelves, and she made herself open them. The first contained a number of paper bags, each with a date on them. One dated 1893 contained a pair of ladies’ silk stockings; the next held a corset cover; the next, dated 1909, pink knickers. That’s enough, she decided. Tobias Rocke was one very sick man.

  Right, now for the other drawer. To her relief, this seemed merely a collection of loose photographs, which though interesting suggeste
d nothing more. One, marked Cannes on the back, was of Alice Maxwell and Tobias himself with Doris Paget in the background, another was of Tobias in the Ivy restaurant with someone she didn’t recognize, another showed him with Neville Heydock, marked on the back Ascot. All of them featured Tobias. Did they tell her anything other than that he was pathologically addicted to seeing himself in photographs as well as having a salacious interest in women’s clothing? Was all this research for potential blackmail? Possibly, she thought, but it wasn’t clear how except that the clippings might help if he had wanted to keep tabs on his victims’ lives.

  I’m flummoxed, she thought crossly. All I’ve got is a pocketful of dead hopes, or at least dying. There were no diary records, no notebooks, no tell-tale letters, nothing. And yet the black crosses and the locked drawer of clothing had to mean something. And so might the basket of cuddly toys that stood by his desk. Why should he have Mr Heydock’s toy lion and Mary Ann’s vase?

  What must have gripped Tobias Rocke was knowledge of other people’s lives that could be dangerous if aired abroad in public. Did he threaten them with exposure, or just give winks and nods and revel in the knowledge, or did he make demands? There must be, for instance, many men like Arthur Fontenoy who preferred men to women in their private lives, but in public this could not be mentioned, not least because it was illegal.

  She was about to push the drawer in when one last photograph caught her eye. It appeared to be just a garden with bushes and someone standing at a front door. Even though the photograph had been taken from a distance away, she still managed to identify Mary Ann. It was a sepia photograph, perhaps taken around the time she vanished, judging by her dress. Nell studied it more closely, simply because it was so unlike the other photographs in the drawer, each of which had been taken at some luxurious location. The bushes were dark, but it looked as though they were obscuring someone standing there, hiding. Someone Mary Ann could not have seen from where she was. There was something familiar about that figure – the way he was standing and she’d seen it in the files she’d just been looking at.