Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  Death at the Pantomime

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  Book 17

  By

  Evelyn James

  Red Raven Publications

  2019

  © Evelyn James 2019

  First published 2019

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  Death at the Pantomime is the seventeenth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  The Poisoned Pen

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  The Woman Died Thrice

  Murder and Mascara

  The Green Jade Dragon

  The Monster at the Window

  Murder on the Mary Jane

  The Missing Wife

  The Traitor’s Bones

  The Fossil Murder

  Mr Lynch’s Prophecy

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter One

  Clara peered out of the window of her office, fingers twined around a warm cup of tea. It was mid-November and a sharp frost had decorated her window ledges with icy crystals and made the pavements sparkle. Clara had been working on her accounts in the peace and quiet of her office but had paused when her hands became too cold. She had a fire burning in the grate of the small fireplace, but it was not providing enough heat to warm the stark room, which seemed to leak heat like a sieve.

  Being Brighton’s first female private detective, and proving herself to be rather adept at solving mysteries, Clara now had enough money to move to a more luxurious office, one where the walls weren’t paper thin and the windows stayed open in the summer without having to be wedged up by whatever came to hand – usually some tatty but sturdy book that could be shoved into the space. Yes, Clara could have a smart, modern office in a newer building, if she chose. Yet Clara, who was rarely sentimental over things, found the thought of leaving her humble, creaky, cold office – where it had all begun – simply unbearable. There was something about this set of two rooms, up a staircase over a haberdasher’s shop, that symbolised every step of her journey to this point.

  It was her starting place and she did not want to forget that.

  Clara flicked her eyes from the window and looked at the large portrait of her father hanging on the wall. It had been painted a few years before his death, and she liked it because there seemed to be a slight smile on Professor Fitzgerald’s lips the whole time. She liked to imagine he was looking down upon her with that smile.

  “Nearly another year gone,” she said to the painting. It felt less odd talking to the image of her father than just talking to herself, and sometimes she liked to air her thoughts aloud. Though not religious, Clara sometimes felt as if her father heard her when she did that. “I don’t know where time goes. Seems to slip through your fingers like sand.”

  Clara sipped her tea.

  “And now Tommy and Annie are engaged, things move on. They are talking about a spring wedding, but they don’t seem able to make any exact decisions about anything concerning it, so I suspect spring will come and go with them still debating which church to hold the thing in. Could be a very long engagement.”

  Clara gave a gentle laugh, feeling affectionate towards her brother and Annie, their housekeeper and friend, who seemed to epitomise the saying ‘taking their time’. Then her face fell into a frown.

  “Then there is this other business. The bit that sticks in my throat. The trouble in the backstreets with this gang, which Park-Coombs has told me to keep away from. And the Inspector has a fair point, that sort of crime is beyond my abilities to deal with, it is something you need an entire police division working tireless on for years to crack apart. So, why do I feel I have failed by walking away?”

  Clara was thinking of a previous case, one where she had stumbled into a criminal gang, though she had only ever been at the periphery of their activities. They were dangerous people and she was not in a position to deal with them. She just didn’t like feeling that she had to ignore what they were doing and trust that someone else would sort it out. That was not in Clara’s nature.

  Clara turned her gaze back to the road outside, just in time to see an older man, loaded with a towering pile of boxes, slip on a section of thick frost and tumble backwards. All the boxes crashed down around him, some spilling open, and the poor man smacked his head on the pavement.

  Hastily putting down her teacup, Clara rushed down her stairs and outside to assist the unfortunate man. He was sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, his eyes closed as he winced with pain. Clara crouched beside him.

  “Are you hurt badly?”

  The man opened his eyes, they were a startling blue, like the colour of the ocean.

  “That was a bit unexpected,” he smiled sheepishly, embarrassed rather than hurt. He started to reach out for the boxes nearest him. His eyes fell on one which had exploded its contents into the road, leaving everything wet and filthy. “Just look at that!”

  Clara helped him to his feet and then assisted in collecting up the boxes and restoring the items to those that had shed their load. She found she was picking up strange and wonderful things; brightly coloured clothes, astonishingly tall wigs and articles that looked out of a child’s box of toys. An idea sprang to mind.

  “Are these stage props?”

  The man’s eyes twinkled.

  “For the pantomime at the theatre,” he nodded. “Just arrived on the train from London. I am Rupert Maddock, director and dogsbody for the Stratford Company. We have been engaged to put on a pantomime in Brighton during the festive period.”

  Rupert suddenly winced and groaned, tipping his head forward and touching the back of his skull tentatively.

  “I think I should look at that bump,” Clara told him firmly. “We can stack these boxes in the hallway to my office.”

  Rupert Maddock didn’t seem inclined to resist; he was looking a little pale suddenly. Having worked as a nurse during the war, Clara knew that head injuries sometimes took a while to affect the patient. Often the initial reaction to a fall was to get back up, shake off the embarrassment and try to act normally. Only as the shock wore off, did the full effects of the blow kick in.

  Clara opened th
e front door to her upstairs office, ushering Rupert inside to sit on the stairs while she collected the boxes and stacked them as best she could in the tiny foyer. They perched precariously in a pile, as Clara pulled the door shut and put the cold weather firmly outside.

  “There are not a lot of boxes,” Clara observed.

  “Oh no, the rest is on a cart already heading to the theatre, these are just the things I like to keep a special eye on,” Rupert pointed to the top box, which had spilled open to reveal a blue and gold costume. “That outfit has been worn by the actor playing Buttons in every pantomime the company has performed since 1909. It has had so many repairs and adjustments it is more darts, darns and stitches than original fabric, but no one wants to see it replaced by a new costume as it is deemed lucky. You know how actors are superstitious.”

  Rupert was slightly shy about the statement, though Clara suspected he was as conscious of theatrical superstitions as the rest of his company.

  “I always fetch that costume myself, to make sure it gets to the theatre. Occasionally costumes and props go missing, and no one would want that to happy to the Buttons outfit.”

  “What about that giant red wig with the red glass beads and fake pearls?”

  “That belongs to Mr Hutson. He is our Dame, he always plays the part, has done so for the last twelve years. Marvellous actor. Has never missed a performance. That wig is the one he wears in the final scene, after everything has worked out and the Dame, who is always a poor widow, has either married the old baron or come into some fortune in another way,” Rupert chuckled. “That is the posh wig, to show how far up in the world the Dame has gone. Those might be glass beads and fake pearls, but they sparkle under the lights like diamonds and dazzle the children watching. A little bit of theatrical magic.”

  Rupert had brightened up and no longer seemed in danger of passing out, which was what Clara had initially feared. She suggested they go upstairs so she could make him a cup of tea and take a look at his head. Rupert was reluctant at first, glancing at a pocket watch to assess the time, but the throb in his head inclined him to stay put for a while.

  Clara escorted Rupert to her office and offered him the old, but comfortable daybed, where he could lay back if he wished. He gave a small groan as he rested, and Clara made tea. She had time to get a better look at him as she went about her task.

  Rupert Maddock was in his fifties but had worn well. His fair hair was barely touched by grey and still fell about his head in flamboyant locks. He had a sculpted, strong face, the sort an artist might like to study. His age showed in the deep laughter lines at the edges of his mouth, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes suggested a man used to being happy. It was overall a handsome, friendly face, one that made Rupert seem very approachable.

  His suit was well-cut, though not of the most expensive sort and there were a few places of wear that indicated it got plenty of use. He had the first hint of a paunch pushing at his waistcoat buttons, but otherwise he was a man who clearly took care of himself and stayed in shape. It was a shame that the back of his suit was now wet, dirty and speckled with tiny fragments of stone and the odd leaf. Clara didn’t think Rupert was the sort to like his clothes getting messy.

  She took over his cup of tea.

  “Sit up and I shall look at that bump. I used to be a nurse,” she told him.

  Rupert obediently sat forward. The wound was fortunately minor, Rupert’s thick hair having taken the brunt of the fall. After assuring herself there were no cuts or grazes, Clara was satisfied it was just a bad bang which would leave Mr Maddock feeling sore and dizzy, but nothing much else.

  “You’ll live,” Clara pronounced. “Just take it easy for a few days, and if you get a really bad headache, go to the hospital.”

  Rupert grimaced.

  “That would be inconvenient,” he rubbed at his head. “Damn weather. Why do pantos always have to fall in winter?”

  Rupert chuckled at his own joke.

  “Thank you very much for your help and kindness,” he added. “I have been terribly rude and not asked your name?”

  “Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara replied, smiling.

  “It is a delight to meet you and for your assistance I would like to offer you tickets for the first night of our panto, which will be this weekend.”

  “That is really not necessary,” Clara assured him.

  “I insist,” Rupert refused to be deterred. “I shall take your address and have them sent over at once.”

  Clara tried to explain she expected no reward for her assistance, but Rupert would hear none of it. Finally, she gave him her address, which he wrote down in a small notebook he kept in his pocket. He then started to take a better look at his surroundings.

  “What is it you do here, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  “I work as a private detective,” Clara said with a hint of pride. “This is my office.”

  “A private detective,” Rupert’s eyes widened. “What a fascinating career choice. I have never met a private detective before.”

  “Most people have not, unless they require one to help them,” Clara answered.

  “Fascinating,” Rupert muttered to himself. “Well, I must get on, those boxes shall not transport themselves and I have to make sure Aladdin’s magic lamp is still in working order. It glows, you see, if you put a candle inside and there are glass lenses the actor can switch with a button to change its colour. The audience are always impressed.”

  “The panto is Aladdin then?” Clara asked.

  “Yes. Aladdin is being played by Miss Burns, as it is traditional for a lady to take the lead male role. Mr Hutson is playing Dame Wishy-Washy, and the character of Buttons is to be her dreamy and slightly inept son, played by the delightful Mervyn Baldry. Slightly controversial casting choice as he has not been on stage for some years. But we don’t mind a bit of controversy if it gets people talking,” Rupert was enthusiastic about his panto, which was natural. “You shall see for yourself how they have all come together. We are in dress rehearsals for the rest of the week and then we open on Saturday afternoon.”

  “Must be a very busy season for you,” Clara nodded.

  “It is. The panto runs every afternoon and evening from now until the second week of January. Except for Wednesdays, when the cast have a rest day. We shall even be performing on Christmas Day, though only in the afternoon.”

  “Very busy,” Clara repeated politely.

  She helped Rupert check over his boxes to make sure nothing was missing, then loaded him up with his cargo. He looked only just able to manage the packages and there seemed constant danger of everything tumbling to the ground again.

  “If you want to come back for some, you can,” Clara told him.

  “Do not worry, I am used to this,” Rupert cast her a confident grin. “If you would just open the door?”

  Clara obeyed and Rupert stepped outside. There was a brief moment when he found another patch of thick frost and his foot slipped, but he maintained his balance this time.

  “Thank you Miss Fitzgerald, I won’t forget the tickets!” He called out cheerfully as he headed down the road, barely able to see where he was going and having to apologise to those who he bumped into as he went.

  Clara shook her head; what an impractical man – determined, but impractical. She closed her door, smiling to herself. It was years since she had been to a pantomime. She had gone to see Mother Goose in London with her parents. She had been scared by the giant goose with its wild, rolling eyes that was wheeled on stage as part of the performance. She had had nightmares afterwards and had never been to a panto since.

  She supposed she had been about ten. Ever since, she had thought pantomimes rather an alarming thing to take children to, although they may have changed. It might be interesting to see a modern one.

  Amused by the thought, she headed upstairs and back to her accounts.

  Chapter Two

  Clara reached home in time for dinner. Her own house was beautiful
ly warm and she took off her coat with a sense of satisfaction as the cosiness of her home engulfed her. Tommy, Clara’s brother and assistant in the detective business, was sitting in the front room, working on some papers that he put aside as soon as she came in.

  “Evening, old thing,” he grinned. “Been busy?”

  “Mr Carter is still outstanding on his invoice from last month,” Clara grumbled. “Sometimes I regret finding out if Mrs Carter was fooling around with someone else for him.”

  “He was not delighted when it turned out she was actually just volunteering for a local soup kitchen in the evenings,” Tommy recalled.

  “He was hoping he had found grounds for divorce,” Clara shrugged. “He wants to marry his secretary. However, it is not my fault his wife was merely keeping her charitable activities from him, and he has the money to pay me. I shall write him another sharp letter.”

  “Threaten to tell Mrs Carter what he paid you to do,” Tommy suggested.

  “That would be blackmail,” Clara threw up her eyes. “That would hardly be good for my reputation.”

  “Blackmail?” Annie appeared in the doorway. “Is someone being blackmailed.”

  “Not currently,” Tommy said darkly.

  Clara poked his shoulder with her finger. Annie frowned, knowing she had missed something, but swiftly shrugged off her consternation.

  “This came for you, Clara,” she handed Clara an envelope with her name neatly spelt out on it.

  Clara opened the glued flap and drew out four tickets to Aladdin at the theatre on Saturday. She was impressed by Rupert Maddock’s generosity, she might have expected a pair of tickets, but not four.

  “What are those?” Tommy asked.

  “I helped a man who slipped on the pavement today and banged his head. He turned out to be the director for a company of actors, who are putting on the panto this year. He has sent me tickets for the show in gratitude.”

  “That was nice of him,” Annie said. “I have not been to a panto since… well, since I was a child.”