Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  “I’ll be glad to get back to London,” Chang read her mind, shuddering at the sight of the room, as if he had just seen it afresh. “But this serves my purpose. Remote, with easy views of all the approaches and few knowing anyone is even here. Its terribleness is all part of the charm.”

  “You are making the best of things, then?”

  “What else can I do, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Clara walked to the old fireplace and noticed that a dead pigeon lay in the hearth.

  “Why did you send for me?”

  “I have news,” Chang sighed. “But it is not of a good nature.”

  Clara turned back to him. There was an iciness to the room that made her shiver. Chang was wearing a thick fur coat. Lighting a fire would give away his presence, so he was bearing up under the conditions. Clara thought the situation must grind on his nerves, considering he was used to luxury and comfort. He had been brought to this impasse by his sister and she could see the resentment festering in him.

  “Have you located your sister?” Clara asked.

  “No,” Chang shook his head. “Jao is still hidden from me. I have had to move carefully to avoid revealing myself. It is a tricky business. However, I have discovered something that I felt it was imperative you know.”

  Clara felt worried now. She stepped a little closer.

  “You have my attention.”

  “Good, because my quiet investigations have revealed that Jao has a policeman in her pocket. She is paying someone to cover up her tracks. I’m afraid, I suspect this person is highly placed, probably Inspector Park-Coombs himself.”

  Clara could not stifle the laugh that escaped her lips.

  “Mr Chang, while I am not fool enough to suppose that corruption does not exist within the police force, after all, you had a policeman, as you put it, in your pocket, but to suppose Park-Coombs the traitor, well, it defies all reason.”

  Chang looked at her sadly.

  “I had feared you would say as much. The inspector has been your friend these past years. But no man is immune to corruption, in one form or another. After all,” Chang looked at her darkly, “you are prepared to ignore who I am and work for me if it suits your own ends. Some could call you corrupt.”

  Clara was staggered by the implication, but when the initial shock passed, she saw, with alarming clarity, how accurate his statement was. Anyone looking at her actions from a distance might perceive she was corrupt, working with a criminal she should be summoning the police to arrest. She had convinced herself it was all for the greater good, but she had to admit it was a morally vague situation. Even so, there was a difference in working with a criminal to destroy another and helping such a fiend for profit.

  “The circumstances are different,” Clara said, a touch defensive. “In any case, Park-Coombs is an honest man and would not accept money from anyone to cover up a crime.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Chang conceded, but there was an air of disbelief in his tone. “But my point remains. The talk among Jao’s people and those who associate with them is that a policeman is being paid off. That is why no progress is being made with arrests.”

  Clara had a sick feeling in her stomach as Chang finished speaking. It reminded her too painfully of a previous case where a corrupt policeman had almost murdered another copper. Chang had been behind that scandal, but she had not been able to touch him. If anyone was to know about dubious policemen it was Chang, but could he be saying these things to unsettle her? She still didn’t entirely trust him, but what would he gain from trying to trick her?

  “How reliable is this information?” She asked.

  “I believe it,” Chang shrugged. “Jao was present and knew of my operations in Brighton. She knew I was paying a policeman and saw the advantages. I imagine she decided to try the same. This situation is big Clara, bigger than I first imagined. If Jao is allowed to persist, then she will turn Brighton into her town and there won’t be an honest copper left to stop her.”

  Clara might have accused him of being overly dramatic, but she saw the look on his face, one that was full of despair and shock. He had also slipped and used her first name, when normally he was carefully formal with her. The slip hinted at his emotional turmoil and the anxiety that was bubbling beneath the surface.

  “If Jao carries on, she will be able to seriously threaten your organisation,” Clara nipped to the root of the matter. “Brighton and London have always had strong ties, what happens in one, tends to affect the other, and no more so than when it comes to criminal activity. For years now we have seen the gangsters of London come to town for their ‘holidays’ and to run their businesses by the sea. But they have always left again. Now we have a permanent gang, and one that if it is allowed to grow will start to cause problems for the London gangsters who like to come to Brighton.”

  Chang was nodding along.

  “And when a gangster is threatened, he reacts violently,” he said. “Jao is challenging the status quo and that can only lead to an all-out war. Brighton will be the battleground. Neither of us want that.”

  Clara knew what he was saying. The gangs of London had stayed largely in their own territories, occasionally violence erupted and turf wars ensued, but it was mainly kept in check by the gangs’ various alliances. Jao was above all that, coming at things from a position of isolation, wanting to destroy them all. And all the innocents of Brighton would suffer as a consequence.

  Jao was insane, she didn’t understand the politics of the criminal underworld, but that did not change things.

  “Thank you for the information,” Clara told Chang without revealing the turmoil it had created within her.

  “I hope you can do something about it,” Chang replied, his face grim. “As much as I hate to admit it, we need the police and we can’t afford for them to be corrupt.”

  Clara had no more to say. What could she anyway? She hoped he was wrong, that the information had somehow been incorrect.

  She feared, however, that he was right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clara felt a strange sense of dread looming over her as she headed for the theatre. The thought that another policeman had forgotten his duty and taken to accepting bribes was upsetting enough, to suppose that policeman could be the inspector was simply shocking.

  Park-Coombs and Clara had worked together since 1920, an initially challenging relationship, where neither quite trusted the other, developed into a friendship that, though sometimes turbulent, had certainly been mutually beneficial. They had worked together on numerous cases and Clara had never once doubted the inspector. Why should she begin now? Because of a sly comment from Chang? She had no way of knowing how reliable the information he had received was, or how honest he was being with her. She had far less reason to trust him than she did the inspector.

  Yet…

  There was this nag at the back of her mind. How quickly and with frightening determination had Park-Coombs sought to condemn Private Peterson in a murder that was actually committed by this new gang. He had spoken about pressure from above to resolve the case – had that been the truth? And was it purely concern for her wellbeing that had caused him to cut her off from the gang investigation entirely? She had accepted that at first, having been shaken and scared by her experiences. Now, with time mellowing what had happened and giving her a chance to work up her anger, she felt frustrated at being on the outside looking in.

  If Park-Coombs wanted to keep her from discovering the truth, the best way he could do so was to tell her it was not safe, that he was protecting her. And yet that was also the action of a good friend.

  Clara mentally shook herself. All this gang business was warping her thinking. Park-Coombs was a good policeman and she would not have Chang making her doubt that. She feared there was corruption within the force, for that would explain how Jao had been able to find her feet in Brighton with no one taking any notice, but it was not the inspector. It had to either be a subordinate or, worse, someone senior to
him.

  Clara blinked as the thought struck her like cold water to the face. Yes, if Jao had gone beyond her brother’s level of corruption and bribed a senior police official rather than just a constable, that would be very serious indeed. It would also explain that ‘pressure’ Park-Coombs had felt to arrest Peterson. However, as tantalising as the idea was, Clara had no idea how she could go about unravelling such a mess, at least not at that moment.

  It was almost something of a relief to arrive at the theatre and be able to concentrate on a murder that was not swamped by conspiracy and nefarious criminal dealings. Well, at least she hoped that was the case.

  Tommy was waiting for her on the steps of the theatre.

  “Annie was concerned you missed lunch,” he said, handing her a parcel wrapped in greaseproof paper.

  Clara opened it to find two thickly cut slices of bread sandwiching a portion of ox tongue. There was a liberal spread of mustard, just as Clara liked it. She smiled.

  “I got distracted.”

  “I supposed as much. Lots of paperwork at your office?”

  Clara sensed a hint of something in his tone. Her brother always seemed to know when she was lying. She just shrugged her shoulders as she bit into one half of the sandwich. A full mouth was always a good excuse not to answer a question. Still giving her a suspicious look, Tommy walked with her to the theatre doors and they were allowed in by Mr Maddock, who was waiting impatiently.

  “All the cast are here, including Donald. I have had to break the news to them of Stanley’s death. It’s put the wind up them,” Maddock explained as he escorted them through to the auditorium. “I don’t think we shall get much of a rehearsal today. Besides, I fear the inspector shall arrive at any moment to question everyone.”

  Maddock was beginning to look very careworn; it was not just the murder of a friend, bad as that was, it was the fear that he would not be able to hold the company together and salvage the pantomime. While grief for a friend was a powerful emotion, life went on, and Maddock was envisioning debt and bankruptcy if the panto failed. Such immediate concerns were overshadowing the terrible thing that had happened the night before, and Clara could not blame him. There was nothing more terrifying than the thought of losing the roof over your head and not being able to eat.

  “Mr Maddock, please do not fret, I intend to do everything in my power to resolve this matter swiftly.”

  Maddock looked at Clara, a mix of gratitude and despair on his face, the warring feelings twitching his lips into odd shapes.

  “You are my only hope, Miss Fitzgerald,” he declared. “My only hope.”

  The pantomime cast were all assembled on the stage, where they had received the news of Stanley Hutson’s death. They were clustered in small groups of two and three, some talking in low whispers, others just standing and looking bleak. Aladdin was sitting on the very edge of the stage, hands either side of her and head forward as she battled her inner thoughts. The only other person sitting alone was Donald, who was in one of the red velvet auditorium chairs, staring at the carpet and ignoring everyone else.

  Maddock took a deep breath as he approached the stage and put on as bright and positive a face as he could.

  “Everyone, this is Miss Clara Fitzgerald. She is a private detective and is going to find out who hurt poor Stanley,” Maddock’s voice cracked a little as he spoke the dead man’s name. “I know you will all be most cooperative with her.”

  No one stirred among the cast of actors. Clara scanned her eyes across the stage.

  “Mr Maddock has hired me to give Mr Hutson justice. This is a terrible thing to have happened, but I will work tirelessly to find answers. I will need to speak to you all, probably more than once, to understand what occurred last night. You can also always seek me out, if you need to. I will listen to any concerns you have, and you can tell me anything. If you want to just talk, that is fine too. Please consider me someone you can confide in, if you need to,” Clara paused and cast another look across the assembled company. A few people were looking at her, while the rest seemed lost in their own sombre thoughts. “Naturally the police are involved in this matter and will wish to speak to you at some point. While I work with the police, consider me an independent agent. If I find that the police are going in the wrong direction, I shall certainly say so. My only purpose is to find out the truth.

  “Lastly, I am not someone who will blab information to the press. I have little time for the newspapers, and I know how to hold my tongue. If you have a secret you wish to tell me, it shall go no further, unless it is vitally important to solving the crime. You can trust me.”

  Maddock clapped his hands.

  “Right, as rehearsals are something of a washout today, I suggest we allow Miss Fitzgerald to ask a few questions,” he said.

  Donald Hutson had lifted his head and was listening with narrowed eyes. Clara guessed he was already sick of questions.

  “Firstly, I would like to establish who was the last person to see Mr Hutson before he disappeared,” Clara strode towards the stage, she had been careful to avoid using the word murdered, as she was trying to keep everyone calm. “I know you all ended up in the alley when the fire broke out, but which of you saw Mr Hutson before then?”

  A series of hands slowly reached into the air, hesitant and reluctant, the act of one caused others to follow suit.

  “Several people were in the final scene before the interval,” Maddock interjected helpfully. “Let’s see, the last scene involves Aladdin, Buttons, Princess Zara and the chorus. Perhaps those people could step forward?”

  Eight people stepped forward. The three principal actors, and the five members of the chorus who were involved in that scene. That included three men and two women. However, one of the male chorus put up his hand as he reached the edge of the stage.

  “Erikson?” Maddock said the man’s name.

  Clara’s eyes shot to the man whose costume had been covered in blood before being consumed by fire.

  “Mr Maddock, I’m afraid I was not present in that scene last night,” Erikson said sheepishly.

  Maddock stared at him.

  “Why ever not?”

  Erikson glanced at his chorus fellows and looked decidedly unhappy.

  “I took ill in the second scene,” he confessed slowly. “Must have been something I ate. I spent the majority of the first half in the toilet. I had only just returned when the fire happened, and we all went to the alley.”

  Clara wondered if this was true, or a good cover story.

  “Can anyone confirm you were unwell?” She asked Erikson.

  “I can confirm he was in the toilet most of the night,” another of the male chorus interrupted. “I went to use the loo myself and found him locked in there groaning. We had to perform the last scene minus one royal guard.”

  Clara shot a look at Maddock who blanched as the significance became plain to him.

  “Erikson, in the second scene you play a street vendor, I believe?” He asked.

  “Yes, Mr Maddock,” Erikson ducked his head, a red flush coming to his cheeks. “I’m very sorry, but the costume was somewhat… stained. I was so ashamed, I took it home to wash myself. I brought it back tonight.”

  “I saw him in the alley in the street vendor costume,” Donald spoke up in a dismal voice. “I remember that.”

  “Are you feeling better now, Erikson?” Maddock asked his cast member.

  “I do,” Erikson nodded. “I’ve never missed a performance before, you know I haven’t. But then, I have never felt that ill before. I’ll be fine to perform today.”

  “Well, you won’t be in the palace scenes,” Maddock remarked without thinking.

  “But, Mr Maddock, it was not my fault...”

  Maddock cut off the fraught actor.

  “That was not what I meant,” he was about to offer further explanation when Clara jumped in.

  “During the fire, your costume was badly burned, Mr Erikson,” she said.

  �
�What?” Erikson stared at her as if she was speaking another language. “I don’t understand, the fire was in the prop room, how did it damage my costume?”

  “Your costume was also in the prop room,” Maddock said calmly. “I suppose you don’t know how it got there?”

  “No,” Erikson was baffled. “It was meant to be backstage, with the others, ready for a quick change.”

  There was no need to pursue the matter further. Clara was satisfied by Erikson’s reaction that he had no idea about the burnt costume, and while Donald’s testimony that Erikson was in his street vendor outfit in the alley, could be a red herring – Erikson had to switch costume when he burned the bloodstained one – the witness who heard him in the toilet added weight to the man’s story.

  “Have you got the street vendor costume?” Clara asked.

  Erikson gave a small nod.

  “Can I see it?”

  The actor looked surprised by the question. After a moment he strode off the stage and then returned with a canvas bag in the style of a satchel. He unfastened two catches, rummaged among pages of script, stage make-up and several combs, before producing the costume. It was still a little damp from Erikson’s attempts to wash it.

  “I wasn’t as successful as I had hoped,” Erikson admitted, as Clara held up the costume.

  “Cleaning stains from fabric is a skilled business,” Clara reassured him. “Soap and water are not always enough.”

  The street vendor costume consisted of a pair of white pantaloon trousers with a yellow sash, matched by a light shirt with puffed sleeves and a red waistcoat. There were faint stains on both the shirt tails and the pantaloons that indicated how ill Erikson had been. He winced as Clara examined them.

  “You had a rough night, Mr Erikson,” Clara handed back the costume, convinced the man had been as ill as he said, and sorry she had had to embarrass him before the others.