Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  “I don’t think I have ever felt that ill in my life before,” Erikson grimaced. “You don’t realise how far to the back of the theatre those toilets are until you are in desperate need. I was lucky to survive the second scene.”

  “I did think you smelt a little when we…” Audrey Burns, or rather Aladdin, started to speak then stopped herself. “Of course, with that awful smoke stench in my nose I hardly considered it.”

  The red hue on Erikson’s cheeks deepened. Clara decided it was time to stop tormenting the poor man.

  “When did you last see your royal guard costume?” Clara asked him instead.

  Erikson shrugged.

  “During the afternoon matinee. I wore it in the very last scene, when Aladdin and Zara get married in the palace. Then I put it on its hanger and left it on the rail backstage, ready for the next performance.”

  “You didn’t notice it that evening?”

  “No time to look,” Erikson replied. “The dressers are supposed to keep track of the costumes.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Maddock added. “They make sure all the costumes are present and in the order they are required on the rail before each performance. It makes things run far more smoothly.”

  That made sense to Clara, and she would need to speak to the dressers and see if they had noticed the costume missing. In the meantime, she wanted an answer to her original question – who was the last to see Stanley Hutson alive?

  After considerable discussion, the cast agreed that that honour went to Mervyn Baldry, who played Buttons. He had followed Stanley off the stage and had last seen him in the backstage corridor before he went to his dressing room.

  “And in a fine state he was,” Baldry said. “Ranting about that person who booed him, as if it was deliberate. I tried to talk to him, but you could never get Stanley to see sense when he was riled. He walked away from me.”

  “In which direction?” Clara pressed him.

  Baldry considered this for a moment, conjuring a mental image of the theatre in his mind.

  “Actually, that was a little odd now I think of it,” he mused. “He walked away from his dressing room. He went the wrong direction.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  There were two dressers working backstage during pantomime season, with so many costumes and quick changes required, a single dresser was not enough.

  “And Mr Hutson near enough needs a dresser just to himself,” Maud Dobbins explained to Clara. She was blissfully unaware that Mr Hutson was dead. “He has so many costumes and they are all so big!”

  She expanded her arms to indicate the elaborate skirt of one of Mr Hutson’s many dame outfits.

  “They have all these bits attached to them. One has toy wooden ships fixed to the skirt, another has giant pretend lollipops and sweets sewn to the cloth. That’s for the scene where Mr Hutson casts sweets into the audience.”

  “Not to mention the wigs,” piped up Dolores Smith, the second dresser. “We have to keep them on a special stand, and they can be quite the effort to fix securely to Mr Hutson’s head. We have this sticky tape we can use, but it gives the poor man a terrible rash and is ghastly to get off between changes.”

  Maud and Dolores were both in their forties and had worked with the company for the last decade or so. Dolores had taken the job in 1910, when another dresser retired. Maud had arrived in 1912. They had been firm friends ever since.

  Though neither was highly educated, they were intelligent women who paid attention to their surroundings and enjoyed watching the plays performed. They were also both skilled seamstresses, a necessary talent when disaster could strike a costume at any moment.

  Maud, the slightly younger of the two women, had been put in charge of ensuring Hutson’s costumes were always ready to wear. While Donald was his father’s personal dresser, the women made sure everything was ready for each change. They took pride in their work.

  “That reminds me, Mr Maddock, I am missing a costume. I have looked all over for it and asked the ladies who do the laundry. They say they have not seen it. It is the cook’s costume, the one with yellow stripes and a white pinny,” she said to the director.

  Care had been taken to remove Mr Hutson long before the laundry ladies came to collect the soiled costumes. Maddock had persuaded the police that it was best if only a handful of people knew about the actor’s death. As far as the laundresses were concerned, it was just another day of collecting clothes to wash.

  “There was an issue with that particular costume,” Maddock said uneasily to Maud. Clara wondered if he was going to attempt to keep up the pretence that Hutson was alive. “We shall have to consider a replacement. Also, Donald Hutson will be taking over the dame role from this afternoon.”

  Maud did not seem unsettled by this remark.

  “Oh, like last night. Then we shall need to adjust the costumes. He isn’t as comfortably built as his father.”

  Clara was amused at how politely she avoided calling Stanley Hutson fat. Maud and Dolores were too discreet to ask the obvious question; why was Donald replacing his father? They were the sort of ladies who assumed that if they needed to know something they would be told about it, and that was why they were perfect for backstage work where all manner of scandalous secrets were bandying about. Maud and Dolores knew how to keep their mouths shut and their noses out of others’ business. Which was delightful for the actors, and a nuisance to Clara.

  “You should know,” Maddock cleared his throat nervously, “Mr Hutson has suffered an accident and, well, he passed away last night.”

  The dressers both froze as the news hit them, but there were no hysterics or signs they were taking the revelation badly. They were saddened, but they were also robust ladies.

  “That is terrible for poor Donald,” Dolores said with appropriate sympathy to her voice. “And to think he must take over his father’s role.”

  “We must make sure there is lots of hot tea ready for him between scenes, Dolores,” Maud told her friend with firm resolve. “And those lemon biscuits he likes. He will need the sugar.”

  “Yes, my dear, and we shall run everything as smoothly as possible, for his sake.”

  “What of the other costumes?” Maddock asked them. “Are they all accounted for?”

  It was a leading question, one to which he knew the answer very well.

  “Now you mention it, we are missing a costume for Mr Erikson,” Dolores replied. “His street vendor outfit.”

  “Mr Erikson was taken unwell last night and, ah, his street vendor costume became rather stained,” Mr Maddock pulled a face as he explained. “Also, his royal guard uniform appears to have been burned in that silly fire last night.”

  The women exchanged glances again.

  “That happened in the prop room,” Dolores said. “What was his costume doing in the prop room?”

  “You ladies did not take it there? Perhaps for repairs?” Clara suggested.

  “Any repairs we do in our little sewing room,” Maud told her. “Besides, the fire happened in the interval and the uniform should have been back on the rail.”

  Maud suddenly paused and a flicker of insight filled her eyes.

  “That was why the costumes didn’t tally, Dolores! I told you I was sure one was missing, but I couldn’t think which one it was,” Maud turned her attention back to Clara. “There are so many costumes and the chorus have a lot of similar ones, so it is harder to remember them all. Each rail holds twenty outfits and the chorus have four rails alone, they have so many costume changes and only a few of the outfits are reused more than once. I said to Dolores last night, I was sure there should be thirty-four costumes on the chorus rails, but I could count only thirty-three. We went through the rails repeatedly, trying to work out what was missing and could not.”

  “I thought Maud had made a mistake,” Dolores confessed with a slight look of shame in her eyes. “She is not the sort to make errors, but when we could not think which costume was missing, it seemed w
e must have at some point miscounted the number of chorus clothes. Bear in mind, with all the principal costumes and Mr Hutson’s many changes, we have close to a hundred outfits to keep track of.”

  “I was worrying all night, waiting for the moment when we would discover a costume was missing, but it never happened. So, I came to the conclusion I had been mistaken on the number,” Maud added. “Now I know I was not mistaken and the reason the missing costume was not discovered was because its wearer was not performing.”

  Maud looked satisfied with herself. She had been vindicated.

  “I still don’t understand, why was the costume taken and put in the prop room?” Dolores looked baffled.

  “Did you notice anyone who should not have been there walking among the costume rails yesterday afternoon?” Clara asked.

  Again, the ladies exchanged a look.

  “I can’t say we did,” Dolores spoke up for them. “Miss Burns’ Aladdin costume needed some repairs. I took it away to work on immediately after the performance.”

  “I placed all the costumes on their rails in the order required,” Maud said. “Everything was ready for the evening performance.”

  “You didn’t notice there was a guard uniform missing then?” Clara asked.

  Maud frowned. She took pride in her work and it pained her that a costume had gone missing right from under her nose.

  “Now you mention it…” she glanced over to the rails to her right. They were stood in the wings of the theatre, among the many costumes. The ladies had been primed for the afternoon’s performance. “Yes! There were three guard uniforms! That is why I was confused later on, Dolores! I counted four guard costumes back onto the rail, but when we returned that evening, there were only three!”

  Everyone stared at the offending rail where the three surviving guard uniforms hung innocently. Clara was beginning to see how the murderer had tried to throw blame onto Erikson, but the missing costume, long gone before Erikson was due to go onstage, was the final proof that he had not been behind the killing. They had been meant to assume Erikson had worn the costume in the scene before the interval, then came off stage and murdered Hutson in a fit of rage. There would have been no need for Erikson to steal his costume before the performance if he intended to be wearing it when he killed Hutson. In fact, the deeper she looked, the more Clara concluded that this had been a carefully planned act of violence, made to look like something done on the spur of the moment.

  Having obtained all she could from the dressers, Clara returned to the auditorium where Tommy had been trying to gather information from the shocked cast. He gave Clara a tight-lipped smile as she returned.

  “They pretty much all vouch for one another,” he said as she approached. “They all say they were in the alley during the fire, though I don’t take that at face value. People make mistakes about these things all the time and misremember. If someone says firmly enough they were in such-and-such a place at such-and-such a time, people have a tendency to suddenly recall them being there, even if it is not true. Memory is a tricky business.”

  “What about Mervyn Baldry? Did he remember anything else about seeing Hutson walk away?”

  “Nothing terribly insightful,” Tommy shrugged. “He said Stanley was in a foul mood and when he walked away he was muttering to himself. Mervyn did not think about the fact he was going the wrong way until you questioned him. He was busy getting back to his dressing room, downing a cup of tea and a sandwich, and retouching his make-up for the second half.”

  Another dead end. Clara was beginning to think the killer was either very cunning, or extremely lucky that no one had noticed anything odd.

  “Did you ask them about the fire?”

  “I did. Most of them knew nothing about it until Maddock knocked on their dressing room doors and urgently told them to get out of the theatre. Miss Allen, however, recalls smelling smoke and she thinks she might have seen someone around the prop room, but it was only a glance,” Tommy was flicking through the notes he had quickly taken. “She suffers from cramp in her feet, and she was having an episode, as she states it, which came on at the end of the scene before the interval. She was walking up and down the corridor to ease it, when she noticed someone around the prop room. You can see the door from the corridor. However, she was not paying a great deal of attention. She thinks it might have been a man, as they seemed tall. She just thought it was one of the stagehands.”

  “That is what the killer was banking on, everyone being so busy and distracted, they took no heed of someone committing a crime under their noses,” Clara thought it had been a risky, but clever ploy on the murderer’s part. “Did you ask them if anyone had a grudge against Hutson?”

  Tommy’s face took on a despondent frown.

  “They are all saying he was very loved by his fellow actors and the audience alike. I think they are being tactful and don’t want to speak ill of the dead.”

  “I hate it when people do that,” Clara grumbled. “They think they are being respectful, but really it helps shield the killer. Someone detested Mr Hutson enough to go out of their way to commit a bloody murder.”

  Clara cast her gaze across the pantomime cast. Mr Maddock was attempting to rally them for the afternoon matinee and she had no doubt he would succeed – the actor’s mantra was to carry on no matter what.

  “How many of the cast had worked with Hutson before?” She wondered to herself.

  “I didn’t ask that specifically, but I could garner from what they all said that for many of them this was their first time working with Hutson,” Tommy answered her. “Mervyn Baldry had worked with Hutson on several occasions, but this was the first time since his return to the stage. Neither of the principal ladies said they had worked with Hutson before, but the fellow who plays the evil vizier did some pantomime in the early 1900s alongside Hutson. Donald might be able to offer more insight.”

  Clara was thoughtful for a while, then she made up her mind.

  “Let’s leave them in peace for the time being. Someone might think of something if we give them the chance. In the meantime, we need to find out more about Stanley Hutson’s past.”

  “You are definitely ruling out Donald?” Tommy asked.

  Clara’s eyes drifted to the young man about to take over his father’s role.

  “He could never have fitted the guard uniform,” she observed. “We also need to find out what caused Erikson to become unwell, that was not a coincidence.”

  “He doesn’t have a clue, himself,” Tommy said. “He ate the same food as several other members of the cast that evening, and they were all fine.”

  “What about food or drink he consumed here at the theatre?”

  “He says he only drank tea from an urn in the communal dressing room.”

  Clara narrowed her eyes in Erikson’s direction.

  “Well, we have to believe him for the moment, but my suspicion is he drank or ate something different to the others. He either does not recall it or is lying about it.”

  “Why would he lie?” Tommy looked confused.

  Clara gave him a sombre smile.

  “Oh, lots of reasons. Maybe what he consumed he is not allowed before a performance? Or maybe he was given it by someone who he does not want to get into trouble.”

  Clara was watching the stage where Erikson was stood extremely close to Audrey Burns. Their hands were almost touching and their proximity was not by chance. Donald had mentioned they had been stood together in the alley and Erikson had his arm around Audrey. Were they lovers? They certainly seemed close.

  Deciding there was no more to be done for the moment, Clara and Tommy left the theatre. Early arrivals for the afternoon performance were beginning to gather in the foyer. As Clara walked down the front steps, she noticed Park-Coombs heading towards her.

  “The matinee is starting shortly, you won’t have much luck questioning anyone,” she said to him as their paths crossed.

  The inspector had a miserable look on his
face, as if he was doing something he really did not want to.

  “I’m not here to ask anyone questions,” he sighed deeply. “I’m here to arrest Mervyn Baldry.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He could have at least waited until after the performance,” Maddock’s eyes sparkled as if he was perilously close to shedding tears. The strain of the last few days was clearly taking its toll.

  They were stood at the backstage door that led to the alley. Inspector Park-Coombs had graciously agreed to escort Mervyn out the back, rather than through the foyer where the unfortunate man in full Buttons costume would be seen by the gathering audience. He had also agreed not to handcuff Mervyn, who had been cooperative with the police, while denying all their charges.

  “It makes no sense,” Maddock whimpered.

  But to Clara it did make a certain, imperfect sense. Mervyn had admitted to being the last person to see Stanley Hutson alive and, as it turned out, they had some unpleasant history that offered him a motive. The inspector had made a few telephone calls to his colleagues in London, to see if any trouble involving Hutson had appeared on their radars. That was when he discovered that in 1913, the last time in nearly a decade that Mervyn Baldry had walked the boards, there had been a major upset during a performance of Red Riding Hood.

  Mervyn had attacked Stanley Hutson with a prop sword. The weapon was no use for stabbing or slashing, but it was heavy enough that when Mervyn battered it repeatedly over Hutson’s head he caused the dame to pass out. Worse still, the assault occurred within sight of the audience, though off to one side in the wings. There had been no question of the police being called. However, Hutson refused to press charges against Mervyn and though the authorities could have pursued the matter, it was ultimately agreed that nothing further would be done. Mervyn lost his role as Buttons in the pantomime and disappeared from the theatre scene altogether, reinventing himself for the new media of radio.