Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  Clara had been wondering that too. Park-Coombs could have pursued the evidence further before making a decision. Rushing into an arrest without being certain the evidence was accurate was a recipe for potential disaster. He had no real motive, only an assault that happened eight years ago, and a missing button that might or might not have come off in an attack. On the other hand, there were people who would confirm Mervyn was in the alley at the time of the fire and then there was the oddity of the missing guard uniform. Whoever started the fire, tried to burn the costume, but logically they would only have done that after the body of Hutson had been hidden. Else they would risk getting blood on any fresh clothes they wore. Therefore, the murderer started the fire as a distraction, waited until everyone was outside and then hid the body, before finally disposing of the guard costume in the blaze.

  And yet Mervyn was seen in the alley, wearing his Buttons outfit, at the time when he should have been disposing of Hutson. It was all very confusing.

  Park-Coombs was jumping to conclusions, on that Clara was certain.

  “He has been doing that a lot recently.”

  Had he?

  Pressure from above, someone pushing him to make arrests.

  Who?

  What about Chang’s police corruption theory? That Park-Coombs is in the middle of it all?

  No, that can’t be true.

  “Your crumpet is burning.”

  Clara jerked out of her thoughts at the quiet statement from O’Harris. She snatched the crumpet from the flames just before it was beyond salvation. Fingers burning from the heat of the crumpet, she dropped it onto a plate and accepted the dish of butter O’Harris offered her.

  “Something’s wrong,” O’Harris said as she spread butter onto the crumpet, watching the yellow daubs melt into the holes. “I mean, more wrong than you having a murder to solve. Something has upset you.”

  Clara wondered when she had become so obvious. When had her feelings become written across her face. Or was O’Harris simply so attuned to her these days he could hardly fail to notice her anxiety.

  “Tell me about it,” O’Harris continued. “I am always here to listen.”

  Clara glowered at her crumpet, any appetite she had evaporating. Truth was, she did desperately want to talk to someone about her concerns and fears. This business with Chang felt wrong and was leaving her sleepless at night. And then there was the threat that Jao Leong posed, a threat she hoped would only stalk her, but she knew deep in her heart that if Jao learned of her involvement than no one around her would be safe.

  “You have gone so pale. I really want to help,” O’Harris persisted, his voice soft with concern.

  Clara tilted her head towards the fire. Shut her eyes to enjoy the warmth on her skin. Before she had even fully made up her mind the words were spilling from her lips.

  “I have been told that there is corruption within the police concerning this gang business in Brighton.”

  Having her eyes shut meant she could not see O’Harris’ reaction. She quickly opened her eyes and looked at him. He was sombre.

  “How reliable do you think the information?” He asked.

  That was a good question.

  “Honestly? I am not sure,” Clara sighed. “Let’s put it this way, the person who told me received the information from someone else. Even as I say that, I realise how dubious it sounds. I have no idea if their source if reliable, or how they came by the information. Nor do I know if the person who told me was being truthful. I think they believed the information, at least.”

  O’Harris frowned, taking in the complexity of the situation.

  “That would explain how this gang has been operating right under the noses of the Brighton constabulary,” he said, a thought that Clara had considered more than once.

  It was odd that the gang had been operating apparently for months with no one in the police noticing. The only other option was to assume the police were ignorant because they were so busy, or perhaps incompetent. Not a great solution.

  “Clara, as much as I hate seeing this gang running amok in Brighton, I think the only thing you can do is step back and wait. Sometimes you have to let things be someone else’s problem.”

  Clara wanted to remind him that not so long ago the situation had been very much their problem when Private Peterson was the one in trouble with the gang, but she understood why he was saying such a thing. This gang business was scary, a monster lurking just out of sight and it did seem too big for them to deal with.

  “There is something else,” Clara said, feeling the need to defend why she was so upset. Why she could not leave this alone. “The person who informed me about police corruption, also implied that Inspector Park-Coombs was involved.”

  Captain O’Harris’ eyes went wide in surprise, but he was prevented from immediately replying by the arrival of the cook and the hot water bottle. Only after she was gone could he speak, and that gave him a moment to think.

  “I won’t deny I have never entirely liked the inspector. I have always felt he was watching this place, waiting for one of my guests to suddenly turn into a murderous monster. I think he sees the worst in people and is cynical beyond belief. But even I would not think of accusing him of corruption,” O’Harris spoke at last. “This is very serious Clara.”

  “I know,” Clara smiled weakly. “I have lain awake worrying about it. Park-Coombs is a friend and I don’t want to believe this, yet there is something about the suggestion that makes sense. He asked me to keep away from the gang business.”

  “Because it was dangerous,” O’Harris pointed out.

  “Yes, that is the obvious assumption. It also keeps an outsider, someone not under his authority, from poking their nose into his business.”

  O’Harris pondered the information.

  “He was quick to condemn Peterson,” he remarked.

  “Pressure from above, he said, pressure to resolve the case. Was that true?” Clara frowned. “Now your crumpet is burning.”

  O’Harris snatched the toasting fork from the fire, but his crumpet was beyond rescue. He sighed as he dumped the charred bread onto a plate.

  “What can you do about it?” He asked.

  Clara shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Maybe there is nothing I can do,” she offered him her untouched crumpet.

  O’Harris accepted gladly.

  “I think you need to hang back and see what happens. Keep your ears open, of course, but otherwise carry on as normal. If this is true, then more evidence will come to light.”

  “Maybe,” Clara was tired of being glum, and she had not come to see O’Harris to tell him her woes. This was meant to be their time together. She purposefully speared a new crumpet on her toasting fork and placed it into the fire. “I am going to forget about it for a bit. I have this pantomime affair to solve, anyway. Let’s talk about something else, what have you been up to?”

  The change of subject was refreshing and as O’Harris started to talk Clara relaxed a little. Whether there was police corruption or not, simply sitting around worrying about it was not going to achieve anything.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was one other person who might have insight into the relationship between Mervyn Baldry and Stanley Hutson, and Clara decided to speak to them before visiting the police station, to see if there was any truth in the suggestion Mervyn held a grudge against his former acting partner.

  It was close to the start of the evening performance when Clara found Donald in his father’s dressing room, putting the finishing touches to his make-up. For a brief moment, as she entered the room, it was like seeing a ghost. Donald perfectly mirrored his father, the only giveaway being the lack of belly fat. But imagine Stanley Hutson had been on a mild diet and you could easily assume he was the man sat at the dressing room mirror, applying bright red paint to his cheeks in vivid circles. Donald turned to her and it was a strange sight. Few people ever saw the dame up close; she was a vibrant figure on a stage, her
make-up garish so that even the back row would be amused and startled by her gaudy look. Up close it was like a child had thrown a tin of paints at a life-size doll. Aside from the bright rouge on his cheeks, Donald wore shocking blue eyeshadow, heavy kohl around his eyes, a jazzy pink streak highlighted each eyebrow and his lips were a pulsing apple red, shiny and glossy. All of this was laid upon a thick cream white foundation layer, making the colours even more stark and electric.

  There was nothing subtle about the make-up and with Donald’s own hair slicked back and held in place by a hairnet, ready for a wig to be placed on top, he looked somewhat absurd. But, then again, that was the point of the dame – she was ridiculous.

  “Sorry to disturb you so soon before a performance,” Clara said, closing the dressing room door behind her.

  She noted that the make-up made Donald look sour rather than jovial as it was meant to. She wondered if that was accidental, or whether he was really rather displeased by her arrival.

  “No matter, Miss Fitzgerald, I assume this relates to my father’s murder and that is much more important than a pantomime,” the lipstick had been applied to make it seem that Donald was permanently pouting, but Clara thought she detected a change in his expression, nonetheless, and his tone was sincere. “Take a seat, you don’t mind if I continue to get ready?”

  “Go ahead,” Clara wondered how much more he had to do, he seemed already painted to excess. “I hope not to take too much of your time. I just wanted to ask your thoughts on the arrest of Mervyn Baldry.”

  Donald was flicking face powder onto his features, his eyes shut as a cloud of dusty particles engulfed him.

  “I was surprised,” he said.

  Clara could taste the face powder in her mouth and smell its slight perfume in her nose. She wanted to sneeze.

  “Why was that?”

  “My father and Mervyn were good friends. In their day they were the best Buttons and Dame double-act on the circuit. My father would often say he had never found a man to replace Mervyn. He played opposite a different Buttons every year, but was never satisfied. That was why he went out of his way to encourage Mervyn to return to the stage,” Donald replied. He had picked up a pair of long glass earrings. “You have probably heard from Maddock the story of their falling out?”

  “I have.”

  “Most people assume Mervyn would be angry with my father because that outburst cost him his role. Of course, my father was not really to blame. Though some have hinted he broke Mervyn’s morphine bottle on purpose. He didn’t, of that I am certain. My father was a professional, Miss Fitzgerald, and he knew Mervyn needed the morphine to perform. He would not have deliberately sabotaged the pantomime, even if he was worried about Mervyn’s addiction,” Donald slipped the loops of the earrings through pierced ears. “People called him cold-hearted and cynical because he ignored Mervyn’s problems as long as the man acted well on stage, but no one appreciated that my father was also gripped by his demons. It would have been hypocritical for him to condemn Mervyn’s drug use, while he carried on with his drinking. Not that he did not care for his friend and begged him to get help, but they were men who both understood their own weaknesses and accepted them.”

  “Then there was no lasting animosity between them?”

  “No,” Donald was amused by the suggestion. “My father refused to press charges and did all in his power to ensure the police did not pursue the matter themselves. He would have seen Mervyn back on the stage, but the theatre director refused and insisted Mervyn be released from his contract. My father never worked for that director again.

  “Afterwards, Mervyn felt he needed a break from the stage, to get himself clean. He sought professional help and my father was always there assisting him, visiting him when he was in a special hospital for addicts. It was a long journey, but Mervyn made it. My father offered him the chance to resume their double act, but Mervyn needed more time. He moved into radio for a while, where there was not the same pressure of an audience before you.”

  “And there was no resentment that Mervyn chose not to resume his role as Buttons?”

  Donald smiled softly, it was a gentle, teasing look.

  “Miss Fitzgerald, my father and Mervyn were close friends. Mervyn was often at our house in London, he spent every Christmas with us and during the panto season would spend hours backstage to support my father. I told you, they understood each other,” Donald’s smile disappeared. “Mervyn is the last person I would imagine killing my father.”

  He rose from his seat and picked up a towering pink wig that was waiting for him on a side table. Turning back to the mirror, Donald carefully placed it on his head and adjusted it until he was satisfied. The transformation was complete; Donald Hutson was now every inch his father.

  “Thank you for speaking to me,” Clara rose from her own seat. “I know it must be hard stepping into your father’s shoes.”

  Donald pulled that soft, sad smile again.

  “My father would have wanted this. In a way, I am keeping him alive. The audience think I am him. It is… consoling.”

  Clara was not sure about that, it didn’t seem entirely healthy for a man to imitate his father to make it seem as if he was still alive, but who was she to judge? If hearing people mistake him for his father brought Donald some comfort, then she was not going to say anything.

  She left Donald preparing himself mentally for his entrance onto the stage and headed in the direction of the police station. She was not totally convinced Mervyn did not hold a grudge against Stanley Hutson, after all the man appeared to have badgered him into returning to the stage – maybe Mervyn had resented that? But she was also not convinced that Mervyn was a killer. And she wanted to know who the mystery witness was and how they came to be aware that Stanley Hutson was dead before anyone else.

  ~~~*~~~

  Inspector Park-Coombs was working late, as had become his habit recently. With everything that was going on in Brighton, he was spending less and less time at home, and had even had a camp bed moved into his office, so he could catch some sleep when the opportunity arose. Clara thought he looked tired and a little haggard, as if he had just recovered from a bad case of flu. Seeing him, she at once felt terrible for even considering that he might be accepting money from Jao Leong. Park-Coombs was a good honest man and Clara was certain of that. She smiled as she spotted him leaning on the desk-sergeant’s counter, signing a form.

  “You look like you could do with some of Annie’s best treacle tart,” she said.

  Park-Coombs glanced up and a slight smile graced his lips.

  “Sounds nice. Anything to cheer me up with that weather outside,” he tilted his head towards the dark, rainy night beyond the police station doors. “My only consolation is that I am no longer required to walk the beat.”

  “Certainly it is not the day to discover your umbrella has sprung a leak,” Clara waggled the offending article, which was folded up and dripping water onto the floor. “Have you got a moment?”

  “It will be about Mervyn Baldry?” Park-Coombs could not hide his groan.

  “Yes,” Clara admitted. “He is facing some very serious charges.”

  “He seems not to appreciate that,” the inspector shrugged. “He is denying everything, naturally.”

  Park-Coombs finished with the form he was signing and pushed it towards the desk-sergeant.

  “Best you come to my office.”

  The inspector seemed weary as he climbed the stairs to the office. His head drooped in a way Clara had never seen before, and he appeared to have aged by several decades. Clara felt her concern for him increasing.

  “Are you all right, Inspector?” She asked as soon as they were in his office.

  “I am tired,” Park-Coombs replied. “And I am wondering whether I am as competent a police officer as I once thought. But it will pass, I am sure.”

  Clara could not quite shake her worry for him as he indicated she should sit down and then took his own seat behind his
desk.

  “So, why don’t you think Mervyn the killer?” He jumped straight to the point.

  “It is more a case that Donald Hutson thinks it unlikely. Mervyn and Stanley were friends. They had put the assault eight years ago behind them and it was Stanley who encouraged Mervyn to appear in this pantomime.”

  “And yet we have evidence to suggest they were not the greatest of friends,” Park-Coombs countered.

  “You mean the button in Stanley’s hand? We don’t know how that got there.”

  “But we have a witness who says Mervyn followed the dead man after they came off the stage.”

  “That is something I want to discuss,” Clara leaned forward in her seat. “The only person who knew Stanley was dead, outside of the killer, and who was connected to the pantomime was Mr Maddock. None of the cast knew that Stanley was deceased until early this afternoon, when Maddock told them. Most of the stagehands still do not know he is dead. Maddock is keeping it a secret so as not to disrupt the panto.”

  The inspector was silent, staring at his hands as they rested on his desk. Clara knew he was taking in this information and reaching the logical conclusion.

  “An innocent witness to Mervyn following Stanley could not have known the man was dead until this afternoon,” Park-Coombs laid out the idea carefully.

  “More to the point, Maddock has not told anyone Mr Hutson was murdered. You understand?”

  “I do,” Park-Coombs gave a tired groan and pressed a hand to his forehead. “This witness has insider knowledge that Stanley Hutson was killed.”

  “Yes,” Clara was pleased she would not have to labour her point.

  “That means there was someone else at the theatre who saw Hutson dead, and they happened to have also seen Mervyn following him,” Park-Coombs continued.

  Clara wanted to groan. That was not what she had meant at all.

  “Surely, if someone innocent came across Mr Hutson’s corpse they would have raised an alarm?” She pointed out.

  “Mr Maddock didn’t, or at least not at once. These show folk are funny souls. Nothing matters to them as much as the show carrying on. I reckon the witness saw the body, realised they could do nothing about it and that the pantomime would be interrupted and so kept quiet.”