Death at the Pantomime

by Evelyn James

  “And this tempted people into gossiping,” Clara nodded. “It makes sense. Theatres are rife with rumours and actors are some of the worst gossips going, especially when the matter concerns a rival. I suppose Stanley was condemned by his own success. Jealousy being a great one for sparking hate.”

  “Something like that,” Tommy agreed. “Anyway, once I mentioned the term thief, people seemed to come alive. That was when they remarked on these old rumours, and they are old. I mean, Hutson started performing last century, he has played a dame for, what, thirty years?”

  “Around that,” Clara concurred. “I wonder where he began? Could it be we have to delve so deeply into his past to find a reason for his death?”

  Tommy was about to reply when Annie reappeared with his supper and a pot of tea. She placed a tray of food on his lap and the teapot by the hearth to keep warm. Clara noted the contents of the tray.

  “A scone?” She pointed at the baked delight with an accusing finger.

  “So there will only be ninety-nine for the church fair,” Annie said without a hint of remorse. “Tommy needs the sustenance.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow at her, pretended to be offended, then started to chuckle.

  “What is the joke?” Tommy looked at them perplexed.

  “I am sure Annie will explain her epic scone cooking to you at some point, for the moment, I would like to hear more about these rumours concerning Hutson. Sit down and join us Annie, you look tired too.”

  Clara had noted that Annie seemed to be dead on her feet. So much industrious scone baking had left her unusually worn-out. Clara motioned Annie to sit, even as she began to protest.

  “Oh, all right,” Annie gave in, though she didn’t seem to mind. “What has Tommy discovered?”

  “It’s not a huge amount to go on,” Tommy admitted, feeling a tad under pressure now. “Just some of the people I spoke to said Hutson had stolen his act from someone else. Though, to be fair, there is more to an act than words and gestures. The actor must perform them in a certain way that makes them his own.”

  “That is a good point,” Clara nodded. “And, of course, this could all be jealousy at play. A fellow actor might think Hutson stole their way of giving a line or playing a part, but it is more coincidence than reality… hmm, what would be the word for stealing a person’s way of performing? Not plagiarism like in writing, maybe there isn’t a word.”

  “Mr Hutson has been hugely successful,” Annie said steadily. “If there was any real truth to these rumours, you would think someone would have spoken up and made a fuss.”

  “Depends on whether they had a case. I’m not sure it is illegal to steal someone’s act,” Tommy replied. “Also depends on if the person was inclined to protest. Some people just prefer to leave things alone.”

  “How compelling were the rumours?” Clara asked him.

  Tommy considered for a moment, then said;

  “I heard the near exact same story from several different people, and it had clearly been talked about a lot. Seems to me it was a well-established rumour, whether that makes it true or not is another matter.”

  “Who was the actor Hutson supposedly stole from?” Annie asked, sitting quietly in the chair with her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were starting to droop as she fought the urge to fall asleep.

  “No one could tell me that. One fellow said it was a chap called Olson who had performed once in Sleeping Beauty at the Palladium. Another thought the man named Smith and that he had never appeared in panto but had been an understudy for another actor when Hutson came across him. Most did not know who the person was, but they clearly liked the rumour and believed it.”

  “Hutson had a lot of rivals, simply because he was so famous and such a proficient performer, all this could be gossip-mongering by those who were envious of his stardom,” Clara mused. “Then again, there might be something.”

  Tommy was shovelling bacon and eggs into his mouth with enthusiasm.

  “It was the only thing I was offered that could explain why someone would want him dead. While a number of the people I asked seemed unsurprised by my suggestion Hutson was being threatened, they could not give me any real explanation for it other than the rumours I mentioned. He seemed a decent fellow, but what was unspoken was a sense that he had a ruthless streak when he was younger which saw him thrust his way into the starlight,” Tommy paused over a forkful of eggs. “I think he became nicer after his success was assured and he felt settled in his role. I don’t know, there was this undercurrent I couldn’t quite explain. Most of the people I spoke to were younger than Hutson too, so probably were not in the theatre when this role-theft took place.”

  “Mervyn might know about it,” Clara leaned back in her chair, feeling the fire lulling her to sleep too. “Mervyn is around the same age as Hutson and they began their careers at the same time. The problem I see, is why would someone wait this long to strike? We are talking thirty years and there must have been far better, far less risky opportunities to attack Hutson during that time. What makes this season so different? Is it the show, could there be a symbolism to that? Or something else, something important we are missing.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Tommy paused to head to the hall and collect the briefcase he had taken with him to London. “One of the directors was a bit of a Hutson fan and has been collecting newspaper clippings about him for years. Nothing sinister as such, though he seemed desperate to have Hutson perform in his panto at some point. He is going to be terribly disappointed when he learns Hutson is dead.

  “Anyway, when I mentioned the threats and trying to find something to explain them, he offered me his scrapbook of cuttings. It isn’t just about Hutson, it contains clippings about this director’s own shows and about others stars he follows.”

  “Sounds unpleasantly obsessive,” Annie gave a shudder.

  “No different to those people who collect clippings about the royal family or cricket players,” Tommy shrugged. “I suppose it could lead to unhealthy obsession, but this director seemed grounded. He also had a complete collection of pantomime programmes from every London theatre dating back to 1905. He showed it to me. Shame it didn’t go back further, else I might know when Hutson began his career.”

  “Every programme from every pantomime held in London since 1905?” Clara said in amazement.

  “Carefully filed in albums by year. Even had a number of amateur production programmes. Honestly, this man was a panto enthusiast through and through. A walking encyclopaedia of panto knowledge, up to a point, seeing as he could no more elaborate on the thief rumours than anyone else.”

  Tommy produced the scrapbook and handed it to Clara. She turned to the first page and saw a large grainy newspaper picture of Hutson in full dame regalia receiving a standing ovation. The text beneath the picture indicated this was a special charity performance held before a prestigious audience, including members of the royal family.

  Clara flicked through the pages, pausing to scan through articles. There were reviews of Hutson’s performances, generally glowing, and several pieces about his charity work. It seemed Hutson regularly appeared at charity events to support worthwhile causes.

  There were several pages concerning the split between him and Baldry. The full details of the matter had been kept from the press, but Mervyn’s morphine addiction was a badly kept secret and the newspapers were rife with speculation. Equally, Mervyn’s dramatic attack had happened within view of an audience and it was impossible to stop people talking. Clara flicked through these clippings, looking for any hint of something she had not yet heard, but there was nothing new.

  As interesting as the scrapbook was for filling in the professional details of Stanley’s life, there was not anything that offered an insight into why he might have been killed until she came to a clipping close to the end of the book. At first glance, it seemed an odd thing to be included in the collection, for it was an obituary for another small-time actor. Clara was curious enough about w
hy it had been carefully pasted to the page to read through the entire text, finally coming to a mention of Hutson.

  “This is curious,” Clara said aloud, noticing as she did that Annie was sound asleep and Tommy dozing off too.

  Tommy opened his eyes and gave a drowsy response.

  “What is?”

  “This obituary about a man called Albert Long. According to this, Mr Long began his acting career playing the understudy to a Mr Harper, who was a dame back in the 1880s. Then he started to play dame roles himself and he was partnered by Hutson playing Buttons. It’s the original pairing, like Stanley and Mervyn only years before.”

  “Why is that interesting?” Tommy yawned.

  “Well, it might not be, but Long never lived up to the potential expected of him, dropped out of lead roles and ended up in bit parts the rest of his days. It says here, the first year he played a dame, he became indisposed and Hutson took over the role. Stanley was asked about him for this obituary and stated – ‘he was a kind and generous man, forever patient with his often ailing health. I learnt everything I know about panto from him, for he was my inspiration. Without him, I should not be here.’ Does that not sound curious?”

  Tommy was pulling himself from sleep.

  “Say again?”

  “Hutson is implying that he learned all he knew from Albert Long, but what if someone was to interpret that as he stole Long’s act? He replaced Long in his first big role, and Long never played the dame again. The article paints him as a tragic figure who had always hoped for a lead part, but in his one moment of glory his health failed him and Hutson took over,” Clara’s eyes sparkling. “Can’t you see? It could be argued by a jealous mind that Hutson stole Long’s role, stole it from under his feet. And that was it for Long, he never achieved anything after that.

  “Sorry story really, seems this obituary came from a theatrical paper where someone remembered the fellow and felt he deserved a little bit of the fame he could not find in life, in death.”

  “You are saying, it is this Long fellow all the rumours were about?”

  “Listen to what Huston said, ‘I learnt everything I know about panto from him… he was my inspiration… without him I should not be here.’ Supposing Hutson meant he learned his dame act from Long? Maybe it was all amicable at first, then as Hutson rose to glory and Long slipped into obscurity, bitterness crept in?”

  “Well, it does make a certain logic,” Tommy thought about the words. “Especially if taking over from Long was Hutson’s big break into dame roles. But there is a problem with your hypothesis that this is motive for Hutson’s murder.”

  Clara looked at her brother.

  “I know,” she groaned. “I know.”

  She pressed a hand to her forehead.

  “My best suspect is also dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Clara arrived at the police station to speak with Mervyn – or at least attempt to – and found the inspector hovering near the front desk. Clara found it hard to look him in the eye as he blithely greeted her.

  “Morning Clara. Here to see Mervyn again?”

  The inspector did not glance up from the papers he was reading, which enabled Clara to mask her obvious awkwardness around him.

  “Yes, I am hoping he feels more talkative today.”

  “I am releasing him shortly, this is Dr Deáth’s report and it clearly states the killer was much smaller than Mervyn. Deáth suggests we are looking for a woman,” the inspector finally looked up. “Which rather narrows the list of suspects.”

  “The killer had accomplices, however,” Clara shoved her uncertainties to one side and focused on the inspector’s face with a determination that after a moment made him frown and look away.

  “Yes, I read that too. Makes it all a little complicated, but find the killer and we’ll hopefully find the accomplices.”

  “I may have the motive for the murder, but it is all rather vague. Hence why I am hoping Mervyn will offer some insight,” Clara added. “If I can discover the ‘why’, then the ‘who’ should become clear.”

  “Perhaps,” Park-Coombs said, clearing his throat a little self-consciously. “Is something the matter with your eyes Clara? You don’t appear to have blinked in quite a while.”

  Clara remembered herself and shook off her intense stare.

  “Sorry, long night,” she lied. “Can I go to see Mervyn?”

  “Certainly, and if you discover anything pop up to my office afterwards. I have some eye drops the wife bought me which are very soothing on tired pupils. You might like to try it.”

  Clara gave him a difficult smile and then walked past him, feeling awful that she had been so unable to disguise her feelings. What proof did she have that he was a traitor? None, aside from the confusing conversation Captain O’Harris had overheard and the dangerous words of Brilliant Chang. While she trusted O’Harris, he might have misinterpreted what he heard and Brilliant Chang was likely to have his own agenda. Annie had been right; the inspector deserved the benefit of the doubt. When had Clara become so distrustful of her friends?

  Clara was solemn as she arrived by Mervyn’s cell and this caused the man to visibly pale.

  “They are going to charge me, aren’t they?” He said. “I’m going to swing.”

  Mervyn put his head in his hands and gave out a sob. He seemed to have sobered to his situation since the night before and the impending sense of doom had finally broken his attitude of disregard. Clara felt bad that her expression had been so badly misunderstood, she was really making a pig’s ear of things today.

  “No, no, Mr Baldry. You are being released. The inspector has evidence you could not be the killer.”

  Mervyn pulled his head from his hands, his jaw slack with astonished relief.

  “Released?”

  “Yes. Your innocence has been proved,” Clara added. “However, that does leave us no closer to discovering Mr Hutson’s true murderer. I had hoped you might help me.”

  “I already told you everything I could about that night,” Mervyn looked grim. “I don’t know what you are hoping for.”

  “I want to know about an event in Hutson’s past,” Clara explained. “I think it might be the key to his death.”

  Mervyn blinked, sudden hope flickering in his eyes. He was more cooperative now the reality of the situation was dawning on him.

  “What event?”

  “I have heard rumours that Hutson stole his dame act from another actor,” Clara said.

  “Those rumours have been doing the rounds for years,” Mervyn nodded. “Spoken by people jealous of Stanley’s success.”

  “That is what I suspected,” Clara agreed. “Yet, there must have been a source for these rumours? I half wondered if it had anything to do with Albert Long?”

  Mervyn almost seemed to startle at the sound of the name.

  “Albert Long,” he muttered to himself. “Now, that is a name I have not heard in a while. One of those all too sad stories of a talent that never lived up to the promise.”

  “How do you mean?” Clara asked.

  “Albert was a dear fellow and he enjoyed comic roles. He played a dame in a small amateur production and was quite the hit, despite his youth. Generally, dame actors are older, it makes the part more amusing to have this old man in a wig and make-up. Albert really made a mark on that role. The next year he was hired to play in a proper panto and his sidekick was a young actor named Stanley Hutson, playing Buttons.”

  Mervyn smiled to himself.

  “Stanley was not a bad Buttons, but the role did not suit him. Amuses me to think about it. He was far too dominant a personality for such a role. Buttons has to be a little subservient, very clumsy and prone to mishaps. Bumbling, that’s the word for it. Stanley could never fully lower himself to such a performance.”

  “From what I understand, he was not required to play Buttons for long?” Clara nudged him.

  Mervyn’s smile faded.

  “Albert Long was nev
er the healthiest of souls. Not sure if it was his heart or his lungs, or maybe something else. Don’t suppose the doctors in those days knew either. Anyway, just a week in the role of the dame and he was worn-out and had to stop performing. Stanley slipped into his shoes without hesitation. I think he had been craving that role.”

  “And he was good as the dame? He mimicked Albert?”

  “Well, he had watched him perform, that was natural…” Mervyn tailed off as the realisation struck him. “That could be where those rumours came from, yes, now you mention it. Stanley became ‘Albert Long the dame’ and maybe some folks whispered he stole the part from him. Not maliciously at first, because we say that in acting, you know, he stole the spotlight and so on. But with time, and with Albert never living up to what he had hoped for, yes, it could have turned into something more sinister.”

  “Someone might even consider that Stanley was a thief,” Clara suggested. “And that he was in part responsible for Albert’s failure to become famous.”

  Mervyn was nodding his head, seeing the way she was thinking and agreeing with it.

  “What can you tell me about Albert?” Clara asked.

  Mervyn wrinkled his brow as he thought about the question.

  “Albert was a few years older than Stanley and was desperate to be on the stage. I saw him perform in something Shakespearian once. Maybe he played Falstaff? Can’t really remember. The dame role in that big panto was meant to be the performance that made his name, but having to withdraw so early on scuppered everything. Nothing a director hates more than a sick actor. He might put up with that from a big star, but not a nobody. Word got around that Albert did not have the stamina for lead roles and he never got another chance.

  “He played smaller parts, though, and I don’t think he was ever out of work. He played supporting parts in some of the pantos myself and Stanley were involved in. He appeared as the old baron in Cinderella, and the king in Jack and the Beanstalk. Roles that did not require great effort and where he was only on stage for a few scenes.”