Thackeray guided Albert towards the bed, thankfully deposited him there and began brushing the mildew from his cape at the points where it had touched the wall on the way up. ‘You’re a good weight, sir,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You haven’t got a dumb-bell in your pocket, have you?’
Albert grinned. ‘I’m wondering whether my landlady saw anything. She’ll be suspicious, I can tell you. She’s very particular on temperance.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Cribb grandly assured him. ‘I’ll tell her who we are.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, Sergeant. Coming home with two policemen is even more certain to get me a week’s notice than an evening at the pub.’
Thackeray concealed his smile from Cribb by finding a sudden interest in a Landseer canine study on the wall behind him. Albert identified it. ‘-“Dignity and Impudence.” The landlady’s as partial to dogs as my mother, but only in the pictorial form. You can turn it over.’
Thackeray did so. The hooks supporting the frame were screwed into the top so that it was reversible. Pasted on the back was a photo-engraving of a young woman with a narrow length of muslin over one shoulder, standing beside a Greek column.
‘Now I’m at home, you see,’ said Albert with a laugh. ‘That’s my single contribution to the decorations. Sit down, gentlemen, if you can find a chair. You won’t object to my reclining on the bed, I trust.’
Thackeray settled into a wicker chair by the window and regarded Albert’s impressive physique, now constricted by the inadequate brass bedstead. This strong man was a queer sort of cove, with his public school accent and his waxed moustache. How did a man of that class fit into a shabby lodging-house like this, pasting doubtful figure-studies on the backs of Landseers and living in fear of a Lambeth landlady?
‘We won’t detain you long,’ said Cribb, ‘but I’ll thank you for a few moments of your time. You probably gathered from the conversation at the Grampian that your injury tonight was one of a series in recent weeks suffered by music hall artistes. I want to discover if yours has anything in common with the others. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I put some questions to you that may seem unduly personal.’
‘You can ask whatever you like,’ said Albert.
‘I’m obliged to you.’ The sergeant moved an upright chair to the bedside, its back facing the bed. Then he swung his leg across it to sit astride, with arms folded along the back, and chin resting on them a yard from Albert’s face. ‘Now it’s crystal-clear, ain’t it, that someone went to a deal of trouble to arrange what happened on the stage tonight? Stray bulldogs aren’t six a penny on the streets of London, as any bobby who’s done dog-pound duty will tell you. Nor is it easy to exchange two dogs in the wings of a music hall when the show’s in progress. Ah, I know all about your traditions of practical joking—silk hats coated with soot, and the like—but this was in a different class, wasn’t it? Whoever arranged it knew very well that he was putting you out of work for a week or more.’
Albert shook his head. ‘Longer than that, I fear. Who is going to hire me in a London music hall as a serious artiste after tonight’s absurd exhibition? You’ll see a report of the incident in next week’s Era and that’ll be the last notice I get as a strong man.’
Cribb nodded gravely. ‘Who would have done such a thing, then—another strong man, perhaps?’
‘Absolutely not. There aren’t more than two dozen of us who lift weights professionally in London, and there are over a hundred halls, you know. We’re not in competition with each other.’
‘You don’t have any enemies among the other acts at the Grampian?’
‘Not really, Sergeant. People don’t stay long enough to become jealous of each other. You might get a booking for three weeks and then you move on—unless you’re Champagne Charlie or The Vital Spark and you’re hired for a three-month engagement.’
‘Let’s look outside the music halls then,’ said Cribb. ‘Who do you meet in your spare time? Is there some acquaintance who might have turned sour on you?’
Albert laughed. ‘Spare time? But there isn’t any! From Monday morning’s band-call to Sunday night’s training with the bells my life is wholly given over to the music hall. Why, even my mother and my donah are part of it.’
‘Miss Blake?’
‘Ellen. She’s a real beauty, you must admit. When her singing is in the same class as her face and figure she’ll be the rage of the halls.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Miss Blake’s voice required a miracle, but Cribb spoke with conviction. ‘She has other admirers, I expect.’
‘Scores, I’m sure. Every night there are bunches of flowers and chocolate boxes delivered to her dressing-room.’ Albert seemed naively proud of it.
‘Then you have rivals.’
‘Ah, but she gives them no encouragement. She doesn’t even eat the chocolates. The other girls share them out after Ellen has gone home. She is entirely loyal to me, Sergeant . . . Yes, smile to yourself if you like, but I know Ellen. She is singularly strong-willed. I shouldn’t want to be the masher who tried forcing his attentions on her.’
‘Perhaps just such a gent arranged your downfall tonight,’ suggested Cribb.
‘I’m doubtful of that. Whoever took Beaconsfield out of his basket knows a rare amount about my act. Anyone knowing so much must also know that making overtures to Ellen is a waste of time.’
Cribb paused in his questioning, scratching speculatively at his side-whiskers. Thackeray, who disliked silences, lowered his eyes and slowly rotated the brim of the silk hat in his lap. He had a strong intuition that Cribb was about to move into a sensitive area of questioning.
‘Then we seem to have eliminated everyone but your mother, Albert. I can’t believe she would play a trick like this.’
There was a guffaw from the bed. ‘Mama? There’s not much she hasn’t stooped to in her time, Sergeant, believe me! But I can’t think why she would want to ruin the act. Besides, she wouldn’t do anything to upset Beaconsfield. She dotes on that animal.’
‘Has she always been a part of your act? I wouldn’t think her contribution is indispensable.’
Albert laughed again. ‘She’s left four or five times to get her hooks into some unfortunate fellow with tin to spare, but she always comes back. I’m too soft-hearted to turn her away. It’s the blood-tie, I suppose. She was once quite a celebrated figure in the halls—you won’t believe this—as a coryphee in the ballet. That was how Papa met her. He was the chairman at Moy’s Music Hall in Pimlico, right back in the fifties before it became the Royal Standard. He gave dramatic monologues on occasions, too. Oh, the hours he devoted to teaching me the vowel sounds—perhaps he knew I might need to follow in his footsteps some day. Well, about fifteen years ago he told Mama she ought to give up her dancing because she was already overweight and past forty. She took offence, there was a terrible argument, Papa walked out of our lives and Mama bought Beaconsfield. Oddly enough, she gave up ballet and took to singing, with me in a sailor-suit and Beaconsfield walking on to distract the audience a bit. She isn’t a bad singer, you know. I tried to persuade her to pass on some hints to Ellen, but she wouldn’t. Unless you’ve got bow legs and a wet, black nose, Mama isn’t interested in the way you do anything.’
‘But you’re quite certain that she isn’t responsible for what happened tonight?’
‘Well, you saw the state she was in after she had rescued Beaconsfield, Sergeant.’
‘Quite so.’ Cribb got to his feet. ‘We’ll leave you to get some rest now. You’ll be feeling the effects of tonight’s experience. There’s nothing we can do for you before we go? Very good. There’s just one thing I want you to do for me, then. Whatever happens in the next day or two—and I suspect that something may—avoid violence. Scotland Yard won’t be far behind you.’
With that, Cribb picked up his hat and cane and quit the room. Thackeray hauled himself out of his comfortable chair, mystified by the sergeant’s last remark. Violence? He looked hard at Albert;
what kind of violence was a bed-ridden man capable of, even if he was the Hercules of Rotherhithe? He followed, shaking his head.
THERE WAS A TAP at the door of the interview room at Kennington Road Police Station. Sergeant Cribb rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘It had better be Cadbury’s,’ he told Thackeray. ‘Come in!’
A bright-eyed constable in full uniform with helmet, greatcoat and armlet, made his entrance.
‘Lord, they get younger and younger,’ muttered Cribb. ‘You can put the tray down here, lad. What’s your name?’
‘Oliver, Sergeant.’
‘And how long have you been in the Force?’
‘Four months, Sergeant.’
‘Is that so? That’s a fine new uniform you’re wearing, Oliver, but there’s no need to dress up to bring us a cup of cocoa, you know.’
‘I’m on night duty, Sergeant, and Sergeant Flaxman insists—’
‘Does he now? It’s not for me to interfere, then. You’re on till six tomorrow morning, are you?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘And you’re the man whose beat takes in Little Moors Place?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Then listen to me, young Oliver. I want you to keep a special watch on that road tonight—number nine in particular. You may know it—theatrical lodging-house. Just as soon as anyone enters there, it’s your job to hare back here and let Constable Thackeray know. You can stand at the end of the road: it’s a one-ender, you know, so you should be able to keep out of sight. Pity you’re not a plain-clothes man, but we’ll have to make do with you. Keep your lantern out; there’s nothing like a bull’s-eye for giving a bobby away. And take that armlet off when you get there.’
‘But Sergeant—’
Cribb put up his hand. ‘I’ll square it with Harry Flaxman. This is a chance for you to make a name for yourself, lad, so don’t disappoint me. Here, let’s have a look at that armlet of yours. See that, Thackeray. What do you make of that?’
‘Soda, Sarge, without a doubt.’
‘Unmistakable. Never wash your armlet in soda, young Oliver. Makes the colour run like you’re going to run back here from Little Moors Place as soon as you’ve got any news for us. That’ll do, then. Fine cup of cocoa!’ He turned back to Thackeray, as P.C. Oliver left to begin his vigil. ‘You can relieve him at six. I don’t think anything’ll happen before then, but I can’t take the chance. Well, Thackeray, I know the symptoms. Your face has been as long as Big Ben all evening. You want to speak your mind to me. Very well. Now’s the time. Just wipe the cocoa-skin off your moustache and I’ll give you my complete attention.’
‘Well, Sarge,’ said Thackeray a moment later, ‘I suppose it’s just that I can’t take all this music hall stuff seriously. It don’t seem nothing like your class of investigation to me. It’s not really worthy of you, Sarge. A blooming bogus bulldog in a basket and a strong man with a twisted ankle—that don’t seem worth losing a night’s sleep over. We’ve taken on some odd cases, I know, but there’s always been a corpse to make the whole thing worth while.’
‘You might have got one tonight if that dog had rabies,’ said Cribb. ‘I understand you, though. On the face of it, tonight’s affair at the Grampian seems pretty small beer. But look at it as the latest episode in this string of accidents on the stage—and remember we had a warning that something would happen tonight—and it becomes a deal more sinister. What we saw at the Grampian certainly wasn’t murder, Thackeray, but from Albert’s viewpoint it was professional assassination. You heard him yourself saying he was finished as a strong man. We heard Woolston saying something similar in Newgate. That’s serious enough for me, Constable.’
Thackeray admitted that it was.
‘Let’s recall the incidents,’ continued Cribb, reaching for a sheet of paper. ‘I’ll list them here. First there was the collision of the Pinkus sisters on their shortened trapezes; then Bellotti’s tumble from the greasy barrel; the shameful alterations to Sam Fagan’s song-sheet; the accident to the sword-swallower; the unspeakable calamity suffered by Miss Tring; and the sword through the leg of Woolston’s assistant. And now Albert’s attack by a fraudulent bulldog. What do they have in common, would you say?’ He handed the list to Thackeray and returned to his cocoa.
‘I’ve given this a lot of thought, Sarge, because I expected you to ask me sooner or later.’
‘Good. What conclusions d’you draw, then?’
Thackeray drew a deep breath. ‘I haven’t been able to conclude anything, Sarge. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it all seems.’
To his amazement Cribb pitched forward, laughing. ‘Thackeray, you’re incomparable! I knew you wouldn’t fail me. Of course it seems ridiculous, man! That’s the point of it all!’
‘The point?’
‘Damn my eyes, you still don’t see it! The common element, Thackeray, is ridicule. Absurdity. There’s no better way to ruin a serious performance on the stage. Imagine your precious Irving falling through the stage-trap in the last act of The Bells. He’d be finished! Just as Albert was finished when the bulldog bit him tonight. Can you see a music hall audience ever taking him seriously again? Of course they won’t. As soon as he appears anywhere you’ll hear barking and growling all over the theatre. Ridicule, Thackeray—it’s a devastating weapon.’
Thackeray agreed, drawing comfort from the private thought that a man of Cribb’s stamp ought to know more about the offensive use of ridicule than he did. ‘So somebody plans to make laughing-stocks of all these performers, Sarge. Then we’re looking for someone with a grudge against each one of them. Shouldn’t we interview ’em all to find out who they’ve fallen out with in recent months?’
‘And find one common name? That’s what I thought until I tried tracing them. Do you know, Thackeray, they’ve all quit their lodgings and disappeared except Woolston? At least he won’t find it easy to do a flit from Newgate.’
‘Why should they all do that, Sarge?’
‘Could be they can’t afford the rent any more, being out of work,’ said Cribb. ‘It’s cheaper in a common lodging- house. That’s where half the missing persons in London are, in my opinion. It’s no use asking the keepers who they’ve got under their roofs, when their only obligation is to report infectious diseases and limewash the walls and ceilings twice a year. Yes, that’s where they could very well be. For all the spangles and champagne, your music-hall artiste is just a step from the poor-house.’
‘Didn’t they leave forwarding-addresses?’ suggested Thackeray, on an inspiration.
‘I had the same thought,’ said Cribb, ‘but it seems you don’t do that in the theatre. You move around so much that you use your agent’s office as your official address, and collect your letters from him periodically. Inquiries were made this morning at five different agents in York Road—just up the street from here—“Poverty Corner” they call it in the halls. Well, none of our accident-prone friends have visited their agents. There’s a pile of letters as tall as your hat waiting for the Pinkus sisters, and they weren’t badly hurt, by Sergeant Woodwright’s account. It’s a rum business, Constable.’
‘We could list them among the missing persons in the Police Gazette.’
‘Already arranged. But the fact remains that six people have come to grief on the stage, lost their jobs and disappeared in the space of four weeks. With Woolston it could have been seven. D’you see now why I want to keep a watch on Albert?’
Thackeray was on his feet. ‘Blimey yes, Sarge! We can’t leave a job like this to that young cub who brought in the cocoa. I’ll get round there straight away!’
Cribb raised his hand. ‘And a precious fine plain clothes man you’ll be, standing in a Lambeth street all night in your opera hat and cape. Better leave it to young Oliver and get yourself some sleep. Ask Sergeant Flaxman if there’s a section house with a spare bed. And borrow a set of clothes for the morning. What’s the time?’
‘Just above your head, Sarge. Ten minutes past midn
ight.’
‘Capital! I’ll snatch a quiet glass of rum and shrub before they close. Look out for me in the morning.’
CHAPTER
6
FOR THE SECOND TIME in five minutes Thackeray eased a forefinger between his neck and the collar of Sergeant Flaxman’s shirt. Borrowed clothes! If they didn’t chafe you because they were so tight, they constricted your circulation somewhere. What was the matter with the Kennington Road Constabulary, that they couldn’t produce a set of toggery to fit an average—well, slightly larger than average—man? Were they all stunted, or worn thin by beat-bashing, or something? You would almost think they had got together to produce the least comfortable set of ‘plain clothes’ possible. They couldn’t have known he had tender skin in the area of his neck when they gave him the coarse flannel shirt. But knickerbocker tweeds! He had, on rare occasions, seen Londoners wearing such things; only in parks, though, never the seedier backstreets of Lambeth. Yet when the moment of choice came in the mess-room, and he stood in his underwear with a pile of discarded, undersized clothes behind him, there were just two survivors; the knickerbockers and a red velvet smoking-suit. Lord! What a picture that presented of the off-duty hours at Kennington Road! Knickerbockers it had to be, then, with a deerstalker and elastic-sided boots to match. And now he shrank into the shadows of the asylum wall, half-expecting some nervous passer-by to suppose he had just climbed over.
About twenty past six. Too early, perhaps, for anything dramatic to happen, but he could not afford to relax. There was a hint of October mist in the air, but from where he was, sheltering against a buttress formed by two rows of bricks, he could already see lights appearing at windows in the terrace opposite. No sign of life from Albert’s room yet; being a theatrical, he would be accustomed to a later start than most working men. The poor beggar was going to wake up stiff this morning, too; there wasn’t much to tempt him from a warm bed.
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