1 Murder Offstage

by L. B. Hathaway

  Posie noticed that Babe was also holding a huge bouquet of red roses. Well, that was to be expected, wasn’t it? Posie muffled herself up as much as she could under the fake fur, anxious not to catch Babe’s attention and be placed in an embarrassing situation. A taxi was just coming past – if she was lucky she could catch it. It slowed, and Posie ran over and gave her next destination to the driver. A prickling feeling told her that someone was watching her from the queue.

  In fact, she felt eyes boring into her back.

  She turned and met the gaze of Len, standing next to Babe, a pair of brightly coloured tickets clutched in his hand. Posie stared back, her heart racing. So then, they had come together, for Valentine’s Day.

  She continued to hold Len’s gaze. What was it she read there in his handsome face? He was looking at her imploringly, willing her to understand something. But what was there to understand?

  She saw Babe take Len’s arm, lead him up the steps, tottering unsteadily to and fro on her sky-high heels. Len tore his gaze away from Posie reluctantly.

  Posie clambered into the cab.

  ‘Please, driver. Fast as you can!’ she called through the glass divide, blinking back a flood of hot, useless tears.

  ****

  Four

  As the taxi rolled through the big iron gates of New Scotland Yard, Posie caught sight of a familiar trench-coated figure bowling his way out, scarf wrapped up over his face. He was lit up by the car lights against the driving snow, heading in the direction of the Victoria Embankment, beside the frozen river Thames.

  ‘Stop! Wait!’ she called to the driver. Pressing a handful of change into his hand, she jumped out of the cab and pursued the man through the snow.

  ‘Inspector Lovelace!’

  The Inspector halted under a lamp-post, and turned in surprise. His posture was of one poised for flight. Posie came panting up to him.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I was delayed. I don’t blame you for leaving, you’d probably given up on me.’

  ‘Posie?’ asked the Inspector in surprise, raising his black felt homburg briefly and peering very uncertainly at her. Posie realised he could only see her eyes, and even those not very well. She brushed the snowflakes from her eyelashes.

  ‘Yes. It’s me! I said in my telegram I’d be here at seven-thirty but I’m late.’

  ‘Let’s go back to my office. Better get a brew on,’ he said, turning on his heel. Inspector Lovelace sighed wearily. He had been heading home to his wife for a Valentine’s dinner in their smart new house in the Clapham suburbs. Not anymore, though.

  The Inspector strode over the snow-covered courtyard to the imposing buildings of Scotland Yard. A few lights were still on here and there in the office windows, blinking through the darkness. Rufus was here too, somewhere. Mouldering away in a tiny jail cell, like a real criminal. Posie shivered despite herself. Inspector Lovelace gave her a quick sideways glance:

  ‘Just so you know. I wasn’t expecting you. You seem to think I received a telegram from you? Well, I didn’t.’

  The Inspector was a good-natured man in the very early forties, a large man, nice-looking in a rugged-sort-of-way, with pale freckly skin and red coppery hair. He laughed, taking the curved stone steps at a fair old pace, like a young lad, two at a time. ‘I’d say whoever sent that telegram of yours deserves a good beating.’

  Posie laughed lightly alongside him but it was a hollow sound.

  ‘Only joking, mind!’

  Wretched Babe. What was she playing at exactly? Was this deliberate sabotage on her part or mere uselessness? However you looked at it, either way was bad.

  ****

  ‘So, what’s this all about then?’

  Inspector Richard Lovelace sank heavily down in his creaky leather chair and passed a beaten-up tin of biscuits across to Posie. She was clutching a steaming mug of tea he had just made. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten a proper meal, and she dived on the biscuits ravenously.

  Inspector Lovelace eyed her with a look of half-amusement, half-concern. Posie reminded him very much of a nurse he had taken a fancy to in the Field Hospital at Passchendale when he had spent some months there in 1917, lying injured, and he knew this fond remembrance made him not entirely impartial to Posie and her sometimes unorthodox methods.

  ‘You should take more care of yourself, my girl. Eat properly. Otherwise you’re no help to anyone. Who are you helping, anyway? I take it that there is something important behind your scurrying here after office hours? And more importantly, what’s it got to do with me?’

  Posie explained between mouthfuls of biscuit about her day so far. Inspector Lovelace nodded grimly: he had heard all about the murder at the Ritz, it had been the talk of the whole station.

  She opened her bag and pulled out the photo of ‘Georgie’. She pushed it across the desk and told the Inspector where she had just got it from.

  ‘Turns out Lucky Lucy was working as a chorus girl after all, at the Athenaeum Theatre. I know Inspector Oats had his doubts. So she didn’t lie to Rufus about everything.’

  Inspector Lovelace picked the photo up and studied it carefully under his green-glassed reading lamp. He whistled softly.

  ‘You’re right – that’s Lucky Lucy Gibson, for sure. I’d recognise that face anywhere, even though she’s cut all her hair off and dyed it white, and done something different to her eyes.’

  He passed the photo back. ‘She’s on the most-wanted list of every police station across London, and every British border control has an order to seize her. One of the most dangerous, difficult creatures you’re ever likely to encounter: like a ghost, never leaves traces, never incriminates others. But wherever she goes, she leaves a path of destruction behind her. And you say she’s been here, in London, this whole past year? Right under our noses?’

  ‘That’s right. On the stage almost every night.’

  ‘No wonder poor old Oats was in a bad mood! Letting her slip away like that at the Ritz must have been galling. So near and yet so far. She’s a clever girl.’

  ‘But what about Rufus? He’s been wrongfully imprisoned for a murder! And what about the Maharajah diamond? We need to search for it!’

  Inspector Lovelace smiled kindly.

  ‘We can’t do anything about the missing gem until its owner files a stolen report. And as for Rufus himself, wait here a minute.’

  Two minutes later the Inspector was back, a big black file in his hands. A white sticker read ‘OATS – CONFIDENTIAL’ down one side.

  ‘I just “borrowed” this from Oats’ office along the corridor,’ he said tapping his nose comically. He flipped through the file for a few minutes, and then closed it. He folded his arms. He looked grim.

  ‘Oats isn’t a bad policeman, you know. Just unimaginative. And he hates toffs – that’s a known fact. But he’s got your pal in the cells here as an accessory to this murder because he has no other leads. He’s hoping your pal will blab something useful.’

  ‘But Rufus was duped!’ Posie wailed. ‘He knows nothing about the murder. He knows nothing about his fiancée, either, as it turns out. I know more than Rufus right now about pretty much everything – and that’s not saying much!’

  ‘They will hold a preliminary hearing tomorrow morning, here. Oats has made notes recommending that your pal should be set free if his father stumps up some bail money. But are you sure Rufus isn’t caught up in this malarkey?’

  ‘What possible motive could he have?’

  The Inspector shrugged. ‘Loyalty to the girl, perhaps? Perhaps he’s covering up for her? Someone like Lucy would be pretty persuasive, let me tell you. Rufus could have helped arrange her getaway plan, onto a boat or a plane to South America, perhaps? He has plenty of money to arrange things…it wouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘You’re forgetting she’s robbed him of a priceless jewel,’ Posie snapped. ‘So just where in the getaway plan was that?’

  ‘An elaborate cover-story on the side? A nice little e
arner? He can just claim the insurance money, anyhow.’

  Posie shook her head resolutely and gritted her teeth. She snapped the catch of her bag and pulled out the telegram from Brigg & Brooks. As the Inspector read it his eyes widened, just for a second.

  ‘Fine. I agree my theory was far-fetched. But from the file here your pal is in a bad way. He’s blind drunk most of the time; there are hotel bar-bills here which make my eyes water just reading them. He’s in and out of seedy pubs all day long, too. Tell me, just why exactly are you bothering with him?’

  A sudden wave of anger flared up hotly, spreading out over Posie’s head and neck in a vivid red flush. She counted to five and swallowed the anger down. When she spoke it was quietly and with absolute conviction:

  ‘Don’t ever ask me that again, please. What your dear colleague Inspector Oats seems to have overlooked is the fact that Rufus Cardigeon is one of the bravest men this country has ever known. He’s a national hero! Does it say in that file that he was awarded the Victoria Cross not once but twice for his services in the Great War? The highest honour for bravery a man can get! I bet that’s not in the file notes! And as for the drinking – I know he’s a wretched soul just now, but he wouldn’t be the first or the last man to hit the bottle as a way of forgetting some of the dreadful things he’s seen, would he?’

  Posie stared at Inspector Lovelace who held her gaze calmly. Eventually he nodded, as if in agreement.

  ‘How much do they want for bail?’

  ‘Let me see,’ Inspector Lovelace placed a finger on a page and jabbed at a paragraph. The figure he quoted made Posie’s eyes water. Her heart sank. She knew Rufus’ father was rich, but he was notoriously tight. He would not be pleased. With any of this.

  ‘It says here that they still don’t know who the murder victim was. Poor sausage.’

  Some horrible photos slipped out of the pocket of the file onto the desk.

  ‘What ho! Some good old blood-and-guts here. Poor fella.’

  The Inspector had picked the photos up and studied them under his lamp, passing them to Posie casually as if they might be a theatre programme. She had seen the real body only hours earlier, and she had been so preoccupied with Rufus at that point that she hadn’t felt time to feel shocked or sick at the grisly murder. Now, strangely, presented with the image of the body in graphic black and white frames, Posie felt the full horror of the murder sink in.

  ‘Poor man,’ she sighed, flipping through, feeling distinctly queasy at some of the close-ups. She looked up, and saw a look of puzzlement spreading over Inspector Lovelace’s large, kind face. He had a photo in his hand and scrabbled in his desk for a magnifying glass.

  ‘Thought so!’ he said triumphantly. He passed the photo and eye-glass to Posie.

  ‘Tell me what you see.’

  Posie sat and stared. She could see nothing of any note. The photo was of the murder victim’s torso and his blood-spattered white dress-shirt. As she had noted to herself earlier, the clothes were old but of a very good quality. The man had died with his hands outstretched uselessly, as if to defend himself from his attacker.

  ‘Nope. Nothing. Sorry.’

  Inspector Lovelace nodded. ‘It’s very unusual, I’ll give you that. No wonder you missed it. It’s the hands. See how carefully manicured they are? How the nails are cut right down to the quick?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but I don’t see…’

  ‘And the thick, crusty callouses on the fingers? He was a musician. Only years of being a musician can do that to hands. I’d say this chappie had been a musician of some sort for getting on for more than forty years. Mnnn, I wonder. Strings, definitely…perhaps the guitar, or perhaps…’

  ‘…the VIOLIN!!’ Posie shouted, interrupting.

  ‘Yes! Exactly. Good thinking at last. So our victim is a musician. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who he was. We’ll put out a notice to all the orchestras in town, all the bands and nightclubs too.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Posie said, sitting bolt upright. ‘I’d swear sure as bread is bread that this man is Lionel Le Merle, First Violin at the Athenaeum Theatre! He didn’t show up at work today. Apparently that was very unusual.’

  The Inspector was looking at Posie seriously.

  ‘So he knew Lucky Lucy, you mean, at work?’

  Posie nodded, bright as a button. ‘But this was no bust-up between workmates. There’s more to it than that, I’m certain. The whole thing stinks.’

  Inspector Lovelace nodded.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree.’ He looked at his wristwatch and cursed, reaching for his hand-knitted woollen scarf and wrapping it around his neck.

  ‘I’ve got to get going; my wife Molly will kill me otherwise. I’ll tidy up here and leave a note for Oats with this man Lionel’s name on it. I’ll tell him you’ll be along in the morning for the bail hearing, shall I? I can’t imagine you’ll be missing that?’

  Posie nodded, gathering up her fur coat. Time to make tracks: she wasn’t yet done for the night.

  ‘You want me to get you a cab?’ Inspector Lovelace asked. Posie thought of the cold snowy evening outside, and jangled her last few coins together in her pocket. She shook her head – she had already depleted the contents of the office strong-box enough for one night.

  ‘No. But thank you. It’s only a ten-minute walk.’

  ‘Very well. But keep warm. And Posie?’ Inspector Lovelace looked up from scribbling his note on top of the black file, ‘Take care. Keep your powder dry. If you find anything out, let us know. Anything at all. Don’t go this alone. It could be very dangerous. Promise me?’

  Posie nodded dutifully, but she had secretly crossed her fingers behind her back.

  ****

  She was heading off to visit Rufus’ father at his club: No 11, St James. On Pall Mall.

  But she had lied to the Inspector. It wasn’t a ten-minute walk at all. It might have been in the summer, when the parks which were useful as shortcuts stayed open late; when she could have run through St James’s Park, past the artificial island which was home to a hundred pelicans and over the hump-backed bridge. In the harsh reality of the snowy February evening, however, it was half an hour’s brisk walk.

  Posie turned sharply onto Whitehall and walked along as fast as she could without losing her footing. London was covered in its thick, white, fuggy blanket and still yet more snow was falling. As so often happens with fresh snow, the world suddenly seemed ridiculously quiet. Even the chimes from the tower of Big Ben, so close, announcing to the world that it was eight-thirty, seemed very small and far away; a tiny, tinny little sound which belonged to a doll’s house clock.

  It was as if everybody had left town in a hurry.

  The government offices which ran down both sides of the broad street looked shut-up and deserted, and even the Prime Minister’s house on Downing Street was in total darkness. All the way along Whitehall, normally so busy, Posie was passed by just one other person, a bent-against-the-wind government worker in a flapping black coat, wielding a useless umbrella. One cab passed by in a tearing hurry, but otherwise there was silence. There was something uncanny about it.

  And in the strange muffled world of snow-covered London, Posie started to imagine things.

  For all the quietness surrounding her, she fancied she could hear footsteps close by, clicking at her heels. It sounded like a man’s brogues; totally unsuitable for the heavy snow. At one point she stopped underneath a street lamp and turned around quickly to face her assailant.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called loudly, trying not to let the fear show in her words. ‘Who is it?’

  There was no-one. At least no-one she could fathom, anyhow.

  Trafalgar Square was up ahead, normally so welcoming with its bright lights and its familiar stone lions. She hurried to reach it.

  But even here the world had changed. The newspaper sellers who normally thronged the place had packed up and gone, and the crowds of party-goers who flocked to the square at n
ight to drink champagne had gone somewhere warmer.

  Only a few poor wretches, soldiers who had survived the Great War but with limbs or their wits missing, sat underneath damp cardboard sheets, begging passers-by for money. Life had not been kind to them, and it was a cruel shame.

  Posie remembered the famous newspaper photographs of Armistice Day in Trafalgar Square three years before, when the ghastly war had been stopped forever. She hadn’t been there herself; she was still out in action in the boggy fields of Amiens with the Ambulance Brigade, picking up the debris and the bodies from the last few battles. But she knew that unimaginable crowds had packed the place out. Men in their thousands had climbed on the lions by the fountain and scaled Nelson’s Column, angrily ripping down the placards inviting men to enlist.

  Posie distributed the last of her coins among as many of the men as she could and continued up the road until she hit Pall Mall.

  It was strange. She still couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone was following her and she found herself turning around several times, heart thumping.

  But there was never anyone there.

  Ahead of her, up at Piccadilly, she saw the bright blue-and-white electric lights of the Circus glittering like cat’s eyes through the snow, and beyond it again, the bright lights of the Theatre District in the distance. She tried not to think of Len and Babe, together…

  And so she braced herself for her most thankless task yet of the evening.

  The Tenth Earl, Rufus’ father, was famously a man of few manners. He reminded people of an unexploded volcano at the best of times. Posie knew that he would be seething from Rufus’ exploits earlier today, and in addition he would be tired from his long train journey down from his ancestral home, Rebburn Abbey. On the whole it was not a great time to turn up and expect his undivided attention. And if her telegram to the club had gone the same way as Babe’s other two, Posie’s visit would be unexpected too. But visit him she must: Rufus had asked her to.

  The impossibly grand pale-yellow stone facades of the London clubs stretched ahead down Pall Mall, one after another, lining the street as far as the eye could see. Oil torches flickered at the entrance of each one. They were the exclusive preserve of men, and only men of the better sort; you were born a member, you could not become a member. These places always reminded Posie of the Italian Palaces of the Renaissance; so serene outside and yet so full of fearsome secrets inside.