1 Murder Offstage

by L. B. Hathaway

  She sighed, hoping the fog would clear.

  ****

  Lyons Cornerhouse on the Strand was very busy. It was coffee-time and every table was taken, the smart but harassed waitresses bustling around the hungry customers, serving all manner of cakes and cream-topped fancies.

  Posie located Dolly straight away. She was sitting over by the window, watching the world go by. She was eating her way steadily through her own purple tin of Peek Frean’s Marie biscuits, defying Lyons’ rules about not bringing in food from outside. They greeted each other warmly and Posie sat down and ordered tea for two and a plate of iced Chelsea buns.

  ‘My treat,’ she declared and tactfully moved the Marie biscuits onto the window ledge, out of direct view. In the harsh light of day and out of the dank theatre cellar Dolly looked even more extraordinary than ever; her pale elfin face and bleached cropped hair made her look somehow other-worldly, vulnerable. The silver greasepaint and black clothes of yesterday were gone, and instead she was wearing crimson lipstick and a matching red-and-white polka-dot smock. She looked like a little rag-doll.

  ‘Gasper?’ she asked companionably, offering Posie a black cigarette from a very scratched silver case. Posie shook her head, and attacked her sticky cake instead.

  In a few concise sentences she told Dolly what she was up to and why she had needed her help the day before. She even told Dolly about the murder of Lionel Le Merle, and the fact that Georgie the chorus girl was in fact a famous criminal known as Lucky Lucy.

  Dolly looked at her, open-mouthed, cigarette unheeded, a mountain of ash steadily piling up on her plate.

  Posie gave her one of her business cards, and unlike the Earl, Dolly looked very impressed. She studied it properly before tucking it carefully into her own red handbag.

  ‘Is that what you always wanted to do, then?’ she asked, in slight awe. ‘Become a Detective? Is that what kept you goin’, during the war? Was it your dream? Did you think to yourself in all the carnage – after all of this, I’ll run my own Detective Agency?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Posie laughed. She had never really considered it from that point of view before. ‘I just always liked solving puzzles. I was left a small amount of money when my father died, and I thought, why not? I had no-one in the world and no place in the world. So I thought, let’s try London. What about you? Did you always want to be a Wardrobe Mistress in a theatre?’

  Dolly hooted with such a high shriek of laughter that virtually the whole café turned around.

  ‘Jeepers, no. Not on your nelly,’ she said, shaking her head and blowing a well-aimed smoke ring ceilingwards.

  ‘I always wanted to be a nurse. Trained up for it too, but I couldn’t get a job for love nor money before the war. The only reason they took me on in the Field Hospital in Flanders was because they were desperate; not many would put up with the sights and smells and sounds we had to in the trenches. And I spoke French too, my mum was French, from Paris, and it came in handy. I’m proud of what I did there. And I’m equally as proud of what I did before the Great War, too.’ Dolly sounded defiant, as if challenging Posie on something.

  ‘Sorry?’ Posie was bemused. ‘What did you do before the war?’

  ‘I was a suffragette. Chained myself up with the best of them. I was in jail for more than six months. That’s why no self-respecting hospital in London would have me; no doctor either. You can’t get far with a criminal conviction on your CV.’

  Posie nodded sympathetically. She had not joined the Women’s Movement herself, but she had admired them from afar.

  ‘After the Great War I came back to London to find myself in exactly the same situation as before: no job, no money, no family, same stinking bed-sit and the blight that will never go away; the spell in jail as a women’s rights activist. They were dark days for me, I’m tellin’ you.’

  ‘But you got the job at the Athenaeum Theatre anyway?’

  Dolly chortled.

  ‘That was a rum thing!’ She took a drag on a newly lit cigarette.

  ‘About a year ago everythin’ changed at the theatre: a new owner, a whole new cast and show. Mr Blake too, he was new; came with his cousin Reggie, the programme-seller. He needed a Wardrobe Mistress quickly and he wasn’t asking any questions. He was willin’ to pay more than I could have hoped for, and after two years without a job it seemed like a god-send. I don’t think he even looked at my CV once! No-one had a clue whether or not I could actually sew, even myself…but I convinced myself I was so good at stitchin’ men and bandages together that a few sequins and feathers couldn’t be too hard!’

  Posie laughed. She felt brighter than before, cheered by Dolly’s optimism. She waved at a passing waitress for the bill.

  ‘You’ll let me know if you hear anything, or see anything of Lucky Lucy, won’t you? Or if you remember anything you think may be helpful. Even about Mr Blake; I’m sure he’s hiding something. The police are worse than useless, they won’t be questioning anyone at the theatre, so I’m on my own here. My friend Rufus is very badly in need of help.’

  Dolly nodded, packing her things together. Posie noticed she handled her cigarette case very carefully.

  ‘It was my young man’s,’ she whispered, following Posie’s gaze. ‘It was his “lucky” case. He was an old romantic: said it would protect him from stray bullets if he wore it by his heart, poor blighter. It couldn’t protect him from drowning in a flooded trench, though, could it? I keep it out of fondness.’ Dolly tucked it away, smiling sadly.

  ‘You got a fella?’

  Posie shook her head. It was all too much to explain.

  She took the borrowed fake fur coat from a brown paper carrier bag and checked its pockets before handing it over to Dolly for returning to the theatre wardrobe. Posie pulled out a few hair-grips, her travel coupon and the strange packet of matches from the night before.

  As the morning light caught the silver moon on the packet Posie had a vivid flashback of Caspian della Rosa from the night before, and she thought the nocturnal image was somehow appropriate for him: in her mind’s eye he had become the stuff of nightmares, vampire-ish, deadly.

  ‘Jeepers!’ Dolly shrieked suddenly, grabbing the matches. Fear flooded her huge eyes. ‘Do you know where this comes from?’

  Posie shook her head, laughing. ‘No idea. A nightclub? For bright young things? Somewhere fashionable, I’m guessing?’

  Dolly spoke in hushed tones, entirely serious.

  ‘Don’t joke. It’s a members club, it’s called La Luna. I don’t know much about it, but Lucky Lucy was definitely a member. She was proud of it too. I heard her talking about it once, indiscreetly, when she didn’t know I could hear her. Only a select few know the exact location of the place. And it rarely opens, so it’s not your regular club. Some of the orchestra members go, too. After a performance I’ve seen them bundle off in a taxi, secret-like. Very cloak-and-dagger.’

  ‘But what do they do at this club?’ asked Posie nervously, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

  ‘No idea.’ Dolly shook her head. ‘Truly, I have no idea. Drink, smoke, take drugs, dance? Who knows? Whatever the case, I’m sure it spells trouble. Where did you get these from, anyway?’

  Posie had told her everything so far. No point missing out key facts now.

  ‘I picked them up off the floor when someone dropped them accidentally last night. The man who dropped them was called Caspian della Rosa.’

  Dolly emitted a small high-pitched squeak and covered her mouth and nose with her hands, as if she had been physically struck.

  ‘What? What is it, Dolly? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ she whispered unexpectedly, looking terrified.

  ‘Jeepers. You mean Count Caspian della Rosa; the richest, most dangerous man in London. He’s the owner of the Athenaeum Theatre. Scares us all stiff whenever he appears. He’s a nasty piece of work, although harmless and likeable enough on the surface.
Don’t say he’s mixed up in this somehow?’

  Posie screwed up her nose, biting at her lip. ‘It’s beginning to look like it,’ she said softly.

  ‘Oh, lovey!’ Dolly said, clutching at Posie’s hand.

  ‘Be careful. And you should know somethin’ else. You said these matches were dropped accidentally. Well, as sure as bread is bread I can tell you that the Count is not a man to do anythin’ accidentally. These matches were dropped on purpose. To lure you in. It’s a trap, Posie. And it’s got your name written all over it.’

  ****

  Six

  For the first time in days a brilliant blue sky arched over London, with not a cloud to be seen. It was still bitterly cold though, and the snow packed along the pavement of the Strand showed no sign yet of melting.

  The chestnut sellers and newspaper boys grouped outside the newly built Bush House plied their trade cheerfully enough, although close up they were shivering. Posie noticed that some of the younger lads had wrapped layers of newspaper underneath their thin coats for added warmth, and the extra padding made them walk in a curious crab-like manner. They made a strange contrast to the elegance of the black-suited men in bowler hats who moved in a constant stream through the shiny gold and burnished glass doors of the offices.

  It was now almost lunchtime, and as she turned onto the Kingsway, Posie was relieved to see that the break in the weather had made the office workers brave the cold; they were out in force, heading for cafés and cake shops. Posie walked along steadfastly, ducking the crowds of cheerful girls walking four abreast down the grand boulevard. She was unworried now by the fact that someone could be following her. If there was someone on her tail he’d have a hard job keeping track of her here on these busy pavements.

  This was how Posie liked London best: busy, frantic, people from all walks of life thronging the roads; a far cry from the ghost-town she had walked through last night. The bitter cold of the air and the brightness of the day brought a rosy glow to her cheeks and filled her with a zest for living.

  She skipped around a resourceful female street artist, who, unable to sketch on the frozen pavements due to the snow, had resorted to creating caricatures for a penny a piece. A large crowd had gathered around.

  Posie needed to send an urgent telegram. She had decided that she could not and would not trust Babe Sinclair to do anything for her anymore at work, so she walked into the big Post Office on the corner of High Holborn opposite the Tube.

  It was busy, and as she waited in the queue she had time to think about Babe. For the moment Posie decided she would do nothing. She would just carry on as normal and quietly observe, and wait until the time was right to confront her. Posie tried not to think about what she had seen last night, and of how much her dislike of the girl came from pure downright jealousy. There was an element of that, for certain, but there was something more worrying: a niggling feeling which had been there from the off, which just wouldn’t go away, that Babe was simply a rotten apple in their midst. But was she just a lone troublemaker, or, as Posie feared, had she been placed somehow by skilful hands puppeteering her from higher up the food-chain? And if so, by who?

  Posie shivered in the damp cold of the Post Office hall and snuggled into her thick brown tweed coat.

  She forced herself to think of more cheerful things as she waited her turn.

  ****

  Posie was in a world of her own when she opened the glass front door of the Grape Street Bureau and entered the waiting room. She was determined to get to her office without seeing either Len or Babe, and she was halfway across the room when she realised with a start that a man was sitting waiting by the flaming fire, reading a newspaper. A real client!

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, removing her hat and gloves. Mr Minks shimmied into the room and leapt onto the man’s lap, purring contentedly. Sometimes he could be an incorrigible flirt of a cat.

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry about that! Mr Minks! Come here, now!’

  The man looked at her over the top of his Times. He patted the cat and set him down again on the floor casually, brushing down his trousers. He was short and stocky, with wild dark hair, about forty years old and generally unremarkable-looking, but he looked a little familiar all the same.

  When he smiled his eyes creased up in a friendly fashion. He was smartly dressed but his suit and shoes were rather cheap. By his feet was a large canvas sports bag, and a tennis racket handle poked out of the top. He smelt strongly of mints, and Posie’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a bag of humbugs bulging prominently out of his jacket pocket. He was not police, of that she was sure. He was not obvious enough, somehow.

  ‘I’m fine waiting here by the fire, Miss Parker. You take your time, get settled in. Bitterly cold outside, isn’t it? That your office there?’ The man nodded companionably at her own door directly opposite. She hesitated before nodding once.

  ‘I’ll knock in a couple of minutes, once you’ve had a chance to take your coat off and thaw out. Perhaps your secretary can make us a spot of tea?’

  He spoke with the accent of the educated middle-class English gentleman, and he nodded in the direction of Babe’s small office, from which the sound of ferocious angry typing came.

  Thrown by this strange situation, Posie found herself nodding and walking to her office, wrong-footed somehow. She didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased at the man’s strange conduct, but then she hardly had any real-life clients to compare this man (she still didn’t know his name) with. She stoked the fire in its hearth in her office and then settled herself at her clear, clean desk. She took out a notepad and pen and waited.

  And waited.

  When the knock came after what seemed like ages, she called out in a cheerful voice:

  ‘Come in!’

  Posie started in surprise as Len poked his head around the door. She saw he was backing in nervously, carrying a heavy tray with the silver office tea-pot and some mismatched cups.

  ‘Peace offering?’

  Thrown, Posie looked at Len in panic. He came into the room anyway.

  ‘What about my client?’ she said, rising from her chair and hurtling out to the waiting room. But there was no-one there. The Times lay neatly folded on the low coffee-table with a stack of other magazines and journals. Posie bolted out onto the landing, and scoured the dark winding stairs below. No-one. She hurried into Babe’s office.

  ‘Did a gentleman, about forty, come in here just now? With messy hair? Did you see him?’

  Babe stared dumbly back, and shook her head.

  ‘I sure ain’t seen no-one, Miss, and that’s the God-honest truth. Swear on it. No-one’s been in all morning, except Mr Irving, of course.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you,’ Posie muttered. How very strange. But maybe this was what real-life clients did. Perhaps he had realised he needed to be somewhere else? Perhaps his lunch-break was coming to an end? Perhaps he was late for his tennis practice?

  Back at her desk, Len had poured the tea. He was standing at her window looking out over the grey rooftops. A flock of pigeons were whirling around the offices in great droves.

  ‘They think it’s spring, poor beggars,’ he indicated, sipping his tea. ‘Look how lightly they fly.’

  Posie glowered at him, and took her own cup. He came and sat down and faced her.

  ‘I want to clear the air, Po. I know you saw me last night and it breaks my heart to think that you might be imagining something which didn’t happen. Which doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she snapped at him, ignoring the desperate look of pleading; the troubled green eyes which sought out her own. Even now he was heart-flippingly lovely.

  ‘I saw you with my own eyes. With her. Don’t try and tell me that what I saw didn’t happen, didn’t exist. And anyway,’ she added, meeting his eyes for a brief second, ‘don’t feel you have to explain it to me anyway. What you do in your spare time or who you spend it with is none of my business.’

  Th
en Len did something he had never done before.

  He reached out across the desk and took Posie’s hand in his. An action which caused a shock-wave of energy to tingle down her spine. She bristled, still angry, but she let him hold onto her hand.

  ‘Of course you saw me. With Babe. But it’s not what it looked like, that’s all. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t what I wanted. She came to me in my office last night about six, all sad and doe-eyed, telling me she’d been let down by some fellow at the last minute. She had a pair of tickets to the theatre, and would I like to come with her? I felt sorry for her I suppose. She seemed on the verge of tears.’

  ‘She looked pretty happy to me when I saw you both.’ Posie said coldly.

  ‘Yes, well. She seemed to recover pretty quickly when I told her I’d come along; I’d had my own plans cancelled earlier, anyway. She dashed off and smartened herself up with a lot of jewellery and then invited me to a pre-theatre supper on the Strand, at Simpson’s.’

  ‘Simpson’s!’ Posie practically shouted. Simpson’s was a very good, very expensive restaurant much in favour with the bright young things, and by people who wanted to be seen around the place. ‘On her salary?’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too,’ said Len, frowning. ‘I said thank you all the same, but maybe we could grab a quick cone of fish and chips just off Shaftesbury Avenue if she was feeling peckish. Quicker. Cheaper.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So we did. It was a bit awkward really. Us standing there gobbling away on the street corner, with her in her posh fur coat. Everyone was staring at us. Babe kept drinking too. She’d brought a hip flask and every couple of minutes she was swigging away. Goodness knows what it was; strong stuff though by the state she managed to get herself into. And then, to make matters worse, this poor chap came up to us…you know the sort, an ex-soldier, half-blind and limping, carting a bucket of single cheap red roses for Valentine’s Day. I really didn’t want to buy one for her, but I felt sorry for the man. And then, what do you think happened?’