1 Murder Offstage

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘Who are you calling?’ she shouted at the man, pulling the baize curtain aside. He looked up at her, covering the mouthpiece, and she saw fear in his eyes.

  Just then, she saw the looming silhouettes of the Inspectors coming through the club doorway, their hats and ubiquitous trench coats unmistakeable. At exactly the same moment the doorway to the breakfast room swung open and Rufus’ father, the Tenth Earl of Cardigeon, blundered out and stood staring at the scene, thumbs looped through his braces, his mouth dropped open like a caught fish on the line.

  All eyes were on the diamond.

  Was it Posie’s imagination or had it been growing hotter and hotter in her hand? It seemed to be burning a hole through its protective layer of tissue paper, as if it were a smouldering coal. She was desperate to be rid of the thing, this object of so much death and desire. She turned to the Earl.

  ‘My Lord, this belongs to the Cardigeon family, I believe. I promised I would try and get it back for you and I always keep my promises. Here.’ She tipped the diamond into the Earl’s outstretched hands. He almost dropped it.

  ‘What on earth? I say! Is this the…?’

  The Earl seemed lost for words for once, and was breathing slowly, shallowly. Suddenly Rufus appeared behind his father’s shoulder. Worry clouded his face, but when he saw the strange-coloured stone in his father’s hands and Posie standing beside him, he seemed to relax a little. He smiled a watery smile, but he was still the deathly pale of a recovering alcoholic:

  ‘What my father means to say, Nosy, is thank you. And I thank you too. From the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘You’d better make an urgent call to Brigg & Brooks,’ muttered Posie. ‘Tell them you need it to be insured. Just in case anything happens to it again. You never know.’

  The Earl seemed to recover himself and he harrumphed loudly.

  ‘Yes, I’ll call them now. But it’s not regular insurance we’ll be buying, but travel insurance. This little beauty is going back to India, to the Maharajah of Gwilim. Where it belongs. It’s leaving on the first ship out of here. It’s caused my family, and others, enough trouble to last for several hundred years. Even touching it makes me worried. I don’t want to be near the wretched thing for very long, in case it infects me…’

  Posie laughed. ‘You have been near it, my Lord. At least since Monday night, and it hasn’t troubled you…or infected you so far.’ She explained about the hiding place and watched the Earl turn predictably red and thundery.

  The Inspectors were suddenly close by at their side. Inspector Oats was looking at the black diamond with a combination of distaste and distrust. Inspector Lovelace nodded impatiently:

  ‘Good work, Posie. I got Sergeant Rainbird’s note and we hurried over as fast as we could. At least that’s one mystery solved. And we didn’t have to resort to violence, so that’s one thing the Commissioner can’t complain about, anyhow.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Posie, her eyes widening.

  ‘We’ve been in a meeting all morning with the Commissioner, and we’re in trouble. Real trouble.’ Lovelace threw Inspector Oats an arc of a nod, including him in the story.

  Oats glared at Posie. ‘Seems your little story in the Associated Press had more of an effect than you’d planned. And now we’re feeling the consequences.’

  ‘What do you mean? I didn’t commission the newspaper story to spite you. I thought it would make Count della Rosa contact us!’

  ‘Well, he’s done just that!’ snapped Inspector Oats.

  Lovelace sighed. ‘There is a real-life Count Caspian della Rosa. He’s a respectable Swiss aristocrat and he somehow managed to catch sight of the story in the Associated Press. He’s contacted the Commissioner at Scotland Yard and is saying we are slandering his good name by handing out his name to the press! He’s furious! He says he had nothing to do with any of the events over the last few days, still less to do with the death of Lucky Lucy. He’s pulled rank and sent across all of his family papers going back hundreds of years, attesting to who he is. He’s also sent sheaves of fancily worded lawyer’s documents: he’s going to sue us if we carry on pursuing him as a possible suspect. We’ve been told not to investigate him further and not to mention his name again under any circumstances. Ever. The Commissioner has gone wild at us. It’s a dead end.’

  ‘But has anyone actually met him?’ pressed Posie. ‘It could all be nonsense, a load of guff. He could just be brazening it out from afar, scaring you off with legal nonsense. Have you seen him in the flesh?’

  Both Inspectors shook their heads. She explained about the Belgian press-photo and Cecil Chicken. ‘It’s him!’ she stated excitedly. ‘It’s the Count operating under a silly pseudonym!’

  ‘Have you considered you’ve been looking at this the wrong way around?’ said Inspector Lovelace carefully. ‘That this Mr Chicken is using Count della Rosa’s name as a cover? That Mr Chicken really is just Mr Chicken. Perhaps it’s malicious; he has something against this Swiss Count, wants to tarnish his name? Maybe Count della Rosa really is the victim in all of this…’

  Inspector Oats grunted. Posie stared at them both; she didn’t believe that explanation at all. She was never wrong. In fact, they were quite wrong, she was sure. But there was no time for argument now: they needed action, a way forwards.

  ‘Anyhow, you need to ask here for this Mr Chicken’s home address. We need to interview him. Locate him…find him. He’s your prime suspect, not to mention he might now be holding Dolly and Len as hostages, or worse!’

  A snarly, malicious voice wheedled beside them. It was the pinstriped Manager. He had been listening in on their conversation. He bowed and scraped and said that while he would be pleased to assist them in whatever way he could, he could not release any information on club members, especially not home addresses and such-like. If they wanted to view the Members’ Address Book, the police would need an official Search Warrant.

  Inspector Lovelace groaned and snapped that he would be back personally within a couple of hours with the necessary paperwork. Behind him, Posie caught sight of Rufus listening intently to the whole conversation: a look of grim determination spreading across his face. But she didn’t have time to ask Rufus what he was thinking about, for they were all unceremoniously ushered out.

  Outside on the pavement Inspector Lovelace clambered into one of the police cars, but not before telling Posie to take great care and to await further instructions. He instructed one of the six policemen to stay behind with Posie as an armed escort and not to leave her side. It was the same fat and ruddy-faced constable from the police cells.

  Watching the police cars hurry off down the yellow stone road towards the Palace of Clarence House, Posie turned towards ruddy-face and smiled at him with a heavy heart. In truth she felt like a prisoner, but she was too polite to indicate her displeasure. Together they set off at a jaunty half-pace through the crowded streets of Piccadilly, towards the welcome haven of Grape Street.

  With a stab of icy dread, Posie thought for a second that she heard footsteps tailing her again, clipping the stone pavement behind her in what was by now a familiar echo. But again, when she turned around there was no-one there.

  The policeman cleared his throat:

  ‘Looks like snow again, Miss.’

  He was right: the temperature had dropped sharply and above them the clouds were darkening.

  The sky was coloured by a very strange light, like a huge glittering bruise. It suddenly reminded Posie of the Maharajah diamond which she had held for perhaps two or three minutes in total.

  She knew she would never forget it: all the twisted and wonderful colours it had contained, all the promise and all the terror.

  ****

  Twenty-One

  Posie stared out her office window at the pigeons flying past, blurry purple smudges against the grey buildings.

  She had left ruddy-face sitting in the waiting room and he had made himself busy by stoking up the fire. ‘Don’t worry, Miss,’ he
smiled. ‘I’m just out here if you need me. I won’t budge.’

  Babe was doing heaven only knew what and Posie hadn’t the energy to question her. On the way through she had had a vague impression of the girl sitting in her office, a magazine-worthy vision in parrot-green silk and satin, yet another huge sparkly piece of jewellery fastened at her throat.

  Posie cooled her throbbing head against the pane of glass and bit her fingernails.

  She spied her carpet bag and for something to do she tipped the contents all over her desk. At the very bottom of the bag was the scrunched-up 1915 story from the Associated Press. Posie turned the clipping over: she remembered that the journalist had written his source on the back, a neighbour from the time.

  Yes, here it was:

  Source: Harold Sharp – 9, Winstanley Mews, SW3.

  Posie breathed slowly, linking what she knew so far.

  Lucy had disappeared just after this story was published, in summer 1915. By the time of her departure, the neighbour had apparently lived next door to Lucky Lucy for several years already. Posie knew that Lucy’s criminal activities had started in London in 1911, and so the dates worked out.

  And, although she had no solid evidence for it, Posie thought it was a pretty fair bet that the man calling himself Caspian della Rosa had been here too, in London, alongside her, during the years from 1911 until 1915. In fact, Posie was willing to hedge her bets and say that Caspian della Rosa had been the mastermind behind all of Lucy’s activities; running the counterfeiting gang, plotting her moves to steal pieces of priceless jewellery. They had looked inseparable in the Belgian press-photo. Even in 1915 theirs was not a new love.

  ‘He was living here with her,’ Posie muttered to herself, certain of it.

  ‘And if he’s as rich as he seems to be, keeping a Mews House in an expensive part of London for the last few years would be no skin off his nose. I bet he still has the same house. Why should he have moved? No-one has ever tracked him down there before. Sure as bread is bread that is where he is now.’

  She dived into her desk drawers, looking for her street-map of London. She unwrapped it and flung it across the floor, thumbing through the index of postal districts on the side of the map. She found SW3, and took a pencil from her desk. She ringed Winstanley Mews. It was in Chelsea, just off Sloane Square, near the river. One of the most expensive places in town.

  Irritatingly, just then there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Miss Posie,’ said Babe, poking her sleek oiled head around the door. ‘I need to tell you something.’ She looked guilty as hell. Posie sat back on her haunches and nodded grimly.

  Babe played with her hands, twisting them over and over.

  ‘It’s about your cat,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘I sure didn’t mean him to be kidnapped or anything, but I kinda feel responsible for it. I feel bad.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Posie with what she hoped looked like an authoritative raise of her eyebrow. Babe stared moodily out of the window.

  ‘A man arrived on Tuesday evening, just as I was locking up. He asked me to do him a favour; to deliver a letter to you. He told me to put it on your mat first thing on Wednesday morning, as if it had arrived hand-delivered. He was most particular about the timing. Said it was important.’

  ‘It was the blue letter from Lucky Lucy, you mean? The threat? The one with the cat hair in it?’

  Babe nodded. ‘The very same.’

  Posie frowned. ‘So he must have already abducted Mr Minks when you were locking up then, if the cat hair was already inside the letter?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘There’s no way he could have exchanged or intercepted the letter later on?’

  ‘No,’ Babe shook her head adamantly. ‘I had it with me all night, in my purse, which never left my side. It stayed right where it was. With me. At home. All night long.’

  Posie stared at Babe. It pained her to admit it but the girl looked like she was telling the truth. ‘And you didn’t recognise the man?’

  Babe shook her head and edged for the door.

  ‘What did he bribe you with? As payment for delivering the letter?’

  Babe looked shifty, but Posie stared her out: someone as mercenary as Babe could not be expected to do something for nothing.

  ‘He gave me five pounds.’

  Posie was almost speechless – this was more than a week’s wages. ‘Anything else memorable?’

  ‘Oh, gee. Yes! He smelt of mints. Almost overpoweringly so.’

  Posie gasped and covered her mouth. ‘He smelt of peppermints? And was he short and stocky and wearing quite cheap clothes? With messy hair? Was he carrying a tennis bag?’

  It all fell into place: it must have been the strange client who had come and gone so suddenly on Tuesday afternoon.

  Babe scrunched her face up with the effort of remembering.

  ‘No. He was wearing an expensive tuxedo, an evening suit. Wealthy clothes. I can’t remember his face. Forgettable. And you’re wrong about the smell. It was cat-mint he smelt of, now I come to think about it, not peppermints. Cats go crazy for it: my old Aunt Ada in Dalsto…well, anyhow, she used it and her house sure stank of it. I’d know the smell of it anywhere.’

  The secretary retreated, closing the door behind her.

  Posie exhaled slowly. So now she knew who had taken Mr Minks, and when. And it had been done craftily, on Tuesday afternoon, right under her nose…while she was in the office. Like a magic trick. How could she have been so stupid not to see it before? The cat must have been transported away in the sports bag, and what if the tennis racket had actually been some sort of net for catching the cat with if he had proved troublesome? Not that the visitor would have needed it, for Mr Minks had been drawn instantly to the smell of the cat-mint, worn so strongly and deliberately on the stranger’s skin. It had been irresistible…a sort of drug.

  Was this yet more proof that Caspian della Rosa (she would not call him Cecil Chicken) was involved up to his ears in this? He must have used yet another lackey. Some other associate, some willing dogsbody in his pay.

  She turned back to the map.

  What should she do? She wanted to leave immediately, to find the house in Winstanley Mews, but common sense for once prevailed and she knew she should tell the ruddy-faced policeman about her findings. They should then go to Inspector Lovelace, share the knowledge with him and then storm Winstanley Mews together with a professional crack-team…

  Outside, the waiting room was strangely empty. Babe was thumbing through the pages of a cheap fashion magazine in her office when Posie stuck her head in:

  ‘Where is the policeman?’

  ‘It’s lunchtime, Miss. He’s just popped out to buy a packet of sandwiches,’ she said righteously. ‘Said he’d only be gone five minutes or so.’

  ‘That seems strange. He was under strict orders not to leave me.’

  Babe shrugged.

  For some reason an ominous and unusual dread spread up through Posie’s stomach. She turned and stood uneasily in her small, neat waiting room. She tidied the papers on the coffee-table. The minutes seemed to stretch on forever. She stood as if rooted to the spot, watching the heavy fresh snow hurling itself at the window. The British Museum was out there somewhere in the street beyond, obliterated under the whirling white-out. The world, and everything certain in it, was being silenced yet again. Covered up.

  A loud clanging noise started up downstairs and then came the sound of the front door, three storeys below, being hurled open. Raised unfamiliar voices from the ground floor started shouting her name.

  Male voices, authoritative voices:

  ‘Miss Parker. Police! Police! Come quickly! We’ve been sent by Inspector Lovelace.’

  In a second, Posie had grabbed her coat and bag and was heading for the glass-stencilled front door of her office. She raced down the stairs, past the group of office workers who were milling around on the first floor, smoking. She bumped headlong into the thin lanky mass of an
unfamiliar uniformed bobby who was on his way up to meet her.

  ‘Ah, there you are! We have a lead!’ he said excitedly, taking Posie’s arm. ‘We have to go at once!’

  ‘Where is the original policeman who was stationed with me?’ she asked as they came out onto Grape Street. A large black car with another policeman in it was parked against the kerb; the engine was running and the driver, with a waterproof hat pulled down well over his face, was busy scraping off the gathered snow from the windscreen with a small piece of black cardboard.

  ‘Oh, we don’t have time to wait for him!’ said the lanky policeman airily. ‘This is urgent.’

  Posie found herself escorted up into the high leather back seat of the car, pressed hard up against the body of a second policeman. The lanky policeman swung up beside her quickly and pulled the door closed. She was sandwiched in. The driver jumped in quickly. He took off his hat and turned to face Posie. She gasped in sick fear and felt ice spread up through her veins.

  Through the glass divide Caspian della Rosa winked at her and gave a treacherous sneer of a smile. She started to struggle violently, and felt a rough black hood suddenly thrown over her head. Her bag was snatched away from her and her hands were tied together deftly with a thin rope that bit hard into her wrists.

  The car started to move off. She had walked right into a trap.

  ****

  Twenty-Two

  The journey took around twenty minutes.

  Posie had no doubt as to where they were driving to: with the police still crawling all over the La Luna club and the house in Soho, they were headed to the Mews House in Chelsea. The men in the car were silent the whole journey long, and Posie sensed a strained tension hanging between them in the cold air.