‘They have been a very unlucky company over the past year, with the loss of the animal novelty act gentleman and the ventriloquist. I read about their deaths in the papers.’
I watched her. Might she also believe, as Selina did, that there was something suspicious about those deaths?
Her face was impassive. She would be good at poker. ‘Yes. I knew them both and was sad to hear. But that was months ago.’ Her face changed. She gave me a shrewd, assessing look. ‘Were you there when Billy collapsed?’
‘No. He wandered off on his own, probably just as the eclipse ended. He was found unconscious by the chapel.’
‘I don’t suppose Selina stayed with Billy?’
‘No. The pilot couldn’t wait so I stayed.’
She sniffed as if this was exactly what she would have expected from her daughter-in-law. ‘Did Billy come round, say anything?’
‘No.’
She seemed relieved to hear that. What might Billy have said, I wondered. Perhaps she suspected Billy may have pointed a finger of blame at Jarrod.
‘Jarrod will be upset. They were such good friends, so close. And I don’t believe he knew about Selina and Billy. Any other man would have guessed, been angry, but my son isn’t like that.’
She went to the piano, picked up a framed photograph and brought it across to me. ‘Here’s Jarrod, in uniform.’
He was young, handsome, standing proud. ‘What a lovely man.’
‘Little more than a boy when he volunteered, but not too young to marry.’ She left off the word ‘unfortunately’, but it was in her tone. ‘Anyone else would have gone on living with him, loving him, but not her. She won’t give up on her sparkling career.’ She took back the photograph. ‘And does my daughter-in-law believe that Jarrod has murdered Billy, his comrade and old pal?’
The truthful answer would be that I did not know, or that I believed she held suspicions she dare not speak. ‘I’m sure she believes no such thing. But what makes you think Billy was murdered?’
‘I don’t think that, but it’s what Selina might allow into her head. She plays comedy to perfection but she would relish the role of tragic queen.’
You’re jealous of her, I thought. Mrs Compton had given up her own career and now played the piano to the four walls of this room.
‘Mrs Compton, I really am here because Selina is concerned about Jarrod. She thought he may have come to see you, and to type up his play.’
‘Ah, that’s it. She’s after a copy of his script. Everything must be on her terms. She likes to be in control. Jarrod doesn’t need her money so she cooks up a benefit tour so that money for the Bridlington sanatorium doesn’t seem to come directly from her.’
‘I understood that the tour was more broadly conceived, to support performers who are down on their luck.’
‘That too. If my daughter-in-law were honoured with a damehood, she would take the title Lady Bountiful. Being a wife and mother is far too commonplace for her.’
At that moment, the young maid returned, pushing open the door with her foot and carrying her tray to the low coffee table that sat between us.
‘Thank you, Violet.’ Mrs Compton poured. She mustered a great deal of self-control simply to keep the coffee pot steady. She was about to hand me a cup but as she reached for the saucer her hand trembled. That smallest of actions was excruciating to watch. In spite of her calm exterior, news that her son had come back to Leeds and not visited her was upsetting.
‘Perhaps you think I’m being harsh towards Selina, and that when talent and loyalty to a husband are weighed on the scales, talent must tip the balance.’
‘I have no view, Mrs Compton, except that Selina’s talent is undeniable.’
‘And so was mine. I gave up my career when I married and had children.’ She said that without a trace of regret and I thought she must have been happy with her husband and family. ‘I didn’t want my children to go into show business though perhaps it was inevitable. Jarrod was so young, but such musical ability. From being a tiny boy, he wanted to fly. He terrified me when he was small, trying to cartwheel down the stairs.’
I wished I could tell her that Selina dreamed of him doing just that. There was so much more in common between Mrs Compton and her daughter-in-law than either woman acknowledged.
‘Will he come here, do you think?’
A note of bitterness entered her voice. ‘To use his father’s old Remington typing machine? Perhaps.’
‘I’m sorry to press you, but have you any notion of where he may have spent the night?’
For some reason those were the words that touched her emotions. She sniffed and reached for a lace hanky. ‘Who knows where he may have spent last night? He might have hidden until the theatre closed and slept there. During the last few months, Jarrod hasn’t been himself.’
‘Selina said as much.’
‘He finds it hard to be around people. He becomes angry and aggressive. He won’t see the doctor and he’s stopped going for his treatments at the sanatorium.’ She blinked away tears. ‘Last time he turned up here, a month ago, he wouldn’t sleep in the house. He stayed overnight in the shed, in an army issue sleeping bag, with the wheelbarrow propped behind the door. There is not enough room in the shed for him to have stretched out.’ She interlocked her fingers and squeezed her hands. ‘There’s something the matter with him. It wouldn’t be safe for you to go on looking for him alone. Selina shouldn’t have asked you.’
Perhaps that was why Jarrod had stayed in the garden on the night of the party. He did not trust himself to be with people in case his strange and aggressive mood overcame him.
In my experience, brute strength rarely subdued a person who was distressed. ‘During the war, I nursed men who were badly injured. Mostly they were gentle, and kind, and embarrassingly grateful, but others were difficult. I wouldn’t be afraid to come face to face with Jarrod.’
‘He no longer has any care or thought for his own comfort. He might have slept under a bridge or in a doorway.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, when he could be here with you.’
‘He makes trouble, sees offence where there is none. When the gardener arrives, he asks if Jarrod is here. He will only start work if I say no, he is not here. I go through that humiliating interrogation every time.’
‘Perhaps you and I might find him together, Mrs Compton.’
She smiled. ‘You would take that risk?’
‘I would. I like the sound of Jarrod. One of his songs, I glanced at it so briefly but it was touching. About a man who feels safe living underground.’
‘Did Selina enquire whether anyone had seen him come and go from the theatre?’
‘She did. The front of house staff hadn’t seen him and according to the doorkeeper, he didn’t come in by the stage door.’
‘He won’t come and go through foyers, or stage doors in a world where he no longer belongs.’
‘What then?’
‘I’m surprised Selina doesn’t know. There are passages between the theatres, and tunnels under the city. One passage connects with the Empire Palace. He knows that well enough and could have found his way underground to the Varieties. Perhaps that’s where he slept last night, or in some dressing room after the theatres emptied.’
It made me shudder to think of the poor man alone, finding some spot to lay his head.
Mrs Compton warmed to her idea that Jarrod would be somewhere near the theatre. ‘His father owned several theatres. I sold them long since, to give my children a start. They have all gravitated towards entertainment. Rodney, my youngest, is in California in the moving picture business. Eliza followed in my footsteps and danced in Paris. She married well, a charming Frenchman. They visit me. That’s why I keep on this big house. I had hoped that Selina and Jarrod might come here with little Reggie. We’re out of the way here. Jarrod could walk in the woods unnoticed, unregarded.’
We sat in silence for a moment. It was difficult to imagine Selina settling to a
life in this solid house.
‘You must be proud to have produced such talented children.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, even though their talent takes them away from me.’
‘It’s good that Jarrod writes songs.’
‘It would be better if the singer loved him enough to care.’
‘I believe she does, and worries, as you do.’
‘Perhaps for a different reason.’
‘What reason would that be?’
‘Selina is from a big Italian family. They have no great place in the world but once she had some success, they expected her to sing at La Scala, to tour the opera houses of the world. Instead she married into my family and came into show business at the seedy end as they would see it. Perhaps they might see it as an advantage to be rid of my son. Look to them if Selina is uneasy. I heard they brought over some musical director from Venice, hoping she might be persuaded to go there. As far as they are concerned, she married the wrong man. Italian Catholics don’t subscribe to divorce. I wouldn’t put anything past them. They might do for Jarrod what the war didn’t, just so that she would feel free to start a new life.’
‘Are you telling me that you believe Jarrod’s life is in danger?’
‘There was one evening some months ago when he arrived here bruised and battered and not able to say what happened. And yes, he is in danger. I feel it in my bones. You’re not a mother, are you?’
‘No.’
‘If ever you become a mother you’ll understand.’ She picked up the photograph she had showed me and walked back to the piano. Looking out of the window, she saw my car. ‘You drive?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s something I always promised myself I might do. If I had a car, I’d set off now to look for Jarrod.’
‘Where would you look?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s best that you don’t know.’
‘I believe you would look below ground, along the passages that you talked about.’
‘Did you mean what you said, that you would help me look for him?’
‘I did and I do. Shall we go now?’
She ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Afraid of what you will find, or of going underground?’
‘Both.’
I have long been curious about the world below the city. Everyone has heard stories of tunnels and passageways there. They are said to have been used by the monks at Kirkstall Abbey. Generations of builders have layered up their constructions and the story goes that in places old streets intersect beneath our feet. There are reports of a complete hotel building with gates intact left over from I don’t know when. How strange it would be if Jarrod Compton was living in a hotel inhabited by ghosts.
*
Mrs Compton climbed into the car. She wore stout shoes and a hand-knitted coat that looked warm enough to withstand the cold of underground tunnels. ‘Here,’ she handed me a shawl. ‘You might need an extra layer.’
Her shopping bag contained a lethal weapon-size flashlight.
‘Briggate. That’s where we’ll find our way into the underground passage.’ Mrs Compton pulled on motoring gloves. ‘Are we mad to do this?’
‘Probably.’
Twenty-Four
Uneasy Feelings
Jim Sykes wouldn’t deny that he had enjoyed the show at the Varieties last night, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to see another, not unless Rosie insisted. His own preference was for a pint and the odd game of dominoes. Listening to the tales of old fellers in the Chemic on a Friday night suited him to a T. A few years ago, he found it convenient to pretend he liked fishing. It surprised him to discover that he really did like it, the silence of it and the contemplation, the clearing of his mind as he waited for a bite. Sykes could be very patient.
Something about this job for Miss Selina Fellini gave him the willies. True, the pay was to be through the roof but there was something not right. He had a feeling they would come a cropper on this one. The whole notion was based on the imaginings of a highly strung performer. Not that Selina Fellini, The Silver Songbird, wasn’t impressive. She was, when on stage. But all this business about new moons and accidental deaths not being accidental, that was the product of a fevered imagination. When their investigations uncovered nothing, the woman might well renege on her promised fee of fabulous proportions. People had put a stop on cheques before today.
Sykes was on the train to York, the name and address of the tram driver tucked in his top pocket. He didn’t expect the man to be at home. If not, Sykes would make his way to the tram depot and make enquiries there. Surprise. That was the weapon of choice for Jim Sykes. So many months after a death, the driver would not expect to be asked again about the fatal incident.
Sykes had a liking for York. He had just about mastered the intricacies of the higgledy-piggledy streets, having come here several times in connection with the bread and butter work of fraud investigations, visiting insurance offices on Parliament Street and Goodramgate. It was an odd twisty town, with more churches than pubs and the extravagance of two rivers, the Ouse and the Foss. Little wonder the Romans and the Vikings had taken a fancy to the place. He went the way he knew best, leaving the station and walking by the river to the Ouse Bridge. From there he made his way along Fossgate. There might be a better way but if there was he would discover it on the way back. For now he followed the road, looking out for Barbican Road that would lead him into Cemetery Road.
The tram driver’s house was across the road from the cemetery. The step and windowsill were scoured and the street neat and clean but the house needed a new door. This one was rotting away from the bottom. The mark of yet another landlord who didn’t care. He knocked. A dog barked. From the corner of his eye, Sykes watched the net curtain to see if it would be twitched. The dog barked again.
The curtain twitched. Sykes pretended not to notice the unshaven face and tousled hair of the man who looked from the window. The curtain dropped back in place.
Sykes hoped he did not look like a debt collector.
The door opened. What line should he take? That would depend on the man, Mr Alfred Packer. They looked at each other across the threshold. Something about the man sparked a kind of pity in Sykes. He had the look of a soldier just back from battle, puzzled, shocked and awestruck. He had also just woken and rubbed sleep from his eyes.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Mr Alfred Packer?’
‘Aye, that’s me. Who’s asking?’
‘My name’s Sykes. I’ve come across from Leeds.’ For once he decided that the truth would best serve. ‘And I’m sorry to disturb you.’ The term picture of misery could well be applied to Alfred Packer. Must be turning soft, Sykes told himself. I’ve half a mind to leave the poor fellow to his devices, and his misery.
‘What is it you want?’
‘Can I come in?’
The man hesitated. ‘It’s not a good time, and there’s the dog. I’ve to walk the dog now.’
He hadn’t asked what Sykes wanted. It was as if he knew and dreaded opening up an old wound.
‘You’re guessing correctly that it’s about the accident. I’m here on behalf of someone who knew the deceased and simply wants to offer you sympathy for something that couldn’t be helped, and to know whether you might answer a question.’
The man did not speak. For the longest time, they looked at each other. Finally he said, ‘You’ve caught me in a mess, but I suppose you better come in. The wife and girls are at work.’ He opened the door.
Sykes stepped into a neat clean room where a collie dog wagged its tail and offered to lick his ankles. Sykes patted the dog.
The Packers were not a family on their uppers. There was a miniature grandmother clock on the mantelpiece, a mirror and pot dogs. A glass-fronted china cabinet stood by the far wall.
Mr Packer rubbed his chin. ‘I was just about to shave.’
Sykes’s day stretched ahead. With Mrs Sugden jumping in and wanting to do this a
nd that for the investigation, Sykes wasn’t sure what else he would do next. It was too early to chase after Sandy Sechrest. ‘Look, I’ve called unannounced and I’ll be grateful for a chat but how about I leave you to have your shave? I see there’s a pub by the cemetery.’
‘Aye, the Tavern.’
‘Let’s meet at the Tavern in half an hour and I’ll buy you a pint.’ Half an hour was long enough for a splash and a shave. It wouldn’t do to give Alf Packer too much thinking time.
‘What is it you want to know, Mr Sykes?’
‘Douglas Dougan had a friend, and she’s a big star though I won’t name names. All she knows about his death was from the papers. She understands no blame lies with you, but there was something she wanted to know. If she could have answers, then she would sleep at night.’
Death in the Stars Page 20
