The lack of questions or discussion from my two assistants gave me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted them to argue against Jarrod Compton. They did not.
The thing nearest to an objection came from Sykes. He considered the list. ‘Sandy Sechrest didn’t mention Jarrod Compton, and I’m thinking of her as a little bit of an oracle.’ Very reluctantly, Sykes picked up Sandy Sechrest’s name. ‘She dresses in black. She dislikes hangers-on. Her intelligence makes her remote and unemotional. Miss Sechrest has a great deal of sympathy for Miss Fellini and might consider that she was doing her a favour by ridding her of needy courtiers.’
Something was troubling me and it was not just that Inspector Wallis had demanded my attendance. ‘Billy is different from Douglas Dougan and Floyd Lloyd. They were clinging on in the entertainment business. They may not have survived in the theatre without Selina’s patronage. Billy was a star. Not quite in Selina’s league, but up there all the same.’
We thought about it for a moment. Sykes said, ‘Is there any possibility that Billy Moffatt wasn’t the intended victim?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Perhaps because Jarrod was one of my suspects, and that in spite of her denial it seemed probable that Selina was having an affair with Billy. ‘But how could we know that?’
Mrs Sugden came in sharply. ‘This play that Mr Brockett planned, was Billy to be part of that?’
‘He was.’
It had stopped me in my tracks to think that Billy might have smoked a cigar intended for someone else.
Mrs Sugden looked at her carefully written names. ‘Well I’m sorry but I can’t pick anyone else, other than the two dancers and Mr Brockett. You’ve all seen the show. I haven’t seen them in action, otherwise I might have developed a feeling for which performer could be guilty.’
‘Here’s something else to add to the mix relating to Jarrod Compton.’ Sykes opened his notebook again. ‘When Mr Trotter Brockett was entertaining us in the bar before the show, he said something about a musical play. I made a note afterwards of anything pertinent in his prattling. Here it is. Secret – a musical show specially written for Miss F. Now might the written material the husband put on her dressing table be the play script for Trotter Brockett’s musical show? He and Jarrod Compton have cooked up the plan together.’
‘I ought to be able to check on that with my new friend, Mrs Compton, Jarrod’s mother. She told me that Jarrod was writing a moving picture. Her younger son produces pictures in California and I believe it is intended for him. But I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a London stage show as well. Don’t leave me out of any information while I make a telephone call.’
‘Just a minute!’ Sykes called me back. ‘Why would a singer be making a moving picture?’
‘Not many people know this but apparently the moving picture people will soon be able to add sound to their productions.’
Leaving them with this astounding piece of information, I went into the hall and picked up the telephone. Mrs Compton had said she would go to the theatre, grill Harry again, and find out whether Trotter Brockett had the latest news on Beryl.
Harry answered the stage door telephone. When I asked to speak to Mrs Compton, he went to find her.
After a wait of several minutes, she picked up. It was best to come straight to the point.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs Compton, but will you please find out if the musical show that Trotter Brockett plans for Selina to tour is the same show that Jarrod wrote and put on her dressing table yesterday.’
There was a pause in which I could hear her thinking of several questions. Fortunately she did not ask them. ‘Very well.’
‘And telephone me, no matter how late?’
‘I will.’
‘If I’m not here, will you please leave a message with Mrs Sugden?’
‘Where will you be?’ There was a note of urgency in her voice, making me wonder what fresh horrors she might expect.
‘Probably here, but just in case.’ She did not need to know that Inspector Wallis had demanded a statement from me. ‘Oh, and just one more thing. Why would Mr Brockett want to keep his plan for Selina’s new show secret?’
‘Commercial confidentiality,’ she snapped back. There was a pause when I thought she had gone but I soon realised that she must have been thinking of answering in a way that would make sense to me but not to whoever might be listening. ‘The only other reason would be that if there were not parts for certain persons then the principal may express a reluctance to step up without them.’
‘Thank you.’
She ended the call with a ‘Must dash.’
When I went back into the dining room, my companions were staring somewhat glumly at the names on the table. I reported the conversation.
‘Mrs Compton, Jarrod’s mother, says that she’ll let me know whether Jarrod’s play script is the same as Trotter Brockett mentioned. What she said last is interesting, too. She believes that Selina may not do the play if there aren’t parts for her friends.’ I sat down again. ‘Her friends are important to her.’
Mrs Sugden looked disbelieving. ‘That’s the kind of thing a kid would say. Anyroad, there won’t be many of her friends left at this rate.’
Sykes looked again at his notebook. ‘You picked Jarrod Compton and he’s a good choice, being the spouse, but you mentioned he lives in Bridlington. Do we know whether Compton might have been in Sunderland and York on the fateful days?’
‘I don’t know, but he owns a motorcycle so he’s capable of travelling about.’
‘What kind?’ Sykes asked.
I had started him off again. He would like to own a motorcycle but won’t bear the extravagance because he has the 1913 Jowett motorcar. ‘It’s a Scott Flying Squirrel.’
Sykes let out a breath of envy. Such a motorcycle would be out of his price range, unless we achieved some wondrous reward for catching a gang of international diamond thieves.
For several moments we talked in circles. Sykes volunteered to make a pot of tea, just for the diversion of moving about. Mrs Sugden rearranged her list of names and once more studied her circle of dancers.
The telephone rang.
I went to answer, expecting that it would be Mrs Compton. As I picked up the receiver, I suddenly hoped it might be my mother. I would tell her that I was on a case but that if I did manage to come for Sunday dinner, I would be bringing Harriet.
The call was for Sykes, from one of his insurance companies. I called him into the hall and closed the dining room door behind me so that Mrs Sugden and I could go on talking without disturbing him.
Moments later, when Sykes came back, he looked upset. ‘I did a man a good turn today and it may be that it’s repaid me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Alf, the tram driver I went to see, he was off work because he can’t get over having knocked a man down and killed him. When one of his mates at the depot made a joke about how he was promoted for killing someone, that was the last drop of rain in his bucket of woe.’
Mrs Sugden tutted. ‘People can be so mean. They just don’t think.’
‘I took Alf to Jorvik Insurance Company on Goodramgate because I knew that the manager there was on the lookout for a good chap. Alf won’t hear any trams along there. He’ll have hours in a day when he’ll be too caught up in new work to think about the accident. Well it seems he got on with my contact and he might be having a fresh start soon. Of course he had to talk about why he needed a change. I hope he’ll get out of the habit of going on and on about the past.’
Sykes must be going soft in his middle age. There was a time when he would have said that the man needed to pull up his socks and grow a thicker skin. ‘In what way might you have done yourself a good turn?’ I asked.
‘You shouldn’t tell lies. It only complicates things. I told a kind lie to Alf. I said that Douglas Dougan had a fatal disease and not long to live. Well he only communicated that confidential fact – or confidential
non-fact – to the manager. Now my manager friend tells me there was an insurance policy claim on Mr Dougan’s life and there’d been no mention of a fatal disease on the application form.’
Mrs Sugden obviously didn’t get the point and for a moment neither did I. She said, ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?’
‘No, because I invented the fatal disease. Now I have to either own up to telling a porky or pretend I was misinformed.’
Sykes prides himself on his insurance work and I could see that he was seriously upset by this turn of events. He gave a groaning sigh. ‘I can’t admit to making it up. That would be me chucking my integrity and probity out of a high window.’
‘You could say you were misinformed,’ I suggested.
‘He wants me to look into it.’
‘Well then look into it. Selina was close to him. I could ask her. Who knows, the story of Douglas Dougan’s fatal disease may turn out to be true. Stranger things have happened.’
Not liking to be in the wrong, Sykes forced himself to look a little more cheerful. ‘Yes you’re right. He doesn’t know I made it up. This gives me another job. I’ll do it gratis as a gesture of goodwill.’
Mrs Sugden had forgotten her lists of suspects for the moment. She has recently taken on our bookkeeping and accounts. ‘Be careful about doing anything gratis. He might wonder why and smell a rat. Besides, it’s not the manager’s money, it’s the insurance company’s. They expect to pay a professional for his time and expertise.’
Sykes agreed. ‘You’re right, Mrs Sugden. I’ll have to approach this carefully.’
Mrs Sugden, momentarily flabbergasted at Sykes telling her she was right about something, was suddenly lost for words.
So were we all.
It was up to me to rally the troops.
‘We all have tricky situations to deal with. You need to tread carefully regarding your insurance work. I have to give a statement to Inspector Wallis about the cigar. I could curse Ernest Brownlaw for not being straight with me.’
‘He has to comply with regulations and the law,’ Mr Sykes said. ‘He could lose his reputation and his licence.’
‘A nod or a wink would have done.’
Mrs Sugden chose this moment to re-enter the conversation. ‘Manny Piccolo is good at nodding and winking. What do you think to the idea of me being the one to try and persuade the grandma to let Lorna and little Manny Piccolo make an appearance for us?’
‘That’s a very good idea, Mrs Sugden. And I’ll see whether Maurice Montague might have any more information for us about his chat with Jarrod Compton and Billy Moffatt.’
Sensing that both Sykes and I felt in need of encouragement, Mrs Sugden decided to look on the bright side. ‘Perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing that Inspector Wallis wants to talk to you, Mrs Shackleton. He’s the one who brought you the rubber plant. I’d say he has a soft spot for you.’
‘I sincerely hope not.’
‘If we find ourselves in a pickle we can call on the police. We have our work cut out with this case. There are just the three of us to investigate two deaths from the past, one from yesterday and a poor gassed woman who might be dead before the day is out.’
Sykes blew out his cheeks and drummed his fingers on the table, a sure sign of irritation. ‘If Wallis is involved, we won’t be able to make a move without him looking over our shoulder. He’ll snuffle up everything we’ve learned and take credit.’
Mrs Sugden did not like this idea one little bit. She is keen to make sure that the books balance and we stay well in the black. ‘If the police solve everything, will we still be paid?’
‘Good question, Mrs Sugden. Be sure to deposit that cheque tomorrow.’
I had earned it by walking through ghostly tunnels today.
*
When the telephone rang again, Mrs Sugden was making tea and buttering bread. Harriet had set off for the fish and chip shop to buy our supper. I picked up, expecting to hear Mrs Compton, but I was wrong.
‘Hello, Mrs Shackleton. Trotter Brockett here.’
‘Hello, Mr Brockett.’
‘First of all, thank you for being such an all round brick. Selina might have gone to pieces without you.’
‘How is Selina?’
‘Bearing up, missing Beryl terribly of course and the dratted infirmary won’t give any information.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. They do have their procedures and it’s still quite soon. Perhaps by tomorrow…?’
‘I certainly hope so. But my reason for telephoning at such a late hour, for which I apologise, is something Bunny asked me.’
‘Bunny?’
‘Sorry. Mrs Compton. She tells me you were asking about Selina’s future plans.’
‘That’s right.’ I deliberately answered briefly, not knowing how Mrs Compton had phrased her question about whether the script Jarrod had delivered, in his inimitable fashion, and the show that Brockett had in mind were one and the same.
There was an amused edge to Brockett’s voice. ‘I don’t know what Jarrod has come up with this time. He writes perfect songs for her, but as to constructing a show, he doesn’t have the know-how.’
‘I see, I just wondered.’
‘Of course you wondered. You wanted to see the full picture, and no doubt you have your own concerns over Jarrod, as we all do.’
‘So that wouldn’t be the show you have in mind for her?’
‘No, but what makes you ask?’
‘Well, you did say to me that Selina needed good people around her and I love what she does and the shows you put on, so naturally I’m curious.’
‘Glad to hear it, Mrs Shackleton, and it would be a delight to have you with us for my star.’
‘Well thank you for telling me. I hope you’ll hear news of Beryl soon.’
There must be a good reason why the infirmary was withholding information about a patient. Someone was responsible for imposing that silence. I had a good inkling who that someone might be.
Thirty-One
Inspector Wallis
On Friday morning, on my way to the town centre, I stopped at the infirmary. Roundabout me, girls and women wore bright summer frocks in honour of the summer day. My dress and jacket was grey, piped with white. It could not be mistaken for mourning but with Billy dead and Beryl in I knew not what state, it seemed more appropriate than the tulip print dress I had taken out first thing this morning.
The board in the vestibule listed the patients’ numbers. Next to each number, a single word described their condition. Not knowing a patient number for Beryl, I enquired from the porter behind the desk, giving her name and that she was brought in yesterday.
He consulted a list. His finger paused over a name that I could not see, and then he looked up. ‘Sorry, I have no information about that patient.’
There was no point in my saying that yes he did, or his finger would not have stopped at her name. ‘Might you at least tell me whether she is alive? I was the person who found her.’
‘I’m sorry, madam. I have no information about that patient. If you tell me your name, I will let it be known you were asking about her.’
Let it be known to whom, I wondered. ‘My name is Mrs Catherine Shackleton.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, when might there be information?’
‘I’m sorry, madam, that I can’t say. Come and enquire later today, or tomorrow.’
That was as much as I would get from him. The silence surrounding Beryl Lister’s condition must be Inspector Wallis’s doing. The only explanation I could think of was that he must suspect foul play, or self-harm. Poor Beryl. I prayed that she had recovered. Selina must be half mad with anxiety at not knowing. Perhaps I might pick up some hint at CID headquarters when I had gone through the humiliation of giving my statement regarding the episode of the poisoned, or not poisoned, cigar.
*
Inspector G. T. Wallis of Leeds CID is based in the Town Hall. On waking this morning I had made up my
mind to avoid him and give the briefest possible statement to his sergeant or a constable. By the time I had climbed the broad staircase, I knew that if I wanted information about Beryl, he was the man to see. I knocked on his door.
‘Come in!’
He must have been gazing out of the window because that’s where he was standing, perhaps waiting for inspiration.
He gave a smile that reminded me of a short length of curled knicker elastic in the sewing box. ‘Take a seat, Mrs Shackleton.’
I sat down. He sat down. I expected him to call for a constable, but he did not. Surely the great man was not going to write down my statement himself?
Death in the Stars Page 28
