by Lynne Truss
Brunswick sat back in his chair. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, at last.
‘Really? Oh, he definitely needs a haircut, I told him so myself. You don’t want to get taken for a dirty beatnik, I said.’
‘No, not about the haircut. About Jupiter. I can’t believe what’s happened to him. I feel a bit sick. If someone did push him –! I mean, he’s written so much about villains, Mrs G. What if one of them got their own back on him? In Brighton, as well! The first time he ever came here. This is going to reflect badly on us. We should have been protecting him… why weren’t we protecting him?’
‘I’m sure the inspector did the best he could, dear.’
‘What? Was Inspector Steine there?’
‘Of course, dear. Oh, yes. Didn’t I say that? But don’t you go blaming him, just because he can be a bit slow on the uptake, that’s hardly his fault, is it?’
On the windowsill a bedraggled seagull chick was sheltering. It tapped its beak feebly against the glass. Brunswick stared at it. He was just saying, slowly, ‘So if Inspector Steine was there –?’ when Mrs Groynes banged the window and the bird flew off, and Brunswick’s half-formed thought went with it.
‘And in any case,’ she continued, sitting beside him and patting his hand, ‘you take too much on yourself, that’s your trouble. All this detecting you’ve been doing, and on top of that you’ve got your lovely auntie Violet to think of, and your little Maisie as well, doubtless still driving you doolally with unrequited lust. I suppose you realise she’s a minx, dear? The way she strings you along, it’s criminal.’
‘Maisie’s finished with me, Mrs G. As of yesterday.’
‘Finished with you?’ Mrs Groynes pursed her lips in sympathetic outrage. ‘Little madam!’
‘It’s all right. I was too old for her, anyway.’
‘Of course you were, but who cares about that? But I will say this. I’ve held my tongue till now, but just picture those teeth of hers in the face of a forty-five-year-old! They’re all very well when you’re a kid, but –’
‘Please, please, let’s not talk about Maisie. It’s not about her, Mrs G. I was just so excited about telling Mr Jupiter about the case.’
‘Going well, then, is it?’
Brunswick smiled. ‘It’s going very well. Do you want to hear?’
She took a seat.
‘Oh, go on, then. I don’t mind. Tell old Mrs Groynes. My life can’t be all Vim and Squeezy, can it, now? I’d have to top myself.’
He laughed. This had been their early-morning routine for several years now. The nice sergeant kindly spicing up the day of the funny cockney charlady with stories of exactly how his enquiries were going, vis-à-vis fur-shop robberies or the tracing of stolen goods. And to her credit, the charlady always took such a respectful interest – even when the enquiries eventually (and oddly) came to nothing, after all.
What he appreciated about Mrs Groynes was her selfless enthusiasm. Where Inspector Steine refused to see the point of most detective work, Mrs Groynes was sometimes genuinely agog. On one or two occasions, when he’d told her specifics about banks or post offices with faulty security arrangements, she had even asked him to stop for a minute, produced a pencil from behind her ear and made a little note.
And so Brunswick told her all about Bobby Melba being his prime suspect in the Jack Braithwaite murder. He described how he first discovered Bobby Melba’s existence; he showed her the picture of Bobby in female attire (at which she marvelled); he told her about Penny Cavendish awkwardly covering for him, and about the clinching evidence of the stolen jewelled comb, and Penny’s second-hand knowledge of the crime scene. He said he was sure Bobby was in show business.
‘My belief is that he’s never killed before,’ Brunswick concluded, ‘but he was cornered, do you see?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And a cornered narcissist can be very dangerous.’
‘A cornered what, dear?’
‘Narcissist.’ Brunswick looked grave and lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, I’m not completely sure what a narcissist is, but I think it’s someone who does drugs.’
Mrs Groynes pulled a face of horror, while Brunswick nodded, as if to say, ‘I know.’
‘So who is this Bobby Melba, dear?’ she asked, helpfully steering the conversation back to a safer channel. ‘I mean, how do you go about finding him, that’s what I’d like to know?’
Brunswick grinned. ‘I’m very close, Mrs G.’
‘Well, that’s marvellous!’ She was all admiration. ‘But specifically, dear. I’m curious. What I meant just then was, how do you go about finding him, that’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Oh, I see. You mean, you’d like to know actually how I’m going about it?’
‘Yes, dear. If it’s no trouble.’
‘It’s quite simple, really. Miss Cavendish said that Melba was in Leeds last year at the same time as Braithwaite was in a play there. I’ve asked the Leeds City police to look through the papers for that week and tell me about any other entertainers advertised. They were supposed to call yesterday but they didn’t. So today I’m not leaving this desk until I get that call.’
He thumped the desk three times, to show how much he meant it. ‘I’m not moving an inch! Which reminds me, where were you yesterday afternoon, Mrs G? I was here all by myself for hours.’
Mrs Groynes ignored the question. ‘Well, I think you’re a bleeding genius, dear.’
‘Oh, not really, Mrs Groynes.’
‘Yes, you are. Putting all that together, while the rest of us are only good for cleaning windowpanes with vinegar and newspaper!’
She gave him an affectionate push.
‘But what’s his motive?’ she said. ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘Motive, Mrs G?’
‘Well, say he’s at the house, and stealing the jewels, and his friend Jack jumps out and says, “Bobby! It’s you!” I don’t understand why he then goes berserk and all but slices the man’s head off.’
‘Perhaps Braithwaite threatened to turn him in, Mrs G. Braithwaite says, “I’m shocked at what you’re doing and I’ve got to turn you in,” and Bobby turns nasty. Criminals will stop at nothing when they think they’ll be exposed.’
Mrs Groynes tutted. ‘Well, I’m shocked. What, you mean they’d kill someone rather than risk facing the music?’
‘It happens all the time, I’m afraid. You’re lucky you don’t know about this kind of thing. People being silenced. There are supposed to be at least half a dozen bodies built into the new runway up at Gatwick already, did you know that? And as for the people given concrete boots every Friday night by the likes of Terence Chambers and dropped in the Thames…’
He looked round, remembering something. ‘Where’s Twitten?’
Mrs Groynes frowned. ‘Who, dear?’
‘The new constable. I haven’t seen him since – well, since his first day, the night of the murders. Last I saw, he was being lifted into an ambulance. Where’s he flaming got to? I know he must have had a shock, but he should still be here, helping.’
‘Do you know what I think?’ she said, getting up. ‘I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. I think he wasn’t cut out for police work at all.’
‘Really? Too clever, you mean?’
‘My point exactly, dear! Too clever. No, I wouldn’t be surprised if we never saw him again. Now, another cup of tea?’
‘I wouldn’t mind, thank you.’
Brunswick was happy. Listening to his own case against the mysterious Bobby Melba, he found it very satisfactory. The gruesome murder of a promising playwright would soon be avenged. And now he could have a pleasant morning at his desk, having cups of tea with Mrs Groynes while the rest of the world got soaked to the skin outside.
He opened a copy of the Police Gazette at the ‘Your Star Sign’ page and found that today’s lucky colour for Scorpios was dark blue, and today’s lucky word was ‘handcuffs’. Lucky direction to be proceeding in
was ‘westerly’. Outside, on the windowsill, the sodden baby seagull had come back.
He was just sighing contentedly while Mrs Groynes put down a small saucer of biscuits beside him, when she suddenly stopped dead and slapped her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, my good gawd, I’ve just remembered something.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The telephone call.’
‘What telephone call?’
‘Vince! Vince whatever-his-name-is, that Punch & Judy man who’s always threatening people. He called just before you arrived.’
‘What?’
Mrs Groynes banged the window and the poor wet bird flew off again.
‘He sounded very upset, dear! Oh, how could I have forgotten, I’m so sorry, dear! And we were just talking about her! I said awful things about her teeth!’
Brunswick froze. ‘Maisie?’
‘I called her a minx.’
‘Maisie?’ repeated Brunswick, this time more like a squeak.
‘Yes, dear! It was about Maisie. I made a note… oh, where did I put it?’
She started searching the room, going through her pockets, while Brunswick followed her about, very agitated. ‘Has he hurt her? Oh, please no, has he hurt Maisie? Mrs G, just tell me!’
‘I can’t find it, dear.’
‘It doesn’t matter about the note. Just tell me.’
‘He said she’s disappeared.’
‘What?’
‘She didn’t go home last night, apparently.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Her mum’s in a right two and eight. He said, could you meet him by the bandstand as soon as possible? I’m so sorry I forgot!’
Brunswick already had his hat and coat on, and his hand on the door handle. So much for his lovely morning in a warm, dry office.
‘But what about your very important message from them Leeds City people, dear?’
Brunswick groaned. ‘Can you take it for me, Mrs G? I’ve got to go.’
She smiled. ‘Of course I can.’
He wanted to give her a kiss, but there was no time to lose. If something had happened to Maisie…
‘Here, hold on,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had a thought about this case of yours.’
‘Can’t it wait, Mrs G?’
‘If this Bobby is the guilty party, then that strong lady you arrested – was she framed, then?’
Brunswick frowned, confused. Now that he came to think of it, he supposed she was.
‘So won’t she be out to get the person who did it? All I’m saying is, I hope you find this Bobby bloke before she does. He might need protecting.’
After Brunswick had left, Mrs Groynes locked the door to the office and looked around. The bird had come back, but she didn’t care. She quite liked seeing it there, dripping on the sill. She propped her mop against the wall, sat down at Brunswick’s desk and lit a cigarette, narrowing her eyes in thought. Then she picked up the phone and asked to be put through to a Brighton number. While she waited for an answer, she tipped ash from the cigarette into the pocket of her floral overall.
‘Ronnie? We’re on,’ she said. Having hung up, she crossed to a large, double-doored built-in cupboard, producing a key from a string round her neck. This cupboard was a favourite topic of conversation for Inspector Steine, who had often been heard to complain, ‘What’s the point of this cupboard? It’s locked all the time and no one can find the key!’
Opening it now, she checked its contents: a shelf containing some gold bullion, another shelf with a neat pile of stolen postal orders to the value of £1,500, two coshes, a jemmy, three balaclavas and half a dozen sets of skeleton keys; hanging from hangers, a variety of female outfits and three full-length sable coats with exorbitant price tags still attached; and on the floor, an unconscious young constable in uniform, tied and gagged, along with two recently purchased canvas holdalls.
She regarded all these items with equal satisfaction, then relocked the cupboard, picked up the phone again and asked for another number.
‘Bobby?’ she said. ‘Thanks for picking up, dear. It’s me.’
* * *
‘Who was that on the telephone?’ asked Penny, as Bobby took off his silky dressing gown and got back into bed. The digs had a phone in the dingy hallway, and he had sprinted downstairs to answer it barefoot. This was known to be a good time to ring. It was common knowledge that the landlady at Bobby’s theatrical digs took herself shopping between nine and eleven every weekday morning. If her lodgers missed the short, allotted breakfast time (8.15–8.30 a.m.), that was their lookout. (No actor was ever up before 8.30. It saved her a fortune in eggs.)
‘Just an aunt of mine,’ he said. ‘She’s my sort-of godmother, too, as a matter of fact. She’s going to help me with something.’
He made a face, indicating that this was all he was going to say. Penny put her arms around him. Rain lashed against the windows.
‘I’m scared, Bobby.’
‘Well, you’re not the only one.’
She stroked his hair. ‘I’ve just found you and you’re going to leave me.’
There was no answer to this. They both knew it was true. If Bobby didn’t flee the town in the next day or two, he would be arrested for the burglaries at least. His fingerprints were on that sherry glass: on such evidence alone, unless someone else was arrested for Jack’s murder, Bobby might even hang.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she had asked him, again and again. She had asked it gently; she had asked it firmly; she had asked it, finally (and weirdly), while performing a marital act. Penny was highly confused; sleeping with Bobby had hardly made things better. In the night, he had twice woken them both up by screaming in terror. The first time, he’d shouted, ‘Jack, look out!’ The second time, it was, ‘So much blood!’
There was no getting away from it. The fact of Jack’s death was so present in both their minds that they might as well have been making love in the same room as the corpse. But they say that every cloud has a silver lining, and in later years, when Penny was cast as a highly sexed Gertrude in an acclaimed Hamlet at the Haymarket, she was able to draw, quite consciously, on this fleeting time with Bobby back in 1957 – when intense shock, grief, guilt and overpowering physical attraction had combined and mutated into fire.
When Bobby now kissed her with passion, she responded in kind.
‘I still can’t believe that you came to me last night,’ he said, when they finally broke apart again.
‘I know. I know.’
‘This isn’t disloyal to Jack, Penny.’
She looked miserably unconvinced. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘This is all about him, Penny! You’re in his play. You loved him. You got four… five curtain calls, all for him.’
‘I know.’
‘The success of that play is all for him.’
‘I know. But all the time last night, as I was taking my bows, I wasn’t thinking about Jack at all.’
‘No?’
‘I kept thinking: Bobby was there, he might be a murderer, yet I want Bobby. Oh, what am I going to do?’
‘I’m not a murderer, Penny.’
‘I want you so much. Can’t we just run away?’
‘It’s too late,’ he said, sitting up with his back to her. ‘Seriously, too late. Wheels are in motion.’
‘Let’s come clean, then. Tell them what happened.’
‘I can’t, though.’
‘Tell me what happened! Please!’
‘I can’t. I really can’t.’
Bobby reached for his cigarettes on the dressing table, then lit one and got back under the covers. He plumped up a pillow and leaned back.
‘Let me tell you about phrenology,’ he said.
‘What, now?’ She let out a little shriek of frustration.
‘It’s relevant, I promise.’
‘But Bobby –’
‘The thing is, everyone thinks it’s Victorian mumbo-jumbo, don’t they? I suppose when I started learning how to do it, I
thought of it as a kind of trick myself – a reliable trick, but still basically a trick. Up to then, I’d learned all sort of card tricks and stuff – did you notice my fingers, Penny? You’ve never said.’
‘Of course I have. You don’t hide them.’
‘They started out quite normal; we think it was playing the piano so much as a child that changed them.’
He held them up – the top knuckle of each finger permanently bent, giving his digits the shape of little hammers.
‘Anyway, I was sure I wanted to practise some sort of sleight of hand as a profession, and I was brilliant at card magic, but it was frustrating: these strange fingers of mine drew too much attention to what I was doing. And then someone told me about the “defunct” art of phrenology and I suppose I just saw the attraction.
‘For one thing, it’s a profession that requires dexterity, which I already had; for another, I’d be able to dress as a bearded Victorian, so people would think I was much older than I am, and not recognise me out of costume – and I always saw the value of that; and last, whenever there was a lull in the audience’s interest, I could remark on the size of a person’s “organs”, because it always – and I mean always – gets a laugh.
‘What I didn’t anticipate was the genuine insight it would give me into people. It’s like having X-ray eyes, Penny; like being the one-eyed man in the land of the blind. Because when most people look at each other, they just don’t see. Whereas when I look at a new person – even without laying my hands on their head – I instantly know something of their flaws, their strengths, and even their destiny. Jack, for example, had bulges behind his ears – did you notice?’
‘Well, yes. His glasses kept falling off.’
‘That was his organ of Destructiveness, Penny. It was very pronounced. But I didn’t mean to talk about Jack. The thing is, at first, I just latched on to the broader truths: a high forehead goes with a perceptive mind; a low brow literally indicates less intelligence; the instinctive stuff is at the base of the skull and the more spiritual and perceptive stuff is on the top.
