‘The fall might not have been fatal.’
‘It would have been if he’d left something nasty — like a nice big spike — for William Kirkpatrick to fall onto. Impalement very rarely fails to achieve the desired result.’
‘That’s certainly true enough — as any vampire will probably testify,’ Blackstone said.
‘Alternatively, the murderer could have knocked Kirkpatrick out with a blow to the head, then placed him under the electric bridge and let the machinery crush him. In either case, it would have looked like a pure accident, and we wouldn’t even be here now.’
‘You may be right,’ Blackstone agreed. Tut maybe he’s not as fond of all this new technology as you are, Sergeant. Maybe, at heart, he’s a bit of a purist — a good, old-fashioned murderer.’
‘Yes, there are people who refuse to move with the times,’ Patterson agreed, giving his boss a significant look.
‘Anyway, if he’d done what you’ve suggested, he would have been directly involved in the death,’ Blackstone continued. ‘Whereas, by choosing the method he has chosen, he didn’t even need to be in the bloody theatre when Kirkpatrick met his end.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Patterson said glumly. ‘He’s a clever bloke, isn’t he?’
‘Fiendishly clever,’ Blackstone replied.
‘Fiendishly clever,’ Patterson repeated. ‘I’m not sure I’d go quite that far, sir,’ he cautioned.
‘I’m not sure I’d go that far myself,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But you can bet your last brass farthing that all the popular newspapers will.’
* * *
By the time Blackstone returned to the stage, the body of William Kirkpatrick had been removed, but Sebastian George was still there, pacing up and down, and puffing on his huge cigar.
‘There are uniformed policemen all over the place,’ the impresario complained to the inspector.
‘Are there?’ Blackstone replied, looking around him in mock-amazement. ‘Now why should that be? Maybe somebody’s told them there’s been a murder in the theatre. Do you think that could be it?’
George was not amused. ‘How much longer will they be cluttering the theatre up?’ he demanded.
‘I imagine the “cluttering up” will continue until I’m happy they’ve completed all the necessary inquiries.’
‘Can’t you give me a definite time, my good man? Will it be an hour? Might it be as long as two?’
‘Do I look like a chimney sweep or a knife-grinder to you?’ Blackstone wondered.
George gave his evening dress a quick inspection. ‘Not at the moment, no,’ he admitted. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’re addressing me as if I was,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I am not “your good man”, I’m a police officer investigating a serious crime, and I have to tell you now that the work my men are involved in will take much more than an hour or two.’
‘I simply can’t permit that to happen,’ Sebastian George said. ‘My cast can’t stay up half the night being questioned by policemen. They are artists. They need their rest. Besides, I have workmen arriving at first light, and they will need space to be able to go about their tasks.’
‘Your cast will have plenty of time to rest once we’ve finished with them,’ Blackstone said. ‘A couple of days, at least.’
‘What complete and utter nonsense!’ George replied. He made a great show of checking his pocket watch. ‘As I calculate it, none of my players will be in their beds until two or three in the morning, yet they have to be back here, refreshed and re-invigorated, by noon at the very latest.’
‘Hang on!’ Blackstone said. ‘You’re talking as if you think you’ll be putting on a performance tomorrow night.’
‘The evening performance has not even entered my consciousness yet,’ George told him. Tor the moment, I am far more concerned about the staging of the extra matinée.’
‘The extra matinée!’ Blackstone repeated, incredulously. ‘There’ll be no matinée of any kind. And no evening performance, either. Until I’m satisfied that my men have completed all their work, your people won’t even be allowed back in the theatre.’
‘I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,’ the impresario told him, though there was not even the slightest trace of regret in his voice.
‘And I’m afraid you don’t quite seem to understand the powers of the police,’ Blackstone told him.
‘But I do understand,’ Sebastian George responded. ‘I particularly understand the power of some policemen — policemen like Sir Roderick Todd, your Assistant Commissioner. Do you happen to know him?’
Oh yes, I know the bastard all right, Blackstone thought. I know him from Russia, when he almost buggered up the case of the missing golden egg. And I know him from the investigation into the fire bug, when he seemed to spend most of his time trying to get me kicked off the force.
But aloud, all he said was, ‘You may well be an acquaintance of Sir Roderick’s, sir’
‘I am much than a simple acquaintance, I can assure you of that. In fact, I would go so far as to count him as being among my closest friends.’
‘He could be your long-lost brother as far as I’m concerned,’ Blackstone said, barely managing to keep his temper reined in. ‘He could be your identical twin, for all the difference it makes. When a police investigation is underway, nobody, not even the Assistant Commissioner —’
‘I spoke to Rodders not more than an hour ago,’ Sebastian George interrupted. ‘He can see no harm at all in the show being put on as normal. In fact, he agreed to honour us by personally attending tomorrow night’s performance, and I have already reserved the Royal Box for him.’
So that was the way it was, was it?
‘But how can you put on a show when your leading actor’s dead?’ Blackstone said.
‘As I think I’ve explained to you at least five or six times already, Miss Charlotte Devaraux is the leading light of this company,’ George told him. ‘Mr Kirkpatrick, for all his undoubted talent, was no more than the secondary lead, and his understudy is more than ready to step into his shoes.’
What was the other thing Sebastian had said earlier? Blackstone wondered. Something about the workmen needing space to do their work?
‘What exactly will these workmen of yours be doing when they get here?’ he asked.
George looked suddenly guarded. ‘The workmen?’ he repeated, clearly to give himself time to think. ‘Ah, yes! The stage will need to be tidied up a little after Mr Kirkpatrick’s unfortunate collision with it.’
‘You don’t need workmen in the plural for that. One workman would be enough.’
‘True, but you see, there are some of other… er… minor structural changes to be made.’
‘Such as?’
‘You need not concern yourself with that,’ Sebastian George said airily.
‘But I am concerned,’ Blackstone insisted.
George sighed. ‘Very well, since you seem intent in sticking your nose into matters which are absolutely no concern of yours, I suppose I might as well tell you that the seating arrangements are in need of readjustment.’
‘You’re going to put more scats into the theatre, aren’t you?’ Blackstone demanded.
‘We may possibly decide to add two or three more rows,’ George replied vaguely.
‘You’re expecting to get a packed house, as a direct result of the murder, and you want to cram as many paying customers into the theatre as is humanly possible?’
‘I would not put it quite like that.’
‘Then how would you put it?’
Sebastian George took another puff on his big cigar, some-thing Blackstone had already noted he had a tendency to do when he was about to be either bombastic or pompous.
‘I feel a keen responsibility to my public,’ the impresario said. ‘I would not wish to disappoint those who thirst after culture, by having to turn too many of them away.’
‘Thirst after culture!’ Blackstone said, sceptically. ‘Disappoint t
hem by turning them away!’
‘You, as a common-or-garden policeman with little or no imagination, plainly underestimate the enthusiasm of devoted theatre-goers,’ Sebastian told him. ‘There have been instances — though fortunately never at this theatre — where the refusal of admission has led to an out-and-out riot.’
‘Well, if you think there’s any danger of a riot here, you’d definitely better cancel tomorrow night’s performance after all,’ Blackstone suggested. ‘The matinée, as well.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ George replied. ‘Some policemen — and my good friend Sir Roderick Todd happily among them — have the ability to see beyond the end of their noses. Some policemen, rather than just reacting to a situation, can see the value of advance planning.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means, my good man, that Sir Roderick has kindly agreed to draft in a number of uniformed officers — twenty, I think, was the number he mentioned — to patrol the area around the theatre before tomorrow’s performances. Thus, if we do have the demand for tickets we are anticipating — and if those people turned away do become disgruntled — the situation can be very easily contained.’
‘The Metropolitan Police can’t spare twenty men, just so you can cash in on the murder like some kind of bloodsucking ghoul!’ Blackstone said, outraged.
Sebastian George smiled. ‘That might be your opinion,’ he said, ‘but the Assistant Commissioner — whose opinion carries much more weight — would appear to disagree with you.’
Chapter Five
The King’s Head Tavern and Oyster Bar was not more than a few doors down the street from the George Theatre, with the consequence that most its customers were either connected with the theatre in some way or fervently wished that they were connected with it.
On the basis of this clientele alone, Blackstone would normally have been persuaded to find somewhere else to drink, since he disliked men who spent most of their time prancing and posturing — actors, con men, Assistant Commissioners in the Metropolitan Police, and people of that ilk — and whenever possible, steered well clear of them.
That night, however, he decided he had two quite compelling reasons for giving the King’s Head his patronage. The first was that he would very likely find people on the periphery of his new case drinking in there. The second — slightly less professional — was that it was eleven fifty by the time he left the theatre, so with only forty minutes drinking time left before the pubs closed up for the night, it was a question of any port in a storm.
‘What do you want, Archie?’ the inspector asked his sergeant as they entered the saloon bar. ‘A pint of the usual?’
‘Yes, I could use a… ’ Patterson began. Then his mouth froze, and his right hand unconsciously reached for his stomach. ‘No, I think I’ll have a glass of soda water tonight, if you don’t mind, sir,’ he continued, somewhat mournfully, as his hand patted the bulge.
Blackstone bought the drinks, and then walked over to a table in the corner which gave him a good view of the rest of the room.
Patterson sat down heavily, and took an unenthusiastic sip of his glass of soda water.
‘Well?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Well what, sir?’
‘What’s it taste like?’ Blackstone wondered.
‘Very refreshing,’ Patterson replied, though without much conviction. Then he noticed the amused look on his boss’s face, and added defiantly, ‘I’m doing this through my own choice, you know. Rose isn’t forcing me into it.’
‘Of course she isn’t,’ Blackstone agreed, trying his best to look as if he really believed his sergeant’s protestation.
‘Anyway, sooner or later we all give in to what our women want,’ Patterson said, seemingly unaware that he was under-mining his own argument. ‘Nobody’s immune to it — not even you.’
‘Not even me? What do you mean by that, Sergeant?’ Patterson smiled knowingly. ‘You were at the theatre tonight, weren’t you, sir?’
‘Yes? What of it?’
‘And when was the last time you went?’
‘Quite recently, as a matter of fact.’
‘I’m talking about the legitimate theatre now, not the music hall,’ Patterson pointed out.
‘In that case, it was some time ago,’ Blackstone admitted.
‘Some time ago!’ Patterson repeated derisively. ‘What does that mean, exactly? A month? A couple of months? Six months and a day? I’d be willing to bet that it must have been years!’
‘You’d probably win that bet,’ Blackstone conceded.
‘And the reason you went this time was not because you felt a sudden urge for culture — it was because your woman told you to.’
‘Ellie Carr’s not my woman,’ Blackstone said.
And there was some truth in his assertion. They were not sleeping together. They hadn’t even kissed. Yet they were very comfortable in each other’s company — uncomfortably comfortable, as far as Blackstone was concerned.
The inspector looked around the saloon bar. ‘Who do you know in here?’ he asked.
‘Changing the subject, are we, sir?’ Patterson asked. ‘Yes,’ Blackstone said firmly. ‘So who do you know?’
‘A few people,’ Patterson replied.
By which he probably meant at least half the customers, Blackstone thought. That was the thing about Patterson. Aside for his undeniable loyalty — a rare virtue in the back-stabbing atmosphere which Assistant Commissioner Todd had imported with him into the Met — his greatest value was in his large circle of acquaintances. Patterson knew people everywhere — journalists and barristers, costermongers and watermen, prostitutes and pickpockets. It was impossible to walk down any London street without Patterson stopping to greet at least ten or twelve people.
‘Anyone from the play here?’ Blackstone asked.
Patterson made a quick survey of the room.
‘Yes. All the people at that table,’ he said, making a discreet gesture with his podgy index finger.
The table which he was pointing to had two men and two women sitting at it, and from the flamboyance of both their dress and attitude, Blackstone had already guessed they were connected with the theatre.
‘The two woman are just bit players,’ Patterson continued. ‘Walk-ons. Faces in the crowd. I don’t know their names. Probably the only reason they’re in the play at all is that they’re on very friendly terms indeed with a couple of the backers of the production.’
‘Very delicately put,’ Blackstone said.
‘The man on the left is Binsley Hough,’ Patterson said.
Hough was a very round man, Blackstone noted, a living — waddling — warning to Sergeant Patterson that he should stick to the diet his young lady had put him on.
‘Can’t see a barrel of lard like him being very convincing as the dramatic lead,’ Blackstone said.
‘That’s probably why he doesn’t play the dramatic lead,’ Patterson replied, with a slight air of superiority. ‘He’s usually the kindly uncle, the clown or the evil mastermind.’
‘What if there isn’t a kindly uncle, a clown or an evil mastermind in the play they’re putting on at that moment?’ Blackstone wondered.
Patterson shook his head. ‘There’s always one of them in every play,’ he said, almost pityingly.
‘What about the other man?’ Blackstone asked.
‘He’s Richmond Clay.’
Richmond Clay! Didn’t any of these people have proper Christian names, Blackstone asked himself
Still, he was forced to admit that the name did appear to suit Clay. He was tall and good-looking, with that slightly arrogant curl of the lip that some women found appealing. ‘Our Mr Clay certainly looks very pleased with himself tonight,’ the inspector said.
‘He should do,’ Patterson replied. ‘He was William Kirkpatrick’s understudy. Now that Kirkpatrick’s dead, he’ll be given the lead role.’
‘You mean the secondary lead role, don’t you?’ Blacksto
ne asked, getting a little of his own back.
‘Perhaps I do,’ Patterson admitted. ‘It is a little bit ironic, though, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Isn’t what?’
‘That Richmond Clay should keep on following in Kirkpatrick’s footsteps like that.’
‘Keep on following?’
‘After Martin Swinburne.’
‘I don’t think this soda water’s doing your brain any good,’ Blackstone said. ‘You’re not making any sense at all.’
‘Aren’t I?’ Patterson asked. ‘You surely know what happened to Martin Swinburne, don’t you?’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’
‘But it was in all the papers.’
It probably had been, Blackstone agreed, but he came across enough sensationalist horror in his job, without looking for any more of it in the pages of the popular press.
‘I must have missed that particular story,’ he said.
‘Martin Swinburne was the leading actor in the George Company,’ Patterson said, speaking slowly now, as if explaining it to a rather dim-witted child. ‘Then, a few months ago, he was the victim of a tragic accident.’
‘What kind of tragic accident?’ Blackstone asked, discovering a sudden new interest in theatrical gossip.
‘It was in another of the sensationalist plays at the George Theatre. This one was about a flying machine.’
‘A play about a flying machine!’ Blackstone scoffed. ‘Even by the standards of what they normally try to get you to swallow at the theatre, that’s got to be rather far-fetched.’
‘No, it isn’t!’ Patterson protested. ‘It’s only a matter of time
before a heavier-than-air machine’
‘Stick to the point,’ Blackstone told him. ‘What happened to Martin Swinburne?’
‘In this particular drama — I think it was called Taking Wing — Swinburne played the inventor of the flying machine, and his big moment comes when he’s standing on the stage, and it flies above his head… ’
Martin Swinburne, a true leading man by any standards, is alone on the vast stage. Behind him is a painted back-cloth of Hackney Marshes. From offstage comes the sound of a distant engine.
Blackstone and the Stage of Death (The Blackstone Detective series Book 5) Page 4
