Blackstone and the Stage of Death (The Blackstone Detective series Book 5)

by Sally Spencer

  Didn’t these young women realize what an exciting thing it was that they were doing? Didn’t they understand what a privilege it was to be there, at the beating heart of civilization?

  ‘Is there something I can do to help you, young man?’ asked a distinctly chilling voice to his left.

  Patterson turned, and saw a small woman, with her hair in a tight bun, glaring at him.

  He produced his warrant card. ‘Sergeant Patterson,’ he said. ‘And you are Mrs…

  ‘I am Miss Dobbs,’ the woman told him. ‘The Postal Telephone Service does not employ married ladies.’

  ‘And quite right, too,’ Patterson said, before he could stop himself.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘For important work like this, you need a clear head, free of all the distractions that married life brings with it,’ Patterson continued, convinced, even as he spoke the words, that he was merely digging himself into a deeper hole than the one he already found himself in.

  But instead of being angered by his tactless comments, the tiny harridan beside him actually began to smile.

  ‘Yes, it is important work, though not enough people realize it,’ Miss Dobbs said. ‘We provide a valuable service here. The business of the City would be much less efficient without us.’

  ‘You provide a vital service,’ Patterson corrected her. ‘And without you, the business of the City would grind to a halt.’

  Miss Dobbs’s smile was now so broad it seemed in danger of cracking her face. ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m trying to track down a telephone call which was made last night to the George Theatre,’ Patterson explained. ‘Do you keep any records of who called whom?’

  Miss Dobbs shook her head regretfully. ‘Each of our subscribers has his own personal meter in our central office, and every time he calls, it clicks up another penny that he owes us,’ she replied. ‘But while we know how many calls our subscribers have made, we have no idea who they called or when they called them.’

  ‘Then perhaps the operator herself might remember placing the call,’ Patterson suggested.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Miss Dobbs agreed. ‘At what time was this particular call made?’

  ‘As near as we can estimate, it was placed at around half past eight.’

  ‘Then my operators will certainly not have dealt with it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. The company has ruled that none of the young ladies should work after eight o’clock. And I think that they are quite correct in that belief.’

  ‘Any particular reason for that ruling?’ Patterson asked idly.

  ‘Indeed there is.’ Miss Dobbs glanced around at her operators, then said, in a much lower voice, ‘In the evening, there are some men who drink to excess, you know.’

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ Patterson replied.

  ‘And once the drink has taken hold of these reprehensible men, they lose all restraint, and abandon any kind of civilized behaviour.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Patterson, who had collected more bruises from handling drunks than he had ever done from arresting murderers.

  ‘And some of these men, in their wild state, then decide to make telephone calls.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘And that is why there are no female operators on duty. Many of my young ladies are the daughters of clergymen, lawyers or doctors. I would not want them to be subjected to the foul-mouthed calls that the male operators who replace them sometimes have to deal with.’

  ‘So I really need to come back tonight, and talk to the male operators,’ Patterson said.

  ‘That is the case.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ Patterson said.

  ‘It has been a pleasure to talk to a young man who is intelligent enough to appreciate our calling,’ Miss Dobbs told him. Patterson turned towards the door, then stopped, and swung round to face Miss Dobbs again.

  ‘I do have one more question,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing to do with my official inquiries. It’s more a case of satisfying my own curiosity.’

  ‘Please feel free to ask it,’ Miss Dobbs told him.

  ‘I was wondering why all the young ladies in this office wear dark over-gowns.’

  ‘Ah, that is for their own protection — a kindly and thoughtful gesture on the part of the management.’

  ‘Is it? Flow?’

  ‘Most young ladies, as you have no doubt observed your-self, cannot help noticing what their friends and colleagues are wearing. It is not their fault, it is simply the way that God made them. By providing them with gowns, we are shielding the sensitive and modestly-garbed operator from being distracted by the extra-smart frocks on either side of her.’ Miss Dobbs paused. ‘You see nothing wrong with that, do you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Patterson assured her, admiringly. ‘As a matter of fact, I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

  * * *

  Spotty Wilberforce had insisted that Blackstone accompany him back to his own little office, and since there seemed to be nothing else to occupy his time at that particular moment, the inspector had agreed.

  It was more of a cupboard than an office, but Wilberforce was plainly immensely proud of his own little kingdom, which contained not one battered old armchair but two.

  ‘I could tell you some stories about what goes on this

  company,’ Wilberforce boasted once they were seated. ‘I could tell you tales that would make your hair stand on end.’

  ‘Then please feel free to do so,’ Blackstone suggested. Wilberforce shook his head. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m like a doctor, or a lawyer, in that respect. Anything I see, I have to keep to myself.’

  The appalling, self-important little boy had grown up into an appalling, self-important little man, Blackstone thought. But that still didn’t mean that nothing he had to say was worth listening to.

  ‘Of course, I can quite see that if you don’t think I’d believe your stories —’ he said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you believe them?’ Wilberforce interrupted.

  ‘— or if you think that they would bore me, because, in my job, I’ll have been bound to see things which were much more interesting —’

  ‘There’s nothing more interesting than the things that go on here,’ Wilberforce said firmly. He paused for a second, as if weighing the advantages and disadvantages of being indiscreet. ‘You probably think this is a highly successful theatre company, don’t you’?’ he continued.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘Then that only shows your ignorance. Mr George has been teetering on the brink of financial disaster for years. Why, only last year, he had to lease the theatre out to another company. And while the other company was using the theatre, do you know what he did with his own?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘He took them on a tour of South America.’

  ‘I see,’ Blackstone said, and as his response was obviously not enough to satisfy Wilberforce, he added, ‘South America, eh?’

  ‘Not North America, where the population can at least act a little bit civilized on occasion,’ the porter said, ‘but South America, which is well known to be full of nothing but Indians and Dagoes! I ask you, Sam! How desperate do you have to be to go there?’

  ‘But presumably, however dreadful the tour might have been, it did at least serve the function of putting the company back on a sound financial footing again, didn’t it?’ Blackstone asked innocently.

  ‘So that’s what you think, is it?’ Wilberforce said.

  ‘Am I wrong?’

  ‘Couldn’t be wronger. The whole trouble with these sensationalist plays, Sammy-boy, is that while you’ve got no choice but to stage them — because that’s what every other theatre management in London is doing — they cost an absolute fortune to put on. Which means — as you could no doubt work out for yourself, given time — that even before the first ticket is sold to the first c
ustomer, the company’s already up to its ears in debt.’

  ‘I can understand that. But surely, once they have sold the tickets’ Blackstone began.

  ‘And even the best sensationalist effects in the world won’t guarantee you an audience,’ Wilberforce interrupted him. ‘To be assured of a success, you’ve got to have a male lead who’s capable of pulling in the crowds — and Sebastian George doesn’t have one!’

  ‘Why is that?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Because William Kirkpatrick’s been murdered?’

  ‘William Kirkpatrick!’ the porter said contemptuously. ‘Why even mention him? That clown was never a crowd-pleaser. It’s Martin Swinburne I’m talking about. Now he was a star, if ever there was one. All men admired him, and all women swooned at his feet.’

  ‘All men admired him,’ Blackstone mused. ‘Are you sure about that? There must surely have been somebody who disliked him.’

  ‘The public loved him!’

  ‘I imagine they did. But I was thinking more about the people who he worked with.’

  ‘Oh, if it’s the company you’re talking about, that’s a different matter altogether. Actors always put on a great show of affection in public, but really they can’t stand one another in private. It’s the jealousy, you see — they’re always worried that one of the others is getting more lines, or a better part, than they are.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘And when you do get the biggest parts and the best lines — which Swinburne always did — you’re not going to have a lot of friends in the company, especially among the men.’

  The stage door opened, and Sebastian George entered the building. He did no more than glance at the tiny cupboard-office as he swept majestically past it, but even that was enough to unsettle the porter.

  Wilberforce rose quickly to his feet. ‘I’d better go and have a word with Mr George,’ he said.

  ‘He didn’t seem too eager to have a word with you.’

  ‘That’s just his way. But he’ll be wanting a full report. He relies on me, you see.’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Blackstone replied. ‘After all, if he’s even half as useless as you say he is, you must be the one person who’s keeping this company from falling apart.’

  A look of panic crossed Wilberforce’s blotched face. ‘You won’t tell him what I’ve been saying to you, will you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Only he might get the wrong idea, if you do.’

  Or the right idea, Blackstone thought.

  ‘I’ll treat your confidences to me with the respect that they so obviously merit,’ he said.

  ‘And I’ll treat yours in exactly the same way,’ Wilberforce said, sounding somewhat reassured. He held the office door open. ‘Since I’m going out myself, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, too.’

  ‘Couldn’t I stay?’ Blackstone asked, as meekly as if he took Wilberforce at his own evaluation.

  Wilberforce frowned, causing the blotches on his forehead to merge into one red mass, then separate again into smaller, angry islands.

  ‘Well, I’m sure I don’t know about that,’ the porter said. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, and —’

  ‘I just need a few minutes to collect my thoughts together,’ Blackstone cajoled.

  ‘I suppose that’ll be all right then,’ Wilberforce conceded. ‘Though I have to say that, as far as I’m concerned, a job that’s got a lot of sitting and thinking about it is not much of a job at all.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Blackstone agreed, ‘but we can’t all be porters at the George Theatre, can we? I’m stuck with the job I’ve got, and I’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t I?’

  Wilberforce nodded sagely. ‘It’s a wise man who accepts the lot that fate has imposed upon him,’ he said, before opening the door and stepping out into the corridor.

  Blackstone gave Wilberforce a minute to get clear of the cupboard-office before he began his search of it.

  He wasn’t expecting to find much of any significance in the place, so he wasn’t too disappointed when all his search uncovered was a hidden bottle of gin and a few illegal betting slips.

  The porter knew nothing, and saw even less, he decided. He was far too wrapped in the limiting world of his own self-importance to be either an accurate observer or a reliable witness.

  Blackstone lit up a cigarette, and allowed the acrid smoke to snake around his lungs.

  It had been a salutary experience meeting Wilberforce again, he thought. It had reminded him that however difficult his own life could be from time to time, he still had a great deal to be thankful for.

  True, his line of work led him to see sights of human depravity that would turn the stomach of even the strongest man.

  True, he had to endure taking orders from a jumped-up baronet who thought that he knew all there was to know about policing, but in fact knew virtually nothing at all.

  And true, his own particular approach to policing would probably mean that would eventually lose his job and — if he didn’t have the guts to slit his own throat when that happened — that he was destined to spend his declining years in the workhouse.

  But at least he hadn’t been born Spotty Wilberforce!

  Chapter Seven

  It was the sound of the two men’s voices — in earnest, though not yet quite heated, conversation — which drew Blackstone towards the theatre stage. And it was a sudden thought — that he might learn more by listening than he ever could by interrupting them — that brought him to an abrupt halt when he reached the wings.

  The men were standing at the very centre of the stage itself, almost like thespians giving a performance, but there was no audience seated in the auditorium to appreciate it, and the show each man was putting on was purely for the benefit of the other.

  One of the ‘actors’ in this little drama was Sebastian George himself — small, plump, flashily dressed, and puffing on the inevitable cigar.

  The other was much taller, and probably somewhere in his early sixties. He wore a sober — though expensive — frock coat, and a silk top hat. His face was long and thin — the sort of face that Blackstone was used to seeing in pictures at the National Portrait Gallery — and was framed by a set of distinguished silver side-whiskers. But it was the way he carried himself which was the most fascinating. He had about him an air of confidence and authority which could possibly have been acquired, though it was much more likely, the inspector strongly suspected, to have been inherited along with the family estate.

  ‘The play was written with Miss Devaraux specifically in mind. It is her vehicle,’ Sebastian George was saying, in a wheedling tone that was a million miles away from his normal arrogant delivery. ‘Please understand — I beg you — that that without her presence, the drama is nothing,’

  ‘I do understand that,’ the other man replied. ‘And what you must understand, George, is that my primary concern is not the success or failure of your little commercial venture, but the state of Charlotte’s health.’

  Who was the bugger? Blackstone wondered. Archie Patterson would have come up with his name in an instant, but then he could have done the same with the names of half the chimney sweeps and watermen in London, too.

  ‘I wish you would reconsider, my lord,’ Sebastian George said, in the verbal equivalent of throwing himself at the other man’s feet.

  My lord! Blackstone repeated silently.

  So the man with the silver whiskers was an aristocrat. That surely should be enough of a clue to enable a smart-as-paint detective inspector from New Scotland Yard to identify him. He ran quickly through his mental list of the dinosaurs who not only assumed that they still had the right to run the country, but very often — far too often — chose to exercise it.

  Lord Bixendale! He groaned inwardly.

  Why did it have to be someone like him who was involved in all this?

  Why couldn’t it have been some backwoods peer instead?
<
br />   Because, he supposed, backwoods peers, by their very nature, stayed in the backwoods, while peers like Lord Bixendale had their fingers in more pies than a baker.

  Bixendale was a true grandee of the Tory Party. He had served in several governments, and even when his own party was out of office, he still had considerable political influence. He was the steward of one of the more prestigious race courses, and the Bixendale Cup was to jockeys what the Victoria Cross was to soldiers. But, as far as Blackstone could remember, there had never been any talk of him being involved in the theatre.

  The two men on the stage, still unaware of the inspector’s presence, were continuing their conversation.

  ‘I can understand your — quite proper — concerns for the lady, my lord, but I can assure you that Miss Devaraux is in perfect health,’ Sebastian George was gently protesting.

  ‘Perfect health!’ Bixendale repeated. ‘Physically, what you say may well be true. But, need I remind you, she has just witnessed a murder. Indeed, she has inadvertently played a part in that murder herself. For someone of her delicacy and sensibilities, that will have been a great strain.’

  ‘Delicacy and sensibilities!’ George said, his diplomatic skills seeming to suddenly quite desert him. ‘Charlotte Devaraux! She’s a bloody actress, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I am quite well aware of her profession,’ Lord Bixendale said coldly.

  ‘And she’s as tough as old boots!’ Sebastian George continued, ignoring the warning implied in Bixendale’s tone. ‘All actresses are — especially the successful ones like her. If she’d been the wilting flower that you seem to imagine her to be, she’d never have got where she is today!’

  ‘Old boots?’ Bixendale repeated, his voice now pure ice. ‘I didn’t mean… ’ George began, finally beginning to understand how slippery the ground beneath his feet was turning. ‘I will thank you not to use such gutter phrases when referring to the lady we are currently discussing,’ Bixendale said. Sebastian George seemed to physically shrink under the other man’s freezing gaze.