‘You are a woman, ain’t you?’ Minnie Knox asked suspiciously. ‘You ain’t a man, wearin’ a disguise?’
‘No, I am a woman, I promise you.’
‘An’ yer weren’t lyin’ when you said you was a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Well, good for you!’ the old woman said. ‘Yer’ve made somefink of yerself.’ She sighed. ‘Wiv what I know, I might well ‘ave ‘ad the same sort of job as you meself — if I’d been born thirty years later.’
Ellie laughed. ‘You might well have had,’ she agreed. ‘Shall I tell you about the case now?’
‘Why not. It’ll be a pleasure to talk to somebody ‘oo’s more or less in the same business as I was in meself.’
Ellie described the death of William Kirkpatrick.
‘Sounds like ‘ooever killed ‘im really knew ‘ow to do ‘is job,’ Minnie Knox said.
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ Ellie agreed.
‘Don’t sound like arsenic, though.’
‘It wasn’t. I knew that right from the start. But I tested his organs for traces of it, anyway.’
‘What did yer use?’ the old woman asked. ‘The Marsh test?’
‘Yes, but how did you know about that?’ Ellie asked, astonished.
Minnie Knox cackled again. ‘It’s always best to find out what yer enemy can prove an’ what ‘e can’t,’ she said. She thought for a second. ‘The murderer might ‘ave used digitalin, I s’pose, like the bloke wot murdered Madame de Pauw did, over in France.’
‘It wasn’t that either. I tested for all the plant alkaloids, and came up with a blank.’
‘Then yer lookin’ for a new kind of poison — one that ‘as never bin used in England before.’
Ellie smiled. ‘I knew I’d come to the right person,’ she said. ‘We think alike, you and I, but you’re the one with the greater experience.’
‘If I was you, I’d start by takin’ a much closer look at places around the world where there ain’t much in the way of what you might call law an’ order,’ Minnie Knox said.
‘Why?’
“Cos it’s a secret poison.’
‘A what?’
‘A poison yer know nuffink about. But yer will, won’t yer? By the time yer’ve finished examin’ it, yer’ll know all about it.’
‘That’s certainly what I’m hoping,’ Ellie admitted.
‘But poisons — even secret poisons — don’t just drop from the sky, do they? It must ‘ave been used somewhere else before it was used ‘ere. So why ain’t there no record of it?’
‘You tell me.’
“Cos it’s like I said before — in the places where it’s bin used, there ain’t no real law an’ order. So there also ain’t no bright gals like you to identify the poison proper.’
‘I see what you’re getting at,’ Ellie said, admiringly.
‘It’s ‘eathen countries what yer should be lookin’ at,’ the old woman advised her. ‘Places like India an’ China.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Ellie said. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she continued, reaching into her purse again.
‘I don’t want yer money,’ Minnie Knox told her.
‘You don’t?’
‘I do not. An’ shall I tell you why’. ‘
‘Yes, I’d be pleased if you did,’
‘It’s because you’re an expert, an’ I’m an expert. An’ any advice I might ‘ave bin able to give you ‘as been… wot-d’yer-call-it.’
‘A professional courtesy?’ Ellie suggested.
‘That’s right,’ the old poisoner agreed. ‘A professional courtesy.’
Chapter Eleven
When Blackstone had arrived at the theatre at eight o’clock that morning, there had only been Spotty Wilberforce there to greet him — if ‘greeting’ was what you chose to call it. By nine, Sebastian George, Charlotte Devaraux and Lord Bixendale were also present, playing out their little three-cornered drama of ‘should-she-go-to-Scotland-or-should-she-stay-in-the-theatre’ on the stage. But it was not until around ten thirty that the building began to fill up with those people whose job it was to provide the entertainment that the ghoulish public — which had been queuing in the rain for over three hours — demanded.
The actors and stage hands arrived at the theatre in dribs and drabs. None of them looked more than half awake. They were all sluggishly uncommunicative, and seemed to be holding a grudge against the world in general — and anyone who accidentally happened to cross their paths in particular.
It was scarcely an inspiring sight, Blackstone thought. A military commander, observing his troops in this kind of state just before the start of a major offensive, would have all but given up hope of winning the battle. A City stockbroker, noticing his jobbers wrapped up in such a heavy blanket of lethargy, would already be anticipating huge losses on the day’s trading. And a police duty sergeant, sending his constables out on their morning beats, would have foreseen an easy time for the criminals operating on his patch.
It was an hour before the curtain was due to go up for the afternoon matinée that the atmosphere changed. Suddenly, the actors began to radiate a presence which would thrill even those members of the audience at the very back of the balcony. In a flash, the technicians and stage hands transformed themselves from grumbling time-servers into men with the confidence and competence to handle any disaster that might possibly occur.
The sleeping beast that had been the theatre had come to life, and was ready to take on its public.
* * *
Sergeant Hector Chichester had told Patterson that Tamara Simmons was a peach of a girl. And — from a distance — Patterson could see that Hector Chichester had not been wrong. It was only when you got nearer to her that the magic disappeared.
It wasn’t that a closer inspection revealed flaws in her skin — which was near perfect — Patterson thought. It wasn’t that her stunning figure was any less impressive once you could almost touch it. The problem lay with her eyes. True, they were as deep blue as the Pacific Ocean — but they were also quite as empty of thought and feeling as that vast stretch of water.
There was no absolutely spark about the woman at all, Patterson decided — no sign of intelligence, or sensitivity, not a hint of a zest for life.
‘I’m appearing in the second act of the play, so I can’t stay here long,’ Tamara told him as he ushered her towards a table in the tea room next to the theatre. ‘Anyway, there wouldn’t be any point in staying. I’ve already told that other bobby everything I know.’
‘That other bobby?’ Patterson repeated. ‘Do you mean Sergeant Hector Chichester?’
‘Was that his name’? I don’t remember.’
Oh, you poor deluded bugger, Hector, Patterson thought, as he experienced only the mildest touch of malicious pleasure. Chichester had imagined he was getting on so very well with Tamara Simmons, hadn’t he? Yet the truth was that he’d made so little impression on her that she didn’t even recognize his name when it was brought up.
‘So, can I go now?’ Tamara Simmons asked.
‘No, you most certainly cannot,’ Patterson said, in his deepest — most official — voice. ‘You may well have told Sergeant Chichester all you know, but that’s neither here nor there. I need to hear your statement for myself.’
‘Oh, all right, if that’s what you want,’ Tamara Simmons replied, with an acceptance which was almost bovine in its quality.
‘You were having an affair with Martin Swinburne just before he died, weren’t you?’ Patterson asked.
Tamara Simmons shrugged.
‘Weren’t you?’ Patterson persisted.
‘I wouldn’t say we were having an affair, exactly.’
‘Then what would you say?’
‘That he was my gentleman friend.’
‘But you were having sexual relations with him, weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I was.’
‘So how long had this affair of yours been going on?�
�
‘A few weeks.’
‘And how did it start?’
‘Start? What do you mean?’
‘How did you first become friendly?’
‘Oh, he asked me out to dinner one night.’
‘And how long after that first dinner was it that you actually went to bed with him?’
‘A few days.’
‘How did you feel about the relationship? In your own mind, did you see it as the Grand Romance?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Were there fireworks when you were together?’
The girl seemed to be making a real attempt to search through the overgrown jungle of her memory. ‘We did see fireworks once,’ she said finally. ‘It was in Hyde Park. I think it must have been the Queen’s birthday or something.’
Patterson sighed. ‘Were you in love with him?’
‘In love?’
‘In love.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I must have been.’
Having this conversation was harder than trying to pull teeth, Patterson thought.
‘Tell me about what happened between you and William Kirkpatrick,’ he suggested.
‘Nothing happened.’
‘But he wanted something to happen, didn’t he?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Exactly what did he say?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it must have been something like, “I want to sleep with you”.’
‘Very romantic,’ Patterson said. ‘And what did you do, once he’d made this almost irresistible proposal to you?’
‘I told Mr Swine… I told Martin… all about it. He was very angry, and went to see Mr Kirkpatrick right away. Then they had a big fight. And that’s really all I know.’
Patterson tried to imagine himself fighting over this woman, and found that he just couldn’t even begin to picture it.
‘Did you ever have the suspicion that Martin’s accident might not have been an accident at all?’ he asked.
‘Why should I have?’
‘Well, both he and William Kirkpatrick were mad with desire for you, weren’t they?’
‘I wouldn’t say they were exactly mad with it.’
‘And when Martin Swinburne was killed, Kirkpatrick no longer had any other rivals for your affection. Isn’t that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘So maybe Kirkpatrick arranged the accident.’
‘He could have done, I suppose. I never thought about it that way before,’ the woman admitted.
Tamara Simmons never actually thought about anything very much, Patterson decided.
‘Had William Kirkpatrick tried to woo you again since Martin Swinburne was killed?’ he asked.
‘No. Not really.’
‘That’s strange, isn’t it? What made him suddenly lose his passion for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Hopeless, Patterson thought. Completely bloody hopeless. He’d get more information from interrogating a sack of potatoes.
‘Hector Chichester tells me you’ve started to get bigger parts in the plays since Martin Swinburne died,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’
‘And why do think that is?’
‘Because Mr George gave me bigger parts.’
Patterson resisted the strong urge to lean across the table and shake the bloody woman until her teeth rattled.
‘But why did Mr George give you bigger parts?’ he asked exasperatedly. ‘Was it because he felt sorry for you after your lover was killed? Was it because he thought you’d now gained the necessary experience to take them on?’
The girl was still looking at him blankly.
‘Was it because a green owl appeared to him in the dead of night and told him to?’ Patterson asked desperately.
‘I don’t think it was that last thing you mentioned,’ Tamara Simmons said. ‘We’ve had rats and frogs in the theatre, but I don’t ever remember seeing an owl, especially a green one.’
* * *
‘But you can’t get to Paris!’ the actress playing Elizabeth Wilton said, speaking to Charlotte Devaraux, but looking out into the packed auditorium. ‘You know as well as I do that the vile Pittstock has his evil henchmen watching every railway station and every port in the land. They will be bound to stop you.’
‘No, they will not. Because I will use neither train nor ship for my journey.’
‘Then how will you reach Paris?’
Charlotte Devaraux threw back her head and laughed. ‘I will travel by hot air balloon!’
The curtain began to descend. Charlotte Devaraux maintained her stance as it was coming down — even when only her feet were visible to the audience — but the moment it had finally touched the floor, a change came over her. She was no longer the grand lady, who even the villainous Pittstock could not intimidate. Now, free from her public’s gaze, she was suddenly a perfectly ordinary woman who had clearly been exhausted by the traumatic events of the previous eighteen hours.
And that ability to mask her true feelings — to project an entirely different self — was why they called what she did acting, Blackstone supposed, as he watched from the wings.
From the audience’s side of the curtain came the sound of thunderous applause, but Charlotte Devaraux, instead of staying to revel in it, immediately left the stage.
And Blackstone, for his part, abandoned his position in the wings in favour of one in the props room.
* * *
The props were laid out on the table in just the manner that Norman Foster had described them the previous evening. The dagger, with its wicked-looking blade sheathed in its leather case, was amongst them.
‘How did you manage to get a replacement dagger so quickly?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I didn’t,’ Foster told him. ‘With a complicated prop, like this one is, I always make certain we have a spare to hand. But I’m not at all happy about using it — if this one disappears like the last one, we’ll really be stuck.’
‘You’d have thought that the murderer would have borne that in mind, wouldn’t you?’ Blackstone said, with his tongue firmly in his cheek. ‘I mean to say, how much effort would it have taken, once he’d done the swap, for him to leave the fake dagger somewhere you could find it?’
‘No effort at all,’ Foster said. ‘But I’m not surprised that he didn’t. Actors, managers, murderers — nobody in this place ever shows any consideration for my problems.’
Unable to keep his face straight any longer, Blackstone turned his head and looked out on to the corridor. There was a constant stream of people rushing past the door of the props room, he noted.
He turned around to face the props master again, and as he did so, he forced himself to look serious again.
‘Tell me, Mr Foster, is it always as busy as this?’ he asked.
‘Always,’ the props manager replied. ‘Sometimes, depending on the nature of the play, it can be even worse.’
Which meant that it was unlikely the murderer could have entered the props room — which he would have to have done in order to make the substitution — without anyone seeing him do it, Blackstone thought.
Which meant, by extension, that either the people who’d seen him had forgotten all about it, or that he had had a perfectly legitimate reason for entering the room, so they’d not even given it a second thought.
‘Can you remember which of the props were collected during the time you were out of the room taking the phone call?’ he asked Foster.
‘I didn’t take a call,’ Foster said. ‘There was nobody on the other end of the line.’
Blackstone sighed. ‘But you were out of the room?’
‘Yes.’
‘And some props were removed while you were away?’
‘They had to be. The production doesn’t stop just because I’ve been called away.’
‘And do you know who normally picks up the props that were taken while you were away?’
‘Of course I do. I’m the props master.’
&nb
sp; ‘Then I’d like you to make me a list of them — the props and the people — if you wouldn’t mind,’ Blackstone said.
The boy, Horace, appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve come for the dagger, Mr Foster,’ he said.
‘Well, you know where it is,’ Foster told him.
‘An’ you’re sure it’s the fake one this time, are you?’ the boy asked cheekily.
‘I don’t want to go carryin’ no more murder weapons this week, thank you very much.’
‘It’s the fake,’ Foster replied, giving no indication that he even realized the boy had been joking. ‘And it’s the only one we’ve got left now, so you’d better take care of it.’
‘No worries, Mr Foster,’ Horace assured him. ‘It’s as safe as houses in my hands.’
‘He’s a smart lad,’ Foster said, approvingly, when the boy had disappeared down the corridor. ‘He could make a halfway decent props master one day, if he really applied himself to it.’
* * *
Pittstock appeared from behind the fake bushes, and Lady Wilton, seeing him, threw the anchor out of the basket.
How would Charlotte Devaraux handle this scene, Blackstone wondered, observing her from his position in the wings.
How would she cope with reenacting an incident which, only the night before, had caused a man’s death?
The audience was obviously having similar thoughts. At the performance Blackstone had attended as a paying customer — or rather, as a paid for customer, since Ellie had footed the bill — they’d gasped when the balloon began to rise. Now there was no more than an expectant hush.
Pittstock — or rather Richmond Clay, the understudy who’d so unexpectedly found himself promoted to secondary lead — sprinted across the stage, grabbed hold of the edge of the basket, and was lifted off the stage. And still the audience was perfectly silent.
‘You thought you could escape me, Lady Wilton!’ he roared. ‘But you will never escape! In a moment, I will join you in your basket, and then your fate will be sealed.’
‘I am not the feeble woman you take me to be… ’ Charlotte Devaraux told him.
And she didn’t sound feeble, Blackstone thought.
Not at all.
But the real test of her character was yet to come — when she had to produce the dagger.
Blackstone and the Stage of Death (The Blackstone Detective series Book 5) Page 9
