The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7)

by Robert Newman

At this point Wyatt had thrown up his hands and confessed that, though he had not had the benefit of such a scholarly analysis before, he liked pantomime also and wished he could have gone with the two of them.

  After arranging to pick them up after the performance, Fred went back to call for Verna, and Sara and Andrew went into the theatre. As was to be expected, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. The play was Aladdin, with the lead played by Lily de Lille, a well-known musical comedy star who, like most of the other actors in the production, only played in pantomime during this time of year.

  The orchestra began the overture, the curtain went up and Andrew found himself as carried away by the music and the theatrical magic as he had been when he saw his first pantomime several years before.

  When Aladdin came on, Andrew had to admit that Miss de Lille made a handsome and convincing boy; slim and elegant and with a lovely voice as she sang the opening song.

  Though the pantomime followed the general line of the original story, there were of course constant additions and interruptions. Aladdin’s song attracted the attention of the wicked magician, who asked Aladdin if he would help him with something, and the first transformation took place when the curtain came down briefly to rise on the vast, enchanted cave.

  Another of the elements for which the pantomime was famous—its theatrical effects—came shortly after that when Aladdin accidentally rubbed the lamp that the magician had sent him into the cave to get and the genie appeared, floating in the air high over his head.

  If the first act introduced the transformation and the special effect, the second act demonstrated the lavishness for which the pantomime was also known, with dozens and dozens of extras in colorful costumes and, not only more songs and dancing, but jugglers and tumblers as well.

  In the last act the pantomime reached its climax with the marriage of Aladdin and the princess, the theft of the lamp and the kidnapping of the princess by the wicked magician and the conclusion, when Aladdin gets the lamp and the princess back again and imprisons the wicked magician in the cave where the lamp had originally been hidden. Then, in a typical finale, with the whole company on stage, the principals came down to the footlights, singing:

  “We’ve brought our story to an end.

  For our success we must on you depend.

  May we, dear friends, your kind applause exhort

  To bring our vessel safely into port.”

  Though traditional, this closing appeal was completely unnecessary for, with a houseful of enthusiastic children, the applause that followed was as loud and sustained as Andrew had ever heard in a theatre.

  “Would you like to go backstage?” asked Sara as they put on their hats and coats.

  “I don’t mind,” said Andrew. “Is there someone you want to see?”

  “The wardrobe mistress was in charge of costumes in Jane Eyre. I ran into her the other day, told her we were probably coming to see Aladdin, and she made me promise I’d come backstage if we did.”

  “I think I remember her,” said Andrew. “Wasn’t she a jolly-looking woman with her hair in a bun on top of her head?”

  “That’s right. Her name’s Nora Abbott, and I’m sure she’ll remember you because she loves your mother.”

  Mrs. Abbott did remember Andrew, was delighted to see him and Sara, and insisted on introducing them to Lilly de Lille, who knew Verna slightly and was very happy to hear that they had liked the pantomime. Then Mrs. Abbott introduced them to the stage manager, who showed them some of the devices that were behind the special effects, particularly the one known as the star trap, a platform under the stage that allowed a character to make a sudden and mysterious appearance through a trapdoor. Andrew asked if this had been used when the genie made his appearance and was told that he was let down on a cable from above under the cover of a puff of smoke.

  With Nora Abbott watching with proprietary pride, the stage manager was showing them how the scrims and curtains were used to effect a transformation when there was a tapping, dragging sound and a boy came across the stage, leaning on a crutch and carrying a box of flowers. It was difficult to tell how old he was because, while he was no taller than Sara, that was partly because his legs were bowed and undeveloped, but Andrew guessed that he was about fourteen.

  “Well, well,” said Mrs. Abbott. “Here’s Happy Jack again.”

  “Happy Jack as ever was,” said the boy, leaning on his crutch and smiling. “The top of the day to you, Mrs. Abbott. And to you too, Mr. Smollett.”

  “Hello, Jack,” said the stage manager.

  “Are those more flowers for Miss de Lille?” asked Mrs. Abbott.

  “They are.”

  “Well, she’s changing her clothes, so you’d better let me take them in to her. But don’t you go because I’m sure she’ll have a little something for you.”

  “I won’t go,” said Jack. “I’d never go if I didn’t have to.”

  “I know that,” said Mrs. Abbott. “By the way, here are two friends of mine.” And she introduced Sara and Andrew.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Jack, tugging at the brim of his ragged cap. “Any friend of Mrs. Abbott is royal family to me. But I’m afraid I’m butting in. Am I, Mr. Smollett?”

  “No, Jack. I was just showing them how the star trap works and how we fly the scrims—all things you know.” At this point one of the stage hands called him, and he excused himself and left.

  “Slap up, he is,” breathed Jack. “They’re all top hole here. Ain’t no place on earth like the theatre.”

  “No, there’s not,” said Sara. “It’s fine out front, but it’s wonderful back here, too.”

  “So t’is,” said Jack, beaming at her. “It’s like magic out front—not that I ever seed a play all the way through, just bits and pieces. But even when they show you how they did it back here, it’s still magic.”

  “Do you get backstage a lot?” asked Andrew.

  “Yes, I do. Work for Foljamb, the florist, I do. Shop right around the corner. We delivers more flowers to theatres than any other florist in London and I’m the one who does it.”

  “Is that why you like the theatre so much?” asked Sara.

  “Maybe part of the reason,” said Jack. “But another’s because of me mum. She was a actress, she was.”

  “Would we know her?” asked Andrew.

  “I doubts it. It’s been a long time since she was in anything. But when she was, she was prime, she was. She played in Cinderella and Robinson Crusoe, and she was supposed to be principal boy in Babes in the Wood, but something happened.”

  “What was that?” asked Andrew.

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sara.

  “Yes,” said Jack, nodding. “Sad, it was. Terrible sad. Young she was and pretty, and a great actress she would have been; but that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

  Mrs. Abbott came back out.

  “Miss de Lille was very sorry not to see you, Jack, but—like I said—she was changing and a little pushed for time. But she wanted me to give you this.” And she gave him some coins.

  “Oh, thank ’ee, thank ’ee ever so, Mrs. Abbott. And even more thanks to Miss de Lille. But I’ll be seeing her again because as long as the panto keeps playing, the flowers’ll keep coming.”

  “I’m sure they will,” said Mrs. Abbott, smiling. “Goodbye to you, then. And goodbye to you too, Sara and Andrew. Will you give my regards to your mother, Andrew? And tell her I hope we’ll be seeing her around here very soon.”

  “I’ll do that, Mrs. Abbott,” said Andrew. She kissed him with the freedom and gusto of someone who’s spent her whole life around the theatre and went back to Miss de Lille’s dressing room.

  “Excuse me,” said Jack. “I couldn’t help overhearing what she said about your mum. Is she in the theatre?”

  “Well, yes. Though not at the moment.”

  “Tillett! I wasn’t thinking, didn’t pay no attention when said your name, but … Are you V
erna Tillett’s son.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But she’s a star—a flat-out famous star! Many’s the time I brought her flowers when she was playing at the Windsor in Jane Eyre.”

  “Yes, she was in Jane Eyre,” said Andrew. “But, as I said, she’s not in anything now.”

  “Where are you for now?” Sara asked Jack, aware that his extreme enthusiasm was making Andrew uncomfortable and trying to change the subject. “Are you going back to the shop?”

  “No. There’s nowt more to do there, and they told me to go home, so that’s what I’ll do. Takes me a little time, pegging away on this,” he said cheerfully, indicating his crutch. “But I don’t mind.”

  “Where’s home?” asked Sara.

  “Clerkenwell Road, near Farringdon Street.”

  “That’s just past Gray’s Inn,” said Andrew. “We’ll take you there.”

  “What do you mean, take me?”

  “We’ve got a carriage waiting for us,” said Sara, who had guessed that Andrew would suggest it. “It won’t take us out of our way.”

  “Oh, no, no!” said Jack, drawing back. “You can’t do that!”

  “Of course we can,” said Andrew. “How would you go if we didn’t take you? Omnibus?”

  “Sometimes if I’m tired or the weather’s real bad, I takes the bus. But mostly I just gimps along out there.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous,” said Sara. “Come along now,” and they shepherded him across the stage, out the stage door and up the alley like a pair of sheep dogs guiding a balky lamb. Fred was waiting on Drury Lane as they had arranged and didn’t seem at all surprised to see their companion.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t hurry on my account,” he said ironically. “I could have froze for all you cared. Who’s your friend?”

  “Happy Jack Collins,” said Andrew. “He’s a fan of my mother’s and a great theatre buff and we’re going to take him home.”

  “As long as it’s not Bermondsey or Stoke Newing-ton or some place so far I’ll be late picking up your mum, I don’t mind. Where is home?”

  “Clerkenwell Road.”

  “Easy as licking hokey-pokey. In you get.”

  “But I told you I can’t!” said Jack, looking at the brougham with the yellow wheels and gleaming brass lamps. “I’ve never been in a carriage in my life.”

  “Then it’s time you were,” said Sara. “Come on now. Don’t keep us and the horses waiting.”

  Brushing the seat of his pants, Happy Jack lifted himself on his crutch, pivoted skillfully and sank down on the far side of the carriage’s rear seat.

  “No one’s going to believe this!” he said. “Me in Verna Tillett’s own carriage!”

  “Of course they’ll believe it,” said Sara. “Why shouldn’t they?”

  “When we get to the road, you can tell me where to go,” said Fred, closing the carriage door.

  “Anyplace’ll do,” said Jack. “The church, the iron foundry…”

  “We’ll take you to your house, wherever it is,” said Andrew. He leaned forward, looking at the crutch that Jack held between his knees. “That’s quite a wonderful crutch.”

  “Ain’t it?” said Jack proudly, holding it out so that he could look at it more closely. “Gramps made it for me.”

  “Gramps?”

  “Me mum’s father. I lives with him. He was in the theatre too one time. Dabby Dick they called him. Famous he was, the best stage carpenter in London.”

  “I believe it,” said Andrew. The crutch had clearly been made by a first class craftsman. The curved cross-piece that fit under Jack’s arm was padded with leather, the oak shaft polished, and its end protected by a metal tip.

  “What does he do now?” asked Sara.

  “A little carpenting, a little iron work, a little lock-smithing and a lot of drinking. He’s getting on, not as young as he was, but it’s the gin as done him in.”

  Andrew nodded, aware of how often that sort of thing happened.

  “Have you always lived there, on Clerkenwell Road?” he asked.

  “Always. Gramps took care of me after mum died. Leastways, he got a woman neighbor to look after me till I was able to go to school. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just interested—particularly in the way you talk, which isn’t at all like most people who live in this part of London.”

  “That’s music to my ears, that is—’specially coming from someone like you. Because I made up my mind long ago that, no matter how ’umble you may be—and ’umble I am—you can always better yourself by learning to speak proper. And the place to learn to do that, it seemed to me, was around the theatre—not just from actors and actresses, but from everyone there.”

  They had gone up Kingsway, cut through the streets behind Gray’s Inn and were coming out on Clerken-well Road.

  “Which way now?” called Fred from the box, slowing up.

  “Right here,” said Jack. “Or across there. Anyplace at all is fine.”

  “Now stop it,” said Sara. “It’s late and it’s cold. Tell us exactly where you live, and we’ll take you there.”

  “But this is fine,” said Jack, squirming in another fit of awkwardness. “You’ve done enough, more than enough. If you’ll just let me out here, on the other side of that warehouse … Why, there’s Gramps!”

  Looking out of Jack’s window, Andrew and Sara saw a thin, lantern-jawed man approaching. Wearing a peacoat and a knitted wool cap, he came down the street, tacking a little unsteadily from side to side. He was about to turn into a narrow alley on the far side of the warehouse when he saw the carriage approaching and paused to look at it.

  “Gramps!” called Jack, opening the brougham door as Fred pulled up. “Wotcher! It’s me!”

  “Come off it!” said the old man with an exaggerated scowl. “Maybe you look like me grandson, Jack, but he don’t go toffing around in fancy carriages.”

  “But it is me! It is! It’s just …” Then seeing the twinkle in the old man’s eye, “Ah, you’re pulling my leg. I wants you to meet Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett. His mother’s the actress, Verna Tillett.”

  “And right rorty she is. My compliments, Master Tillett … Miss Wiggins. What are you doing transporting that grandson of mine all over London with you?”

  “Met ’em backstage at the pantomime, I did,” said Jack excitedly. “I was taking flowers in to Miss Lily de Lille, and there they was talking to Miz Abbott, and she told ’em who I was and—”

  “Lily de Lille,” said old Mr. Collins. “She’s playing in Aladdin. Was you seeing it, by any chance?”

  “Yes,” said Sara. “That’s why we were there.”

  “Then you seen some of my work—which is also some of the best in London. I was at the Drury Lane for seven years, put in the star trap there if you know what that is. And worked out the genie effect, his appearing out of a puff of smoke.”

  “We certainly do know what the star trap is,” said Andrew. “I think that the transformations and some of the effects were the best part of the pantomime.”

  “Of course they were. And, like I said, mine are the best in London. It’s their loss, not mine, that I’m not doing that kind of thing no more.”

  “Is there any chance that you’ll be coming back to the theatre, doing any more stage work?” asked Sara.

  “I doubts it. I got enough other things to keep me busy, so I don’t need to do that no more. Well, come along, Jacko boy. Thank your friends for bringing you home.”

  “Oh, I do thank you, I do—most truly and sincerely,” said Jack. “And I hopes I has the pleasure and honor of seeing you again sometime.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Andrew. “Goodbye, Jack. Goodbye, Mr. Collins.”

  “Goodbye to you,” said Collins. “All right, Jacko. Inside with ye and get started on me tea.”

  Happy Jack turned and stumped up the alley that led to one of the warrens of tenements that you could find all through the area, and old Mr. Collins was about t
o follow him when there was a shrill whistle from farther up the street.

  “Is that you, Dabby Dick?” called a man coming toward him.

  “Depends who’s asking,” said Collins. “Who’s that? Oh, it’s you. You’re early.”

  “Maybe a touch.” The man had reached Collins, set down the heavy bag he was carrying and looked suspiciously at the brougham that had turned and was now on its way back to the West End. “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, a pair of young toffs giving themselves good marks for bringing my Jack home from Drury Lane.” Then, kicking the bag the man had set down, “Well, you weren’t shy about what you brung, were you?”

  “No. I thought it could all use a do.”

  Andrew had looked out as the carriage passed the man, leaned back quickly so he couldn’t be seen and, now that they were well up the street, was looking out the window again.

  “What is it?” asked Sara. “What’s up?”

  “Not what. Who. Didn’t you recognize the man with the bag, the chap who called out to Jack’s grandfather?”

  “Not really,” said Sara. She tried to look back, but by now the two men had disappeared up the alley. “There was something familiar about him, but … Who was he?”

  “Nifty Bolan. The cracksman who had just gotten out of jail and was having lunch with Mr. Norwood.”

  “You’re right. But there’s nothing wrong with his coming here to see Mr. Collins, is there?”

  “I’ve no idea. I just find it kind of interesting.”

  “Yes,” said Sara thoughtfully. “I suppose it is.”

  7

  A Helping Hand

  “Yes?” said Mr. Norwood, looking up from the ledger in which he was writing. “Come in.”

  The door opened and a seedy-looking man came into the small office. He was unshaven, and his face was sallow and unhealthy. He was probably in his middle thirties. He was wearing a ragged coat that was too big for him and made him look as if he’d lost a good deal of weight.

  “You with the Society?” he asked in a hoarse, raspy voice.

  “If you mean the Golden Rule Society, yes, I am.”

  “Right, then. Me name’s Clipson. Keegee Clipson.”