The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

“Er, these cousins, would they be the coloured…?”

  “Yes. What difference does it make? I’m surprised at you, Phillip.”

  “None, none at all,” he said hastily. “Things are a bit different in America, that’s all.”

  “It’s not all sweetness and light here,” Daisy admitted.

  “I’ll be happy to come to dinner. Is there any show you particularly want to see? Don’t say Ibsen, please, or anything on those lines!”

  “I’ve no idea what’s on.”

  “How about The Yellow Mask? It’s a musical comedy thriller, still going strong after a couple of months at the Carlton.”

  “Suits me.” She checked the teapot and added hot water. “A refill?”

  “Yes, please. The one thing I can’t get back home: a decent cup of tea.”

  “‘Back home,’ is it?” she teased.

  “Home is where Gloria is. We’ll never forget what we owe you and Alec.”

  “Nonsense.” Daisy put down this unwonted and unwanted lapse into sentimentality to his five-year sojourn in foreign parts. She passed the gingersnaps. Mrs. Dobson made superb gingersnaps and their crunchiness might avert a further embarrassing display. “Will seven o’clock be all right for you for dinner? I’ve been dining a bit early while the boys are here. It’ll give us plenty of time afterwards to get to the theatre.”

  “Fine. I have to get the tickets, so I’d better get going.”

  “Will you be able to get them at such short notice?”

  “Oh yes. I know a fellow at my club who—”

  “Your club! Why didn’t I think of that? I wonder … Most men belong to clubs, don’t they?”

  “Most gentlemen. And there are clubs for working men, I believe.”

  Daisy dismissed the working men with a wave. “How many gentlemen’s clubs are there in London?”

  “Good lord, Daisy, I’ve no idea.”

  “How on earth can I find out which he belongs to? Lucy might know, though I doubt it, or Angela but she’s not on the phone. Gerald? Might be worth trying.”

  “Daisy, for pity’s sake, who are you talking about?”

  “Teddy, of course,” she said abstractedly.

  “Well, if you can supply a surname, you might as well ask me, for a start. I’m a bit out of touch, but I’ve kept up my club subscriptions. Not that I ever did more than pop in now and then to two of them, stuffy sort of places my father signed me up for. The RAC is the one I mostly frequent. Lots of good chaps there, and naturally I pick up the odd tip useful to my papa-in-law, so—”

  “Do stop blathering, Phillip, and let me think.” A distant echo came to her in Angela’s voice, saying something about a sporty little Lea-Francis. She couldn’t attach a name to the car but Angela wasn’t likely to have been talking about anyone other than her brother. Teddy was—had been—interested in motorcars at least to some degree. He might well have belonged to the Royal Automobile Club. “Teddy Devenish. Was he by any chance a fellow member?”

  “Devenish? The name’s familiar. Wait, yes, I don’t know him. Ten years my junior, isn’t he? But I’ve heard one or two nasty stories, and there’s been some talk about booting him out.”

  “What sort of stories?”

  “The sort I wouldn’t sully your ears with.”

  “I’m an adult, Phillip, however long you’ve known me.”

  “No,” he said obstinately. He was manifestly relieved when the door opened to admit a horde of children.

  “Is there any tea left, Aunt Daisy?” asked Charlie, always single-minded. “I’m starving.”

  “Charlie,” his brother admonished, “mind your manners. There’s a visitor.”

  “Oh!” The hand reaching out for cake was drawn back. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you ’cause I’m starving. I was riding an elephant, you see.”

  “Hungry work,” Phillip agreed, with more patience than Daisy expected. Of course, he had his own children now.

  “This is Mr. Petrie, an old family friend who lives in America now. I expect you’ve met some of his family in Worcestershire.”

  “Sort of,” said Ben enigmatically. “How do you do, sir.”

  Belinda and Charlie greeted Phillip, Charlie following up with, “Have you got elephants in America?”

  “Only in zoos and circuses, not wild.”

  “Oh.” Losing interest in America, he turned back to the tea table, with an imploring glance at Daisy.

  “Mr. Petrie was just leaving. Ring for more tea, Bel, while I see him out.”

  In the hall, Phillip said, “Honestly, Daisy, if half the stories are true, Devenish isn’t at all a desirable acquaintance. Why on earth are you so interested in him?”

  “I can’t tell you. Read the late editions. I doubt they’ll have a name yet but you’ll probably be able to guess. Only, for pity’s sake, don’t tell anyone who they’re writing about.”

  “I shan’t have time to read the paper if we’re dining at seven,” he grumbled. “I assume he’s gone to meet his maker in some sordid manner.”

  “Assume what you like, as long as my name isn’t associated with your assumptions! Sorry to be so vague.”

  “Not vague enough. The police are involved, aren’t they? I’ll probably be arrested for aiding and abetting, whatever that is.”

  “Phil, you’re not going to abandon me, are you?”

  “Of course not, old thing. I promised Gervaise I’d look after you and I will. But I must say, you make it deucedly difficult!”

  ELEVEN

  Daisy knew as soon as she stepped through the glass door of the Kit-Cat that her best evening frock was hopelessly inadequate for the occasion. The hemline was all right: It could hardly be otherwise when she saw in the vestibule everything from floor-length to above the knee; many were zigzagged or dipping wildly, but hers was not the only straight hem. Her dress didn’t expose nearly enough of her, though. Bare backs, bare shoulders, and all but bare bosoms were everywhere. And jewelry flashed on every bosom.

  Phillip, immaculate in Savile Row’s best evening duds, didn’t seem to notice anything amiss in her attire.

  Downstairs, the main room was filling up but there was still a choice of tables. The dance floor in the centre was already filled with frenetic-looking two-steppers. Daisy wanted to be at the back of the room, not too close to the musicians on the low stage at the end. Al Starita and his Kit-Cat Band were making quite a din.

  Phillip passed on her request to the headwaiter. He pointed out a suitable spot near the entrance to an underling, who escorted them thither and took Phillip’s order for a light supper and champagne.

  “Perfect,” said Daisy. “We’ll be able to spot anyone we know, and they’ll see us.”

  “If there is anyone. Neither of us is what you might call ‘in the swim.’”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, darling. Do you and Gloria ever go to nightclubs over there? Speakeasies, that is. Or are there nightclubs that don’t serve drinks?”

  “That’d be pretty flat! No, we don’t go to speakeasies. Old Arbuckle has nothing against liquor but he’s keen on staying on the right side of the law. I say, Daisy, you were right!” he added in a surprised and congratulatory tone. “There’s Fenella.” He waved to his sister.

  Fenella Petrie—or rather, Mrs. Elliot Kerston—waved back. She was making her way into the restaurant with her husband and two other couples. She pointed out Phillip to Kerston. After a brief consultation, the whole group headed their way. Amidst general introductions, a pair of waiters smoothly moved Daisy and Phillip and settled all eight at a large round table.

  It was nearer the band and therefore noisier, but Daisy was pleased anyway. Being part of a large group meant no reports of her gadding about with an ex-suitor would filter back to her mother or—less likely but more distressing—to Alec. Also, the Kerstons and their companions appeared to be habitués of the Kit-Cat, so the number and variety of people Daisy was able to speak to was much larger than if she’d had to rely on her and Philli
p’s aquaintances.

  For some time, she chatted with several people and refused several invitations to dance without finding an opening to introduce Teddy’s name. Then the dance floor cleared, and the cabaret started.

  The third performer was an athletic young woman in extremely short shorts, who produced back flips and splits and such tricks. Daisy had had her fill of acrobatics when she took Belinda and her friends to the circus, so she didn’t pay much attention, until Elliot Kerston, sitting next to her, lowered his quite-unnecessary opera glasses and said to the woman on his other side, “Fay Fanshawe—isn’t she the girl Teddy Devenish is besotted with?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call him besotted. I don’t believe Teddy was ever besotted with anyone but himself. That’s the person he was pursuing, yes. One of them.”

  “Was?”

  “Who knows?” Kerston’s neighbour shrugged. “Still is, perhaps. Oh, look, there’s Jimmy Pontefract.” She waved madly at someone seated at a distant table and no more was said of Teddy Devenish.

  Miss Fanshawe was joined by a top-hatted dancer and together they did a cleverly timed skit where he failed to catch her after her tricks. She always rolled to her feet, and finally caused him to lose his own balance, ending triumphantly with her foot on his prone body and his top hat on her blond curls. Daisy wondered whether she had a sense of humour to match her timing or was merely performing moves planned by someone else.

  Daisy was determined to speak to her as soon as her performance ended, in case she hurried away afterwards.

  Miss Fanshawe and her partner took their bows and cartwheeled off the stage. A new performer came out, a sultry brunette in a slinky sequined crimson frock that clung to a figure considerably lusher than the ideal of fashion. Daisy picked up her handbag and started to push back her chair. Kerston rose to help her.

  “I’m just going to powder my nose,” she murmured, and paused behind Phillip’s chair to repeat her excuse, as he gave her an anxious look.

  The brunette started to sing in a sultry voice that riveted every male gaze not already attracted by her appearance. All over the room, ladies rose to their feet. Fenella apparently voiced a common concern when she said, “I’m not staying to watch her vamping every man in the house. Phil, don’t let Elliot make a fool of himself.”

  Daisy had intended to slip away down the passage leading backstage without visiting the ladies’ cloakroom. With so many on her heels—she glanced back at the twittering flock and saw beyond them the chanteuse ruffling the hair of a chubby, beaming man sitting near the stage—she couldn’t hope to waltz off without being seen. On the other hand, did it really matter if someone noticed her and wondered what she was up to?

  What if she simply turned the wrong way when she came out of the ladies’? It would look accidental. If anyone called her back she’d say … Well, she would think of something.

  A cold shiver ran down Daisy’s spine as she pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. The bright, swirling patterns of Art Nouveau were so different from the austere Victorian splendours of the Crystal Palace, though, that her uneasiness quickly passed.

  A few minutes later, she stepped back into the passage and looked both ways. A few women were still coming from the hall, heads together, loudly deploring the vampish singer. They paid Daisy no heed, so she turned the other way and walked briskly, as if she knew where she was going.

  Inevitably she came to a stage door. She was in luck: It was unguarded, perhaps because a performance was in progress.

  The corridor narrowed and grew both shabby and grubby. On either side, closed doors bore placards, first the green room, then the names of performers. Daisy found Miss Fanshawe’s and tapped tentatively.

  “Dammit, who’s there?” came a male voice. Before Daisy could retreat, the door was flung open to reveal Miss Fanshawe’s male partner. His narrow face twisted, he appeared to be in a towering temper. “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “’Oo is it, Jase?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Then either find out or get out.” The cockney voice was quite calm. “Preferably get out. And stay off the booze and fags or you’ll bugger up your wind.”

  Casting a venomous glance over his shoulder, he barged past Daisy and hurried away.

  Daisy stepped in and shut the door behind her. “Gosh, he’s in a bit of a bait,” she remarked.

  “Silly nit,” Miss Fanshawe replied dispassionately, not looking up from filing her nails. Wrapped in a brown flannel dressing gown and a towel turban, she was sitting in an easy chair by a flickering gas fire. “Tries to come the toff, which ’e may ’ave bin but ain’t no more. ’E says that last move, where I ends up wiv me foot on ’im, is ‘demeaning.’”

  “It gets the biggest laugh of the lot. You couldn’t do without it.”

  “Just what I tells ’im. If ’e wants to be a straight dancer and earn ’alf the screw, good riddance to ’im, I says. Though where I’ll find summun else wiv ’is timing, I dunno. Comes of playing squash, ’e says.” Bright blue eyes in a gamine face at last turned to Daisy. “And ’oo might you be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “My name is Fletcher, though I write as Daisy Dalrymple.”

  “Cor!” The acrobat sat up and laid down her nail file. “I seen your name in one of them fancy magazines. You gonna write about me?”

  “I may, as part of an article on cabaret in London. But don’t get your hopes up because I can’t promise. It would depend on whether I can find enough material and whether my editor is interested. May I ask a couple of questions?”

  “Take a pew, ducks.” She waved to the chair on the other side of the grate. “Cuppa? Won’t take two ticks.”

  “If I won’t be keeping you…?”

  “Nah, nuffing doing till the next show, ’alf past midnight.” She busied herself with a kettle over a gas ring attached to the fire. “It’s ever such a boring business, reelly. Why so many gets bitchy, I reckon. Me, I takes the rough wiv the smooth.”

  “Have you ever wanted to go into the theatre? Acting, I mean?”

  “Nah, I can’t act for toffee, ducks. ’Aven’t got the voice, ’ave I, for a start. Never even got the ’ang of talking proper. Took lessons, but it don’t seem to stick. Me family’s buskers, see, since way back. Out on the streets in all weathers. I was doing back flips for theatre queues when I was knee high to a wharf rat. Cushy berth, this. Milk? Sugar?”

  “Just milk, thanks. I enjoyed your act, by the way.”

  “So you won’t write something sarky about it? Only, last time I was promised a mention in the paper, that bloody sod—pardon my French—Teddy Devenish wrote that the act belonged in a third-rate circus. I could have killed ’im.”

  Daisy was so startled, she said blankly, “What?”

  “He came round after a show. Well, that was nice. A girl like me doesn’t get a lot of stage-door Johnnies, and they don’t stay long, seeing I was brought up proper. But it’s nice being taken out to supper and—”

  “Teddy took you out to supper?”

  “Yes. He treated me like a lady, send in his card instead of barging in and all, and he didn’t try to make love. He said he was a writer for the Evening Dispatch, a weekly column about people, and he wanted to write about me ’cause I have an interesting job. I don’t read the papers much but you better believe I got hold of the Dispatch, and there it was. Just a couple of lines, but nasty! Why pick on me? I never done nothing to him.”

  “Was he picking on you? That is, were you the only person mentioned? Or if not, was he complimentary about the others?”

  “Not ’im. A bad word for everybody, four or five of ’em, but mostly he used initials for people.”

  “So he wrote gossip columns for the Evening Dispatch!” Daisy wondered whether initials would be any use to the police, if they studied the back numbers of the Dispatch. “Not under his own name?”

  “No, somefing different. But I know it was him. He was the only writer I ever talked to,
before you. That’s why I wasn’t sure, when you said—”

  “I wouldn’t say anything you’d object to. That’s not the sort of article I write. But I don’t want you to count on a cabaret article. I may not write it, in the end. At the moment I’m busy with one about the Crystal Palace.”

  Miss Fanshawe showed not the least sign of uneasiness at the mention of the site of Teddy Devenish’s death. “Int’resting is it, the Palace? Would you believe, I never been there, and me a Londoner born and bred!”

  “I expect you’d enjoy it. Well, I’d better be getting back to my friends. I’ve enjoyed chatting. I’ll let you know if I ever do write that article.”

  “Ta, ducks. It’s been a treat, talking to a lady.”

  Daisy returned along the corridor, earning a suspicious stare from the stage door–keeper. He couldn’t very well question her credentials as his negligence had let her pass.

  Phillip, alone at their table, was fretting over her lengthy absence. “Where on earth have you been, Daisy? You said you wanted to leave early.”

  “Sorry, Phil. What’s the time?”

  “Nearly midnight.”

  “Gosh, is it really? Yes, I ought to go home. There’s not the slightest chance the children will sleep late in the morning. Ought we to wait and say good-bye to the others?”

  “No, they’ll be dancing till the next act comes on. It’s not as if we came with them; they’re chance-met. Besides, it’s only Fenella.” With this cavalier dismissal of his sister, they departed.

  The streets were empty and Phillip’s powerful car made nothing of Hampstead Hill. They pulled up in front of the house scarcely quarter of an hour later. Daisy was tired and sleepy, but though Phil was a very old friend, she owed him common courtesy as well as much gratitude.

  “Will you come in for a nightcap?”

  “No thanks, old bean. I’m off to Cowley at crack of dawn. I wish I knew what you’re up to.”

  “I don’t know why you always think I’m up to something.”

  “Because you usually are.” He got out to open the door for her and escorted her up the steps.

  The electric porch light was on, as well as the hall light inside. On either side of the door, the Victorian stained-glass panels glowed welcomingly in purples and greens. Daisy had told Elsie not to wait up, so she used her latch-key, then turned to give Phillip her hand. “Thanks, Phil, it was sweet of you to take me out.”