by H. Y. Hanna
“Yeah, you could almost say that it was Lara’s fault,” said Cassie. “If she hadn’t seduced his father and messed up his family, and if Albert had grown up in a stable home instead—”
“You can’t excuse his actions like that,” protested Seth. “Lots of people grow up in abusive homes or come from very poor, disadvantaged backgrounds, but they don’t resort to murder. It’s just a line you shouldn’t cross, no matter how provoked you are.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Devlin,” I said with a laugh. “According to him, murder is never justified, whatever the reason.”
“Oh, rubbish!” said Cassie. “Devlin has to think that ’cos he’s a copper, but what if a mother saw someone attacking her child and killed him? That would be justified, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, but we’re not talking about that kind of murder. This is pre-meditated murder,” said Seth. “Albert planned it all in cold blood.”
“Yeah, actually, I still don’t get that part,” said Cassie. “How did he do it? If he was on stage and in full view of the audience the whole time, how could he have murdered Lara as well?”
“But he wasn’t,” I said. “That was the key and we all missed it, because we all fell for the illusion.”
“Yes, it was his disappearing trick,” Seth explained. “When he sat on the chair and covered himself with the sheet, he wasn’t sitting there the whole time. The chair had a false bottom and he simply slipped out from underneath the sheet and then crawled, stomach on the floor, to the other side of the stage where he stood up and magically ‘reappeared’. That’s why he needed the liquid nitrogen: because it provided such a thick fog across the floor of the stage, it shielded him from sight. The stage was lit at the front, so anything moving in the shadows at the back, under the cover of the fog, would be almost impossible to see—especially if he was wearing black all over.
“But… but I watched that trick myself that night,” said Cassie. “He’s still there, under the sheet. You can see the shape of his head the whole time.”
“That wasn’t his head,” said Seth, chuckling. “It’s a little dome which is attached to the back of the chair. Normally it’s flipped back, out of sight, but when Albert covered himself with the sheet, he also flipped the dome up and forwards, so that it propped up the sheet with a rounded shape, in the position where his head would have been. Then later when he reappears and walks back to the chair, he just makes sure that he pulls back the sheet in such a way that it flips the dome backwards, out of sight, over the back of the chair again.”
“So… you mean, he was actually out of sight for several minutes?”
“Yes, and on the night of Lara’s murder, instead of crawling across the stage, he crawled into the wings instead, where Lara was waiting for him.”
“He had lured her there by sending her a note, promising to tell her the secret to winning the contest,” I chimed in. “And she wouldn’t have been expecting anyone to come from the direction of the stage—she probably thought somebody would come from the Waiting Area or other parts of backstage—”
“So she was facing the wrong way,” Cassie guessed.
“Yes, Albert took her by surprise,” said Seth. “Then he intended to crawl back on stage under the cover of the fog, and finish his act. But before he had a chance to ‘reappear’, Gemma came on the scene and discovered Lara’s body.”
“I must have just missed him,” I said with a slight shudder.
“Hang on—Albert would have barely had a few minutes in between sitting in the chair and reappearing. How did he think he could murder Lara in that time?” said Cassie.
I shrugged. “It was a bit crazy but I don’t think he was thinking logically. In fact, I think he believed that he had some kind of divine protection—you know, like it was Fate or meant to be. Because it was such a crazy coincidence in the first place that he and Lara should have ended up on the same talent show.” I gave her a wry look. “And maybe he was right, you know? I mean, it was amazing that he managed to pull it off in such a short time. It shouldn’t have been possible but the fact that he did it…”
“Karma,” said Cassie, nodding cynically.
The door to the kitchen swung open and Dora stuck her head out. “Gemma! Come quick—you’re on TV!”
“Oh no…” I groaned as I hurried into the kitchen, with Cassie and Seth at my heels.
Dora beckoned us over to the little TV screen that had been set up for her in one corner of the kitchen. As I walked over, I noticed that Muesli was curled up asleep on one of the kitchen chairs—little minx, she had sneaked in again!—and I was about to pick her up and chuck her outside when I was distracted by what was on the TV screen. It was a breakfast show and the presenters were discussing From Pleb to Celeb and Lara’s murder.
“…because this murder has really gripped the nation, hasn’t it, Rick?” the woman was saying.
“Ooh, yes, Julie! I know I’ve been glued to the news—it’s really been like watching a real-life murder mystery play out before your eyes.”
“And with such an exciting ending too!” said Julie. “For those of you who’ve missed it, here is Gemma Rose again, the woman who unmasked the killer—and who nearly lost her life in the process—talking about her experience.”
The show cut to a clip from the recent news, in which I was being interviewed by a reporter from one of the major networks. I cringed as my own face filled the screen. I couldn’t understand why so many people wanted a career in showbiz—I couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than seeing yourself on screen and hearing the sound of your own voice. Ugh.
“…tell us how you felt—were you terrified?” the reporter was asking.
On the screen, I answered in a stilted voice: “Er… yes, of course.”
“Did you think you were going to die?”
“Well, I… I wasn’t really thinking… I was just reacting… I mean, you don’t really have time to think when you’re in the water… you’re just trying to stay afloat… and… and not drown…”
Cassie guffawed. “Oh, very eloquent, Gemma. The next time someone is fighting for their life in the water, I must tell them your Tips for Survival: just try to stay afloat and not drown.”
“Shut up,” I said, giving her a playful shove.
Thankfully, the screen had reverted to the breakfast show and the two presenters smiled brightly at the camera.
“That was Gemma Rose talking about her near-death experience,” said Julie.
“But luckily for her, someone heard her screaming… and with us in the studio today, we have the lady who came to the rescue!” Rick turned and looked as a thin woman with pale blue eyes strode through the doorway on the side of the set, accompanied by a collie.
“Oh my God, it’s Trish!” said Cassie.
The dog walker sat down on the sofa, with Skip lying down obediently by her feet, and looked expectantly at the two presenters.
“So, Trish, it seems like you—and your lovely dog—are the heroes of the hour! How did you feel when you heard Gemma screaming?”
“I didn’t actually hear her screaming at first—I was too far away. It was Skip. He started acting strangely; he kept whining and trying to get me to follow him.”
“Ah, they say that animals have a sixth sense, don’t they?” said Rick with fake wisdom. “I suppose he must have sensed that your friend was in danger.”
“She’s not really my friend. We just met on the show.”
“Oh… er… right.” Rick looked a bit nonplussed. “So when you went in the boathouse and saw Albert Hodge attacking Gemma, what made you react the way you did? I mean, you rushed straight over to help without thinking of your own safety. Weren’t you afraid?”
“No. Why? Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
Rick flushed. “Er… well…”
“But he pushed you in the water too,” Julie hurried to step in. “You could have drowned as well. It was very brave of you to risk your life like that.”
Trish shrugged. “I suppose.”
“And the way that you pretended to sink and then ambushed Hodge from the water—that was a very clever move,” said Rick, smiling ingratiatingly. “Really, it’s quite remarkable when you think about it. The water was freezing, you were trapped, there was a man trying to kill you—most people would have given up in that situation! But you had the presence of mind to come up with a ploy to outwit him. How did you do it?”
Trish looked at him unsmilingly. “I just wanted to win.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You know, Cassie, I never thought I’d say this but I’m really glad that Trish is so bloody competitive!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I spent the rest of the day fending off more ghoulish curiosity, and by mid-afternoon I was exhausted and more than ready to go home. But there was still the teatime rush to get through. Four o’clock was mayhem at the Little Stables, and Cassie and I whizzed around the dining room, showing customers to their tables, taking orders, and serving tea, cakes, and sandwiches as fast as we could.
The Old Biddies normally came in to help during busy times, but recently they had been noticeably absent and I wondered if they were upset with me for exposing their friend. It had been an awkward moment when I’d had to tell them about the itching powder I’d found in June Driscoll’s handbag, and even worse when the police and show producers had been informed, and the “Herb Girls” officially disqualified from the competition. I hadn’t seen June since and I’d seen very little of the Old Biddies.
As the afternoon rush hour ended and I was wondering whether I should give them a call, the tearoom door opened and four familiar old ladies trotted in.
“Mabel!” I said with far more warmth than usual. “Glenda! Ethel! Florence! How nice to see you. How have you been?”
“We’re fine, dear—we’ve just been very busy,” said Florence.
Ethel nodded. “The flowers for Sunday service went missing from the church, you see, and the vicar was in such a flap!”
“Of course, I knew exactly who had stolen them,” said Mabel loftily. “That chap who came to fix the broken window in the side of the nave—I thought he looked very shifty… very shifty indeed!”
“I thought he looked rather handsome, actually,” said Glenda with a dreamy sigh. “That oiled hair and thin moustache… rather like Clark Gable, didn’t you think? Ohhh… if I was fifty years younger—”
“Nonsense! He had ‘criminal’ written all over him,” said Mabel.
“Well, as it turned out, the flowers weren’t actually stolen—the vicar had put them in the vestry to stay cool and he’d completely forgotten,” said Florence.
“He’s getting dreadfully forgetful, isn’t he?” said Ethel. “Last month, he gave the same sermon three times.”
“More fibre in the diet, that’s what he needs,” declared Mabel. “I’ll have to have a word with his wife.”
Glenda looked around the tearoom. “I’m sorry we haven’t been in to lend a hand, Gemma, dear. What with helping the vicar find his missing flowers and then helping June get ready to meet her new sponsor for Bill’s group—”
“She’s got a sponsor?” My ears perked up.
“Oooh, yes, haven’t we told you? A wealthy American widow, who was watching the show, was so moved when she heard June tell the judges why we entered the contest, that she decided to donate a large sum of money to help promote B.E.A.S.T.! Her late husband had bushy eyebrows too, you see. She’s coming over to London next week on a shopping trip and June is going to meet her—isn’t that exciting?”
“Oh! I’m really glad,” I said with a smile of relief. “I’d been feeling bad that I’d ruined her chances—”
“Well, she ruined her own chances really,” said Mabel severely. “It was reprehensible, what she did to that poor boy, and she’s very ashamed of herself. She’s been to see Gaz personally to apologise, you know.”
“He told her that he forgave her completely and not to worry about it anymore,” said Florence.
“That was extremely nice of him,” I said in surprise. “Considering that she spoiled his chances in the competition—”
“Oh, but she hasn’t!” said Ethel excitedly. “I mean, it’s true that he didn’t win the competition—”
“Everyone knew that the twins were going to win,” said Mabel, waving a hand.
“—but after the show finished, a production company contacted Gaz and said that they’d like to feature him as a regular on one of their comedy shows. If all goes well, he might even get his own show someday!”
“Oh, good for him. He really was very talented…” I broke off as a family got up from their table and came over to the counter to pay.
“That was delicious,” said the mother. “Noah is usually such a fussy eater but he finished everything on his plate!”
I smiled as I glanced down at the little boy beside her. His face was covered in jam and cream, and he had crumbs all down his top.
“I’m glad he enjoyed it,” I said, handing her the bill.
“Oh, sorry… I don’t have anything smaller,” said the woman as she held out several large notes.
“Hmm…” I looked at the cash in the till: most of the smaller notes had been used up already.
“We might have some change, Gemma,” said Mabel, starting to open her handbag, and the other Old Biddies followed suit.
“No, hang on—I have some smaller notes in my purse.” Pulling my handbag out from beneath the counter, I rummaged inside, extracted my purse, and found the necessary change. “Here you go.”
“Thank you. And we’ll definitely be back,” said the woman with a wide smile. “We’ll be telling our friends all about your wonderful tearoom too! Oh, before we go—could Noah stroke your cat?” She indicated Muesli who, for once, was being good and not trying to sneak into the kitchen. She was sitting on a cushion we’d placed for her at one end of the counter, quietly surveying the room.
“Oh, of course.” I picked Muesli up and placed her on the floor next to the toddler.
“Meorrw?” she said.
The boy giggled and put a pudgy hand out to Muesli, who sniffed it curiously. Noah squealed in delight.
“Her name’s Muesli,” I said.
“Moosly!” said the little boy. “Moosly! Moosly!”
The little tabby cat eyed him in bewilderment, then looked at me. “Meorrw?”
The mother laughed, then caught hold of her son’s hand. “Come on, Noah—we’d better go. Say thank you to the lady and goodbye to Muesli.”
“Bye-bye! Bye-bye Moosly!”
The door had barely closed behind the family when it swung open again and my mother sailed in, resplendent in a cashmere silk dress and camel coat with matching gloves.
“Darling! Guess what? I’m going to be a judge again!”
I frowned. “A judge for what?”
“For Monty Gibbs’s new show, darling.”
I groaned. “He’s got a new show already?”
“Yes, it was Grace who thought of it, actually—Grace Lamont, you know, from Society Madam magazine. I introduced them at the FPTC Finale after-show party and Grace suggested a splendid concept for a new contest. Monty will be one of the judges, of course, and he has asked me and Grace to be the other two judges on the panel. The production will begin next month.”
“Oh, how exciting!” said Glenda, clasping her hands.
“It will be nice to enjoy watching the show this time, instead of being on it,” said Florence.
“Perhaps one of the new contestants would like to use my lace doily earrings with their costume? We never got to wear them, you know,” said Ethel, looking peeved.
“Is it another talent show?” I asked warily.
“Well, the contestants will be displaying various talents—but not singing or dancing or anything like that. No, they will be showing ‘real’ talents that are useful in the home,” my mother declared. “The contest will be searching for Britain’s Best Hous
ewife.”
“What? That’s a ludicrous idea for a show!” I spluttered. “What are we—in the 1950s? No-one’s going to enter—”
“On the contrary: Monty only announced the auditions yesterday and he’s already been inundated with applications! And there are several networks who are vying to host the programme. There’s been so much interest from the press too, and Monty says early polls show that people are fascinated by the idea.”
“Fascinated?” I looked at her sceptically. “People want to see talented stars, not humdrum housewives. There’s nothing glamorous about household chores.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong, darling. It’s a great novelty. Anyone can sing or dance nowadays but how many people can change the sheets and make the bed in under two minutes?”
“I think it’s a marvellous idea,” said Mabel approvingly. “What this country needs is fewer ventriloquists and more people who can cook a good roast chicken.”
“Yes, but—”
“Meorrw!” Muesli leapt up suddenly from the floor and onto the counter. She had obviously been feeling ignored at our feet and decided to join the conversation at face level. She padded across the counter towards my mother, climbing over my handbag in the process. The next moment, a horrendously loud buzzing filled the room.
“ZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz…!”
Every customer in the tearoom looked up from their tables, wide-eyed with astonishment. I froze and stared at my handbag, which was vibrating across the counter. Suddenly, I remembered the last time I’d been using that bag—the day I’d visited a certain discreet shop on Cowley Road…
“What on earth is that, darling?” asked my mother.
“Oh, that must be the Randy Rabbit,” said Ethel brightly.
“The Randy what?” said my mother, looking puzzled.
“That’s what the salesgirl called it. Gemma bought it from the sex—”
“Uh—yes! Never mind!” I yelped. “It’s… it’s nothing really, Mother.” I grabbed my handbag and groped inside, desperately trying to find the switch to turn the vibrator off, while still keeping it out of sight in the bag.
