Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 Read online

  “God, what a day.” She slumped down on her bed, rubbing her temples. “The police and Dorothy. What a combination.”

  I forced my eyes open. “What did you tell them?”

  Verity got up and began to undress, yawning hugely. When she’d managed to get her jaw under control and her dress off, she said “I just told them what happened. We got there just before curtain up, there weren’t many people up there, I didn’t notice anything untoward.”

  Verity’s yawning was contagious. I covered my mouth and asked “Did you tell them about the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “She came in after us, right before the stage lights came on. She sat at the end of the row, behind – behind the man that was killed.”

  Verity sat down on the edge of her bed and stared at me. “If that’s right, Joanie, then surely she’s the murderer.”

  I rubbed my eyes. I wished we could get to talk about these things when I wasn’t already half asleep, but we were kept so busy that it didn’t seem very likely to happen any time soon. “I suppose so.”

  “What did she look like?”

  I yawned again. “I don’t know. I told Inspector Marks that. I didn’t see her face, she had a cloche hat and some sort of jewellery on, and that’s all I can remember.”

  “How annoying.” Verity gathered together her wash bag in preparation for her trip to the bathroom. It was a much nicer bathroom here than the one we’d had to use at Merisham Lodge, with new tiling and a fire, and fresh towels every couple of days. “Still, I suppose the police have got it under control.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, snuggling back down under the covers. “They haven’t even identified the body yet.”

  “Oh, well…” Verity let the sentence trail off. Then she looked over at me with compassion. “Get some sleep, Joanie. You look all in.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  “Good night. I’ll be quiet when I come back in.”

  “Thanks,” I said, mumbling now, because I could feel unconsciouness gaining on me. I pulled the covers up to my neck and was almost immediately asleep.

  The next day was a sunny one, which always affected my mood for the better. Although the kitchen was situated in the basement of the house, as was usual, I got up and wiped over the windows with some newspaper and vinegar, to let the maximum amount of sunlight in. Dorothy was dining out later, which meant there wasn’t a huge meal to prepare. I had hopes that I might actually get a little bit of time to myself that afternoon.

  Mrs Watling and I worked in uncharacteristic silence. I was thinking back on the night of the murder, running that moment when I’d noticed the woman arriving late back over in my mind. The more I re-ran it through my mind, the fuzzier it seemed to become. I was left wondering whether I’d actually imagined her, although I knew really that I hadn’t.

  Verity came back downstairs with Dorothy’s breakfast tray, filled with empty dishes and –I noticed with a jump of excitement – the morning’s newspaper. Verity said nothing but inclined her head very slightly towards it. I nodded, just as subtly. How was I going to get a moment to read it? I didn’t think I could bear to wait until after lunch, when it seemed likely I might have a few hours to myself. Verity tipped me a wink and left the room.

  “Is that the paper?” Mrs Watling asked, breaking her long silence. “What does it say? Is there anything in it about the murder?”

  I gave her a glance of pure gratitude and grabbed it up. We sat down together at the kitchen table with the paper spread out before us and greedily absorbed the news.

  “They still don’t know who he is,” I exclaimed, reading and musing aloud as I skimmed the paragraph. “Hmm… ‘Police believe he might be foreign-born’. I wonder how they know that? His clothing, perhaps? ‘The murder weapon hasn’t yet been located’.” I glanced up at Mrs Watling. “It doesn’t sound as though they’re much further forward.”

  Mrs Watling shook her head. “That might not be such a bad thing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Mrs Watling pushed her chair back from the table, as if the paper itself was contaminated. “If they can’t find out who he was, then perhaps they won’t find out who did it. And then it won’t come to trial and you poor girls won’t have to go through that whole rigmarole again.”

  I felt a jab of guilt. Both Verity and I had had to give evidence at the trial of the Merisham Lodge murderers. It had taken up a great deal of time, never a commodity we were rich in, and the scandal and newspaper interest had been huge. No sooner had that died down than the trial of Lord Cartwright had begun and the whole ridiculous circus started up again. I couldn’t blame Mrs Watling for her apprehension that we’d all be dragged through that again.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about actually giving evidence or anything like that.” I hastened to reassure her. “We were just witnesses after all, and not even really that. We were just there when it happened. It’s not as if we actually saw anything.” Unfortunately, I added to myself in the privacy of my own head.

  “Well, I hope you’re right, Joan. I do hope you’re right.”

  I folded the newspaper up again and put it to one side on the dresser, for a later, more leisurely perusal. I returned to the bread I’d been in the middle of making, dusting my hands with flour and beginning to lift and slam the dough. It was satisfying work, if a little hard on the wrists. So the police thought the murder victim was foreign? Something occurred to me that hadn’t before. Was this a gangster killing? Had the victim been part of a foreign criminal gang? There had been some trouble recently in the West End, fights and stabbings between rival criminal gangs. Was this murder connected with those incidents?

  There was a knock on the kitchen door that almost made me jump, bringing me back to reality as it did. Mrs Watling opened it to see one of the local urchins standing there, hopping from foot to foot and waving an envelope in one dirty mitt.

  “Got a message for Miss Verity ‘Unter,” he said, importantly.

  “I’ll give it to her,” said Mrs Watling, plucking it from the child’s grubby fingers.

  “I was tol’ you’d give me a penny for giving it to ‘er.”

  “Oh, you were, were you?” Mrs Watling looked down at the eager little figure with a half smile. “Wait here.” She went over to the dresser and retrieved a penny from her purse and a biscuit, fresh baked that morning, from the biscuit tin. “Go on, here you go. Be off with you.”

  I smiled. Mrs Watling could be sharp sometimes but she was kind. Given some of the employers I’d had before, that meant a lot to me. “Shall I take that up to Verity?” I knew she’d say yes – Mrs Watling’s legs were too old and tired to want to climb any more stairs than she had to.

  “Yes, Joan. You’d better take it up now, it might be something to do with Her Ladyship.”

  Gladly, I snatched off my apron, washed the flour and dough from my hands, and made for the stairs. There were five flights in this house but at least we all got to use the one main staircase – there wasn’t the servants staircase that I’d hated so much in the other houses I’d worked in. Despite the steep climb, it was a pleasant journey, given that I could take in all the lovely ornaments dotted about, the flowers and paintings all arranged with Dorothy’s exquisite taste. Of course, she had the money to indulge it.

  I found Verity in Dorothy’s bathroom, cleaning and tidying it. The air was steamy and sweet-scented – Dorothy had obviously not long finished her bath.

  “Hello, Joanie. What have you got there?”

  I handed over the note. Verity raised her eyebrows and opened it.

  “It’s from Tommy,” she said after scanning it. “He wants to know if we’re free for tea this afternoon.”

  “Does he? Why’s that?”

  Verity gave me a wry look. “Wants to chew over the gossip from the murder, I would think. You know what actors are like.”

  “He wants to meet today?” By a small miracle, I realised that I might act
ually be free. I told Verity as much. “What about you, V? Will Dorothy let you go?”

  Verity chewed her lip. “Actually, you know, I think she might. I’m out with her all evening so she might let me have a few hours to myself. Besides—“ She looked mischevious. “If there’s gossip to be had, Dorothy is going to want to know about it.”

  I clapped my hands together with glee, as happy with the prospect of finding out more about what had happened at the theatre that night as with the thought of a few hours of relative freedom.

  “I’ll telephone Tommy,” Verity said, bending once again to rub the water droplets from the bath with a small towel. “I’ll say we’ll meet him in the pub by the theatre at three o’clock. That suit you, Joanie?”

  “Perfect.” I gave her a cheery wave and said goodbye. I almost bounded down the stairs, so happy was I at the thought of what the afternoon had to bring.

  At about two and twenty past the hour, Verity came into the kitchen smartly dressed in her blue velvet cloche and grey velvet coat. I reached for my own brown coat, trying to repress a pang of envy. Verity’s clothes were mostly discards of Dorothy’s but they were originally very expensive and beautifully cut, and Verity always looked wonderfully smart. I tried to arrange my hair a little more attractively, looking into the small looking glass that hung over by the back door. I knew a kitchen maid was never going to look as chic and attractive as a lady’s maid but, I thought wistfully, it would be nice if for once I could feel like the pretty one, rather than the plain homely friend.

  I made an effort and shook off my melancholy thoughts. Verity was my best friend – it wasn’t her fault she was prettier than me. I thought of all the generous gifts she’d given me, sharing out the spoils from Dorothy, and felt bad for feeling envious.

  “Ready, Joan?” she asked, giving me a big grin in the mirror while she stood behind me. I smiled back, glad that my uncharitable thoughts hadn’t shown on my face.

  I pinched some colour into my cheeks, touched up my lipstick and straightened my hat. “I’m ready.”

  Mrs Watling came through from her parlour to say goodbye. “Have a lovely afternoon, girls. Joan, make sure you’re back at six o’clock so we can start dishing up the dinner.”

  I repressed a sigh. It wasn’t Mrs Watling’s fault but I hated being reminded of the work to come when I was about to have an afternoon off.

  We said goodbye and walked sedately out of the kitchen door. As soon as we were out of sight, we tore up the basement steps like a pair of puppies, giggling with exhilaration at the few hours of freedom we’d have to enjoy.

  Chapter Five

  Tommy Vance was Verity’s mother’s brother; a much younger brother, which meant that he was now only in his late twenties. He’d been an actor for his whole adult life, having virtually been born into the theatre. Like Verity, he had a lovely singing voice and had performed in music hall, as well as repertory theatre, and now the West End. He was nice too, fun and cheerful and, while not exactly handsome, he had the same vivacity that Verity possessed. I knew very well he’d never be romantically interested in me so I had to give myself quite a stern talking to every time we met, to make sure that I wouldn’t fall in love with him.

  We all met that afternoon at the White Horse, a public house right by the Connault Theatre. I suppose if I’d thought about it, I would have thought the theatre would have been closed and the show’s run brought to a halt. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

  “Not a bit of it,” Tommy cried as he brought our drinks to the table. “Why, we’re sold out for the next two weeks! Nothing like a bloodthirsty murder to bring in the bums on seats.”

  I bit back a giggle. “Really? People are still coming to see the show?”

  “Absolutely, Joan. Why, I think we’re even talking about extending the run.” He looked contrite for a moment. “Of course, it’s terrible with what happened but if people do want to see the show, it seems silly not to indulge them.”

  Verity was grinning. “I’ve solved the murder, Joan.” I looked at her, startled. She went on, beginning to laugh. “It was David, the theatre manager. He did it to get the audience in.”

  I shot her a reproving look but it was tempered by the fact that I couldn’t help but laugh too. “Come on, V.”

  Verity sobered up. “I know. It’s not really funny.”

  Tommy leant forward. “So, I heard you girls were actually there. Sitting next to the murderer!”

  “Not quite.” Verity threw the rest of her drink down her throat like a sailor. “But not far off. We were sitting about two seats away.”

  “Lord.” Tommy gave a theatrical shiver. “I hear the police don’t even know who the victim is. You girls didn’t recognise him, or anything like that?”

  I shook my head. “I’d never seen him before in my life.” I thought of what I’d read in the newspaper that morning. “They seemed to think he was foreign. I don’t know how they know that, though.”

  “Here, Tommy, get us another drink, please,” said Verity, shoving a ten bob note over the table towards him. “We’ve got to get back in an hour, may as well make the most of it.” I shook my head as Tommy raised his eyebrows in a questioning sort of way towards me. I wasn’t used to alcohol and didn’t want to have to go back to work tipsy. Verity was much more sophisticated than me in that department – well, being lady’s maid to Dorothy meant she often shared a bottle of wine over dinner with her employer, not to mention accompanying her out for cocktails occasionally.

  When Tommy returned, Verity leant forward. “Now we’ve told you our side of what happened, why don’t you tell us what happened backstage after the police shut down the show?”

  Tommy raised his hands in the air. “Verity, my dear, I’m sure you can imagine it. Utter chaos! Costume girls screaming, the orchestra milling around like Piccadilly Circus and as for Caroline—“

  “Yes?” I said, leaning forward, eager to find out how the star of the show had reacted.

  Tommy rolled his eyes skyward. “Well, she left no emotion unturned, shall we say.” He looked up and a flicker of surprise went across his face. “Well, well, talk of the devil. You’ll be able to ask her yourself.”

  Startled, I looked up and saw Caroline Carpenter herself approaching our table. A man accompanied her who, after a moment, I recognised as Aldous Smith. Scarcely able to believe it, I must have looked a sight with my mouth agape – before a sharp blow from Verity’s elbow brought me back to my senses.

  “Tommy, darling, I wondered where you’d got to.” Caroline was a vision in fur wraps, a cunning little hat pulled down over one eye. “David’s having hysterics – something about the police visiting.” That made me sit up a little. By now, Tommy had risen to his feet and ushered Caroline into a spare chair, next to Verity. She bestowed a kind, somewhat condescending smile upon Verity and me.

  “Of course, I know your niece very slightly,” she said, once Tommy had made the introductions. “And Miss Hart, how nice to meet you.” She waved a hand backwards at Aldous Smith who was hovering behind her shoulder. “Meet my other leading man, Aldous Smith. Aldous, stop fluttering about behind me and find yourself a seat.”

  I watched Aldous move smartly over to where there was a spare chair and bring it back to the table. He was very handsome close-up, even more so than he’d been on the stage, with fine cheekbones and a pair of rosebud lips that I would have killed for. For all his looks, he seemed somewhat shy and awkward, and he subsided onto his seat, saying nothing. A second later, he jumped up again to take Caroline’s marvellous fur coat and took it over to where there were some coat hooks on the wall.

  Caroline pulled out a tortoiseshell cigarette case, offered them around and then accepted Tommy’s light. I watched Aldous surreptiously return his lighter to his jacket pocket and bit down on a giggle. What must it be like to be Caroline? To have men dancing attendance on you, to swan around in your furs, having your cigarettes lit for you? Not that anyone would ever light my cigarettes for me, a
s I didn’t smoke. I tried to occasionally, because anyone who was anyone smoked and I didn’t want to be thought unsophisticated, but I just didn’t like it. I couldn’t stand the hot, choky feeling in my mouth and really, how sophisticated would I actually look if I stood there, turning green and spluttering half to death?

  “So, darling,” Tommy was saying to Caroline. “The police have been talking to you? What on Earth did they want?”

  “Oh, no, darling, they haven’t yet talked to me. I don’t know why not,” she added, looking a little chagrined. “No, they just wanted to see David about something or other. Access to the theatre, something like that.”

  “They will be talking to us all,” Aldous Smith said abruptly. It was the first time he’d spoken and his voice was unexpectedly deep. “They’ll want to talk to us all, to see if we know anything about it.”

  Caroline Carpenter gave him a glance that seemed a little annoyed. “Well, I can’t see what good that can do. For heaven’s sake, we were on stage for half the night, blinded by the lights. The chances of us having seen anything at all are frankly remote.”

  Aldous said nothing in return. He simply frowned and stared down at the table.

  I wondered whether Verity and I should tell Caroline that we’d actually been there, in the part of the theatre in which the murder had taken place. I decided against it, though. It sounded – well, as if I were showing off a bit. And the presence of this fine actress and her companion had me both star-struck and tongue-tied.

  Caroline had pulled off her fine leather gloves to pick up her drink and I noticed the large diamond cluster on the ring finger of her left hand. She must be engaged to be married. For all that I love the theatre, I don’t really read the gossip columns so I had no idea who her fiancé was. I resolved to ask Verity on the way home – she was sure to know.

  Caroline and Tommy were deep in a technical-sounding discussion about voice projection. Verity was attempting to talk to Aldous Smith but not getting very far – he was answering her, but mostly in monosyllables. I wondered whether what he’d said about the police was true. Would they question all of the actors, the stage-hands and the musicians? I decided he was probably right – Inspector Marks was nothing but thorough.