Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 Page 8

  “Go on, get out! Bloody parasites, coming round ‘ere and poking your nose in. I din’t know him, you ‘ere me? I din’t know him from Adam, so you’re wasting your time. Go on, out with yer!”

  Shaken, I hurried back down the stairs and out through the front door, the woman’s admonishments following me and growing fainter as I shut the front door hurriedly behind me. I almost fell down the steps, so desperate was I to get away. Oh dear, what a mess I’d made of it. I hoped the landlady wasn’t even now calling the police. Now, she wouldn’t do that, surely? Hurriedly I walked back out into the street and paused for breath. The smoky air of Victoria tasted quite fresh after the miasma I’d encountered in that rooming house. I wasn’t much of a private detective, really, was I, turning tail and running away at the first bit of opposition I encountered…

  I was still too shaken by my recent experience to realise that someone was hovering right behind my shoulder, waiting for my attention. Nerves singing, I whirled around, expecting it to be the landlady, ready to give me a walloping but to my great relief, it was a slovenly sort of girl, probably no older than seventeen, dressed in a dirty overall and eyeing me with mingled fascination and dislike.

  “Got a light?” was all she said.

  I always carry a box of matches around with me in my handbag – they come in handy more times than you might think. I nodded, bringing myself back under control and struck a match for her to light her cigarette.

  She took a deep drag for a second and the smoke hung in the cold air like a wavering blue scarf before dissolving away. The girl jerked her head towards the house.

  “Sent you packing with a flea in your ear, did she?”

  I smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid so.”

  “You a reporter?”

  I opened my mouth to say ‘no’ and found myself saying ‘yes’ instead. “Yes, that’s right. I’m freelance. Why, do you have something to tell me?”

  The girl eyed me again. “Any dosh in it? I tried to talk to some of the others who came, after that Guido was killed, but she wouldn’t let me talk to any of them, mean old bitch.”

  I assumed she meant the harridan landlady. “Do you work there, then?” The girl nodded, rolling her eyes. I took a deep breath, assuming, once again, the persona of someone different. “Well, what’s your name?”

  “Ethel.”

  “Ethel, can you talk to me now? I mean, will you get into trouble if you come with me now?” Unprepossessing as the girl was, I didn’t want to be responsible for her losing her job.

  “Nah, I’ll be fine. I don’t start for another half an hour.”

  “Well, then.” I was going to do this, it seemed. I felt a leap of excitement and anxiety. I wondered if this was how actors felt before they started a performance? “Ethel, I would like to talk to you. Is there a good pub somewhere around here we could go to?” I looked around at the rundown street and corrected myself. “I mean, is there a pub around we could go to?”

  “Yeah. The Queen’s ‘Ed, down the end, there.”

  “Fine. Let’s go then. The drinks are on me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I walked into the saloon bar of The Queen’s Head, feeling as if I was suffering a prolonged bout of madness. What did I think I was doing? But then, what if I managed to find something out, something significant? Ethel had worked in the rooming house. From the sounds of it, she’d known Guido Bonsignore. Surely that was worth half an hour of sitting in a rather nasty public house and paying for two halves of ale.

  I had never bought a drink for myself in a pub before. I had a nasty moment when I thought the barman wouldn’t serve me but they obviously weren’t too choosy about their clientele in there. At least in the saloon bar we were less likely to get bothered.

  Ethel seemed quite at home here. She’d kept hold of my box of matches when I’d offered them to her and was smoking another cigarette. She fell on the drink I put in front of her as if she were dying of thirst.

  “You knew Guido Bonsignore?” I asked her, once she’d come up for air.

  Ethel wiped a beer foam moustache from her top lip. “Yeah. I cleaned his room for ‘’im.”

  “What was he like?” I asked, properly curious. Despite the fact that I’d actually seen his dead body, he’d always seemed rather remote to me, as if he weren’t really a real person. But then hadn’t Inspector Marks told me that the police thought he was using a false name? Had he really said that, or had I just imagined it?

  I made an effort to concentrate on what Ethel was saying.

  “Yeah, ‘e was all right. ‘E didn’t have much stuff, just an old trunk and a few clothes. Think ‘e’d come back from abroad – he wasn’t ‘alf brown. But then they are, aren’t they? Those Italians.”

  “Did he have an Italian accent?” I could see that Ethel was nearing the end of her drink and wondered if I had enough money to buy her another.

  “Well, that’s funny, because as far as I could hear, ‘e didn’t. ‘E sounded just like a normal bloke to me. But then ‘e must have been an Eye-tie, musn’t he? With that name, an’ all.”

  “Did he ever have any visitors?”

  Ethel had drained her glass by now and was looking longingly at the dregs at the bottom of the glass. I sighed and said, “Wait here,” and went and got her another half. I’d hardly touched my own. It struck me, walking back to the table, that this was an awfully strange way to spend my afternoon off. But it was sort of fun, too, in a way. Pretending to be somebody else.

  I repeated my question to Ethel as I sat down and pushed the full glass across the table to her.

  “No, ‘e never really had no one coming to see ‘im. Oh, apart from the lady, one time.” That made me sit up.

  “The lady? When was this?”

  Ethel glugged her beer. “About a month ago, I reckon. I just caught a glimpse of ‘er coming out of ‘is room. ‘Oy, oy,’ I thought, ‘cos Mrs Smitton don’t like any funny business going on, you know what I mean?” I nodded, trying to keep a straight face. “But I don’t think anything like that was going on. I don’t know – there was something funny about ‘er, I thought.”

  “About this woman?” I checked.

  “Yeah, ‘er. She come down the corridor and past me but I didn’t really get a good look at ‘er face. She had a veil on, great big black thing, and a hat pulled right down over ‘er face.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about her?” I asked. I felt a twinge of pride – I actually did sound like a real reporter.

  Ethel shrugged. “Nothing much else to tell. She was tall. But – I don’t know. There was just something funny about ‘er.”

  I pressed her for details but she couldn’t or wouldn’t elaborate further. By this time, Ethel’s second glass was empty and she took a look at the clock up over the bar and swore.

  “I’m gonna be late. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait—“ I put a hand out to stop her without being sure of what it was I was going to say. I didn’t want to give her my address. What if she tracked me down and found out where I lived – and that I was actually a kitchen maid, not a journalist?

  “I’ve got to go—“

  “Fine.” I realised I couldn’t stop her. There was just one last thing I thought of to ask her. “Ethel? One last thing? Have you told the police about this woman?”

  Ethel looked both truculent and scared. “I don’t talk to the police,” she said. “Not me.” And with that, she opened the door, letting light and air into the dark, smoky saloon, and was gone.

  *

  I took the underground train home deep in thought. Obviously I was going to have to tell Inspector Marks about Ethel and what she’d seen at the rooming house. He’d virtually told me to ‘report back’ anything I might have discovered, and I wasn’t going to let him down. It seemed obvious to me that this woman, whoever she was, was the key to this murder. But who was she? And why could the police find no trace of her? Like a ghost. I stared, unseeing, out of the dark windows o
f the train into the blackness of the tunnel wall beyond. Despite myself, I shivered.

  I could feel that little niggle inside me that I’d felt once before, the itch and fidget of feeling that I was missing something, something important. What was it? It was something to do with the theatre, that was the only thing I could say for certain. The theatre was important in solving this case but how was it? And how could I work out its meaning and significance?

  I was so lost in thought I almost missed my stop. Jumping up just as the guard blew his whistle in warning that he was about to shut the gate, I leapt off the train just before he crashed it shut. The clock on the platform wall was almost unreadable through the accumulation of grime on its glass face, but I squinted and could just see that it was almost five and twenty past nine. Time I was home before Mr Fenwick locked up for the night.

  I walked a little nervously down the street. I wasn’t used to being out on my own so late. At least this area, being well to do and respectable, was well-lit, and I could see the reassuring shape of a policeman up ahead on the corner, his cape swinging behind him as he patrolled the street. He gave me a nod as I went by and I smiled back politely.

  I let myself into the basement by the kitchen door, expecting it to be in darkness. I knew Mrs Watling would have gone to her room as early as she could once everything had been left ready for tomorrow. I was surprised to see a light on in the scullery and even more surprised, once I got to the doorway, to see Verity bent over the stone sink in the corner of the room, the one we used for washing out the more heavily soiled saucepans and pots.

  “What are you doing here?” I exclaimed. I had thought she would be out until late, waiting for Dorothy in the cloakroom as her mistress dined out at the Silk Club.

  Verity looked up. I saw she was rinsing out one of her black dresses. She looked grim. “We had to come back early. Dorothy was sick on me.”

  I thought for a second I’d misheard her. “Sick on you? What? Is she ill?”

  Verity half laughed. “Yes, she’s suffering from a bad case of too many cocktails.”

  “Oh, Lord.” I went over to see if I could help. “Seriously? She was sick on you? Where?”

  Verity looked even grimmer. “In the back of the car. Andrew and I had to virtually pour her in. I suppose at least nobody saw, apart from us two.”

  I grimaced. “How horrible for you. What happened? Why did she get so – so inebriated?”

  Verity gave her dress a last twist, releasing as much water as possible and then shook it out. It flapped damply. “I don’t know. She’s been drinking a lot more lately. It’s been worrying me, to tell you the truth.”

  I remembered then, the smell of brandy I’d noticed when Dorothy and I had met to discuss the menu for Inspector Marks’ visit. “I know she’s not happy,” I volunteered tentatively.

  Verity sighed. She rolled her dress up and put it over on the counter. “I know. And I can’t blame her exactly. It’s just – I don’t know what to do.”

  It occurred to me that our employers got a damn good deal out of us servants. Not only did we work like slaves for our money, we also became emotionally entangled with the job. I could see Verity was truly worried about her mistress.

  I put an arm around her shoulders. “Try not to worry, V. It’s not our place to judge, or – or have to worry about what to do. It’s not up to us.”

  Verity sighed again. “Yes, I know. It’s just – I hate seeing her do this to herself.” She stopped talking for a moment and then said, with difficulty, “I don’t know how much longer I can go on shielding her. Sooner or later someone’s going to notice and then there’s going to be a big scandal.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. She was right. If Dorothy had been a man, she might have got away with it – for a while, at least. But while women of the upper classes were expected to drink, they were most definitely expected to be able to behave themselves while doing so.

  “Perhaps we could ask someone for help?” I suggested, knowing even as I spoke the words that there wasn’t anyone. The thought of going to Mr Fenwick or Mrs Anstells and asking them for advice about what to do for our drunken mistress made me feel quite weak.

  Verity pulled the plug from the sink and put it up on the side. The water ran down the pipes with a gurgle. “Come on, I’m just about all in. Let’s go up.”

  We were walking towards the stairs when she remembered to ask me about my afternoon off. “How was it, Joanie? What did you do?”

  I felt a leap of gladness that I now had someone to talk to. Perhaps it would take Verity’s mind off things as well. “Well, it was very interesting, actually. Come on, I’ll tell you all about it before we get to bed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dorothy’s breakfast tray came down the next morning almost untouched. From what Verity had told me about the night before, I wasn’t surprised. I wondered whether Dorothy would even make it out of bed that morning.

  “Madam’s hardly touched her tray,” Mrs Watling commented. She looked worried, as if the uneaten food was a reflection of her cooking prowess.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs W, she’s not very hungry this morning.” Verity began to unload the untouched dishes onto the table. “I’ll finish it off, I’m starving.”

  “Don’t call me Mrs W,” said Mrs Watling , but absently. Verity tipped me a wink across the table and began to polish off the uneaten bacon and eggs.

  The morning’s newspaper had come back down with the tray, also untouched, still neatly folded in thirds. As I carried the empty tray over to the dresser to wipe it down, I saw Verity flap open the newspaper to read the headlines. I had turned away by that point so I didn’t see the expression on her face change but I did hear her suddenly choke.

  I whirled around. “Verity? Are you all right?”

  Verity was spluttering half-eaten bits of bacon over the table. “It’s – my God! Look, Joan. It’s Aldous! He’s dead!” She broke into a thunderous fit of coughing that robbed her of further speech.

  I felt as cold as if I’d suddenly been doused in ice-water. Hurrying over to the table, I grabbed the paper and saw for myself the glaring black headlines. Death of Young Actor. Body of Aldous Smith pulled from the Thames. Police believe it may be suicide.

  Horrified, I read on in increasing disbelief. I was dimly aware of Mrs Watling giving Verity a glass of water and then both women joined me and read over my shoulder.

  “My God,” I said in a whisper. “Aldous killed himself. Why? Why would he do such a wicked thing?”

  “The police think he killed himself,” Verity said hoarsely. She coughed again and went on. “They only found his body yesterday night. God, how awful. Tommy will be distraught.”

  Mrs Watling had her hand to her mouth. She’d never met Aldous but she’d heard us talk about him. “The poor young man. He must have been feeling desperate.” Shaking her head, she moved away from the table to refill the kettle. “He was an actor, wasn’t he? They’re awfully sensitive, these acting types, aren’t they? Take things to heart, they do. Their reviews and such.”

  I re-read the article, over and over, in near disbelief. I’d only met Aldous twice but having seen him on stage as well, it seemed just as unlikely as it had the first time I’d read the report. Could he really have killed himself? He had been a strange one. Morose and moody, and disinclined to talk to anyone. But then Verity had said – hadn’t she? – that he hadn’t been like that before. I read the last line in the article once more. This is the second tragedy to strike at the heart of the Connault Theatre in the last six weeks. The murder of foreign national Guido Bonsignore, stabbed to death in his seat in the Gods on November 14th, remains unsolved with the police investigation ongoing.

  I thought back to how I’d felt last night, the unscratched itch of something being awry, something I wasn’t yet able to comprehend. Was that it? Was that the connection? The theatre was the key to this case. I put the newspaper down and stared across the kitchen, unseeing. Had Aldous had
something to do with the death of Guido Bonsignore? Was that why he’d committed suicide? Had he committed suicide? And how could he have had anything to do with the death of Guido Bonsignore when he’d been on the stage when it had happened?

  Again, I felt it – the quicksilver flash of something, something important that I just couldn’t understand. Frustrated, I screwed up my face and shook my head but it was gone. If I could just have five minutes to sit down and think. Just five minutes to puzzle it out…

  “Come on, Joan. I’m very sorry about poor Mr Smith but the fact is that we’ve got luncheon for ten people to cook, and it’s not going to cook itself.” Mrs Watling pulled the newspaper off the table and folded it up briskly. I swallowed down my annoyance and tried to pull my mind back to my work. Fat chance of getting five minutes’ peace around here.

  Verity had disappeared somewhere. I wasn’t able to go and find her. Mrs Watling had me make a start on the potatoes and I had a mound the size of a small house – or so it seemed – to peel. I plopped myself down at the kitchen table and set to with a vegetable peeler, feeling resentful.

  I didn’t see Verity for the rest of the morning. All the while I was chopping and baking and rinsing and scraping, my thoughts kept returning to Aldous. How old had he been? Twenty five? Younger? Poor man, to have such a bleak outlook on life that he had felt there was no option but to kill himself. But did he? I asked myself that as I stirred the soup, blinking against the steam as if it would reveal the answer to me as in some mystical potion. Had he actually killed himself? Was his death anything to do with the murder at the theatre? Or was it just sheer bad luck, an accident, even? Aldous walking home by the river, his foot slipping, falling with a splash into the cold black waters of the Thames, nobody around to hear his cries for help? Or perhaps a robbery; thugs with knives and coshes accosting him on the way home from the theatre, demanding money, pushing him into the river when they’d taken his money? Perhaps they hadn’t meant to kill him, simply to make sure they got away.