Abracadaver

CHAPTER

8

SCARCELY A CIVIL WORD was exchanged between constables at Paradise Street police station on Monday mornings. You sensed the atmosphere as soon as you passed under the blue lamp and saw the baleful expression of the duty constable at the desk. From the moment when the First Relief paraded shivering in the yard at a quarter to six and the Station Sergeant sized them and marched them off in single file to their beats, the list of duties was enough to draw a tear of pity from a convict’s eye. For by ten o’clock, when the Relief returned complaining at the week-end’s accumulation of orange-peel on the pavements (which every constable was under instruction to remove, ‘frequent accidents having occurred to passengers slipping therefrom’), those on station duty were obliged to have checked the charge-sheets, turned out the occupants of the cells and got them to the magistrates, swept the station floor, studied the Police Gazette, completed the morning reports of crime in time for the despatch-cart, brought their personal diaries up to date and dealt with an unending flow of trivial public inquiries. And it was on Mondays that erring officers learned that their names had been entered in the Divisional Defaulters’ Book.

That was why Sergeant Cribb was surprised to hear a contented humming from his assistant when he found him in the Criminal Investigation room. He soon put a stop to that. ‘Touch of indigestion, Constable?’

Thackeray sat quite still. White crescents appeared on his finger-nails as his grip tightened on his pen. Why should he endure insults? ‘No, Sergeant. Sorry if my singing offends you. It’s my high spirits, I reckon, with the investigation over and my report three-quarters written.’ He wiped the nib carefully and looked up at Cribb. ‘If you want the truth, I’ll be glad to get back to some serious detective work.’

Cribb’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. ‘Good gracious! Caught me off guard! Thackeray, there’s a streak of malice in you I never knew was there. We’ll make a sergeant of you yet.’

‘It ain’t that I mean to be offensive, Sarge,’ Thackeray explained, conscious that his remark had struck home harder than he intended. ‘But I can’t tell you how relieved I was when we found all them missing persons at Philbeach House yesterday. I’d already been thinking of ’em as corpses. As you know, I look forward to finding a body as much as the next man, but sometimes it bucks you up to discover that things ain’t what they appeared. I mean, that message from Albert came like a ray of golden sunshine.’

‘In a pink ribbon,’ added Cribb.

Thackeray gave him a sharp glance. ‘An incident like that, coming so unexpected, restores your faith in your fellow-creatures, or so I think, anyway. “Everything in perfect order.” I’m going to finish my report with those words. They’ll make a nice change from all the accounts of violence and bloodshed that get sent in to Scotland Yard.’

‘Should gladden the hearts of Statistical Branch,’ murmured Cribb. He stroked his forefinger around the rim of the table-lamp on Thackeray’s desk and examined it for dust. ‘So you’re planning to return to routine detective work. So far as you’re concerned, the music hall investigation ended yesterday.’

Thackeray pointed his pen at Cribb. ‘Ah, I know what you’re going to ask me, Sarge—how do I explain all those accidents? Well, I thought a lot about that before I got off to sleep last night. I went over the whole case in my mind, one accident after another. It was when I got to thinking about Albert that I suddenly made sense of it all. I remembered that ugly little room he lives in, the worn-out linoleum and the furniture. And the depressing view over the asylum. Then I thought of them silver candlesticks at Philbeach House and the white table-cloths and thick carpets, and I saw why everything’s in perfect order now for Albert and all the rest of ’em. They’re on velvet over there at Kensington, Sarge. They’ve never known such circumstances in their lives!’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ admitted Cribb, ‘but does that explain the accidents?’

‘Don’t you see it?’ asked Thackeray, eyes gleaming. ‘They staged their own accidents to get admitted to Philbeach House! Albert switched those bulldogs himself—or perhaps his mother did—and he exchanged a sore leg for a few comfortable weeks in Kensington. Ain’t it obvious when you think about it? The word’s gone round the halls that there’s free board and lodging to be had by anyone smart enough to fall on his face on the stage. They even get collected in cabs. That’s why there’s been such a rash of accidents. When you think about it, they were mostly minor injuries—

‘Woolston running a sword through his assistant?’ queried Cribb.

‘Well there’s always some cove that goes too far,’ continued Thackeray with a frown. ‘It was obvious he didn’t care twopence about the girl. By running the sword through her leg he thought he’d get the pair of ’em a berth at Philbeach House. Instead of that he’s had to settle for Newgate. But if you think about any of the others—the Pinkus sisters, Bellotti, Sam Fagan—they all made sure of losing their jobs without causing real danger to their persons. And now they’re installed among the silver candlesticks with Mrs Body. If it was a home for out-of-work bobbies, I’d be tempted to take a tumble down the station steps myself.’

‘Well I wouldn’t,’ said Cribb emphatically. ‘I felt deuced uncomfortable in the same room as that woman yesterday. And that was with you there as chaperon.’

Thackeray grinned. ‘It just hasn’t been our kind of case, Sarge. I felt it all along. We’re not built for music hall capers. I’ll be quite relieved to get back to some straightforward robbery with violence. You do see the drift of my reasoning, don’t you?’

Cribb nodded gravely.

‘Does that conclude the inquiry, then, Sarge?’

Cribb shrugged. ‘If you want to withdraw.’

‘Well since it ain’t a murder, Sarge, and false pretences aren’t easy to prove—’

‘You’d like to leave the rest to me? Very well, Thackeray.’ Cribb picked up his hat. ‘Sorry you’ve been troubled. Should have made sure I had a corpse before I interrupted your educational classes. We’ll part on good terms, though. Remember past successes, eh?’

Thackeray clutched his beard. Heavens! The educational classes! What had he said? ‘Sarge, I’m not giving up! If there’s more to be investigated we’ll do it together. I just thought that my theory . . .’

Cribb stood looking out of the window. Agonising seconds passed before he spoke. ‘Attractive theory, too. Your deductions have improved over the years. You might even be right this time.’ He tapped his nose reflectively. Thackeray waited palely. ‘Little things bother me still. Questions wanting answers. Who was it that first put us on to this investigation by sending us the Grampian bill with the message marked on it? Someone wanted us to investigate. Then why did all the accidents occur at different theatres on different nights—and no two victims performing similar turns? Why don’t the guests at Philbeach House collect their letters from the agents? What was going on there yesterday in the next room—a rehearsal, Mrs Body said, but for what? Where was the humour in that poem they found so hilarious? Small points, all of ’em. Silly, niggling things.’

‘There’s still a rare amount to be unravelled, Sarge,’ said Thackeray, seizing the first chance to affirm his loyalty.

‘Enough to keep me occupied a little longer, at any rate,’ said Cribb. ‘No need for you to stay on the case, though. Just indulging myself, you understand. It’s only details that irritate me; I shan’t be content till I’ve got ’em all accounted for. Like a flock of sheep, really.’

Cribb as shepherd was a novel conception, but in spirit Thackeray was already at his side in gaiters and smock. ‘I couldn’t give up now, Sarge, not when there’s work unfinished. Why, the answer to just one of them questions might alter everything, like one move in a game of draughts. How do you think I’d feel if you found something to upset my deductions?’

‘Can’t say,’ said Cribb. ‘But if you are wrong, and someone else staged those accidents, there’s a man in Newgate about to be tried for a crime he didn’t commit. I can guess how he feels. It ain’t no parlour-game to him, poor beggar.’

Thackeray, squashed utterly, made no comment. At such moments he had learned to wait for Cribb to take up the conversation again.

‘Made some inquiries of my own last night. Discovered a thing or two about Sir Douglas Butterleigh, the owner of Philbeach House.’

‘The gin manufacturer?’

‘Yes. Very rich man. Made his money when gin palaces were all the go. Now he’s ninety and bedridden and lost his power of speech a year ago. Lives in a nursing-home in Eastbourne.’

‘I shouldn’t think he can help us much, Sarge. Does he have any family?’

‘One son. A missionary in Ethiopia.’

‘He’ll stand to inherit a large fortune.’

‘Three factories,’ said Cribb, ‘two large houses and more than a hundred pubs.’ He paused. ‘And a music hall.’

Thackeray whistled. ‘Which one, Sarge?’

‘I don’t think you’ll know it. The Paragon, in Victoria. Not one of the larger halls.’

Theories bubbled in Thackeray’s brain. ‘A music hall! Blimey, Sarge, we ought to look it over!’

‘That’s what I was proposing to do,’ said Cribb. ‘That is, if that crowning sentence in your report can stand a small delay.’

THREE MATURE GENTLEMEN in blue satin drawers and zephyrs paraded with chins erect, arms linked and stomachs indrawn as if for a photograph. Not a thigh quivered nor a moustachio twitched as two younger men in white ran, sprang and bounded on to their shoulders from behind, linking their own arms for stability and gingerly straightening to the same elegant stance. Even the unexpected rasp of someone moving the springboard at the rear caused not the slightest upset in the human edifice. There was simply a simultaneous flexing of five sets of knees, a scamper from behind, a resounding thump on the board and a sixth acrobat rose irresistibly aloft. Fittingly, he was dressed in red. The others took the strain, steadied and straightened into a perfect pyramid.

‘Smoking-concert stuff!’ a voice called from the auditorium. ‘Better find yourselves a church hall, my friends. There’s no place for you on my stage.’ As the pyramid crumbled and slunk to the wings the voice added, ‘That’s the auditions finished, thank God. Now where’s the bloody ballet? I called a rehearsal for ten. Is there anyone in the house at all, dammit?’

In the back row of the pit, Cribb and Thackeray dipped even lower in their seats. From the front only the domes of their bowlers were exposed, like cats on a coalshed. The Paragon was cold and smelt of orange-peel and stale cigars. Besides the stage-manager, who sat with his tankard at one of the tables at the front of the house, there were up to a dozen other solitary figures in overcoats huddled in seats at the back. By Grampian standards the auditorium was small, built for an audience of five or six hundred, but it had the merit of being designed for its purpose, not adapted, as other halls were, from a restaurant or chapel or railway arch. There was no trace of the maligned ‘gingerbread’ school of architecture in the decorations. The mouldings were based on sweeping lines and curves, ivory-coloured, with gold relief. Maroon plush and velvet had been used for the seat-coverings, hangings and box curtains, and it was easy to imagine the cosy intimacy of a full house at the Paragon, with the gas up and a layer of cigar-smoke keeping down the less pleasant aromas attendant on public gatherings.

‘Mr Plunkett, sir!’ a voice called from the wings.

‘What now?’

‘It’s inclined to be draughty backstage. The girls are breaking out in goose-pimples. May I be so bold as to suggest that we turn up the floats? I think the dancing might be the better for it.’

‘You can inform their ladyships from me,’ returned the manager, ‘that if they aren’t onstage in the next half-minute they can warm themselves up walking to York Road to find new employment. Goose-pimples!’

A pianist at once produced a series of trills, and the ballet divertissement took the stage, a row of dancers in crimson tiptoeing from the left to meet a black row from the right. Each girl had one hand on her neighbour’s shoulder, the other casually lifting a hem to dazzle the audience with flashes of silken calf in a flurry of lace.

‘That’s really quite tasteful, ain’t it, Sarge?’ whispered Thackeray. ‘By music hall standards, I mean.’

‘I reserve judgement,’ said Cribb. ‘Unexpected things can happen.’

Thackeray’s eyes opened a little wider and swivelled back to the stage, but the variations in the dance were strictly conventional, a series of simple movements producing pleasing alternations of red and black.

‘Stop!’ bellowed Mr Plunkett. ‘Where are the figurantes?’

The lines halted and three chalky faces appeared round the curtain.

‘What do you mean by it? You missed your bloody cue.’

‘If you please, Mr Plunkett,’ one was bold enough to answer, ‘it’s cold as workhouse cocoa back here and Kate’s got cramp something awful.’

‘Cramp? Don’t talk to me about cramp. I’m getting apoplexy down here. Tell that madam I want her on stage on cue in whatever state she’s in. And that’s no cause for giggling, the rest of you. A figurante with cramp—I never heard such gammon!’

Thackeray jerked up in his seat. Someone had nudged his left arm: a young man in uniform, with an orange in his hand. ‘Would you like one, brother? I’ve another in my pocket. Old Plunkett’s an ogre, ain’t he? Bark’s worse than his bite, though. I don’t care for the language he uses, but that’s his nature, I reckon. I’m a Salvationist myself. Never use indelicate words, though I’ve heard more than most.’

‘What are you doing here?’ whispered Thackeray.

‘There’s nowhere the Army won’t go, brother. I’m here for every performance and all the rehearsals I can manage. Ah, the opportunities for a man of my calling! You see the black-haired one in red, third from the left? I’m counting on a conversion before Christmas. Stunning, ain’t she? You can’t see a young creature like that selling herself to perdition, can you? I say, you ain’t her father, are you?’

‘Good Lord, no,’ said Thackeray. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Half these fellows sitting around us are related to the corps de ballet. Husbands and fathers, you know. They like to keep a watch on Plunkett, but he’s harmless, I tell you. It’s family entertainment at the Paragon. Nothing worse than you’re watching now. Of course, the hall’s in a better-class area than most. The girls in some halls are beyond all hope of redemption. If you’ll pardon the expression, I’ve seen pimps and procurers, men of iniquity, eyeing the chorus at places like the Alhambra. Who’s the cove with the sharp nose sitting on your right?’

Thackeray turned to see whether Cribb was listening. He appeared to be absorbed in the dance. ‘Just come in to get out of the cold, I think.’

A missionary gleam entered the young man’s eye. ‘Would he like a soup-ticket, do you think? We look after a lot of his kind at our shelter in the Blackfriars Road.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Thackeray said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘but he don’t look like a soup-drinker to me.’ He nudged the sergeant. ‘This gentleman was telling me he watches all the performances.’

‘Does he?’ said Cribb, touching his hat. ‘Tell me, do they have a barrel-dancer on the bill here?’

‘Barrel-dancer?’ repeated the young man. ‘Never seen one at the Paragon.’

‘Sword-swallower, then?’

‘I can’t remember one, brother.’

‘Trapeze artiste?’

‘Yes, we had one of them. Called himself the English Leotard. Wasn’t much good, though.’

‘You don’t recall any women performers on the trapeze?’

He gave Cribb a look of distaste. ‘No, praise the Lord.’

‘I like comedians myself,’ said Thackeray, changing tack with unusual skill. ‘Comic singers in particular. That Sam Fagan’s a real caution!’

‘Never seen the bloke here,’ said the young man. ‘There’s always a comic turn, mind you, but he’s a new one on me.’

The dance reached its climax. To a fortissimo accompaniment each girl in turn made two full revolutions and ended with a low curtsey, the cut of the bodices adding profoundly to the effect. In a crowded hall the forward dips would certainly have been performed to clashes of cymbals and a succession of cheers. Instead, there was just the spirited pounding of a small piano. Even so, the charm of the finale caught the C.I.D. unprepared. Both detectives were too wrapt in the spectacle onstage to observe the approach of Mr Plunkett. He boomed at them from the end of their row, ‘Perhaps you gentlemen would kindly replace your eyeballs in their sockets and explain what you’re doing in my hall.’

Thackeray blew his nose. Explanations were a sergeant’s job.

Cribb stood up. ‘We didn’t like to interrupt you, sir. My friend and I simply wished to have a word with you. Accordingly we sat down here to wait for a suitable moment to approach you.’

‘So you squatted in the back row and had a squint at my girls?’ said the manager, with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘Would you like them to perform the dance again, or have you seen enough? Perhaps you would care for a tour of the dressing-rooms?’

Thackeray’s indignation rose like sherbert in a glass. Cribb hastily replied, ‘That won’t be necessary. It’s tickets we came for.’

‘Then why didn’t you go to the ticket-office in the foyer?’ snapped Plunket. He turned and clapped his hands. ‘You girls can go now,’ he shouted. ‘Report at six sharp tomorrow.’

Cribb brushed a trace of cigar-ash from the sleeve of his overcoat. ‘I have always found,’ he said with all the dignity he could muster, ‘that a personal approach to the manager is to be recommended. Invariably he can advise you in the matter of selecting tickets. We wouldn’t want to see a bill that is less than the best you offer.’

‘All my shows are tip-top entertainment,’ said Plunkett, his tone more conciliatory. ‘What did you want exactly?’ He had the build of a navvy, but the speed of his responses suggested a livelier intelligence.

‘The best you can offer,’ answered Cribb. ‘We can pay.’

Plunkett’s eyes travelled over Cribb and Thackeray, assessing them. Offers of payment were apparently not enough at the Paragon.

Cribb spoke again: ‘You have a show tomorrow—’

‘Who told you that?’ demanded Plunkett, all aggression again.

‘You did,’ said Cribb. ‘You just told the dancers to report tomorrow evening at six o’clock. That’s not for rehearsal, I take it.’

‘Six? Ah yes. The overture begins at half past seven. If that’s the bill you’re wanting tickets for, you’d better see my daughter in the office. I’m a busy man.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cribb. He raised his bowler. ‘We shall look forward to it. They’re a handsome line of dancers. My friend here is a fine judge of a figurante.’

Thackeray was uncertain of the allusion, but suspected that in some way Cribb was having his revenge for the reference to Salvation Army soup. Plunkett sniffed, took one more speculative look at the intruders and stumped back to his table. The detectives nodded to the young Salvationist and made their way to the office in the foyer, where a surprise awaited them. Their knock was answered by a young woman each recognised but momentarily could not place. She was exceedingly pretty. Her hair, fine, the shade of fresh primroses, was dressed high, showing the line of her neck to advantage.

Cribb clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Got it! Miss Blake, of the Grampian!’

‘You have the advantage of me—’ she began. ‘Why, of course! Albert’s gallant rescuers! Please come in, gentlemen. What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for Mr Plunkett’s daughter, Miss. We hope to purchase some tickets. May I ask you the self-same question?’

She laughed. ‘Of course you may. Samuel Plunkett is my father. You were looking for me.’

‘You, Miss?’ Cribb frowned.

‘You’re confused by my name? It is pure invention, I confess. Blake is my stage-name. Even Papa had to admit I wouldn’t get many billings as Ellen Plunkett, romantic vocalist. Now please sit down and tell me why you really came to the Paragon. And don’t call me Plunkett, will you?’

‘Very well, Miss.’ Cribb carefully lowered himself on to a battered upright chair, which was evidently a reject from the table-section of the hall. Miss Blake having taken the only other chair, Thackeray settled on a property-basket. ‘But I should like to make it plain,’ Cribb went on, ‘that it’s tickets we came for.’

Ellen Blake shook her head. ‘You can’t convince me, Sergeant. Great Scotland Yard and its workings are another world to me. but I feel quite sure its officers cannot afford the time to trail round London music halls, without very serious matters being under investigation.’

Thackeray wished he shared Miss Blake’s confidence. On the wall behind her was a bill listing the week’s entertainment. Not a single name was known to him. None of the turns suggested any connexion with the inmates of Philbeach House. No air-borne sisters, no barrel-dancer, no voice on a swing, no strong man. Not even a bulldog.

Cribb shrugged. ‘We get two days’ leave a month in the Force, Miss. They try to make sure every man gets one Sunday a month, but his other is liable to be a weekday. If he spends that day buying music hall tickets, it’s a tribute to the quality of the entertainment, I say.’

‘It couldn’t possibly be that he suspects another accident?’ said Miss Blake.

Cribb side-stepped her irony. ‘Have you heard from your young man, Miss? He seems well content with his new lodgings.’

‘Albert?’ She coloured. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken, Miss. I thought he would have told you. Albert moved out of Little Moors Place yesterday morning.’

‘Moved out? Where to?’

‘Kensington, Miss. A retreat for music hall performers. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s a slap-up place.’

Ellen Blake briefly closed her eyes. She whispered, ‘Philbeach House.’

‘The very same, Miss,’ Cribb said, airily. ‘There’s sure to be a letter on its way to you.’

‘But I thought you were—’

‘Protecting him, Miss? That’s right. Thackeray here followed him all the way to Kensington. We paid him a visit to make sure he’s comfortable. Frankly, Miss Blake, he’s living like a regular swell. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there but—Good Lord! Thackeray, your handkerchief!’

Miss Blake had tried to hold back tears by biting her lip, but they came nevertheless. ‘I beg you to excuse me,’ she said, after some attention with the handkerchief. ‘It was so unexpected. He told me nothing of this. Nothing.’

‘Seems to have been quickly arranged, Miss,’ said Cribb by way of consolation. ‘Albert ain’t the sort to hurt a lady’s feelings. But I promise you no harm’ll come to him at Philbeach House. Why, he’s got his mother and the dog with him. No-one in his right senses would lay a hand on Albert when Beaconsfield’s around, I tell you.’

Thackeray shifted uneasily on his basket. Cribb would have to do better than that. The prospect of Beaconsfield going to anyone’s defence was remote. It took an explosion to lift that animal off its haunches.

‘You wanted tickets?’ said Miss Blake, making an effort to recover her composure. ‘There are performances three nights a week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.’

‘Does the programme change at all?’ Cribb asked.

‘It changes very little, unless someone happens to be ill. The turns are as announced on the bill here, whichever night you choose.’

‘Then we choose tomorrow,’ said Cribb firmly.

‘Tuesday.’ She hesitated. ‘Why Tuesday?’

‘Why not?’ said Cribb. ‘It’s a night when both of us can get along. Is there something wrong with Tuesday?’

Miss Blake got up to unlock a metal box. ‘No, no. Every night is the same. What price of ticket would you like? There’s everything from the sixpenny gallery to a table for a guinea. Boxes are five shillings.’

Five shillings! They had paid two at the Grampian.

‘It’ll have to be a cheap seat for us, Miss,’ said Cribb. ‘Have you got any at a shilling downstairs?’

‘That would admit you to the promenade, but you’ll need another shilling for a seat in the pit.’

‘The promenade’ll do,’ declared the sergeant, producing a florin. ‘Shall we see you performing, Miss?’

‘Not in my father’s hall. I concentrate on the business side of things at the Paragon. My career as a singer is pursued at other halls. I want to make my own way, you see. Here are your promenade tickets. Perhaps I shall see you on Tuesday. I could take you backstage if you would like that.’

‘That’s uncommon generous of you,’ said Cribb, rising. ‘We’ll look forward to that, won’t we, Thackeray?’

‘Er—yes, Sarge.’ There was not much enthusiasm in Thackeray’s reply. He massaged the back of his trousers. The basket-weave pattern was firmly imprinted on his person.

As they prepared to leave, there was a heavy rap on the door. Miss Blake asked Cribb to open it. Two tall men stood there. For the second time that morning, Cribb and Thackeray experienced that sensation of recognising a familiar face but being temporarily unable to identify it. Yet there was something significant in the clothes, the black overcoats, patent leather boots, black kid gloves. Why, the men only wanted crepe hatbands attached to their top hats to look like—what they were! No doubt about it. The Undertakers, from Philbeach House.

Cribb stepped aside to allow them to address themselves to Miss Blake.

‘A special delivery, Miss. Mr Plunkett said you would sign for it.’

‘Certainly. What have you brought?’

The first Undertaker signalled to his companion. They withdrew, and re-entered, carrying between them a box-shaped object draped with a small Union Jack. There could be no doubt what it was: Beaconfield’s basket.