Abracadaver

CHAPTER

9

CRIBB’S PENNY-PINCHING LED to certain complications at the Paragon the following evening. His theory was that two tickets for the promenade fulfilled all the conditions for thorough-going detection. For the modest outlay of two shillings, he and Thackeray could patrol the entire outer gangway of the house throughout the evening. Unfortunately, the facilities were also enjoyed by the better-off ladies of the town. The result was that when the Yard promenaded, the sisterhood converged, and in effect Cribb and Thackeray found themselves penned at the bar on one side of the hall, where further expenditure was necessary to establish themselves as imbibers, rather than seekers of pleasure. Even there, they were several times accosted for ‘a glass of gin neat’ which they strenuously refused; it was not C.I.D. policy to take on auxiliaries.

The painted promenaders were noticeably better-dressed than the wives and sweethearts of the mechanics and shopkeepers who sat in the place of virtue, within the railing. And they were infinitely smarter than the contingent who paraded in the aisles of the Grampian, across the river. Fallen women they may have been, Formosas every one, but they were decently gloved and fashionably gowned and—one was compelled to admit—not without charm. The men conversing with these women looked to be mostly of good class, and prepared to spend freely. There was talk of late suppers of game and native oysters in the Cafe de l’Europe, washed down with moselle and champagne. Thackeray looked steadfastly into his pint of Kop’s ale and promised himself that virtue was rewarded too.

Behind the footlights the entertainers went through their repertoire without attracting much interest from the bar. Conversations animated by gin were altogether too distracting. So, too, were warm waves of perfume, jostlings and giggles. A stiff-lipped ventriloquist and his dummy were no match for a whiff of Paris at one’s shoulder and the flutter of eyelashes brushed with lamp-black. Like everyone around them, the detectives shouted in appreciation whenever the ballet appeared, and crashed their pewter-pots on the bar-counter each time a dancer flung a leg higher than her companions; authenticity demanded it. But by mid-evening the shimmering fumes above the footlights increasingly set the performers apart from the audience. That, at least, was what Thackeray supposed after five pints of Kop’s, though the cigar smoke and gin vapours closer to hand may have played a part. Whatever the cause, it was devilishly difficult to concentrate. His memory was unaccountably slow, too. He knew the words of all the choruses, but for some reason they came from him a little late. People were beginning to move away from him.

‘It’s a disappointing show, ain’t it, Sarge?’ he confided to Cribb. ‘We might have paid five bob for a blooming box, too. I wouldn’t give twopence for this lot.’

‘Music hall’s more than a list of performers, Thackeray. It’s everything around you,’ the sergeant lectured him, wiping the ale from his chin. ‘Your kidney-pies and conversation are just as vital to it as that fellow up there making a mess of Dear Old Pals. D’you think your gallery boys and their donahs are particular about whether they’re watching acrobats or animals or ruddy clog-dancers? They’ll pelt ’em with oranges if they’re no good, but that’s all part of the enjoyment. They’re just as pleased to see ’em on the bill next time so they can pelt ’em again. It’s participation that counts. Look at ’em in the middle there. Worthy shopmen and clerks decked out in their dress-suits and sitting at the guinea tables. That’s what they call “high ton”. Next week they’ll be back in the gallery, but they’ve lived like swells tonight. They’re not disappointed in the show.’

Thackeray sipped his drink in silence. There never was much point in arguing with Cribb, least of all during one of his homilies. Mercifully there was an interruption, a woman’s voice from behind them: ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I seem to remember an arrangement between us.’

‘Indeed!’ said Cribb, turning about. The sauce of some of these madams left him speechless. That was just as well on this occasion, because the speaker was Miss Ellen Blake. The rebuke on his lips dropped clean away like the Tay Bridge.

‘I was merely suggesting that you might like to see behind the scenes’ she said, smiling. ‘I hope I make myself clear. In half an hour I must leave for the Grampian. I’m no longer first on the bill, you know, so there is just time, if you are still interested.’ Wrapped in a black opera-cape trimmed with fur, she had a freshness of appearance that quite eclipsed the perfumed and powdered company around her.

‘Nothing would please us better,’ said Cribb.

‘We will go through the canteen, then.’ She led them towards the stage. Thackeray fully in control of his movements, but wishing that the slope of the promenade were not quite so steep. On the stage, a black-faced comedian in an ancient grey hat was talking in monotone, a theatrical plain-chant. ‘There is nothing like a wife. I say to all of you, young and old, get a wife, anybody’s wife. Marry, marry early and marry often. Get a wife, marry and have children. Bring ’em up, bring ’em all up and in your old age they’ll repay you by bringing you down.’ To the left of the orchestra-pit there was a door. They descended a spiral flight of iron steps and ventured beneath the stage.

After the brilliance upstairs, the canteen was shadowy, illuminated by four feeble gas-burners with orange shades. Drinks were being served from a semicircular bar to soldiers in uniform, who took them to wooden benches where young women sat.

‘It serves as a green-room,’ Miss Blake explained. ‘Those are the ballet-girls in the grey waterproof cloaks. Do you see their white slippers and tights? They are mostly the figurantes, who can’t dance a bit. They’re paid about fifteen shillings a week, so they’re very pleased to be bought champagne. The soldiers are their friends, nearly all of them officers in the Household troops. The girls come down here between dances. We shall go up the staircase on the opposite side.’

They emerged in the wings in time to see the comedian take his bow to desultory applause. A pale woman with a pair of cockatoos on her arm prepared to take his place. Thackeray was standing directly under the lime-boy’s perch, and had to brush down his jacket, which was peppered with white dust.

‘If you’ll come this way,’ said Miss Blake, ‘I can show you one of the dresssing-rooms. In many small halls they have to manage with two, but Papa has six. The ballet girls are all downstairs, I think, so we can look into their room without embarrassment.’

As they followed Miss Blake along a narrow passage between a scene dock and a collection of property-baskets, Cribb unexpectedly stooped to tie a shoe-lace. Thackeray blundered into him and only avoided pitching forward over Cribb’s back by snatching at a dustsheet to his right. ‘Well done,’ muttered the sergeant. ‘Cover ’em up again quick.’ Under the sheet a pile of barrels was revealed, freshly varnished. The name ‘G. Bellotti’ was clearly inscribed on the top one in pink enamel. There was a positive swagger in Cribb’s gait as he marched ahead.

Miss Blake approached a door marked Ladies’ Dressing Room. Gentlemen Strictly Not Admitted, pushed it open fractionally, peered inside and then beckoned conspiratorially. They stepped into a narrow room, some forty feet in length, divided by a clothes-line, over which the day-garments of the ballet were draped, drab gowns of serge and kersey, and cambric chemises, fraying and stained at the hem from use in London streets. Cheap scent lingered in the room, but the reek of clothes was stronger. A row of shelving round the walls at a height of three feet served as dressing-tables, with tarnished pieces of mirror, candles, hair brushes and pots of grease to indicate each girl’s territory. A few had beer-crates for stools. Corsets, garters and stockings littered the stone floor. Thackeray cleared his throat.

‘Does it surprise you?’ Miss Blake asked. ‘When you see them on the stage in their tinsel and tissue you probably don’t imagine them slinking back to their lodgings in these rags. It surprises their officer-friends at the end of the evening, I can tell you. There isn’t much glamour about them then, poor things.’

‘You said that the figurantes got fifteen shillings a week,’ said Cribb. ‘What does your father pay the better dancers?’

‘The coryphees? Thirty shillings if they’re in the front row, and that’s generous by music hall standards. Out of that they provide their own shoes and tights. You can’t buy a pair of silk tights for less than ten shillings.’ Miss Blake took Cribb’s arm. ‘Come and see what they use for making up their faces.’ She picked up a jar from the shelf. ‘Powdered chalk as a base, with rouge. A penny cake of Indian ink. A packet of Armenian blue. Fuller’s earth to dust off with.’

‘Then what is the burnt newspaper for?’ asked Cribb.

‘For lining and shading the face. Some of them also burn a candle against a porcelain bowl and use the brown deposit for an eye-shadow. Don’t look so shocked, gentlemen. It all comes off afterwards with butcher’s lard. It’s a cheap recipe for beauty, you must admit. Sometimes I look at the so-called fallen women who parade in the promenade where I met you and I find myself hating them, Sergeant. Hating them for their expensive perfumes and lacquered lips and rows of jewels, while these poor creatures have to darn their tights and patch their clothes and sit downstairs with soldiers if they want to be treated with consideration. Try telling them that virtue is rewarded as they stand shivering in the street tonight, watching those Jezebels being handed into carriages.’

Impassioned outbursts from young women about social matters were becoming fashionable, but one hardly expected such arguments from the singer of Fresh as the New-Mown Hay. Even the young Salvationist had not spoken with half the fervour of Ellen Blake.

‘There’s only one way to change things, Miss,’ said Cribb, ‘and that’s to persuade your father not to admit unaccompanied females to his hall. But in my estimation that’s the next step to bankruptcy. They’re trying to run the old Victoria across the river on temperance lines, and I hear they’re playing to half-empty houses. The fact is that when a hall closes, the ballet-girls lose their jobs, while the women of the other sort simply move on to the Casinos and the Cremorne and such places.’

Miss Blake re-arranged the cosmetics on the shelf. ‘There is really no question of my father discouraging such women from the Paragon. If I have a conscience about what happens here, Sergeant, I can assure you I did not inherit it from Papa.’

‘Well if it’s any consolation, Miss, Thackeray and I see a rare amount of the seamier side of London life in our profession, and there aren’t many of your promenaders that’ll escape the poorhouse or the river, I can tell you. Remember their faces as they strut up and down in your father’s hall. One of these days you’ll see the same faces looking down at you from the threepenny gallery at the Grampian—’

‘The Grampian!’ said Miss Blake. ‘Good gracious, I must leave. And there won’t be time to show you the wardrobe or the prop-room.’

‘That’s all right, Miss. We’ll make our own way back through the canteen. You’ll need to hurry or you’ll have Mr Goodly to face. Can we pass on a message to Albert for you?’

‘Albert?’ Miss Blake was visibly upset at the mention of his name. ‘But he is—’

‘Laid up at Philbeach House, Miss? Of course. I simply thought that if we should have occasion to visit there—to clear up certain outstanding matters, you know—we might pass on your good wishes for his recovery.’

‘Of course. Please do.’ She composed herself, shook their hands, said, ‘You do know the way?’ and left them.

Cribb remained in the attitude of contemplation for several seconds, his left hand supporting his right elbow and his right forefinger poised on the bridge of his nose. At length, he said, ‘Wouldn’t do to be found in the Ladies’ Dressing Room, Constable. Let’s proceed with the inspection.’

Thackeray was about to observe that Miss Blake had expected them to return directly to the promenade, and that wandering about backstage unaccompanied might be regarded as a suspicious, not to say improper, practice, when he recognised a particular expression in the sergeant’s features, a flexing of the usually quiescent muscles to the fore of his side-whiskers. The twitch of Cribb’s cheek was the equivalent of the order to take aim aboard one of Her Majesty’s gunboats. Thackeray put on his hat and followed him.

They had not gone many yards along the corridor when Cribb stopped at a door, listened, pushed it open, stepped inside and pulled Thackeray after him. He sniffed in the darkness. ‘Carpenter’s shop. Shouldn’t be disturbed here. I want a good look round this hall. We’ll wait till the show’s over, and they’ve all gone. Should be a bench here somewhere. Ah, yes. Careful where you sit. Carpenters are uncommon careless with chisels. Now, Constable, what are your observations?’

A pause, followed by the sound of a beard being scratched.

‘Come on, man. You saw Bellotti’s barrels, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘And Beaconsfield’s basket yesterday? And the Undertakers?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you deduce, then?’

More scratching. ‘Well, Sarge, I think there could be a connexion with Philbeach House.’

‘The devil you do! What other evidence are you hoping for—Mrs Body in a tutu? A copper shouldn’t drink on duty if it slows up his thinking, Thackeray. Of course there’s a connexion, man. If the barrels are here, Bellotti won’t be far behind ’em. They’re no good to anyone else, are they?’

‘But barrel-dancing ain’t on the bill, Sarge.’

Cribb sighed. ‘Nor are bulldogs, nor any of Mrs Body’s guest-list. Did you expect to see ’em up there tonight? But I’ll lay you a guinea to a shilling that there’s a room here somewhere stuffed with their props.’

Inspiration descended on Thackeray in the darkness. ‘Maybe they’re preparing for a return to the stage, Sarge! Mr Plunkett lets ’em use the hall for rehearsals. It’s only in use three nights a week, remember. When they’ve got their confidence back they can go on the halls again.’

‘You’re forgetting something, Constable. It’s not their confidence that matters. They can rehearse as much as they like, but it ain’t likely to do much for the confidence of the music hall managers. Performers who’ve been laughed off the stage aren’t going to get another London billing that easily. The best they can hope for is to change their names and their acts and start again in the provinces. Besides, Plunkett doesn’t strike me as a charitable man. He won’t have his hall cluttered up with down-and-outs and their baggage, unless there’s profit in it.’

‘He seemed to have something to hide, Sarge.’

‘That’s why we’re here, Constable. A man of my standing doesn’t risk his reputation parading in music hall promenades without damned good reason. There’s things going on this evening that Plunkett doesn’t want us to know about. Remember yesterday, when I asked for tickets? Perfectly simple request, yet the fellow’s eyebrows jumped like grasshoppers when I mentioned tonight. His daughter was just as nervous, too. Never mind your secret rehearsals, Thackeray. I want to know what’s going on tonight.’

‘Shouldn’t we get back and watch the performance, then, Sarge? There might be another accident while we’re hiding here.’

Cribb produced an odd sound of contempt by vibrating his lips. ‘Most unlikely, in my opinion. No need for us to be there anyway. There’s a perfectly capable man watching for something like that.’

‘You didn’t tell me, Sarge. Another C.I.D. man?’

‘For God’s sake, Thackeray. Third violin in the orchestra— didn’t you spot him?’

‘Not Major—’

‘Scraping away like a professional. At least we know he wasn’t blown to bits by the gas explosion. I’m surprised you didn’t spot him. Too much else to keep an eye on, eh? You’re yawning, Thackeray.’

‘It’s the dark, Sarge.’

‘The beer, more like. Look, we’re liable to be here an hour. Stretch yourself out on the bench and sleep it off. That’s an order. I want you sober, Constable.’

It was all a little humiliating, but Thackeray knew better than to defy orders. He wouldn’t actually sleep, but it would be a relief to get the weight off his feet. He groped along the bench, checking for loose nails and chips of wood, and put his hand on something soft, an overall perhaps, folded in the shape of a pillow. He lowered his head thankfully on to it. Not Cribb’s overcoat, surely? That was so unlike the man; there wasn’t an atom of pity in him, not for constables at any rate. Cribb didn’t believe in rests; forty winks any time was dereliction of duty. If he connived at that, he was planning something, you could depend on it.

Thackeray was uncertain how long he had slept when a nudge from Cribb revived him, but his bones ached and his mouth was dry. ‘What is it, Sarge?’

‘We’ll be on the move shortly. It’s half an hour since the National Anthem. Plenty of ’em have gone already. You’re in better shape, I hope?’

He was shivering and aching all over but he said, ‘Sharp as a winkle-pin, Sarge.’

‘Good. Hand me my coat, will you?’

‘Hurry please, everyone. Mr Plunkett wants you all out in the next five minutes,’ called a voice unpleasantly close to the door. Shrieks of protest answered from the ladies’ dressing-room up the corridor. ‘Five minutes, whatever state you’re in,’ reiterated the voice, and the ballet evidently took the warning seriously, for groups of booted feet clattered past very soon afterwards, and soon there was silence.

After a strategic interval, Cribb eased open the door to the passage, which was still fully lit. Thackeray blinked, looked down at his evening-suit and began brushing off wood-shavings.

‘Leave that, blast you,’ Cribb hissed, ‘and follow me.’ Thackeray obeyed, privately noting that his sergeant had reverted to type. They scudded as silently as two large men could along the passage and past the scene dock and Bellotti’s barrels to the area of the stage. A movement ahead stopped them short, and they backed into the shadows between some flats stacked in the wings. Groups of men in labouring clothes, corduroys and doe-skin waistcoats or short serge jackets, were talking in groups on the stage side of the lowered curtain. Far from preparing to leave, they seemed to be waiting for something. Several peered up at the battens and perches as though they had never stood on a stage before. More ascended the staircase from the canteen. They were followed by Plunkett.

Someone moved a stool into the centre of the stage and Plunkett stepped on to it and clapped his hands. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. If you will all come close I shall not need to shout. Most of you know me, but for those who are new to the Paragon I should explain that I am the theatre manager. You are responsible to me. The work I have for you is not taxing in a physical sense, but it is responsible work and you have been employed because you have the reputation of being responsible working men. The pay, you will know, is generous, to say the least. You will earn it by carrying out your orders with despatch, in silence and without question. Things you may see and hear tonight as you go about your work are not for you to question or comment upon, either tonight or later. I am very particular about loyalty among my staff and there are ways of cutting short loose talk. Do you all understand me?’

Concerted nods and grunts indicated that Plunkett was taken seriously.

‘Very well. You will work as teams of three and four under the direction of experienced scene-removers and you will carry out their orders implicitly. I shall be in the audience, but your foremen—to use a term familiar to you—will report fully to me before you are paid at the evening’s end. You will now repair to the supers’ room, which is on the O.P. side of the stage—behind me. You will find there your uniforms for tonight. You are to be dressed as footmen—ah! Already I see looks of dismay among you, as you imagine the contempt of your fellow-artisans when they learn that you have been seen in stockings and wigs. But allow me to remind you that what happens at the Paragon is not to be the subject of taproom conversations. The memory of your eccentric appearance—which I may say will be perfectly accepted by the audience—will assist you to control your tongues. You have ten minutes then to select a set of clothes that fit, after which you will return here, to be divided into work-teams and to receive your instructions. Look sharp, then.’

Far from that, the recruits looked dumbfounded, but someone made a move towards the O.P. side, and the rest shuffled bleakly after, unprotesting. Plunkett descended from his stool and returned the way he had come.

‘Capital!’ whispered Cribb. ‘First piece of luck we’ve had, Thackeray. Take off your jacket and trousers.’

Had he heard correctly? ‘My—’

‘Hurry man. Get ’em off and wait here.’

‘Where are you going, Sarge?’

But Cribb was already striding openly across the empty stage, and there was such an air of urgency in his movements that Thackeray was infected with it and found himself actually beginning to carry out the preposterous instruction. He hung his jacket on a convenient nail, unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his shoe-laces. There propriety called a halt until a minute or so later when Cribb marched back, a set of garments over his arm. ‘Trousers, too, Constable. You can’t appear as a flunkey in a satin jacket and black twill bags. You’re joining the scene-removing squad. Get these things on quick. Stockings first.’

Good Lord! The Yard in white silk stockings? Was Cribb finally deranged? ‘Sarge, I really don’t feel it would be fitting to our position as officers. You a sergeant—’

‘That’s all right, Thackeray. It’s only you that’s dressing up. I’ll be among the audience—watching developments, of course. Try the breeches now. They were the largest I could find. You’ll need to adjust the buckles round your calves. There isn’t much time, so listen carefully. There’s no-one likely to recognise you, but keep your wig on all the time, and if you go on stage try not to show your face to the audience.’

‘Would you, dressed like this?’ asked Thackeray bitterly, standing up in his yellow satin breeches. ‘I can’t do it Sarge.’

‘Nonsense, man. You’ll be no different from the others. I collected these things from the room where they’re changing. They took me for one of the staff. They’re kitted out in yellow just like you, and they’re just as sensitive about being made to look like—er—footmen. Don’t you see, Thackeray? You’ll be perfectly placed to observe what’s going on. Tonight could settle this case for us. We’re about to get our answers. Now put on the jacket and wig. Your fellow-workers’ll be here shortly and I must be gone. Splendid! That’s a better fit than the trousers. Push your evening clothes into the corner there. When they assemble, you simply join in as though you’re one of the recruits. Carry out your orders like the rest, whatever happens. And Thackeray . . .’

‘Sergeant?’

‘I feel obliged to warn you that there could be rum goings-on here tonight.’

Thackeray adjusted his wig and stared down at his silken calves and silver-buckled shoes. Cribb was down the canteen stairs before he could respond.