Death at the Pantomime Page 7

  “Four,” he answered.

  “Well, that narrows down our suspect list considerably,” the inspector looked pleased. “I’ll need the names of those actors.”

  The inspector paused.

  “How do you know who has which guard outfit? They are different sizes, I imagine.”

  “They have a label sewn into the collar with the name of the relevant actor,” Maddock said uneasily, struggling to picture one of his own cast as a killer.

  Clara lifted the collar of the uniform and looked for a name tag.

  “It’s badly burned,” she said. “I think the end of the name is ‘son’, such as in Johnson.”

  “Jorg Erikson and Jasper Smithson play two of the guards,” Maddock said obediently, though not looking happy about it. “Neither have been with the company that long, I can’t think they would wish Stanley harm…”

  “If we look at the name tags in the remaining costumes, then we can work out whose uniform this is,” Park-Coombs said with sudden enthusiasm. “Where are those other costumes, Mr Maddock?”

  Maddock looked defeated, he mumbled something about them either being in the backstage clothing racks or the laundry, before the inspector instructed him to find them. The two gentlemen left the prop room.

  Clara studied the burned uniform for a while longer, willing it to offer her an insight into this mystery. Would a man be stupid enough to wear his own costume to murder another? Perhaps, if the killing was a sudden act of violence, a moment of passion with no thought of the consequences. But why? What reason could there be for someone to hate Stanley Hutson so much they chose to kill him? And what of the bloody message – why was Hutson a thief?

  Clara gave up on the costume which was offering her no solutions and headed for the corridor. She located the inspector and Maddock backstage going through a rack of clothes where two guard uniforms hung.

  “We’ve found Smithson’s,” Park-Coombs said in delight. “Looks like our culprit is Mr Erikson. Name sounds Scandinavian.”

  “His grandparents came to England from Denmark,” Maddock shrugged, the evening had taken its toll on him and his voice sounded cracked and weak. “I can’t see why he would do such a thing.”

  Park-Coombs was too over-the-moon with his discovery to listen. It appeared he had solved the case in record time. Clara decided to bring him back down to earth.

  “You know, a clever man would wear someone else’s costume to shift suspicions from themselves,” she remarked.

  Park-Coombs scowled at her.

  “What supposes our killer clever? He murdered a man during the middle of a performance with a shard of glass.”

  “Yet he had the sense to somehow lure Hutson to an unused room to commit the crime, then create a distraction and hide the body somewhere it would be unlikely to be found soon. It also should be noted that it is terribly convenient the royal guard costume jacket is just the right shade of red to mask blood stains,” Clara folded her arms and awaited the inspector’s rebuttal.

  He twitched his moustache in clear irritation.

  “You must always make things complicated,” he grumbled.

  “I only wish to make sure the right man is caught,” Clara consoled him. “As do you.”

  Park-Coombs muttered under his breath.

  “Well, this Erikson still seems our best suspect and I shall be interviewing him in the morning,” he said aloud. “We have plenty of evidence, after all; the murder weapon, the killer’s outfit, just need a motive to wrap it all up.”

  Maddock had hung his head as the conversation continued, Clara surmised he was picturing the ruination of his pantomime. One of his stars was dead and it looked like one of the chorus had killed him. How could a performance carry on after that?

  “Mr Maddock, maybe you should go get some rest?” Clara intervened, knowing she was stepping on the inspector’s toes by doing so.

  Park-Coombs shot her a look, but Clara caught his eye and her expression said they were done for the night. Maddock looked fit to collapse, and he would be no use to them if he was taken seriously ill.

  “I think I could do with lying down,” Maddock said quietly. He pressed a hand to his head.

  “Is your hotel far?”

  Maddock shook his head.

  “I’ll have Tommy escort you, all the same. You need to keep your strength up, you have a pantomime to run,” Clara reminded him.

  A flicker of a smile crossed Maddock’s lips and then he weakly agreed to the arrangement.

  Maddock was safely on his way home when the inspector caught up with Clara.

  “You can’t go around sending my suspects home without asking me first,” he snapped at her.

  Clara had expected the response.

  “The man looked like he was going to faint,” Clara said calmly. “We didn’t need another problem on our hands. Besides, you have your suspect.”

  The last sly comment stroked Park-Coombs’ ego, until he recognised the edge to her tone.

  “You think I am barking up the wrong tree?” He accused her.

  “I merely think you should remain open-minded on the matter. Until we can say for certain that Mr Erikson had a motive for murdering Stanley Hutson,” Clara appeased him.

  Park-Coombs snorted.

  “Why can’t these things ever be simple?”

  “Because they involve people, Inspector, and people are never simple,” Clara patted his arm. “I am going to go home and begin again in the morning. I want to have a long chat with Donald Hutson.”

  “The son?” Park-Coombs seemed to have forgotten about him.

  “The man who is about to take over a prestigious role due to the death of his father,” Clara said pointedly.

  Park-Coombs’ annoyance faded, replaced by a slight grin.

  “Now that is a very good motive for murdering someone,” he said.

  “Exactly what I was thinking, Inspector.”

  Chapter Nine

  Clara rose later than she had intended the next morning. The night’s adventures had taken their toll, with the result she had over-slept. Not that she supposed it mattered a great deal, since Donald Hutson would undoubtedly also rise late, exhausted from his performance and (presumably) anxious about his father’s whereabouts. Unless he was the murderer, of course.

  Whether Inspector Park-Coombs had dispatched a constable to inform the younger Hutson of his father’s demise she could not say. The inspector had been extremely busy at the theatre, gathering any information he could and ensuring the staff and cast could resume their normal activities the next day without interfering with a crime scene. He would have accompanied the body back to the morgue, sent men to search the area around the theatre for clues and, shorthanded, as he usually was, he may have allowed the task of informing Donald of his father’s death to slip his mind. For the moment, at least.

  Clara glanced at the hallway clock, which was alarmingly close to chiming nine o’clock. Surely the inspector would have visited Donald to tell him the news? Clara would have liked to have seen the young man’s face, to gauge his reaction. Of course, he was an actor, so any reaction could be feigned, but still, it would have been interesting. But now the chances of her reaching Donald before ten were slim, and Park-Coombs would not be so lax as to wait beyond then to alert Donald, would he?

  Clara brushed off the thoughts. In reality, though seeing Donald’s reaction would have been interesting, it would have only been a small part of the investigation. There were many more avenues to explore as yet.

  Annie appeared in the hallway as Clara was putting on her hat.

  “You have had neither a cup of tea nor any breakfast,” she puttered, thrusting a teacup into Clara’s hand as she spoke.

  “I overslept,” Clara protested, though she knew the answer would garner her nothing from Annie, who considered there to be no excuse for missing a meal.

  “You still have time for a cup of tea and some toast. You can’t go around on an empty stomach, it isn’t healthy,” An
nie forced the teacup into Clara’s hands and departed to fetch toast.

  Clara obediently sipped the tea, trying to consume it as fast as possible. She knew that defying Annie would only result in a lengthy argument. Annie was technically the Fitzgeralds’ housekeeper, though such a short description failed to encompass all she did for them fully. She had originally come to the house to help look after Tommy when he returned from the war badly injured but had slipped into the role of housekeeper without anyone really noticing. Annie liked fussing around people, and she felt that no one needed more fussing around than Clara, who could be careless about both her eating habits and her wellbeing. If it was going to rain, Annie made sure Clara had an umbrella with her, for she knew full well Clara would not remember it alone. If it was cold, she made sure there was a warm fire waiting for Clara from wherever she had been traipsing about after a criminal. And she monitored Clara’s eating like a hawk, insisting she have four meals a day and getting quite incensed if Clara missed one. Some might have thought Annie a touch overbearing, Clara knew that it was because Annie cared so much about the Fitzgeralds that she badgered them.

  She finished the tea and was placing the cup on the hall table when there was a rap on the door. Clara didn’t mean to startle at the sound, in fact, she was surprised at herself, but her mind had instantly jumped to the notion that the person at the door might have been sent by Brilliant Chang. She quickly composed herself and went to open the door.

  “Who would it be at this time of day?” Annie was walking briskly towards her with a plate of toast. “The milkman always comes to the kitchen door, as does the delivery boy.”

  “I imagine it is someone for me,” Clara replied to her, pulling back the door with a little flutter of anxiety.

  It was not a messenger from Brilliant Chang. Not unless Rupert Maddock was moonlighting. The director looked pale and dark rings beneath his eyes indicated he had not slept well. He looked sorrowfully at Clara.

  “Thank goodness, I hoped I would catch you. I want to come with you to speak with Donald.”

  Before Clara could protest, Annie had intervened.

  “Mr Maddock, you look terrible!” She said in the blunt manner she was renowned for. “Come in at once and have some tea and toast. No, don’t protest, I shan’t let you refuse. You carry on like this you will be laid up in bed before long.”

  Clara shrugged at the fraught director.

  “Best not to argue,” she whispered. “It is easier that way.”

  Maddock was ushered into the front parlour and tea and toast magically appeared before him. He looked a touch stunned by Annie’s attention, but he did not protest further.

  “I thought you would be at the theatre,” Clara said to him gently.

  “The cast won’t appear until noon, at the earliest,” Maddock ate his toast quite keenly once he began. “And I thought it was more important I accompany you to speak with Donald.”

  “I would prefer to go alone,” Clara said carefully.

  “Donald is as much my responsibility as any of the cast. And his father was a friend,” Maddock took a shaky breath, the memory of last night returning. “I think it would be better for all involved if I was present. Donald might not even consent to seeing you unless I can speak with him first.”

  Clara pulled a face, certain she would find a way to persuade the man.

  “Mr Maddock, I don’t normally allow those who have hired me to become part of the investigation.”

  “No, I suppose that is prudent, but I am going to insist,” some of Maddock’s resolve had returned. “I need to be there. Donald is going to be upset, he needs a friend and, to be brutally honest, Miss Fitzgerald, I cannot afford to lose my replacement dame. If Donald loses his head over this, then I might not have a pantomime by teatime.”

  Clara wanted to point out that Donald’s father had been murdered but reminded herself that for men like Maddock – and for all the cast of the panto – the success of a show meant the difference between eating or not. No one could afford for the panto to be cancelled. It might ruin the company completely, depending on how much of a financial outlay Maddock had banked on the success of Aladdin. No, of course he was thinking about the monetary consequences of the show failing, and what that might mean for his cast. Clara decided to go against her better judgement.

  “Very well, Mr Maddock, you shall accompany me. But I must insist that I be allowed to conduct this investigation as I see fit. You understand?”

  “Of course,” Maddock finished his tea.

  “There is one other thing.”

  Maddock looked worried again.

  “If Donald Hutson murdered his father, then he must be tried for the crime, even if that jeopardises your pantomime,” Clara told him firmly.

  Maddock’s lips twitched into a grimace of despair. His eyes seemed to become distant as the impact of this statement hit home and he envisioned the consequences.

  “I would understand if you wished to cancel my services,” Clara continued. “Then this could be left to the police.”

  Maddock fought a wealth of indecision, the battle plain on his face, before he turned to Clara.

  “No, I want you to carry on. The police are going to blunder all about this, I need someone I can trust looking into things,” Maddock looked bleak. “I endured the police last night, pulling apart the theatre, tampering with the costumes and props. They are talking about arresting Erikson, one of the chorus, because of the finding of his costume.”

  “I know,” Clara said. “I was there.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. I need someone who I know is on my side. Please, Miss Fitzgerald, work with me.”

  Clara sensed his desperation was genuine and nodded.

  “As long as we understand one another. Now, we best see Mr Hutson.”

  Donald was residing at the Imperial Hotel, where he shared a suite with his father. As the star of the panto, the name that was going to draw the crowds, Stanley Hutson had been housed in better accommodation than most of the cast. His fellow performers either had humbler rooms in the Imperial or were residing at a local boarding house. Maddock remarked to Clara as they approached the hotel that even his room did not cost as much as that of Hutson’s.

  “You have to keep a man like Hutson happy,” he explained. “He knew his worth. He could have stayed in London for the season, performed in some of the most prestigious pantos. We all knew that, but Hutson has been my friend for more years than I care to remember and he always supported the company during the festive period. I was never in any doubt that it was because his name was on the posters that we sold out for every performance.”

  “And now, without him?” Clara asked.

  Maddock shook his head.

  “We shall see. Some might want a refund on their tickets, others will still come to the panto anyway,” Maddock looked shyly at Clara. “I was hoping we could keep this quiet for as long as possible. Donald really does impersonate his father perfectly, and people need not know…”

  Clara understood his implication.

  “I am not going to declare anything to the press, if that is your concern,” she told him. “That is not my place. But I would suggest you think carefully about attempting to fool your audiences, you might end up offending people.”

  Maddock thought about this for a moment.

  “I think that is a chance I shall take. No one ever said I have to make a general announcement when an understudy takes over, after all.”

  Clara said no more, even if she did think Maddock was taking a big risk. Some people could be very upset if they thought they had been gulled into watching a mere understudy, instead of the real Hutson.

  They walked up the wide steps of the hotel. The Imperial was one of the smartest establishments in the town and was known for attracting famous guests, including royalty. A doorman in a smart red uniform nodded to them and held open the door as they entered.

  “How long have you known Hutson?” Clara asked Madd
ock.

  “I was trying to think about that last night,” Maddock replied. “I think it was in 1897 we met. I was just getting started in the industry. I know it was before the turn of the century and I was working as a stage manager at the time. Hutson was already famous, and I was responsible for ensuring he had everything he needed while at the theatre. It was another panto, Hutson’s bread and butter.

  “Anyway, I noticed Hutson was not quite himself. I mean, I knew who he was, had heard all about him, but meeting the man in the flesh was another matter. I expected this idol, this actor I had envisioned with superhuman abilities to act and sway an audience. Instead he seemed… broken. That was around the time Hutson lost his wife, I imagine you are too young to remember that.”

  “I believe I read about it once,” Clara tried to remember. “It was a road accident?”

  “Yes. Mrs Hutson was hurrying on an errand for her husband. The favourite legend was she was fetching one of his wigs that was being cleaned and mended. I know she was actually buying him a male corset. Stanley was always sensitive about his appearance on stage and liked to hide his girth,” Maddock blushed a little at the confession. “In any case, the rest is true enough. She was crossing the road early in the evening, thick London smog was making it impossible to see a thing and she was struck down by a coach and four travelling far too fast for the conditions. She lingered longer than was right. Hutson always thought she would have suffered less had she died at once. Anyway, Stanley was left bereft. He spiralled into depression and he began to drink.”

  “Not an uncommon story, sadly,” Clara said with true sympathy.

  “Well, there I was, a young stage manager trying to cope with a star performer who was drunk more often on stage than he was sober. I had to do something,” Maddock winced at the memory. “I played it tough. Took away every bottle of alcohol in Hutson’s dressing room and locked him inside. I even went so far as to escort him back and forth to his hotel rooms and locked him in there too. I would pay one of the boot-boys to stand outside and keep an eye. Stanley could have hated me, instead he thanked me. I got him clean, well, mostly, and he started to wake up to the world again. He remembered he had a young son who needed taking care of. That was how we became friends. I knew his secrets, you see, but I didn’t pander to him like most would. That was why he liked me, respected me.