Death at the Pantomime Page 8

  “When I became a director, the first panto I was in charge of Stanley insisted on playing the dame. He turned down two London theatres, and a great deal of money, to act for me. He was a true friend.”

  Maddock’s eyes glistened with unshed tears and Clara suddenly realised how personal this case was to him. It was not just that an actor in his company had been killed, it was that a friend, a good friend, had been murdered.

  “It sounds like Stanley was a decent man,” she told him. “I will do all I can to find his killer.”

  “Thank you,” Maddock smiled. “I owe that man. I owe it to him to bring him justice.”

  Chapter Ten

  Donald Hutson was sitting on a long, low leather sofa in the sitting room of his father’s suite. The furniture all around him was very modern and Clara felt it rather too artsy for her liking. Not the sort of furniture for cosy comfort, that you might snuggle into when disaster has occurred. But maybe she was being old-fashioned in her thinking, perhaps the low arms and backs, which looked very difficult to sit in nicely, were really rather pleasant.

  Donald was hunched before a white and gold coffee table with spindly legs. It looked fit to collapse if you so much as placed a cup of tea on it. When they had knocked on the room door, he had called them to enter, saying it was not locked. He seemed disappointed that his visitors were Maddock and a woman he did not know, instantly losing interest in them.

  Donald was still dressed in the clothes he had worn when he left the theatre, except he had disposed of his suit jacket, so he sat in his shirt sleeves and braces. He still had his shoes on, and Clara guessed he had not slept at all.

  He was a robust young man, not of the girth of his father, but carrying a few more pounds than was fashionable. He had chestnut brown hair, that was ruffled about his head, as if he had been running his fingers through it a lot. His eyes were big and deep blue and his face had a handsome aspect, though the extra weight he carried tended to make his features appear puffy. Clara could see faint traces of make-up around his ears and jawline, where he had not quite removed all the greasepaint from the night before. The way he clutched his hands together, huddled over and seemingly distraught made Clara think he was genuinely concerned for his father – either that, or he was worried he would be caught out as the murderer.

  “Donald,” Maddock moved to a chair close to him. “Have the police been to see you?”

  “Police?” Donald looked alarmed, suddenly all his anxiety for his father’s safety was unleashed. It had been possible to pretend that nothing bad had happened, to keep the worry at bay, until the mention of the police. “Is father all right?”

  Maddock didn’t know where to look as he spoke the bad news.

  “Your father has been found dead, Donald.”

  The colour drained from Donald’s face and his mouth went slack. The horror the news caused him convinced Clara this young man was not a murderer. Unless his acting skills were of such a calibre he had trained his unconscious responses to perform on cue.

  “What happened?” Donald asked, his voice tense and quiet. “Was he drinking again?”

  Maddock struggled with the next words.

  “Your father has been murdered Donald. I found him at the theatre, after you were all gone.”

  Donald dropped his head into his hands and his breathing came in a whistling rasp. Clara glanced around the room for something to offer him, and finally discovered a pot of tea that had been brought up by room service not so long ago. It was still warm and had not brewed itself to slurry in the pot. She poured out a cup, laced it well with milk and sugar, then placed it before Donald.

  “Try that,” she said softly.

  Donald took several moments to react, then he lowered his hands and looked at the teacup as if he was seeing something alien. He reached out a hand to it, but when he noticed how much it shook he withdrew it and clutched his hands in his lap.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” he said weakly.

  “Honestly, Donald, nor do I,” Maddock sympathised. “Which is why I have asked for Miss Fitzgerald’s assistance. She is a private detective and I trust her more than I trust the police to figure this all out. She is going to find out who did this and bring them to justice.”

  Donald’s eyes wandered up to Clara’s face and seemed for the first time to register her presence.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said out of habit, rather than real sentiment. His eyes glazed over again. “Why would anyone harm my father? He had no enemies.”

  The question appeared to be addressed to Maddock.

  “That’s what Miss Fitzgerald is going to try to discover,” Maddock spoke in the gentle voice you adopt when addressing a distressed child. “She needs to ask you a question or two. It will help her.”

  Donald was trembling all over. Clara recognised shock when she saw it. She fetched up a blanket that was thrown over a nearby chair and slipped it around Donald’s shoulders. Then she nudged the tea towards him again.

  “Try to take a sip.”

  Donald didn’t move. Clara sat down in a chair opposite, satisfied to discover it was as uncomfortable as she had suspected, and waited. Several minutes ticked by and then Donald’s shivering eased, and he slowly reached out for the teacup and took the sip of tea as instructed. The tiny act seemed to be the breakthrough that brought him back to life.

  The dazed look passed from his face, and his eyes focused on Clara. Shock and grief were being replaced by something else, something fiercer – rage.

  “My father was a good man. He did not deserve this. All these years he has brought laughter and joy to the nation, he went to the Front and performed for the troops! This is not how a man like him should have ended his days!”

  Donald was changing, waking up and becoming a young man with spirit and a forceful personality. Clara could finally see the true man beneath the layers of exhaustion and fear.

  “Why would anyone do this to him?” Donald demanded of Clara.

  “At this moment, I cannot offer you an answer to that question,” Clara explained. “A message was left with your father. The single word ‘thief’ was written on the apron of the costume he was wearing. Do you know why anyone might have written such a thing?”

  Clara avoided mentioning the message had been written using Stanley Hutson’s blood, that seemed unnecessary.

  “Thief?” Donald spat the word, his face had hardened, the slackness of shock had disappeared. “My father was no thief! What would he need to steal for? He had a fortune! We lived humbly, most of the time we were performing, and our accommodation was provided by the theatre company. We have a house, but we barely live in it. No servants, no point. Neither I, nor my father, have expensive tastes. My father had no need to steal anything!”

  “The killer may not have been suggesting Mr Hutson stole money or even an object, it could be a metaphorical act of theft,” Clara explained. “For instance, someone might feel that Mr Hutson stole a part in a production from them.”

  Donald snorted.

  “My father did not audition for roles. He has not auditioned since 1882. People asked him to be in their cast. I can show you piles of letters requesting he take on this role or that. He has never asked for any part, he has had no need. He has never stolen a role from anyone, because there has never been an opportunity for it to happen,” Donald was adamant. “Besides, actors replace other actors all the time. You won’t last long in this business if you can’t handle rejection.”

  “That is a fair point,” Maddock interjected. “People are always being replaced for one reason or another. Take our Aladdin, Audrey Burns, she was recruited after our original Aladdin discovered she was pregnant. I’ve replaced people because they were late for rehearsals or did not get along with other cast members. As director that is my prerogative and you get a hard skin to the abuse it always produces. If anyone was worthy of revenge over a lost part in a panto, it should surely be me.”

  “Then that leave
s us with no real explanation for the strange message, and yet the killer clearly thought it would mean something. They were making a point, trying to tell us something,” Clara said. “I do hate it when criminals become cryptic.”

  Donald’s anger had dimmed again as the reality of the situation slowly overcame him once more.

  “How did my father die?” He asked.

  Maddock cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Clara. He was not going to be the one to answer the question. Clara sighed to herself, she hated this part.

  “Mr Hutson was attacked with a shard of broken mirror. His throat was cut. I imagine it was very quick.”

  That was a lie, of course, Clara knew that bleeding out from the throat could take several minutes, depending on which veins the blade struck. However, no one wanted to hear that about a loved one’s demise.

  Donald rocked back on the sofa, he was fading back into a glazed stupor and Clara wanted to prevent that happening.

  “When did you last see your father?” She asked quickly.

  Donald blinked, the question rousing him from whatever dark place he had been falling into.

  “It was just at the start of the interval. He had been in a foul mood since the first act, when that stupid man booed him,” Donald spoke the word ‘stupid’ like it was a curse. “He stormed off stage and said he needed some air. He walked off without even changing his costume. I thought he might be going to get a drink. There is a pub just around the corner. Father didn’t drink so often these days, but when something rattled his nerves, he would have to have a whisky to settle him again.”

  “You thought he went to the pub in his dame costume?” Clara asked, picturing what sort of reaction Stanley Hutson would have received walking into a pub in his full stage costume.

  Donald shrugged.

  “I didn’t give it a thought,” he admitted. “You forget the costumes are strange to others after a while. I’m so used to them. They are just clothes.”

  “When did you realise he had not returned?” Clara continued.

  “When Mr Maddock came to the door of my father’s dressing room and told me I was taking father’s place. I assumed father had drunk too much. Sometimes that happened,” Donald was sheepish at confessing his father’s weakness. “Father would have these moments when he drank as much alcohol as he could during an interval and then end up good for nothing. He would still try to go on stage. We have had to lock him in a spare dressing room before now.”

  “That’s true,” Maddock confirmed. “When I could not find Donald after the fire, I assumed he had gone off to drink and hastened to prepare Donald to go on stage.”

  “You told the Inspector Hutson never missed a performance,” Clara pointed out.

  Maddock looked sheepish.

  “He would always return in time, that was no lie. Just sometimes he was not fit to go on stage.”

  “All right,” Clara said thoughtfully. “Donald, if you could describe to me what you did during the interval, it would help me to understand what might have been going on during that time.”

  Donald shrugged.

  “After father stormed off, I went to the dressing room to prepare his next costume. I act as father’s dresser when he is performing. There are eight costume changes in the second half alone. He usually comes to the dressing room, touches up his make-up and puts on the first dress for the second half. The other costumes are set up in order of when they need to be worn in the wings of the stage. When father did not appear within the first five minutes of the interval, I suspected I would have to take his place. I started to put on make-up.”

  “That was slightly presumptuous of you,” Clara observed.

  “Not really,” Donald shook his head. “I knew my father’s habits. If he disappeared during an interval he was drinking and he would not be fit for the second half.”

  “Stanley never quite freed himself from the demons of his alcoholism,” Maddock added. “Most of the time he was fine, but occasionally he would binge. The trigger was usually something happening during a performance he could not cope with. That booing member of the audience was deeply unfortunate.”

  “Father can’t cope with criticism,” Donald said, sounding as if it was a mark of pride, not something to be ashamed of.

  Clara also noticed he was still referring to his father as if he was alive.

  “What about when the fire occurred?” She said to Donald.

  “Maddock knocked on the dressing room door and said we needed to all go outside as there was a fire in the prop room,” Donald replied. “I left with the others and stood outside until Maddock said it was all clear. I suppose it was a few minutes after I was back in the dressing room that he told me I was performing in the second half.”

  “Did you notice anyone missing as you stood outside? Or maybe someone appeared later than the others?” Clara persisted.

  “Not really, I suppose I wasn’t paying attention,” Donald answered. “I did walk down the alley behind the theatre and look in the direction of the nearest pub, just in case I could see father. I didn’t see him.”

  “And then you were back inside,” Clara nodded, understanding. “What about Erikson?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you notice him standing outside?”

  Donald paused to think about that strange disruption to his evening. Slowly he responded.

  “He was there. I glanced over and saw him with his arm around Audrey. She had rushed out in her Aladdin costume and was cold. Why?”

  “His costume was one of the things that was burnt in the prop room,” Maddock said before Clara could speak.

  Donald did not know the significance of this and merely frowned.

  “How does this help find my father’s killer?” He demanded, his fury abruptly returning. “I want to know who did this, who hurt him! I want to wring their neck!”

  “You are not alone,” Maddock grumbled. “We…”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the room door. A voice from outside echoed into the room.

  “Mr Hutson, this is Inspector Park-Coombs of the Brighton police. I need to speak to you about your father.”

  Clara glanced at Maddock.

  “He isn’t going to be pleased we arrived first,” she hissed.

  Donald was quick to catch on.

  “Go hide in the bedroom,” he said, louder he called out. “Coming, Inspector.”

  Clara and Maddock disappeared into the other room and closed the door behind them. Maddock raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Such subterfuge! It is like the plot of a bad play.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that if you had seen the inspector when he is annoyed,” Clara whispered back.

  Maddock, despite the grimness of the day, managed to grin.

  “Do you do this often?” He asked her.

  Clara raised a finger to her lips and indicated they should be silent as in the next room they heard Donald greeting the inspector.

  Chapter Eleven

  The inspector was with Donald Hutson for almost an hour. Enough time for Clara and Maddock, stuck in the bedroom, to get restless. Maddock looked at his watch every few minutes, which started to irritate Clara considerably. She pulled a chair quietly to the door and listened to what the inspector and Donald said. She admitted to herself this was slightly underhanded, maybe even a touch deceitful towards Park-Coombs, but she was certain he would have lost his temper had he discovered she had reached Donald first. Not that it was her fault he had been lax with reaching out to Stanley’s son.

  Donald reacted to the news of his father’s death, coming from the lips of the inspector this time, with a similar level of stunned shock as he had shown earlier, followed by outrage. His voice was low when he spoke, answering the inspector’s many questions, most of which were in the same vein as Clara’s. After forty-five minutes of intense talking, Maddock pulled a face and flopped back on the bed he was sitting on. Clara glared at him as he made the bed squeak, but there wa
s no reaction from the other room.

  Finally, the inspector thanked Donald for his time, spoke suitable words of condolence, and then departed. Donald rose and opened the bedroom door.

  “He’s gone,” he said solemnly. “He thinks I did it, I could tell from his voice.”

  Donald’s face was flushed, as if he was feverish. Maddock stepped forward.

  “Donald, I don’t think that at all, I…”

  “I would like to be left alone now,” Donald said quietly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be at the theatre on time.”

  Then he pushed past them into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Maddock looked grim. Clara took his arm and led him towards the door of the suite.

  “He needs to grieve,” she said. “This is difficult news to absorb.”

  “That damn inspector, making Donald think he is a suspect,” Maddock’s eyes flared with indignation. “I am glad I hired you, Miss Fitzgerald, you have to solve this mess before that inspector upsets my whole cast!”

  Clara said nothing. The odds were, as she went about her job, she would upset a few people on the cast, especially if one proved to be a killer.

  She separated from Maddock on the steps of the hotel, arranging to come to the theatre once all the cast were present. She had more people to interview, specifically Erikson, whose costume had been found so conveniently blood stained and burned. In the meantime, she was going to go home and update Tommy on what was happening.

  Almost since she became a private detective, Tommy had been involved, largely in the background at first, but these days he was a partner in her work. Admittedly, Clara sometimes forgot she had a partner and carried on by herself. Not this time, however, there were lots of angles to this case and if she was going to discover who had a big enough grudge against Stanley Hutson to want him dead, she was going to need to know more about the man himself. And since Stanley spent most of his time in London, it seemed logical that someone was going to need to go to the capital and find out more.