Peter Lovesey - Abracadaver

‘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?’