Peter Lovesey - Abracadaver

‘Singularly unfortunate,’ said Jowett. ‘Can I offer you some more coffee, gentlemen?’

‘We never have a second cup, sir. Now it was about three weeks ago that I first began to be interested in a baffling series of accidents to music hall performers—a sword-swallower, a trapeze-act, a comedian, a conjurer and so on. I might not have investigated any further if someone hadn’t warned me of an impending accident at a particular theatre—the Grampian, in Blackfriars Road. They put it in unduly strong terms. “Sensational Tragedy Tonight”, the note said, and what we got was a strong man bitten in the leg by a bulldog, but that set me asking questions, sir. I began to look for similarities in the accidents. Was it just a joker at work, or was there more to it? Thackeray, tell the Inspector what we decided about the accidents.’

The constable jerked up in his chair. ‘The accidents? Oh yes, Sarge. Well, sir, we was able to establish that they all happened at different theatres. And all the victims, if I may call ’em that, was put out of work. They all did quite different turns on the halls, too. And later on we learned they all got taken in at Philbeach House.’

‘And one more thing,’ said Cribb with an air of significance. ‘The nature of their accidents was such that none of ’em was likely to be hired again for a long time. The common factor was ridicule, sir. These unfortunate people were laughing-stocks—the comedian with the wrong words on his song-sheet, the sword-swallower who coughed, the trapeze-girls who collided with each other, the barrel-dancer who couldn’t even stand on his barrels, the strong man who got bitten and fell through his platform, and the unfortunate girl on the swing.’

‘What happened to her?’ inquired Jowett.

‘Words fail me, sir. Like all the rest, though, she’s finished as a performer unless she changes her name and does a different turn. That ain’t easy.’

Jowett drew heavily from his pipe and slowly exhaled. ‘Let me get this clear, Sergeant. Are you suggesting that Mr Plunkett engineered all these accidents himself, in order to bring these people to Philbeach House?’

‘I can’t be sure of that yet, sir. He wouldn’t admit that much to me. But six of ’em were performing at the Paragon the other evening, including the late Miss Lola Pinkus.’

‘I will admit that you make it sound most plausible. How do you account for this young woman’s death, however? Was it another accident that perhaps went wrong?’

‘Emphatically not, sir. I’ve had the report on the post mortem. She died of Prussic Acid poisoning. Almost instantaneous. That was no accident.’

‘Indeed!’ Jowett’s eyes narrowed to slits, the wrinkles creasing around them. All the indications were that he was about to make a profound observation. ‘Then it was suicide. She killed herself. How very fortunate that the conjuring trick removed her from public view at the critical moment. The sudden demise of a performer must have a most unsettling effect upon an audience.’

‘She screamed, sir,’ said Cribb, ‘but it was hardly heard above the drum-roll. The audience still don’t know what happened. Most of ’em were taken in by the illusion and thought they were looking at Lola when Bella appeared in the gallery. Even if some of ’em guessed the secret they didn’t know Lola was dying when she hit the mattress under the stage.’

‘What a mercy! Tell me, Sergeant. What was the reaction of Miss Bella Pinkus?’

‘She knew nothing until she came looking for Lola, sir. I broke the news to her myself. She refused to believe me at first. Couldn’t see how the trick had worked so perfectly if it killed her sister. I had to show her the body to convince her. She took it well, though. They’re practical people, these theatricals. There’s a streak of toughness about ’em I wouldn’t mind seeing in certain members of the Force, sir.’ Cribb said this with such a bland expression that Jowett could not possibly take issue.

Even so, the inspector rose to take up a stance on the tiger-skin rug in front of the mantelpiece. A sepia photograph of himself in hunting-kit was displayed behind him. Thackeray reflected without much charity that the chair in the picture was identical to one he had seen in a studio in Bayswater.

‘There is one thing that is not entirely clear to me, Sergeant. You implied that the patrons of these midnight performances were influential and wealthy members of London society.’

‘The promenade was like Rotten Row at the height of the season, sir.’

‘Kindly explain to me, in that case, how two common members of the Police Force gained admission.’

‘They made the acquaintance of Mr Plunkett’s daughter, sir,’ said Cribb, as though that explained everything.

‘I see,’ said Jowett, frowning. ‘And you mingled freely with the audience? Both of you?’

Thackeray’s cup and saucer vibrated audibly in his hand.

‘We separated to allay suspicion, sir,’ said Cribb. ‘I found myself a place in the pit. Thackeray was—er—more prominently placed.’

‘Which must account for his being first on the scene when Miss Pinkus was found,’ Jowett observed.

Thackeray nodded vigorously.

‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Jowett, straining to appear casual, ‘I am confident that you can bring this squalid little affair to a summary conclusion. It should not be difficult to establish where Miss Pinkus purchased the means of her self-destruction. It was acid, you say?’

‘Prussic, sir. Just about the deadliest known. There was plenty of it, too. More than half of what was in that tumbler must have been pure acid.’

‘Then we should have no difficulty. No chemist will have sold that amount of acid without making an entry in his poison-book.’

‘I’m having the usual checks made, sir, but I ain’t optimistic. There’s too much of the stuff about already. It’s used on rats, you know. The railway companies fumigate their carriages with it periodically. There’s a devil of a lot of rats in ships’ holds, too. God knows how much acid they use in the Port of London. Plunkett even thought they had a bottle at the Paragon but we haven’t found it. After Tuesday night’s display I can well understand that the hall wants fumigating regular, sir.’

Jowett rapped his pipe several times on the mantelpiece and started digging at the contents with a match-stick. ‘Come, come, Sergeant. That sounds uncommonly like the outpourings one reads in the daily Press from retired schoolmasters who sign themselves “Father of Three Daughters” or “Pure in Heart”. I can’t believe there’s a prude hiding under those side-whiskers of yours.’

Cribb accused of prudery? The sergeant wouldn’t like that at all. Thackeray closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.

‘Far be it from me to encourage wickedness,’ the inspector continued, ‘but Heavens, man, there’s worse sights in London than a few fillies in fleshings. You’re old enough to have done a tour of duty at Kate Hamilton’s in your time, aren’t you?’

Somehow Cribb was keeping himself in check. ‘But I can’t see how that affects these shows at the Paragon. Why, there were people in the audience with names respected throughout the land, sir. Sitting there openly in the company of loose women—expensive courtesans, I admit, but no better for that in my opinion—and watching indecencies no music and dancing licence gives a music hall manager the right to exhibit. I certainly mean to see Plunkett get his deserts, irrespective of Miss Pinkus’s death.’

‘It was an indecent show, sir,’ Thackeray confirmed. ‘We’ll get him under the Police Acts.’

‘And fine him forty shillings for allowing an indecent song to be sung within view of a constable?’ Jowett said scornfully. ‘You can’t hurt Plunkett like that. Let me give you some advice, gentlemen. On Tuesday night you contrived an entrance to an entertainment arranged for a class of audience accustomed to take its pleasures in private. You can be forgiven for mistakenly believing that what you saw might have a corrupting effect upon such people. But you were in no position to judge, nor should you set yourselves up as judges. They live on a different plane from yourselves, gentlemen, or from me.’