5 Check-Out Time (17 page)

“I’m sure they don’t.” Cecily gave him a smile. “I would love their autograph, and yours, too.”

Mattson’s face crumpled like a baby’s, and a large tear rolled down his cheek. “That’s so wonderful. No one has ever asked before. The girls will be so happy.”

“Madam,” Baxter said, sounding desperate.

Cecily gave him a reassuring nod. “I won’t be a minute.”

She followed Mattson into the cramped quarters and gave him her program.

The entertainer sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Then he sorted through an assortment of bottles on his dressing table until he found what he was looking for. Opening the lid of the jar, he took hold of the white poodle’s paw and dipped it into the pot.

The dog sat there with a bored expression on her face while her owner pressed her paw to the program. He did the same thing with the black poodle, who seemed equally bored with the entire procedure. Then he found a pen, dipped it into the ink, and scribbled something underneath.

Handing the program back to Cecily, he said tearfully, “We will remember you for the rest of our days.”

“Thank you,” Cecily said, glancing down at the words he’d written.
Mattson’s Mutts, with deep gratitude from Harry, Poppy, and Bessie
. “I’m sure I’ll remember you, too.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. “I don’t suppose you know of a man named Arthur Barrett, by any chance?”

Mattson sniffed and wiped at his nose again. “Barrett? Arthur Barrett? Sounds familiar.” He creased his forehead in concentration while Baxter fidgeted from foot to foot. “I seem to remember something …”

Cecily held her breath while the poodles yawned. Then Mattson snapped his fingers. “Now I remember!”

Both dogs immediately leapt from the basket and began walking across the floor on hind legs.

“No, no,” Mattson said sternly to them, “not now. Go lie down.”

The poodles obediently dropped on all fours and padded back to the basket.

Cecily hardly noticed them. Her attention was fully on Harry Mattson’s mournful face. “You remember Arthur?”

“Yes, I do. Only that wasn’t the name he used. It was … let me see.”

He struggled with the memory some more, then his face cleared. “Yes, that’s it. His stage name was Mervin the Mysterious.”

Cecily’s pulse leapt. “That’s an odd name for a singer,” she said carefully.

Mattson looked at her in surprise. “Singer? Oh, Arthur Barrett didn’t sing. At least not professionally. Mervin the Mysterious was a hypnotist. A darn good one, too, if I remember.”

CHAPTER
17

Cecily heard Baxter give a little grunt of surprise. Wondering if he’d come to the same conclusion she had, she asked Harry Mattson, “How well did you know Arthur? Did you work with him?”

Mattson bent down to fondle the dogs’ ears. “Not that well. He kept pretty much to himself. I was under the impression that his career was all that he lived for. I don’t think he was married. I never saw him with a woman, anyway.”

He looked at Cecily with his sad eyes. “Most of us are like that, you know. Something happens to us when we get bitten by the performing bug. We throw ourselves into show business, neglecting everything else in our lives. We live only for the applause. It’s our sustenance, our bread and water.”

How sad, Cecily thought, to give up so much for such dubious glory. “It must be a hard life,” she said, “though an interesting one. I understand you travel all over the country?”

Mattson nodded. “Me and the girls.” He laid a hand on each dog’s head. “It’s not easy finding digs. Most landladies won’t have animals in their establishments. I have to take what I can get. Sometimes it’s a park bench or the sands. But then, it’s only a place to sleep. The theater is our real home. And the artistes become our family, even if only temporarily.”

“Life on the stage must be quite lonely without the companionship of a woman,” Baxter said unexpectedly.

Intrigued by this uncharacteristic comment, Cecily glanced up at him. His attention, however, was concentrated on the entertainer.

Mattson shrugged and wiped away another tear. “Few women want to marry an entertainer. But then, show business is very like a woman in many ways. Unpredictable as a summer storm yet exciting, challenging, and deep down you know you are tied to her for life. Once the theater is in your blood, you can never ever let go.”

“Some people do,” Cecily said with a smile. “Arthur Barrett, for one.”

“Ah, but Barrett was forced out. I suppose we all were at the time.”

“Forced out?”

Mattson sighed. “It was about three years ago. Things are changing, you know. They don’t call it Music Hall anymore. That appeals to a smaller, more sophisticated audience and is more or less confined to the West End. Variety is the name of the game now. The acts are more slick, more direct, more for the working man than the toffs.”

He shook his head and looked mournfully down at his dogs. “It will only be a matter of time now and we’ll be out. Unless I can come up with something new. That’s all they
scream for now, you know. Something new. Something different.”

“About Arthur?” Cecily prompted.

Mattson started. “Oh, yes. Where was I? Yes, it was the old Theater Royal in Bodlington. We had a six-month engagement. Nine acts. We worked as a troupe … one manager, one booking for the entire ensemble.” He looked up at Cecily. “Most of them work solo now, like we do.” He patted the dogs again. “Don’t we, girls?”

Poppy yawned, while Bessie curled up in a ball and closed her eyes.

Cecily made an effort to curb her impatience. As fascinating as she found all this, the man really did have a most annoying habit of straying from the point. “And Arthur was part of the troupe?”

“That’s right. He’d worked with them long before I joined up with them. He was quite a bit older than I. Older than all of us, actually.”

“Is that why he had to leave?”

Mattson looked at her blankly for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Oh, no. Someone ordered the theater closed down. A couple of months into the engagement. We were all out of work. For a time, that is. That’s when the girls and I went solo. It took a while, but we started picking up bookings again.”

“And Arthur?”

“Never saw him again. I bumped into most of the others on the rounds, but I never saw or heard of Mervin the Mysterious again.”

“I see.” Cecily thought for a moment. “Do you happen to know who it was who closed the theater down?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Baxter’s quick glance at her, but kept her attention on Mattson.

The entertainer shook his head. “Never did know who or why.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Mattson. You have been most kind, and we won’t take up any more of your time.” Cecily bent
down to pat the sleeping dogs on the head. “I did enjoy the act very much and I will treasure the autographs.”

Mattson actually looked as if he were going to smile. “Come and see us again. We’ll be here for another six weeks.”

Cecily straightened. “I should like that very much.” She moved toward the door, ignoring Baxter’s scowl. “I wish the very best of luck to you and the girls.”

“Thank you,” Mattson said mournfully. “We most certainly are going to need it.”

“I do feel sorry for the man,” Cecily said as Baxter followed her into the cool night air. She was relieved to see Samuel parked close to the theater. He must have been there some time, as the chestnut was stamping his feet with impatience.

“If I may say so,” Baxter said as they approached the trap, “anyone would feel a great deal of sympathy for a man who always wore such a somber expression.”

Cecily sighed. “It really must be quite a different life. I’m not sure I would be happy with it.”

“Madam, I assure you, that kind of employment would be most unsuited to someone of your caliber.”

“I’m not sure I should thank you, Baxter.” She lifted her eyebrows at him. “Are you suggesting I have no talent?”

She could see his perplexed expression in the glow of the lamplight. Amused, she waited for him to extricate himself from his blunder.

“Madam, I would suggest that your talents are far superior to any of those I had the misfortune to watch tonight.”

It was her turn to feel unsettled, and she was thankful when they reached the trap.

Samuel sprang down to open the door for her, and she climbed up, settling herself on the worn leather seat. The trap creaked with Baxter’s weight as he sat down opposite her, taking great care not to bump her knees.

Samuel had drawn the hood over, enclosing the two of
them in the cozy warmth. Cecily could barely see Baxter’s face, and for once she was strangely glad of the dark shadows.

To break what threatened to be an awkward silence, she said, “I assume you understand the purpose of my questions tonight?”

“Yes, madam. I understand that people do remarkable things when under the influence of posthypnotic suggestion.”

“Why, Baxter,” Cecily said in amusement, “you impress me. Where did you learn about such hocus-pocus?”

“I do read, madam. I understand that the technique has been widely used in medical science. It hardly has anything in common with voodoo.”

He’d sounded offended, and Cecily relented. “You are quite right, Baxter. It is an approved science and quite different from black magic, which is why I am more inclined to believe that someone hypnotized Sir Richard. I must retract my earlier theory.”

Baxter seemed mollified when he answered, “It would appear that Arthur Barrett could possibly be our man. It would certainly explain why Sir Richard Malton acted in that strange manner.”

“It would indeed.” Cecily leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. “Especially in view of the fact that Sir Richard could also have been the man who closed down the theater and threw Arthur out of work.”

“I admit that it does seem a remarkable coincidence, since the man threatened to close down the George and Dragon, but”—Baxter paused for a moment—“are you certain it could be the same man?”

“Certain?” Cecily laughed. “No, of course not. When have I ever been certain about anything? I am guessing, of course. But since Sir Richard did tell Michael that he had closed down a business once before, and since Arthur presumably lost the career he loved because of a closed theater, and Sir Richard Malton is now dead, having lost his
life in the presence of our doorman, I would say it is a fairly accurate guess, wouldn’t you?”

There was a short pause, then Baxter said softly, “As I already mentioned, madam, your talents are far superior to those of anyone I have met.”

“Thank you.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “I do believe it’s time we had a word with Arthur, don’t you?”

“I think it would be far more prudent to call in the inspector and tell him what you have discovered. Then he can question Arthur, through the proper and, I must add, safer channels.”

Cecily heard the words, but she had heard them so often that she paid no attention. She was remembering something else. Her conversation with Gertie that afternoon.

Though how the hell he learnt it I can’t imagine. One only sees a hypnotist in the Music Hall, and Master Stanley’s much too young to have been there.

“Stanley,” Cecily said, abruptly leaning forward.

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“That’s where Stanley learned how to do it. By watching Arthur.”

“But Barrett would have had to be using it on someone at the time, wouldn’t he? And if he used it to cause Sir Richard’s death, I hardly think he would advertise the fact.”

Cecily nodded. “Exactly. What if Stanley has actually seen Arthur hypnotize his father?”

She heard Baxter’s indrawn breath. “Then we have a witness.”

“If I’m right, then indeed we do. Let us just hope that we get to Master Stanley Malton before Arthur discovers that fact.”

Earlier that evening, Stanley had become bored with his game of mumblety-peg. He had practiced and practiced until he could flip the knife into the ground from a number of positions and made it stick.

But it was no fun doing it on his own. He would even
have played the game with that lumpy housemaid with the big belly if she hadn’t been too busy.

He rather liked the way she talked. His mother’s ears would drop off if she could hear that language. He was storing it up to shock her with when she finally got out of her bed.

For a moment he felt an overwhelming sense of misery and loneliness. It wasn’t fair. He had no one to play with, and soon it would be dark and he’d have to go back to that stinking kitchen and listen to Gertie and Mrs. Chubb scream at each other.

He looked longingly across the lawn to where he could see just a faint glimmer of the sea. How he’d love to be down there. There were always other children to play with or to watch, and it was so much fun to splash in the water and dig sand castles and …

He felt in his pocket, smiling as his fingers closed over the watch. There was something he could do all by himself. He would have to find that daft colonel, of course. He was the only one who would sit with his eyes on the watch long enough to let Stanley send him to sleep.

Stanley laughed out loud as he remembered the colonel’s attack on Arthur. It was so easy. He went to sleep just like that, and all Stanley had to do was tell him he was going to fight Arthur at nine o’clock, then order him to forget what he’d been told when he woke up.

Yes, he decided. That’s what he’d do. He’d find the colonel and get him to do something really fun. Like take off all his clothes in front of the ladies. That was bound to cause a good laugh.

Stanley looked across at the hotel. He’d promised that dumpy housemaid he wouldn’t leave the stretch of lawn in front of the steps. She’d been gone quite a long time, and she said she’d be back for him soon. If he wanted to leave, he’d better run now, before she came out and made him go back to that hot, stuffy kitchen.

Without further ado, Stanley broke into a lumbering trot, heading for the Rose Garden.

It was getting quite dark by the time he gave up. Everyone was at dinner, and he couldn’t find the colonel anywhere, so he had to be eating his dinner, too.

Frustrated, Stanley wandered over to the fish pond. If he couldn’t find anyone to work the magic on, he’d just have to try and work it on himself again.

Reaching the rockery above the pond, Stanley clambered up on the rocks and gazed moodily into the water. What if he did send himself to sleep? How would he tell himself what to do? And how would he wake himself up again if he was asleep?

All very puzzling questions, that was certain. Arthur would know, of course.

Stanley started swinging one foot and banged the rocks with his heel. It made a satisfying sound, and he did it with both feet. He liked the drumming noise it made. It reminded him of the noise the drums made at the circus when the men balanced on the tightrope.

Prissy-looking men they were, in those stupid clothes. Men didn’t wear pink stuff with glitter stars on it. But he was impressed when they all balanced on the rope on each other’s shoulders.

Stanley stopped drumming. Thinking about the tightrope reminded him of his father. He didn’t want to think about what happened to his father. Much as he wanted to know more about this business of sending someone to sleep, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask Arthur how to do it.

Something told him that it would definitely not be wise to tell the doorman he saw him order his father to dance on the balcony railing.

Stanley yawned. It was almost dark. If he wanted to try to send himself to sleep, he’d have to do it fast, before the night came and he wouldn’t be able to see.

Carefully he scrambled down from the rocks. He didn’t
want to fall in the stupid water again. He’d catch it in the neck from Dirty Gertie if he did that.

He giggled aloud, pleased with the name. He’d call her by that name when he saw her again, the next time she yelled at him. She had a voice that seemed to shiver all through his body and explode out of his head.

He knelt by the edge of the water and hooked the watch out of his pocket. Holding it by the very end of the chain, he started swinging it back and forth. Then, very carefully, he leaned forward to peer at his reflection in the water.

He had to look into his own eyes, or it wouldn’t work. He’d already discovered that. If he could just keep his eyes on the watch and his own face at the same time, it might just work.

Slowly he swung the watch back and forth, concentrating intently on the reflection in the water. “Sleep,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft and low, the way he’d heard Arthur do it. “Your limbs are getting heavy, your eyes are closing, you can’t keep them open. Soon you will be fast asleep. Relax, keep your eyes on the watch, just relax …”