Ruddy Gore (19 page)

‘Perfect. Now answer my question.’

‘You going to tell Sir B?’

‘No, not if you explain.’

‘I can’t, really. It was one of them . . . ’ he paused thoughtfully, gathering words, ‘irresistible compulsions.’

‘Irresistible compulsion, Herbert?’

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‘I . . . saw Miss Esperance slide the ribbon off a pair of new gloves, then hide one and then scream about some ghost stealing her glove. So I thought . . . ’

‘So an irresistible compulsion came over you to play a trick and blame poor dead Dorothea?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Right, have you done any of the others?’

‘No, Miss.’ The face was shiny with virtue and he held Phryne’s gaze unflinchingly. She dropped the eye contact and looked at his hands. They were loosely clasped, without tension. Either Herbert had mastered the art of lying in one short lesson or he was telling the truth.

Then again, he was a very quick learner.

‘All right. For God’s sake don’t give way to any more irresistible compulsions, Herbert, this case is muddled enough without you adding your six-penny-worth to it. Promise?’ the boy nodded.

‘Now, Tinker, what have you to report?’

Herbert, delighted at being addressed as Sexton Blake’s assistant, leaned forward and said confidentially, ‘Where do you want me to start, Boss?’

‘Begin with Walter Copland, Robbie Craven and the bottle.’

The boy sat down on a velvet chair and began in a fast, mechanical undertone, obviously copied from a radio serial, ‘I asked everyone who was on stage at the time and three people saw the bottle and saw Mr Copland drinking from it. Then he passed it to someone in the wings and that someone gave it to Robbie Craven. So there was 187

only one bottle and the poison was in it and it went from Mr Copland to Mr Craven and Mr Craven was later so he got less of the laud-an-um and so he didn’t die.’

‘Yes, but who handed it to Mr Copland in the first place?’

‘No one, Miss, I mean Boss, it was his own bottle. He brought it with him. They say he was a real old boozer and used to drink all the time. The chorus says when he got to that bit when he confronts them in
Ruddigore
the smell of his breath made ’em sick.’ The boy had cheerfully forgotten the terror which a drunken man evidently invoked in him.

‘And who took the bottle from Mr Copland and gave it to Mr Craven?’

‘Can I whisper, Boss?’ Phryne inclined her immaculate head and the boy leaned close to her small, well-shaped ear, breathing in the scent of her perfume. He whispered a name, tickling her neck. Phryne sat bolt upright, to her assistant’s regret. He hadn’t been that close to a lady before.

‘Are you absolutely positive, Tinker?’ Phryne’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Sure?’

‘Certain sure. I got four people who saw it. And one of ’em’s Colin,’ said the boy. ‘He’s not likely to have made a mistake.’ Phryne remembered the large economy-size bass with the deceptively placid manner and agreed. Well, well, well, she thought.

‘Now, as to the ghost, Tinker?’

‘She’s always been seen at the entrance to the stage, Miss, and she’s always in Rose Maybud’s 188

village costume, except when Miss Esperance saw her as a bride. Two of ’em say that she was just a light and a scent. Hyacinths, Miss. Real strong.’

‘Any idea who’s doing it?’

‘No, Miss, I reckon she’s a ghost all right. I’ve drawn up this.’ He shyly produced a notebook and opened it. Phryne saw a list of times and people, painstakingly ruled and meticulously clean, as though it had been rewritten many times. She scanned it quickly.

‘I found out where everyone was for each time the ghost was seen, Boss,’ explained Tinker/

Herbert proudly. ‘I didn’t put anyone in until I could prove they were there by someone else’s say-so. No one was in the right place to play the ghost, not more than once.’

‘This is a beautiful and invaluable chart, Tinker dear,’ said Phryne slowly, ‘but it means . . . ’

‘Either that they are working together or that she’s a real ghost. And they’d never work together, Miss. Not a whole lot of actors, ’specially not this company, which is either half in love with Miss Esperance or Mr Evans,’ said Herbert with relent-less logic. ‘So she’s a real ghost.’

‘I can’t,’ confessed Phryne, ‘at this moment, see another conclusion to be reached. Here, assistant, give me your chart, and take another quid for expenses. And listen, Tinker,’ she reached out and took the boy’s hand and the green eyes held him still, ‘you be careful. Someone’s already tried to drop a curtain weight on me – or it may have been me. You have a great career in front of you, I’d 189

hate to see it ruined by premature death.’

‘Can’t catch me, Boss, I’m the gingerbread man.

But I’ll be careful,’ he promised. Phryne did not for one moment think that this was the case, but let him go and he danced out of the office and into the corridor.

Dot returned, a little flushed.

‘Anything, Dot?’

‘No, Miss. Just a couple of the gentlemen giving me some sauce. Nothing in their room except what you’d expect. What now, Miss?’

‘We wait for Sir B and I’m expecting Jack Robinson to have seen Robbie Craven by now. And I know what Robbie Craven is going to tell him,’

she added. ‘I know who poisoned him.’

‘You do, Miss?’

‘Yes.’

Dot’s curiosity was roused. ‘Who?’

At that moment the door opened and Sir Bernard came in, accompanied by the policemen.

They looked grim.

‘I’ve spoken to Mr Craven,’ said the policeman.

‘He told me who gave him the bottle.’

‘Yes. I’ll go and get the offender. But it may not be as helpful as you think.’

Phryne brought Gwilym Evans into the room.

The actor was wearing a loose, open shirt and his hair was severely brushed back in preparation for wearing a wig.

‘What’s this all about, Phryne?’ he was demanding, when he saw the ranked pillars of Management and Law and sat down rather abruptly.

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‘Oh, so you know.’ he said.

‘We know,’ said Phryne quietly.

‘But I didn’t know it was poisoned!’ he protested, doing ‘virtue outraged’ much better than Herbert, though of course, Phryne thought, Gwilym had had more practice. ‘I took it off Walter because he seemed sozzled and I was worried that if he collapsed Management would find it on him and sack him. Then Robbie was so scared at going on as understudy he saw it in my hands and snatched it off me.’

‘He says that you offered him a drink,’ said Robinson quietly, ‘and he took a couple of swallows.

That was nearly enough to kill him.’

‘And you did want the part of Sir Ruthven,’ said Sir Bernard.

The actor hunted around the room for an ally and settled on Phryne with gratitude.

‘Phryne, my dear girl, tell them I couldn’t have done this!’ His eyes were wild and the beautiful fingers disordered the curly hair. ‘I wouldn’t hurt anyone!’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Phryne. ‘You break hearts all over the theatre without a second thought. You were waiting for a failing actor to lose his place in the same way vultures wait for a dying cow. I bet your beak watered when you saw Copland stumble onstage. Started seeing your name at the head of the programme, Gwilym?’ She stared hard at him, searching for something –

ambition, perhaps, or the pale flame of madness.

‘Perhaps you didn’t mean to kill, perhaps you 191

miscalculated the dose – or perhaps you didn’t realise that Copland was an alcoholic and would drink the whole bottle at one go. Did you give him the bottle, Gwil?’

‘No, no, ask his dresser – ask Hans. Walter brought it with him. I swear!’ His rich voice rose a few tones and took on a strong Welsh accent.

Sir Bernard rang the bell and told the attending Herbert to find the late Mr Copland’s dresser.

‘I tell you, I didn’t know there was anything in that bottle but brandy. All right, I admit it. I hoped that Robbie would be too frightened to give a good performance and hoped that I’d get the part – but that’s all, that’s all, I swear. And that’s the truth.’

Herbert came back with the news that Hans was not in the theatre.

‘Gwilym Evans, I am arresting you on . . . ’

began Jack Robinson, and Constable Naylor closed a meaty hand on the actor’s upper arm.

‘No, no, my dear fellow, what shall I do for a Sir Ruthven if you arrest him?’ wailed Sir Bernard.

‘At least leave it until we can find Hans.’

‘He’ll run,’ opined Naylor, tightening his grip.

Evans winced in pain as he was lifted off the ground.

‘What do you think, Miss Fisher?’ asked Robinson, instinctively minded to oppose whatever his beefy constable thought.

‘He’ll stay,’ said Phryne. ‘He’s an actor with a plum part. The prospect of execution immediately after he left the stage would not pry him away 192

from this company. Take his passport and he’ll be here when you want him.’

‘Turn him loose,’ ordered Robinson, and the large constable did so reluctantly. ‘You will give me your passport as the lady suggests, and you will be here when I call for you, do you understand?’

Gwilym nodded. Phryne heard, to her amusement, manager and actor give identical sighs of relief.

The theatre was filling up. Phryne heard the usual chatter approaching in a wave up the stairs. ‘Miss Fisher, I hope you’re right about him,’ worried Jack Robinson. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve got this for you.’ He gave her a piece of paper with an address in Collingwood.

‘What’s this?’

‘Only surviving relative of Miss Dorothea Curtis. Got in touch with us because she’d heard something about the ghost. Said she could see you this afternoon.’

Dot, still somewhat breathless from driving with Phryne in her Hispano-Suiza, which was always exciting, rang the doorbell of a small bluestone house.

A small woman in black answered the door.

‘Miss Mobbs? I’ve come about Dorothea Curtis,’ said Phryne. An old, old face turned to hers, both eyes bright as needles. Her scanty white 193

hair was drawn back into a bun and she walked with a cane.

‘Miss Fisher? Yes, I’ve heard the name.’ The voice was not thready but strong, though much higher in pitch than it would have been when Miss Mobbs was young. ‘An enterprising young woman – it’s wonderful what gels can do these days. Now, tell me – is the ghost of Dorothea really walking?’

They had come into a painfully clean parlour, decorated with a print of two dogs. The fireplace surround was black-leaded to a jet finish and the hearth had a folding fan in it. The mantelpiece was loaded with ornaments and the air of the room was still, as though it was seldom entered. It smelt of beeswax and lavender water. Phryne perched on the edge of a horsehair sofa, evidently designed by members of the Spanish Inquisition in one of their more sadistic moments, and replied as honestly as she could.

‘All reason is against it, but all belief is for it.

Yes, she seems to be.’

‘I see.’ Miss Mobbs looked at Dot.

‘Would you do me a kindness? My legs are getting old. Go into my bedroom and fetch the japanned box which sits on the night-table. It is under my Bible.’ Dot did as she was asked and returned with a handkerchief box, which she put down on the old woman’s lap. Miss Mobbs folded both knob-knuckled hands over it, however, and began to speak, calmly and clearly.

‘I knew Dorothea Curtis when she first came to 194

the Savoy – I was her cousin and I became her dresser. I had lately lost my husband and a child and I had no mind to marry again. She became, in some ways, my daughter – the child I would never have. She was a wilful child –
just
a child. But very beautiful. There are always those who would take advantage of beautiful children.’ The voice was still calm, as though all passion in it had been burned away by the years. ‘She met some of them.

Most of them she saw through and laughed at, but there were two – rivals. One was Charles Sheffield and the other Bernard Tarrant. Oh, they were wild for my Dorothea! But she could not make up her mind. She favoured Sheffield because he was weak, easy to turn to any purpose. But I think she loved Bernard – yes, I really think she did love him. She granted him . . . ’ the old voice paused, and Phryne put in, ‘Her regard?’

‘A nice phrase, Miss Fisher, yes. Then there was a child. One child gave birth to another. She gave the baby to me and told me to kill it. She was very young and she had been most cruelly used by those men – those two men. I took the baby and gave it to some friends of mine who dearly wanted a child and could have none. The baby thrived. I never told Dorothea, but I think she knew.’

‘Whose baby was it?’ asked Phryne.

‘Bernard’s – oh, yes, it was Bernard’s baby. It had his eyes.’

‘Why didn’t she tell him about the baby and marry him?’

‘He was an impoverished actor then – in no 195

position to support a wife. And she wanted things,’ said the cool voice. ‘Money and position and a carriage and servants. I told her to follow love, because without it life is empty – who knew that better than I? But she laughed and said that if she had the establishment she could find love elsewhere. Poor child. Poor Dorothea. Then she was dead. She had agreed to marry Bernard as was right, that jealous man Sheffield had interfered, and she was dead. I never believed that tale that she committed suicide, never. Not Dorothea.

Someone murdered her, murdered the pretty child.

I tried to tell them but they did not listen to me.

So I left the theatre, came here, inherited this house and all the keepsakes as my relatives died one by one. I knew that it would come out, one day. And so she is back. Why, I wonder? She cannot be looking for me in the theatre. I would dearly love to see Dorothea again. But there, I am becoming foolish. I have been thinking of her all day, since that policeman said that you were investigating, Miss Fisher. Now,’ she opened the box, ‘here is all that I have of her.’ Worn fingers felt over the familiar contents. ‘Here is her locket. I put just such another around the neck of that baby when I took it to its new home.’ She allowed Phryne to look at a heart-shaped gold locket with a picture inside. The pouting, pretty face of Dorothea Curtis smiled out of the gold frame. Three seed pearls were set in the initials on the cover. ‘Here is her hair,’ said Miss Mobbs, and Phryne touched a faded lock of springy black hair which still had a 196