Smoke and Mirrors (14 page)

‘He was nervous,’ said Max.

‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘But the police make most people nervous. It needn’t mean anything.’

‘I still think it’s funny that he didn’t say anything to me about knowing the woman.’

‘Do you suspect him then?’ It was a serious question. Like many people who deal in illusion, Max was a hard man to fool.

‘I don’t know.’ Max moved his chair back to the dressing table. ‘I can’t quite see him as a killer. What motive would he have?’

‘He seemed to be pretty bitter about Daphne. It was obvious that he was in love with her and she never gave him a moment’s notice, except as a friend.’

‘No motive for the children though.’

‘No.’ Edgar thought of the little bodies lying on the snowy ground, a picture that never seemed to fade no matter how hard he tried to banish it. ‘He could have killed them to spite Daphne, but it’s a long shot. And it was a brutal crime. Both children were strangled, they would have struggled . . .’

Max raised a hand to stop him. ‘Spare us the details, Ed, please.’

There was a silence. Edgar could hear footsteps running up and down the corridor. The show was starting in an hour.

‘Was the teacher strangled too?’ asked Max.

‘Yes, but keep it to yourself. We don’t want the press finding out.’

‘So you think it was the same person.’

‘I do, yes.’ He told Max about the letter.

Max frowned at his reflection in the mirror. ‘She just said that she had discovered something, not that she knew who the killer was.’

‘Whatever she discovered was enough for someone to murder her.’

‘All the same,’ said Max, ‘if she’d thought, say, that her old university pal was a murderer, she’d have said so.’

‘Yes,’ Edgar conceded. ‘But I don’t think she knew who the killer was. The note said “I’ve discovered something about Annie and Mark”. She knew it was important but maybe not why.’

‘Any idea what it could have been?’

‘None at all,’ said Edgar. That wasn’t strictly true, he realised. He had an idea but it was to do with dancing hedgehogs, with brightly coloured sweets in the snow, with bones buried under a juniper tree. He knew that if he said any of this aloud the pieces of the puzzle would shatter and he would be left with nothing.

Max was reaching for his make-up. It was time to go.

*

Emma was on her way back to the grammar schools. DI Stephens, having vanished all morning, turned up at one-thirty, just as she and Bob were grabbing a quick sandwich in the CID room, and asked if she’d do another interview with the two head teachers, Dr Hammond and Mrs Paxton.

‘I’ve just found out that two members of the theatre company went into the children’s schools about a month ago. Nigel Castle, the writer, and Roger Dunkley, the director. If you remember, Nigel Castle was Daphne’s old university friend.’

‘Has he got an alibi?’ asked Bob briskly.

‘Not for the children’s murder,’ said DI Stephens. ‘He’s got one for Friday night although it’s a bit shaky.’

‘Hang on,’ said Emma. ‘Aren’t we going a bit fast here?’

The DI smiled. Rather patronisingly, Emma thought. ‘Possibly. But he’s an odd character. And he’s a writer with a particular interest in old stories. Then there’s the pantomime link. I saw Daphne Young there last week. And Brian Baxter was going to take Annie and Mark as a treat.’

‘I still think Baxter’s our man,’ said Bob.

‘I’m not ruling anything out,’ said the DI with what seemed to Emma to be exaggerated patience. ‘I just think we should look into Nigel Castle’s past.’

‘What about the other chap?’ asked Bob. ‘Dunkley.’

‘Him too,’ said DI Stephens. ‘I’m going to interview him tomorrow. I can’t see what motive he’d have though.’

‘Motiveless malignity,’ said Emma, more to annoy Bob than anything.

Sure enough: ‘Speak English,’ growled Bob.

‘It’s what Coleridge said about Iago,’ said the DI, ‘and not, strictly speaking, relevant here. Emma, you go and see the grammar-school heads. Find out what they remember about the visits, in particular any interaction with the children. Bob, you go back to the primary school and talk to the headmaster there. See if you can find out any more about Daphne Young, both her professional and private life.’

‘I see I get the little kids,’ said Bob. ‘Is that because I won’t be clever enough to understand them up at the grammar school?’

‘No, it’s because that’s the way I want it,’ said DI Stephens, acerbically for him.

Now, as Emma trudged up the gravel drive towards the boys’ grammar school, she wondered what was behind Bob’s resentment. He’d failed the eleven-plus, he told her the other day. Was that really all it was? She hadn’t taken the eleven-plus because her parents had her name down for Roedean, probably from birth. They lived near the school and, all through her early childhood, it had loomed in the background, half threatening, half reassuring. She’d been embarrassed to be a day girl because, although the boarders clamoured for invitations to her home (all that food and central heating too!), they seemed to have a bond which she couldn’t share. That was why she had been so pleased when the school was evacuated to the Lake District. It was her chance of freedom, her chance to be like everyone else. So why was she now back living at home, within sight of her alma mater? You wanted to join the police, she told herself as she stepped through the double doors and entered the fusty academic world, and that’s why you’re still here, in Brighton, when all your friends are either married or partying. She hadn’t wanted to go to university and the only other options seemed to be finishing school, being presented or marriage. Her parents had wanted her to go into teaching but Emma had had enough of school at eighteen. She had chosen the police force because it had seemed exciting and, besides, with her name, what could she do except solve crimes?

What about the DI? He had recognised the Coleridge quotation. Where did he go to school? Did he go to university? They all knew that DI Stephens had served in the war and rumours about the shadowy group called the Magic Men abounded at the station. But he did have rather an academic look, come to think of it. Emma could imagine him teaching English literature or history somewhere. Instead of which, he was hunting down murderers in Brighton. Maybe there’s something about the south coast, she thought; everyone gets washed up on these shores. DI Stephens, Daphne Young, Nigel Castle. You run away until you can’t get any further because there’s nothing else, only the sea.

You could see the sea from Dr Hammond’s office, a thin line of blue behind the Regency hotels and Victorian terraces. Emma stared out of the window as the secretary set off in search of the headmaster. ‘I think he’s taking the Remove for Latin today.’ Schools really are short-staffed, thought Emma. Duncan Pettigrew taking the boys for football, Dr Hammond teaching Latin. She looked around the room with its wooden panelling and framed photographs of Cricket elevens and thanked God for the police force.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Dr Hammond bustled in, gown off one shoulder. Emma thought what a stereotypical figure he cut, like something from a comic book. Were there still teachers like this in 1951? Obviously so.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr Hammond.’ Emma waved his apology aside. ‘I just wanted to ask you about something that has come up in our enquiry.’

Dr Hammond sat opposite her and peered over his spectacles in a comic-strip kind of way.

‘I understand that two members of a theatrical company visited the school in early November,’ said Emma. ‘Their names were Nigel Castle and Roger Dunkley.’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘They visited the school in early November as part of a Local Authority initiative.’

‘Oh yes.’ Dr Hammond looked vaguer than ever. ‘I think I remember. They acted out plays in the school hall.’

‘We believe that Mark Webster was one of the boys involved.’

Emma watched understanding and . . . what was it? . . . yes,
fear
. . . blooming on the headmaster’s face.

‘He might have been,’ he said slowly. ‘I seem to remember it was the younger boys. First and second years. They did some writing exercises and acted out little plays.’

‘Did you attend the sessions?’

‘I may have been there for some of them.’

‘Were you there for Mark’s session? Do you remember him chatting to the two theatricals?’

‘No.’ Dr Hammond drew himself up. ‘I don’t think I was there for Mark’s session and I cannot imagine any of our boys
chatting
to a visitor. I’m sure Mark spoke when spoken to, that’s all.’

Dr Hammond was hiding something, thought Emma, as she made her way to the girls’ school next door. But what? It occurred to her that Martin Hammond, who seemed a hundred in his dusty gown, was probably only in his early fifties.

*

Mrs Paxton was less defensive but hardly more helpful. Yes, she remembered the visit. She’d mentioned it last time, if Sergeant Holmes remembered. The theatre people had seemed jolly nice chaps. Yes, Annie had been one of the girls involved. She hadn’t been to any of the sessions herself. No, she didn’t know anything about a ‘Hansel and Gretel’ play. Sounds a bit young for a thirteen-year-old. Annie was a very mature young lady, good at science, wanted to be a doctor.

Emma set off towards Brighton feeling frustrated. Why did both the heads want to play down the significance of the visit by the theatricals? Was it simply academic bias against the arts? Emma was sure that the answer to this crime lay in the stories, particularly ‘Hansel and Gretel’ and ‘Hans My Hedgehog’. That was why she had suspected Daphne Young. Well, she had been right; Daphne
was
involved, just in a different way. Although, as she told a sceptical Bob that morning, Daphne could still have killed the children. Getting murdered herself was no guarantee of innocence.

It was very cold; the snow was still on the ground in some places, icy and treacherous. Emma put up the hood of her duffel coat and walked faster. Her footsteps seemed to beat out a series of slightly jarring couplets. Annie and Mark. Hansel and Gretel. Martha and Mary. Flanagan and Allen. Abbott and Costello. Emma and Bob. Emma and . . . She changed step, skipping past the peace statue on the seafront and causing a passing errand boy to whistle at her appreciatively.

It was dark by the time she reached the station. DI Stephens was in a meeting with Superintendent Hodges. Emma made a cup of tea and sat down to read through the witness reports from the night that the children disappeared.

Bob came in at about five.

‘Got something for you,’ he said. He put an envelope in front of her. Emma looked at it curiously. It was addressed, in slightly wavery capitals, to ‘The Lady Policeman’.

‘Little girl at the primary school gave it to me. She didn’t say her name but I think it was Annie’s little sister.’

Emma opened the envelope. ‘You Are Invited,’ she read, ‘To A Show. Come and see The Stolen Children at Uncle Brain’s House on Friday 14th December. 5p.m. Do Not Be Late.’

‘Uncle Brain!’ Bob was reading over her shoulder.

But apart from that it was beautifully written and spelled, thought Emma. How old was Betty again? And why were they putting on the play without Annie?

‘Will you go?’ asked Bob.

‘I certainly will,’ said Emma. She looked at the invitation, which was decorated with stars and flowers that brought to mind Annie’s exercise books.

Do Not Be Late.

The meeting wasn’t going well. Edgar had always known that Superintendent Hodges resented him, thought him a posh university boy who had been promoted through the police ranks via some sinister old boys’ network. The truth was that Edgar had progressed fast because the police force, like teaching, was short of men after the war. He owed his commission to his army rank and he’d only got that because, whilst recuperating from the Norway campaign, he was recruited by MI5 on the strength of his way with a cryptic crossword. To Frank Hodges, who, because of childhood polio, had been forced to sit out two wars, Edgar was the epitome of modern softness and lack of backbone. Now, with two children and a woman dead, his so-called brilliant detective inspector was no nearer to catching the culprit. Frank was not going to miss out on a fight this time.

‘What about the teacher?’ he said. ‘There must be a boyfriend somewhere. Remember thinking at the funeral what an attractive woman she was.’

‘There’s no current boyfriend on the scene,’ said Edgar. ‘I’m on the trail of her old university boyfriend though.’ He would have to chase Nigel Castle for the name.

‘Girl like that,’ said Hodges. ‘What was she doing teaching in a dump like Bristol Road Juniors?’

‘I think she wanted to do good, sir,’ said Edgar. He was pretty sure that this would be an alien concept to Hodges.

Hodges chewed his moustache furiously. ‘You say the girl wrote to you just before she died?’

‘Yes, she sent me a note saying that she’d discovered something about the children, Annie Francis and Mark Webster.’

‘And you’ve no idea what that was?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Seems to me,’ said Hodges, ‘that you haven’t got many ideas at all. I thought that was what you university chaps were good at, ideas.’

Edgar wanted to say that he had many ideas, some of them as fanciful as the fairy tales so beloved of Miss Young and her pupils. That was the trouble. The truth was there, he was sure of it; it was just hard to see. Smoke and mirrors, Max would say. What was real and what was illusion?

‘We’re following up some leads,’ he said. ‘We’re going to interview everyone who was at the wake. It’s possible that Daphne Young’s discovery about Annie and Mark was triggered by something she saw or heard there.’

The wake after the children’s funeral had been held in the local Scout hall. Edgar hadn’t attended; he’d wanted to get back to work because he felt guilty about going to see Ruby that evening. He regretted it now.

‘It seems to me that all you’ve got is guesswork,’ said Hodges. ‘We’ve got to get some answers on this case. It looks bad for us, you know.’

It didn’t look too good for the parents of the dead children either, thought Edgar. But he said nothing. He knew that the superintendent was working himself up to the big threat.

‘If this case is too much for you, Stephens . . .’ Hodges puffed out his chest importantly. ‘I might have to bring someone in above your head.’

Edgar imagined a shiny new detective inspector floating about amongst the pipes and peeling paintwork of the ceiling. The way he felt at the moment, the new man was welcome to it. But he promised Frank Hodges that he would redouble his efforts on the case.

‘You’ll see some results soon. I promise.’

‘I hope so, Stephens. I really hope so.’

Edgar left the super’s office feeling depressed. He’d promised results but he really wasn’t sure what to do next. No one had seen the children disappear and it seemed that no one had seen the killer enter and leave Daphne’s house. It was a vanishing trick worthy of Max himself. That reminded him that he was going to interview Roger Dunkley, the pantomime’s director, tomorrow. There might be something more in the visit of the two theatricals to the children’s schools. Nigel Castle had certainly been nervous when Edgar had spoken to him. It was worth a shot anyway.

He walked past the cells and down the stone stairs to the CID room. Emma and Bob were both there, at separate desks, going through files. They were good officers, thought Edgar. Whatever happened, he must make sure that they weren’t affected by his failures on the case.

Emma blushed when she saw him, as if he’d caught her having a tea break rather than conscientiously going through the paperwork.

‘Find anything?’ He gestured towards the files.

‘Just checking eyewitness reports, just to see if we’ve missed anything. And look . . .’

She was holding out a piece of card with a child’s drawings on it.
You Are Invited To A Show.

‘It’s Annie’s sister, Betty,’ she said. ‘She’s putting on Annie’s play, the one they were rehearsing when she died.’

‘And it’s at Brian Baxter’s house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting,’ he said. He turned the card over in his hand. The bright crayon and wobbly capitals seemed to be reproaching him. This child, Betty, was carrying on her sister’s work but he had failed to bring her justice.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Emma. ‘It seems like Betty is determined to put on Annie’s play. I wonder why?’

‘I’m glad she invited you,’ said Edgar. ‘You must have gained her trust.’

He handed the card back and Emma said, without looking at him, ‘Do you want to come too?’

‘No,’ said Edgar. ‘It’s probably better if you go alone. You’re the one who has forged a relationship.’

He turned to Bob, who was shuffling papers with a rather sour expression on his face. ‘Find anything useful at the primary school, Bob?’

‘Not really. They’re all very cut up about Daphne Young’s death. I spoke to Mr Carew, the Class Five teacher, and he was almost in tears. Didn’t seem the sort of bloke who cried easily either. First World War veteran.’

‘I thought he had a soft spot for Daphne,’ said Emma. Despite everything, Edgar noted that she still sounded rather disparaging about the dead teacher.

‘They all loved her,’ said Bob. ‘The headmaster hasn’t been able to get a replacement either. He was taking Class Six himself. That’s where I saw the little girl, Betty.’

‘I’ve been talking to the super,’ said Edgar. ‘He’s very impressed by your work on this case, both of you.’

Bob and Emma looked at him sceptically, as if they knew this was a lie.

‘It’s six o’clock,’ said Edgar. ‘You should both go home. Lots of work to do tomorrow.’

Even if Frank Hodges hadn’t said so, Bob and Emma had worked well, thought Edgar, as he trudged up the hill towards his flat. They made a good team. Bob was steady, a little unimaginative perhaps, but a good hard-working officer. Emma was more prone to sudden enthusiasms but she too was a grafter, meticulous about detail. The two sergeants had managed well together on this case – interviewing the children, for example – but he knew that Bob was apt to be slightly resentful of Emma, the newcomer who had been promoted from the ranks. Did the resentment mask something else? Emma was a very pretty girl. Could Bob be harbouring warmer feelings towards his colleague? For some reason, Edgar didn’t like to think so.

The house was quiet. Even the neighbour who fed the seagulls at all hours was sensibly inside. Edgar let himself in and poured a whisky without taking his coat off. Then he sat on the sofa and contemplated his evening. He had saved three days’ worth of cryptic crosswords from
The Times
, the whisky bottle was half-full and he was sure he had some spam in the meat safe. He was just wondering if he dared face the freezing kitchen when the telephone rang.

‘Ed. It’s Lucy.’

‘Lucy. Is anything wrong?’

His sister snorted down the phone. ‘You’re getting just like Mum. Why should anything be wrong?’

Because you never normally ring me, Edgar wanted to say. Instead he asked after his nephews.

‘Well, it’s them I’m ringing about really.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. It’s the Christmas holidays soon and I thought – what would be a nice treat for them?’

‘What would be a nice treat for them?’ Edgar took a surreptitious sip of whisky.

‘The pantomime, of course!’

‘Which pantomime?’ Though he thought he could guess.

‘The one in Brighton. The one with your friend in it.’

‘
Aladdin
.’

‘Yes, that’s it. I thought I’d bring the boys down on Saturday. Just George and Edward; I’ll leave the baby with Rupert. We could go to the evening show and stay the night with you.’

Edgar mouthed hopelessly at the phone.

‘Don’t start making problems, Ed,’ said Lucy, although he hadn’t. ‘The boys and I can have your bed. You can sleep on the sofa.’

‘The bed’s not that big.’ When he last saw them, his older nephews, aged six and eight, seemed roughly the size of young elephants.

‘Rubbish. It’s a double, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the problem, then? They’re little boys. Don’t you want to see your family, Edgar?’

‘Of course I do. It’s just, it’s a bit of a difficult time.’

‘You mean with those poor children getting killed?’

‘Yes. I’m in charge of the case.’

‘Well then, you’re probably working far too hard. You need a break. Seeing George and Edward will put everything in perspective.’

And that, thought Edgar, putting down the receiver and massaging his ear, was almost certainly true.

*

Emma had never told her colleagues where she lived. There was nothing to be ashamed of about still living with your parents at the age of twenty-three; it was just that she didn’t exactly want to broadcast the fact. Or the fact that her parents lived in a thirties mansion big enough to have a swimming pool (covered now for the winter) in their garden. They also employed a maid, a motherly woman called Ada, and a cook-general. It was Ada who opened the door to Emma as she stood panting in the porch after the long walk from Bartholomew Square.

‘You’re freezing, Miss Emma. Let me take your coat.’

‘Thank you, Ada.’

Ada held the duffle coat at arm’s length. ‘You should have a proper coat, not this thing.’

Emma knew that, to Ada, proper meant fur.

‘Is Mummy in?’

‘Yes.’ Ada nodded towards the drawing room. ‘But she’s got people.’

People meant dinner guests. Emma tiptoed towards the staircase, anxious to avoid them.

‘Emma?’

Damn. She put her head round the door, observing that the room contained three unnecessary bodies. Alderman and Mrs Stanway and Mrs Rita Headland.

Emma called out a general hallo and tried to withdraw her head.

‘Come in and say hallo properly, Emma.’

Emma’s mother, Sybil, beautiful in some floaty blue garment, held court on the sofa. Emma’s father, Archie, stood, at bay, behind the cocktail cabinet.

‘Here’s my little princess,’ he informed the room.

Emma stood with her feet at ten to two, looking less like a princess than it is possible to imagine.

‘Stay and have a cocktail, Emma,’ said her mother. Thank God. Cocktails must mean that the people weren’t staying to dinner.

‘I’ve just got in,’ said Emma. ‘I’d really like to go upstairs and wash.’

‘It must be so hard,’ said Mrs Headland, round-eyed. ‘Your mother was telling us that you were dealing with that dreadful murder.’

Emma glowered at her mother, who shrugged in a ‘someone has to keep the conversation going’ way.

‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about that,’ said Emma stiffly.

This announcement only seemed to further electrify the guests. They stared at her as, giving in, she accepted a martini from her father.

‘Come and sit by me, darling,’ said Sybil. Emma sat, determined not to be won over. Unfortunately her mother was very charming and it worked on her daughter as well as on the Alderman Stanways and Mrs Rita Headland.

‘We won’t talk about the police any more,’ said Sybil. ‘Guess where Gloria and Larry have been?’ Emma identified Gloria and Larry as Alderman and Mrs Stanway but her powers of deduction were not up to guessing their afternoon activities. Luckily her mother did not wait for an answer.

‘They’ve been to the
pantomime
,’ she breathed, as if this was an exotic and slightly risqué pastime.

‘We don’t usually go.’ Gloria Stanway also seemed to feel that it needed explanation. ‘But I’m a big fan of Max Mephisto.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ said Sybil. ‘I can’t imagine him in a pantomime though. What part does he play?’

‘He’s Abanazar,’ said Gloria. ‘And the tricks he does, you wouldn’t believe. He makes Aladdin disappear. Just like that.’

‘Good thing too,’ grunted Larry Stanway. ‘Girl couldn’t act at all.’

‘My boss is a friend of Max Mephisto’s,’ said Emma. ‘They served together in the war.’

She had just meant to say something (her mother’s early training: ‘It doesn’t matter what you say at parties, just
speak
, darling.’). She hadn’t counted on this remark being quite so fascinating.

‘Really?’ said Sybil. ‘Old Inspector Stephenson?’

‘It’s Detective Inspector Stephens,’ said Emma, ‘and he’s not old.’

‘I can’t imagine Max Mephisto in the army,’ said Gloria Stanway. ‘He looks foreign to me.’

‘There were plenty of foreigners in the war,’ said Emma. ‘On both sides. Anyway, they were both involved in some hush-hush espionage group. I think it had to do with magic.’

‘Magic?’ Rita Headland laughed, making the ice cubes in her drink jingle. ‘Making Hitler disappear?’

‘Something like that,’ said Emma. ‘Max Mephisto came into the station the other day to talk to the boss. I think they’re pretty close.’

‘Really, darling,’ said Sybil, ‘I’m starting to see Inspector Stephenson in a different light.’

Emma didn’t correct her about the name. Her mother was already starting to look at her in an uncomfortably knowing way.

*

Later, in her room, woozy after two martinis, Emma looked at her lists.