Death in the Stars Read online

  There were questions about football teams, about which general commanded in some particular battle, and about the changes of names of capital cities in those Balkan countries and in remote parts of the empire. On each occasion, the memory woman repeated the question for the benefit of those who had their back to the questioner and may not have heard.

  The memory woman stretched out a long pale hand. ‘The man on the fifth row.’

  Sykes cleared his throat. Rosie sank a little lower in her seat.

  Sixteen

  The Empress of Ice Cream

  I was a few minutes late being shown into my seat in the royal box at the Varieties, having taken time to send up a note for Miss Fellini, telling her that I would come to her dressing room after the show.

  I glanced down at the stalls where people chatted quietly while marvelling at Madam Sechrest, the amazing memory woman. A few people had brought their supper, treating me to the aroma of sausage sandwiches. Cigarette smoke curled towards the ornate ceiling. I thought of Selina and her worries about her throat. Having had my rose-scented bath and, miraculously, two hours’ sleep, I felt ready for the fray.

  Selina would have questions about Billy. It might be a comfort to her to know that he had not appeared to suffer. It might even be helpful to learn that he had popped off to smoke a cigar after witnessing the eclipse. Of course, I should have to omit the fact that he may have inhaled a bellyful of cyanide. That little gem of a possibility would have to wait, until I heard from Mr Brownlaw.

  I had spotted Sykes and Rosie in the fifth row of the stalls. The only drawback about telling the story of the cigar was that my admission would give him an opportunity to be superior. Allowing a schoolboy to become involved – however intelligent and helpful, and however many doctors that boy boasted in his family – had not been a good idea. It could be construed as tampering with evidence. Why hadn’t Brownlaw telephoned?

  Pay attention, I told myself as someone asked the memory woman which team knocked Accrington Stanley out of the FA Cup in the 1906–1907 season.

  She answered in a clear confident voice. ‘Bradford City beat Accrington Stanley in February 1907. Bradford City one, Accrington Stanley nil.’

  The questioner must be a plant, and the solitary audience member clapping loudly enough to break his wrists must be a Bradfordian.

  Madam Sechrest was not perturbed. ‘Am I correct?’ she asked her questioner.

  ‘You are that, lass.’

  Quelling the audience’s merriment, the memory woman asked for another question. Hands shot up.

  Mr Sykes came to his feet. What was he thinking of? It was not like him to draw attention to himself while ‘on duty’. Either he had some obscure question about the Battle of Trafalgar, or he had somehow hit on an idea that might shed light on our investigation.

  Leaning against the brass rail of the royal box, I waited.

  Sykes spoke with his usual confidence. ‘Miss Sechrest, not counting today, when was the last total solar eclipse visible in England, and when will the next occur?’

  It was not a difficult question as the newspapers had been full of such information in recent weeks.

  Sandy Sechrest repeated the question. Perhaps this habit of repeating the question gave her time to gather information from the filing cabinet of her brain. She answered quickly. ‘The last total solar eclipse was on 22 May 1724. On 24 January 1925 an eclipse of short duration could be seen not from land but from north of the Hebrides. The next total eclipse will be in the year 1999.’

  There was a gasp from a few in the audience who hadn’t kept up with the newspapers, and a sigh from those who now realised they had missed their once in a lifetime opportunity. Miss Sechrest paused and then spoke again with a mixture of challenge and humility in her voice. She had picked up a little phrase from her counterpart, the Memory Man. His phrase was, ‘Am I right, sir?’ She paraphrased. ‘Am I correct, sir?’

  Having spoken once, Sykes’s confidence swelled. ‘You are, madam. And I have a supplementary question along similar lines if you’ll permit.’

  She made a gracious gesture. ‘Ask your question, sir.’

  ‘Madam, are you able to tell me the dates of the new moons over the past eighteen months?’

  For the first time, she hesitated, and the pause stretched. And then she answered. ‘The calculation is based on local time in London.’ She reeled off a list of days and dates starting with 10 January last year and continuing to the present month.

  ‘Am I correct, sir?’

  Sykes answered quickly. ‘You are, madam. Thank you.’

  There was a round of applause. Madam Sechrest took a bow.

  At first I could not fathom the thinking behind Sykes’s questions regarding new moons. Then it occurred to me that he was trying to stir things up a little. This was his attempt to find out whether anyone else in the company shared Selina’s concerns, or nonsense, about deaths at the time of a new moon.

  Madam Sechrest had hesitated for a little longer on this question. That seemed to me natural enough. Even a woman with miraculous powers of memory would take a moment before she could reel off eighteen dates. It was an astonishing feat.

  If I were to continue this investigation on behalf of Selina, I must talk to Sandy Sechrest. Someone with a brain such as hers must have noticed incidents, events, exchanges that others may have missed.

  The measure of my task suddenly became utterly daunting. If Selina was right and the three deaths were not accidental, what was the link? True, each death had occurred at the time of a new moon, but given three deaths over eighteen months that meant there were fifteen new moons when no suspicious deaths occurred in Selina Fellini’s world.

  I had no more time to ponder this riddle because at that moment the theatre erupted as Selina herself swept on stage, looking radiant in a low-cut purple gown, a feather boa around her shoulders and with feathers in her hair that would not disgrace the chief of some gallant tribe.

  And at that moment, the door to my box opened.

  I looked round, half expecting to see Mr Brockett who had ushered me in here not long after curtain up. It was not Mr Brockett but a tall figure dressed in black. I did not see his face as he instantly turned away on seeing me. He closed the door gently behind him. It was the briefest of moments before I guessed he might be some person from the gallery whose restricted view made him think the box was empty and he might risk taking a better seat for the last part of the show.

  Having no objections to sharing the box I left my seat and opened the door, to call him back. The corridor was empty. I opened a door that led to the backstage area, but saw no one on the other side. Much as I wanted to see Selina, I was on duty and it intrigued me that an intruder could appear and disappear so quickly. I turned round and followed the horseshoe path to the other side of the theatre. No one. Perhaps that edgy feeling that alerted me to impending trouble was imagined because of the strangeness of the last twenty-four hours. I found a spot in the dress circle from where I could see both the audience and Selina’s performance.

  It would take a better pen than mine to describe the feelings of love and admiration that rose from the auditorium and all corners of the theatre as Selina Fellini sang. Her range is enormous but she is best known for her songs that give comic and tragic accounts of the lives of girls and women from the poor end of life, which she knows so well. Her songs can be sentimental, comic or full of sly digs and innuendo.

  Everyone knows Fellini’s ice cream and there were whoops of delight when she began to sing ‘The Empress of Ice Cream’.

  I’m the girl from Grimston Street

  Old wellington boots on my feet

  I make the ice cream of which you dream

  I’m the girl from Grimston Street

  Give us a lick, the boys all say

  And I surely wish I could

  But without the penny they’re not having any

  I’m the girl from Grimston Street.

  In between songs, Sel
ina talked to her audience and at the edge of her words, just for a few seconds, I caught a sense of her vulnerability but perhaps only because I knew of her fears. All that fled as she sang. When she sang, her confidence filled the theatre, drawing the audience to her heart. With warmth in her voice and ease in her movements she sang, swayed and did a jolly little dance. At last, she talked to the audience as if she were sitting in their kitchen as she had sat in mine. She told them about flying across their world in the middle of the night and seeing the dark towns, patchwork fields and strangers dancing around a bonfire calling on the sun not to abandon us. It was almost as if she spoke a eulogy for Billy Moffatt, and for everything that was ever lost.

  She sang one more song about a lass and her soldier boy who pulled the wool over her eyes until she got wise and did the same to him. As the song ended, she stepped to the edge of the stage, smiled down at the orchestra and then into the audience. Her change of demeanour from gay to grave prompted a similar response. ‘I have something to tell you all and it is most painful for me to do this but you have a right to know.’

  An odd hum of sounds came from the stalls below and the circle above. People did not know whether this was a prelude to a funny story or, what might be, from the sound of her voice, something bad. They did not come here to hear bad things. There was enough of that at home and at work.

  ‘Before curtain up, Mr Trotter Brockett announced that Mr Billy Moffatt would not be performing tonight.’

  The murmur increased. There was an air of expectancy, almost tangible.

  ‘Billy and I were together this morning to see the eclipse. He of course expected a probability of cloud. Those of you who know Billy’s humour won’t be surprised at that. He dealt in making the funny sad and the sad funny. I would rather you hear this from me than from tomorrow’s papers. Our funny, delightful, annoying and wonderful Billy collapsed and died today. I cannot say more, except to ask that we remember him now, with a moment’s silence and a private prayer for the soul of Billy Moffatt, William James Moffatt who turned thirty-six years old this month. After that silence, I will ask our friends in the orchestra to play Billy’s tune, and for you all to join me in singing Billy’s very special song, “It Ain’t Funny”.’

  That moment of utter silence, followed by singing and weeping, would never be forgotten by any person who was in the City Varieties theatre that night.

  The national anthem followed. People stood in silence. They did not have the king or God’s saving of him on their mind. All thoughts were of true royalty, the prince of comedy, Mr Billy Moffatt.

  Seventeen

  Dressing Room One

  As the national anthem reached the final verse, Mr Brockett came and stood beside me in a companionable way until the last note of ‘God Save the King’.

  From the stage, Selina looked up at us and round the whole theatre as she took her final curtsey.

  Mr Brockett gave a rueful smile. ‘She was wonderful. They love her, simply love her.’

  ‘What a beautiful eulogy for Billy.’

  He nodded. ‘She has a sense of occasion, an instinct for what’s required. Some of the audience will have seen her when she entertained the troops. People don’t forget. They say, “She’s one of us”.’ He held the door for me. ‘You changed seats.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We walked back the way I had come, went through a door and across a bridge to the backstage area. ‘Was the box comfortable? I have asked the management about reupholstering the seats.’

  ‘It was very comfortable. I fancied a change of viewpoint.’

  ‘I do that myself, often where I can listen to what people think, hear their approvals and disapprovals.’

  ‘I thought I might have had company at one point, a tall chap opened the door for a look-see during Selina’s song.’

  ‘I’m sorry you were disturbed. There’s always someone from the gods who sees an empty space below and tries their luck.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. He disappeared quite quickly once he saw me.’

  ‘More fool him,’ Brockett quipped and then suddenly remembered himself and said, ‘I do beg your pardon. You must be on edge after such a long and difficult day.’

  I waited for him to lead the way along the corridor.

  In a sudden change of tone, he politely quizzed me for a response to the performance. Having missed the opening moments and being somewhat preoccupied, I felt unqualified to do much more than offer praise, and especially of Selina.

  ‘She is very precious to me. I want to be sure she has her rest, especially after such a shock. Everyone wants a little bit of her magic. I do my best to protect her. It was good of you to arrange the flight to Giggleswick, although I confess that I did not feel easy until I knew she and her two feet were back on terra firma.’

  We entered a black painted door marked ‘Private’. The passageway beyond was narrow and smelled of mops and buckets.

  I waited for Brockett to continue, but he came to a stop, and took a noisy breath before speaking. ‘You must be tired after your ordeal. Do say if you wish me to call you a taxi. It’s been a trying day for all of us, though Selina was magnificent. She touched just the right note.’

  ‘Her tribute to Mr Moffatt was very moving.’

  ‘She loved him, we all did. He needed a lot of support lately, having been losing confidence for some time. Selina stood by him, always stands by her friends. His loss is a terrible blow.’

  ‘Yes, and such a shock.’

  ‘She will need all our support, and so if she does make you some offer to… continue with her…’

  ‘That wasn’t our arrangement, Mr Brockett.’

  ‘No, no of course not.’

  ‘I arranged the flight. That is all.’

  ‘Yes of course, but Selina likes to have people around her who are efficient and protective.’

  Several dancers flashed by, chatting to each other, throwing us a hello and making a dash for a dressing room.

  We stood with our backs to the wall to allow more performers to pass. ‘I’m glad you’re here to guide the way, Mr Brockett. It always surprises me that even the smallest theatres could compete with Hampton Court maze for twists and turns.’

  He was not to be deflected in his praise of me. ‘Your arrangement for that aeroplane flight was a stroke of genius because she was so determined to be at Giggleswick today. You must know many people, lots of contacts, to have pulled that off at short notice.’

  ‘Don’t we all, Mr Brockett? You must be acquainted with far more people than I ever hope to know.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I suppose that to be true. You meet all sorts in this business.’

  We reached a door bearing the painted name ‘Dressing Room 1’. On it was pinned a large gold star whose points curled at the edges.

  Mr Brockett rat-a-tatted on the door. Selina’s familiar voice called for us to come in.

  Brockett patted my shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you to it and will come back shortly. She’s bound to ask questions and I have no answers. I told her that I would go to Giggleswick tomorrow and make arrangements, but the hospital say it’s too soon.’

  Selina was seated at her dressing table in front of a gilt-framed looking-glass edged by small bright bulbs. She wore a robe and had taken the pins from her hair. Through the mirror, she gave a wan smile and asked me to come and sit down. Beryl was by the far wall hanging the purple costume on a rail.

  It was not a large room but had a sumptuous feeling, given off by the plum-coloured velvet throws and cushions covering an Empire couch on one side of the room and a small armchair to Selina’s left. As I sank into the plush battered armchair, a wave of tiredness swept through me. Lit by a gas fire, the room was warm. A large cut-glass vase tightly packed with roses and lilies sat on a spindly table and gave off a sweet, almost cloying scent. The table was draped with a silk tasselled shawl. Next to the vase was a bottle of Shalimar. Beside the clothes rail, where Beryl straightened dresses, was a corner washbasin. Abo
ve it, shelves were crammed with pots of make-up and more flowers. The smell of greasepaint, freshly ironed clothes and Selina’s familiar cedar wood scent, which would ever after transport me to Giggleswick Chapel, mingled with the aroma of flowers.

  She paused in the act of taking off her make-up, and then began again, wiping the colour from her face in easy, practised movements. Only then did she turn to me.

  ‘I can’t believe it. Beryl told me. I almost didn’t say Billy’s name on stage tonight thinking that when Kate comes, she’ll tell me it was a mistake.’

  Beryl crossed the room from the clothes rail and drew up a stool. I brought my chair forward. The three of us sat in a small tight circle.