Death in the Stars Read online

  Having had only two hours’ sleep and a most exhausting day, I felt like a person slapped around the head with a wet kipper. Concentrate, I told myself. Meeting so many performers and friends of Selina’s in so short a time, I tried to make connections between what was happening now and the deaths of Dougie Doig and Floyd Lloyd.

  Everything that had happened felt too close, too deeply unsettling, and inconclusive. Some pause was needed, to gain perspective, recoup and gather my wits. I would be glad when I could talk about the day’s events to Jim Sykes.

  And I must pin Selina down. There was a slippery quality about her, and always that sense that she was holding back.

  Selina whispered, ‘I wish I knew where Jarrod has gone.’

  ‘Did he give a hint? You said he stayed at your house to make a clean copy of his manuscript. What did he intend to do with it?’

  ‘He was a little evasive, but he mentioned he might type it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re worrying too much and he’ll be at your house when you arrive home.’

  ‘He isn’t there. I telephoned. We’re here at the Varieties until Saturday. What other damnable blows will fall between now and then?’

  Beryl answered, ‘Give over! Nothing else can happen. Bad things come in threes and we’ve had our share.’

  *

  The Bentley pulled onto Selina’s drive, followed by a taxi containing three other members of the company, the Powolskis and Maurice Montague. During the journey, Beryl told me that Selina, having a house of many rooms, was providing hospitality to other company members. The young acrobats, the Powolski brother and sister, who were hard up, had been given a room. Maurice Montague, master of music, down on his luck, was also staying at Selina’s house after unspecified setbacks. Unspecified except that Jake’s performing pony had chewed the smaller of Maurice’s accordions and that Maurice’s rail journeys cost more than anyone else’s due to the charges for transporting his twenty-nine musical instruments.

  Beryl seemed somewhat peevish about Maurice and I felt glad for him that he had his new job at the Grand Pygmalion.

  The young acrobats Powolski and Maurice climbed out of the taxi. The fleet-footed young Powolskis were first into the house, with Maurice close behind.

  There had been a note of scepticism in Beryl’s voice when she told the tale of the Powolskis’ poverty and Maurice Montague’s setbacks, but of approval when she spoke to Sandy Sechrest, as if feeling the necessity to exclude Sandy from any suggestion of exploiting Selina’s good nature.

  ‘What are your digs like, Sandy?’

  ‘Passable thank you, Beryl.’

  Selina said, ‘You’ll come in for a bite of supper, Sandy?’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’

  Sandy, Maurice and the Powolskis made a beeline for the kitchen. Selina and I went upstairs to where she had her bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. Beryl called from the bottom of the stairs, ‘We’ll bring you some food!’

  While Selina changed into nightwear, I went into the bathroom. I have stayed in grand houses in London and in the country but they were centuries old, full of draughts, creaks and groans and usually with a shortage of toileting facilities. This bathroom was a picture of black and white tiles, shining chrome mirror tiles above the wash basin and a geometrical pattern on the black and white linoleum. Faucets and towel rails were decorated with an Egyptian motif. I washed my face and hands, combed my hair, and felt glad to have a few moments to myself. I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about my own house. It’s up-to-date as such houses go. But if I could have picked up Selina’s bathroom and taken it home, I would have been a happy woman. A happy woman who would spend an awfully long time in the bath tub.

  I went back into the sitting room. Selina was seated in one of the chairs by the fire, tying the belt of her silk robe that was patterned with peacocks. The room was decorated in the palest green with low tables set beside the chairs on either side of the hearth. Coals blazed in the grate of the green-tiled fireplace. An elegant dancing figure graced the mantelpiece, along with a brass, chrome and Bakelite circus strongman, a female acrobat on a tray in his hand. The acrobat, adorned in links of chain, held a curved bar decorated with dumbbells.

  She saw me admiring the little ornament. ‘Touch it. The acrobat spins and turns but never loses her balance.’

  I tapped the acrobat’s arm. She wobbled a little, spun and slowly returned to her original position. Lucky little acrobat.

  Before we had time to begin our conversation, Beryl and Sandy came into the room, each carrying a tray with a bowl of soup, bread and butter, ham and cheese, waving away our thanks and leaving us to it. Trays perched on our laps, we tackled the soup.

  Selina kicked off a pair of flimsy slippers. ‘You must think I’m unbalanced, or psychic. I feared something bad would happen today, and it did, almost as if I had wished it.’

  ‘What made you fearful?’

  ‘A feeling, an instinct.’

  ‘Was it because you knew of Billy’s addiction?’

  ‘I’m not sure that he does have, did have, an addiction. It’s true he occasionally sniffs cocaine. I’ve told him that’s such a dirty habit. But no one would blame an old soldier for taking morphine. It’s prescribed. It’s medicinal.’

  To my knowledge I don’t have a maiden aunt but I felt like one as I pointed out that Billy’s narcotics were unlikely to have been prescribed, or medicinal, and could be dangerous.

  She stretched her toes towards the fire like some modern-day Cinderella, staring into the flames.

  ‘Selina, smoke signals up the chimney won’t help. We’re both tired. It’s been a terrible day, but you came to me for help. You feared something bad might happen and it has. I’ve begun investigations into how your friends Dougie Dougan and Floyd Lloyd died, but if you have any suspicions that Billy’s death was anything other than accidental, say so now and tell me why.’

  She poked the fire. ‘You’re very hard.’

  ‘Tell me what you are thinking.’

  If she had nothing more to say, then I would leave. The weariness of the long party, the flight and the extraordinary experience of watching the eclipse left me feeling that there had been a shift in reality. The world, always out of kilter, had undergone some new spin. I would not have been surprised to hear an alarm clock and wake up. Something deep inside me hoped that might happen. I wanted a real alarm to wake me, to quell the alarm I felt inside. She had stitched past deaths to the image of the new moon and pinned on fresh fears.

  Here we were, sitting in this delightful house, this monument to style and light, on the point of entering a new darkness.

  The eclipse seemed to have created a different feeling about the world. We all go about our business feeling we have a modicum of control, making choices about the smallest things as if they are of earth-shattering importance. But a chill had entered my soul when the world turned dark. I envied those who, however briefly, danced the fandango when the light returned. She had danced, and so had Billy. I was the one on the side lines, watching, asking the difficult questions.

  Selina’s words ricocheted around my brain. Something bad is going to happen. An uncanny sensation almost overwhelmed me. We humans have such a short time on earth, the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye. Our paths cross with so many people and sometimes I think back to the days when I was eighteen, nineteen and into my twenties and wish I had done something differently, been less diffident, more ready to recognise an overture of friendship. The opposite was true now. Never before had I felt such a strong instinct to turn away.

  ‘Selina, do you think Billy found some way of ending his own life today?’

  ‘No! He was looking forward to something. Trotter had a show in mind for us, to open in the autumn.’

  ‘Were you looking forward to that?’

  ‘Yes and no. You see, Jarrod also had plans. Plans for me – that manuscript – Jarrod hopes and dreams that it will be a moving picture.’

  ‘Did Billy kn
ow?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He knew that Jarrod was writing something for me.’

  ‘Was there a part for Billy in the moving picture script?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘So there was a conflict of interest between the plans that Trotter Brockett had for you and Billy, and what Jarrod hopes will happen.’

  She stood and twirled the little acrobat on the mantelshelf. ‘I don’t see it that way.’

  I would go soon. Before I left, should I pass on Mrs Douglas’s message that Selina’s son would not be welcome at Giggleswick School? That was none of my business.

  ‘Miss Fellini…’

  ‘Selina.’

  ‘Selina, you’ve asked me to investigate but I have a feeling that you don’t want answers.’

  She talks like she sings, with warmth in her voice and, on stage, always seems spontaneous.

  ‘Kate, the reason I came to you is because my friend Giuseppe said you take a logical approach and go about with your eyes and ears open and that you do not judge harshly.’

  She paused, but I made no response. It was a bit late to be going over my testimonials. What I wanted to know was this: what comes next?

  The best thing I could do was to concentrate on the here and now and try and find out more from Selina. ‘Was Billy staying here?’

  ‘Yes. In the end bedroom along the landing.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what we should do.’

  ‘You think he took something, and that he may have left a note?’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Nineteen

  Billy’s Room

  We walked along the landing. The house was silent. If the others were still having supper downstairs they were quiet about it.

  Selina opened the door and flicked on the light. The room was plain with white walls and a blind at the window. The furniture was fumed oak: dressing table with mirror, wardrobe, a single bed made up with a plain white counterpane, bedside table, lamp and rattan chair.

  The sheet and pillow were of heavy cotton and on the pillow was a single long black hair. Selina picked it up and wound it around her finger.

  On the wall was a painting in the style of Atkinson Grimshaw, a solitary figure walking along a moonlit path through trees. Perhaps it was an Atkinson Grimshaw.

  On the dressing table stood a bottle of hair oil and a leather case containing shaving brush, soap and razor along with hairbrush, comb and clothes brush. She removed the cork from the hair oil and dabbed a touch on her wrist.

  I picked up a notebook from the bedside table and looked through the pages.

  ‘That’s his workbook, for his sketches and ideas.’

  There were headings, characters and lines of dialogue. I flicked through but saw no indication of anything personal. The most recent entries concerned ‘Unfortunate Little Man goes snow shifting – no coat’, ‘Old soldier breaks into brewery’ and ‘Works outing’.

  Selina opened the wardrobe. There was an everyday wool suit, worn at the cuffs.

  She stroked the sleeve of the jacket, and put her hands in the pockets. ‘Nothing in the pockets but matches, tobacco and a stubby pencil.’

  I went to look, just in case that tobacco was the same as the cigar. I took a sniff at the few strands that were mixed with the kind of grit and dust that lines the bottom of some pockets. This was tobacco from a cheap cigarette, a gasper.

  She opened drawers which contained a few items of clothing, a pack of playing cards and some professionally produced postcards with Billy’s likeness. She raised a photo card to her lips. ‘He travelled light. He always said he didn’t like to have much stuff, didn’t see the point.’

  His battered, empty suitcase was under the bed.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up a cowboy novel from the bedside table. Nothing fell out of the pages except a Woodbine packet that marked his place. She examined it, in case there was a word.

  ‘Might he have left anything at the theatre?’ I asked.

  ‘Only his costume. On stage he wore baggy trousers, workman’s shirt, a pair of braces and big boots with no socks. He shared a dressing room so there wasn’t much space.’

  I sat down on the nearby wicker chair. ‘Let me ask you one or two questions because I’m so in the dark here.’

  ‘I know. I haven’t been very clear, but I’m not sure how to be. Everything kind of merges together. I knew something bad might happen but I never thought it would be Billy.’

  ‘You say that as if you expected someone else to die. Who did you think it might be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Jarrod and Billy have always got on. Even last night, at the party, although Jarrod didn’t want to talk to anyone, he spoke to Billy. They were outside together, under the trees.’

  ‘You said that Jarrod has been acting strangely.’

  ‘Yes, for months. It’s a kind of madness. Sometimes he is his normal self and at other times he looks at me as if he doesn’t know who I am, and I think about Iago whispering to Othello. Jarrod looks at me as though I’ve betrayed him. Last night he was cheerful, and then I don’t see him, like today, when he just left something for me and disappeared.’

  ‘Was he acting strangely when Dougie Doig had his accident?’

  ‘That was a year ago and no, he was himself then. He did come to Sunderland to see the show. He brought Reggie one Saturday.’

  ‘Reggie?’

  ‘Reggie’s our son, named for Jarrod’s father. He’s at boarding school.’

  It suddenly made sense that she was reluctant to say very much about Jarrod. The best outcome for her would be reassurance that those other deaths really were accidents, but I must keep an open mind. A third death in such a small company did seem more than coincidence.

  ‘Can you put a date on the first time you were aware of Jarrod behaving strangely?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘When the invitation came to you to view the eclipse, was it just to you, or to you and Billy?’

  ‘It was to me and Jarrod, addressed to Mr and Mrs Jarrod Compton, but Jarrod wouldn’t come. I told him that people would love to see him at his old school but he said no.’

  ‘Why do you think he said no?’

  ‘He knows himself that something is wrong and that he might… make a spectacle.’

  ‘Does he live here when you are touring?’

  ‘No. He has a place in Bridlington. He loves the sea and has a flat on the seafront. He was in a sanatorium there while recovering from surgery and he decided to stay out of a liking for the place and the East Riding landscape, and because he goes back to the sanatorium for treatment.’

  ‘How does he get about, does he drive?’

  ‘Yes. He has a motorcycle. He sometimes turns up at a theatre and slips into one of the boxes or stands at the back where he isn’t noticed. I told you he writes my songs. He still loves me but in his own strange way. And I love him.’

  I thought of the person who had stepped into the box and gone out again. ‘Does he wear a white silk muffler around his face?’

  She looked surprised. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I believe he may have come into the box where Mr Brockett put me. When he saw it was occupied, he went out again.’

  ‘Trotter sometimes arranges to have a box kept empty for him, just in case. Only this evening I suppose he didn’t expect him. Everyone knows him, you see, and Harry the doorkeeper or the front of house staff would say, “Oh, Mr Compton is here”.’

  ‘I went to try and speak to him, having no objection to someone else sharing the box.’

  ‘And did you see him, where he went?’

  ‘No. By the time I opened the door and looked, there was no sign of him.’

  She put her head in her hands. ‘This breaks my dream.’

  ‘What dream?’

  ‘I dreamed of a man on the stairs of the theatre, a man who wasn’t there but was. You know, like the poem, meeting a
man on the stair who wasn’t there. In the dream, it’s a winding staircase, somewhere like the Palladium. In my dream, the man is turning somersaults all the way down the stairs. And it was Jarrod, only it couldn’t have been.’

  ‘I know that feeling when dreams and the people in them are two things at the same time. Is there some significance about the stairs and acrobatics?’

  ‘Did you ever wonder why there are so few acrobats and high-wire men in the theatre now, and hardly any jugglers, except for youngsters like the Powolskis?’