Death in the Stars Page 18

  ‘There was barely a change in Sechrest’s demeanour, just the tiniest hesitation, a break in her icy concentration. She’s impressive. I can imagine her being broadcast on the cat’s whiskers, being quizzed by a panel of boffins.’

  ‘You should suggest it at the Woodhouse Lane studio. I’m sure the broadcasters would love to have an unusual programme.’

  ‘Would they capture the atmosphere, though? The tension, the audience holding its breath as they did when she was ready to spout her answer. She showed no change of demeanour for any other questions people asked, only that one, about the new moons.’

  I thought back to Sandy Sechrest’s remark to Selina, about casting a horoscope. ‘I believe Miss Sechrest is interested in astrology. Perhaps you set her thinking along some other lines.’

  Mrs Sugden had listened patiently to this exchange but it was clear she had something to say. She produced her notes. ‘You were right about Mr Duffield at the newspaper offices. He’s a man who knows his onions. Not only did he look up those two deaths, the dog trainer and the ventriloquist, but he mentioned the paper’s theatre correspondent. He and I caught up with each other later in the Central Library. I didn’t go into this earlier, Mrs Shackleton, because I thought you had enough on your plate, but the theatre correspondent takes a special interest in the demise of performers – not out of suspicions or to be morbid but because he likes to know what happens to old music hall performers now that the writing is on the wall.’

  Sykes interrupted. ‘What does he mean by the writing is on the wall?’

  ‘Their days are numbered, according to the theatre man. People want a different kind of entertainment, the moving pictures, the cat’s whiskers, gramophone records. He calls it the end of an era.’

  ‘And did he have any specific information about the performers we’re interested in?’

  ‘He did.’ Mrs Sugden passed a sheet of paper across the table. ‘There’s the address of the ventriloquist’s widow, and here’s the name of the unfortunate tram driver who ran over Mr Dougan and left his three dogs without a master. It’s all right Miss Fellini having feelings about deaths not being accidental but she isn’t the horse’s mouth, is she? The widow would be a better source of knowledge and the tram driver ought to have an idea whether Mr Dougan fell, jumped or was pushed.’

  Mr Sykes glanced at Mrs Sugden with admiration. ‘You’ve done well there.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Mrs Sugden said modestly. ‘It’s the newspaper men to thank for what I managed to come home with. And something else.’

  ‘What?’ Sykes and I asked in unison.

  ‘Well if you’ll look closely, there are more deaths in that profession than might be expected. It’s the saddest of times for them. You and I might not notice if some performers slip out of view but for them it’s a terrible thing not to be able to entertain the public as they once did. Some know nothing else, you see.’ She consulted her notes. ‘There have been suicides, drowning, shooting, gassing and all for what you and I might think as no reason whatsoever. One poor chap who liked to mingle with the audience after the show heard himself called a falling star. He went home and shot himself. Another poor fellow, comic, didn’t raise a chuckle, copped for a few rotten tomatoes, went off and drowned himself in the river.’

  ‘Well that’s tragic.’ Sykes drained his cup. ‘But it’s not pertinent.’

  ‘Pertinent enough to me.’ Mrs Sugden pursed her lips. ‘You see, here’s a profession, and this is according to the theatre correspondent who writes for more than one newspaper and is in the process of planning a book…’ she paused to let the weight of her words settle. ‘Here’s a profession where a way of life is dying.’

  Sykes let out a groan. ‘You wouldn’t have said that if you’d been in the City Varieties tonight. The audience went crackers for the whole lot of them, especially Miss Fellini.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t sitting in the Varieties. I was keeping a helpful old gentleman away from his work by being very thorough in my researches. After that I was up in the library, making notes of the coroners’ reports.’

  She handed me her notes on the coroners’ verdicts. A passenger on the tram had spoken up for the driver, saying he didn’t have a chance to stop. The man just tumbled onto the line. It was thought someone had tried to save him but did not stay around to help afterwards. In the case of the accident on stage, one of the stage hands was dismissed but there was not sufficient evidence of neglect to bring charges. The dismissed stage hand had complained bitterly and was said to have previously been considered an exemplary worker.

  Mrs Sugden was rightly pleased with her efforts. ‘The theatre critic told me that the stage hand was given another job a few weeks later at the Newcastle Empire.’

  She was still clinging to her theory that the deaths were part of a wider pattern of a way of life coming to an end and leaving a trail of casualties in its wake. ‘Just because tonight’s was a good performance – and how could it not be when Selina Fellini was on stage? – that doesn’t mean anything. We all know about the energy behind death throes.’

  ‘Do we?’ I asked, trying to think of an example.

  ‘Aye, we do. A big proportion of people in that profession are dead but they won’t lie down.’

  Sykes looked to me to change the direction of proceedings. When I did not, he said, ‘So do you want me to go see the unfortunate tram driver? If anyone knows whether Dougie Dougan’s death was an accident, surely he will.’

  ‘Yes. Do that tomorrow, see if you can find him at his place of work. I’m going to see Selina’s mother-in-law to see if her son Jarrod spent the night in his old bed.’

  Mrs Sugden cleared her throat. ‘The company moves on from the City Varieties after Saturday.’

  ‘They do,’ I agreed.

  ‘So there isn’t a lot of time if you don’t want to be chasing Miss Fellini round every theatre in the north of England.’

  ‘I hope it won’t come to that, but if it does I believe there are just two more weeks, in Huddersfield and Halifax.’

  ‘Then let me go visit the ventriloquist’s widow. If we all do our bit, it will save time.’

  We had our work cut out for tomorrow. Before Sykes went home, and Mrs Sugden put the porridge in the pan for morning, I gave them a blow-by-blow account of the party, and the journey to Giggleswick, and all that Billy had said and done – just in case I had missed anything.

  Twenty-Two

  An Unexpected Visitor

  My main plan for the day was to visit Selina’s mother-in-law, Mrs Compton, in the hope of finding her son Jarrod at home.

  I checked my watch. It niggled that I had not yet heard from Ernest Brownlaw. Yesterday, Alex McGregor carried out his test for cyanide so very quickly. It was surprising that Ernest Brownlaw was not equally prompt in his professional analysis. Something was amiss. I tried to think of a plausible explanation. Perhaps he saw no urgency in contacting me regarding a negative outcome. Some emergency had arisen. His wife or child was sick. He had mislaid my telephone number. None of the explanations sufficed.

  On the dot of nine, I telephoned his shop.

  Penny Scott answered. ‘Brownlaws Chemist.’

  ‘Miss Scott, Mrs Shackleton here. I was in yesterday.’

  ‘Yes of course. I hope you liked the soap flakes.’

  ‘I did, very much. Now is Mr Brownlaw there?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’ll just see. He might have popped out.’

  It is not an enormous shop. At this time in the morning, I would have expected her to know whether he was in or out.

  She came back quickly. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Shackleton, you’ve just missed him.’

  ‘Miss Scott, I really would like to speak with him.’

  ‘Yes of course. I’ll ask him to call you the moment he returns.’

  ‘Did he leave a message for me?’

  ‘Just a mo, I’ll check.’

  One word was all I needed.

  I heard a voice in the ba
ckground. There was a noisy shuffling of papers.

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t see any message on the pad or in Mr Brownlaw’s diary.’

  We ended the conversation. Short of calling her a liar, or going to the shop and searching the back room, there was little I could do. I might just buy my rose-scented soap flakes elsewhere in future. But why was he avoiding me?

  Mrs Sugden picked up the morning’s post from the mat behind the front door.

  ‘Ernest Brownlaw is avoiding me, Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘Oh no, not Mr Brownlaw, he has a soft spot for you.’

  ‘Soft spot or not, that’s what he’s doing.’

  I had one more telephone call to make. My parents live in Wakefield. Since my father’s call at the house when I was out, I had not managed to speak to him. Reluctant to disturb him at police headquarters, I asked the operator to connect me to the home number. My mother would still be in bed, drinking tea and reading, but I could leave a message with Pamela, giving a hint that I was on a case and saying that if I could not come on Sunday, I would telephone.

  The house phone rang, and rang. As I listened and waited, I pictured the scene in the hall at my parents’ house, the house where I had grown up. There would be flowers on the hall table, the umbrella stand with a couple of walking sticks, kept for occasional hikes, and several brollies, including the green one with the broken spoke.

  I hung up.

  To break the spell of unlucky tries, I put in a call to my father at his office.

  He was away from his desk.

  So far, this was not my day for telephone calls.

  I turned my attention to the next task: introducing myself to Mrs Compton. Selina’s mother-in-law lived in Gledhow Lodge. She was listed in the directory under her late husband’s initial, R. Compton. I decided against telephoning in advance. This call might best be made in the old-fashioned way, in person. I would present my card and hope that surprise and curiosity might do the trick of opening her door.

  Intrigued as I was at the prospect of meeting the woman who, according to Selina, loathed and despised her, the person I really wanted to meet was her son, Jarrod. Selina had described her husband’s changed nature; his Jekyll and Hyde personality may or may not mark him as a murderer. I hoped he had stayed the night with his mother, tapping away on his typewriter. I would be able to judge for myself whether he struck me as a man to rival Othello in his capacity for jealousy of his wife, her late lover, her men friends, and her astonishing success.

  Unnerved by the mystery tour route I had created for myself the night before, I spread the road map on the dining room table, pinpointed Gledhow Lodge, and looked for the most direct route. It appeared to be along Grove Land in the direction of Potternewton. Usually lodge houses are easily visible from the road, so fingers crossed that I would find my way with no trouble.

  Mrs Sugden hovered, as she invariably does as I am about to leave the house. ‘She’ll be a bit of a toff, this Mrs Compton, living at such an address.’

  ‘We’re in a lodge house, Mrs Sugden. Hers may be a modest place too.’

  Mrs Sugden shook her head. ‘You haven’t heard then. Gledhow Lodge is the house where a chief constable lived years ago. They don’t stint.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Do you have your calling cards?’

  ‘I do. I have everything, including an umbrella in case it rains.’ Mrs Sugden is so determined to be helpful that I refrain from unkind remarks and never remind her that she delays my every journey and frequently makes me forget something.

  ‘Would you like a bottle of water in case you get lost?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you and read the map?’ She was diverted by the sound of the doorbell, left the room and strode along the hall. The door opened.

  ‘Hello! What are you doing here?’

  That was not normally how Mrs Sugden answered the door.

  At any other time, the cheerful answering voice would have gladdened my heart. ‘Hello, Mrs Sugden. I’m here to see my auntie Kate.’

  ‘You better go through.’

  Harriet was already through, almost before I had time to hide my dismay. ‘Harriet, what a surprise.’

  She deposited a carpet bag on the floor. ‘Aren’t you glad to see me either?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘You’re not. I can tell. And Mam said you’d be just as glad to see me as she was to see the back of me.’

  ‘It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘I know, but I couldn’t wait to get out and Mam couldn’t wait to be rid of me. She said, “Go and live with your auntie Kate since you’re always on about her. See how she likes having you moping about the place”.’

  That sounded like Mary Jane, the sister I had come to know and love. I was adopted at birth and met her for the first time when she had a crisis, a few years ago.

  ‘Of course you can stay, but why didn’t you or your mother think to telephone?’

  ‘I didn’t because it was too late last night and too early this morning. Mam won’t call you because she’s crafty and she wouldn’t want you to have the chance to say no.’

  She looked at the map spread on the table. ‘You’re on a case.’

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh good! I can help you.’ She took a closer look at the map. ‘I’m good at maps. I came top in Geography.’

  She looked so eager, and certain of her welcome.

  ‘What did you and your mam fall out about?’

  ‘I’m so fed up. Everything’s always the same. I’m supposed to help in the post office. I’m supposed to mind the little one. Honestly, anyone would think I was a maid of all work instead of number one and only daughter.’

  ‘But you like helping in the post office.’

  ‘And now I’m being squeezed out of that. Auntie Barbara May turned up. You know she leaves her husband every couple of years?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well she does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to show him, show him that she can. Only she’s sharing my bed and she snores and kicks and I’m fed up of it.’

  ‘Apart from that, how is everyone?’

  ‘Mam and Uncle Bob are better without me I should think. I like him but I won’t call him Dad you know, even to keep up appearances.’

  ‘How’s Austin?’

  ‘Oh, being a boy it’s different for him. He’s never asked to mind the little one. The one time he did, he let the baby play with the poker so he wasn’t asked again. Boys can be so crafty. Is it all right if I make a cheese sandwich? I’m starving. I’ll make one for you.’

  ‘I’ve just had breakfast, and I’m going out soon. There’s some porridge left in the pan.’

  Her sheer energy was exhausting when I was trying to order my thoughts. It was like being stuck in sand as the tide washed in.

  ‘How did you get here this early?’

  ‘Caught an early train before they all got up and it was so s-l-o-w.’ She took off her coat. ‘So can I then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be your assistant. I need to earn my keep if I’m staying here.’

  ‘You know the spare room is there for you…’

  She grabbed me and planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Thank you! I knew you’d say that.’

  ‘But I have an assistant, Mr Sykes, and there’s Mrs Sugden who likes to expand her duties.’

  Harriet glanced about to see if Mrs Sugden was within hearing, but Mrs Sugden had tactfully made herself scarce. ‘There must be times when you need someone young and keen. I’ll be ever so good and useful. I’ve been taking jujitsu lessons.’

  ‘Come through to the kitchen. Let’s see how much porridge is left and you can heat some milk. Later, we’ll have a chat.’

  She followed me through, carrying a folded newspaper which she placed on the table.

  ‘I’ve thought about what to do next.’

&
nbsp; ‘Apart from being my assistant?’ I poured a drop of milk into the pan, to make the porridge edible.

  ‘If you’re in the middle of a case, I understand why I can’t join in.’

  ‘It’s not just that. You’re…’

  ‘… you’re going to say I’m too young, which I’m really not.’

  I lit the gas under the pan. ‘If you’re to have a job, you must have a proper employer, not your auntie. At present I’m at a delicate stage with a case, so you see…’