‘There’s still a rare amount to be unravelled, Sarge,’ said Thackeray, seizing the first chance to affirm his loyalty.
‘Enough to keep me occupied a little longer, at any rate,’ said Cribb. ‘No need for you to stay on the case, though. Just indulging myself, you understand. It’s only details that irritate me; I shan’t be content till I’ve got ’em all accounted for. Like a flock of sheep, really.’
Cribb as shepherd was a novel conception, but in spirit Thackeray was already at his side in gaiters and smock. ‘I couldn’t give up now, Sarge, not when there’s work unfinished. Why, the answer to just one of them questions might alter everything, like one move in a game of draughts. How do you think I’d feel if you found something to upset my deductions?’
‘Can’t say,’ said Cribb. ‘But if you are wrong, and someone else staged those accidents, there’s a man in Newgate about to be tried for a crime he didn’t commit. I can guess how he feels. It ain’t no parlour-game to him, poor beggar.’
Thackeray, squashed utterly, made no comment. At such moments he had learned to wait for Cribb to take up the conversation again.
‘Made some inquiries of my own last night. Discovered a thing or two about Sir Douglas Butterleigh, the owner of Philbeach House.’
‘The gin manufacturer?’
‘Yes. Very rich man. Made his money when gin palaces were all the go. Now he’s ninety and bedridden and lost his power of speech a year ago. Lives in a nursing-home in Eastbourne.’
‘I shouldn’t think he can help us much, Sarge. Does he have any family?’
‘One son. A missionary in Ethiopia.’
‘He’ll stand to inherit a large fortune.’
‘Three factories,’ said Cribb, ‘two large houses and more than a hundred pubs.’ He paused. ‘And a music hall.’
Thackeray whistled. ‘Which one, Sarge?’
‘I don’t think you’ll know it. The Paragon, in Victoria. Not one of the larger halls.’
Theories bubbled in Thackeray’s brain. ‘A music hall! Blimey, Sarge, we ought to look it over!’
‘That’s what I was proposing to do,’ said Cribb. ‘That is, if that crowning sentence in your report can stand a small delay.’
THREE MATURE GENTLEMEN in blue satin drawers and zephyrs paraded with chins erect, arms linked and stomachs indrawn as if for a photograph. Not a thigh quivered nor a moustachio twitched as two younger men in white ran, sprang and bounded on to their shoulders from behind, linking their own arms for stability and gingerly straightening to the same elegant stance. Even the unexpected rasp of someone moving the springboard at the rear caused not the slightest upset in the human edifice. There was simply a simultaneous flexing of five sets of knees, a scamper from behind, a resounding thump on the board and a sixth acrobat rose irresistibly aloft. Fittingly, he was dressed in red. The others took the strain, steadied and straightened into a perfect pyramid.
‘Smoking-concert stuff!’ a voice called from the auditorium. ‘Better find yourselves a church hall, my friends. There’s no place for you on my stage.’ As the pyramid crumbled and slunk to the wings the voice added, ‘That’s the auditions finished, thank God. Now where’s the bloody ballet? I called a rehearsal for ten. Is there anyone in the house at all, dammit?’
In the back row of the pit, Cribb and Thackeray dipped even lower in their seats. From the front only the domes of their bowlers were exposed, like cats on a coalshed. The Paragon was cold and smelt of orange-peel and stale cigars. Besides the stage-manager, who sat with his tankard at one of the tables at the front of the house, there were up to a dozen other solitary figures in overcoats huddled in seats at the back. By Grampian standards the auditorium was small, built for an audience of five or six hundred, but it had the merit of being designed for its purpose, not adapted, as other halls were, from a restaurant or chapel or railway arch. There was no trace of the maligned ‘gingerbread’ school of architecture in the decorations. The mouldings were based on sweeping lines and curves, ivory-coloured, with gold relief. Maroon plush and velvet had been used for the seat-coverings, hangings and box curtains, and it was easy to imagine the cosy intimacy of a full house at the Paragon, with the gas up and a layer of cigar-smoke keeping down the less pleasant aromas attendant on public gatherings.
‘Mr Plunkett, sir!’ a voice called from the wings.
‘What now?’
‘It’s inclined to be draughty backstage. The girls are breaking out in goose-pimples. May I be so bold as to suggest that we turn up the floats? I think the dancing might be the better for it.’
‘You can inform their ladyships from me,’ returned the manager, ‘that if they aren’t onstage in the next half-minute they can warm themselves up walking to York Road to find new employment. Goose-pimples!’
A pianist at once produced a series of trills, and the ballet divertissement took the stage, a row of dancers in crimson tiptoeing from the left to meet a black row from the right. Each girl had one hand on her neighbour’s shoulder, the other casually lifting a hem to dazzle the audience with flashes of silken calf in a flurry of lace.
‘That’s really quite tasteful, ain’t it, Sarge?’ whispered Thackeray. ‘By music hall standards, I mean.’
‘I reserve judgement,’ said Cribb. ‘Unexpected things can happen.’
Thackeray’s eyes opened a little wider and swivelled back to the stage, but the variations in the dance were strictly conventional, a series of simple movements producing pleasing alternations of red and black.
‘Stop!’ bellowed Mr Plunkett. ‘Where are the figurantes?’
The lines halted and three chalky faces appeared round the curtain.
‘What do you mean by it? You missed your bloody cue.’
‘If you please, Mr Plunkett,’ one was bold enough to answer, ‘it’s cold as workhouse cocoa back here and Kate’s got cramp something awful.’
‘Cramp? Don’t talk to me about cramp. I’m getting apoplexy down here. Tell that madam I want her on stage on cue in whatever state she’s in. And that’s no cause for giggling, the rest of you. A figurante with cramp—I never heard such gammon!’
Thackeray jerked up in his seat. Someone had nudged his left arm: a young man in uniform, with an orange in his hand. ‘Would you like one, brother? I’ve another in my pocket. Old Plunkett’s an ogre, ain’t he? Bark’s worse than his bite, though. I don’t care for the language he uses, but that’s his nature, I reckon. I’m a Salvationist myself. Never use indelicate words, though I’ve heard more than most.’
‘What are you doing here?’ whispered Thackeray.
‘There’s nowhere the Army won’t go, brother. I’m here for every performance and all the rehearsals I can manage. Ah, the opportunities for a man of my calling! You see the black-haired one in red, third from the left? I’m counting on a conversion before Christmas. Stunning, ain’t she? You can’t see a young creature like that selling herself to perdition, can you? I say, you ain’t her father, are you?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ said Thackeray. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Half these fellows sitting around us are related to the corps de ballet. Husbands and fathers, you know. They like to keep a watch on Plunkett, but he’s harmless, I tell you. It’s family entertainment at the Paragon. Nothing worse than you’re watching now. Of course, the hall’s in a better-class area than most. The girls in some halls are beyond all hope of redemption. If you’ll pardon the expression, I’ve seen pimps and procurers, men of iniquity, eyeing the chorus at places like the Alhambra. Who’s the cove with the sharp nose sitting on your right?’
Thackeray turned to see whether Cribb was listening. He appeared to be absorbed in the dance. ‘Just come in to get out of the cold, I think.’