“That’s possible,” Auguste agreed, “but Mr. Fish was not popular with his fellow actors nor with the stage staff and so there might be other reasons to account for his death.”
“How unpopular would that be?”
“Very unpopular. Princess Petal—”
The inspector blinked. “Who?”
“My apologies. Offstage she is Miss Hetty Clogg, who, it is said, was being blackmailed by Mr. Fish; he was threatening to reveal an unfortunate episode in her life to the Earl of Otford, whom she hopes to marry. Miss Jane Wisley too had good reason to dislike Mr. Fish, who, it seems, no longer wished to continue his relationship with her and no doubt expressed it very cruelly.”
“Unlikely either of those ladies would be jewel thieves or murderers, although Miss Wisley — if she’s the young lady in the boots — seems very sure of herself. What about the men?”
“Arthur Brown, the comedian, has apparently suffered setbacks to his career at Fish’s hands, and Harry Waters, the property master, is said to have had a more interesting background than the management was told.”
“He does indeed. He did stir for assault and theft a few years back. Would he plunge a dagger into Fish, though? And talking of daggers, any idea where that came from?”
“No, but I’ve seen several lying around here.” Auguste glanced round Aladdin’s Cave. “I would think they are very blunt, though.”
“The police surgeon said the blow had been delivered with force.”
Auguste decided not to dwell on the image that produced in his mind. “It suggests a crime committed on impulse,” he said hastily.
“Which,” Rose observed, “brings me back to my first question: What was Fish doing here? The chap who found the body had no idea, but he doesn’t work at the Galaxy, so what was he doing here?”
“Jacob collects the wigs from the previous day’s performance in the morning to be tidied and recurled in the shop at Covent Garden and leaves them in the props room near the stage-door entrance ready for the evening. Sometimes he searches for castoffs in Aladdin’s Cave.”
“Eh?” Rose looked puzzled.
“It’s the theatre’s name for this storage room,” Auguste explained. “It’s a glory hole full of items from past productions, and cast and staff can come here if they wish. It’s still odd that Baron Glumboots should have been here tonight and not yet changed for the performance.”
Rose checked his notes. “The police surgeon thought he’d been dead about an hour when he saw the body at seven-fifteen. Jacob Hunt says he came with those wigs about a quarter to six, went for a drink in the Coal Hole pub, then returned to have a look in Aladdin’s Cave and found the body about six-thirty.”
“And then I arrived.”
“Glumboots died about six-fifteen; your Hetty Clogg said that neither he nor Arthur Brown was in their dressing room when she delivered their wigs as well as her own and Jane Wisley’s — who also wasn’t there when Miss Clogg arrived. And that means your precious Princess Petal has no alibi either.”
Could the inspector really be thinking that Hetty could have committed this murder? Auguste pulled himself together. “What time did Hetty come for the wigs?”
“She told my sergeant about ten to six. When Jacob Hunt had arrived five minutes earlier to leave the wigs, Harry Waters, the props man, wasn’t in the props room and he still wasn’t there when your Princess Petal arrived, nor when Oscar Fish came marching in the stage door about six o’clock. He complained to the stage-door keeper that he couldn’t find Harry Waters or the wig and he was seen to go up to his dressing room. No more is known. Harry Waters said at first that they were all wrong and he was there at the time, but then changed his mind and said he too was in the Coal Hole pub.”
“Where Jacob Hunt would have seen him.”
“He claims not, because it’s a crowded place at that time of the evening. Now this Aladdin’s Cave, Mr. Didier, I’d like a look around. Never know, we might turn up a magic lamp. Feel like a genie, do you? Something brought that man down here and you might get a clue if you look around as well.”
“My magic is only in my kitchen,” Auguste replied cautiously.
Nevertheless, he thought, there was a kind of magic here, as they picked their way along the narrow passageway between the piles of unsorted properties. What riches might lie here, what memories that today’s horror might taint? He could see old tables laden with helmets and masks and plates of artificial food — he shuddered, then remembered that many of them would be thrown around the stage by Clown, which made the sight more bearable. There were mirrors and pictures stacked against the walls, boxes of foil decorations and stage jewellery, an old moustache carelessly tossed onto one pile, a fake ruby pendant that might have hung round Ellen Terry’s neck when she played Olivia, the dummy of a baby, and so much more, but no clue that Auguste could see.
“What better place to hide jewels like the Lovelet necklace?” Rose observed more practically. “Where to begin, though? Mr. Didier, no ideas from you? You’ve hardly won your spurs as a genie, have you?”
Magic lamps and genies indeed, Auguste thought gloomily as he made his way back to the theatre restaurant. It was gone ten o’clock now, and without a performance to provide customers he would have expected it to be empty. On the contrary, it was full with a crowd of people at the door waiting to be seated. Alas, it seemed it was not his cuisine that had brought them to the restaurant but, judging by the excited way his staff were being questioned, the rumours of murder. Did they think Jack the Ripper had chosen the Galaxy for his latest murder? he thought crossly.
The witnesses and, Auguste presumed, the suspects were still in the greenroom close to the stage, where, he was told, a hasty supper had been provided for them. Inspector Rose was now with them. Auguste’s spirits sank even lower. Inspector Rose seemed to think that he was a magician. It was true he could work magic with a bowlful of delicate truffles, champagne, and stock, but the ingredients of the bowl the inspector had handed him were beyond even Auguste’s powers: a jewellery theft and the death of an actor, murdered either for blackmailing those weaker than himself or for cruelly slighting a woman or because he had confronted the thief. These ingredients refused to turn themselves into a respectable dish, and he had no magic lamp to make them work. In short, he was no genie.
Back in the kitchen, he stared at the restaurant menu for the morrow but could not feel his usual excitement. A tarte aux pommes with the apples baked with Calvados as in Normandy and placed in a pastry case would be delicious. All the attention was on the apples, of course, and yet the pastry too played its part, despite being largely hidden. If he could turn the tart upside down, however, he would see only the pastry, although it would remain an apple tart and taste exactly the same with the same ingredients.
Perhaps he should do the same with the ingredients of this case? he thought fancifully. If Glumboots was the apple and his blackmailing, cruelty, and the jewels the pastry, what would happen if he turned it all upside down?
And at last he began to see. En avant! Forward! His excitement grew. Turning the apple tart upside down was the key. Could it be that Baron Glumboots had not confronted the thief — he was the thief? Yes, Glumboots was the apple and the jewels were the pastry. The dish was complete. He, Auguste Didier, was a genie after all, and the apple tart the magic lamp.
“No entry” Sergeant Stitch (who disliked Auguste) said with glee, barring his entry into the greenroom. “The inspector’s interviewing suspects. It’s confidential.”
“But—”
“No entry!”