‘It ain’t that I mean to be offensive, Sarge,’ Thackeray explained, conscious that his remark had struck home harder than he intended. ‘But I can’t tell you how relieved I was when we found all them missing persons at Philbeach House yesterday. I’d already been thinking of ’em as corpses. As you know, I look forward to finding a body as much as the next man, but sometimes it bucks you up to discover that things ain’t what they appeared. I mean, that message from Albert came like a ray of golden sunshine.’
‘In a pink ribbon,’ added Cribb.
Thackeray gave him a sharp glance. ‘An incident like that, coming so unexpected, restores your faith in your fellow-creatures, or so I think, anyway. “Everything in perfect order.” I’m going to finish my report with those words. They’ll make a nice change from all the accounts of violence and bloodshed that get sent in to Scotland Yard.’
‘Should gladden the hearts of Statistical Branch,’ murmured Cribb. He stroked his forefinger around the rim of the table-lamp on Thackeray’s desk and examined it for dust. ‘So you’re planning to return to routine detective work. So far as you’re concerned, the music hall investigation ended yesterday.’
Thackeray pointed his pen at Cribb. ‘Ah, I know what you’re going to ask me, Sarge—how do I explain all those accidents? Well, I thought a lot about that before I got off to sleep last night. I went over the whole case in my mind, one accident after another. It was when I got to thinking about Albert that I suddenly made sense of it all. I remembered that ugly little room he lives in, the worn-out linoleum and the furniture. And the depressing view over the asylum. Then I thought of them silver candlesticks at Philbeach House and the white table-cloths and thick carpets, and I saw why everything’s in perfect order now for Albert and all the rest of ’em. They’re on velvet over there at Kensington, Sarge. They’ve never known such circumstances in their lives!’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ admitted Cribb, ‘but does that explain the accidents?’
‘Don’t you see it?’ asked Thackeray, eyes gleaming. ‘They staged their own accidents to get admitted to Philbeach House! Albert switched those bulldogs himself—or perhaps his mother did—and he exchanged a sore leg for a few comfortable weeks in Kensington. Ain’t it obvious when you think about it? The word’s gone round the halls that there’s free board and lodging to be had by anyone smart enough to fall on his face on the stage. They even get collected in cabs. That’s why there’s been such a rash of accidents. When you think about it, they were mostly minor injuries—
‘Woolston running a sword through his assistant?’ queried Cribb.
‘Well there’s always some cove that goes too far,’ continued Thackeray with a frown. ‘It was obvious he didn’t care twopence about the girl. By running the sword through her leg he thought he’d get the pair of ’em a berth at Philbeach House. Instead of that he’s had to settle for Newgate. But if you think about any of the others— the Pinkus sisters, Bellotti, Sam Fagan—they all made sure of losing their jobs without causing real danger to their persons. And now they’re installed among the silver candlesticks with Mrs Body. If it was a home for out-of-work bobbies, I’d be tempted to take a tumble down the station steps myself.’
‘Well I wouldn’t,’ said Cribb emphatically. ‘I felt deuced uncomfortable in the same room as that woman yesterday. And that was with you there as chaperon.’
Thackeray grinned. ‘It just hasn’t been our kind of case, Sarge. I felt it all along. We’re not built for music hall capers. I’ll be quite relieved to get back to some straightforward robbery with violence. You do see the drift of my reasoning, don’t you?’
Cribb nodded gravely.
‘Does that conclude the inquiry, then, Sarge?’
Cribb shrugged. ‘If you want to withdraw.’
‘Well since it ain’t a murder, Sarge, and false pretences aren’t easy to prove—’
‘You’d like to leave the rest to me? Very well, Thackeray.’ Cribb picked up his hat. ‘Sorry you’ve been troubled. Should have made sure I had a corpse before I interrupted your educational classes. We’ll part on good terms, though. Remember past successes, eh?’
Thackeray clutched his beard. Heavens! The educational classes! What had he said? ‘Sarge, I’m not giving up! If there’s more to be investigated we’ll do it together. I just thought that my theory . . .’
Cribb stood looking out of the window. Agonising seconds passed before he spoke. ‘Attractive theory, too. Your deductions have improved over the years. You might even be right this time.’ He tapped his nose reflectively. Thackeray waited palely. ‘Little things bother me still. Questions wanting answers. Who was it that first put us on to this investigation by sending us the Grampian bill with the message marked on it? Someone wanted us to investigate. Then why did all the accidents occur at different theatres on different nights—and no two victims performing similar turns? Why don’t the guests at Philbeach House collect their letters from the agents? What was going on there yesterday in the next room—a rehearsal, Mrs Body said, but for what? Where was the humour in that poem they found so hilarious? Small points, all of ’em. Silly, niggling things.’
‘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
