‘The Grampian!’ said Miss Blake. ‘Good gracious, I must leave. And there won’t be time to show you the wardrobe or the prop-room.’
‘That’s all right, Miss. We’ll make our own way back through the canteen. You’ll need to hurry or you’ll have Mr Goodly to face. Can we pass on a message to Albert for you?’
‘Albert?’ Miss Blake was visibly upset at the mention of his name. ‘But he is—’
‘Laid up at Philbeach House, Miss? Of course. I simply thought that if we should have occasion to visit there —to clear up certain outstanding matters, you know—we might pass on your good wishes for his recovery.’
‘Of course. Please do.’ She composed herself, shook their hands, said, ‘You do know the way?’ and left them.
Cribb remained in the attitude of contemplation for several seconds, his left hand supporting his right elbow and his right forefinger poised on the bridge of his nose. At length, he said, ‘Wouldn’t do to be found in the Ladies’ Dressing Room, Constable. Let’s proceed with the inspection.’
Thackeray was about to observe that Miss Blake had expected them to return directly to the promenade, and that wandering about backstage unaccompanied might be regarded as a suspicious, not to say improper, practice, when he recognised a particular expression in the sergeant’s features, a flexing of the usually quiescent muscles to the fore of his side-whiskers. The twitch of Cribb’s cheek was the equivalent of the order to take aim aboard one of Her Majesty’s gunboats. Thackeray put on his hat and followed him.
They had not gone many yards along the corridor when Cribb stopped at a door, listened, pushed it open, stepped inside and pulled Thackeray after him. He sniffed in the darkness. ‘Carpenter’s shop. Shouldn’t be disturbed here. I want a good look round this hall. We’ll wait till the show’s over, and they’ve all gone. Should be a bench here somewhere. Ah, yes. Careful where you sit. Carpenters are uncommon careless with chisels. Now, Constable, what are your observations?’
A pause, followed by the sound of a beard being scratched.
‘Come on, man. You saw Bellotti’s barrels, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘And Beaconsfield’s basket yesterday? And the Undertakers?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you deduce, then?’
More scratching. ‘Well, Sarge, I think there could be a connexion with Philbeach House.’
‘The devil you do! What other evidence are you hoping for—Mrs Body in a tutu? A copper shouldn’t drink on duty if it slows up his thinking, Thackeray. Of course there’s a connexion, man. If the barrels are here, Bellotti won’t be far behind ’em. They’re no good to anyone else, are they?’
‘But barrel-dancing ain’t on the bill, Sarge.’
Cribb sighed. ‘Nor are bulldogs, nor any of Mrs Body’s guest-list. Did you expect to see ’em up there tonight? But I’ll lay you a guinea to a shilling that there’s a room here somewhere stuffed with their props.’
Inspiration descended on Thackeray in the darkness. ‘Maybe they’re preparing for a return to the stage, Sarge! Mr Plunkett lets ’em use the hall for rehearsals. It’s only in use three nights a week, remember. When they’ve got their confidence back they can go on the halls again.’
‘You’re forgetting something, Constable. It’s not their confidence that matters. They can rehearse as much as they like, but it ain’t likely to do much for the confidence of the music hall managers. Performers who’ve been laughed off the stage aren’t going to get another London billing that easily. The best they can hope for is to change their names and their acts and start again in the provinces. Besides, Plunkett doesn’t strike me as a charitable man. He won’t have his hall cluttered up with down-and-outs and their baggage, unless there’s profit in it.’
‘He seemed to have something to hide, Sarge.’
‘That’s why we’re here, Constable. A man of my standing doesn’t risk his reputation parading in music hall promenades without damned good reason. There’s things going on this evening that Plunkett doesn’t want us to know about. Remember yesterday, when I asked for tickets? Perfectly simple request, yet the fellow’s eyebrows jumped like grasshoppers when I mentioned tonight. His daughter was just as nervous, too. Never mind your secret rehearsals, Thackeray. I want to know what’s going on tonight.’
‘Shouldn’t we get back and watch the performance, then, Sarge? There might be another accident while we’re hiding here.’
Cribb produced an odd sound of contempt by vibrating his lips. ‘Most unlikely, in my opinion. No need for us to be there anyway. There’s a perfectly capable man watching for something like that.’
‘You didn’t tell me, Sarge. Another C.I.D. man?’
‘For God’s sake, Thackeray. Third violin in the orchestra— didn’t you spot him?’
‘Not Major—’
‘Scraping away like a professional. At least we know he wasn’t blown to bits by the gas explosion. I’m surprised you didn’t spot him. Too much else to keep an eye on, eh? You’re yawning, Thackeray.’
‘It’s the dark, Sarge.’
‘The beer, more like. Look, we’re liable to be here an hour. Stretch yourself out on the bench and sleep it off. That’s an order. I want you sober, Constable.’
It was all a little humiliating, but Thackeray knew better than to defy orders. He wouldn’t actually sleep, but it would be a relief to get the weight off his feet. He groped along the bench, checking for loose nails and chips of wood, and put his hand on something soft, an overall perhaps, folded in the shape of a pillow. He lowered his head thankfully on to it. Not Cribb’s overcoat, surely? That was so unlike the man; there wasn’t an atom of pity in him, not for constables at any rate. Cribb didn’t believe in rests; forty winks any time was dereliction of duty. If he connived at that, he was planning something, you could depend on it.
Thackeray was uncertain how long he had slept when a nudge from Cribb revived him, but his bones ached and his mouth was dry. ‘What is it, Sarge?’
‘We’ll be on the move shortly. It’s half an hour since the National Anthem. Plenty of ’em have gone already. You’re in better shape, I hope?’
He was shivering and aching all over but he said, ‘Sharp as a winkle-pin, Sarge.’
‘Good. Hand me my coat, will you?’
‘Hurry please, everyone. Mr Plunkett wants you all out in the next five minutes,’ called a voice unpleasantly close to the door. Shrieks of protest answered from the ladies’ dressing-room up the corridor. ‘Five minutes, whatever state you’re in,’ reiterated the voice, and the ballet evidently took the warning seriously, for groups of booted feet clattered past very soon afterwards, and soon there was silence.
After a strategic interval, Cribb eased open the door to the passage, which was still fully lit. Thackeray blinked, looked down at his evening-suit and began brushing off wood-shavings.
‘Leave that, blast you,’ Cribb hissed, ‘and follow me.’ Thackeray obeyed, privately noting that his sergeant had reverted to type. They scudded as silently as two large men could along the passage and past the scene dock and Bellotti’s barrels to the area of the stage. A movement ahead stopped them short, and they backed into the shadows between some flats stacked in the wings. Groups of men in labouring clothes, corduroys and doe-skin waistcoats or short serge jackets, were talking in groups on the stage side of the lowered curtain. Far from preparing to leave, they seemed to be waiting for something. Several peered up at the battens and perches as though they had never stood on a stage before. More ascended the staircase from the canteen. They were followed by Plunkett.
Someone moved a stool into the centre of the stage and Plunkett stepped on to it and clapped his hands. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. If you will all come close I shall not need to shout. Most of you know me, but for those who are new to the Paragon I should explain that I am the theatre manager. You are responsible to me. The work I have for you is not taxing in a physical sense, but it is responsible work and you have been employed because you have the reputation of being responsible working men. The pay, you will know, is generous, to say the least. You will earn it by carrying out your orders with despatch, in silence and without question. Things you may see and hear tonight as you go about your work are not for you to question or comment upon, either tonight or later. I am very particular about loyalty among my staff and there are ways of cutting short loose talk. Do you all understand me?’
Concerted nods and grunts indicated that Plunkett was taken seriously.
‘Very well. You will work as teams of three and four under the direction of experienced scene-removers and you will carry out their orders implicitly. I shall be in the audience, but your foremen—to use a term familiar to you
