CHAPTER ONE
Algernon Swinburne
Mrs Witherspoon, widow of uncertain years and theatrical background, was taking tea in her refined house for paying gentlefolk in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. It was four o’clock on a warmish Friday afternoon. The month was October and the year was 1928 and she had no idea, as she reached for the last slice of fruitcake, that the worst moment of her life was a mere minute away.
A drop fell from the ceiling and plopped into her cup. She tsked.
‘Oh, dear, that Mr Christopher has let his bath run over again. I’ve told him and told him about that.’
Mr Sheridan leapt to his feet, and Mrs Witherspoon glared at him. ‘Not you, Mr Sheridan, if you please.’
‘I’ll run up, shall I?’ offered Miss Minton, who was behind with her rent until another show should manifest itself and was consequently disposed to be helpful.
‘Yes, dear, you do that, but don’t open the door, will you? Mr Christopher is so careless with doors and I won’t have no immodesty in my house.’ The voice was full, rich as the fruitcake and perfectly pitched to carry to the back row of the stalls. Miss Minton, who had been a showgirl and dancer since she was seventeen, grinned and went out. They heard her feet clatter on the uncarpeted stairs.
The company consisted of Mrs Witherspoon, a magician called Robert Sheridan, a character actress whose stage name was Parkes and whose past, it was darkly hinted, would not bear examination, as well as the Miss Minton who had just departed on her mission.
The others were paying close attention to what they could hear of her progress along the corridor to the bathroom.
‘I say, Mr Christopher,’ the girl called. ‘Hey!’ she added. They heard the bathroom door open with its characteristic creak. Mrs Witherspoon tutted at the behaviour of modern girls and finished her cup of tea, brushing idly at another drop which had fallen on her hair. Miss Parkes hid a smile. Mr Christopher was slim, moved like a dancer and had dark Valentino hair and finely cut features. Miss Parkes had watched Miss Minton chasing him for weeks; she would not miss an opportunity to corner him in the bath. And there would be a surprise in store for her when she did: a life in the chorus line, thought Miss Parkes, injured the modesty.
The sounds of emptying water that they were expecting never came. Instead, Miss Minton ran back exclaiming, ‘He’s not there, Mrs Witherspoon, and he hasn’t been there. The bath’s as dry as a chip.’
It was only then that they all looked at the ceiling.
A large red stain, like the ace of hearts, was spreading and dripping. No one even thought that it might be red wine. Mrs Witherspoon put up a shaking hand and wiped her cheek, where another drop had fallen.
Her palm came away stained with blood.
She recalled, with dreadful inner turmoil, that she had finished her cup of tea.
The arrival of the police was not enough to drag Mrs Witherspoon out of her place of concealment, so a very discomfited Constable Tommy Harris held a conversation with her through the door.
‘Whose room is just overhead?’ he asked desperately. A gasping retch was all his reply. Miss Parkes nodded at him and he left the door.
‘I can tell you about it. The poor old dear has realised that she’s drunk blood in her tea and that’s upsetting, wouldn’t you agree? The bathroom is upstairs and the adjoining room is Mr Christopher’s. He is a circus performer and he is usually asleep until tea every day, because he performs at night. I’ve been up and tried his door but it’s locked.’
‘And who are you, Miss?’
‘My name is Amelia Parkes. I’m an actress and I live here.’
The constable eyed her narrowly. She was a middle-aged woman, with cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and the beautiful complexion of those who use greasepaint and seldom see the sun. The constable was new to the area; he was sure that he had seen that face before but he could not remember where. She did not assist him but smiled slightly. The constable thought that she had a really lovely smile.
‘Well, Miss, we’d better see about it,’ he said. ‘Where are the keys?’
‘Just wait over there, will you,’ Miss Parkes requested politely. ‘I’ll see if I can get them.’
The constable withdrew to the back doorstep and left Miss Parkes to tap on the door and whisper to the wretched inmate. After a few moments, the door opened a crack and a bunch of keys was thrust out. Miss Parkes took them, murmuring something that the constable did not catch, and then bore them to the back step.
‘Here we are. I think we’d better leave her alone. She’ll feel better when she’s thrown up everything in her stomach, poor old chook.’
The rest of the inhabitants were gathered in a palpitating group in the front hall. None of them liked to go back into the dining room, where a succession of gory drops now defiled the white linen tea-cloth. Constable Harris walked past them and up the stairs, unlocked the relevant door and tried to open it.
It would not budge.
‘What’s wrong?’ Miss Parkes called up and he shouted, ‘It’s bolted on the inside! Can I get in through a window?’
‘Only if you’ve got a long ladder. There’s no balcony on the back.’
‘Open up!’ yelled Constable Harris in a voice calculated to pierce an alcoholic fog. ‘Come on, you in there! This is the police!’
Dead silence was the only reply. Miss Minton whimpered and the magician put an arm around her. She leaned against him gratefully, only to recoil with a little shriek as something moved in his breast-pocket.
‘Sorry,’ he said, removing a dove with an automatic flourish. Miss Parkes bit her lip. This did not seem to be the moment to laugh. Sheridan’s dove fluttered up to perch on the lintel, something Mrs Witherspoon would never have allowed had she been present. ‘There,’ said the magician, holding out his arms. Miss Minton replaced herself in his now dove-free embrace and Mr Sheridan held her close, congratulating himself that his luck was holding, with all the women who did not matter, at least.
‘There, there, little girl,’ he soothed. ‘We’re all upset.’
Constable Harris appeared at the head of the stairs and called down to Miss Parkes, ‘Can you show me how to get onto the roof?’ Miss Parkes left Miss Minton to the wiles of the magician without a qualm and led the way up to the skylight.
‘Do be careful,’ she urged, as the young man stepped out onto the slate roof.
‘It’s not safe, you know. Mrs W was always meaning to have it fixed.’
Constable Harris had the sun-kissed, blue-eyed, milk-fed country look which Miss Parkes had always found most attractive. He grinned at her, showing white teeth.
‘I’ll be all right, Miss. I’m fit, I do a lot of sport. Can you go down and look after the old lady? I’ll need her in shape to answer questions if there’s dirty work afoot.’
‘And do you think there is?’
Miss Parkes had a direct gaze and Constable Harris liked her, although he was still pestered by her resemblance to someone he had seen. A long while ago. In a paper, perhaps? He said soberly, ‘I reckon he’s done himself in, Miss. The door’s not only locked, it’s bolted on the inside. And I don’t reckon anyone tried the roof. You’d have heard.’
‘Yes. Just the same, Constable, I think I’d rather stay here, in case you need some help.’
