After a scrummy lunch of steak and kidney pudding and mashed potatoes at Fenwick’s Terrace Tea Room, listening to a Christmas repertoire by the Sally Army, Clara made her way back to the office. The snow had finally stopped falling and the crashed motor cars had been removed. Word must have got out that the centre of town was impassable for traffic, as the thoroughfare was quieter than usual on a Wednesday afternoon, even taking into account the half-day retail shut-down.
The shop workers, bundled up in hats and hand-knitted scarves, were lining up at the Haymarket, stamping their feet to stay warm in the plummeting temperatures. Clara was glad she didn’t have far to walk and, as she got into the office, opened the radiator valve as far as it would go. She could hear the plumbing gurgling and protesting and hoped the old heating system would be able to take the strain.
She kept her scarf on while she put on the kettle, wondering how long it would take her to get used to the perishing winters of Newcastle. She thought back to a day in the summer when she had lain on her back on a picnic blanket, soaking up the sun, and contemplating whether to take on her uncle’s business and move her life from London to the North East. She had been warned back then that the glorious weather would not last. And it hadn’t. But despite the jibes from her family that she would not last out the winter – or perhaps, partly, because of them – she was determined to not only survive but also to thrive. Stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea, she unwound her scarf and tossed it at the coat stand.
She then turned her attention to the eight files she had received from Mr Carlton. The women ranged in age from twenty to fifty. Two of them were married, two widowed and the other four were single. Clara was glad to see that Mr Carlton did not expect women to resign from their positions when they got married – which unfortunately many other employers did. All of the women lived locally in the Newcastle area. They had all been through an approved training programme (what that entailed was not listed). All had also had a physical health check with a doctor and were deemed able to undergo ‘training in self-defence, jiu-jitsu and physical restraint techniques’. Goodness, thought Clara, remembering the newspaper articles she’d read as a teenager about the suffragettes who were trained in martial arts, these are serious ladies! She imagined that some kind of fighting skills would be useful in tackling shoplifters who didn’t want to be tackled.
Mr Carlton and Clara had agreed that she would have a quick-fire training session with Jack Danskin then join the team. One of the women – about to be married – had put in her notice and Clara would be taking her place. Clara checked out the woman’s file, wondering if she were resigning because she was worried her crimes were about to be found out. Clara stared at the photograph of Annie Barr, thirty-two years old, former sales assistant in the glove department, and admitted that there was absolutely no way she could tell. If, after Annie left, shoplifting were to fall back to acceptable levels, then that would be the answer. However, Mr Carlton wanted to be more proactive. What if there were more than one of the women involved? Or none of them? thought Clara. Well, she’d have to find proof one way or another.
Her first job then would be to contact Jack Danskin to set up a meeting with him. Her heart sank at the prospect. She had almost been tempted to turn the job down when she heard it would entail working with him again, but she had quickly taken herself in hand. She had not allowed Jack Danskin to intimidate her the last time they had been in one another’s orbit, and she certainly was not going to now. But before she could give any further thought to how she was going to approach her new case, there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in!’ she called.
A moment later a plump, middle-aged woman wearing an enormous multicoloured scarf, wrapped at least three times around her neck, stepped into the office followed by a slim, young woman wearing a fashionably cut coat and matching cloche hat.
‘Juju! Hello!’ said Clara, getting up from behind her desk to greet the visitors.
‘Clara! I’m so glad you’re here. We popped round earlier but you were out. May I introduce Miss Peggy Rose? Miss Rose is a dancer with the chorus at the Theatre Royal. You know, where I’m helping with the costumes for Cinderella?’
‘Of course,’ said Clara, nodding warmly to the young blonde woman who had the biggest, bluest eyes Clara had ever seen. ‘Welcome, Miss Rose. Now, what can I do for you ladies?’
‘Let’s start with a cup of tea, shall we?’ said Juju, then she began unravelling her scarf like Rapunzel letting down her hair. ‘Goodness, Clara, it’s like a Turkish bath in here!’
‘Really?’ asked Clara, who had only just reached the point where she thought it might be safe enough to take off her coat without freezing to death.
Peggy Rose just smiled and unbuttoned her coat. Underneath she wore what Clara would describe as daytime flapper attire – calf-length socks in high-heel T-bar shoes, a pleated skirt in orange jersey, and a cream jumper, cinched at the hip with a large-buckled velvet belt in chocolate brown, then finished off with a long string of pearls that dangled to the waist. Jazzy, thought Clara, very jazzy.
Five minutes later the three ladies were seated, each with a cup of tea on mismatched saucers. ‘Right,’ said Clara, ‘perhaps we can get down to business now. How may I help you?’
Peggy Rose opened her mouth to speak but Juju jumped in ahead of her. ‘Well, I met Peggy here on Monday. They’d just come up from York. Opening night’s this Saturday, so we’ve got five days to get everything done! Fortunately, me and Jonny have been working on some costumes already – you’ll have seen them in the workroom at the back of the shop, Clara – and the troupe have brought some with them. Ours are back-ups in case something happens to the touring costumes. I don’t know if you know, but the main players of the panto cast remain much the same on tour, and usually bring their own costumes with them, but they use local actors and dancers for the chorus and smaller parts.’
‘Most, not all,’ interjected Peggy. ‘I’m in the chorus but am kept on for the whole tour.’ She had a high-pitched girlish voice, with what Clara recognised as an east London, working-class accent.
‘No, not all, Peggy, but I’ll get to that in a minute, if you don’t mind, pet. I’m just explaining to Clara why I’ve got so much work to do!’
‘I’m sure you and Jonny will do an admirable job,’ said Clara, catching a frustrated look in Peggy’s eyes and wanting to prompt her costumier friend to get to the point. ‘Now, Miss Rose, would you like to explain why you have come to see me?’
‘Because Miss Levine says you’re a tec and I need a tec.’
‘A tec?’
‘A private detective. Are you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Clara. ‘Are you looking to hire someone?’
Peggy nodded. ‘I am, miss. And I’ve got money.’ She started opening her handbag, but Clara raised her hand.
‘That’s all right, Miss Rose, we can talk about money after we’ve discussed your case. I don’t know yet if I’ll be able to help you. And,’ she said, looking at Juju, ‘I’ve just taken on another job. So, I need to see if I have time to do both.’
‘Oh,’ said Peggy, her rosebud mouth forming into a disappointed pout.
‘That doesn’t mean you won’t take the job though, Clara, does it? You haven’t even heard what it is yet!’ chided Juju.
‘No, it doesn’t mean I won’t. But I need to hear what it is first; then I will decide whether to take it on the merits of the case. It may not be something I can help with. But we won’t know until I hear it. So,’ she said, unscrewing the lid of her fountain pen and opening her notebook, ‘tell me what it entails.’
Peggy Rose swallowed hard then began. ‘Well, miss, it’s to do with the famous actress, Sybil Langford. You’ll have heard of her, no doubt …’
Clara hadn’t. She wasn’t much of a theatregoer. But she nodded encouragingly and wrote down Sybil’s name.
‘Well, as you might have heard – it’s been all over the papers – Miss Langford mysteriously dropped out of the tour. She was the fairy godmother, you know, one of the best I’ve ever seen. That’ll be her classical training. She’s done Shakespeare and everything!’ Peggy pronounced everything as everyfink. Clara didn’t mind. She was from London herself and her ear easily tuned in to the girl’s cockney lilt.
‘She was fabulous as Ophelia!’ Juju chimed in. ‘I saw her when she came up to Newcastle. Goodness me, must be nearly twenty years ago now! She was originally from here. In fact, Jonny and I can boast that we knew her when she first trod the boards. My mother was the costume mistress in—’
‘Sorry, Juju, I’d love to hear all about that, and it might help fill in some background, but I think I need to hear what Miss Rose here has to say first, if that’s all right.’
Juju looked mildly chastened, shrugged and sipped her tea.
Clara turned back to Peggy. ‘You said she “mysteriously dropped out”. What do you mean by that?’
Peggy looked over her shoulder and then lowered her voice – as if someone were to come in from the snowy street and eavesdrop on their conversation. ‘Well, she just disappeared. No one has seen her since.’
‘Disappeared?’ asked Clara, curiously.
‘Yes. She supposedly sent a telegram saying she was going back to London.’
‘Supposedly?’ Clara gave a puzzled cock of the head. This was all a little tenuous, she thought, but she was committed to hearing the young flapper out.
‘That’s right, supposedly.’ Peggy dramatically extended the ‘o’.
‘Why do you say that?’
Peggy leaned forward, her lips pursed. ‘Because it’s not like her. Not one little bit. She’s a professional to the tips of her toes and she would never resign by sending a telegram. If she had a problem, she would have gone to Mr Brown about it. That’s Tubby Brown, the tour manager. But she didn’t. Then Billy said he’d seen her looking right poorly just before she left for the night. And he said she’d just read a note. Looked shocked she did, he said.’
‘Who is Billy?’ asked Clara, hoping for a bit more clarity.
‘He’s a stagehand. But he’s not here. He works at the theatre in York. But he told me, at the cast party after the final show. He said Miss Langford had asked him to tell Mr Brown she wouldn’t be coming. Then asked him to get her a taxi. Which he did. Then she got in – looking as pale as a ghost, he said – and that’s the last anyone saw of her.’
Peggy’s eyes were as wide as if she had just seen a ghost. Juju, beside her, could barely contain her excitement. ‘It’s a mystery, Clara. You just have to take it on!’
Clara mulled over what she’d just heard, nodding quietly. ‘Well, it does seem to be a mystery, but there might be a perfectly rational explanation.’
‘Well, if there is, I’d like to hear it. Cos no one knows where she is,’ said Peggy.
‘What did the telegram say?’
‘I didn’t see it, but Mr Brown said she’d said she was going back to London.’
‘Well, maybe she has done just that,’ said Clara. She understood Peggy was worried, but she did wonder if this was all a storm in a teacup.
Peggy shook her head. ‘No, that’s the thing – Mr Brown telephoned her flat in London to see if she was there, and the building manager said she hadn’t returned.’
‘Perhaps she’s stopped off somewhere, en route?’
Peggy let out a long sigh. ‘She might have, but if that’s the case, why didn’t she say? And why did she not return the godmother dress or the wand?’
Clara shook her head, confused. ‘The wand?’
‘The fairy godmother’s wand! Looks like she took it with her. So we’ve had to get another one for Miss Baxter, the new godmother, and Miss Levine here has got to make her a new dress!’
‘And I only have three days!’ added Juju. ‘Jonny’s busy sewing sparkles on it now. There’s a bucketful to go!’
Clara looked from one woman to the other. ‘All right, let me get this straight: this actress, Sybil Langford, suddenly resigned from her role as the fairy godmother after the last show in York, leaving you all in the lurch and having to find a last-minute replacement for the run here in Newcastle. She didn’t tell the tour manager – this Tubby Brown – that she was leaving, nor anyone else in the troupe. Other than this lad called Billy, who isn’t here.’
‘But she didn’t tell him she wasn’t coming to Newcastle,’ corrected Peggy, ‘only that she wasn’t coming to the after-party.’
Clara nodded and made a note. ‘All right. But he said she was looking poorly—’
‘There was sick in a bin in her dressing room. I forgot to tell you that.’
Clara raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, that’s an interesting detail. All right, she was looking poorly, after having vomited in her dressing room, then left in a taxi that Billy had called for her. Taking her dress and wand with her.’
‘She was wearing the dress. Sorry, I forgot to say that too. Billy said she was wearing the dress.’
Clara noted that down. ‘Interesting. And the dress didn’t belong to her; it belonged to the theatre?’
‘To the troupe.’
‘Would she normally have gone home in the dress?’
Both Peggy and Juju shook their heads. ‘No,’ said Juju, ‘an immortal dress is very expensive. It would have stayed at the theatre.’
Clara looked puzzled. ‘An immortal dress?’
Juju preened, enjoying showing off her theatrical knowledge to a novice. ‘Immortals are what the fairy godmothers, or genies, or other supernatural characters are called in panto. But to get back to the point, no, it was not normal for the actress to wear the dress home. It would have been washed by the wardrobe mistress and packed to travel to the next theatre. That would have been done on the Sunday and it would have come up with the troupe on the Monday. But it didn’t arrive. And neither did the wand. The props master has had to find another one.’
‘Was there anything particularly special about the wand?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Peggy.
‘Oh, I don’t know, might it have had any value that someone would want to steal it?’
Peggy bristled, her daintily plucked eyebrows arching in alarm. ‘Are you saying Miss Langford stole the wand?’
Clara raised her hands placatingly. ‘I’m not saying that at all. But what if I were? What if she did? I know nothing about this woman other than what you are telling me now. And if you want me to get to the bottom of her disappearance, I will need to ask these sorts of questions. So please, Miss Rose, don’t get offended when I do. You will not be helping me find your friend.’
Peggy blinked her enormous eyes two or three times then said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Miss Vale. It’s just hard me hearing people say such things about Miss Langford. I care about her very much.’
Clara looked at the young woman and wondered for a moment if she were referring to a forbidden love, such as one she’d encountered in her first case. ‘So,’ she asked, carefully, ‘could you tell me why you are so fond of Miss Langford? Why you are willing to pay someone to find her? Would you do that if any of your other castmates disappeared, or is there something special about Miss Langford?’
Peggy’s eyes filled with tears. She closed them as the tears spilled onto her cheeks.
‘Oh pet, here,’ said Juju and gave the young woman a handkerchief.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Vale. Miss Levine. I don’t mean to blubber. But you see, Sybil, Miss Langford ,was like a mother to me. She got me this job as a dancer. She gave me a chance to have a decent life. Before this, I was working in a gentlemen’s club. Not the posh sort, if you get my meaning. I’d been there since I was fourteen. I didn’t have a choice. It was do that or be on the street. At least I had a bed to lie in – if not always on my own – and food to eat. But it wasn’t the life I wanted. And Miss Langford found me and helped me. Not just me, but some of the other girls too. You could call it her mission, I suppose. Helping girls like me who’d fallen on the wrong side of the tracks. She saw I had talent. Real talent. She said I could work my way up in the theatre. She cleaned me up and gave me some acting lessons and vouched for me to Mr Brown. So I owe her, you see. And I need to know what’s happened to her. Cos she might need my help now. And I need yours, Miss Vale. I need you to help me to help her. Will you do it? Please?’
Peggy sniffed then blew her nose into Juju’s handkerchief.
Clara sighed. She looked from her friend Juju – a woman who had welcomed her to Newcastle and helped her during her time of need – and then to the young dancer, with no one else to turn to. She had no idea whether she could find Sybil Langford, but she would try. It was the least she could do. Could she do it while working on the Fenwick’s job, too? She didn’t see why not. Uncle Bob always had more than one case on the go at a time.
She screwed the lid on her pen and laid it on the desk, squaring it with the edge of her notepad. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll take on the case. I can’t promise I’ll be able to find her though, particularly as she didn’t disappear here in Newcastle, but I’ll give it a go. And don’t worry, I’ll charge you the lowest rate I can. Just to cover costs.’
‘Oh, Miss Vale,’ said Peggy, the tears flowing once again. ‘Thank you. Thank you ever so much.’