Visiting started at eleven and Edgar was there at five past. Even so, he wasn’t Emma’s first visitor. As he looked through the door of the ward he saw two familiar figures by Emma’s bed—a woman in a fur coat and a man who, even from a distance, looked as if he wanted to shout at someone. Edgar pushed open the door and the man’s dream was realised.
‘You!’ yelled Archie Holmes. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
A nurse materialised at his side. ‘Please keep your voice down,’ she said. ‘There are sick people in here.’
‘Stephens.’ Archie’s face was alarmingly red. ‘A word in private please.’
Edgar followed Emma’s father into a waiting room. He didn’t want to give the man a heart attack, after all. In the early hours of the morning, when he’d rung Emma’s parents to say that she was in hospital, they had been too shocked to ask him many questions. Archie was certainly making up for that now.
‘What’s been going on? The matron says that someone tried to strangle Emma.’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. He was trying to think of the least upsetting way to put it. ‘She was . . . er . . . attacked but not seriously hurt.’
‘Not seriously hurt? The man left her for dead, apparently.’
Damn the matron and her all-too-accurate explanations. Norris had, almost certainly, left Emma for dead. But, as Solomon Carter was always saying, it was surprisingly difficult to strangle someone. Norris had managed it before, of course, but this time something, maybe the warm bath, had kept Emma alive.
‘I reached her in time,’ he said, trying to sound soothing. ‘And was able to give her first aid.’
‘First aid? The kiss of life?’
‘Yes.’
Archie was silent, a lion deprived of its prey. Or rather, a lion who discovers that the wildebeest he is about to devour has just saved one of his cubs.
‘All the same,’ he growled, ‘she shouldn’t have been in danger like that. A young woman on her own. It’s not right. I’m writing to your superintendent.’
Frank Hodges would love that, thought Edgar. He had debriefed his boss earlier that morning. Hodges, as ever, torn between relief that the killers had been caught and annoyance that Edgar hadn’t done it earlier.
‘Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry that Emma was in danger. She’s a brilliant police officer. The best I’ve ever worked with. And I’m sorry to ask this now, but could I have a word with her in private?’
Archie regarded him under lowered brows. ‘I’ll see what her mother thinks,’ he said at last. Edgar crossed his fingers. He had a faint hope that Sybil Holmes might be on his side.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, Archie came back into the waiting room accompanied by his wife. ‘Five minutes,’ he said, ‘that’s all.’
Sybil put her hand on Edgar’s arm. Even tired and distraught, she looked and smelt wonderful. ‘Thank you so much, Detective Inspector,’ she said. ‘Archie says that you saved Emma’s life.’
‘After he’d put it in danger in the first place,’ said Archie.
‘Thank you,’ said Sybil again. And she kissed him on the cheek.
Emma was sitting up in bed. There was a surgical collar round her neck and both her hands were bandaged. She saw Edgar looking at them.
‘Apparently I tried to fight him off.’
Edgar sat next to the bed. ‘Can you remember anything that happened?’
Emma frowned, as she always did when trying to think. ‘I got a telephone call at the theatre. It was Edna. She said that Bob needed me there urgently. I didn’t think twice. I didn’t even tell Hobbs where I was going. So stupid of me. Norris was waiting outside the stage door with a car. He said he’d give me a lift to Lansdowne Road. I got into the car and I don’t remember anything else.’
‘He chloroformed you,’ said Edgar, ‘like he did the others.’
‘The next thing I remember, I was floating. He had his hands round my neck . . .’ Emma was silent for a few minutes, looking up at the ceiling, where paper chains snaked between the light fittings. ‘I thought all sorts of stupid things. I heard voices. Astarte. You. My parents. I thought I was swimming at Coniston Water. In the Lake District. Where I was evacuated.’
‘That was the chloroform,’ said Edgar. It gave him a jolt to learn that Emma had also been thinking of Astarte.
‘I was almost dead,’ said Emma. ‘That’s what they told me in here. You saved my life.’
‘All part of the job,’ said Edgar, trying for a lighter tone.
Emma looked at him, her gaze blue and unflinching.
‘I thought I heard you say that you loved me,’ she said. ‘Did I dream that too?’
‘No,’ said Edgar. ‘I meant that.’
Max was packing. Mrs M had thoughtfully moved his things into the front bedroom and he wanted to keep his side of the bargain by getting out of her hair as quickly as possible. He would do the last show tonight and leave first thing on Sunday morning. His car was parked in an underground garage in Kemp Town. He could be on the road by eight. He’d already booked a room at the Strand Palace hotel. He’d have a solitary Christmas, eating at Italian restaurants, walking in Hyde Park, reading Dickens or Tolstoy, practising his card tricks in the bar late at night.
He packed carefully. He was meticulous about his shirts, having them hand-laundered and pressed. His suits went in special bags, apart from his stage suit which was hanging on the back of the door. His shoes went in special containers too but the ones he had been wearing last night sat by the door, damp and misshapen. He’d have to throw them away.
As well as his suitcase he had an attaché case which contained his band music, playing cards and a few portable props. Looking through it now he found an envelope addressed, in a bold flowing hand, to ‘Max Mephisto’. He opened it and found several typewritten pages.
Porter: We don’t get much call for mummers, not at this time of the year.
Caller: Why not hear us mum? Live a little.
Porter: I don’t like to. Not after the incident in West Riding.
It was Florence’s radio script. Max sat on the bed amongst his folded shirts and started to read. Florence had been beautiful in such a serious, operatic way that it was hard to imagine that she could be funny too, but she was. The scripts were strange and surreal, no jokes, just unusual rhythms and catchphrases. Despite everything, Max found himself laughing aloud as he read them. Had the porter, a recurring character, been based on Norman? Was the greengrocer, Mick, always talking about his wares in nonsensical rhyming slang, a version of Vic Cutler? There were a few songs too. Was Florence musical as Welsh people were supposed to be? He didn’t know and now he would never know. She was half-Italian too, of course, a potentially explosive mixture. If she and Max had lived together, he was pretty sure that there would have been some impressive rows. He was sorry to miss them. It was a long time since he’d felt strongly enough to row with anyone.
Max put the scripts away in their envelope. He would show them to Joe. Perhaps they would be performed and earn Florence some posthumous fame, maybe even make some money for her family (not much, though, if Max knew anything about writing for the radio). Thinking of Joe made him remember Harvey Broom, the Hollywood scout who was coming to the show tonight. He was glad to discover that a small flame of ambition was still burning, deep down inside. He’d like to go to America, become seriously rich and leave variety behind him. The way he felt now he would be glad to leave everything behind him. Apart from Ruby and Edgar, of course.
Max started to pile the shirts into his suitcase.
Back at the station, Edgar started to wilt. He’d gone home at three a.m., slept for a couple of hours, showered and changed. He’d arrived at the station at six, fresh and revitalised. But now the manic energy was wearing off and the words on his incident report started to blur into each other.
For a few moments he stared blankly at the stenographer’s notes from last night’s interviews. The poor woman had been roused from her bed to take dictation so it was no wonder that the writing was a little shaky in places.
DI Stephens: Did you kill Lily Burtenshaw?
Norris Wright: She was so beautiful. Like her mother. I couldn’t let her be defiled.
DI Stephens: Did you kill her? Yes or no?
Norris Wright: Yes. I had to kill her to save her. I knew she was in contact with Cutler. The same man who had ruined her mother. I saw a letter to him on the hall table and then, a few days later, he was actually in our house. I knew I had to kill her then. To keep her young and beautiful. Unchanging, like the tableaux.
DI Stephens: How did you kill Lily?
Norris Wright: I drugged her cocoa on Friday night, then I went into her room and strangled her. I made her look like the painting. It was a famous pose of Cecily’s.
DI Stephens: Did Edna know you were going to kill her?
Norris Wright: No. She didn’t know until she saw the body. She guessed it was me though. She knew how I felt about Cecily. She forgave me. She’s a wonderful Woman, Edna.
DI Stephens: Who killed Vic Cutler? You or Edna?
Norris Wright: That was me. I was putting flowers outside Lily’s door one day and he saw me. He must have been coming to see her. I told him that no followers were allowed in the house. He pretended that he was there to collect Betty and Janette but I knew better. He wanted to defile Lily. When I told Edna she said that we had to kill him. He knew too much. So I went over to his flat and stabbed him as he sat on the sofa. It was as easy as that.
DI Stephens: How did you get into the flat?
Norris Wright: I dressed up as a cleaning lady. That drunken sot of a porter would let anyone in.
DI Stephens: Is that how you killed Florence Jones too?
Norris Wright: I didn’t kill her. You can’t prove I did.
DI Stephens: Was that Edna then?
Norris Wright: [unintelligible] I didn’t . . . I can’t . . . no more questions.
Norris has signed his confession quite readily, using his left hand. Edna was a harder nut to crack. At first she refused to answer any of Edgar’s questions, sitting tight-lipped and immovable, like an Easter Island statue in a heather-mixture cardigan. Edgar left her to stew in the cells for the morning then went back in the early afternoon. Bob, who had just been discharged from the hospital, came with him. And it was Bob who had the breakthrough. He happened to remark on finding the photograph of Lily in Peter Entwhistle’s room. ‘Was that Norris’s?’ he asked. ‘He must have loved Cecily a lot.’
Edna gave him a look of pure contempt. ‘Cecily led him on,’ she said. ‘Norris was always weak.’
‘Yes, you’re definitely the strong one,’ said Edgar, trying to sound admiring. ‘I’m sure Norris relies on you a lot.’
‘Someone has to take charge,’ said Edna.
‘When did you take charge? When Norris killed Lily?’
‘Yes. Norris would have gone to pieces then without me. We had to cover it up. Make it look like someone was killing off girls connected to the Tableaux. Vic Cutler had to die. He saw Norris putting flowers outside Lily’s door. He knew. He was always a cunning one, Vic Cutler. I told Norris he had to kill him. He didn’t mind. He’d always hated Vic.’
‘What about Florence Jones?’ said Edgar.
‘We had to make you think it was all about the Tableaux, you see,’ said Edna, becoming quite expansive, almost smiling. ‘I told Norris to put flowers outside Betty’s door, so that you might think she was next. But I had to get you away from the house. That’s why we staged that little scene with Betty. While you were busy at the house I went to Montpelier Crescent.’
‘You went to Montpelier Crescent,’ said Edgar, ‘to kill Florence?’
Now Edna turned on him with something like fury. ‘She was no loss. She was a tart like all the rest of them. Like Cecily and Lily. Like Betty and Janette and all the other showgirls. Prancing about on stage thinking that all the men were looking at them. I went to see the show with Norris and I saw that Florence lying there, almost naked, being Cleopatra. It was disgusting. Easy enough to make her look like Cleopatra again. After I’d killed her.’
Edna had looked quite triumphant. The only time she had looked at all remorseful was when she had mentioned Lily. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Cecily wanted to send her daughter to us. And then when she looked so much like Cecily. You couldn’t blame Norris for getting confused.’
Confused was one way of putting it, thought Edgar. Cecily had never dreamed that Norris’s obsession would pass on to the next generation, even though Lily had looked so much like her. Norris had hoarded pictures of Cecily in her prime and one had found its way into Peter Entwhistle’s room. Seeing Lily, looking so much like his idealised image of Cecily, had clearly driven Norris over the edge. The fact that Lily worked in a flower shop probably hadn’t helped either, considering the famous pose of Cecily on the flower-garlanded swing. Norris had put flowers outside Lily’s room, a murderous stage-door Johnnie. He had filled the bath with flowers before he had tried to kill Emma too. Unconsciously, Edgar clenched his fists. Emma’s crime had been asking too many questions about Cecily. She’d found the photograph of Cecily, which must have belonged to Norris. She was obviously getting too close to the truth. And she’d been blonde too, which had obviously enflamed Norris. Edgar was a rational man and a police officer but, just for a second, he had the urge to go down to the cells and beat Norris Wright to a pulp.
He thought of Lily who had only wanted to come to Brighton to find the man she thought was her father. For the second time Edgar smoothed out the letter that he had found in Peter Entwhistle’s Bible. The letter from Vic Cutler.
Dear Lily,
Thank you for your letter. I’m always happy to hear from any relative of Cecily’s. I have to tell you, though, that I’m not your father. I haven’t seen Cecily for twenty-one years and you say that you are nineteen. It sounds to me that your father was a good man and you should be proud of him. Your mother too. Cecily is a wonderful woman and I’m sure she is a wonderful mother to both her children. I hope to call on you on Friday afternoon to pass on my best wishes in person.
Yours very sincerely,
Victor Cutler
For a man variously described as a tough guy with many enemies, ‘a cunning one’, ‘not a very nice person’, it was a kind letter, thought Edgar. Vic Cutler had obviously had his redeeming features, after all. Had he known that he was the father of Cecily’s older child? The reference to ‘both her children’ made Edgar think that he had suspected. Sad that it was Vic’s desire to see Cecily’s daughter for himself that had led to his death.
‘DI Stephens?’
Edgar looked up. A nervous-looking WPC was at the door. Edgar tried to think of her name.
‘A visitor to see you, DI Stephens.’
‘I can’t see anyone now.’
‘I’m afraid I muscled my way in,’ said another voice. It was Ruby, gorgeous as ever in a fur hat and fur-trimmed coat. Her cheeks were pink from cold and she seemed to bring colour and glamour into the dingy underground office. It was as if someone had switched on the Christmas lights.
‘Have you time for a quick walk?’ said Ruby. ‘There’s something I want to say to you.’
Edgar didn’t have time but he’d already spent most of the morning feeling guilty about Ruby. He couldn’t turn her away now.
‘I’m afraid it will have to be quick,’ he said.
‘Just round the block.’
Outside, a bright winter sun was already melting the snow. Some children were building a snowman in the square and they could hear the shouts of tobogganists taking advantage of the car-free roads. Ruby led Edgar in the direction of the sea. When they reached the coast road she put her hand in his.
‘I think you’d better have this,’ she said.
Edgar looked at his palm which now contained Ruby’s engagement ring. Max himself couldn’t have performed better sleight-of-hand.
‘We aren’t suited, Edgar,’ said Ruby. ‘We both know that.’
‘You’re too good for me,’ said Edgar at last.
Ruby smiled, her enchanting grin that showed slightly crossed front teeth.
‘No, you’re the good one but I’m going to be a star and I don’t think you’re ready for that.’
‘I’d hold you back,’ said Edgar.
‘Yes,’ said Ruby, ‘you would. And from now on, no one is going to hold me back.’
She reached up to kiss him on the cheek and, without another word, turned and strode away in the direction of the sea.
Just keep walking, Ruby told herself. Keep walking, even if he calls you back. But he wouldn’t call; she knew that. He would be surprised, even shocked, but, deep down, she knew that Edgar’s primary emotion would be one of relief. Now he would be free to propose to the boring blonde policewoman. She hoped they would be very happy together, she really did.
The sky was bright blue and the sea almost white. Waves crashed against the shingle, carving stony rivulets on the snowy beach. Ruby remembered one of the first times she had spoken to Edgar. They had walked along the seafront together and she’d thought how safe she felt in his company. He was so tall and dependable, unlike Max who would always be slightly unpredictable and dangerous. Maybe that was all Edgar was, a father substitute. After all, she had met him when she was searching for her real father. But then she thought: how ridiculous. She had a perfectly good stepfather. She had been in love with Edgar and she still was. The most important thing now was that he should never, ever know that. He must always think that she’d grown tired of him, that he didn’t fit in with her glittering future. Dignity was all she had now.
She walked quickly towards Hove. The promenade seemed to be full of people enjoying the sun and the snow. A few young men looked admiringly at her and one asked if she was going his way. ‘I doubt it,’ said Ruby. She would never be short of admirers, she knew that and, even today, the attention from these strangers brought a small, but very welcome, ray of comfort. She thought of Florence Jones, whom she’d rather disliked, thinking her affected and ambitious. Florence had her eye on Max from the first and Ruby hadn’t fancied the thought of Florence as her stepmother. But being beautiful hadn’t done Florence any good in the long run. You had to have more, thought Ruby. You had to have talent and good looks and luck. Loads of luck. Well, she had the first two. She just had to make sure that the third came her way. Ruby squared her shoulders, tossed back her hair and prepared to be lucky.