In all the thrill of that momentous evening of law enforcement – consisting in the swift but slightly under-considered arrests, for violent murder, of an old, feeble actor and a female novelty artiste – Sergeant Brunswick forgot about one quite significant thing: the potential wrath of the buxom, toothy nineteen-year-old girl he had publicly abandoned in the rowdy queue for the Hippodrome.
True, Brunswick had paused to apologise to Maisie as he sped off to the crime scene at the Theatre Royal. Even in the thick of events, he had gamely reported the vibrant colour of her tongue, which was clearly her principal interest in life. But essentially he had ditched her and then forgotten her. Earlier in the day, he had glowed with pleasure at the thought of Maisie spending the evening on his arm, calling him ‘Jim’ all the time in that thrilling way she did; once he had heard the clarion call of duty, however, the delectable Maisie might never have existed.
In his defence, it had been an exceptional night. No wonder he barely slept, and was up the following morning by half-past six. As he dressed and shaved quietly (so as not to disturb his doting auntie Violet), Brunswick realised he was especially happy at one incidental aspect of the affair: that he and the inspector had conducted the entire evening’s transactions without the help of PC Clever-clogs Twitten. Wouldn’t that kid be impressed when he found out what they’d achieved? Such prompt arrests in two gruesome killings would surely cast Twitten’s own successes – in the age-old ‘Kennington Butcher’ case, for example – completely in the shade, tooth-in-that-flaming-floorboard or no tooth-in-that-flaming-floorboard.
So, at seven-fifteen, Brunswick was surprised, as he gently pulled shut the downstairs front door to his auntie’s flat on the London Road, to find an avenging Ventriloquist Vince on the dusty pavement, awaiting him with a baseball bat.
Alarmed, Brunswick played it cool. ‘What’s all this, Vince?’ he said, adjusting his hat. ‘A bit early, aren’t you?’
Vince toyed menacingly with his blunt instrument. He was pretty pumped up (not that this was unusual). Brunswick swallowed nervously.
‘You hurt my Maisie, you ratface ruddy policeman ponce,’ snarled Vince, weighing the bat in his hand. ‘You make her feel like ruddy lemon, mate!’
Brunswick thought quickly. Was there any justice at all in this accusation? He’d only left her for ten minutes, after all. He raised a finger. ‘But the point is, Vince –’
‘You make her ruddy cry, mate!’
‘Mm,’ said Brunswick, turning, as if making an important decision. ‘Right, well, in that case, there’s not a minute to lose.’
And then he started to stride briskly along (proceeding in a southerly direction), so that Vince was forced to trot at an uncomfortable speed beside him. For a while, Brunswick said nothing, then he stopped and looked quizzically at Vince, as if surprised to see him still there. Vince (thankfully) looked slightly uncertain now; slightly bewildered. The bat was looser in his grip. Brunswick might not have won a medal for forensic observation at Hendon, but he knew a thing or two about defusing violent intent, especially when it was directed against himself.
‘Well, I’d just like to thank you for telling me all this, Vince,’ he said, with an air of authority. ‘Where can I find her? I’ll apologise.’
Vince scowled. He wasn’t sure how – or when – he had lost the advantage here. Daringly, Brunswick placed a hand on Vince’s shoulder and applied a little weight.
‘Where can I find her?’ he repeated.
Vince shrugged. He looked fed up. ‘She’s in Luigi’s.’
Brunswick held out his hand, which Vince reluctantly shook. ‘That’s excellent. Now, you’re free to go. Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.’
At which Brunswick strode off down the London Road, then made a quick right turn up one of the lesser streets (as if to proceed in a westerly direction) and – remembering first to remove his hat – was vastly sick in an alley.
* * *
It was a day for starting early. Even before Sergeant Brunswick had left his auntie’s place, Constable Twitten was having a cup of tea with Mrs Groynes at the police station, and sharing with her his shock and disbelief at how events had unfolded the previous night. He had not slept at all. Not knowing the address of the station house, and not having money for a hotel, he had spent the pre-dawn hours walking the empty streets, making notes, familiarising himself with the town. In his short career to date, he had found that it was useful to know how quickly one could get from A to B, or from C to F, via E – even if, after a few days, you generally found yourself transferred elsewhere and had to start all over again.
At around 2.30 a.m., outside a house in the pleasant, leafy Clifton Hill area, he had found a young constable on duty, guarding a crime scene (but actually asleep). It was from him – firmly shaken awake – that Twitten learned all the astonishing news of the night: that Brunswick and the inspector had come here to arrest Braithwaite and had found him murdered; that from here they had arrested old Alec Forrester in a Hove pub (for the shooting of Crystal); and from there they had arrested a strong lady at the Hippodrome (for the Opinion Poll lady burglaries and unpremeditated murder of Braithwaite).
Twitten’s initial reaction to all this was despair. A disgruntled actor was supposed to have shot Crystal? What about the Aldersgate Stick-up?
For a while the two young officers stood together in the moonlight. Then Twitten thought of something.
‘Where are the suspects detained?’ he asked.
‘In the cells at the station, sir. I mean, in the cells at the station.’
Calling Twitten ‘sir’ had been an embarrassing slip, but an understandable one.
‘What do the cells look like?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Walls or bars?’
‘Bars.’
‘Bars?’ repeated Twitten, significantly.
‘Yes. Like cages.’ The other constable didn’t see where this was going. He thought Twitten must be slow, or something. ‘You know. Cages made of iron bars. It’s quite normal.’
‘Doesn’t that woman famously bend iron bars as part of her act?’
‘Ah,’ said the PC, finally understanding. ‘Blimey, that’s a point.’
Twitten had sprinted back to the police station and demanded to be let in by the night desk sergeant, who laughed merrily at his suggestion of a prisoner escape until he went downstairs to check and found that, yes, unfortunately, while the old man was still safely asleep and groaning on his hard wooden bunk, the young woman’s cell next door was empty, with a significant bendy gap in the bars big enough for a body to squeeze through.
‘Oh, bugger,’ said the desk sergeant, with feeling.
‘Yes indeed,’ sympathised Twitten. Exhausted from the night’s events, it was all he could do not to climb through the gap, fall onto the strong lady’s vacated bunk bed and shut his eyes at last. But he dared not give in to tiredness, so instead he headed for Inspector Steine’s department and spent the rest of the night furiously typing.
‘So she’d scarpered, had she?’ asked Mrs Groynes, delightedly, pouring Twitten his second reviving cup of tea. Next to him was a pile of typed notes half an inch thick. ‘Well, you’ve got to laugh.’
‘I know. We searched the whole building. After a while, the desk sergeant said he remembered seeing an unidentified person in a big overcoat and trilby hat waving goodnight at about 1 a.m. When I pressed him to recall if there was anything odd about this unidentified person, he thought about it for a minute or so and then said yes, he’d heard the incongruous click of high heels on the tile flooring, but unfortunately hadn’t put two and two together.’
Twitten swallowed, and then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Mrs Groynes,’ he said, ‘I feel awful saying this, and I know it can’t be literally true, but it’s as if this station is run by idiots.’
Mrs Groynes sat down beside him, smiled, and patted his hand. ‘I know, dear. Sometimes it seems that way to me, too.’
Twitten took a deep breath. ‘Thank you so much for coming with me to the hospital last night.’
‘That’s all right; it was the least I could do. You was in such a two-and-eight, babbling about lists and such removed from the scene of the crime!’ She smiled at him, conspiratorially. ‘Ooh, now, that reminds me. I’ve had a little think about that precious list of yours, and my advice is this. Give it to Inspector Steine at the very first opportunity, dear, without delay, and say you did it when you wasn’t in your right mind. He’ll be cross, all right; but he’ll forgive you, for sure.’
Twitten bit his lip. ‘Give it to the inspector?’
‘That’s right, dear. It’s the right thing to do.’
‘But I can’t, Mrs Groynes. I lost it!’
She looked puzzled.
‘How do you mean, you lost it?’
‘A boy on a bike snatched it out of my hand. He must have thought it was a five-pound note! It wasn’t my fault!’
Mrs Groynes gasped. ‘You’re saying you lost a piece of vital evidence that you’d removed from the scene of the crime?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Groynes put her hand to her mouth in horror.
‘Please don’t tell anyone, Mrs G,’ said Twitten. ‘The thing is, I do remember everything that was on the list, so in a way it doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter?’
‘No, I mean it. In the night, you see, I traced Mr Crystal’s movements precisely from the railway terminus to the ice cream parlour by way of the police station, so I’m already forming ideas about what might have jogged his memory, and I’m sure I’m on the right track! Did you know, for example, that there are all sorts of posters on the wall opposite the station – for the Hippodrome, for the Punch & Judy, for sand-castle competitions, all sorts! On his way from the station, he would also have passed a man selling wind-up toys on a tray outside a cinema, calling out: “See the bunny run! See the bunny jump!”’
‘I’m not with you, dear.’
‘I’m just saying, it was some small thing that triggered his memory. Perhaps it was the bunnies, it’s too early to tell. But once it’s eight o’clock, I’ll telephone Mr Crystal’s secretary in London and get her to come down on the train with the manuscript of his memoirs. I’ve got her home telephone number. She worked with him extremely closely on memory-retrieval and she’ll be familiar with his very thought patterns. I’ve got it all worked out! I’ll also request a copy of the play so that I can check precisely what was being said onstage when Mr Crystal got excited. So you see the list was only the starting point.’
‘But if you haven’t got that list, dear,’ said Mrs Groynes, gravely, ‘who’s going to believe it even existed?’
‘I’m not a liar, Mrs G! You saw the list yourself!’
‘I saw a piece of paper, dear.’
‘But –’
Mrs Groynes stood up and moved away. She picked up her mop and bucket. Twitten felt bereft. Wasn’t she on his side, after all? After a few seconds, she turned to face him, and her expression was serious.
‘Look, dear. You probably don’t want me sticking my oar in. But I’m afraid after what you’ve told me, my advice is let the whole thing lie.’
‘Listen. They’ve got to catch that escaped strong lady first, haven’t they? And they’ve already got that actor bloke for the shooting –’
‘But he can’t have –’
‘I’m just thinking of you, dear. Thinking of your reputation; your career. They already know you’re someone who wants a huggie from his mummy. They already think you’re an annoying brainbox. You’re this close to being moved on again, am I right? If they thought you’d made up phantom evidence –’
‘I can prove it all without the list, Mrs G,’ said Twitten, firmly.
Mrs Groynes put down the mop and bucket. ‘Can you, though, dear?’
‘Yes, I think I can. But I do appreciate your trying to help me. You’ve been so awfully kind.’
Mrs Groynes threw up her hands in mock defeat. ‘Well, it’s up to you, love,’ she said. ‘It’s no skin off my nose. How about a nice fig roll?’
* * *
Bobby Melba woke at 9 a.m. in his Ship Street B & B, and was initially puzzled by three things. Why was he on the dusty sofa with a heavy overcoat on top of him? Why were the curtains open? Why could he hear the unmistakable sound of female emotion?
A few seconds’ reflection brought everything to mind: after the sensational arrest of poor Jo Carver at the end of last evening’s performance, he had rushed into the night to find Penny. So great was his urge to protect and comfort that wonderful young woman that he hardly paused to take off the beard.
As he raced across town, he felt slightly ashamed that he had so little compassion for the slaughtered Jack; that all his thoughts were for Penny – but that’s just the way it was. Although he had technically been friends with Jack since drama school, he’d had good reason never to like him particularly; whereas Penny! The very idea of a stricken Penny filled him with passion. So beautiful, so vulnerable, and now in such a fix! Not only had she lost her budding-playwright boyfriend, but she was probably out of a job as well, since it’s quite a well-known rule of the theatre that plays don’t usually survive a first performance cut short by two brutal murders and the arrest of one of the cast.
He had found Penny in the pub next door to the theatre, drinking brandy, with hollow eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Initially she’d gone there with Todd Blair to get over the shock of the shooting in the stalls, and to await news of Jack; when they later learned of his death, she had wailed piteously. Todd hadn’t been of enormous comfort. His main concern being whether he might be the next target himself, he kept wondering aloud whether he should reach out to the Brighton Teddy Boy community for protection. But then Bobby appeared at the door and Penny rushed to him. Bobby had never felt so strong a natural (or instant) connection with anyone in his life.
‘I heard what happened,’ said Bobby, his voice breaking. She was pressed tightly against him; instinctively, he cupped the back of her head.
‘We argued!’ she said. ‘The last time I saw him, I begged him not to go back to his digs. I was angry, Bobby! I called him a bastard! I called him selfish!’
‘Oh, Penny. I know. But to be fair, he was a bastard, wasn’t he? And he was selfish.’
‘And then someone took his life!’
‘I know. I know. I mean, I bet he was asking for it, but I know.’
‘I can’t take it in! I just can’t take it in!’
‘It’s impossible, Penny.’
‘I keep expecting him to walk in.’
‘Yes?’
Penny’s eyes filled with love. ‘He’d say, “There you are, you posh tart!”’
Bobby flinched, but agreed with her. ‘Yes, he probably would.’
He ordered more drinks from the waiter, and they sat together for another hour in the pub, talking quietly (Todd Blair soon gratefully made his excuses and left). With difficulty, Bobby explained to her how he knew what had happened: it was one of his own co-stars at the Hippodrome who’d been arrested for killing Jack; evidently she was a cunning thief who had turned to violence on this occasion for reasons as yet unknown. She used to tell everyone she was a brickie by day, but in fact she must have been out posing as an Opinion Poll lady and ‘casing joints’ before returning in the early evening to steal the valuables! Jack must have challenged her, not realising that she was a hundred times stronger than she looked.
‘So there was a struggle?’ said Penny.
Bobby said he imagined so. What with all the blood up the fireplace, the torn curtains, disturbed furniture, and so on.
After the landlord had rung the bell at closing time, Penny had asked if she could sleep at his digs – she couldn’t face her own lonely hotel room – and he had led her back there in a complicated state of happiness.
And now it was morning, and Bobby was blearily aware of his surroundings, and Penny Cavendish was dressed and standing by the door, which she had noiselessly opened.
‘Bobby, you’re awake,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I should go. I left you a note. It’s not goodbye. It was so sweet of you to let me spend the night here. Let’s meet again later.’
‘Penny, please don’t go.’
‘I needed to pin my hair so I used this comb-thing, is that all right?’
Bobby didn’t look. Of course it was all right.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed aside the oppressive overcoat he’d been sleeping under, and rocked himself into a sitting position on the settee. ‘Please stay and talk,’ he said, gently.
‘Bobby, I’m very confused,’ she said. He longed to rush to her and put his arms around her.
‘I love Jack, you see. I mean, I loved Jack. I do love Jack!’
‘I know, Penny.’
‘I need some time to think.’
‘Of course you do. I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Penny, it’s just that –’
‘Oh, why do you have to be such a lovely man?’ she wailed.
And then they both laughed, weakly, and she let herself out.
It was his cue to go back to sleep. But the last thing he saw as she left the room made him jump to his feet in alarm, run to the mantelpiece and punch it with his fist. On the back of Penny’s head, holding her hair in an improvised knot, something had sparkled like a diamond – in fact, just like the exact large diamond decorating a stolen Victorian hair-comb illegally in Bobby’s possession, with an estimated value of a thousand pounds.
By the time Brunswick had located Maisie – not at Luigi’s in fact, but opening up her little shop under the arches – he was angry.
‘Guess who called at my house this morning, Maisie!’ he demanded.
He hadn’t reckoned on the girl being quite so angry herself. After all, he hadn’t left her last night out of choice, had he? There had been a flaming murder to attend to! But not a bit of it. She was seriously furious with him. When she saw him approaching, she pointedly turned her back – shoving colourful windmills-on-sticks into a blue bucket and setting her little pink mouth into a pout. When she finally turned to face him, holding a scarlet windmill-on-a-stick in her hand, her eyes were blazing and he noticed a tiny pucker in her otherwise unlined brow, which ought to have scared him, but in fact had an immediate electrifying effect on his loins.
What was it about this girl? Maisie looked magnificent in her fury, and also (he couldn’t help noting) the neat white socks were transcendently white and virginal today.
‘You left me, Jim. You left me like a lemon.’
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Two people were murdered last night, Maisie. What was I to do? I’ll make it up to you. Name the day, name the place, I’ll take you.’
‘You left me before that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You went in by that stage door and left me outside on my own.’
‘But only for ten minutes!’
‘Ten minutes? It was more than half an hour, Jim!’
Brunswick couldn’t let this go unchallenged. She was being completely unreasonable. ‘It was ten flaming minutes, Maisie.’
She stamped her foot. The little plastic windmill caught a bit of breeze and started to whizz in her hand. ‘No, it flaming wasn’t! And then, when you finally do come out, you run off and leave me altogether. If Vince hadn’t been there, I’d have had to go home on the bus.’
‘Hang on, Maisie. Vince was there?’
‘Blimey, didn’t you see him?’ she laughed, nastily. ‘Call yourself a policeman, he was right behind us in the pub, Jim!’
‘Was he?’
‘Then when we were in the queue, he was watching from opposite and pointing us out to that bloke Stanley. Are you blind or something?’
‘What, Stanley-knife Stanley was there, too?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Flaming heck, Maisie, why didn’t you say?’
Maisie shrugged. She liked it that Vince showed such an insanely passionate interest in her. It made her feel special.
‘Vince is very keen on me, if you hadn’t noticed.’ She leaned her face close to Brunswick’s, but not in an affectionate way. She had chewing gum in her mouth; it was identifiable as spearmint. Perhaps the shop had run out of multicoloured gobstoppers (which would be a blessing). She chewed in a meaningful manner. ‘So you’d better watch out, daddy-o,’ she said.
Sensing that she was softening towards him, Brunswick decided not to challenge the ‘daddy-o’ thing. She’d only started saying it in the past ten days; he hoped it was a passing teenage fad.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said. ‘Look, Maisie, all I can do is apologise and offer to take you out again. And I’ve done that, so I’ll get off to the station. There’s a lot to do today.’
As far as he was concerned, their tiff was over. He leaned towards her to kiss the top of her head.
But Maisie hadn’t finished. ‘But you didn’t apologise, Jim,’ she said, firmly, backing away with her hands on her hips.
Brunswick was confused. ‘Yes, I did. That’s why I flaming came here!’
‘No, what you said was, Two people were murdered last night, Maisie.’
He considered this. What point was she making?
‘You didn’t say: I’m so sorry, I apologise, I did a thoughtless thing to a defenceless teenager.’
‘Defenceless?’ he scoffed. ‘I wouldn’t say you’re defenceless, would you? Vince was at my place this morning with a baseball bat!’
‘Was he?’ Her eyes lit up. She smiled, to reveal the devastating buck teeth.
‘Yes, he was.’
‘Oh.’ She laughed rather unpleasantly and gave Brunswick a little push on the chest. ‘Well, then. That settles it. Run along then, Mister Policeman. Go on. Shove in your clutch.’
‘What?’ (He had never heard the expression ‘shove in your clutch’ before.)
‘You can practise your apologies on some other girl from now on. Don’t bother asking me out again.’
Just then, Vince appeared a few yards behind her, and stopped to watch while his rival received his marching orders.
‘What?’ begged Brunswick. ‘Oh, Maisie, come on. Why are you being like this? It was only ten minutes.’
‘It was half an hour!’
He backed away. She seemed to be truly enraged. Her eyes were bulging.
‘No, I’ve made my mind up. I’ve had enough.’ She stamped a foot again. The windmill whizzed. ‘Yes, mate, that’s it, you’ve had your chips.’ She didn’t care at all that she was mixing her metaphors. ‘I said, on your bike, piss off, and sling your ruddy hook!’
* * *
Falling into step with Brunswick in Prince Albert Street, Inspector Steine hailed his sergeant companionably. He didn’t notice that Brunswick looked more miserable than usual. It was such a beautiful day that Steine had left his car at home and walked into town. He felt full of optimism.
‘Splendid day, Brunswick.’
‘Is it, sir?’
‘I slept like a log. Did you?’
Brunswick thought back. ‘No, sir. To be honest, I had a lot to think about.’
‘Really? About what?’
‘About the murder suspects, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Those.’
‘We have to interview so many people.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘We have to organise an identity parade, search dwellings, check that Alec Forrester’s fingerprints match any on the weapon, take statements, check alibis. For a start, that strong lady insists she’s been working as a brickie at that new airport every day, which would mean –’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Steine. ‘Well, I don’t envy you any of that, Brunswick. But I must say, I did enjoy the arresting part. It was surprisingly bracing.’
Brunswick stopped walking, and Steine gave him a look.
‘I’m sorry to say this, sir.’
Steine sighed. It was one of the burdens of leadership that occasionally one had to listen to the trifling concerns of one’s underlings.
‘What is it, Sergeant?’
‘I’m sorry to say this,’ Brunswick repeated, ‘but I think on reflection we might have been too quick to dismiss Alec Forrester’s watertight alibi, sir.’
‘Was he the elderly man in the pub?’
‘Yes, sir. When a whole bar full of people say they saw a man come in at half-past three in the afternoon and drink gin-and-it solidly from then on, it does seem a stretch to place him at a scene three-quarters of a mile away firing a gun at seven-forty-five and making an escape. Also, his reaction when he heard that Crystal was dead – well, what did you think, sir?’
‘Remind me, Brunswick.’
Brunswick opened his notebook. ‘He said, “Thank fuck”, sir. It was heartfelt and convincing.’
‘But he used to be an actor, don’t forget.’
‘I know, sir. He still is. But I’ve seen him in many productions, and I have to say that a performance like that would be well beyond him. He is the worst kind of terrible old ham, sir.’
‘I see.’ Steine pursed his lips, irritated. ‘You realise this will mean rethinking the whole thing?’
‘Yes, sir. But in the interests of justice –’
‘But you still think the strong lady did the other one, I hope?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Definitely. Apart from the possible alibi placing her twenty-five miles away in the afternoons, which might mean we have a problem identifying her as the Opinion Poll lady. But at least we’ve got the wig and the stolen goods, though, sir. She’s got to be in on it, at least.’
‘All right, then.’
They stood awkwardly on the pavement. Steine felt that all his splendid–day–Brunswick bonhomie was leaching out of him. But he sensed there was even more of this to come.
‘I have another request, sir.’
‘Oh, what?’ Steine was getting testy now. He had been looking forward to his first cup of tea.
‘I think Constable Twitten might confuse the investigations, sir.’
‘Ah. Now. Yes.’ Steine didn’t mind talking about Twitten. He already had quite a lot to say on the subject himself.
‘He’s very clever, I know, sir –’
‘Too clever, so people say.’
‘My very point, sir. I think he might be too clever.’
‘Go on.’
‘It worries me that he will over-complicate my investigations by being too clever, so my request is that I can ignore his findings or suggestions if they are unhelpful. I don’t like to tell tales, but he talked to me yesterday about –’ (and here Brunswick lowered his voice) ‘– about criminal psychology, sir! In the street! As if it was a normal topic of conversation!’
‘Criminal psychology? Good grief. I mean, what does that even mean?’
‘He actually said that, given the nature of the Opinion Poll lady’s criminal personality, you could predict she might turn to violence and that it was only a matter of time!’
‘Dear me. What sort of hocus-pocus was that? Detecting crimes before they even occur?’
‘I know, sir. Anyway, I just think a capacity for forensic observation can make a person quite annoying on its own, but when it’s combined with looking for flaming inner causes…’
‘I agree, Brunswick. I mean, good heavens, we’re not living in Vienna. We fought a war to protect ourselves from that sort of decadent nonsense. You yourself jumped out of aeroplanes, if memory serves.’
‘I did, sir.’
‘While I protected the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘The Bank of England.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Leave Twitten to me.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
Brunswick looked up. ‘He’s coming, sir!’ he reported.
And so Twitten arrived to intercept them on their way to the police station and inform them, breathlessly, and in one long sentence, that the strong lady had escaped, that the contractors building the passenger terminal at Gatwick Airport could confirm that Miss Carver had worked an afternoon shift there every day for the last fortnight, that Alec Forrester was obviously innocent, that a famous journalist from London called Harry Jupiter was already waiting for Steine inside, and that he (Twitten) was actively pursuing leads on all fronts to link the murder of Crystal to the long-ago Aldersgate Stick-up, which was why he was hotfooting it to the railway station to meet Miss Sibert from the next London train, and collecting a copy of the script of A Shilling in the Meter from the green room of the Theatre Royal en route, with twenty-five shillings taken from petty cash to cover any unexpected expenses, hoping that that was all right.
Getting no reaction to any of this important news, Twitten then added, to Steine’s evident relief, that Mrs Groynes had just made a fresh pot of tea and was waiting for him with a nice half-pound of coconut ice.
‘Well, carry on,’ said Steine, which was apparently the right thing to say, because Twitten raced off in the direction of the Theatre Royal.
Steine noticed Brunswick’s disappointed expression.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but he took me by surprise,’ he said, helplessly. ‘It’s a bit like having a dog. All that energy. Twenty-five shillings sounds like a lot, to me. And what’s all this nonsense about Crystal’s death being linked to the Aldersgate Stick-up?’
‘I did warn you, sir. Not to listen.’
‘Quite right, Brunswick. By the way, did you hear him say that the strong lady has escaped?’
* * *
The hilarious news that Joanne Carver had effortlessly absconded from the police cells was all over town in no time. At the Queen Adelaide, where Bobby had arranged to meet his Brighton auntie, jolly toasts were raised at opening time at 11 a.m. to the stupid woodentop in Brighton nick who’d put a famous strong lady in custody behind a bunch of bendable bars.
Bobby laughed along with everyone else, but in truth he had mixed feelings about Jo’s being on the loose. On the one hand, he liked Jo and admired her; but on the other, he had very good reason to be scared of what she might do. After all, it was his fault the police had arrested her! If he hadn’t mentioned seeing her in a red wig, she wouldn’t even have been a suspect. He kept remembering, with a groan, Sergeant Brunswick holding up the wig in Jo’s dressing room and saying, ‘Thank you for the tip-off, sir. It’s very much appreciated.’
Thank goodness there were only a few more nights at the Hippodrome. Next week Professor Mesmer was on the bill at the London Palladium! This stint in Brighton had been memorable in many respects – for meeting Penny, principally. But he would be more than happy now to pack up his trunks and boxes and move on. He just needed to retrieve that comb from Penny, ask her to be with him in London, and also to marry him (the order still required a bit of thought).
Bobby took a sip of his drink and continued to watch the door for the arrival of his Aunt Palmeira. He was confident that she’d understand why he was glad to go. She hadn’t always lived here herself. True, she’d been his Brighton auntie for a few years now, but he had fond memories of former times in London. It was this Aunt Palmeira who had come up with the idea of the phrenology act. He had always been so good with his hands – he’d been brilliant at the piano as a child. But there were thousands of other pianists in the world, Aunt Palmeira said; thousands of card sharps; thousands of illusionists and magicians. And then she remembered how, as a child herself, she’d been taken to have a reading from the great Jessie Fowler (a legend amongst phrenologists), and it had changed her life.
‘It was uncanny,’ she told the young Bobby. ‘She’d been feeling heads for decades. She’d read the heads of Queen Victoria and Teddy Roosevelt, and Oscar Wilde and Rasputin, and she still said I had the largest organ of Deceit she’d ever come across!’
Aunt Palmeira had bought Bobby some books and charts, and he had never looked back. He discovered that phrenology was not just an act, it was an art. Once he had placed his hands on a person’s head, he felt he was playing them, like a great sonata, but one that had never been heard before. There was something mystical about it: at the same time as he drew out his sitter’s essential character, he kneaded it back in, wise to its strengths and weaknesses. He could even open their minds and close them again without his sitters’ conscious knowledge.
And when, aged twenty, he tested his new-found skills on his Aunt Palmeira, he found that the great Jessie Fowler had not been exaggerating. The organ of Deceit on his auntie’s head was, truly, staggeringly enlarged.
* * *
While Sergeant Brunswick checked up on poor Alec Forrester in his cell, Inspector Steine returned to his office with a nice cup of tea (and a slice of lovely shiny pink-and-white coconut ice) to polish the talk he’d be recording later in the day at Broadcasting House in London. It was his regular compositional habit to set his manuscript aside for a day or two and then return to it on the day of the recording, embellishing it with a few fresh turns of phrase. Mainly, however, he would read it aloud, timing it for length with a stopwatch, as the talk needed to be nineteen and a half minutes precisely.
This week’s subject – the case of the Battle of Fulham Road – was perhaps not the strongest theme he’d ever chosen, but he looked forward to explaining to the clueless populace the legal principle of a mob (consisting of many people all capable of exercising individual free will and moral responsibility) together committing a single criminal act.
Had he been feeling remotely charitable towards young Constable Twitten before he sat down, he certainly wasn’t afterwards. On top of his script was a note from Twitten, evidently written (typed!) during the early hours of the morning, offering the insight that while joint enterprise was a fascinating area for legal scrutiny, surely the most interesting aspect of the Battle of Fulham Road was whether the stampede came within the words of the Riot (Damage) Act of 1886?
‘This is intolerable,’ said Steine, turning to the second page of Twitten’s missive.
If memory serves, sir, [Twitten continued] there was much debate after this famously well-attended football match about whether the police should compensate the people whose properties were invaded – and also whether the Riot Act of 1714 had been publicly read or not. But it’s a brilliant piece anyway, sir! Well done! I just feel it would be incomplete without some mention of the 1886 legislation, which I’m sure you are familiar with. Also, the Russian team was called the Moscow Dynamos, sir, not Dominoes, a classic schoolboy error that would leave you open to derision!
* * *
At the railway station, Twitten watched Miss Sibert’s train arrive. She wasn’t on it. While energetic groups of day-trippers streamed across the concourse dressed in their most colourful, scanty and sexually alluring attire, there was no one who looked remotely like she had arrived from Vienna with Sigmund Freud in 1938.
This was worrying. He had spoken to her once this morning at her own home, and she had promised to take the 8.32 from Victoria, bringing the manuscript of Crystal’s memoirs. Their conversation had been very clear, especially when she had voiced her reaction to the news of Crystal’s death.
‘I’m so frightfully sorry about what happened last night to Mr Crystal,’ Twitten had said.
And she had replied, in a Mittel-European accent, ‘Don’t vorry, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He voz a horrible man. Ein schweinhund. I often haff fantasy of shooting him myself.’
Once he was sure Miss Sibert had not been on the train, Twitten raced to the public telephone outside the station, beside the taxi rank – narrowly beating an elderly working-class woman in an unseasonal fur coat, who exclaimed, ‘Ruddy nerve!’ as he slipped into the telephone box ahead of her, removing his helmet and resting it on the floor.
Realising he had no penny coins, he dialled the operator. ‘I am a police constable,’ he announced, ‘and I need to be connected at once to a flat in London’s Great Russell Street, telephone number Museum 0488.’
After several demoralising rings, during which Twitten became guiltily aware that a short queue was now waiting for the telephone behind the original outraged fur-coat lady, the call was finally answered.
‘Miss Sibert, it’s me. Constable Twitten.’
‘Ach, I am glad it iss you, Mr Twitten,’ said Miss Sibert, evidently relieved. She sounded flustered, a little breathless. ‘It will sound ridiculous, but I was unsure vether to pick up.’
‘Has something happened, Miss Sibert? I was worried when you weren’t on the train.’
‘I’m afraid it has, yes.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘I’m afraid the manuscript of Mr Crystal’s memoir is no more!’
Someone knocked on the glass and Twitten spun round. It was the fur-coat lady. He opened the door. ‘’Ow much longer you gonna be?’ she demanded.
Twitten, in agitation, ignored her and shut the door again. He had a lot to take in. If Crystal’s memoir had been stolen, it was jolly bad luck, but at the same time proved his investigation was on precisely the right lines.
‘Did you hear vot I said, Mr Twitten?’ Miss Sibert asked, shrilly, down the line. ‘It is gone. Even the carbon copy! When I arrive this morning, the door is open; Herr Crystal’s book is gone!’
‘Crikey,’ said Twitten, with feeling.
‘Months of verk, Mr Twitten!’ She sounded very upset. ‘It was all in there! We verk for months on the trauma –’ (she pronounced it trow-ma) ‘– of the Aldersgate Stick-up. We veep together; we howl like wolves; we place bags over our heads and fire loaded pistols in the air. Loaded pistols! In this very flat in Great Russell Strasse!’
‘Goodness,’ said Twitten. ‘Was that regression?’
‘Of course it was regression!’
Twitten made a decision. ‘Perhaps we don’t need the manuscript. You can just tell me what you discovered. Would you wait there at the flat for me? I can catch the next train, I’ve got twenty-five shillings. I took it from petty cash this morning, which was jolly prescient of me, I now realise.’
She took a deep breath. She was evidently pulling herself together. Outside the telephone box in Brighton, a man in a flat cap (third in the queue) was alternately indicating the station clock and shaking his fist at Twitten.
‘Ach so,’ Miss Sibert said, ‘I suppose I could stay here. It is true there vill be much secretarial work for me for a little vile.’
‘People writing with condolences, I suppose.’
‘Jah, and also people writing to say how much they hated and detested Mr Crystal and are so glad that he is dead. But for now, auf Wiedersehen.’
‘Before you go! Just one thing!’ Twitten said. To a groan of annoyance from the small crowd now watching him, he pulled the script of A Shilling in the Meter from his pocket, opened it and quickly found the relevant passage.
‘At the play last night, you see, just before he was shot, Mr Crystal got very excited when Nick, the passionate young protagonist, berates his girlfriend for working as a clippie on a bus.’
‘Jah? What is clippie?’
‘Ooh, sorry. Bus conductress.’
‘OK.’
‘Now. Nick particularly hates hearing her say, as a bus conductress, “Any more for any more?” And I’m pretty sure it was at exactly this juncture that Mr Crystal got very excited. Can you explain that?’
Miss Sibert gasped. ‘The breakthrough!’ she said. ‘Mein Gott.’
Twitten waited for more, but evidently ‘The breakthrough! Mein Gott’ was all she was going to say.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, at last. ‘Why are those words important?’
‘Because they must have been the exact verds of the woman in the bank robbery! We verked for veeks to retrieve zem and they would not come!’ she said, and in her excitement hung up the phone.
Twitten stared at the receiver briefly, then out at the eight or nine people now waiting restively in the queue. He put his helmet back on his head, composed himself, then opened the door, and strode past his disgruntled audience in a purposeful manner, taking no notice of the jeering and swearing as he headed for the Brighton Station ticket office.