1 Murder Offstage Read online

  So then, Posie thought, Lucky Lucy had gone fresh from her engagement lunch with Rufus at the Ritz to meet her own death only a couple of hours later. Which would account for her conservative clothing – but not for why Lucy was at the La Luna club when she died: if she had indeed died there. The early time of death was interesting for other reasons too: the two letters which had arrived at the Grape Street Bureau supposedly written by Lucky Lucy could now definitely be classed as forgeries. Someone had been deliberately impersonating the girl. But who? And why?

  Still puzzling, Posie watched the Forensics Officer, Mr Maguire, take the stand.

  Without any warning he brandished a shining revolver from a white silk cloth cover. The Court took a collective intake of breath. The priest bit hard on his sweet, almost choking himself. There came another hiccup from Rufus’ direction.

  ‘Less of your amateur dramatics, Mr Maguire,’ ordered the Coroner, looking at his pocket-watch. ‘What do you have to tell me about that gun? Something useful, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, your Honour. I do.’ The Forensics Officer beamed.

  ‘This is the actual gun recovered from the scene of crime last night, it was in Lucy Gibson’s hand when she was found. It’s a standard issue Webley Mark IV revolver, a 1915 model; a beauty, in fact. They were issued to nearly all officers who served in the Great War. In fact, the British government kept careful records of who the exact guns were issued to. Each has a special serial number.’

  ‘And?’ demanded the Coroner, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I traced the number. This particular revolver was issued to Lord Rufus Cardigeon before he left for the French Front in August 1915.’

  The Court took another sharp intake of breath and all eyes swivelled around to face Rufus, who had turned red and was shrinking down against the bench. Posie felt herself growing hot in the face with anger.

  Why on earth hadn’t he told her? And suddenly, with a horrible stinging sensation she realised he may have been trying to, yesterday in her office, but he had been overtaken by shame or sheer uselessness under the scrutiny of his formidable father, unable to admit to yet another failure.

  So: Lucy had stolen Rufus’ gun as well as his diamond and his heart, it seemed.

  ‘SEE?’ shouted Inspector Oats, jumping up again. ‘I told you he was in on it! Up to his soft-coddled neck in it!’ Inspector Lovelace pulled him down.

  Rufus stood up. He looked terrible. ‘She stole it from me, I swear. I only discovered it missing yesterday morning. Honestly, by jove, I had no idea she had taken it.’

  ‘Silence,’ ordered the Coroner, almost growling. ‘It is not the job of this Court to apportion blame or convict suspects. It is merely to confirm the details of the death, and gather the facts. Continue, Mr Maguire, I take it you are not finished?’

  The policemen sitting next to Rufus looked around uncertainly, unsure if they should handcuff him again. They made do with moving in very tightly against Rufus, to make sure he couldn’t go anywhere if he tried anything rash.

  ‘Yes, there is more. By matching up the bullets found at the scene of the, er, connected murder of Lionel Le Merle at the Ritz Hotel on Monday, I can confirm that this Webley was the gun used to shoot Mr Le Merle.’

  Inspector Oats was nodding savagely, sending dark looks across the room at Rufus.

  ‘However,’ the Forensics Officer continued, ‘that is a mere detail, a red herring. I can also confirm that while the murderer placed this Webley in Lucy Gibson’s hand, perhaps to frame Lord Cardigeon, or simply to make it look like a suicide, it was not this gun she was shot with after death.’

  All eyes were on Mr Maguire.

  ‘The post-death bullet-wound on her right temple was made by an altogether different gun. Unusual. I’d say the killer messed up by using it, as it’s so rare. I’ve never handled one before. It was a US Browning revolver, the 9mm Model.’

  ‘American, you say?’

  ‘Yes, your Honour. Although it was made specially for the Belgian army. It’s a smart little gun. It was issued to Belgian officers in the trenches. I should mention that while we don’t have the actual gun, special bullets from this Belgian gun were also found in one of the corridors at the La Luna club last night, and bullet-holes in the metal walls are entirely consistent with its being freshly fired. So the same gun used to shoot Lucy Gibson in the head was being brandished around the club again late last night. I’d say your killer was in that club last night.’

  Len whistled next to Posie. ‘Coo-ee! That means it might have been your Count Caspian who killed Lucy, don’t you think? We practically saw him waving a gun around the corridor before he made his escape last night!’

  The Coroner was nearly at the end of his green paper. ‘But without the actual gun, can you trace the bullets to find the owner of the gun, Maguire?’

  Maguire shrugged. ‘I’m trying, your Honour. I’ve put telegrams through to Brussels and Antwerp, where the army records were kept at the main recruiting stations. I expect it will be a mare’s nest, though. Not everybody has kept their guns or bullets from the Great War. In fact, not many have. It’s not really safe to keep guns on civvy street. Leads to accidents. Deaths.’

  All eyes were again on Rufus, as if judging him for his sheer stupidity. But Posie was scowling intently at Len who was sitting calmly at her right-hand side, pointedly avoiding her gaze and looking straight ahead.

  ‘One last thing. Have you determined if the victim was killed in the same place as she was found?’

  The Forensics Officer shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to say one way or the other. Sorry not to help more, your Honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Maguire. That was most useful.’

  Pulling together his papers, and putting his sheet of green paper on top, the Coroner pursed his lips together and rapped his gavel on the desk.

  ‘I will now conclude. Lucy Gibson’s death was murder or manslaughter by person or persons unknown, at a place unknown. Cause of death was cyanide poisoning, followed by a post-mortem shot to the head using a Belgian-issued revolver. Time of death was the afternoon of Monday 14th February. Now, I will just sign off. I say! Hang on a minute…’

  The Coroner rustled through his papers, and then again, more urgently this time. He called over to the Court Official and whispered at him insistently. The Court Official shook his head dismally.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have a problem.’ The Coroner turned to the Scotland Yard Inspectors.

  ‘It seems that the lady whose death we have been investigating here today has absolutely no official records whatsoever, save for some old payslips you have provided me with which are no use to me at all, and the death certificate which I am supposed to sign. Have you no proper official information about her? I thought she was famous?’

  ‘She is!’ barked Inspector Oats. ‘She’s Lucky Lucy Gibson! We’ve been after her for years.’

  ‘Well, Inspector. It seems you have been after a shadow, or a ghost, or something that doesn’t exist. There is no birth certificate, no passport, no identity papers; nothing for a Lucy Gibson. I’ve checked and my Court Officials have been frantically calling everyone they can – the Registry Office, the Passport Agency. No stone has been left unturned. No-one has ever been registered with the name Lucy Gibson who matches the corpse in our Mortuary here. It seems we have been doing your work for you, Inspectors, and I’m not best pleased.’

  Next to Posie the priest was scrunching up his bag of sweets and gathering up his umbrella, ready to leave. The Commissioner looked ready to explode, and Inspectors Oats and Lovelace were looking at the Coroner, incredulous.

  ‘So, I will leave the name blank on my report,’ he concluded, patting his papers. ‘When you find out her real name, let me know. Now, this Inquest is adjourned and I am off for my lunch. I sincerely hope for you, Inspectors, that you have some other leads in this case?’

  And both Inspectors looked at Posie, and Posie looked at Rufus and he rolled his eyes to heaven.

  ‘
I told you that Lucy Gibson wasn’t her real name,’ he muttered crossly. ‘I told you.’

  ****

  Outside on the pavement, they stood together in an awkward little group: the two Inspectors, plus Posie and Len and Rufus. Overhead, storm clouds scudded across the sky. There was already the tang of brine in the air. The heavens opened suddenly and they huddled under umbrellas.

  ‘Ah, rain!’ said Inspector Oats, taking a drag on his pipe. He felt uncomfortable standing next to a freed Rufus; unsure of what the next steps would be. The Commissioner had just spent the last ten minutes bellowing loudly and for all to hear at Inspectors Oats and Lovelace: they were now instructed to work together on the investigation, with Inspector Lovelace taking the lead. They were instructed to take whatever advice and leads were forthcoming, including to ‘use that girl who calls herself a private detective if you have to.’ Which meant co-operating with this annoying girl and her pals, for now.

  Inspector Lovelace was downhearted too.

  ‘All I can say is thank goodness the press weren’t allowed in. We got a mauling enough without it being front-page news. We need to get this case back on track, Oats. Pronto.’

  Posie coloured a little at his mention of the press; if her plan was going as it should, the story of the La Luna bust would be all over news-stands just about now, on the cover of the Associated Press. And then there would be a mauling, she thought uncomfortably, and she would be the one getting mauled.

  ‘You should have told me she stole your gun,’ she hissed at Rufus. ‘It would have been good to know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered at the pavement. ‘I wanted to tell you, then I just clammed up. I knew it didn’t make it any better for me.’

  ‘Cyanide poisoning, eh?’ said Len, cocking his head inquisitively and lighting a cigarette against the wind.

  ‘Mnnn,’ nodded Inspector Lovelace. ‘Took me down a peg or two, that. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t spot it. The blue was a very light shade, just a fraction darker than normal rigor mortis…’

  ‘It doesn’t help much anyway,’ growled Inspector Oats. ‘The world and his wife can get their hands on cyanide at a moment’s notice in any chemist! Why, I even put it down in our shed in Isleworth to deal with rats…and gardeners use it all the time for snails.’

  ‘Mnn, I wonder…’ said Len, half under his breath. He stubbed the cigarette out on the kerb. Posie saw a gleam of interest in his eye.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s maybe nothing. But cyanide is used by photographers. On a daily basis. We have to use it in the darkroom.’

  Posie nodded, interested.

  ‘And we know one of the gang following you is a photographer…even the paper these people use is impregnated with the smell of zirconium, so…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can’t. It takes us no closer to finding the killer, or your stalker for that matter…and no closer to the Maharajah diamond, either.’

  ‘Come on, folks. I think we should all go back to the Yard, have a hot lunch and then work out a plan of action,’ said Inspector Lovelace, gesturing forwards, trying to take charge. Posie nodded, but Len and Rufus shook their heads in unison.

  ‘I have a lunch date,’ Rufus muttered, and turned on his heel. He made a pitiful figure dashing through the rain in his creased clothes, without a coat or hat, a mere sketch of a man. But Posie understood: he had spent more than enough of his time lately at Scotland Yard.

  Len shrugged and waved over his shoulder:

  ‘Maybe later? I’ve got to follow up on something else just now.’

  So it was only Posie who walked the ten minutes to Scotland Yard with both Inspectors. They walked in silence and rather awkwardly, negotiating their umbrellas carefully among the crowds on the pavement, where the sudden rain was washing away the ice and snow into soggy grey rivers of unattractive slush. Victoria was busy. It was lunchtime, but even so, and even with the sound of the rain slapping down on the wet pavements, she thought she heard footsteps trailing behind her, just on her tail. Again.

  Turning abruptly, she saw a black mass of umbrellas and dark rain-jackets, and close by she saw the top of a priest’s black Biretta hat, sailing hurriedly off to the left somewhere in the crowd. Her heart jumped into her mouth. Was it just a coincidence?

  ‘I say,’ she hissed to the Inspectors, ‘why was that Catholic priest at the Inquest? Did you invite him specially? I thought he might be a character witness, but he was never called.’

  ‘What priest?’ asked Inspector Lovelace, surprised. Oats shook his head.

  Posie laughed. ‘You couldn’t have missed him! He was crunching sweets so loudly I thought the Coroner was going to order him to be quiet.’

  ‘Nope, no idea,’ said Inspector Lovelace, ushering her in through the big iron gates, and signalling left towards the staff canteen.

  Posie felt a stab of fear. What exactly was going on?

  Who were all these people who, quite simply, didn’t really exist?

  ****

  Thirteen

  ‘The thing I don’t like about this whole case is that nothing and no-one is quite what it seems,’ said Inspector Lovelace anxiously, frowning and crossing his arms behind his desk.

  Posie nodded: it was exactly what she thought. She sat more primly than she might have done otherwise, aware of Inspector Oats, equally uncomfortable beside her, holding onto his weighty black file.

  ‘The victim is not who we thought she was, and we have no real suspects for her murder. Apart from your pal, Rufus. And the entire of the London underworld, that is…’

  Rain slashed in angry fingers against the window pane, and although it was only early afternoon the sky was dark purple outside. The office seemed grimmer than usual, and less welcoming. No biscuits were offered today.

  ‘So, then. Any thoughts, either of you? And we’d better come up with something pretty special. I’ve been informed our jobs are on the line.’

  Posie’s mind was a blank. She wanted desperately to help Inspector Lovelace but the puzzle wasn’t coming together how it was supposed to just yet.

  Oats was very quiet, stroking his moustache. Posie glanced at him for a second – she noticed now how his pinstriped suit looked like it needed a good pressing, and there was a spot of what looked like egg yolk on his tie. He looked a mess, and tired too. And now his job was under threat. Surprisingly, Posie felt a stab of pity for him, but then she remembered the way he had treated Rufus so abominably over the last few days, and the way he had loomed up in front of her after Rufus’ bail hearing yesterday, when he had told her to keep away from the case, although all she had done was try and help. He really was a useless oaf!

  ‘Could I take a look at your file, please. Inspector?’

  Oats darted Posie an incredulous look, before glancing at Inspector Lovelace, who simply nodded. Oats surrendered the file with an ill grace. She ran through it briskly, head bent in the light thrown up by the reading lamp.

  It was mainly a well-assembled series of press cuttings and police reports involving the antics of Lucky Lucy Gibson, covering a criminal career reaching back over the last ten years, mainly involving stolen jewels. Inspector Oats had been thorough, Posie had to admit. Every few pages Posie turned, she came face to face with a different photo of the girl; the same coltish eyes staring out at her from a number of different hairstyles, various different disguises. Posie scanned reports of various Mayfair hotel jewel robberies, a spectacular theft of some magnificent yellow diamonds from a royal princess, and lastly, over a year ago now, a stint as a sales girl in a well-known jewellery shop on Bond Street which had culminated in a theft of gemstones on an enormous scale. In each of these crimes the girl had been working under the name the police had come to know her by – Lucy Gibson – and there were even inky copies of official payslips from the Bond Street shop addressed to her in that name. These must have been the payslips the Coroner had been supplied with.

  It was evident that Lucy had never been ca
ught, never brought to trial. Pages of initial witness statements were bunched together in one fat envelope from various crimes, but each was ruled through with thick red pen with the words INADMISSIBLE.

  ‘When it came to the crunch, no-one would ever stand up in Court and testify against her,’ explained Inspector Oats, reading over Posie’s shoulder. ‘We think Lucy or the gangsters she worked with intimidated or bribed these witnesses. So we could never get her. We never had an address for her either, to track her down; she just seemed to disappear into thin air.’

  ‘She was a clever girl,’ Posie whistled. ‘What went wrong this time, I wonder?’

  Posie flicked back through the file. ‘It looks like she started her life of crime in 1911. She was busy for five years, then she went quiet through the Great War, and she started up again two years ago. Then a year ago it all went quiet again, which is when we now know she started to work at the theatre. Interesting, about her going missing during the war…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing really. I wonder where she went to then, that’s all... I would have thought London in the war years was rich pickings for gangsters. Fewer policemen. Less security. Countless aristocrats hiding out here, waiting for peace, carrying their treasures with them. Easy pickings, surely, for a girl like Lucy?’

  There was a very short report made on the search at Lionel Le Merle’s lodgings the previous day. He had lived in a room in a run-down house in Soho, which he had apparently shared with almost the whole orchestra from the Athenaeum Theatre. The search had yielded no real results: no papers, nothing of value or interest.

  ‘There’s no background information on Mr Le Merle?’ Posie asked, surprised. ‘No history of previous employment? Reports of previous crimes?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Inspector Oats, clicking his tongue angrily against the roof of his mouth. ‘We haven’t found any official records for him. None whatsoever. It’s as if he didn’t exist either. That’s why there was no formal Inquest into his death before now.’

  ‘Perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ ventured Inspector Lovelace.