anonymous.’
Cribb nodded in a way that showed he had expected as much. ‘Did your informant give you Albert’s address as well? You got him here uncommon fast.’
There was a pause while Mrs Body twisted one of her curls around her left forefinger. ‘Mr Cribb, you ask such suspicious questions. Do you think that you will trap me into saying something indiscreet? I believe I rather relish the prospect of being trapped by a real policeman. What would you like me to say?’
Thackeray’s pencil slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor. He muttered an apology and recovered it. How could you behave like a wall-painting when your superior was being subjected to moral danger?
‘I merely inquired how you got Albert’s address, Ma’am,’ said Cribb.
‘From his agent, of course,’ said Mrs Body. ‘Every artiste makes sure that his agent has his latest address. Do you know, Mr Cribb, I have something upstairs that would interest you, as a lover of the variety stage. You must have visited the old Alhambra in Leicester Square before it lost its music and dancing licence? Well I have a small sitting-room furnished as a perfect replica of a box at the Alhambra, complete with hangings and chairs that I bought from the owner.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve time today, Ma’am—’ began Cribb.
‘Perhaps on a future occasion, when you desire to interrogate me further,’ ventured Mrs Body. ‘You can understand my wish to escape from my responsibilities from time to time. That is when I retreat to my little box upstairs.’
Thackeray blew his nose stridently.
‘But you will want to know the names of my male guests,’ Mrs Body said, her thoughts evidently deflected by the interruption. ‘I doubt whether I can remember all of them. I accommodate most of the old Alhambra orchestra, you see.’
‘I understand you, Ma’am,’ said Cribb, with conviction. ‘But they wouldn’t feature on my list. Would you have an Italian barrel-dancer—name of Bellotti?’
‘Yes, yes!’ She opened her arms expansively. ‘How splendid! You can cross him off your list! He is a missing person no longer.’
‘And a comedian named Fagan?’
‘Sam Fagan! That is Sam’s voice you can hear in the next room.’
‘That’s very good news,’ said Cribb. ‘Could we go in?’
Mrs Body lifted a hand. ‘Not this afternoon. Rehearsal, you know. They insist on private rehearsals.’
‘What are they rehearsing for, Ma’am?’
Momentarily Mrs Body seemed confused. ‘What for, Mr Cribb? Why, for their return to the footlights, when they are quite restored. Some of them may never be hired again, but it would be cruel indeed if we denied them their slim hope.’
This somewhat pathetic view of the guests was difficult to reconcile with what was now issuing from next door. A voice, presumably Sam Fagan’s, was endeavouring to articulate a poem by the late Mr Thackeray. Like the song, it was being most oddly received.
‘But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, (recited Mr Fagan)
There’s one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that’s padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom’d chair.’
—at which hoots of indecorous laughter held up the rendition. It was impossible to believe that a familiar parlour-poem could be so received.
‘’Tis a bandy-legg’d, high-shoulder’d, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; (persisted the speaker)
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom’d chair.’
‘Extraordinary!’ declared Cribb, not at the poem, but at the persistent under-current of giggling that accompanied it, women’s voices as prominent as the men’s. Was some unexplained pantomine being performed in accompaniment?
‘If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass’d through your wither’d old arms!
I look’d, and I long’d, and I wish’d
Cribb nodded in a way that showed he had expected as much. ‘Did your informant give you Albert’s address as well? You got him here uncommon fast.’
There was a pause while Mrs Body twisted one of her curls around her left forefinger. ‘Mr Cribb, you ask such suspicious questions. Do you think that you will trap me into saying something indiscreet? I believe I rather relish the prospect of being trapped by a real policeman. What would you like me to say?’
Thackeray’s pencil slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor. He muttered an apology and recovered it. How could you behave like a wall-painting when your superior was being subjected to moral danger?
‘I merely inquired how you got Albert’s address, Ma’am,’ said Cribb.
‘From his agent, of course,’ said Mrs Body. ‘Every artiste makes sure that his agent has his latest address. Do you know, Mr Cribb, I have something upstairs that would interest you, as a lover of the variety stage. You must have visited the old Alhambra in Leicester Square before it lost its music and dancing licence? Well I have a small sitting-room furnished as a perfect replica of a box at the Alhambra, complete with hangings and chairs that I bought from the owner.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve time today, Ma’am—’ began Cribb.
‘Perhaps on a future occasion, when you desire to interrogate me further,’ ventured Mrs Body. ‘You can understand my wish to escape from my responsibilities from time to time. That is when I retreat to my little box upstairs.’
Thackeray blew his nose stridently.
‘But you will want to know the names of my male guests,’ Mrs Body said, her thoughts evidently deflected by the interruption. ‘I doubt whether I can remember all of them. I accommodate most of the old Alhambra orchestra, you see.’
‘I understand you, Ma’am,’ said Cribb, with conviction. ‘But they wouldn’t feature on my list. Would you have an Italian barrel-dancer—name of Bellotti?’
‘Yes, yes!’ She opened her arms expansively. ‘How splendid! You can cross him off your list! He is a missing person no longer.’
‘And a comedian named Fagan?’
‘Sam Fagan! That is Sam’s voice you can hear in the next room.’
‘That’s very good news,’ said Cribb. ‘Could we go in?’
Mrs Body lifted a hand. ‘Not this afternoon. Rehearsal, you know. They insist on private rehearsals.’
‘What are they rehearsing for, Ma’am?’
Momentarily Mrs Body seemed confused. ‘What for, Mr Cribb? Why, for their return to the footlights, when they are quite restored. Some of them may never be hired again, but it would be cruel indeed if we denied them their slim hope.’
This somewhat pathetic view of the guests was difficult to reconcile with what was now issuing from next door. A voice, presumably Sam Fagan’s, was endeavouring to articulate a poem by the late Mr Thackeray. Like the song, it was being most oddly received.
‘But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, (recited Mr Fagan)
There’s one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that’s padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom’d chair.’
—at which hoots of indecorous laughter held up the rendition. It was impossible to believe that a familiar parlour-poem could be so received.
‘’Tis a bandy-legg’d, high-shoulder’d, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; (persisted the speaker)
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom’d chair.’
‘Extraordinary!’ declared Cribb, not at the poem, but at the persistent under-current of giggling that accompanied it, women’s voices as prominent as the men’s. Was some unexplained pantomine being performed in accompaniment?
‘If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass’d through your wither’d old arms!
I look’d, and I long’d, and I wish’d
Similar Books
