killer might have gone to the gallows but Edgar still thought it might be worth reading about the case. The parallels were tenuous but nevertheless slightly too close for comfort: a dead child, a fairy tale, a seaside town in pantomime season. Even the weather. A phrase from Diablo’s account had come back to haunt Edgar in the night.
Bloody footprints in the snow.
Could it be the combination of children and snow had triggered a murderous reaction in someone somewhere? He decided to add ‘The Babes in the Wood’ to his reading list.
He’d sent Bob and Emma home after lunch but he had stayed on, going over evidence, trying to fit the pieces together. Annie wrote plays in which children killed or were killed. Then she was murdered and a supposed clue left in her grave. Were the sweets meant to point the way to Sam Gee or to something altogether more complex and sinister? What was the role of the teacher who had befriended her or of the middle-aged man who staged her dramas? Who was writing the script here? Was it Annie, the clever girl who had trained a troupe of children to act out her fantasies, not to mention the loyal assistant who was killed at her side? Or was there another hand behind the scenes, another player yet to make their entrance?
The boarding house was quiet. Presumably all the lodgers were either in the pantomime or in other Christmas shows at the Hippodrome or Theatre Royal. But there was a light on in the front room and, before long, Edgar could hear footsteps coming towards him. He composed his face into an ingratiating smile. He was sure that the landlady would invite him in, perhaps for a drink.
So, all in all, he was disappointed when the door opened and a sullen-faced girl in a maid’s outfit stared out at him.
‘Good evening. Is Mrs . . .’ He suddenly realised that he didn’t know what the M stood for. ‘Is the landlady in?’
‘No. She’s gone to the pantomime. On the pier.’
Of course. Mrs M would not want to miss Max’s first night. He suddenly felt stupid, standing on the doorstep with his bunch of flowers like an old-fashioned stage-door Johnny.
‘These are for her.’ He offered the flowers. ‘Can you tell her that they’re from the man who stayed here on Thursday night, to say thank you?’
The maid looked at him blankly. There was no sign that she’d understood – or even heard – his message.
‘Well, goodnight then.’ The door was slammed shut before he got to the bottom of the steps. Edgar turned his collar up against the wind and began the long walk home.
*
The girl lay cringing upon the slab. Max waved his green cloak, letting the stage lights chase the shimmering garment, leading the audience’s eyes up into the gods where he wanted them.
‘If you won’t go into the cave, then I’ll send you there myself.’
‘Oh, please don’t, Uncle.’
Max threw the cloak over Annette’s huddled figure. Grinning maniacally up into the royal box, he masked her just long enough for her to find the hidden catch in the papier mâché boulder. Goodness knows they’d rehearsed it often enough but Annette was a clumsy performer and frequently mistimed her disappearance, leaving him to twirl and ad-lib until the box closed and he was able to remove his cloak with a triumphant villain’s ‘Ha ha’. He thought of Ruby and how well she would have performed this trick. But Ruby was not going to have a career as a magician’s assistant. Not if he could help it.
But tonight Annette found the handle quickly. The rock didn’t even shake as she settled down inside it. Max stepped away as the cymbals crashed and the audience exhaled in a single, delirious ‘Oooh.’
Chapter 10
The pipes had frozen again, so Edgar’s flat was as cold as the streets outside. He picked up the post in the communal hall, noting with a lurch of the heart that there was a letter from Ruby. He let himself into his flat, keeping his coat on. There was a gas heater somewhere; he’d find it and
Bloody footprints in the snow.
Could it be the combination of children and snow had triggered a murderous reaction in someone somewhere? He decided to add ‘The Babes in the Wood’ to his reading list.
He’d sent Bob and Emma home after lunch but he had stayed on, going over evidence, trying to fit the pieces together. Annie wrote plays in which children killed or were killed. Then she was murdered and a supposed clue left in her grave. Were the sweets meant to point the way to Sam Gee or to something altogether more complex and sinister? What was the role of the teacher who had befriended her or of the middle-aged man who staged her dramas? Who was writing the script here? Was it Annie, the clever girl who had trained a troupe of children to act out her fantasies, not to mention the loyal assistant who was killed at her side? Or was there another hand behind the scenes, another player yet to make their entrance?
The boarding house was quiet. Presumably all the lodgers were either in the pantomime or in other Christmas shows at the Hippodrome or Theatre Royal. But there was a light on in the front room and, before long, Edgar could hear footsteps coming towards him. He composed his face into an ingratiating smile. He was sure that the landlady would invite him in, perhaps for a drink.
So, all in all, he was disappointed when the door opened and a sullen-faced girl in a maid’s outfit stared out at him.
‘Good evening. Is Mrs . . .’ He suddenly realised that he didn’t know what the M stood for. ‘Is the landlady in?’
‘No. She’s gone to the pantomime. On the pier.’
Of course. Mrs M would not want to miss Max’s first night. He suddenly felt stupid, standing on the doorstep with his bunch of flowers like an old-fashioned stage-door Johnny.
‘These are for her.’ He offered the flowers. ‘Can you tell her that they’re from the man who stayed here on Thursday night, to say thank you?’
The maid looked at him blankly. There was no sign that she’d understood – or even heard – his message.
‘Well, goodnight then.’ The door was slammed shut before he got to the bottom of the steps. Edgar turned his collar up against the wind and began the long walk home.
*
The girl lay cringing upon the slab. Max waved his green cloak, letting the stage lights chase the shimmering garment, leading the audience’s eyes up into the gods where he wanted them.
‘If you won’t go into the cave, then I’ll send you there myself.’
‘Oh, please don’t, Uncle.’
Max threw the cloak over Annette’s huddled figure. Grinning maniacally up into the royal box, he masked her just long enough for her to find the hidden catch in the papier mâché boulder. Goodness knows they’d rehearsed it often enough but Annette was a clumsy performer and frequently mistimed her disappearance, leaving him to twirl and ad-lib until the box closed and he was able to remove his cloak with a triumphant villain’s ‘Ha ha’. He thought of Ruby and how well she would have performed this trick. But Ruby was not going to have a career as a magician’s assistant. Not if he could help it.
But tonight Annette found the handle quickly. The rock didn’t even shake as she settled down inside it. Max stepped away as the cymbals crashed and the audience exhaled in a single, delirious ‘Oooh.’
Chapter 10
The pipes had frozen again, so Edgar’s flat was as cold as the streets outside. He picked up the post in the communal hall, noting with a lurch of the heart that there was a letter from Ruby. He let himself into his flat, keeping his coat on. There was a gas heater somewhere; he’d find it and
Similar Books
