Free Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) by Amy Myers

fishy tail atop a rock in the tank.
    ‘Who’s going to love a little mermaid
    When she’s only got a tail . . .’

    The dogs, who then slid down a chute into the tank and paddled feverishly towards their mistress, were succeeded by a group of dancers, who if they did not provide the excitements of the pink-hosed Trumbling Sisters at least supplied a decorative and unobjectionable finale. Up on the stage, grumbling and sweating hands were removing the tank, praying for the day when Mariella would tire of mermaids. His duty towards Will over, Auguste returned to the delights of kipper bones and cold pease pudding, still deeply troubled. There had been one hitch in the programme on stage. The act from Jamrach’s had been cancelled owing to indisposition. Through inquiry, he discovered the indisposition was of one of the supporting cast rather than the human element. The talking bird had been indisposed to remain in the building, apparently preferring to lodge on the roof of St George’s-in-the-East church. No doubt now that the threat to Will lay within these walls.
    As for himself, home, Queen Anne’s Gate, could not now, surely, be far removed in time. Frederick was valiantly plodding through the washing-up, but there was no sign of Lizzie. Auguste was too tired to speculate on this, assuming she had gone home, until a now familiar screech told him otherwise all too quickly.Auguste rushed downstairs to the steaming underworld below, since the sound seemed to emanate from there, but there was no sign of her. Then sounds of altercation outside sent him hurling through a side door to the outside world, where amongst unappetising bins of rubbish he found Lizzie backing away from the open door of an outhouse, new print dress half on, half off, the old one draped over a bin.
    ‘He leapt out at me, Mr Didier. Ooo-er!’ She threw herself into his protective arms as the villain of the piece grimly stepped forward.
    Auguste stared, stunned with shock, at the furious dirty face that glared in equal horror at him.
    At the top of the flight of steps leading to the road level, Percy Jowitt peered down nervously. ‘If you’re the Shadwell Mob I advise you – my dear Mr Didier, I do apologise, I quite forgot to tell you. I took your advice while you were out and locked up that dastardly bailiff in the cellar. Pray do take care.’
    ‘You may safely leave this villainous bailiff to me, Mr Jowitt. He will assault no more young ladies.’ Jowitt promptly and eagerly disappeared, and Auguste’s mouth began to twitch.
    It was Egbert Rose.
    Half an hour later Egbert had been somewhat mollified by a pint of ale and a mutton chop. Lizzie had been sent home in a cab and the glorious kitchens of the Old King Cole were devoid of life, save for themselves and the vermin which Auguste strongly suspected were enthusiastically planning their nightly assault at this very moment.
    ‘I take it you’ve not taken leave of your senses, Auguste?’ Egbert asked grimly, not yet prepared to yield completely, and looking pointedly at the smelly sack of fish bones.
    ‘Nor you of yours, Egbert, I trust?’ Auguste threw back at him, eyeing the cap and filthy jacket.
    A pause. Then Egbert reluctantly grinned. ‘There’s good reason. You’ve heard of Prince Henry the Navigator’s cross?’
    ‘Who has not?’ For years the warfare between those who felt the cross was Portuguese and those who firmly maintained it was English, had always been English, and by jingo, should remain English, had been desultory. Now its theft had been blazoned across the newspapers together with the news that Scotland Yard was baffled, it had reached fever pitch.
    ‘Henry was the son of Philippa, daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Mean anything to you?’
    ‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptre’d isle . . . This precious stone set in a silver sea,’ Auguste declaimed. ‘Shakespeare’s
Richard II.’
    ‘There are even those who claim that last line is