Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

was vigorous, earthy, robust – and she liked a bit of fun. Will was an idealist, fragile, only half living in the real world; and as for sex, did he even know what it was? Sometimes she doubted it, though perhaps she was wrong. He wasn’t very stable, and in her experience that sometimes put the old privates into a frenzy. There was a suppressed excitement about him tonight, like a kid going to a pantomime. Only Mariella wasn’t a pantomime, from what she remembered of that young madam.
    The carriage rattled over the streets towards the Old King Cole. Suddenly Will spoke. ‘Will you miss me, Nettie?’
    ‘What do you mean, Will?’ she asked, startled. ‘You don’t really think you’re going to get murdered, do you?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ He giggled nervously.
    ‘Don’t go.
Please,’
she said urgently. ‘I’ll stop the carriage, take you home.’
    ‘I
want
to go.’ He set his lips stubbornly.
    She said no more, but she was even more worried than before. There was a half-smile on his lips. The smile of a kid with a secret.
    Our Pickles, or to give him his full name, Harry Pickles, Cockney
comique
, stood morosely in the wings, his mind divided between the moment when in response to oldYapp’s introduction and a flourish from the orchestra he would leap on to the stage, sweeping off his high stove hat and shout out ‘Wot cher, pals!’, and the fact that Nettie would soon be arriving at the Old King Cole. Not to mention Will. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing either of them, especially together. Nettie because she would undoubtedly want to know what he needed extra dosh for so urgently when she made him an excellent allowance to stay away from her, and Will because he’d blasted well ruined his career. Him and Brodie. Will had taken all the laughs deliberately, so there’d been none to spare for when he came on. Will deliberately made him take that spot. He was as bad as the Great Horace Brodie. At least he’d soon be rid of him in the East End halls. Brodie had had it in for him ever since they’d started over ten years ago. He’d taken all the best
comique
songs and left him with the Cockney ones. The Great Brodie didn’t like Lamb any more than he did, didn’t want the glory being taken away from his act. Brodie reckoned he was the big star round here, and it was going to spike his guns to have Lamb back. Pickles smirked. That’s why he’d suggested the idea to Jowitt. ‘Why don’t you ask Will Lamb back for a week?’ ‘Good idea, Harry,’ Jowitt had said.
‘And
Nettie, too . . .’ Pickles had added. She’d come, of course she would, if Will was coming. Lamb was the reason for Nettie’s staying away from him — must be. Why else would anyone want to leave Our Pickles, particularly an old hen like her? She said she was forty, but she must be pushing forty-five at least. He was handsome, thirty-four, five foot eight; Will was ugly, forty-five, four foot nothing and hadn’t enough ammo in his gun to fire ashot. Not Nettie’s usual style. There must be more to it. Meanwhile tonight he was going to show her what she was missing. He grinned. Some blasted coster done up to the nines with a moustache and apron on chose that moment to wander in. ‘Piss off,’ he snarled at a startled Auguste Didier.
    ‘Our very own Pickles, our lovable Cockney chappie!’ came Yapp’s disembodied voice.
    Pickles bounded on to the stage, down to the footlights, hands stuck in pockets. He slouched, he winked, he double-shuffled, he confided: ‘I call her ball and chain . . . ’Cos she keeps the key of the door . . .’
    The welcome was half-hearted, but he knew why. They were waiting for Will Lamb.
    Violet and Marigold Pears were sitting tensely in their jolting four-wheeler and not just because they were running late for their turn as Number Two. They couldn’t afford to hire their own carriage and driver to take them between engagements at the various halls during the evening; their turn at the