Murder Offstage by L. B. Hathaway Read Free Book Online

don’t see…’
    ‘And the thick, crusty callouses on the fingers? He was a musician .
Only years of being a musician can do that to hands. I’d say this chappie had
been a musician of some sort for getting on for more than forty years. Mnnn, I
wonder. Strings, definitely…perhaps the guitar, or perhaps…’
    ‘…the VIOLIN!!’ Posie shouted, interrupting.
    ‘Yes! Exactly. Good thinking at last. So our victim is a
musician. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who he was. We’ll put out a
notice to all the orchestras in town, all the bands and nightclubs too.’
    ‘There’s no need,’ Posie said, sitting bolt upright. ‘I’d
swear sure as bread is bread that this man is Lionel Le Merle, First Violin at
the Athenaeum Theatre! He didn’t show up at work today. Apparently that was
very unusual.’
    The Inspector was looking at Posie seriously.
    ‘So he knew Lucky Lucy, you mean, at work?’
    Posie nodded, bright as a button. ‘But this was no bust-up
between workmates. There’s more to it than that, I’m certain. The whole thing
stinks.’
    Inspector Lovelace nodded.
    ‘I’m inclined to agree.’ He looked at his wristwatch and
cursed, reaching for his hand-knitted woollen scarf and wrapping it around his
neck.
    ‘I’ve got to get going; my wife Molly will kill me
otherwise. I’ll tidy up here and leave a note for Oats with this man Lionel’s
name on it. I’ll tell him you’ll be along in the morning for the bail hearing,
shall I? I can’t imagine you’ll be missing that?’
    Posie nodded, gathering up her fur coat. Time to make
tracks: she wasn’t yet done for the night.
    ‘You want me to get you a cab?’ Inspector Lovelace asked.
Posie thought of the cold snowy evening outside, and jangled her last few coins
together in her pocket. She shook her head – she had already depleted the
contents of the office strong-box enough for one night.
    ‘No. But thank you. It’s only a ten-minute walk.’
    ‘Very well. But keep warm. And Posie?’ Inspector Lovelace
looked up from scribbling his note on top of the black file, ‘Take care. Keep
your powder dry. If you find anything out, let us know. Anything at all. Don’t
go this alone. It could be very dangerous. Promise me?’
    Posie nodded dutifully, but she had secretly crossed her
fingers behind her back.
    ****
    She was heading off to visit Rufus’ father at his
club: No 11, St James. On Pall Mall.
    But she had lied to the Inspector. It wasn’t a ten-minute
walk at all. It might have been in the summer, when the parks which were
useful as shortcuts stayed open late; when she could have run through St
James’s Park, past the artificial island which was home to a hundred pelicans
and over the hump-backed bridge. In the harsh reality of the snowy February
evening, however, it was half an hour’s brisk walk.
    Posie turned sharply onto Whitehall and walked along as fast
as she could without losing her footing. London was covered in its thick,
white, fuggy blanket and still yet more snow was falling. As so often happens
with fresh snow, the world suddenly seemed ridiculously quiet. Even the chimes
from the tower of Big Ben, so close, announcing to the world that it was
eight-thirty, seemed very small and far away; a tiny, tinny little sound which
belonged to a doll’s house clock.
    It was as if everybody had left town in a hurry.
    The government offices which ran down both sides of the
broad street looked shut-up and deserted, and even the Prime Minister’s house
on Downing Street was in total darkness. All the way along Whitehall, normally
so busy, Posie was passed by just one other person, a bent-against-the-wind
government worker in a flapping black coat, wielding a useless umbrella. One
cab passed by in a tearing hurry, but otherwise there was silence. There was
something uncanny about it.
    And in the strange muffled world of snow-covered London,
Posie started to imagine things.
    For all the quietness surrounding her, she fancied she