The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(21)

‘The stage manager was very brave,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ Mr Tufnell nodded. ‘Sarah’s a strapping lass like you. Not willowy and pliant like this young lady here.’ He flashed his broken teeth at Holly.

‘Lucy and I can both handle ourselves very well,’ Holly said.

‘So,’ Lockwood said, ‘it was a close shave for Charley. And now we get to poor Sid Morrison.’

The impresario’s shoulders dropped; he studied his hands. ‘Sid was our magician’s apprentice. Late yesterday afternoon he was on the stage, setting up equipment for today’s show. One of our girls, name of Tracey, was down in the auditorium, sweeping the floor. All at once she felt cold. She looked up and saw that Sid wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him. The woman was sort of facing Tracey, but she couldn’t make her out – it was like she stood in shadow, even though the lights of the theatre were on. As she watched, the woman glided back into the dark of the wings. She didn’t walk or turn, but just sort of flowed backwards, Tracey said, and Sid walked after her. Not running, but not hesitating neither. He disappeared between the side curtains.’

‘Did Tracey call out or try to stop him?’ I asked.

‘She says she wanted to speak, but for some reason couldn’t. As soon as Sid was gone, she found she could move again. She ran to the steps at the side of the stage and headed between the curtains. It ain’t pretty, this next bit.’

‘Oh, do get on,’ Holly said. ‘Do you know how many ghosts we’ve dealt with? Please.’

Mr Tufnell accepted the reprimand without complaint. His voice was soft, his earlier ebullience gone. ‘Tracey went into the wings, and there she saw the woman and Sid again. It was like they were embracing – at least, the woman had thin arms around him, and her face was in his neck. The horrible thing is that Sid’s a big lad, but it was like he was all limp and boneless, and the woman was holding him up. And sure enough, when she let go – her arms sort of passing through his body – he just collapsed on the floor, all shapeless, like a pile of dirty rags. He was quite dead, and when Tracey turned him over he had a terrible smile on his cold, white face.’

Lockwood tapped his fingers on his knee. ‘What about the ghost-woman?’

‘Vanished before poor Sid hit the floor.’

‘You’ve been slow in coming to us, Mr Tufnell. Too slow. When Charley had his narrow escape—’

‘I know.’ Mr Tufnell inspected his hands like they had somehow disappointed him. ‘I know. It’s just – if this got out … who would come to see us? The show would fold.’

‘Better that than further deaths,’ Holly said, scowling.

‘What sort of boy is Charley?’ George asked, after a silence. ‘When he’s himself, I mean.’

‘Quiet. Not what you’d call healthy. Has a lung condition that prevents him doing full work. Most people wouldn’t give him house room. Me, I’m generous. I keep him busy.’

‘Was Sid sickly too?’

‘Not at all. Strapping. Prime of life. He was a prestidigitator.’

A silence. Lockwood nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Was he? Interesting. Good for him.’

‘You don’t know what that means, do you?’

‘Not the foggiest clue.’

‘Means he was a conjurer, clever with his hands. Strictly speaking, Sid was only an apprentice, but he was hot stuff at the close-up work. He’d go among the crowds, making eggs appear out of ladies’ ears, ripping up twenty-pound notes and pulling them whole from gents’ sleeves. Smooth, quick, plenty of nice patter. Lubricated the crowd, like. That’s what he was good at – least, he was, until he fell in love with one of our Russian trapeze artists.’

‘Why, what was the problem there?’

‘She didn’t return his feelings. I tried to persuade her to humour him, that it was in the best interests of the company, but she was having none of it. Sid was lovelorn. Spent weeks moping under the window of her caravan. Stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. He was wasting away. His skills suffered too: he broke the eggs, dropped coins, sent cards spinning every which way. Hopeless. I’d have fired him if he hadn’t died.’

‘Well, he saved you some trouble there, anyway,’ Lockwood said. He tapped his fingers again. ‘This Russian trapeze artist – what’s her name?’

‘Carole Blears.’

‘She doesn’t sound very Russian.’

‘White Russian on her maternal grandmother’s side. Or so she says. If she’s got thighs that can swing a grown man ten feet through the air, that’s good enough for me. Now, this here cake’s gone down a treat, I can tell you. If no one else is going to join me, I’ll happily take the last slice.’ Ignoring a croak of protest from George, Mr Tufnell did so. He settled back in his seat. ‘So, can you help me?’ he asked. ‘This ghost’s killing Charley here, not to mention giving me ulcers and scaring my punters away.’

Lockwood was gazing at the ceiling. ‘Mr Tufnell – how long has this trouble been going on?’

‘The ghost or the ulcers?’

‘The ghost.’

‘Two weeks, maybe three.’

‘I see. And who has actually witnessed the ghost, aside from Charley Budd here, Sid and the two women you mentioned?’