Now You See Them: The Brighton Mysteries 5 Read online

  Now

  You See

  Them

  The Brighton Mysteries

  Elly Griffiths

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Books by Elly Griffiths

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgements

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2019 Elly Griffiths

  The moral right of Elly Griffiths to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 78648 735 3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Books by Elly Griffiths

  THE DR RUTH GALLOWAY MYSTERIES

  The Crossing Places

  The Janus Stone

  The House at Sea’s End

  A Room Full of Bones

  Dying Fall

  The Outcast Dead

  The Ghost Fields

  The Woman in Blue

  The Chalk Pit

  The Dark Angel

  The Stone Circle

  THE BRIGHTON MYSTERIES

  The Zig Zag Girl

  Smoke and Mirrors

  The Blood Card

  The Vanishing Box

  Now You See Them

  OTHER WORKS

  The Stranger Diaries

  FOR CHILDREN

  A Girl Called Justice

  AS DOMENICA DE ROSA

  One Summer in Tuscany

  The Eternal City

  Return to the Italian Quarter

  The Secret of Villa Serena

  For Lesley Thomson

  Chapter 1

  May 1964

  At first Edgar thought that he wasn’t coming. They were all there in church: Edgar and Emma, Bob and Betty, Queenie in the front pew sobbing into a lace-edged handkerchief. Even Mrs M was there, her hair white now but striking as always in a black cape with a fur collar. Ruby had caused a stir when she entered the church, followed, as ever, by Joe. There were even a few photographers waiting outside, just for the chance to snap the star of Ruby Magic, the nation’s favourite TV show. Ruby swept up to the front to sit with Queenie, who welcomed her with a hug. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ said someone. Edgar looked at Emma but her face was expressionless.

  And then, as the wheezy music started up, a door banged at the back of the church and Edgar knew. The photographers must have known too because there was a shout outside, something like, ‘That’s him.’ Edgar couldn’t resist looking round and there he was, in the blackest suit with the thinnest tie, taking off his hat, unchanged by the last eleven years. Max.

  The music stopped and started again. The undertakers began their slow journey to the front of the church. On top of Diablo’s coffin was a wreath of red roses and his disreputable old panama hat. The sight of it brought unexpected tears to Edgar’s eyes. He remembered his first sight of the old magician – he’d seemed ancient even then – on Inverness station, wearing the hat and drinking from a hip flask. Max had been with him, wearing last night’s dinner jacket, and absent-mindedly shuffling a deck of cards.

  ‘Captain Stephens? We’ve been sent to meet you. I’m Max Mephisto. This is Stan Parks, otherwise known as The Great Diablo.’

  ‘Dearly beloved.’ The vicar was as creaky as the church organ. ‘We are here to mourn our friend and brother Stanley.’

  Diablo was never Stanley, thought Edgar. He had clung to his stage name long after retirement, much as he’d stuck to the vocabulary; everyone was ‘darling’ or ‘dear boy’, non-showbiz types were ‘civilians’. But Diablo himself had fought in the First World War and sometimes surprised you by coming out with that vernacular too, referring to ‘gaffs’ or ‘gaspers’ or ‘copping a Blighty’. He’d never married, although there had been girls aplenty, and had no children. ‘Not that I know of, dear boy.’ Edgar could see the familiar leer now. Diablo had spent the last fourteen years of his life with Queenie and she had nursed him devotedly towards the end. The other mourners were mostly old pros in moth-eaten coats and gallant hats. Edgar and Max had served with Diablo in the Second World War when they had been part of a shadowy group called the Magic Men. Their job had been to use the techniques of stage magic – camouflage, sleight-of-hand, misdirection – to aid the war effort. They had created dummy tanks and dummy soldiers. They had built a fake battleship out of an old cruiser and some barrels. And now, Edgar realised suddenly, they were the last members of the gang left alive. Bob had only known Diablo through Edgar but his wife Betty was an ex-chorus girl who understood the show-business world with its ever-shifting cast of characters but curiously enduring loyalties. Ruby, Max’s daughter, had known Diablo well. She’d called him Uncle Stan – which, in Edgar’s mind, justified her front-row seat. Did she know that her father was in the church? She gave no sign, if so. She had her arm round Queenie and they were crying together. Joe Passolini, in a sharp single-breasted suit, looked appropriately sombre but, as the vicar extolled ‘Stanley’s’ virtues, he turned round and winked at Edgar. As far as Edgar could tell, Joe took nothing entirely seriously. Except money, that is.

  The vicar had embarked on a long story about ‘treading the boards’. He could have done with some of Diablo’s material. What was the one about the six-foot Lascar from Madagascar? In the days when pros used to buy jokes from each other and lease them for the season, Diablo had once confided that this particular gag had cost him three and sixpence. ‘You were robbed,’ said Max. ‘Not at all,’ Diablo had retorted. ‘It raised quite a titter at the Alexandra in Scarborough.’

  But now the Alexandra and the Royal and the Palace Theatres would know Diablo no more. The organist launched into ‘Abide with Me’ and the pros sang along lustily. Emma sang too, in her clear soprano. On Edgar’s other side, Bob muttered the words in a kind of embarrassed drone.

  ‘Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day.’

  ‘Goodbye, Diablo,’ whispered Edgar as the coffin went past him. He felt
that they should be applauding, surely that was the sound that Diablo would want to accompany his last appearance? Queenie and Ruby followed, as befitted the chief mourners. Ruby was wearing a black dress with a short white jacket. She’d cut her hair and it swung about her ears. Joe was carrying her handbag.

  ‘In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.’

  Edgar and Emma filed out with the rest of the congregation. Max was standing by the door.

  ‘His final curtain call,’ he said. ‘Not a bad crowd either.’ This was so much what Edgar was thinking that he almost laughed.

  ‘Hallo, Max. When did you arrive?’

  ‘Flew in from Los Angeles last night,’ said Max. He kissed Emma on both cheeks. ‘Mrs Stephens. You get more beautiful every time I see you.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just as well that you don’t see me very often,’ said Emma.

  ‘Ruby telephoned and told me that Diablo had died,’ said Max. ‘I couldn’t miss the old boy’s final performance.’

  Max had been in America for eleven years, during which time he’d become a film star and married a leading Hollywood actress. Edgar had seen Max once in all that time, when he’d visited England five years ago on the death of his father. Max was now Lord Massingham although Edgar was pretty sure that he’d never use the title.

  ‘Joyce!’ Max turned away to greet Joyce Markham, a theatrical landlady otherwise known as Mrs M, who had once been his lover.

  ‘Hallo, Max,’ she said. ‘Long time, no see.’

  Edgar remembered how the landlady had the ability to make the most harmless cliché sound like a double entendre.

  ’You’re looking as lovely as ever, Joyce,’ said Max. But, in the daylight, Edgar thought that Mrs M looked her age, whatever that was. She had a certain dignity though as she kissed Max on the cheek. ‘Congratulations on your marriage,’ she said. ‘I’m a diehard Lydia Lamont fan. I never miss one of her films.’

  Max had starred with Lydia in his first Hollywood film, The Conjuror. They had married shortly afterwards and now had two children. Edgar had only ever seen Lydia Lamont in film magazines, but she was clearly the possessor of what the caption writers called ‘a luminous beauty’. She was also at least twenty years younger than Max.

  ‘Well, if it’s not my favourite policeman.’ Mrs M greeted Edgar affectionately. ‘And your lovely wife. I miss those happy days in Brighton.’

  The happy days had included several nasty murders but Mrs M seemed determined to remember them fondly. She told Edgar that she’d sold the boarding house in Brighton and had moved to Hastings.

  ‘It’s where we all end up,’ she said dolefully, as they joined the slow procession behind Diablo’s coffin. Hastings had certainly been the end of the line for the old magician but he’d had over a decade of happy years before he’d been called to the Great Box Office in the Sky. Edgar asked if Mrs M still took in theatrical lodgers.

  ‘Just one or two in pantomime season,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine a Christmas without a Buttons or a Dame in the house. But variety’s dead. There are no weekly shows any more.’

  Variety was dead and so was Diablo. Edgar had a sudden squeamish shrinking from the thought of seeing Diablo’s coffin being lowered into the ground. It was ridiculous. He was a policeman, he’d seen enough death over the years. He’d lost his brother in the war and Jonathan had only been nineteen, not Diablo’s three score years and about thirty. But he followed Mrs M’s black feathered hat under the lychgate to the graveside. Emma took his hand as if she understood. Max had turned aside to light a cigarette.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.’

  This was the moment for the reveal, for the magician to stand up in the box and wave to the stalls and the Royal Circle. But, instead, Queenie and Ruby scattered earth on the coffin lid and the gravediggers picked up their shovels. A seagull flew overhead calling loudly and Edgar had a moment’s fantasy that Diablo’s soul had been reborn in this appropriately nomadic and disorderly bird.

  ‘Edgar!’ Queenie gave him a fierce hug. ‘Thank you for coming. Diablo was so fond of you. I hope you’ll come back to the house for some tea.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Edgar. He didn’t want to go back to the boarding house on the seafront but he did want the chance to talk to Max. He introduced Emma who said all the right things. She’d been fond of Diablo too, even though he had tried to give their daughter Marianne a bottle of whisky for her seventh birthday.

  *

  Emma had never visited Queenie’s boarding house but she’d seen plenty of others like it. It was a tall, Regency house overlooking the sea. She knew that inside it would have elegant lines, elaborate cornices and probably a sweeping staircase. It would also have serviceable carpets, wipe-clean walls and a long table for those endless late breakfasts. The rooms upstairs would be divided, each making two or three smaller rooms, the ceilings too high for their width.

  Queenie had laid on a magnificent spread, though, and the theatricals got stuck in with relish. Emma saw one moustachioed lounge lizard in a white suit taking two plates of sandwiches into a secluded corner.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘Maybe just a cup of tea.’ She looked at her watch. One o’clock. This was lunch rather than tea; no wonder people were so hungry. Perhaps she should eat something. She had to get back at three to collect the girls from school. Most of the other children walked home alone but Emma thought that Sophie, at six, was still too young. Mavis was looking after the baby but she always made it clear that the ten-minute walk to the school was too much for her varicose veins.

  Looking round the room she saw Ruby sitting on the window seat, lighting a cigarette. Joe was hovering with a cup and an ashtray. There was the usual buzz of ‘That’s her’, ‘That’s Ruby Magic’, but Ruby seemed unconcerned. Perhaps she was used to it by now. There had been photographers waiting outside the house too, avid to catch Max or Ruby, both of whom had ignored them. Ruby looked pensive, thought Emma. Maybe she was sad about Diablo or maybe the visit to Hastings had stirred up bad memories. Emma rather despised herself for being more interested in where Ruby got her dress and jacket from. The dress was the fashionable shorter length and it made Emma feel dowdy and middle-aged in her full skirt. Emma and Ruby were almost the same age but Ruby had never been married and had no children. That was the difference.

  ‘Tea?’ It was Max, not Edgar, proffering a cup and saucer.

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sat on a small ottoman, rather closer together than was comfortable.

  ‘So, Mrs Stephens,’ said Max, ‘how’s married life?’

  ‘We’ve been married for ten years now,’ said Emma, rather tartly. She wasn’t sure that she liked Max’s new habit of calling her Mrs Stephens. As a child she’d hated her maiden name, Holmes (the source of much teasing when she entered the police force), but now she rather missed it.

  ‘I should ask you how you’re enjoying being a husband,’ she said. ‘But it’s not something men get asked, is it?’ Max had been married for almost ten years too, soon after meeting Lydia Lamont on the set of The Conjuror. But Emma had only seen him once, briefly, in all that time. Tea in a London hotel, five years ago, made uncomfortable by the squirming presence of Sophie, then just over a year old.

  ‘I’m enjoying it very much,’ said Max. And considering that he was married to one of the most beautiful women in the world, maybe this wasn’t surprising. He grinned at Emma, teeth very white in his sun-tanned face. Max was fifty-four, Emma knew, but he seemed, if anything, younger than when he left England. Then she realised that Max was showing her a photograph.

  ‘Rocco, aged six,’ he said. ‘Elena, four.’

  The colour picture showed two beautiful dark-haired children standing on either side of a large dog. In the background a vast white house, vaguely Spanish in style, glimmered against a blue sky.

  ‘They’re gorgeous,’ said Emma.

  ‘How old are yours now?’


  ‘Marianne is eight, Sophie is six and Jonathan’s just ten months.’

  ‘Great names.’

  ‘So are yours.’

  ‘Elena’s after my mother. Lydia says that Rocco’s a more suitable name for an Alsatian.’

  This was interesting. It was the first personal thing that Emma had ever heard about Lydia Lamont. She noted that, whatever Lydia’s objections, Max had got his way about the name.

  ‘What’s the Alsatian called?’

  ‘Bob.’

  Emma laughed and, hearing his name, Bob walked over, carrying a plate piled high with sandwiches.

  ‘Hallo, Bob,’ said Max. ‘Still fighting crime?’

  ‘Someone has to,’ said Bob. Emma hadn’t seen Bob for a few months but he was always the same, still boyish despite increased girth and slightly receding hair. Betty, who was talking to Ruby, looked the epitome of respectability in a black-and-white check suit. It was hard to believe that she had once posed on stage as the Lady of Shalott, naked apart from a few well-placed flowers.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got tea.’ Edgar emerged with two cups. He was always the last person to get served in a bar or café. Emma used to find it lovable but now she found herself contrasting Edgar unfavourably with Max, and even Joe, both of whom had fought their way to the tea urn.

  ‘I’ll drink both,’ said Emma, smiling at her husband. ‘We ought to go in about half an hour.’

  ‘So soon?’ said Max, getting out his cigarette case and lighting up. Emma could just read the inscription on the silver: ‘For MM with love, LL’.

  ‘I have to collect the girls from school.’

  ‘Don’t you have a nanny?’

  ‘We have a woman who helps but she refuses to walk anywhere,’ said Edgar.

  ‘Well let’s meet up for dinner in Brighton,’ said Max. ‘I’m staying at the Grand.’

  Of course he was.

  ‘We’d love that,’ said Emma. She drained her second cup of tea and was aware of a maid hovering at the edge of the group. She didn’t think anyone had maids any more. This poor woman even wore a uniform.

  ‘Please, m’m. I’ve got a telephone message for the detective inspector.’