Chapter Sixty-One

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

T om and Sally were crossing the stage, heading towards the dressing rooms, when one of the other things Sharps had said – just before the red gloves – stirred itself out of Tom’s memory and presented itself to his conscious mind. It stopped him in his tracks, and he was still standing, blinking on the spot where Sally had been when she said ‘yes’ to him, when above him, Mr Poole appeared through the doors from the promenade bar.

‘Tom!’ he called out, waving down at him. ‘Is everything all right? I’m a-flutter!’

‘Everything’s fine, Mr Poole.’

He pressed his hand to his forehead. ‘Thank heavens! We’re all up here. Harold is doing a turn, and I think Lance is going to do a number from his new “talkie”. We’re all staying till we have news of Grace. Is Mr Treadwell all right?’

Tom struggled for a moment to think clearly.

‘Yes, yes, he’s fine. I’ll join you in a minute. Mr Poole, can you pass the word? Anyone who knows anything about the shenanigans is to keep mum. And Miss Chisholm has . . . gone away.’

‘Shame! Yes, I’ll close the loop on the chatter.’

‘And, Mr Poole . . . is Stella there? I’d like a word with her in private. In the lobby.’ He turned to Sally. ‘Do you mind going up ahead of me?’

‘Think I’ll cope.’ She kissed him briefly on the lips and walked off. ‘And I’ll stay quiet.’

Mr Poole gave him the thumbs up, and Tom took the side door through the wings, then walked up the central aisle of the stalls. Sally had agreed to marry him. He would be a father to Dougie, a regular at the Bricklayers Arms as well as the Metropole; he would loosen his mother’s grip around Lassiter Enterprises. He would make records. Ruby would be proud of him – and all of that could begin very soon.

The theatre exuded a sort of exhausted goodwill, as if the last pleasures of the crowd were still sinking into the carpet, taking their place among the crystals of the chandelier, making them shine. He went into the lobby to find Stella, a beautiful silvery wraith, coming down the stairs towards him.

‘Congratulations! I’m so pleased about you and Sally. Oh, Tom, what is it?’

He put his hands in his pockets. ‘Stella, who did you get your drugs off in London?’

She gasped, and blinked at him.

‘I . . . I know it will sound awful, Tom, and I’d rather you didn’t tell Grace, but . . . Jason de Witte. Most of us did. His stuff was always much nicer than the rest.’

‘He was Tasha Kingsland’s supplier, too, wasn’t he?’

She nodded, her hand resting on the marble newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Stella, did you buy the drugs off him with cash?’

‘No, I didn’t. That seemed so sordid. He would just hand out little packets in exchange for . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Gossip,’ Tom said wearily. ‘Any titbits or anecdotes you had. You know why he wanted them, Stella? Because he was feeding them all back to my mother. Anything about the London theatre she could use to cause problems for The Empire. And using him to spread nonsense about The Empire in London. My mother was sending him cocaine from Ray Kelly’s smuggling operations. I think he’s been using Lassiter Enterprises to distribute it across the north of England. That’s why Jason de Witte took the trouble to write a horrific notice of Grace’s play.’

‘Oh,’ her eyes widened. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Did you hear about Archibald Flynn’s tax problems and pass that on?’

‘Yes . . . Oh, Tom, what should I do?’

‘Call those detectives and tell them the truth, Stella. And let me deal with my mother.’

‘Tom! Stella!’ Poole called down the stairs, his voice an octave higher than usual. ‘There’s an ambulance arriving! Who is it for?’