Chapter One
Soft piano music competed with the beating of Frances Palmer’s heart as she adjusted her neckline. Practicality as well as lack of time had compelled her to select a draped silk frock in an ivory colour for her wedding, which afterwards could do duty as evening wear. The pale pink rosettes on the shoulder straps were repeated on her shoes.
A bespectacled verger popped his head into the side-room, where Frances and her godfather Uncle Sal waited.
‘One minute.” Uncle Sal reached into his pocket and took out a small velvet box that was bald with age in a few spots. ‘These belonged to my mother and now they’re yours.’
Frances drew in her breath as she saw a pair of long diamond earrings fit for royalty. ‘They’re wonderful,’ she said. ‘Would you help me put them in?’ How typical of Uncle Sal to hang on to this precious heirloom through lean times, of which the retired vaudeville artist must have had plenty even before the onset of the Great Depression. She gave him a grateful peck on the cheek as he closed the second earring. After her soon-to-be husband, he was the nicest man in the world.
The music grew louder. Uncle Sal slipped Frances’s arm through his and whispered, ‘Ready?’ Then they stepped through the door, where Jack Sullivan waited to claim her hand in marriage, and she forgot everything else.
‘That was a wonderful ceremony.’ Jack’s mother Katherine dabbed her eyes. Uncle Sal agreed. Although less than a dozen people had attended the wedding in the small Victorian parish church to which Katherine and her husband belonged, he had felt the love. That was the problem if families lived as far apart as England and Australia, he thought.
One glance at Frances’s radiant face told him that she did not regret tying the knot so far from her family and friends in Adelaide.
Jack, owner of the best night club in Australia and new husband, gave him a tiny signal. Uncle Sal did his best to hide his limp, which was worsened by the dampness of a London winter, as he sneaked to the door and put down the needle on a portable gramophone. A velvety voice filled the church with the most tender version of “It had to be you” Uncle Sal had ever heard. It was also eerily familiar, because it belonged to their close friend and star of Jack’s “Top Note”.
‘But that’s not possible.’ Frances wipes away a tear as her husband wrapped her in his arms.
‘It’s only a recording,’ Jack said, ‘but Dolores insisted on singing at our wedding.’
‘It’s perfect.’ Frances sang under her breath, and all the wedding guests joined in.
A splendid lunch followed the ceremony, and in the afternoon, Uncle Sal waved the newlyweds goodbye at Victoria Station. Frances almost fell off the platform of the observation carriage as she blew him kisses. She and Jack were going on a honeymoon to Paris, and although both had invited him along, he decided they deserved privacy. Also, the three of them had only just returned from France where they spent a fortnight sleuthing away and unmasking a murderer. The train tickets and hotel accommodation had been a gift, to reward them for their unwavering support. Now, at the end of January, Paris would be chilly, but still splendid.
The train belched and spat out an enormous cloud of acrid smoke. The wheels chugged into motion, and Uncle Sal found himself alone. He didn’t mind. As much as he adored his goddaughter and sometimes assistant on the rare occasions when he became Salvatore the Magnificent again, he could do with solitude to decide on his future.
With Frances and Jack married, they would want to set up their own home with just the two of them. He would doubtlessly be welcome to stay in her family home, where he had lived for several years, or he could take up Jack’s offer to permanently help run the “Top Note”, as artistical director. There was a flat upstairs, next to Jack’s, that would be his for the asking.
He gingerly rotated his gammy ankle. A boozed-up driver had struck him a few years back and ended his stage career for good. If it hadn’t been for Frances and her family, who gave him a home, who knew what would have become of him. Funny how easy they’d all shaken down together. After all, a vaudevillian and a post office worker and his wife should have been worlds apart, but the bond he and Frances’s father had formed as young boys on the way to Australia had remained unshaken. As for Frances, she was the daughter he never had, and her mother was as dear a sister.
Deep in thought, he made his way through the crowds, waiting for the Underground. It was here in London that he had taken his first bow on a stage, and here where he had progressed from an unbilled member of a travelling troupe to Salvatore the Magnificent, an artist who could juggle, do card readings and magic tricks and perform daring knife throwing acts. That alone ensured the city, crowded and foggy though it was, a special place in his heart.
The underground pulled into the station. Inside the car, people stood cheek by jowl and yet managed to appear as if they were unaware of each other. Uncle Sal chuckled as he held on to a leather strap. A few men wore well-made business suits, yet they happily sat next to young men in rags, who probably rode the tube as long as they could, to shelter from the cold and the dampness that chilled them through to the bones.
Uncle Sal wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. A painfully thin young boy with too short pants fell against him, in a seemingly innocent movement. Uncle Sal clamped his hand down on his coat pocket and trapped a bony wrist. The boy, who could be no more than seven or eight years old, stared at him with frightened eyes. Uncle Sal could only imagine what the police would do to a young pickpocket. The child’s jacket was so threadbare, Uncle Sal could see the shoulder blades protrude. He let go off the wrist and handed the boy a shilling.
The child broke into a tooth-gapped grin that made him appear even younger. ‘Cor,’ he sighed.
‘Have a proper meal,’ Uncle Sal said. He was under no illusion that the boy probably worked for a much older thief, or possibly an adult, and that he would be expected to hand over his illicit earnings. What would Charles Dickens make of this, he wondered. They wrote the year 1932, yet here again people had hardly a crust to eat, while the rich of the world feasted behind gilt doors.
The boy fell again against him, but a sudden bend justified it. ‘Sorry, guv,’ the child said.
Because Uncle Sal was in a nostalgic mood, he made his way towards the West End. Dusk fell quickly, and early theatre goers mingled with delivery boys and office workers, while in doorways and corners squatted veterans and begging mothers with toddlers in their arms. Would that ever end?
Although he himself was far from being wealthy, he had his old age pension to live on. It would grow to a tidy sum back in Adelaide while he was away, and he could afford to keep a few coins in his pocket, to dole out as he saw fit. As he dropped sixpence into a man’s cap, he noticed a gentleman in a heavy coat with a fur collar who made his way so forcefully towards a shop, a veteran had to tug his peg-leg out of the way.
Uncle Sal shook his head to himself. If Jack had been here, the cove would have been treated to the kind of quiet talking-to that had made many a man change his ways. Captain Jack Sullivan didn’t take mistreatment of anyone lightly, least of all a fellow soldier fallen on hard times.
But Jack was on his honeymoon, and an elderly man like Uncle Sal struck no fear in anyone’s heart.
The veteran took up his old place again, without so much as a sigh or a curse. Uncle Sal saw that his hands were mottled with cold. ‘Can I get you a hot sandwich?’ he asked.
The man looked up at him. He could be no more than forty, but pain and poverty had aged him beyond his years. ‘Bless you, sir. I could do with a bit in my belly and that’s God’s truth.’
‘I’ll be back in a shake,’ Uncle Sal said.
‘I’m not running away.’ The veteran guffawed.
Uncle Sal nodded. He found a Lyon’s corner café next to Jos. Brier Newsagent’s. Superstitious like most stage people, he took that as a good sign. Brier had been the name of his first tour manager.
He left the Lyon’s with a well-wrapped bacon sandwich as the gentleman who had aroused his anger earlier stepped out of the newsagent’s with a thick brown envelope, only to have a small child run into him. The man cursed and dropped the envelope.
It fell open, and in the light from the shops, Uncle Sal saw several photographs of two young women, one blonde, and one dark-haired. They were both in a state of undress and their poses made it seem as if they were caught unawares, whereas in all probability these shoots were carefully staged and paid their rent for quite some time. The blonde one wore a pair of large angel wings, and a Christmas tree in the background made her look like a naughty angel.
Uncle Sal felt a pang of pity for the models. He couldn’t blame anyone for making a living any way they could, not even the child, who he suspected of having fleeced the gentleman’s pockets while he picked up the photos.
He returned to the veteran, who wolfed down the sandwich in a few bites, and forgot about the incident.
Chapter Two
‘Do you regret not going?’ The Right Honourable Mrs Walter Clifton, Mildred to her friends and Uncle Sal’s hostess, poured the coffee after an excellent lunch.
For someone as well connected as she, with close ties to diplomatic and intelligence circles, as he knew from his own experience, her tastes were surprisingly understated. Her house was tucked away in a side street off Grosvenor Square, with only a butler, a housekeeper, cook and a parlour maid to run it, apart from Mildred’s personal maid, Foster. That redoubtable woman had been with her mistress long enough to refrain from doing so much as batting an eyelid when Uncle Sal had turned up at the door. They had met before, at the French Riviera, when Uncle Sal had played a slightly different part in the investigation and, like his partners-in-crime Jack and Frances, earned himself the gratitude of Mildred and her friends.
‘Not a bit. I’d only be in the way and there’s more than enough to see and do to keep me busy forever. Didn’t someone once say, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life?’ He bent to stroke Mildred’s corgi Tinkerbell. The two of them had already been out for a walk in the park the square was famous for, and Tink had good-naturedly slowed down his pace to match Uncle Sal’s leisurely gait.
Now, the little dog rested with his head on his paws on a chair next to his mistress.
‘That was Samuel Johnson, if I remember correctly, and I’m glad to hear that. I have tickets to the theatre tonight,’ she said. ‘Tommy is hoping to come as well, if his superior lets him off the leash.’ Although her nephew Tommy shared digs in Bloomsbury with another up-and-coming star of the Foreign Office, he kept his bedroom at his aunt’s and spend more nights there than in his own flat. Uncle Sal had grown very fond of the young man, whose inoffensive façade hid a sharp mind and a dry sense of humour. They had all met on the “SS Empress of the Seas”, on the voyage over from Australia, where they had joined forces to solve a murder.
‘What are we going to see? I’ve heard the new revue at the Hippodrome is a big hit.’ “Bow Belles” had opened while they were in France, and then wedding preparations had taken over, so now was his chance to soak up as much theatrical variety as London offered. As much as he enjoyed his life in Adelaide, no other city could compare to the metropolis, when it came to the stage.
‘I’ve taken a box at the Royal Theatre in Drury Lane.’
He goggled. ‘A box? They cost a mint.’
Mildred pushed back her chair. ‘It was impossible to otherwise reserve decent seats.’ She snapped her fingers at Tink who wagged his tail stub with abandon. ‘Shall we take another turn in the park while the weather allows it?’
They had settled on a taxicab to Drury Lane instead of taking Mildred’s Chevrolet. Uncle Sal approved on that decision after watching the clogged traffic and lack of garaging in London. His whole body tingled with anticipation the closer they came to their destination, as if he were the one waiting in the wings for his big entrance.
The chauffeur brought his car to a stop twenty yards from the theatre. Tommy, resplendent in tails and top hat, disembarked first and opened the door to his aunt and her guest.
The title on the marquee read “Cavalcade”. Judging by the number of people heading towards the doors of the theatre, Uncle Sal assumed the opening weeks must have been a stampede. He held his head higher, in what Frances called his Salvatore pose, as he allowed himself to be led up the stairs to their box. Although it sat at the side, it protruded at a perfect angle to allow them an excellent view of the stage. In addition, Mildred had hired opera glasses.
With a contented sigh, Uncle Sal settled into the plush chair. He surveyed the audience. On its four levels, the listed building held close to 2000 people, and he spied only a few empty seats in between.
His mind whirled as he did the mental arithmetic. Noel Coward’s play had opened in October 1931 and now, more than three months later, showed no signs of ending. His own longest run had been four weeks at the Vaudeville Theatre, followed by a month-long tour of the country, playing to a few hundred people at the most each night.
The first gong sounded, just as Tommy cried out, ‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’ Mildred fumbled for her pince-nez before she realised her opera glasses allowed her a better view.
‘In the box opposite. It’s Mr Coward. I’ve seen his pictures in Variety.’ Tommy turned to Uncle Sal. ‘He is said to be just as popular on Broadway as in the West End.’
‘Quite rightly so, if you ask me.’ Mildred held her opera glasses to her eyes. ‘But now, shush.’
During the interval, Uncle Sal and Tommy made their way to the bar for refreshments, as they spotted Mr Coward in front of them. Tommy’s already pinkish face took on a brighter hue. It seemed that he had inherited his aunt’s fondness for the stage, Uncle Sal thought, another trait that endeared Tommy to him.
Because Uncle Sal had his rolled-up playbill in his pocket, he allowed himself to address the playwright. ‘Mr Coward?’ A tall man in impeccable evening wear, with a snowy-white dress shirt, swivelled around with the grace that, to Uncle Sal, would always give away the seasoned performer.
‘Would you be so kind to sign this?’ Uncle Sal held out playbill and a pen that Tommy had hastily pressed into his hand. ‘I remember seeing you in I’ll Leave it to You.’
Mr Coward chuckled. ‘If I remember correctly, there were a few people, mostly critics, who wished I’d Left It To Someone Else. Both the writing and the starring in my play.’ He signed the playbill with a flourish. ‘There you are. And now I’m afraid I have to dash, although a saunter would be so much more dignified. Enjoy the show?’
‘Very much,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘This alone would be worth the journey from Australia.’
‘How lovely to say.’ The playwright gave them a blinding smile and disappeared.
Uncle Sal had meant every word. When they made for the exit, after several curtain calls, he found himself singing “20th Century Blues” from the third act.
He still sang quietly as they walked out into the cold night air and a woman behind him called out, ‘Salvatore? Is that you?’
Uncle Sal and his companions stopped. A fiftyish woman with a halo of frizzy hair and a sensible navy-blue suit overtook them and grasped his hands. ‘It really is you. I thought you’d toddled off to the Antipodes, but then I saw you from my seat in the Gods, and in a box of all places.’ She took in Mildred and Tommy’s amused gaze and their expensive clothes and changed colour. ‘Sorry if I put my foot in. Mistaken identities, happens a lot.’
‘Nonsense, Molly.’ To the woman’s delight, Uncle Sal gave her a smack on a powdered cheek. ‘Meet my good friends, Mrs Clifton and her nephew, Tommy Clifton. This is Molly Sweet, one of the most gifted child tumblers and contortionists that ever graced the stage.’
‘Lor’ love a duck, how you can talk. Although I did have my days, hard as it is to believe with the weight I’ve put on.’ Molly’s laughter made them all smile.
‘I always say, with a certain age comes a certain substance, in every respect.’ Mildred signalled Tommy to summon one of the taxicabs that queued at the kerb, ready to pick up theatregoers. ‘Would you care to join us for a drink and a bite, Mrs Sweet?’
‘I’d love to, but I’d better get my head down. Early start tomorrow.’ She gave Uncle Sal a good once-over. ‘You still look the part alright, Sal. Are you between gigs?’
‘Retired,’ he said. He had no intention to elaborate.
‘Really? In that case, I might have something for you. Got a piece of paper?’
Since Uncle Sal had no intention of letting anyone scribble on his precious autographed playbill, he shook his head, no.
Tommy fished in his wallet and took out a calling card. ‘You can write on the back.’
‘Cheers, ducky,’ she said as she wrote down an address and gave the card to Uncle Sal. ‘If you come here at seven sharp in the morning, you won’t regret it.’
‘Is it another vaudeville show?’ All kind of possibilities danced in front of Uncle Sal’s eyes.
‘Ha. Those days are over for the likes of us.’ Molly Sweet patted her hair in place. ‘I make my living in motion pictures now, and I reckon I can wangle you an audition. Seven sharp and wear your tuxedo. Goodbye, everyone.’ She glanced around and set off for the underground station.
‘Motion pictures,’ Mildred said as she allowed her nephew to bundle her in the back of the taxicab. ‘Who knows, you might become a movie star.’