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She wasn’t their usual book-keeper; Max had six months left to serve if he kept his nose clean. This new woman — Mrs Dorothy Lawrence — was younger than Minnie had expected, somewhere in her twenties, maybe thirties, with a pleasant, open face, and rather beautiful hair which she wore elaborately dressed. Minnie peered closer; if any of it was false hair, it must be the expensive stuff, ’cos it looked like it was all her own. She wore what seemed a simple, almost severe dark navy dress. But Minnie could see it was cut perfectly to highlight her impressive figure. There wasn’t a straight line about her. She was all curves and magnificent hair. She belonged on the wall of a fancy art gallery. Mrs Lawrence hadn’t shown any surprise that a woman could manage a music hall, which made a nice change. Now they’d spent twenty minutes in total silence as she’d looked over the books, wincing on occasion and peering at Minnie over her glasses before resuming her perusal. ‘Before you took up the reins the Variety Palace was thriving under Mr —’ she said, glancing down at the papers, ‘— Mr Edward Tansford. Why is he no longer in control? He is still the co-owner, I take it?’ ‘Mr Tansford was deeply affected by the tragic events of last year. He’s finding it difficult to return to work.’ ‘Well, I would suggest he overcomes any emotional compunction and gets himself back to the Variety Palace quick smart.’ Emotional compunction, Minnie thought. Unbidden, an image flashed across her mind. Blood. A life leaching away before her eyes. Tansie’s cry. She bit her tongue. Right now, she needed this woman’s help. Once they were back on their feet she’d tell her what she could do with her emotional compunction. Mrs Lawrence looked again at the papers. ‘You appear to have been haemorrhaging performers over the last few months. Any reason?’ ‘They’re a superstitious lot, theatrical types. Some of them started to say the Palace was cursed. What with the murders and all.’ The other woman blinked slowly, then measured her words as if each of them was worth a shilling. ‘Murders? In the plural? How many are we talking about, Miss Ward?’ ‘Three. Well, more actually, but three people who worked at the Palace were murdered.’ ‘I see. Numbers like those might render the most confirmed sceptic a trifle superstitious. And these murders, they were solved?’ ‘Oh, yes. We caught the killers.’ ‘We?’ ‘Me and a private detective. Albert Easterbrook.’ Mrs Lawrence frowned. Then sighed. ‘But you are not a private detective, Miss Ward?’ ‘No. I’m a writer. For the Palace and a few other places, but mainly the Palace. And now I’m managing it. In Tansie’s — Mr Tansford’s absence. It’s complicated, I’ll give you that. But all you really need to worry about is the profit and loss.’ She nodded at the tattered notebook and bundle of papers on the desk. Mrs Lawrence extended an elegant finger and tentatively touched the bundle, as if afraid of infection by association. ‘Judging by this, it would be correct to assume that bookkeeping isn’t one of your many talents.’ ‘No,’ Minnie said, forcing herself to remain calm as her lips stretched to a thin smile. ‘In between writing enough to keep the wolf from the door, taking on a management role I ain’t suited to, and helping to solve the murder of my best friend, I ain’t had time for much else. I thought bookkeeping was what I’m paying you for.’ The other woman gave her a hard stare, and then started to explain — at great length — exactly where the problem lay. ***** “Impending doom”. The words hadn’t actually been used, to be fair, but that was how it felt to Minnie. Mrs Lawrence had definitely said “deficit”, “closure” and “trouble”. The bottom line was they needed to pull in more punters, or the Variety Palace could be out of business before Easter. She scurried through the back streets to the Strand, lowering her head against the chilly November winds, and ticking off everything she’d done that morning, alongside her painful hour with the book-keeper: pacified the butcher who was waiting on his payment; hurried along the carpenters who’d been hired to produce a dozen hinged scenery flats, and so far had produced only two; nipped into the Gaiety and unsuccessfully tried to persuade Gertie Steadman, the juggling fire-eater, to do a turn at the Palace. Longingly, she thought of the days when all she’d had to do was knock out a few songs and sketches. Pulling the stage door of the Palace behind her, she narrowly avoided colliding with Betty Gilbert in the cramped corridor. It was only twenty minutes to the matinee and, as usual, chaos reigned. Betty, dressed in form-fitting bloomers and corset for her turn as an acrobat, shouted in passing, ‘Bernard’s looking for you, Min.’ Minnie sighed. If Bernard Reynolds was looking for her this close to curtain-up it couldn’t be good. Usually consigned to “thinking parts”, a few weeks ago Bernard had suggested a sketch where he dressed in an animal “skin” and performed a song-and-dance routine. She must have had a sudden rush of blood to the head, because she’d agreed. Nothing had gone smoothly since. She hurried down the flagstone corridor to her office, although she still thought of it as Tansie’s. Maybe she could hide there for the next twenty minutes. No such luck. Lounging in the upholstered chair she’d installed for a little bit of comfort, with his feet firmly positioned on the desk, was Tansie. He’d regained the weight he’d lost after Cora’s death, and was slowly starting to assume some of his old flamboyance. Today’s choice was a dark green velvet which Minnie had to admit was rather smart. ‘Comfy enough?’ she barked at him. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like a little cushion? A blanket? Little tot of something while I’m up?’ He glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Kippy’s looking for you,’ he said. ‘His favourite hammer’s gone missing. And there was something about the trapdoor not working again.’ ‘And you couldn’t have seen to it, I suppose? Given it was your bleedin’ idea in the first place?’ Against her better judgement, Minnie had agreed to Tansie and Bernard’s ambitious plans for a star trap. It covered an opening in the stage, beneath which Bernard stood on a platform, ready for his entrance in what was ambitiously — and fraudulently — billed a magical menagerie. Kippy, the stage manager, released a counterweight, and Bernard was propelled upwards for a spectacular entrance, appearing to fly through the air. Rehearsals had not gone well.