Murder in the Limelight (10 page)

‘The murder was last night.’

Auguste impatiently brushed this aside. ‘I tell you this, Inspector, so you may see that the Galaxy is not impregnable. Two nights ago the Honourable Johnny Beauville was smuggled in inside a cake.’

‘Oho, was he indeed?’ murmured Rose. ‘A cake, eh? Not one of yours I hope, Didier?’

‘This will put the cock in the hen house all right,’ said Maisie, summoned in the interval to the small office assigned to Rose, and surprised to find Auguste also present.

‘Your language is colourful,
ma petite
, but correct as
always. For that reason I suggested to the good inspector here that you would be the person to tell first. You can tell the other ladies and gentlemen without spreading undue alarm.’

‘It seems to me, Auguste, that undue alarm is just what we should be spreading,’ replied Maisie vigorously. ‘Two of us? They’re all going to say, “Who’s going to be next?” And so do I! And what about them dolls? Creepy. If I were Miss Lytton, I’d be out of ’ere faster than a costermonger on Lady Day. What if Edna were killed in mistake for her?’

Rose glanced at Auguste. ‘It’s possible, miss. But I want to know now everything you can tell me about Edna Purvis and Christine Walters. I’ll be seeing everyone individually, of course, but Mr Didier here seems to think I should begin with you.’

Maisie was in the exotic stage costume of a society lady at the home of Lord Harry. Under the paint standing out starkly on her face, she was very pale. The unreal world of the stage had been brought face to face with the grim realities of murder.

‘I didn’t know either of ’em really. They were show girls, you see. I’m chorus.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘We chorus girls have to look all right too, but our acting and singing are more important. The show girls don’t have to sing, dance, act, nothing. They just come on, stand around, and look beautiful.’ She sounded scornful. ‘It’s a new idea – Mr Archibald thought it up for
Lady Bertha.
So they were all new in September. At least, Edna was. But Christine was a failed chorus girl and, as she was very handsome and had a nice figure, Mr Archibald took pity on her and made her a show girl. They’re chosen for their looks, us for our voices.’

Looking at Maisie’s generously proportioned bosom, lovely face and flaming red hair, Rose thought the show girls must indeed be wonderful creatures to outshine her.

‘The show girls tend to keep to themselves, so I don’t know them too well. Both Christine and Edna had the reputation of hawking their mutton around, though.’

Auguste blinked. Rose, whose beat had been the Radcliffe Highway, understood her perfectly. ‘Do you know who in particular they hawked it to, miss?’

‘Edna, yes. She wanted everyone to know. She was that sort. But Christine kept herself to herself. But Edna . . . news travels fast within these walls. She was escorted when she first arrived by Johnny Beauville, the Honourable Johnny Beauville that is,’ Maisie said, smiling faintly. Then she laughed. ‘Being new, you see, she didn’t know. She thought it was a catch, him being a Hon. Then she found out he was a joke around the dressing rooms – that he’d had a go at all of us and didn’t care which one he took out, and she said goodbye quicker than a bishop in a brothel.’

Auguste winced. Rose laughed. ‘And who came next, miss? And last night in particular.’

Maisie said slowly, ‘She was shouting last night – wanted us all to know – that she was seeing Lord Summerfield. But that may just have been talk. He—’

‘Was she indeed, miss?’

Maisie stared at Rose. ‘You’re thinking that Christine Walters was going to see him too. But it don’t mean a thing,’ she said robustly. ‘What time was she—?’

Rose finished the question. ‘Killed, miss? Between ten-thirty and eleven, we think. Before midnight anyway.’

Maisie was quiet, then asked awkwardly, ‘Was she all right?’ She could not bring herself to put it more directly. Rose understood what she meant.

‘Yes, miss, not interfered with in any way. Strangled.’

Maisie let out her breath. ‘Funny thing, that awful do yesterday at the performance over the song. It seemed like the greatest disaster in the world. And now—’ Her voice trembled.

Auguste put his arm round her comfortingly. There were
matters other than the purely culinary in which he could be useful.

Florence’s nerves were taut. The news of Edna’s murder, broken to them all by Archibald after the performance with a plea for unity and every co-operation with our gallant police force, had served as an all too unpleasant reminder of her fright the evening before. Not that she could ever forget it. Herbert, of all people! She shivered. Clutching her, kissing her, then when she pushed him away, on his knees declaring his devotion, tears pouring down his face. Such passion, such emotion. Florence preferred her devotion kept at a distance. She recalled her panic at the realisation that she was alone in the theatre with him; the watchman must have been out of earshot or not there, or he would have answered her earlier cry. She had been alone with someone she hardly recognised as the usually quiet, gentle Herbert. He was a complete stranger, and it was all Thomas’ fault . . .

And then there was the wretched song! They’d called it a compromise, but she knew Edward had won. No one loved her any more. She’d probably be the next one to be murdered. Perhaps they had intended to murder her all the time, not Edna. This frightening thought took hold of her. After all, they would assume the woman with Thomas to be
her.
And Thomas had been with Edna Purvis. Thomas! Suppose . . . her panic grew. Then there were those dolls. A joke, everyone had said comfortingly. They weren’t saying that now though, they were murmuring in corners and discussing who could have got at those dolls, and why? They were even saying Props did it himself. As though he would. He was devoted to her. She knew that. Everyone knew that. But then she had thought Herbert devoted – till yesterday.

The door opened after a tentative tap and Thomas came in.

‘You know you’re not supposed to be here,’ she said
stiffly, turning away. ‘Mr Archibald asked you not to keep coming. It sets a bad example.’

‘I think today’s special, don’t you?’ he said firmly. ‘Anyway, I asked Obadiah and he said it was all right. Look, Florence, about last night.’

She shrank from his touch, and her fears came flooding back. ‘Where were you last night?’ she whispered. ‘Where were you? You didn’t come home till one o’clock. You said you were going out with her.’

‘What?’ His mouth fell open. She couldn’t be thinking that
he
had anything to do with it. ‘Florence – I was just walking, just walking – I wanted to forget our quarrel, dearest. We’d had words and I couldn’t bear it. So I went for a walk to get rid of my silly old bad mood. Your old moo-moo lost his temper. And you must have been mistaken, dearest. I was back
much
earlier than that.’ He smiled at her pleasantly.

‘You said you were going out to dinner with Edna Purvis,’ she said obstinately. ‘Didn’t you?’ Her voice began to rise in hysteria. ‘And Christine, you liked her too, didn’t you?’ She began to sob, while he stared at her, his face curiously blank.

‘Where were you last night, Percy?’ Edward Hargreaves stared at his lover, white-faced.

Percy was shaken but did not intend to show it. Not after Edward had won over the music. They said it was a compromise but Edward had won really. Percy took that as a direct insult. Archibald meant to show him up in front of everyone. It was unfair.

So he said nothing. Just smiled. Let Edward wonder if he’d been escorting show girls again . . . He had to have
some
fun. And he couldn’t go out with Edward.

‘You didn’t have anything to do with her, did you, Percy?’ asked Edward in a low voice. ‘You wouldn’t. Not now, surely?’

‘Do you see me as a strangler, Edward?’ said Percy contemplatively, stroking one arm of his velvet smoking jacket lovingly. ‘My dear, I am flattered. But think what it might do to my hands.’

‘You’ve got the strength,’ said Edward, looking at his pianist’s broad hand, with the long, sensuous fingers.

Percy’s eyes widened. Dear Edward
was
serious. He actually meant it. It was time he teased him a little more.

‘They’re pretty little things. Besides, a little variety in one’s life –’ he paused, ‘if you see what I mean, is a good thing. Anyway I’m only thinking of your reputation. We mustn’t let rumours start that we’re –’ he paused again, delicately, ‘pansies.’

Edward Hargreaves winced. How could he? It made their love sound like one of those awful rendezvous places you heard about. Their love was above that. It was pure, as pure as his music.

‘But when you take them out, what do you –’ he swallowed, ‘do you—?’

Percy raised his eyebrows. ‘What a question, Edward. Surely you know that Mr Archibald’s girls are ladies. You don’t think I would dare tamper with their virtue.’

Edward relaxed.

‘Unless invited,’ Percy added, admiring his beautifully manicured hands.

Herbert sat brooding in his dressing room, alone save for his dresser scurrying to and fro preparing costume and adornments for the evening performance. But he did not interfere with Herbert’s thoughts, which were not on the performance at all. Nor even on murder. He felt bruised, hurt, wounded as never before. Something like this always seemed to happen when he told a woman how he felt. Something seemed to go snap in his head and there he’d be, pouring out his devotion to a pair of unresponsive feet.

He’d never forget the sight of Florence, her lovely face
distorted into ugliness, that ridiculous button hook in her hand, threatening to strike him with it. Was he so unappealing to women? He looked in the mirror. He wasn’t that unattractive, surely? Late thirties, slightly balding, but everyone told him he had a kind face, so he must have. So why wasn’t he attractive to women? He’d heard of men who were attractive to other men. He couldn’t understand that either. He wasn’t attracted to them anyway. He liked women. He liked their softness, their prettiness, their daintiness, their shape, everything about them, the things they talked about. Yet somehow he couldn’t get near them. Florence would never speak to him again, at least not alone, and after last night he wasn’t sure he cared. Women weren’t such angels beneath their smiling paint. Not such angels, after all.

Property man William Ferndale’s devotion to Florence, however, remained unchanged. He was a simple man. He had come to work at the Galaxy because Florence Lytton adorned its stage. It did not matter to him that she was married, since he entertained no thoughts that she might ever notice him, let alone bestow feminine favours on him. It was enough for him that he was able to see her every day, was allowed with the tacit connivance of Mr Bates to deliver his posy of flowers, with no message, no label, before every performance. Sometimes, with great daring, he would place it in her hand himself as she entered the stage door. Sometimes she smiled at him. That was enough. Or it had been till the other day, when she had been in such distress at discovering the doll on the stage, and he had been able to bring her a glass of water. He still had the glass her lips had touched, and longed for such an emergency to occur again.

‘You’ll be Mr Ferndale,’ said the gentleman.

Props looked up. He rarely heard his name in the theatre. It was usually just Props.

‘Yes,’ he said simply.

‘Inspector Rose. Scotland Yard. A few questions if you don’t mind.’

Mr Archibald had told him this inspector man would be coming round asking questions. Silently he led the way into his sanctum. Amazed, Rose walked through the Aladdin’s cave. He recognised the throne that had held King Zeus in
By Jupiter
and was surprised to find it simply plaster and wood, a crude image, yet to the audience it had seemed a thing of magic when it descended from the clouds. Illusion, that’s what it was. Like Mr Maskeleyne and Cooke’s House of Magic at the Egyptian Hall. Murder was like magic. You couldn’t see at first how it was done. But, at the end, there was usually a reason and a pattern behind it. And if you knew the tricks like he did, knew what to see and what not to see, there was always a solution.

‘Do you see much of who’s coming and going in the stage door?’

Props shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘My door’s facing wrong way, you see. That’s Mr Bates’ job.’

‘How old are you, Mr Ferndale?’

Props looked as if even this question was too personal. ‘About twenty-eight, me mum said. P’raps twenty-nine. Don’t remember.’

‘Like working here, do you?’

Props nodded cautiously.

‘What time do you leave at night? Last night, for instance.’

‘Lock up time.’

‘When’s that?’

‘Depends. When Mr Bates knows the cast is out of the theatre, or nearly all. He decides when he locks the door and hands over to the night watch.’

‘And when was that last night?’

‘Mr Bates will tell you that,’ said Props matter-of-factly, and turned away to complete what appeared to be the stocktaking of gentlemen’s canes.

But Rose was not ready to go. ‘Ever seen this before?’ He produced from his bag a coil of rope. Props turned back reluctantly and took it without comment.

‘Yes,’ he then said carefully, and handed it back.

‘Where, lad?’ Rose said impatiently, cursing all literal-minded dolts.

‘Over there.’ Props nodded towards a corner. ‘It’s a bit off one of them special coils for the battens the gasman leaves here.’ For the first time he displayed some animation. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Rope found tied round Miss Purvis, lad,’ said Rose. ‘Looks bad for you. Dolls, rope – all out of your room.’

He got an unexpected reaction.

‘Dolls?’ said Props slowly. ‘Them dolls? Bound with my rope?’

Auguste sighed in exasperation as the leason of eggs curdled for the second time. Some days even the simplest thing could go wrong, even in the hands of a maître chef. It was symptomatic of the theatre itself. Currents of unease ran through the corridors of the Galaxy – in and out of the dressing rooms, the green room, the carpenter’s shop, the painting room – like sand in an egg timer. A heightened awareness of something not quite right.