Murder in the Limelight (12 page)

Rose regarded Auguste severely. ‘You’re being fanciful, Mr Didier. At my expense. I’ll have you know we regard contravening the Licensing Act most severely at the Yard.’

‘Ah, but I do not entirely jest,’ said Auguste, laughing. ‘You will see. You have a head for heights?’

Up at the first level of flies, Rose stepped gingerly between ropes, windlasses for the curtains, borders and gas pipes, trying not to look below him. He was none too easy about heights if truth be told.

‘You see, Inspector, travelling irons.’ Auguste waved his arm towards the narrow bridge linking the flies of both sides of the stage. ‘Now, how easy to hide up here and float down like a god. The Nemesis of the Yard – the
deus ex machina
.’

Rose grunted. He could not see Summerfield up here. But Auguste was inexorable. The flies were nothing to the gridiron floor which formed a roof to the stage. Up, up and still up until they were nearly fifty feet above the stage. Up here another small army of ants beavered away.

‘Lie down on the floor, Inspector. Look through the cracks.’ He could see the small twinkling glitter of the tee lights, far far below, and between them a chandelier ready to be dropped for the scene in Lord Harry’s home. It was hot here already. What must it be like with all the gas lights lit for the performance? Rose’s respect for the performers’ cool poise grew.

Off the far side of the grid a ladder led down to another room, this one full of bespattered men, furiously painting a huge canvas in a frame.

‘Reminds me of that scene in Mr Carroll’s book,’ grunted Rose. He was a zealous father where reading was concerned. ‘Painting the roses before the Queen found out.’ Indeed, such was their concentration the painters might well have had their heads at stake.

‘This is small beer, Inspector, compared with the world of the pantomime. I had a
petite amie
in the chorus at Drury Lane. Ah, the effects there! It is magic, fairyland. But how many men slave to get that effect? The transformation scene is unforgettable there, yet many girls have burnt to death in the process. It is like our case here, Inspector Rose. The glitter of the Strand, the romance of the Galaxy. But behind the Strand lie the old rookeries, and after the curtain has fallen at the Galaxy two girls are strangled.’

‘But all the same,’ said Rose. ‘I don’t see Milord Summerfield gallivanting around up here just to strangle a few dolls. It would have to be a man of the theatre. Used to it,’ he said, wiping the sweat off his face with the white handkerchief impeccably ironed by Mrs Rose. ‘Yes, a man of the theatre.’

Lord Summerfield clearly did not enjoy his obvious role of suspect-in-chief in a murder case. Lady Summerfield relished it even less. She regarded the purlieus of Scotland Yard as she did her own outhouses – as evils necessary for the continuance of society. As she was conducted with her son into the higgledy-piggledy clutter of Rose’s office, she looked around as if she had stepped for one misguided moment beyond her own green baize door and found herself in an alien and unwelcome world.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ murmured Lord Summerfield in a desperate attempt at patrician graciousness, which failed dismally.

‘Sit down, My Lord.’

He blinked at the somewhat peremptory tone. Rose was carefully prepared for his lordship this time. Lady Summerfield had already seated herself in the chair of honour, if the shabby leather chair which faced Rose’s desk could lay claim to such a name.

‘Got bad news for you, sir. Miss Purvis was found dead yesterday. Circumstances were very like Miss Walters’.’

Lord Summerfield’s face blanched to the colour of his own embossed writing paper.

His mother spoke for him. ‘Why should this concern us, Inspector?’

‘Not you, ma’am. Lord Summerfield. Anything you’d like to tell us, sir?’

Lord Summerfield glanced at his mother. ‘No,’ he ventured.

‘Try again, sir. We understand you’d arranged to meet the young lady the night she died.’

‘No.’ A definite squawk this time.

‘Now that you have your answer, Inspector, we shall depart,’ Her Ladyship stated, rising to her feet, eight yards of purple alpaca falling submissively into place behind her.

‘Not yet, ma’am. You can leave if you wish, but not Lord Summerfield. Someone I want him to meet.’ He rang a bell on his desk.

Maisie Wilson was a bright light in that small office, bringing with her a sense of exuberant life as she swept in on a waft of Floris perfume and rose soap. A bright green dress battled with flaming red hair to bring a rare exoticism to the Factory. Auguste, in her wake, was almost overlooked.

‘Lady Summerfield, I’d like you to meet Miss Wilson.’

Her Ladyship stared through her lorgnette, making no attempt to return Maisie’s bow.

‘Who,’ she demanded indignantly of the world at large, ‘is this young person?’

Auguste was about to intervene when Maisie saved him the trouble.

‘This young person,’ she said cordially, ‘is Miss Maisie Wilson, in the chorus at the Galaxy. What are you playing? The Empire?’

Auguste snorted and hastily turned it into a cough. Lord Summerfield looked frightened. Lady Summerfield regarded Maisie once more through her lorgnette and when this failed to achieve the desired result, compressed her lips and regarded Inspector Rose sternly.

‘And this, Lady Summerfield,’ that gentleman said, ‘is Maître Didier.’

‘Ah, a lawyer,’ said Lady Summerfield, gratified that the proceedings were at least graced by one acceptable human being.

‘No, a cook,’ said Rose, enjoying himself immensely.

Lady Summerfield paled, then rallied. ‘Somewhat unorthodox, Inspector. We do not meet cooks.’

‘So’s murder unorthodox, milady,’ murmured Auguste.

What dull lives these English lived – how much in life they were missing, ignoring the riches that the gastronomic art could bestow. For as they treated the practitioner, so they regarded his product. Now in France . . .

‘Tell Lord Summerfield what you told me yesterday, miss. He don’t seem to remember,’ said Rose, surveying his little group with glee. That’s right. Make them uneasy and they’ll come clean. Just like that bit-faker down the Nichol. That heaving cesspit of crime in the East End had once been Rose’s territory, after which few places held terrors for him.

‘About Edna and him, you mean?’

Lord Summerfield went white.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ she appealed. ‘Why, she was shouting all over the place that night about meeting you. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. Unless you killed her,’ she added encouragingly.

Lady Summerfield slowly turned her head towards her son, but for once his mother was not his main concern. It was the inspector he must convince.

‘She didn’t come,’ Summerfield said desperately. ‘She didn’t come. You must believe me.’

‘Must I? So now you’ve remembered, you tell me what happened.’

‘I took the carriage to Wellington Street, as I always did,’ he said miserably, ignoring the swelling of Her Ladyship’s bosom. ‘But she didn’t come.’

‘Didn’t you go round to the stage door to find out if she’d left?’

‘No, I thought she must have left with someone else. They sometimes do, you know,’ he added disarmingly.

‘Anyone see you in Wellington Street?’

‘Not that I am aware of. I—’

‘Why do you bother to do it?’ asked Maisie indignantly. ‘Why not come to the stage door like everyone else? Not ashamed of being seen with us, are you?’

‘My son clearly realised what was due to his position as head of the house of Summerfield,’ said a glacial voice.

‘Like the Galaxy ladies, do you, sir?’ said Rose, ignoring this offering.

‘I – er – have the greatest respect for them, Inspector,’ said Summerfield, mustering what dignity he could.

‘I’m sure, sir. See all the Galaxy shows, sir? Just to show respect?’

‘Every one.’

‘Like Miss Lytton, do you?’ Rose shot out.

Summerfield flushed red, clearly annoyed. ‘Ah, I have the greatest respect for—’

‘Ever taken her out – just to show respect, of course.’

Lord Summerfield muttered, ‘She is a married lady, Inspector.’

‘But you’d like to get friendly with her?’

‘Miss Lytton – Miss Lytton is’ – he had some difficulty
in framing his words – ‘an angel, Inspector, an angel,’ he said fervently, his tongue suddenly unexpectedly loosened. ‘A light in this dull world. She is far, far above me – I am unworthy – I would not presume – I have the utmost reverence for – She is all that is most lovely in woman, a pearl among swine.’

He stopped, now conscious that his audience was looking at him in amazement.

‘You like Miss Lytton then,’ said Rose stolidly.

Poor old sod, thought Maisie to herself. Fancy thinking women are like that!

Lord Charing and his wife flanked the Honourable Johnny Beauville like Nelson’s guardian lions. Not that they regarded Johnny as a saviour of the nation’s honour. They were clearly there to ensure that the family honour was not impugned.

Johnny did not look grateful for this attention. Lord Charing, a serious-minded gentleman as befitted the bearer of the family title, was in his mid-thirties, a more sober version of the Honourable Johnny himself, with rounded face, sideburns, and a carefully nurtured moustache. His wife, of similar age, was a handsome statuesque woman. Her blond hair was swept up Grecian-style and her brown walking dress was severe – as was her expression.

Reminds me of someone. Ruby James at the Albion? thought Rose. But Lady Charing did not behave like Ruby James.

‘We,’ Lady Charing said severely, ‘do not approve.’ It was not clear whether she was using the royal we or whether she spoke for all Beauvilles, past and present.

‘Of what, ma’am?’ enquired Rose blandly.

‘Sin.’

There Rose was essentially in agreement with her, but the relevance of the statement at this moment was not clear to him.

‘The occupation of the devil, theatre,’ she graciously explained.

‘Yet I understand you were with Mr Beauville here at the first night of
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
, and again at
Miss Penelope’s Proposal.
Keeping an eye on the devil, eh?’

She frowned.

Her husband intervened hastily. ‘My wife feels that my brother should not attend these places alone, you understand.’

‘And you stayed with him, I understand, until he appeared somewhat unexpectedly in a cake backstage. You weren’t with him then, ma’am?’

‘I seldom appear in cakes, Inspector,’ replied her ladyship frostily.

Johnny shuffled uneasily.

‘And did you see your brother-in-law on Wednesday evening, too?’

‘My brother-in-law was at his club that evening. May I ask why this sudden interest in his movements?’

Johnny seemed about to say something, but was quelled by one look from his sister-in-law.

‘Miss Edna Purvis has been found dead,’ said Rose. Johnny looked blank. ‘Dead? That long girl? Thin? Handsome filly. Talked like a—’

‘It’s come to my attention you were acquainted with the young lady.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Johnny cautiously.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Can’t remember ’em all,’ he said apologetically.

‘And you were a friend of Miss Walters too.’

‘Yes, but I say – you know—’ Dimly it dawned on the Honourable Johnny that this was more than a friendly chat. ‘I hadn’t seen the little stunner for a week or more. She – Edna, that is – gave me the old boot. Had her eye on better things. They all do,’ he added sadly.

‘So you admit you were friends with them both?’

‘Love all the little darlings,’ he squeaked. ‘Miss Lepin – little French stunner; Daisy Applechurch; then
there’s Ethel Love, and Gladys Milling – that’s the one that kicks her legs up.’ He laughed nervously till he saw his sister-in-law’s eye on him.

‘And what about Miss Lytton?’

‘Florrie?’ Johnny beamed. ‘Lovely little girl. Pity she’s married. Mind you, I wouldn’t do them any harm. Safe as houses. But she wouldn’t look at me. You’d think she’d like a change after acting with that dull old stick all the evening. She likes all the fuss, but she doesn’t like it when a chap tries to get close.’ His face clouded, and he seemed to have forgotten his audience as he whispered, ‘No, she don’t like it at all.’

‘Didier, where are you, dammit?’

Archibald’s roar could be heard even from Auguste’s kitchen. He interpreted the roar correctly as being one of the ilk that brooked no denial. Delaying merely to add the shredded truffles to the Francatelli’s most interesting
salade
a
la Rachel
he hurried once more to Archibald’s office – there was no doubt as to the direction of the shout, nor of the offender. Florence Lytton was once more having hysterics.

‘Ah, Didier, Miss Lytton – under the weather – get one of your drinks – stop her—’ The big man looked helplessly and beseechingly at Auguste.

‘Oui, monsieur. But – might I suggest – her husband?’

It was the wrong suggestion; it merely brought forth a new wave of hysterics.

Auguste vanished, wondering where he could suddenly produce an infusion of valerian – it was not a product in which the market at Covent Garden specialised. He produced the next best thing.

Florence sipped gratefully at the soothing concoction Auguste held to her lips. The tears began to flow less rapidly, the red to subside from her cheeks, the hiccups to grow less raucous.

‘Ah, that’s better, my dear, isn’t it?’ said Archibald, rubbing his hands together heartily and a trifle briskly. ‘Nothing to beat Didier’s special brews, eh?’

Nothing indeed, thought Auguste, laughing to himself.
Nothing to beat Brillat-Savarin’s simple panacea of sugar and water for such emergencies.

‘Thank you, Mr Didier.’ Florence smiled gratefully at Didier, her poise restored, and her image of lovable leading lady redonned. ‘It’s just so – well –
horrid
knowing that someone is trying to kill you.’

‘Kill you, madame?’ said Auguste slowly. ‘You think that?’

‘Well, of course,’ said Florence indignantly, determined to maintain her centre stage position. ‘Those horrid dolls – it’s obvious. For some reason,’ she said hesitantly, ‘Edna Purvis was killed in mistake for me.’