Murder in the Limelight (7 page)

‘Now what happened that night, My Lord? Not that fangle dangle you told me before. What really happened?’

Lord Summerfield looked uneasy. ‘Nothing, Inspector. Nothing at all. That was it. That was why I felt no need to tell you. She never arrived.’

‘What?’

‘I had arranged to meet her – with the others, of course,’ he added hastily, and manifestly lying. ‘My carriage waited outside the Lyceum in Wellington Street at ten o’clock – our usual time,’ he said artlessly, ‘but she never
came. I assumed she had mistaken the day.’ And he stared straight at Rose, as though daring him to doubt this.

Oh yes? thought Rose. With a coronet on your head?

The Honourable Johnny Beauville had no mother. At least not one who maintained a presence as did Lady Summerfield. As younger son to the Earl of Ashford, he shared his brother and sister-in-law’s, Lord and Lady Charing’s, modest Mayfair town house with them while in town.

‘The mater thinks it good for me. The folks stay down in the country. They think Jeremy and Gertrude keep an eye on me,’ he remarked cheerily. He at least had no idea of keeping Rose at a distance.

‘I came to tell you, Mr Beauville—’

‘Bevil, not Bowvil,’ remarked Johnny casually.

It would take more than that to throw Rose off his stride. ‘You knew Christine Walters?’

‘The little darling who disappeared?’

‘Yes, Mr, er, Bevil. She disappeared after the second night of
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
, and you were heard enquiring after her very persistently at the stage door on the evening before. You were told that the young ladies were at the party and not seeing anyone, so you informed the stage door keeper you’d return the next night. And the next. And the next.’

He looked alarmed. ‘Me?’ he bleated. Then his face cleared. ‘First night of jolly
Lady Bertha
? Oh, yes, I remember that.’ He grinned. ‘The Dragon was with me. That’s me sister-in-law. She and Jeremy came round to the stage door in the carriage, in case I came to harm. They looked after me,’ he said wistfully. ‘Bates wouldn’t let me see her – Christine, that is. So I climbed into the old carriage and they dropped me at my club.’

‘And what about the following evening?’

‘Oh, the club, too. Overdid the old oysters the night before, so I thought I would give the Galaxy a miss.’

‘And then Miss Walters disappeared – only a few days or so, according to my information, after you had asked her to marry you.’

‘Really?’ Johnny’s jovial face suddenly went blank. ‘I can’t say I remember – but if you say so, it’s probably true.’

‘You don’t remember if you asked the young lady to marry you?’

‘No,’ said Johnny regretfully. ‘Was she the tall ginger-haired one or the small – no, that was—’

‘Do you propose to a lot of young ladies?’ asked Rose frostily.

‘Quite a few,’ said Johnny cheerily.

‘And do you always say you’ll shoot yourself if they won’t marry you?’

‘Part of the form, you know,’ he said apologetically. ‘Never mean it.’

‘Did you mean it when you said you’d shoot her as an alternative?’

‘Eh?’ Johnny gaped. ‘Seems a bit extreme. Did I really say that? She must be a stunner.’

‘Have been, Mr Bevil. She’s dead. Murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ He blinked. ‘That’s why you’re here to see me—’ Suddenly, he looked intelligent. ‘Oh, I say, you’ve got it all wrong. I love all the little darlings. I wouldn’t touch a hair of their pretty little heads. Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong.’

Traffic at the stage door was hotting up. The mashers began to arrive, agog to see their idols as they entered the theatre, to make certain of their prey for later that evening; those more dignified approached Obadiah Bates with notes, flowers, chocolates, threats or bribes. The tangible offerings he accepted for their recipients, the latter two he ignored. He gloried in his power. Hadn’t Mr Archibald said he couldn’t run the theatre without him? Six o’clock and
the girls were now arriving: principals, chorus girls, show girls. Funnily enough, the principals would often come in the growlers, the show girls in the hansoms. The men always seemed to arrive later. He always had young Phipps standing by before the show as a kind of stage door linkman in case any of the young ladies needed an escort through the crowd. The scuff, as he inelegantly called it. But it was all under his control.

‘Evening, Miss Lepin.’

‘Evening, Obadiah.’ The girls were on terms of easy familiarity with him for he was their confidant. He knew their escorts, every stage and nuance of their romances, he fostered where he approved, otherwise discouraged. He would rid them of unwanted admirers, encourage the others.

‘Evening, Miss Maisie.’

‘Let Mr Beauville through tonight, Obadiah, will you?’ She sensed his disapproval. ‘Now then, Obadiah,’ she said robustly, ‘Auguste isn’t going to mind. Nobody in their right senses could be jealous of Johnny.’

‘Very well, Miss Maisie. If you say so. But I don’t hold with his goings on.’

‘Evening, Obadiah.’

‘Evening, Miss Edna. Who is it tonight then?’

‘Lord Summerfield.’ She was scarcely able to contain her pride.

‘Oh ho, looking up, are we? Evening, Miss Julia.’

‘Good evening, Obadiah. If that Captain Hoskins calls here, I am not available. Not tonight, not at all. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, miss. He won’t get past me.’

Business was back to normal, the matter of Trojan cakes and such dishonourable behaviour swept under the carpet.

Edna came into the show girls’ dressing room glowing with triumph. The other girls were duly impressed.

‘Aren’t you worried though? Christine Walters disappeared when she was going out with him.’ Gabrielle pointed out.

‘He’s a
lord
,’ said Edna definitively. ‘He wouldn’t do anything. I mean, he’s
English.
Not like that Italian count who went off with Angela. Or that Frenchie. Never trust a Frenchie.’

Maisie, who had rushed in to borrow some hair-tongs, thought of Auguste and kept her own counsel. She tried to keep apart from the others. They were a good bunch, but she had been brought up in the hard school of Bethnal Green where it was everyone for himself. If you wanted to keep what you had, you kept quiet about it. And she wanted Auguste at the moment. Not that she’d marry him. There was time enough for marriage. Meanwhile, she might as well enjoy life to the full. Johnny Beauville would suit her down to the ground. The other girls might laugh but she never saw anyone turn down a date with him. Except Christine. And Edna, of course. He had plenty of money. Knew how to treat a girl like a lady. He knew all the right places to take you to. Oh yes, Johnny was all right.

Florence entered, glancing round her dressing room nervously, half expecting to see it full of mangled dolls. But it presented its usual flower-filled aspect, and the neat orderliness imposed by her dresser. She relaxed. Perhaps it had all been some horrible first night prank. She slipped off her heavy dark day dress, and into the satin robe held ready by her dresser. She sat before her mirror and examined her paint carefully. No, she was getting ridiculous. As though anyone would tamper with that. She shivered at the thought of anything ruining her looks, and had to calm herself with a great effort before, with a trembling hand, she began to apply the greasepaint.

There was a tap on the door which made her jump. Her dresser opened it. Edward Hargreaves and Percy Brian.
She stared in amazement, for it was all but unheard of for men to call at the dressing rooms on the ladies’ side. Even Thomas. They must have sought special permission. It boded no good.

‘Miss Lytton,’ said Edward firmly, ‘it’s about that song.’

Florence stiffened.

‘Percy and I just don’t think we can throw that song away by slowing it down like you want. We slowed it a little last night but we won’t any more. We’ve got our integrity to think of.’

Florence went white. How could they, just before a performance? She summoned up all her courage. ‘I’ve got to sing it,’ she said firmly. ‘And you hardly slowed it at all last night. You can’t do it faster still. Not after’ – there was a catch in her voice – ‘not after all I’ve been through.’

‘Just a little,’ said Percy Brian persuasively.

‘No,’ said Florence obdurately. ‘I’ll do it like last night, if I have to, but not like you want it. It’s too fast. I’ll lose the feeling. “If you could but hear”,’ she trilled, ‘“what I sing to you . . .” It should be slow, slow,
slow
—’ To her horror, she found herself stamping her foot.

‘We’ll tell Mr Archibald how we feel. Both of us.’

‘Tell him,’ said Florence recklessly. ‘See what he says when his leading lady resigns as a result. Because someone is carrying out a vendetta against me. First this song, now the dolls. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were connected, would you?’ she said with a viciousness that appalled her.

‘Do you mean—?’ Hargreaves gaped. Bloody woman! Women were trouble, he knew that, not like men. They couldn’t be relied on. ‘As if Percy and I—’

‘Not me, my dear, not me.’ Percy was strangely quiet.

‘What?’

‘Well, you never asked me. I think dear Florence is perhaps right, wanting it slower.’ His bright eyes were innocent, his face angelic, but he carefully avoided looking at Edward.

Hargreaves stared at him.

‘But, Percy – you—’

Florence smiled. Percy was on her side. Quite rightly. He would defend her against that horrid Hargreaves. Graceful, restored, reassured, Miss Penelope swept out, billowing wafts of perfume, closely followed by the dresser, still vainly attempting to adjust the folds of the dress gathered over Florence’s retreating victorious backside.

The two men faced each other.

‘You’ve betrayed me, Percy,’ said Edward Hargreaves hoarsely.

‘Just because we live together, Edward,’ said Percy softly, ‘it doesn’t mean you’re right all the time. I’ve got my integrity as a pianist to think of.’

He was like a stranger to Hargreaves, this boy he’d lived with, loved, for three years.

‘Percy, take care,’ Hargreaves said suddenly. ‘Don’t let this go on. You persuaded me to come up here. Now you’re stirring things up. Take care. If this gets to Archibald, if he finds out about us—’

‘Phooey,’ said Percy, tossing back his hair petulantly. ‘He’d never take any action. It’s all the rage in London now. The police don’t care. You’re just a fuddy duddy.’ And he walked off.

‘But what about those dolls?’ Hargreaves called after him.

Florence tripped happily down to the stage. Percy had been an unexpected ally. Now everything was all right. The last little thing had been attended to.

‘We’ve won, Herbert,’ she said gaily, seeing him in the wings.

‘Won, Florence?’ he replied, his expression unreadable under his clownish make-up.

‘The song, silly. We’re going back to the original tempo. Slow, all the time. Percy supports me, so now it’s three of us against Mr Hargreaves.’

‘No,’ said Herbert, matter-of-factly, his expression strangely remote. ‘Two.’

‘Two,’ said Florence, puzzled.

‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I told Mr Hargreaves I liked it faster. Like this: “Pom, pom, pom, what I’d sing to you. How I’d sing to you, my dear”.’

She stared at him, speechless.

‘You never asked me, you see. I do have to sing a verse too.’

‘But I thought—’ She stopped. How could she say she took his devotion, his acquiescence in what pleased her, for granted? So in the normal way she could. But not tonight. Herbert, in his own way, intended to pay Florence back.

The performance flagged. Perhaps this was inevitable after the triumph of last night. It was not noticeable to any but the cast; to the audience it would seem another triumph, perhaps a little pale by the side of
Lady Bertha.
But to the cast, and more particularly to Robert Archibald, it flagged: it was lifeless, it was uncoordinated; a chorus girl was out of step here, a beat missed there, the orchestra’s playing a trifle ragged, a wrong note on the piano, a top note insufficiently held, a humdrumness about the comedy. But not noticeable to the audience. Not, that is, until Florence’s solo at the end of Act 2, in which she was joined by Herbert for the last verse.

Miss Penelope clutched her marionette to her, and gazed fondly into its wooden face. She was riding on a pinnacle of exultation; she was adored by the gods, by the stalls, by the pit. She had forgotten she was apparently not so adored on her side of the Galaxy footlights.

‘If you could only hear what I’m saying to you,’ she whispered to the puppet’s calico-clad body. ‘If only
he
could hear—’ throwing a wistful glance towards Lord Harry, at present lingering in the wings beside Edna Purvis. ‘If only, if only . . .’ A tinkling note sounded on the piano. A chord from the orchestra.

Alas, no one
could
hear. Least of all the audience. For Florence, having reverted trustingly to the slow tempo set by Percy at the piano, was completely drowned and overtaken by the orchestra reverting to the fast tempo of Edward’s choice, a tempo in which Herbert joined with gusto, advancing two verses early from behind his toyshop counter.

It was disaster. Florence, overwhelmed, stood open-mouthed, still automatically singing on. The orchestra leader, belatedly remembering his duty to his audience, increased the volume to drown the piano, then since Florence’s mouth was no longer moving, softened it for Herbert to finish the song in triumphant solo while Florence stood like a dumb thing.

Watching from the stalls, Robert Archibald permitted himself to relieve his feelings with one single oath culled from his Hoxton childhood.

With masterly presence of mind, Lord Harry swept on one scene early, took his wife by the hand and gazed fondly into her eyes. Then he bravely began to no accompaniment whatsoever his final love song, to a Miss Penelope about to reveal to the audience, for the sake of their delicate susceptibilities, that she was after all no shopgirl, but the daughter of a viscount.

The episode had lasted perhaps two minutes, but it was a lifetime for the Galaxy. Twenty years of patient tradition-building might never have been.