by Myers, Amy
‘He is a little strange, you know. You don’t think he could have, well, turned against her?’
‘It is possible, yes,’ said Auguste. ‘He had the best opportunity to do it.’ He was beginning to tire of the matter of the dolls. The episodes had left him uneasy, but the day had been long and Maisie was very close. His arm tightened round her. But she had not finished talking, unresponsive for once to the eloquent message of his dark eyes.
‘Auguste, what do you think happened to Christine Walters? I know everyone thinks she just left for Paris to join the Folies Bergères like she always said, but something worries me . . .’
‘What, chérie?’ asked Auguste patiently, removing his hand from her waist until its reception seemed likely to meet with more appreciation.
‘She left her rabbit’s foot behind.’
‘Her what?’
‘Lucky rabbit’s foot,’ repeated Maisie. ‘You wouldn’t understand but we all have something. A lucky handkerchief, a lucky scarf. We’re a superstitious lot. And Christine had her rabbit’s foot. She swore she always had bad luck without it. She’d never have taken another engagement in Paris, leaving that behind. She’d have sent for it if she had really forgotten it.’
‘Then what do you think—?’
‘I don’t know. The Honourable Johnny said the police had come to see him when the Sûreté hadn’t been able to find her in Paris. I know he’s a joke, but he was quite worried. It was weeks since Christine had given him the “get off me barrer” – it was Summerfield she was seeing, and didn’t we know it? She was determined to end up under a coronet. Some hopes, with his mother!’
‘His mother?’
‘He’s a bachelor. Lives with Mama at the ancestral towers in Buckinghamshire. Every so often he sneaks a night away at their town house, and is round here quicker than a duke out of a jerryshop to take one of us to dinner. Doesn’t mind who it is, just has to be one of the famous Galaxy Girls.’ Her voice was scornful. ‘I feel sorry for him, poor old boy.’
‘And Christine disappeared while she was the reigning favourite?’
‘He told Miss Pearly Queen Purvis that Christine never turned up that evening. He couldn’t see her on the first night of Lady Bertha because of the party and so arranged to see her the next night. But no Christine. And being a lord and all that, he don’t like having a piece of wet cod slapped round his face, so he never bothered to find out why. He likes to be the only cock in the henhouse, does His Lordship?
‘And so, my love, do I,’ said Auguste, pulling her to him.
‘I tell you what, Auguste,’ she said after a pause, ‘English I might be, but I have to grant you there are still some things Frenchmen do better than Englishmen.’
‘The creation of a timbale, perhaps?’
‘And other things, other things . . .’
Auguste smiled at the memory as he stirred the liaison. Twelve dozen plovers’ eggs, three galantines of chicken, lobster salad of course, poularde à la d’Albutera, two hot dishes, Soyer’s pièces montées, the croquantes, the nougats, the madeleines, the gaufres, the bavarois, the charlottes, Maître Escoffier’s crawfish à la provençale.
Auguste, influenced by his English mother in his upbringing, usually inclined to English receipts, but for a first night celebration he knew the girls would not be impressed by English cooking. They would want the finest French delicacies of which his art was capable, and they would not be disappointed. He would create a centrepiece as magnificent as those of the great Soyer himself, though he would not go so far as had one maître and insist that the ceiling be removed to accommodate it. Instead he had created a sculpted masterpiece in spun meringue and fruit. He thought longingly of the moment when the curtain would be drawn back at the rear of the stage and his creation revealed to the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ of the company.
First there would be the dinner on stage, then dancing to follow. And so democratic! Stage hands would dance with the Galaxy Girls; he, the cook, might dance with Miss Lytton. He dwelt with some enthusiasm on this idea, but then reflected that Maisie would be watching. Her good nature only went so far. Yet there was something about Miss Lytton’s manner that reminded him on occasion of Tatiana. Tatiana, with her black hair and lustrous eyes, was very different, a princess after all, and yet there was something . . . He dragged his mind away from the Paris of his past, and concentrated hard once more on the farce de foie gras for the poularde.
In the cold light of morning, the high tensions of yesterday seemed far away as he marshalled his small kitchen staff in almost military order for the final preparations. Tonight after the show the theatre restaurant would be left to his assistants while he, Auguste, attended the party for the company. It was hard for them – and a risk for him. A maître should always be present in his restaurant. But perhaps even he might be allowed to see a little of the new musical comedy.
‘Didier, I want you.’
With this peremptory summons, Robert Archibald burst through the secret communicating door that he had installed in the wall that had to be built between theatre and restaurant to comply with fire regulations despite his loud protestations. The door, known only to himself and Auguste, since it defied council rulings, was masked by a larder through which he made his entrance. Now he stood menacingly in the kitchen. Auguste bowed to the inevitable. Casting only the merest glance at the ingredients for the St Honoré crème as yet unprepared, he followed in Archibald’s imperious wake. In the inner sanctum, its owner flung himself into a huge leather armchair.
‘You’re a balanced sort of fellow. Would you say there’s something wrong in this theatre? I’m not an imaginative sort of chap, but it seems to me rather more than first night nerves coupled with a nasty practical joke or two. I’ve always thought we were such a happy family.’ He looked pleadingly to Auguste for reassurance.
Auguste shrugged. ‘Even families, monsieur, have their difficulties.’
‘But why?’ Archibald’s tone was outraged. It was clear he was taking it personally.
‘I do not know, but have you not observed, monsieur, that one bad egg amongst a gross will render them all useless? Perhaps you too have one bad egg.’
‘Eggs.’ Archibald’s tone implied this matter was rather more important than eggs.
‘Very well, monsieur. One dancer out of step.’
‘Yesterday it was dolls. Today Florence is huffy, Hargreaves has got a face as long as his own first fiddle, and young Brian is flinging his hair around like a prancing ballet dancer. And it’s the first night. My play!’ His voice rose in anguish.
‘But there has been something wrong, Monsieur Archibald, for some time.’ Archibald bristled in denial. ‘Miss Walters,’ Auguste reminded him.
‘Well, what about her?’ asked Archibald, bewildered.
‘Do you believe she went to Paris?’
Archibald stared at him. ‘Didier, you’re French. You see these girls as innocent young flowers. So they are, some of ’em. But suppose they meet a bad ’un? What can I do? Only talk about contracts. And much they care for that with a tiara or money dangled in front of them. Christine Walters wasn’t one to say no to money. I hope she’s now kicking up her legs in the Folies Bergères, but if she’s not, there’s nothing I can do. Once they leave the Galaxy, that’s it. They’re not my responsibility. Nothing to do with me. Anyway, what has Miss Walters to do with it?’
‘Perhaps nothing. Perhaps much. But it seems nothing here has been quite right since she left. The sauce has been stirred.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Archibald irritatedly. ‘Stuff and nonsense.’
Up in his dressing room Thomas Manley carefully applied his greasepaint and then as carefully took it off again. His dresser watched incuriously. It was a first night ritual. It had happened on the night of his first big success; thus he believed it had brought him good luck, and had done it ever since. Tonight it seemed especially important.
Oblivious to the seething mass of turbulent emotions backstage, the out
side world battered the Galaxy with its usual tributes. Bouquets were arriving at such a rate at the stage door that Bates’ small office resembled a flower shop. Telegrams were hurtling around the building, clutched in grubby call-boy hands. The box office alone was not busy. The seats for this evening’s performance had all been sold many weeks ago. It was not necessary to check the library returns – there were none. Each agency had sold their quota and had been pleading for more.
Would-be suitors were busily thrusting cards in at the stage door, only to be disappointed. None of the young ladies was going out tonight. Tonight was strictly a Galaxy party. There had been no more untoward happenings. The set had been checked and double-checked for practical jokes.
Such was the hectic pace of events that had it not been for a slight hangover of unease from the day before, and a certain alien paleness to Florence’s cheeks, Robert Archibald might almost have convinced himself that his fears were unjustified and that the unfortunate events of yesterday had never taken place.
His portly, impressive figure in tailcoat and silk hat was everywhere in the building. He believed in being seen to manage his theatre. He was the host to its many thousands of guests. In the chorus and show girls’ dressing rooms, frilled dresses were being carefully lifted over tightly boned bodices, silk drawers pulled over multi-coloured corsets. This latter was Archibald’s idea – or rather, his wife’s. Let them have silk underwear, she had said percipiently, then they will feel expensive as well as look expensive – you’ll see. And he did. Dr Jaeger’s best wool might be healthier, but he bowed to his wife, a very sensible woman, and paid for the girls’ silk drawers without a murmur. With the gentlemen he compromised on pure silk handkerchiefs and neckties and, once bought with his usual generosity, told them they could keep them afterwards. His generosity to all who shared his family roof was boundless.
‘Who do yer reckon did it last night?’
‘Must have been someone who don’t like Miss L,’ commented a newcomer.
Fourteen indignant pairs of eyes looked scathingly in her direction. She flinched.
‘There ain’t none of us don’t like Miss Florence,’ explained one, kindlier than the rest.
The newcomer was silenced, but not convinced.
‘Ah, Mr Hargreaves.’
Florence was at her most winning. She was by nature charming, but on occasion lent artifice to natural ability. She would be charming but determined, she told herself. Unfortunately womanly charm had little effect on Mr Hargreaves, a fact that she should have realised since she was perhaps the only member of the company who knew about his private life.
‘Miss Lytton. All ready?’
It must be quite obvious to him that she was ready, she thought, with an unusual trace of irritation. She would hardly wear a white silk dress with rosebuds down the side and paint on her face for walking along the Strand. But she suppressed a tart rejoinder.
‘Quite, thank you.’ If only he wasn’t so – so – stolid, she thought. He made a somewhat unattractive figure with his attempt to add to his face and sideburns the hair he had lost from the top of his head. ‘I wanted to ask you again – my song at the end of the second act –’ Edward Hargreaves stiffened. ‘Do you think just a little slower?’ She smiled winningly. ‘Such a beautiful tune.’ She hummed a few bars. ‘I should like the audience to hear, to appreciate the melody. Such a beautiful melody.’
He glared at her. ‘It’s meant to be fast for its effect, Miss Lytton.’ Then he remembered that Florence was the leading lady and added placatingly, ‘You sing it charmingly. You always do. Believe me, though, it’s not right at that slow tempo. Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pom.’ He hummed tunelessly. He wished she’d go away. Singers were necessary evils, but he refused to allow them to come between himself and his music.
‘Why did you send flowers to Miss Purvis, Thomas?’ asked Florence, already aggrieved after her defeat in the matter of the song. She regarded the bouquet of lilies sent by her husband balefully – it had not escaped her notice that Edna had received late red roses.
‘Darling – you wouldn’t begrudge a present to her on her first show.’
‘Second actually,’ said Florence absently, reading the card. Was it her imagination or was the wording a little more offhand than usual? True, he had taken the trouble to ask Obadiah’s permission to present the bouquet personally, since it was not usually permitted for a gentleman to visit the ladies’ side of the theatre, but he had also taken the opportunity to present Edna’s personally.
‘Second then,’ said Thomas shortly. He had expected more glowing thanks from his Florence. Moreover, he had expected some tribute himself. For the first two years of their marriage each first night had been marked with a small gift from his adoring wife: cufflinks engraved with the name of the play, a silver tie pin, a gold pocket watch.
Florence was studying her face in the mirror.
‘As you are obviously not interested in listening to me, I shall return to my own room.’
She smiled to herself. That had put him in his place. But she still felt on edge. Thomas had not been as thoughtful as usual when they returned home last night. She had had to attend to Nanki-poo herself, or the poor little dog would have starved. And then Thomas had been ungentlemanly enough to protest when she felt too tired to let him . . . Really, after a dress rehearsal! Men were quite unreasonable. It was in this frame of mind that she recalled that other unreasonable man and set out to find Percy Brian. If one side would not budge, the other might.
‘Mr Brian, about the marionette song—’
‘Ah, yes.’ He tinkled a few notes on the piano. ‘The marionette song.’ He smiled at her, and tinkled a few more.
‘Please, Mr Brian, not so fast.’ She tried hard to keep the edge out of her voice.
‘But I have to take my tempo from Mr Hargreaves, Miss Lytton.’ He continued playing and she was forced to shout at his back.
‘Then tell him to slow down. It ruins the whole effect.’
‘I can’t tell Mr Hargreaves what to do, Miss Lytton.’
Unusually, almost uniquely, Florence lost her temper, tired of facing that elegant, unresponsive back. ‘Of course you can. I know you’re his molly.’
There was an abrupt silence as his fingers came crashing down in a final chord and he spun round on the stool to stare at her, aghast. Miss Lytton – even to know about such things, much less to say them out loud! For once Percy Brian was shocked. And goodness knew what Edward would say. But he was looking forward to finding out.
Ashen-faced, Edward Hargreaves stared back at him. ‘She knows, you think?’ His voice shook.
‘That’s what she said, Edward.’
‘But . . . do you think she knows we – live together?’
Percy shrugged. ‘Who cares?’ He flashed a brilliant smile, a perfect advertisement for Jewsbury & Brown’s Oriental Toothpaste.
‘Don’t be foolish, Percy. We’re in danger. Do you want to spend time in prison? To say nothing of our jobs here.’
‘No one cares nowadays. Look at Mr Wilde and Lord Alfred. The police aren’t interested.’
‘I care,’ said Edward Hargreaves vehemently. ‘I care, and I shall make sure nothing, nothing ruins our lives.’
‘You wouldn’t leave me?’ said Percy in sudden alarm. Boring though old Edward was, he was very fond of him.
Edward looked at him, a peculiar expression on his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Oh no, I’ll never leave you.’
Herbert Sykes, listening to this absorbing conversation outside the door, was disturbed as well as riveted. There was a tone in Hargreaves’ voice he hadn’t heard before, and it boded no good for his Florence, as he always thought of her. But he, Herbert, would protect her.
On the other side of the curtain, anticipation was high. A stream of hansoms was arriving, depositing the theatre-going middle classes, and the pit and gallery queues were in good-humour; at the Catherine Street entrance a warbling baritone, formerly of the Royal Opera House (suppo
sedly), was entertaining them with a song that the august portals of his former home – if it was – would never have recognised. At the Royal Entrance in Exeter Street a discreet carriage, unmarked by a regal crest, deposited a portly but immaculately attired gentleman, with a beautiful lady and an equerry hovering in attendance. The beautiful lady was not the Princess of Wales; the Galaxy had risen to dizzy heights but had not yet received that final seal of royal approval.
It was at the Strand entrance that the excitement reached its peak. The linkman was in his element. A first night was the busiest night of the run; it was not only his job to usher in the scented and opera-hatted and to see that trailing silken trains were not sullied by the dirt of the thoroughfare but also to recognise the faces and, with a muttered aside to a pageboy, inform Mr Archibald that Lord and Lady So and So had arrived, or else pass on a suggestion that Lord X’s seats had best be changed forthwith owing to the fact that Lord X’s sister-in-law was in the audience and would be somewhat puzzled by Lord X’s companion! He would smooth the passage from carriage to door, then hand his charges over to a liveried usher who would ensure that the few steps up to the foyer were negotiated safely before they joined the milling, sparkling, bejewelled throng that was an essential ingredient of a Galaxy first night – or any first night at a London theatre in these carefree days of the nineties. But the Galaxy had one difference: it provided a touch of the daring, but a daring that one could allow one’s wife to see – if one so chose.
In the auditorium a thousand pairs of open glasses undulated as aigrette-crowned ladies sought to establish who was present, their ostrich feather fans used more for effect than for air on this chill November evening. A sigh of pleasurable anticipation ran round the audience as Edward Hargreaves took his place on the rostrum.
Hidden from them behind the ornate curtain was the stage manager. He was at the rear of the stage, checking the back set for the umpteenth time to see that all those ruddy dolls were in place. None was missing tonight. Not now that two spares had been hastily acquired from Messrs Hamleys. So nothing could go wrong tonight, could it?