Murder in the Limelight

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Look at that river,’ he went on, ‘just been thinking to myself there’s a tidy lot of villains depend on that river. What it could tell us! Always fancied being with the river police. That river hides more crime than the Nichol. Look at that down there: pleasure boats, cruising along as happy as mudlarks, not knowing what’s underneath them. Found out anything, have you?’ he continued without pausing for breath.

  ‘Some things, Inspector, but I have had many thoughts also. I think the Galaxy is like a splendid dish of toad in the hole.’

  ‘I thought it would be, somehow,’ said Rose gloomily. ‘You see everything in terms of food, Mr Didier, that’s your trouble. I don’t doubt you see me in terms of food.’

  Repressing the temptation to compare Egbert Rose to a Herodotus pudding, Auguste continued: ‘It presents to the world an harmonious whole, pleasing and simple.’ He paused for effect, while Rose listened indulgently. ‘Inside, however, what a mass of complications! This toad in the hole prepared from so many ingredients, not always harmonious – where else could salt beef stand side by side with guinea-fowl? – and yet within this toad, they rejoice together.’

  ‘And now you’re going to tell me someone has tipped the balance of ingredients and, pouf, the recipe is ruined.’

  ‘Indeed, Inspector, it is a fact that Monsieur Hargreaves is at odds with Percy Brian; Herbert no longer follows Florence as a King Charles spaniel, and that the Manleys do not get on as once they would. And it is not the mere fact of murder which makes everyone uneasy. It is true that Edward Hargreaves, Percy Brian, Herbert Sykes and Thomas Manley all had some reason to wish Florence Lytton harm.’

  ‘But not those two chorus girls surely?’

  ‘But,’ said Auguste, ‘I was discussing a leg of mutton with Miss Wilson—’

  ‘I’ve heard you Frenchies have a way with women,’ murmured Rose.

  Auguste tried to quell him with a look and, having failed, continued hastily, ‘And we believe Miss Lytton is not the intended victim. We believe he is a maniac, or someone who hates all women, or –’ he paused, ‘someone who hates the Galaxy.’

  ‘Then we don’t have to restrict the field to those who had a grudge against Florence Lytton,’ observed Rose somewhat drily. He had covered all this ground in his own mind some time earlier. ‘If you ask me, Mr Didier, we’re making this all too complicated. My thinking’s along these lines: we’ve got Summerfield and Beauville, both acquainted with the young ladies, Mr Sykes who seems to have been a great favourite with all the girls, Mr Manley whose eye roves further than it should, and even more obviously, there’s Props and Bates. Who better placed to know all the girls’ comings and goings than those two?’

  ‘Bates?’ said Auguste. ‘As well suspect Mr Archibald himself. He adores those girls.’

  Rose shrugged. ‘Just pointing out the possibilities, Mr Didier. Nice and handy for him. He can look up when he likes, for instance.’

  ‘You are right, of course,’ said Auguste. ‘But if it were Obadiah then he would have to be a madman. And why, when he has worked at the Galaxy so long, does he suddenly take it into his head to start murdering girls? In fifteen years there would have been a sign of unnatural interest in them, and I have never heard one word against him from the girls. Even a madman needs a motive. And poor Props – what reason?’

  ‘Props is interesting,’ said Rose. ‘A sort of fanaticism there already, wouldn’t you say, Mr Didier? Didn’t you tell me he works there just to be near Miss Lytton? Never speaks to her. Just gives her flowers every day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Auguste unwillingly. ‘He is gentle. He finds it difficult to speak to Miss Lytton, let alone touch her.’

  ‘All the more likely that, if he were sick in his mind and thought himself spurned, he might turn the other way. Take it out on innocent chorus girls first, then summon up the courage to attack Miss Lytton.’

  The two men looked at each other. ‘It is possible, yes,’ said Auguste. ‘They are good ingredients, Inspector. But will they make a good plat?’

  Gabrielle Lapin (or Lepin as she preferred to be known, in case her escorts were acquainted with the French language) entered the underground train in thoughtful mood. She was also thinking of food, of the dinner she would have on Tuesday evening with Lord Summerfield. She wondered whether she were taking a risk. After all, the other two girls had disappeared. But she, Gabrielle, knew how to look after herself, and the chance of ensnaring Lord Summerfield could not be missed. If she had refused, then he would not have asked her again. They were proud, these aristos. She drew her coat around her. It was an expensive one, for Archibald expected his girls to be well dressed and paid them extra to do so. He also expected them to travel by hansom cab. But a rumour had run round the dressing room last evening that the murderer was a hansom cab driver whose post was on the Strand.

  Gabrielle was not an over-imaginative girl. She was pert-faced with an elfin charm that would not last past her thirtieth birthday, and she was clever enough to be aware of it. The puckish smile and kittenish appeal would settle all too quickly into ageing lines and vixenish frowns. She had only three years left to fulfil her ambition – and that of her parents – of making a suitable marriage. Archibald was generous to his girls, but even he had to face the fact that age overtook them, and gradually their faces, their figures and their dancing abilities fell below Galaxy standards. The call to his office would come. The increase in salary to show how valued they were – and then, a week or two later, an embarrassed chat with the stage manager. Fini.

  Gabrielle glanced at the kid boots peeping out from under her blue merino wool skirt and thought of the price she had paid for them at Messrs J Sparkes Hall & Son of Regent Street, Bootmakers to Her Majesty. It was unthinkable that she should not be so shod for the rest of her life. Yes, she was glad she had accepted Lord Summerfield’s offer of dinner.

  By Tuesday evening, the theatre seemed to have settled down to a permanent state of edginess. There was little general conversation. Ignorant of their starring roles in Inspector Rose’s surmises, Obadiah was busy with callers and messages in his cubby hole, Props was organising his team in the props room. Obadiah Bates was also sorting out the tributes for the Galaxy Girls. Not many tonight – the mashers scared off by the publicity. It was all bad for the Galaxy and that worried Obadiah. Worried him very much. Mr Didier had said he should tell the Inspector everything he knew, that any little detail might be important. That the future of the Galaxy might be at stake. For the umpteenth time he wondered what he should do.

  The Green Room of the Galaxy was an oasis, a limbo between the outside world and the world of illusion. After the performance it became a place of relaxation where friends might gather to greet the cast, to bathe them in sweet adulation; here they were gods to receive their worshippers, only gradually metamorphosising once more into human beings – albeit larger than life human beings. Here they were cosseted, enshrined in their own immortality by the playbills, photographs, oil paintings and sketches adorning the walls.

  Like all oases, it offered also more material comforts. Robert Archibald provided in the Green Room not only health-restoring refreshments after the performance, but pre-performance sandwiches, tea and coffee, with one of Auguste’s minions to serve them. Archibald was a keen observer of human nature, and percipient of its frailties. Far too easy for his ladies and gentlemen of the chorus, even for the principals, to wait until dinner for nourishment and not bother to eat before the performance. So here it was for any that were too poor, too miserly or too lazy to partake of supper before they came. For all it had been meant as a democratic institution where Galaxy unity might flourish, and chorus eat with principals, it was noticeable that Florence Lytton and the other principals rarely indulged in Auguste’s best chicken pâté sandwiches.

  Tuesday, however, was Herbert Sykes’s housekeeper’s afternoon off, and the sustaining qualities of the stale angel cake she had left for Herbert’s tea were not great. Thus he was alone in the Green
Room – like all free offerings it was not patronised as it should have been – and was interrupted in the midst of a Roquefort sandwich, addressing a vicious and unrepeatable remark to the portrait of Florence Lytton painted by a latter-day Pre-Raphaelite who had seen her through rose-coloured spectacles as ‘Golden Innocence’.

  ‘Why, Herbert! What a thing to say! Quelle bêtise!’ There was a giggle behind him. They always called him Herbert, he thought, even as he spun round in alarm. They had no respect for him, these girls. They just treated him like an old slipper.

  ‘It was the sandwich I was talking about,’ he muttered. Luckily Auguste was not in earshot.

  Gabrielle Lepin had come to partake of some food before the performance in order that her stomach might not rumble unbecomingly whilst in the confines of Lord Summerfield’s carriage. She could also thus pretend that she had a bird-like appetite. First appearances were important.

  ‘Ah, has the nasty Miss Lytton been unkind to poor little Monsieur Herbert?’ she twitted unwisely. His changed attitude had not gone unnoticed in the dressing room.

  ‘No,’ he said sharply. Then he looked at the little kid boots peeping out under her skirt. And thought about Gabrielle Lepin, not Florence Lytton.

  ‘But she’s not a patch on you, my dear,’ he said gallantly, though insincerely. ‘How about supper? Rule’s, perhaps?’

  ‘Ah, not tonight. I have an engagement. But perhaps one day, I will. You are so funny, Monsieur Herbert.’ Quite why she should imagine this would endear her to Herbert was not clear. It did not. His face darkened, but he said nothing. She watched the shadows creeping over it and said uneasily, ‘I was only joking about Miss Lytton. I expect she’s ever so nice when you know her and ever so fond of you.’ Herbert was, after all, a principal.

  He seemed not to hear her. Then his face grew red, and he burst out angrily, ‘Funny! You think I’m funny!’ Then he spun round and looked at ‘Golden Innocence’ again. ‘You think I’m funny too, don’t you?’ he said viciously, ‘Oh yes, funny old Herbert. Second best. You’re not worth it, none of you. Cock-chafers. Harlots. Florence!’

  Unfortunately the lady’s husband was standing in the doorway. Florence had elected to travel separately. Futhermore there had been no supper for him at home. Florence had been served tea in her boudoir. It had been locked to him. Unwisely he took exception to his wife being thus referred to, however much he might privately agree with the bitterness with which the insults were hurled. But ladies were always ladies in public.

  ‘Florence is my wife, Mr Sykes,’ he said with dignity, one hand on the door handle, playing as he had in so many provincial melodramas the injured husband.

  Cornered, Herbert went white, then lashed out: ‘And I’m sure you’re to be pitied.’

  Manley’s eyes bulged. His repertoire did not allow for this retort. ‘Pitied!’ he exploded. ‘Are you mad, Mr Sykes?’

  Herbert was not, so he claimed. ‘She’s a bitch. She leads people on. Look how she led that Lord Summerfield on, even Johnny Beauville. Didn’t you know? I did. Led me on too. Promised me everything, everything. Cock-tease—’

  Gabrielle listened fascinated. They seemed to have over-looked her presence and she was not going to remind them. This was better than the day at the Folies when Gaby had attacked Jane with a knife.

  ‘You’re no gentleman,’ Manley replied weakly, taken aback by this new Herbert.

  He laughed.

  This was what Manley needed. ‘You can laugh,’ he said, firing up. ‘You’d laugh on the other side of your fat face if you knew what she said about you. “Poor old Herbert,” she’d say, “poor old roly-poly. Clown on stage and clown off. And he really believes I’m fond of him.” When you try and sing that song—’

  At that unfortunate moment Edward Hargreaves, determined not to surrender and cook Percy’s tea, arrived to take his own repast. The word ‘song’ and he was off. Moreover, his new ally seemed under attack.

  ‘Charming though Miss Lytton is,’ Hargreaves hissed through clenched teeth, ‘she is hardly a musician. Look at that song, for instance. Now you, Mr Sykes, have a true sense of the poetry of music, but Miss Lytton is merely a performer!’ He uttered the word with disgust.

  Thomas Manley, perceiving himself in the minority, lost his self-control. ‘My wife,’ he shouted, ‘is the leading lady. Adored by the gods. The star in the firmament of the Galaxy. The dearest little woman—’ He almost choked.

  Gabrielle leapt in, mindful that he was the leading man at the Galaxy. She fluttered her eye lashes. Herbert remembered that gesture. She had done it to him once in happier days. To dear old Uncle Herbert.

  ‘I think you’re so right, Mr Manley. Dear Miss Lytton. It did ought to be un peu’ – being deliciously French – ‘slower. Her charm deserves it.’

  ‘You see,’ said Manley triumphantly. ‘Now we shall finish the row about that stupid song once and for all. After the show, we shall remain behind and we shall play it at the piano and all decide the best tempo. And after that, I could perhaps offer you supper perhaps, Miss Lepin? My wife retires early.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ said Gabrielle with pride. ‘I’m dining with Lord Summerfield tonight.’ Suddenly she had all three men’s full attention.

  ‘Do you think, um, that’s wise, Miss Lepin?’ said Hargreaves diffidently. ‘Don’t you think you are being rather foolish, all for the sake of trying to get a coronet on your head?’

  Gabrielle glared. ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘But do give my love to Percy,’ she added spitefully. ‘Tell him how much I enjoyed the other night.’

  ‘Percy?’ bleated Edward ‘Percy? You’ve been out with Percy?’

  ‘Why not?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘You’re lying – he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.’

  ‘Steady, Hargreaves,’ said Thomas well-meaningly. ‘The lad’s only young. He has to have some fun. He often goes out with the young ladies. Keeps them up very late, but then he’s a bachelor! Lucky dog, eh?’ He winked, and then stared, aghast, as Edward burst into tears.

  Standing on the threshold, an observer of this revealing scene, was Obadiah Bates, come to deliver a message. What was the Galaxy coming to? Now he was even more worried. The future of the Galaxy might be at stake, Monsieur Auguste had said. He should tell him anything that might help the Galaxy. Where did his duty lie?

  Now the principals were grimly concentrating on their pre-performance routines, and even the chatter in the chorus dressing rooms was muted.

  Florence, tired of being marooned on an island of persecution, managed to direct a weak smile at Thomas as she passed him in the corridor. After all, he couldn’t really want to murder her, could he?

  Herbert stumped morosely around his room, wondering how he was going to summon up courage to make a fool of himself before Florence on stage without thinking of the real life scene the other night, and wondering how he could ever have felt such slavish devotion to her. His eyes were open now, he told himself.

  Props, however, remained faithful where Florence was concerned. This evening, indeed, marked a new departure for him. The posy of violets had been clutched a little more tightly than usual, and instead of being thrust into her hand by a rapidly retreating Props, they remained in his possession as he barred Florence’s path through the wings.

  ‘Sorry about those dolls, miss,’ he said to an alarmed and nervous Florence as he pushed the violets towards her, still avoiding her eyes. It was the longest speech he had ever made to her.

  ‘Dolls?’ Florence cried. ‘You mean – you – it was you?’ Her voice rose alarmingly.

  Props gaped at her. ‘Me? What, miss?’

  But he spoke to thin air. Florence had fled, screaming. Props tried to think what it was he had said to upset her so much.

  Her precipitate passage ended on the floor, together with a glass, a bottle of whisky, and the remains of a gratin of lobster. She had run full tilt into Auguste on his way back from Archibald’s office with his supper tray.


  Auguste supported her as best he could, while she sobbed at him: ‘It was Props, Props all the time!’

  ‘Now calm yourself, madame, what was Props?’

  ‘Props is the murderer?’ The door to Archibald’s office had flown open, and Authority stood on the threshold – albeit a panic-stricken Authority with only ten minutes before the curtain went up, and a leading lady apparently once more in hysterics.

  A glance was exchanged between Auguste and Archibald, and Florence was lifted bodily off her feet and transported once more to the leather-covered chair in Archibald’s office.

  ‘Now, dear, what’s all this about Props being a murderer?’

  ‘He,’ she gulped, ‘told me!’

  Auguste soothingly and somewhat absentmindedly stroked her back. These were no ordinary times. ‘He said he murdered those two girls, madame?’

  ‘No, but he said he was responsible for those horrible – things – those dolls—’ She gulped again, her beautiful face distorted with tears.

  ‘If that’s so, I’ll – I’ll have a word with him. Now don’t you worry. You run off and have a nice –’ Archibald paused, his tongue was running away with him, ‘performance.’ He glanced covertly at the Albert watch on his desk before him. Curtain up in nine minutes.

  ‘Very well,’ she hiccuped. ‘But I want him out of this theatre, Mr Archibald, tonight.’

  Robert Archibald duly loomed awkwardly and unhappily at the door of Props’ room.

  Props looked round, startled, wondering what possible calamity had brought the great man himself hither, the mountain to Mahomet.

  ‘Props,’ said Archibald kindly, ‘is there anything you want to tell me?’

  It appeared from Props’ gaping expression that there was nothing to communicate.

  ‘It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it?’ said Archibald helplessly. ‘What made you do it, my dear fellow?’