Murder in the Limelight

by Myers, Amy

  ‘His club’ll back him up in anything, eh?’ commented Rose. ‘Very handy that. Very.’

  Gabrielle Lepin woke up on Thursday morning in her highly respectable Bayswater lodgings and stretched her arms with feline contentment. Indeed, she looked very like the cat that licked the cream. And this evening she would again! She did not breakfast on kedgeree; being French she was breakfasting on stale muffins, spread with jam, provided grudgingly by her landlady. It was the last time she’d have a foreigner in the house. She hadn’t realised that Gabrielle was a foreigner till too late. She didn’t look no different. And some nights she didn’t come home at all! That suited her landlady. She saved on the breakfasts.

  Gabrielle was happy despite the stale muffins. She had dined with a lord and, despite all the dire warnings given her, she was still alive. She had been nervous when Summerfield took her to that private room in the Hotel Cecil, and had firmly refused the offer of a walk by the river – and yet here she was, alive! How she had boasted at the theatre yesterday. How silly they had looked now that their warnings had come to nothing. And how jealous they would be when she told them that he was taking her out this evening also, to dine and dance. She could have done without the dancing after the show, but she’d got his measure. He wanted to hold her close – that was all right by her. Anything, in fact, was all right with her. But he was not going to know that. She had determined not to give in to him till stage five of the game; then, when she allowed him to seduce her, as a man of honour he would have to marry her. Would the coronet have pearls or diamonds? she pondered.

  In a somewhat grander home in Curzon Street, Florence Lytton and Thomas Manley were sharing a somewhat grander breakfast of breadcrumbed kidneys on toast. They were eating in silence. The façade of friendliness mandatory at the theatre took all their energies.

  ‘Florence, listen to me.’ Thomas laid down The Times which he had been only pretending to read.

  Florence continued buttering her bread.

  ‘You must believe me,’ said Thomas vehemently, ‘I did not, not, see Edna Purvis that evening, whatever I may have said to you. And, yes, I did take Christine Walters to dinner, but not that evening, and I am not a murderer.’

  Florence’s beautiful face was unresponsive.

  ‘And another thing,’ he shouted, ‘I’m tired of sleeping in my dressing room. I’m moving back tonight. And if you don’t like it, you can sleep in the dressing room.’

  That got a reaction. Her face registered fear.

  Gratified by this sign of animation, he went on: ‘And I shall take whom I please to dinner, since you no longer appear to desire my company at your table or in your bed. In fact—’ he paused, thought wildly, then remembered that delightful bosom he had so often admired, ‘I have arranged to take Miss Wilson to dine this evening. I don’t know what time I’ll be back. Or if I’ll be back.’

  Herbert Sykes was breakfasting off broiled black pudding and hot chocolate. His housekeeper, as he made no demands or complaints, served him what she liked. Auguste would have been horrified had he observed this assault on the stomach and would have urged a glass of white wine as the only thing that could possibly render black pudding acceptable to the stomach at such an early hour. But Herbert came from the North and had brought his taste-buds with him. When you have started life at the Newcastle Empire, and travelled England and much of Scotland with touring companies, you developed an iron stomach. His present affluence had not changed his habits.

  He was wondering how he could summon the courage to go to the theatre to face the horror once more, present a cheery face on stage, make people laugh. He was tortured by nightmares that one day he would find himself before an audience who wouldn’t laugh. A sea of faces would stare at him, completely blank, while he fooled around, jokes falling on deaf ears, the clowning more and more desperate as the silence grew heavier. He would make a fool of himself just as he had the other night before Florence. He scraped some butter viciously on to the cold toast. To walk into the Galaxy now was to walk into an atmosphere of hostility and distrust. Once it had been a cosy home, a cocoon of warmth. Now everything was at odds, and Florence was part of it. He’d thought she was different. Not like the chorus girls and show girls who would do anything for a good time – some of them – even with him, Herbert. Well, the ones who were getting worried about their future anyway. He could tell. He had no respect for them. None at all. But he’d thought Florence an angel, unsullied by the commonplace. Until a few nights ago. She deserved everything he’d said about her when Thomas Manley upset him so much.

  Edward and Percy were speaking to each other only stiltedly. In Percy’s case this was because his thoughts were elsewhere. In Edward’s the reason was more complex. He had for a day or two now been unable to rid himself of the dark fear that Percy might leave him. It was a fear he was unwilling to put into words, lest it bring about the very thing he dreaded. He was indispensable to Percy, he knew it. But did Percy? He must please him. Pamper him. He had fried some nice little sole this morning and served them with thick cream on top, but Percy had hardly touched them.

  ‘It’s those women, isn’t it?’ Edward said at last, pouring the coffee which had been peacefully infusing for five minutes.

  Percy looked up quickly and smiled. It was not a nice smile. ‘What women, Edward?’

  ‘They get in the way,’ said Edward bitterly. ‘They’re always after you, aren’t they? I’ve noticed them,’ he said, warming to his theme, as now he had Percy’s full attention. ‘Those chorus girls are always after you, and you do nothing to discourage them. I sometimes think you like it.’

  ‘Jealous still, Edward? One has to be seen around for the look of the thing, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Why?’ said Edward. ‘Aren’t you happy here? You’ve got the Steinway I bought you. Why do you need to go out?’

  ‘I’m younger than you are,’ answered Percy, smiling charmingly. ‘I have my way to make in the world.’

  ‘I’m your world,’ said Edward fiercely. ‘You said you didn’t need anyone but me – ever.’

  ‘Did I?’ said Percy, carelessly. ‘How very romantic of me.’ He pushed the spurned sole to one side.

  A dull ache in his head, Obadiah Bates rose from his bed and dressed, slowly and painfully. Those doctors weren’t going to keep him away from the Galaxy. It was his home. No upstart from the stage staff was going to take his place.

  He’d lain there all the morning, worrying and worrying about what would happen if he weren’t there, and finally, after lunching off the thin gruel that Mrs Higgins deemed fit food for invalids, he decided to do something about it.

  It was raining outside, a biting cold rain that chilled him to the bone as he cut through Burleigh Street. It was not the quickest way to the stage door but possibly Mr Irving might be arriving at his special entrance to the Lyceum, for a rehearsal perhaps. King Arthur was to be his next production. That sounded good. The sight of his hero would cheer him on, strengthen the resolve which was diminishing somewhat on this cheerless last day of November.

  Obadiah was to be disappointed. Mr Irving was not to be seen. The Strand was a dull, muddy, uninspiring sight. Late luncheoners were leaving Romano’s, well-cosseted guests climbing into hansoms outside the Savoy Hotel. But such opulence was no part of the world of Obadiah Bates. Nor would he wish it to be. Stick to your own class, was his maxim. And stick he did. On the occasion Mr Archibald had taken him to the Hotel Cecil to celebrate his fifteen years at the Galaxy, he had been stiff and monosyllabic. The experience had been an ordeal for both and was not repeated.

  Auguste, who had noticed him passing the restaurant windows, huddled into an ancient Inverness cape, frowned.

  ‘You do not look well enough, Obadiah,’ he said later, when he found the old man restored to his rightful position at the stage door, sitting down on the familiar chair. Bates’ face brightened.

  ‘Couldn’t stay away, Mr Didier,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t let Mr Archibald down now, c
ould I? Who’s to look after those girls if I’m not here? Something horrible might happen to ’em.’

  Auguste forbore to point out that even Obadiah Bates had been powerless to prevent a great deal of harm coming to two of them.

  Props shifted miserably from one foot to another. He was sheltering ineffectively in a doorway near the stage door. To his right the pit queue, even wetter than he was, was being entertained by a double shuffler, accompanied by an execrable hurdy-gurdy. Even their zest seemed dampened by the weather. He had waited here for an hour already, in case she should arrive early at the theatre. Newsboys with placards reading ‘Latest on Murder at the Galaxy’ were doing a roaring trade. He stiffened, the queue forgotten. The Manley carriage had arrived outside the stage door. The ripples intensified as the queue, reluctant to cede their places, executed a 180° turn. Props remained hidden.

  Thomas Manley was first to step out, stern-faced despite the chorus of ‘Ooohs’, and then came Florence wrapped in white furs, a high crowned toque perched over her golden hair, smiling and graceful. This, after all, was part of the performance.

  A figure darted forward, eel-like in its litheness, long slim fingers urgently seeking to push the violets into her hand.

  Florence looked up and screamed.

  Manley turned, cursed, and rushed his wife into the theatre.

  The queue was left staring at Props, as though the murderer stood before them. Bewildered, then frightened, he hurried away into the rain. If only he could explain to her, that it was all for her! But she seemed so frightened of him. He could not understand why. He must make her understand. He would try again after the performance.

  Miss Penelope’s Proposal sparkled that night, as if to compensate for the dreariness outside. Imperceptibly the spirits of the cast rose. Perhaps these murders were nothing to do with the Galaxy after all, the dolls a regrettable coincidence. Robert Archibald saw the improvement as a culmination of his optimism that the spirit of unity would prevail. He could almost persuade himself that the Galaxy had been unaffected by the tragedies. Yet there was a certain curious expectancy on behalf of both audience and cast that the performance somehow failed to satisfy. It was as though the Galaxy held its breath.

  Props was now unhappy as well as wet. He had not been able to explain to Florence. His nerve failed him at the last moment, and he remained in the doorway watching as she left in her carriage – alone – and was whisked out of sight. It was over. She would never smile at him again. The reason for his living had gone. His grief and distress at his own inadequacy grew. It was not that anyone had ever said he was a failure, but no one had ever told him otherwise, even Archibald.

  He clenched his fists in fury. He would get his own back. He would not be spurned.

  Gabrielle Lepin excitedly dressed for her evening out, to a chorus of disapproving murmurs. A message had arrived while she had been waiting in the wings that His Lordship would be meeting her not outside the Lyceum but the Royal Strand Theatre. She drew on her best silk stockings with the black clocks, determined that despite the flounces of her petticoat Lord Summerfield should have every opportunity to admire them. She thought up one or two remarks which might advance her cause, and decided that her accent might be permitted to become a leetle more pronounced. She gave Maisie a triumphant look. She knew all about the trip to Kettners. Clearly Maisie had now been spurned.

  Maisie, surprised by an invitation from Thomas Manley and telling herself how convenient it was, and that Auguste could not possibly object, had also dressed with care. Her preparations included her usual hatpin, and a spare one somewhat uncomfortably lodged in her garter. She hobbled painfully to the stage door where Obadiah was glaring at the companion foisted on him by Inspector Rose.

  ‘I’ve got my reputation to think of,’ he expostulated. ‘You wait outside. I’m an old soldier. Don’t need no police to look after me . . .’

  ‘Inspector Rose’s orders,’ said Police Constable Edwards. Sacrosanct, as far as he was concerned. ‘Someone’s tried to kill you once. Got to get you out of the way before he can start ripping – er – killing again,’ he said untactfully.

  Obadiah thought about this. ‘Ripping?’ he said.

  ‘That’s what Rose the Nose thinks,’ said Edwards, his tongue running away with him. ‘He’ll turn to ripping. That’s what he’s leading up to,’ he added with relish.

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘No, not you, Mr Bates. But he’s trying to kill you. You know something – or he thinks you do. That’s why I gotta protect you. I’ll be waiting outside, if you’re locking up now,’ and Police Constable Edwards went out.

  ‘Waste of time,’ grunted Bates, producing his keys.

  Sykes popped his head into his office. ‘Have you seen Miss Lepin, Obadiah?’

  ‘Not yet, Mr Sykes. Not down yet. Any message? I’ll write it on the board.’

  ‘No, I’ll come back in a few moments.’

  Herbert Sykes went out into Catherine Street, his feelings of unease growing. Then he rejected them. After all, she had promised to come out with him.

  ‘I ain’t having no policeman walking along beside me,’ said Obadiah obstinately. ‘You can walk behind if you like, or in front, but not with me. And take that helmet off. I ain’t going to be made a laughing stock.’

  Faced with the centuries-old intractability of the Londoner when he has had enough, Police Constable Edwards gave in.

  Intent on getting the journey over with, Obadiah walked quickly for a man of sixty-odd. By the time they reached Bow Street Edwards was having a hard job keeping up, following the sound of Obadiah’s footsteps in the misty dark ahead, lit only by the occasional gas light, the muted sounds of the market in the distance.

  As he turned the corner into Floral Street, all was silent. ‘Mr Bates!’ he shouted, his voice echoing in the fog. Before Obadiah could answer, Edwards was aware of footsteps behind him, then a hand round his neck, tightly, pulling him backwards, choking, strangling. Then all was silent, save the sound of his helmet hitting the cobbles as it left his hand. A short pause and the footsteps continued relentlessly in the direction of Obadiah Bates. This time they were almost running.

  Maisie sat impatiently in the lobby of the Hotel Cecil. Comfortable though it was, she was getting very irritated at waiting for Mr Thomas Manley. He was over half an hour late, and had it not been that she was very hungry she would have departed. Auguste never kept her waiting. She could not imagine why Thomas Manley should want to murder several girls, but it was undoubted fact that those dolls had been directed at Florence, and Thomas was not on good terms with his darling wife. In any case, she reminded herself with a shiver, they were dealing with a maniac, and one of the symptoms of a maniac was that he had none to the outside eye. Assuring herself that she was not about to dine with Jack the Ripper, she decided to wait just five minutes longer.

  Gabrielle was scornful of anybody who was scared of their mother, for such was the rumour about Lord Summerfield. But for a coronet she would overlook even that. She supposed she’d have to walk. It was not far to the side entrance of the Royal Strand Theatre, but humiliating to be walking without an escort in the Strand, and her dress of pale blue would be filthy even though the rain had stopped. She was considering this prospect outside the theatre, when a familiar voice accosted her. She explained her dilemma and was much relieved at the offer of an escort.

  It was a fine morning. Mr Postlethwaite-Higgins, a middle-aged lawyer of impeccable background, on his way to his Temple chambers in Hare Court as had been his wont for the past twenty-five years, stopped, as was also his wont, to look at the old Roman Spring Bath for the purpose of admiring the Roman brickwork. In more clement weather he sometimes took a bath, since the water coming from the miraculous well of St Clement was said to have chalybeate properties. He was a gentleman of healthy leanings. In view of the time of year he took a cup of the waters instead. He did this because his father had done so before him, and superstitiously he felt that if he were t
o follow his father’s ritual then he might also acquire his father’s gift for the successful defending of villains.

  This morning, however, was a milestone for Mr Postlethwaite-Higgins. He was about to earn himself immortality in the annals of Scotland Yard. He wandered into the second brick vaulted room, to view the disused Roman bath. It was thirteen feet long, six feet broad and four foot six inches deep. The corpse of Gabrielle Lepin took up very little of the available space. The sangfroid for which Mr Postlethwaite-Higgins was famous at the bar deserted him as he rushed screaming into the street, to the amazement of one milk roundsman, one ten-year-old crossing sweeper, and an early rising organ-grinder.

  ‘Mr Didier!’

  Auguste turned round, surprised in the midst of making a salmon pie. ‘Inspector Rose, you are early.’

  ‘I want you to come with me.’

  Seeing Rose’s expression, Auguste was suddenly grave.

  ‘Not a word to anyone,’ the Inspector said warningly. ‘Don’t want to start the rumpus before we have to.’

  Auguste cast only the briefest glance around him to see that preparations for luncheon were proceeding reasonably smoothly and did not even pause to check the Erasmus soup.

  ‘Come on, Didier,’ said Rose impatiently.

  ‘It is another one, then? Not Obadiah again?’

  ‘No, Obadiah’s all right. No thanks to himself. It’s poor PC Edwards got it. Silly fool was walking alone behind because Bates said he didn’t want anyone to see a policeman with him, and someone half strangled him in mistake for Obadiah. The old boy turned, saw what was happening and hopped it quick, he’s all right. He wouldn’t have been, though. It’s only because Edwards is young and tough that he’ll pull through. No, it’s another of the girls.’

  Auguste went pale.

  ‘No, not Miss Maisie,’ said Rose quickly. ‘I don’t know who she is. No identification, no purse.’