Murder in the Limelight

by Myers, Amy

  ‘Then how did – ah!’

  ‘Same thing, crossed arms. I want you to try to identify her before I tell Archibald. Not a pretty sight, though.’

  They walked in silence across the Strand, crowded with omnibuses, hansoms and carriages of all descriptions. Office life was beginning for the day, theatres and restaurants taking a back seat till they should come into their own again that night. The Royal Strand Theatre blazoned forth its banners advertising a Willie Edouin farce. The two men turned into the narrow Strand Lane.

  ‘Uncaring old city,’ murmured Rose. ‘Tucking its dirt out of sight. Farce here – tragedy round the corner. Remember the old Strand Bridge landing stage down there?’ he went on. ‘I met a fine villain there one day. Triple murderer. No complications. Not like our puzzle. He just did it for money. Case that made my name.’

  ‘Apricot boats,’ murmured Auguste in reply.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Didier?’

  ‘So your Spectator says. Addison landed there with ten sail of apricot boats.’

  ‘Trust you to think of food,’ grunted Rose.

  ‘It helps,’ said Auguste simply, as they turned into Surrey Lane.

  He stared down at the body lying now by the side of the bath, police doctor in attendance, flanked by stalwart constables. It was not a pretty sight. He turned pale, despite the fact that he had seen death by strangling before. Madame Marchand had died so, victim of a thief that broke into her Café de Commerce. He knew the protruding tongue, the blue lips, the staring eyes . . . but all the same he gulped hard.

  ‘This is the reality of murder, Mr Didier,’ said Rose, watching him. ‘Not so nice as sitting down thinking.’

  ‘You reproach me, monsieur l’inspecteur?’ said Auguste quietly. ‘You think I treat it as a game, because I liken detection to my profession?’

  ‘No, I never thought that. But it does help bring it home to you. We must be quick. You recognise her, Mr Didier?’

  ‘She is Mademoiselle Gabrielle Lepin, pauvre fille, a show girl. And as you supposed a show girl at the Galaxy Theatre.’

  Chapter Nine

  Robert Archibald’s face blanched. The stuffy crowded office was suddenly quiet, still, the photographs of laughing ladies on the walls looking out of place.

  ‘Another?’ he whispered. He looked at Auguste in despair and lifted his hands hopelessly. ‘What’s happening?’ he said pathetically. ‘The Galaxy, that poor girl. All those girls – I ought to have given them protection, given them all escorts home.’

  ‘But who would you ask to escort them, monsieur?’ Auguste pointed out practically. ‘You can trust no one.’

  ‘They could escort each other,’ Archibald replied weakly. ‘No after-theatre engagements; they must go straight home.’

  ‘Monsieur, you cannot bridle youth. If these girls wish to go out to dine, they will – death cannot happen to them, they will tell themselves. They will take precautions and, in any case, so and so cannot possibly be a murderer.’

  Archibald sighed. ‘When will the news be out?’ he said resignedly to Rose. ‘We can’t keep it quiet, I suppose? Stop the panic.’

  Rose shook his head. ‘I’d like to. I’ve no wish to have another Ripper scare.’

  Archibald paled even more. ‘Ripper? You don’t think—?’ He turned his back on them swiftly, and stood by the window, fighting to control his emotions.

  ‘It’ll be on the placards this afternoon,’ said Rose abruptly.

  ‘Then this evening we will see what effect it has on the theatre. It may be time –’ he stopped before he voiced the unthinkable: to close the Galaxy. ‘Do you have no clues yet, Inspector? No hope of stopping it?’

  ‘We’ve got ideas, sir. Plenty of ideas. It’s a question of fitting them together. Finding out, for example, why our murderer’s so keen to rid himself of your Mr Bates.’

  ‘You’re keeping a watch on him, I trust, Inspector?’

  ‘He’s scared now. It wasn’t that difficult to persuade him it was no disgrace to be seen being escorted by a policeman.’

  ‘Three girls,’ said Archibald slowly. ‘Three of my lovely girls.’

  ‘No doubt about it, I’m afraid, sir. We’ve a mass murderer on our hands.’

  ‘Then I should close the theatre,’ said Archibald decisively. It was his ultimate sacrifice.

  ‘Close the Galaxy?’ Auguste was appalled. ‘But, monsieur—’

  Rose and Archibald exchanged looks. ‘It may come to that, sir, but not tonight. I’m keeping the news out of the press till the late editions – I want everyone here at the theatre tonight. If you close – and I don’t say you’re wrong to do so – the company disbands, the girls go their separate ways and our murderer – well, he may lie quiet. He may not. But I want to see the company all together when you make the announcement.’ He took out his Albert watch. He must get back soon. He knew that there would be a stew boiling up at the Yard the like of which Auguste would never approve. Simmer, not boil, he remembered the maître telling him once. Let the pot smile, not laugh. In this case, the time for simmering was over.

  ‘A cup of camomile tea, monsieur?’ said Auguste quietly to Archibald, seeing his face.

  ‘Tea?’ Archibald hardly seemed to hear what he said.

  No, thought Auguste, something more sustaining. A chocolate. Brillat-Savarin was right on the powers of chocolate to calm the stomach.

  ‘Monsieur, it will break your heart to close the Galaxy. And will the girls be safe even if you do close the theatre?’

  ‘I’m a businessman, Didier,’ said Archibald with a wry smile. ‘Keep the restaurant open by all means, but the theatre must be closed. Temporarily, of course. For one thing, it’s a mark of respect to those poor lassies. For another – one, two murders even, have perhaps a curiosity value. Three, and the public will stay away forever.

  ‘I created the Galaxy for entertainment; for gaiety; to make people forget their everyday cares for an hour or two; to forget the real world. If we stay open after tonight – and I’m not even happy about tonight – it will forever become associated in the public mind with death, unhappiness. The real world intrudes – and stays forever in its corridors. Better lost revenue for a week or two than a bad atmosphere for the rest of its life.

  ‘Look what happened to the old Exeter Change next door when they lost Chunee the elephant. It only takes a little thing to turn the audience away, and popular though the Galaxy is, three murders is rather more than a little thing.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s here amongst us, known to us, Inspector?’ asked Archibald unhappily. ‘It doesn’t seem possible. We’re all just the same as we’ve always been.’

  ‘You’ve heard the term psychopath?’ asked Rose. The others shook their heads. ‘German fellow thought it up a year or two back. Makes the task more difficult really. Man’s not insane in the usual sense. A psychopath, according to this German, acts and talks most reasonably – it’s just that he don’t behave the way he ought.’

  ‘And you think that’s what we have here?’ said Archibald, his mind running horror-stricken through all the possibilities.

  ‘Like the recipes – all the ingredients are there, but they do not make one of Didier’s cakes because the balance is wrong.’

  ‘Or an ingredient missing,’ murmured Auguste.

  ‘You’re right, Mr Didier. A madman don’t know what he’s doing is wrong, or that’s what the McNaghten Rules say. But I don’t think that’s what we’ve got here.’

  It was a different McNaghten that awaited Rose back at the Yard. He had expected the summons to the presence of Chief Constable Sir Melville McNaughten. The news might not have reached the newspaper placards, but it had most certainly reached the higher purlieus of Scotland Yard. He counted himself lucky it was McNaughten, and not yet the Assistant Commissioner.

  ‘We can’t afford another Ripper – find him, Rose,’ adjured the Presence.

  It was all very well to say find him, but how?

  ‘Can’t
you haul your chief suspect in, just to satisfy the blood lust?’ said McNaughten. ‘Question him. Let him go. Be seen to be doing something. Reassure the public. Do you have any kind of a case against anyone yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rose woodenly.

  ‘Well, why not pull him in?’

  ‘It’s Lord Summerfield, sir.’

  McNaughten was silenced. ‘Summerfield,’ he said with resignation. ‘I know his mother. I might have known it wasn’t going to be simple. It’s the Ripper all over again. The newspapers will be suspecting everyone from the Prince of Wales to Kaiser Willie. Not to mention Gladstone. West End whores last time, chorus girls this time. And with the Prince of Wales’ love for ladies in the acting profession—’ He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. The awful prospect of the coming public chimera ahead was in both their minds. Above all, there was the dreaded thought of a Queen and Empress identifying herself with the fears of her subjects, and interesting herself in every move of her police force.

  Obadiah Bates slowly shook his head. ‘It’s a bad business, Mr Didier. Very bad. Poor girls. I warned ’em, you know. And now another one.’

  ‘And you, too, if you do not take more care, Obadiah. Twice now he’s tried to attack you.’

  ‘Mr Rose has given me this policeman.’ Obadiah’s voice trembled. ‘But why me, Mr Didier? I ain’t a show girl.’

  ‘It must be something you know. You must think, Obadiah, think,’ Auguste urged. ‘It might not seem very important to you, just as the addition of the parsley does not seem so very important in a receipt. But it can be vital. Now, last night, did you leave before or after Miss Lepin?’

  Obadiah thought hard. ‘Before,’ he pronounced.

  ‘He followed you, then returned thinking he had dealt with you and attacked her. So what happened about Miss Lepin last night, that only you and the murderer know?’

  Obadiah’s eyes were anxious in his effort to remember. Perhaps he really was scared now. ‘There was a message for her,’ he said at last. ‘Sent the call-boy up.’

  ‘Then she probably told people what was in it. What did it say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said obstinately. ‘I didn’t open it. All this gallivanting. That Lord Summerfield again.’

  Auguste sighed. ‘Nothing else?’

  Obadiah thought. ‘Yes, there was Mr Sykes. Mr Sykes was asking for her. Most particular he was. Most particular.’

  Her Majesty was not in a good mood. The Flemish-style partridge the evening before had been too rich, and the chestnut purée soup definitely a mistake. The parlour was small by the standards of Windsor Castle, which meant it was large enough to be draughty despite the heavy velvet curtains and the enormous log fire. She glanced at the oil painting hanging over the fireplace and sought guidance for her pen.

  Albert had never liked that picture, but she could not bear to put anything away that depicted her beloved consort, however poorly. The old rancour welled up inside her. It was all Teddy’s fault! One scandal after another. It had brought about Albert’s death. Nellie Cliveden was an actress. Now more so-called actresses were causing trouble, making the streets unsafe for respectable women. The thought of what Albert would have done in the circumstances spurred her on to write her letter.

  ‘. . . the Queen fears that her earlier strictures on the efficiency of the detective department in the matter of the Whitechapelmurders were not sufficiently regarded and too swiftly forgotten. Has due thought been given to the possibility that the Rippermight have returned to Her Majesty’s capital? The Queen would be glad to be kept informed . . .’

  Auguste had determined to make this a spectacular dinner at the restaurant. Archibald had decided it should be closed to the general public, and that the Galaxy cast and staff should foregather there after the performance. If he had to break bad news, they might as well have good food to accompany it.

  Auguste anxiously superintended the legs of mutton and chestnut purée garnish, the eels à la tartare (to please the stage hands), the red char despatched especially from Wales, the flanc meringue of apple, the nougat of apricot (which had meant the sacrifice of some of the special quince marmalade sent up to him by the bonne Mrs Hankey, at Stockbery Towers.) He thought back almost nostalgically to the vast kitchens of the Towers. The hot cramped quarters in Wellington Street were no substitute. Yet a good cook can cook anywhere; look at Soyer with his boasts about feats with his Magic Stove on top of the Pyramids. Thank heavens, things had advanced since then. And, thank heaven, he did not need to vaunt his skills like Soyer.

  Leaving Gladys warily watching the sauce mousseline, he went to ask Obadiah’s permission to visit the chorus girls’ dressing room. Fortunately none had begun their disrobing ceremonies yet; not that they minded Auguste in their midst, as to them he was a benevolent brother. Auguste did not see himself that way at all when surrounded by such a bevy of female beauty, but he did not disillusion them.

  The tension was evident. The news must be out. Ten pairs of hands clutched at him. ‘Oh, Mr Auguste, isn’t it dreadful? Poor Gabrielle.’ He caught Maisie’s eye across the room. She remained quiet as she removed her curling tongs from the open gas flame on which, in strict contradiction to Galaxy rules, they had been heating up.

  The room was heaving with ruffled feathers like a henhouse after the fox has left, albeit a very luxurious henhouse. It was clear that Rose had forestalled him, but nevertheless he was determined to get all the facts himself.

  ‘He’s mad. He must be. He ought to be locked up. Mr Auguste, you know the inspector. When are they going to arrest him? We’re none of us safe.’

  ‘Arrest whom, chéries?’ he said, not bothering to disengage the clutching arms; the perfume in his nostrils and their bodies close to his were very pleasant.

  ‘Summerfield – he’s a madman.’

  ‘Summerfield?’

  ‘He took Gabrielle out, didn’t he? She was so excited about it. And he took the other two out as well, even if he says he didn’t. But he did! He took Gabrielle to dinner the other night, and she must have thought she was safe with him. Then –’ the girl drew breath, ‘he struck!’

  ‘But did she keep her appointment?’ said Auguste gravely.

  ‘She set off to meet him. She had a message from him and it wasn’t to cancel it.’

  ‘Then what did it say, ma petite?’ said Auguste, absentmindedly patting a well-rounded bottom.

  ‘Asking her to meet him outside the Royal Strand half an hour after the performance. You know how funny he is about being seen outside the theatre with his coach. He used to wait outside the Lyceum – didn’t like to be connected with us Galaxy Girls.’

  ‘So she had to walk from here to the Royal Strand Theatre?’

  ‘What could happen to her from here to the Strand – it’s main road all the way,’ pointed out a redoubtable young lady with a retroussé nose, blond hair and an eye like Medusa’s.

  ‘But the entrance is in Strand Lane,’ pointed out another timidly. ‘That’s narrow. He could – do his worst, there.’

  A collective shiver ran round the room.

  Seeing Auguste’s eye on her, Maisie slipped out of the room. He followed grimly for he was none too pleased with her. Ignoring this obvious fact, she took his arm lovingly. ‘You know I went to dine with Mr Manley last night, Auguste.’

  ‘I had heard,’ said Auguste stiffly. ‘Naturally as your fiancé I am the last to hear . . . but the news did reach me.’

  ‘Fiancé,’ said Maisie, diverted. ‘But I haven’t said yes yet, you know. Don’t count your poule au pot yet. I don’t want you suing me for breach of promise.’

  Auguste repressed all thoughts of Tatiana. He was committed. As a man of honour, he could not retract.

  ‘Thomas was late arriving. So I waited—’

  ‘Merely having words with Florence,’ said Auguste dismissively, still hurt. ‘Inspector Rose still favours Summerfield at the moment,’ he added.

  ‘Very well, if you don’
t want to listen!’ said Maisie. ‘Anyway, Summerfield couldn’t strangle a boiled egg. If the inspector really thinks it’s him, he’s got no more sense than a magsman’s meat.’

  Unaware of these in fact unjustified comments on his intellectual powers, but in possession of the Galaxy Girls’ interesting disclosures of Miss Lepin’s proposed movements the night before, Rose set forth once more in pursuit of His Lordship.

  Lord Summerfield was staying in London by the Yard’s request. The butler seemed quite resigned now to the lowering of his front entrance requirements. He meekly took Rose’s hat, umbrella and coat. Without a look of reproof he placed the Staffordshire puzzle jug upright after its unfortunate displacement by Egbert Rose in struggling to extricate himself from his overcoat, and ushered him into the presence of His Lordship. Summerfield was hunched up over the fire, looking more like a frightened rabbit than a member of Britain’s ancient peerage. His mother more than compensated. Bosom swelling, lorgnette swinging to and fro in the hand; even the family pearls looked indignant. Nevertheless, ‘I’ll see the inspector alone, mother,’ Summerfield managed to squeak.

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s better, ma’am.’ Rose blandly held the door open for a defeated mama, and turned his attention to her son. ‘I hear that you had a meeting with Miss Lepin last night, Your Lordship.’

  ‘I – er – yes – I – she didn’t arrive, Inspector.’

  ‘Again? You don’t seem to have much luck with the ladies one way and another, do you, sir?’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’ A modicum of the patrician crept back into his voice.

  ‘I just wanted to hear your story, sir.’

  ‘I waited in my carriage in my usual place – outside the Lyceum theatre.’

  ‘The Royal Strand theatre, was it not?’

  Summerfield blinked. ‘The Lyceum.’

  ‘But you sent a message to the young lady to say you’d meet her outside the Royal Strand.

  ‘I sent no such message.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Lord Summerfield’s ancestry triumphed. ‘Inspector, I sent no message. A forgery, no doubt.’