by Myers, Amy
‘Then what did you do, sir?’ said Rose resignedly.
Summerfield went pink. ‘I – I cannot say, Inspector.’
‘Can’t, sir?’ Rose replied mildly enough, but Summerfield caught the underlying message.
‘A lady’s honour.’
‘But the lady did not turn up.’
‘No, another lady.’
‘Sort of lady you’d found in the street, sir?’
‘I—’ Summerfield stopped to consider. He gulped, shut his eyes, then opened them again and said firmly: ‘Yes.’
‘Not much honour up the Haymarket, sir, if that’s where you met this lady. I should have another think about things, sir. See if this lady’s honour is as important as all that.’
Summerfield was going to have a hard job explaining away three broken engagements, thought Rose to himself as he left. Just as he would have a hard job explaining to the Assistant Commissioner – or worse, the Commissioner himself – the bad news that a peer of the realm might have to be arrested. Fortunately the Honourable Johnny, interviewed earlier that day, had had an unassailable alibi – in his view.
‘I was at my club, don’t you know,’ he had declared winningly. His sister-in-law and brother had nodded complacently. Clubs were approved of, since the temptations provided there did not include loose women.
‘Your club, sir? Indeed,’ murmured Rose, wondering if the Honourable Johnny could possibly be as silly as he seemed trotting out the old club alibi for the third time. ‘We’ll be having a word with them, of course. Have to make it clear to them this is a murder investigation. We often find that sort of thing makes a difference. They’re not so sure after all which night it was. And it’s important we’re sure, sir, ain’t it?’
For all the certainty amongst the girls that the culprit was Summerfield, there was a general panic and unease that night that went ill with this conviction.
One of the chorus girls, walking through the wings, screamed when a stage hand inadvertently touched her forearm. She apologised quickly and walked on. Another hung back in the doorway of the dressing room until a companion joined her. Thereafter they walked down in pairs. Had the newspapers shouted their headlines earlier, the chorus line might have been seriously depleted that evening. Did the murderer know the difference between a chorus girl and a show girl? Would he pick on them next?
There was equal tension in the gentlemen’s dressing rooms on the other side of the theatre. They looked at each other askance. After all, Obadiah Bates had been attacked. Perhaps the murderer had a preference for girls, but was prepared to make do with a man? In any case, no one wanted to share a dressing room with a murderer.
Herbert sat in front of his mirror, wrestling with his nightmare. That awful feeling that people were avoiding him. Perhaps they thought he was the murderer. These past few days had been so terrible, he was almost ready to be convinced that he was. He looked at his pudgy hands. Could they strangle someone? Had he the strength? The thought of Florence came unbidden to his mind, and with a great effort of will he pushed it away again.
Florence Lytton was perhaps the least frightened now. After all, she reasoned, two girls might have been murdered in mistake for her, but it was hardly likely that three could have been. She was safe. Perhaps the dolls were the end of it so far as she was concerned. Now Props had left she felt better. But then there was the mystery of Thomas. Her stomach lurched again. He acted so strangely. He hadn’t come home till two o’clock, and had declared his intention of going out with a chorus girl. With Maisie, it was true, not Gabrielle. But suppose it had been Gabrielle all along? This alarming thought brought back her fears with a rush. She would ask Maisie . . .
The unease spread into the performance. A hammer fell off the flies and narrowly missed a girl’s head. Edward Hargreaves mislaid his favourite baton, a mouse was seen in the wings and chased across the stage by the theatre cat before disappearing in the set. Herbert fell over a coil of rope and banged his head, and Auguste burned the cream of crayfish soup. More ominous than all these incidents, as Robert Archibald walked round on what had been intended as a calming tour, was a report from the box office manager of the number of people asking for their money back and the curious lack of the usual queues for gallery and pit.
When the curtain finally went up, ten minutes late, owing to a need to rearrange the show girls, now lacking three of their number, the brightness of the opening chorus, ‘Everything’s all right, it’s a sunny day in Piccadilly’ struck a false note. There was not the usual enthusiastic response from the audience. Herbert, with his normal sang-froid (assumed), succeeded in raising a few laughs when he entered, but it was noted by the stage manager that one of them was at the expense of Miss Lytton, a fact which did not go unnoted by her and which threw her for the rest of the scene. It was a sign of the times, thought Robert Archibald, for Herbert to act so unprofessionally.
The performance lurched along unsatisfactorily to nearly the end of Act 2, newcomers to the Galaxy wondering why so much enthusiasm was generated amongst their friends for this mediocre show. When the curtain rose on Act 3, the audience settled down for the final act, once again in the toyshop setting. They were in reasonably good mood. Not only had the drinks been excellent – hurried instructions from Mr Archibald to the barmen had so ensured – but the closing songs of Act 2 had been a success. In particular, Florence’s marionette song had gone better than ever before, its melody still lingering in the memories of its listeners.
Herbert’s toyshop was full of shoppers. Several show girls draped themselves fashionably around the walls, backs to the rows of miniature Bengal Lancers and clockwork geese. Chorus girls, swinging baskets elegantly on their arms, sung of the pleasures of childhood. Herbert capered amusingly behind his counter.
Into the midst of this jolly scene tripped Miss Penelope, looking winsome in pale blue chiffon, with silk shoes to match and a darling little white silk hat with real flowers. Ideal costuming for a shop assistant.
‘Get over there,’ barked Herbert. ‘Where have you been, Miss Pearl? We have customers, can’t you see?’ To the audience: ‘How lovely she looks. How I wish she’d look at me as she looks at that doll—’
This touching soliloquy was cut short by a scream. Florence’s by now familiar scream. Piercing, long drawn out and very loud. It was not in the least musical. Robert Archibald shot up from his seat at the spectacle on stage. Not another damned doll? Not now.
It was not another damned doll. It was the mouse, who was exposed to public view as Florence removed the doll on which it had been comfortably perched. Alarmed by the noise it leapt to the stage floor, resulting in as great a display of shaking petticoats and agitated legs as ever the Folies Bergeres had boasted.
Two new arrivals precipitated themselves simultaneously on to the stage to join the screaming mêlée. One was the cat, in hot pursuit of its prey. And falling over the cat in his haste to succour his lady love was Props, in street cap and ragged coat, blinking in the glare of the stage lights and gazing in bewilderment at the screaming Florence.
Bemused, not having seen the cause of the uproar, the audience waited for this up-to-date burlesque on Dick Whittington to develop into something more musical. Archibald, unable to bear the sight of his disgrace, staggered outside to communicate his feelings to a brick wall. Thus he missed the sight of the Galaxy’s saviour.
Thomas Manley rushed on to the stage and once more burst into song with no accompaniment. Unfortunately it was a song from the previous act, but no great matter. Seizing a weeping and hiccuping Florence in his arms, he nobly sang:
‘Ah, your smiling eyes
Do my heart beguile . . .’
Edwards Hargreaves picked up his second-best baton, and signalled to Percy. Like courtiers in the castle of Sleeping Beauty, the orchestra came slowly to life.
Somewhat puzzled by the way the story appeared to be regressing, the audience stirred uncomfortably as Thomas reached the end of his song and without ado broke in
to the finishing chorus of Act 2 once more. Hargreaves by this time was but a beat behind him, and the chorus valiantly joined in, as the verse went on. Thus the curtain fell on Act 2 to a fetching tableau of hero and heroine, fifteen chorus girls, five show girls, one theatre cat and an ex-props man cowering behind a toyshop counter. The mouse had prudently disappeared.
Robert Archibald spoke between the leg of mutton and the dessert, a careful timing suggested by Auguste. ‘I have,’ he said abruptly, ‘decided to take no more chances with the lives of our girls. The theatre—’ he gulped, ‘the theatre is closed from tonight for an indefinite period. At least for two weeks in respect for our three young ladies, may be longer, depending on police advice. Until this murderer is caught. The police,’ he continued unhappily, glancing at Egbert Rose sitting discreetly with Didier in the far corner, ‘have asked for all your names and addresses, ladies and gentlemen. I have supplied them. Just a formality,’ he added wretchedly. That such a scene could be taking place in his theatre was still not quite real to him. ‘If there is anything you have not already told them, please will you do so.’ He had no great hope that the murderer was going to surrender himself for the good of the Galaxy, but it was worth mentioning.
‘Your salaries will be paid at least for the two weeks to come.’ A murmur followed this. It was generous. But the Galaxy closed! Each contemplated his own position. Florence thought of a week alone with Thomas. Herbert of himself abandoned in an unfriendly world. Chorus girls of having to buy their own suppers, stage hands of needy wives and children. Suppose the Galaxy remained closed . . .
It was a prospect Robert Archibald dared not contemplate. For well over twenty years the Galaxy had been his life. From those exciting heady moments as they rushed to complete his building in time for the opening performance, finishing it with ten minutes to spare. The first performance, the coming of Daisie Wilton, of Thomas Manley, his founding of the Galaxy Girls – all precious memories. And now this! Three dead and the theatre closed. Pray heaven it would be open again in time for Christmas.
He regarded his nougat of apricot as he would cold tapioca pudding – with little cheer. Far from raising his spirits it appeared to taste of cotton wool, such was his depression.
Belongings were gathered together in the dressing rooms, huddled groups discussed the situation, rumours of who had been seen with whom, who had been seen at this and that time. And more and more ripples of blame seemed to be settling on Lord Summerfield.
Egbert Rose faced an obdurate Props, who glanced fearfully from Rose to Archibald.
‘How did you get into the theatre, Props?’ asked Archibald bewildered. ‘And what on earth possessed you to rush on to the stage?’
‘Came in stage door,’ muttered Props. ‘Mr Bates weren’t looking.’
This Mr Bates strongly denied when asked.
‘Props?’ asked Archibald again.
‘Been here every night,’ muttered Props.
‘Past Obadiah?’
‘Yes,’ said Props firmly.
‘No you never,’ said Bates indignantly. ‘You never did.’
But Props could not be budged.
‘I shall look forward to a rest,’ said Edward Hargreaves. ‘I shall compose instead. For the next show.’
‘If there is a next,’ said Percy.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think the Galaxy’s finished,’ said Percy with a light laugh. ‘I’ve been thinking it for some time.’ He glanced sideways at Edward. ‘I might look for another position.’
Edward stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Another theatre?’
‘No,’ said Percy slowly. ‘In a hotel perhaps. One of the big ones on the Riviera. The Majestic in Cannes, for example.’ He flicked a cuff back into place.
‘Leave London? Leave me?’ Edward stared at him in horror.
‘Just for a while. You could come with me. If you really think you’ll miss me that much.’
‘But why leave London?’ Edward was bewildered.
‘Just for a change, dear Edward, just for a change.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Maisie, toasting her toes in front of Rose’s small fire in his office, whither they had been summoned this Saturday morning. ‘This – what do you call it? – psychopath of yours, suppose he’d got a bee in his bonnet about theatres?’
‘Theatres?’ asked Rose.
‘We don’t know about Christine Walters, of course, but Edna Purvis was killed round the back of the Olympic, Gabrielle near the Royal Strand—’
‘Coincidence,’ said Auguste, somewhat annoyed that he had not had this idea.
‘But why then girls just from the Galaxy,’ asked Rose practically. ‘Why not girls from any theatre?’
‘I don’t know. Galaxy Girls having a certain reputation with some people, perhaps.’
‘But did you not say that the psychopath has normal reasoning? Perhaps we should not be looking for a psychopath, after all,’ said Auguste, ‘but a madman.’
‘No, these crossed hands, they must mean something,’ said Rose. ‘It’s not the act of a madman. What does it suggest to you, Didier?’
‘Your hot cross buns,’ said Auguste, then looked apologetic for this flippant comparison.
‘And they mean?’
‘The cross. Holiness.’
‘Suggests a kind of reverence, doesn’t it?’ said Rose. ‘Towards women. He never interferes with them. Who does that suggest?’
It was a rhetorical question for he and Auguste were now fairly certain whom it suggested. And last night Props had supplied the missing ingredient: the way into the theatre without passing the stage door.
‘Props or Herbert,’ said Maisie slowly.
‘Yet the dolls, monsieur,’ said Auguste quietly. ‘The daggers, strangled necks, these are not signs of reverence.’
‘Reverence betrayed, is my way of thinking,’ said Rose. ‘Something happened to trigger our man off. Miss Lytton upsets him somehow and sends him crazy. Idiosyncrasies, that’s what we need to look for.’ He paused. ‘Like your theatre idea, miss. Now, Lord Summerfield has a little idiosyncrasy about theatres, hasn’t he? Always waiting outside the Lyceum, for example.’
Maisie stared at the inspector. Then she retorted vigorously, ‘You aren’t still thinking of that poor gommy, are you?’
‘It fits, miss. It fits.’
‘I know he couldn’t have murdered Miss Lepin, and that’s for sure.’
‘Why’s that, miss?’
Maisie shot a cautious look at Auguste. ‘He was dining with me, that’s why.’
It took a moment for this to register with Auguste. Then: ‘Last night?’ he enquired in awful tones. ‘As well?’
‘Yes, and there’s no need to sound like Irving in The Bells,’ said Maisie crossly. ‘I was dining with him. That’s all.’
‘You told me you were dining with Mr Thomas Manley. You lied to me. You have betrayed me.’
‘I said I was going to dine with him. But he never arrived. And as I was walking to the cab rank I saw Lord Summerfield – all alone. So there we are.’
‘Mr Manley told me he dined with you,’ said Rose, ‘after being delayed by his wife. And His Lordship never mentioned anything about you.’ He was not pleased. The case against Summerfield was not good, but it was at least a theory to talk about with the Commissioner.
‘He wouldn’t, would he? He’s a gentleman, that’s why. I was’ – she studiously avoided Auguste’s eye – ‘dining at his home.’
‘With Her Ladyship that would be?’ asked Rose politely.
‘Not likely,’ replied Maisie forthrightly. ‘Can you see old Queen Boadicea passing me the cabbage without raising every single tile on the ancestral roof? But if it’s witnesses you’re thinking of, I imagine the butler, a few liveried waiters and the coachman will back His Lordship up.’
Rose looked at her. So did Auguste – much as he would a customer who had the temerity to leave a soufflé d’écrevisse unfinished.
‘I take it,’ said Auguste stiffly, ‘that you no longer consider yourself my betrothed.’
‘Oh, Auguste.’ Maisie was irritated. ‘Are you telling me that you don’t believe me when I say I was only dining?’
‘Naturally I believe you, but I have my honour—’
‘That’s all right then,’ said Maisie more cheerfully. ‘Your honour will be happier after a good luncheon. Isn’t that right, Inspector Rose?’
‘Indeed, Miss Maisie, I believe Brillat-Savarin remarked that a good meal induces contentment both of body and soul,’ replied Egbert Rose gravely.
This display of erudition was rewarded by a glare from Auguste who for once could think of nothing to say. And having nothing to say, found himself forced to smile. But perhaps that was at the thought of the roast ortolans that awaited them.
Chapter Ten
The mounted men at Wolferton railway station were of course unaware of the contents of the missive with the Royal Seal, but when their employer, a portly gentleman, read it in his morning room at Sandringham House he was cast into gloom. Mama was displeased again. It was so unfair. Why should Mama think that he was in any way to blame for the deterioration of morals in London? Surely even she could not have believed those unfortunate rumours about the Ripper and Eddie. Even after the poor boy’s death the rumours continued that his son, the Duke of Clarence, had been the Ripper himself. Another Ripper? What did these heavy hints mean? Surely even Mama could not think that he, the Prince of Wales, would creep about the streets of London strangling chorus girls. Chorus girls indeed.
Here he was, but newly returned from an important diplomatic mission – double mission indeed – to Russia, and already Mama was treating him like a little boy again. The funeral of an autocratic crowned head was never an easy event to attend, but everyone agreed that had it not been for his tactful handling of that uncouth King of Serbia things could have got out of hand. All the crowned heads of Europe could have been at each other’s throats, acting like a pack of schoolboys. But he’d calmed them down. Why did Serbia always have to cause trouble though? Just a tiny little Balkan state and always stirring things up. Sometimes he had an uneasy feeling about Serbia. If he were Franz Josef, sitting there in his Imperial Palace in Vienna, he would see the Serbs were kept in their place.