Murder in the Limelight

by Myers, Amy

  ‘We can’t prove it,’ said Rose guardedly. ‘Of course I know you’re worried by Mr William Ferndale – Props. But there’s no proof. He’s never touched you.’

  ‘He played that trick with the dolls,’ said Florence indignantly.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but we’ve got to be sure. Now, is there any reason that Herbert Sykes should suddenly have turned against you?’

  Florence suddenly ceased to mind if she looked a fool. It was as well to be sure where her own neck was concerned. ‘Indeed there is, Inspector,’ she said eagerly. ‘He is mad, you’re right, I’ve known all along. It was one evening – the evening Edna Purvis was murdered . . .’ And she proceeded to give them a lurid account of how Herbert Sykes had burst into her dressing room with a maniacal expression on his face, babbling about how she, Florence, was his, his alone, how he’d make her his, and proceeded to lay hands on her. He’d torn her clothes, and when she had fought him off, lay slobbering on the floor kissing her feet, and then, as she had gently repulsed him again, sworn eternal vengeance against her. This was an exaggeration as befitted a leading actress, but the basic story was true enough. He was out of his mind. She had been terrified.

  She did not mention that a flourish of a button-hook had been all it had taken to quell him.

  ‘And you’re sure this happened the evening Miss Purvis was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ she sighed.

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell us before, miss?’

  ‘Because’ – she flushed – ‘I was frightened.’ It was true enough. He was a strange fish, Herbert.

  ‘Ah, Miss Lytton, but there is another reason, is there not? A sensible lady who thinks a man is so deranged that he could rush straight from her to murder someone else in revenge, is sensible enough to suppose he might return to murder her. Now why therefore did you not rush to tell me? I take it’ – as she said nothing – ‘it is because you thought you knew someone else was to blame for these murders. Am I right?’

  She stared at Rose open-mouthed and burst into tears.

  ‘Come, come, ma chérie,’ said Auguste, patting her in a way that won Rose’s full approval. Though what Mrs Rose would say if he set about patting all lovely young women witnesses on the back . . .

  ‘You must tell us, chère madame,’ said Auguste, ‘you cannot continue. It is too much for you. After all, if he is not the man, then he will not be arrested. He is not Inspector Lestrade, our good Inspector Rose.’

  ‘No, no,’ murmured Rose, ‘Mr Holmes.’

  ‘It’s – it’s –’ she hiccuped, ‘it’s my husband!’ A fresh wail followed.

  ‘But why, chérie, should you think that the good Mr Manley should wish to murder you?’ Auguste was amazed. A wife suspect a husband?

  ‘He doesn’t,’ she wailed. ‘But he was out – out each of those evenings.’

  ‘Was he, indeed? But he said he was with you, miss.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ she shouted, the mask of fragility slipping. ‘He told me he was seeing them. He doesn’t like me any more.’ And she burst into a storm of entirely unassumed tears.

  ‘Would you care to reconsider your statements of where you were on the evening of Miss Purvis’ and Miss Lepin’s deaths, sir?’ enquired Rose resignedly. Just as he’d got it nicely sorted out in his mind again after the Summerfield débâcle, along come another red herring. For red herring he must be. He could not see this tall good-looking actor as a murderer. Still, you never knew. Perfectly ordinary fellows – that’s what these psychopaths looked, apparently. Or like Mr Didier’s Dr Jekyll.

  Thomas Manley went red, then white, an interesting colour change he had never achieved with the aid of stage make-up.

  It took Rose three times as long as Maisie to winkle out the fact that Thomas Manley had been with a prostitute on the night of Edna Purvis’ murder.

  ‘Recognise her again, would you, sir?’

  Thomas gazed at Rose hopelessly.

  Rose sighed. ‘And when Miss Lepin died? You had arranged to meet Miss Wilson, but you never arrived, according to her.’

  ‘I—’ It was a squawk.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

  Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Are you a married man, Inspector?’

  ‘I have that honour, sir.’

  ‘Then you understand – there are times – times when one is not in such perfect accord with one’s wife as one might wish.’

  Rose had a fleeting vision of a silent self cursing the toughness of last Sunday’s roast.

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘In short, Inspector, we had a quarrel. And in consequence I was late leaving the theatre, and then Florence demanded I put her in our carriage, and’ – he mopped his face with a white silken handkerchief – ‘when the carriage had left – I – Inspector, I had forgotten which restaurant I intended to escort Miss Wilson to.’

  He looked hopelessly at them as if in doubt that such a story could ever be believed. Indeed it was totally incomprehensible to Auguste that anyone could forget a matter of such moment, but Rose merely said: ‘And?’

  ‘I was under the impression it was Rules. By the time I had arrived there, and found neither Miss Wilson nor reservation, I remembered the true destination. I set off back to the Strand, only to see Miss Wilson being handed into Lord Summerfield’s carriage.’

  Auguste looked black. This was what came of all this detective work.

  ‘What did you do then, sir?’ asked Rose inexorably.

  ‘I – I walked to the Haymarket and—’

  ‘Don’t bother to tell me, sir,’ said Rose grimly. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Madonna.’ One hand laid a rose reverently in front of the centre portrait.

  A match was struck and the candles lit, throwing a hundred flickering shadows over the mass of portraits and photographs, making that well-known face at once mysterious, provocative, elusive, yet attainable. He spoke his litany for the day. All candles had to be lit in ritual turn; he waited carefully till each caught. If one went out and the next burned, he must return to the beginning again, snuffing them all out first. There were candles for thirty pictures. One face: Florence Lytton’s.

  Props smiled his slow, secretive smile as he gazed at them. Here in her shrine she was kind. Here she smiled at him, and here was his heaven. He could even kiss her if he wanted. She couldn’t stop him. Not here. It gave him a sense of power. He looked at the pictures one by one every day. Here just her face. There in Lady Bertha in the gown for Act 2. Here in the burlesque she’d been in at Princess’. There sitting in a garden swing.

  When he first saw her she had not been at the Galaxy but a different theatre. He had been at the stage door every night. He had bribed the stage doorkeeper of the Royal to buy the doll she’d clutched to her bosom so amusingly in Lady Daisy. It thrilled him to hold it now, hold it to his bosom as she’d held it to hers. He looked twice at the picture of her on the swing today, the picture that showed her pretty figure so entrancingly. He shivered. She was beautiful. She was his madonna. Here in his sanctum he could expunge the thought of her distorted face, screaming at him. He did not understand why she had screamed. But he would forget that, here in this shrine. The candles all lit at last, he sank to his knees in homage: ‘Florence, full of grace, hear thy servant . . .’

  Auguste reluctantly left the absorbing task of the Christmas mincemeat preparation (barbaric his French confreres deemed it; for himself, there was a certain intellectual fascination at the combination of ingredients, this relic of mediaeval feasting) to glance out of the window at the source of the noise. It was mild for December, but the carolling voices of the street band, singing of deep snow and wassailing, seemed determined to ignore this fact. He tossed them some coins, more in the hope they’d go away than as tribute to their prowess. He wished to concentrate on the vital decision yet to be made – whether or not to add spices to the concoction before him. Some said they were a vital ingredient – but would they not upset the delicate overriding flav
our of lemon that he had been at such pains to preserve?

  ‘Go on, Auguste, invite them in,’ urged Maisie, sticking her finger into the bowl and licking it.

  ‘But, ma mie—’

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Is that any reason for me to endure a hurdy-gurdy in my own restaurant?’ he demanded.

  ‘You can spare some of that punch for them,’ she said brightly.

  He regarded her with horror. ‘That is my best Napoleon.’

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ she said in a tone that would not be denied.

  Grateful for their punch, the band struck up again as Auguste cowered in the kitchen doorway, longing for escape. An elderly warbler, who might once have been a tenor, launched forth into ‘Angels from the Realms of Glory’.

  Auguste groaned.

  ‘Cast your light o’er land and sea.’

  Somewhere, deep in Auguste’s mind, a train of thought started.

  In a poky Fleet Street newspaper office a junior sub-editor was racking his brains as to how to combine the twin excitements of the Galaxy murders (now slipping in appeal with no new murder to announce) and the advent of Christmas. He too was listening to carol singers. He picked up his pen and wrote a by-line:

  ‘The Angel Murderer: Still at Large’.

  In a room at Windsor Castle Queen Victoria was thinking, as was her custom, of Albert. Christmas made her exceptionally sad, as indeed did most times of the year. She could not look at the huge Christmas tree so bravely decked without thinking of the very first tree that he had brought from Germany for their very first Christmas. How quickly the fashion had caught on. Dearest Albert. Beatrice had suggested she should not stay at Windsor for Christmas if the memory of times past intruded so greatly. But she would. It was her duty. As she gazed with determined anguish at the gaudy tree with its angel triumphantly adorning the top, she welcomed as an old friend the prickling sensation of gathering tears.

  That brought to mind another matter, much in the news, and tears rapidly dispersing, she reached for her pen with a frown: ‘Is there yet word on the Angel Murderer . . .?’

  As Christmas approached, public obsession with the Angel Murderer gave way to equally frantic laudings of Father Christmas. With the Galaxy closed, no more chorus girls were found murdered on the streets of London. The populace of London forgot their concern about the return of the Ripper and settled down to buying mechanical marvels at Swears & Wells, and tiepins for Uncle Claude. Satin, lace and embroidered Christmas cards were lovingly prepared, and Kate Greenaway girls coyly smiled from every mantelpiece. The Christmas card trade flourished as never before. Murder was banished. Except in Scotland Yard where Inspector Rose pored over his files.

  Even Auguste was caught in the hubbub, and found himself somewhat to his surprise accompanying Maisie on the number 57 ’bus to Messrs Gamages on a shopping expedition. Maisie had a number of nephews and nieces whose parents, being nowhere so fortunate as Maisie in their position in life, sat back and generously permitted her to enrich their Christmas.

  Staggering under a particularly heavy toy Merryweather fire engine, Auguste was unable to see at first who was greeting Maisie so enthusiastically.

  ‘I say, Miss Wilson, this is a delightful surprise.’

  The Honourable Johnny Beauville’s delight at finding a Galaxy Girl – and moreover one who did not laugh at him – in the midst of what had threatened to be a highly tedious shopping expedition with his sister-in-law was not tempered with caution, and drew the sister-in-law’s icy disapproval on him.

  ‘Oh, ah, Gertrude, let me present Miss Maisie Wilson.’

  The stalagmite inclined its head. Miss Wilson bowed so deeply one might have thought the gesture a touch ironic.

  ‘Oh and – ah – Mr Auguste Didier. He’s the – ah – cook at the Galaxy. Quite a famous one,’ Johnny added anxiously.

  Auguste found more difficulty in bowing owing to the fire engine, but this was no problem since Her Ladyship did not consider cooks came into the category of persons to whom one bowed or whose bows one recognised. Her expression of severe disapprobation was all too familier to him.

  ‘Miss Wilson is – ah – an actress at the Galaxy,’ added Johnny.

  ‘That I know, Jonathan. I have accompanied you to that theatre. And besides, I’ve seen her likeness in Messrs Ellis and Walery’s range of postcards.’ Her tone indicated that those who wished to flaunt their charms in the photographic studios of these eminent gentlemen were not for her knowing.

  ‘It all goes with being a Galaxy Girl,’ said Maisie sweetly. ‘Like coronets and butlers with yours. I expect you get used to it, though.’

  Her Ladyship was silenced, and clearly realising this would not bode well for him, Johnny broke in with: ‘Talking of the Galaxy, when d’you think it’ll open again, Miss Wilson? I miss it.’ His eager face was hopeful for good news.

  ‘When they find the murderer, monsieur,’ said Auguste. ‘Only then will it be safe.’

  ‘But they won’t,’ said Johnny. Then, seeing them looking at him in surprise, he said hastily. ‘I mean, suppose he just stops? Like the old Ripper.’

  ‘Scotland Yard believes the Ripper is dead,’ said Auguste. ‘That he drowned himself – and that’s why he stopped. His crimes got too terrible even for him to contemplate going on.’

  ‘And maybe our chap hasn’t done his worst yet,’ said Johnny thoughtfully. ‘Those dolls were rather spooky. Angel murderer. Who do you think’ll be next then? Could be anyone. Could be Miss Maisie here.’ And he gave her an ingenuous smile.

  In his country home in Hertfordshire, Lord Summerfield could not enter with his usual enthusiasm into the decoration of Mama’s tree, and the presents for the estate workers. He began to feel as though a dire fate were following him around. Why was it the women that he invited out were murdered? Captain Carstairs, jolly good chap, had had six different girls in the time he had taken to invite one out and each returned inviolate. Of murder at any rate. Even Mama was beginning to look at him a little strangely.

  ‘Puddings,’ said Auguste in glee, stirring vigorously. ‘I love these English plum puddings.’

  ‘You should have made it weeks ago,’ said Maisie severely. ‘It will be no good now. It should mature.’

  ‘My love, it is the cheese or the game that has to hang. We will add some more brandy, and you will see.’

  ‘You’re too busy being a detective to be a cook.’

  ‘That is an insult,’ replied Auguste with dignity. ‘One assists the other, and I say it is ridiculous to cook these plum puddings weeks before the day. We cook it together now, hein?’

  Maisie dropped a kiss on the back of his head where the slightest hint of a bald spot was beginning to appear. Her arms crept round his waist.

  ‘Ma mie,’ he said reprovingly, ‘not while I am cooking.’ ‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘any time.’

  ‘Now look,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have made me forget the lemon – ah, women are in the way in the kitchen.’

  ‘Tell that to Rosa Lewis,’ murmured Maisie, dipping her finger in the mixture and licking it.

  ‘There is something’ – he stared at her worriedly – ‘there is something missing.’

  ‘Are you detecting or cooking?’

  ‘Cooking – how could I be detecting – now the good Mrs Acton says four ounces of minced apples but myself I think a little more, and not a small glass but a large glass of brandy. Perhaps two. But what – there is still something missing. Ma foi, what is it?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything missing,’ said Maisie. ‘I think you’ve got everything there. You’re just looking at it the wrong way. It’s a pudding, not a cake. You wait till it’s upside down and covered in brandy and sugar. You’ll see.’

  ‘I am honoured, ma mie.’

  Maisie laughed as she pulled Auguste close to her in bed.

  ‘I’m getting lazy with nothing to do.’

  ‘I am indebted to you,’ said Augus
te, somewhat indignantly.

  She giggled. ‘You know I don’t mean you.’

  ‘Ma mie,’ he said pleadingly, ‘I’m tired. Very tired. I want your arms round me, but – not after that dinner. We are full every night all right. They all come to see the Galaxy where the murders started. They do not care about the food, they eat anything. It is disheartening, my love, when one takes care. One takes pride in one’s work but it must be appreciated.’

  ‘Well, you clearly aren’t going to appreciate me, and that’s for sure,’ she said, turning over drowsily.

  ‘Ma mie, in the morning,’ he said placatingly. ‘It was that last party who came in. They were like – ’

  ‘Oh, that’s what I meant to tell you,’ she interrupted, waking up again.

  ‘Please, do not tell me of your nieces and nephews now,’ he pleaded.

  ‘You said,’ Maisie reminded him, ‘that in a recipe the slightest variation might be of importance.’

  ‘So I did,’ he groaned.

  ‘And you’re telling me that detection is like cooking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, I just remembered what struck me as odd when we met Johnny Beauville in Gamages.’ And she told him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said courteously. ‘I will store it in the larder with the other ingredients.’ It was of no importance, of course, but there had been something odd all the same . . .

  Auguste slept heavily that night, but his sleep was full of dreams. He seemed to be at a performance of some Shakespeare play in Gamages with the hurdy-gurdy player crying out ‘Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest’. But he had to get back to the restaurant to prevent an army of dolls breaking into his larder. But when he arrived, it was Lord Summerfield who stole a huge boar’s head which turned into Maisie. Then Irving, looking very disapproving, came in to rescue Maisie, and took her away, leaving him to cry impotently, ‘Come back, come back, come back . . .’ But all that he was left with was a huge Christmas pudding. Someone was saying something – was it Maisie? – ‘Turn it upside down.’ So he heaved and heaved, and the pudding emerged from the dish. In the middle of the pudding was Tatiana, beautiful, beloved, his own. But he couldn’t reach her. She was trapped by the pudding.