by Myers, Amy
‘Mind you, Didier, I don’t think it’s anything really. Just a joke.’ It was the cry of a drowning man. Archibald regarded Auguste hopefully, seeking the reassurance he could not give.
‘Non, Monsieur Archibald. I do not think so. You will not easily discover who played this trick with the dolls, I think.’
‘I could appeal to their better natures, to come forward for the good of the theatre?’ said Archibald hopefully.
Auguste hesitated. ‘I think, monsieur, the good of the theatre will not be uppermost in their minds. You must ask yourself first who does not like Miss Florence. For someone does not like her at all.’
‘Everybody likes Florence,’ said Robert Archibald, shocked.
‘Yes,’ said Auguste, ‘she is like the mackerel.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The mackerel. As the bon Grimod de La Reyniere said: “The mackerel has this in common with good women – he is loved by all the world.”’
Robert Archibald tried to grapple with the concept of dainty blonde Florence Lytton as a mackerel, and failed.
‘Yet, it is not quite true,’ Auguste went on. ‘Some do not like the mackerel. It is a good fish, yes, but it does not agree with everybody. Perhaps Miss Florence does not agree with some people.’
Archibald sighed. ‘I heard about that blasted marionette song. It’s a song, just a song.’
‘It is an ingredient, my friend.’
‘Ingredient of what?’
‘Perhaps disaster.’
Archibald blinked. ‘Come now, I admit I was rattled by those blasted dolls – but disaster? Bit strong, isn’t it, Didier? Nasty sense of humour someone’s got, and it’s got to be stopped. But it isn’t that important in the long run. Dammit, man, this is the Galaxy!’
‘And an hour before the curtain went up last night four of your main people were at each other’s throats; Mr Hargreaves would not speak to your leading lady, his pianist was teasing him, your leading man was failing to support his wife who was attacking the pianist. Normally the pianist would hardly be opposing the will of the conductor, Miss Lytton would have been on the best of terms with Mr Brian, and Mr Manley would have been riveted to his wife’s side. None of these things happened.’
‘Because of a song?’ Archibald’s voice was disbelieving.
‘In the Provençal dialect, Monsieur Archibald, the mackerel is called the peis d’Avril. You call that the April fool. It seems that Miss Lytton is your April fool. But you do not know where the joke began – nor, Monsieur Archibald, where it will end.’
Egbert Rose looked round his tiny office in the Factory, as they called the Yard. Books, papers, files cluttered every shelf. He wouldn’t have them touched. It was his home. Mrs Rose was a keen housekeeper, perhaps to make up for her culinary shortcomings, and even his den did not remain inviolate. He made up for it here. He liked dust. It made everything feel secure. His. He knew where everything was. He’d had nearly four years now in this new building. It had been an upheaval moving from the Old Scotland Yard, but he was settling down nicely now. The villains could watch out.
He went to the door dividing his office from the lesser fry.
‘Constable Edwards, get me the Ripper files.’
Edwards looked up, startled. ‘The Ripper files, sir?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But he’s dead, sir.’
Rose regarded him lugubriously. ‘You aiming to be a sergeant, laddie?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Then get me the files, son.’
He returned to his desk, and reread the report on Christine Walters. The corpse had a name now, an identity, and with identification came the prospect of having to break the news to her parents. The girl had lived in lodgings, so it had been two weeks before hesitantly, reluctantly, her parents reported her missing. The theatre had reported her missing after three days, though with no great sense of worry. Nothing more sinister in it than a better job, an ardent beau, or irate parents, they’d implied. These things happened with chorus girls, they disappeared from time to time, but it was not usual at the Galaxy. The theatre inculcated a sense of responsibility in its girls, and therefore the disappearance of Christine Walters on September 27th, flighty though she had been, was a departure from the norm, and thus to be reported to the authorities.
And eight weeks later she turned up, a corpse in the Thames, identifiable only by the dress she wore and the rings on her fingers, details gleaned from her colleagues as a precaution on the Yard’s first being notified of her disappearance.
‘Here, Inspector.’ Edwards staggered in with a mountain of files. ‘Had to make Chief Constable’s report, sir. They’re specials, sir.’
Rose sighed. Of course. McNaughten would want to know about anyone seeing the Ripper files. Half the population of London still lived in dread he would return. They weren’t to know, and the Yard couldn’t tell them, that the Ripper was dead. Or so they assumed. But they could be wrong, there was the hundredth chance, and he dreaded to think what Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria would have to say about that. She had made her displeasure at the Yard’s handling of the Ripper case very plain – even started to play detective herself. This case had better be solved quickly.
He didn’t like those crossed arms. He didn’t like them at all. The girl hadn’t been touched with a knife, not even interfered with – but there was something about those arms . . . He began to read the Ripper files. Recalling the photographs, the endless reports, the Ripper’s eerie letters, it all started to come back. He’d been a sergeant then, not directly involved with the case, but he’d gone along to the room where Mary Kelly had been found – it wasn’t a scene he was likely to forget. She had been the last in the series. Series . . . What reason could there have been for those arms to be crossed? Wasn’t to keep them out of the way. Done after death, so the report said. All laid out, like a ritual, like a figure on a mediaeval tomb. And that reminded him of something else he couldn’t quite bring to mind . . .
Some time later, Rose emerged from the hansom at the imposing Mayfair portals of Summerfield House. He regarded them gloomily and advanced on the entrance. The butler was not impressed, clearly hesitating as to whether to redirect him to another, lowlier entrance. Rose was not impressed by the butler.
He stepped in firmly, ignoring the waves of disapprobation emanating from the doorway.
‘Lord Summerfield,’ he said firmly.
‘He’s expecting you?’
‘No,’ said Rose cheerily. ‘Just tell him Scotland Yard, my man.’
From the look on the butler’s face, he was clearly now convinced of his error in admitting the inspector through the front entrance. Nevertheless, he vanished speedily through an ornately decorated door.
It was some while before he re-emerged, time in which Rose had ample opportunity to study the Ming vase, the ornate group of Staffordshire figures, and the Cotman watercolour that graced the hallway.
‘Lord and Lady Summerfield will see you,’ the butler announced in terms of one astounded beyond belief at the honour conferred. Rose handed him his bowler, his cane, his ulster, taking his time, and then maliciously indicated that the butler should take those of Constable Edwards who stuck beside him like a faithful, attentive shadow.
Lord Summerfield rose from his leather armchair in the morning room as they entered. He was a tall, thin man of about forty. It was hard to estimate his age accurately for he had a smooth, impassive face on which emotions played but lightly. Good-looking in a patrician kind of way, Rose decided, if you liked those long-nosed types. He had a pipe in his hand, the barrel of which he stroked constantly with his thumb.
‘Good morning, Inspector. You called once before.’ The visit had clearly not been a passport to Lord Summerfield’s favour.
‘Yes, indeed, sir,’ said Rose woodenly. ‘Same business, I’m afraid.’
‘Mother, this is Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard.’ He did not bother to introduce Police Constable Edwards. The Countess
of Summerfield, holder of that title until such time as her son should marry, a time which would be dictated by her, acknowledged his presence with the merest inclination of her grey, elegantly coiffured head. No Dower House for her, she had determined. She remained seated in her armchair, back erect, eyes piercing, face impassive, hands on the chair arms, waiting. Like a vulture waiting to pounce, thought Rose. Poor devil, no wonder he’s nervous. It was the first time he had met Mother. Summerfield had been alone last time, though scarcely less nervous.
‘I came to tell you, sir, that Miss Walters has been found. She’s dead, sir.’
A flicker passed over Summerfield’s face. Then he turned and gazed at his mother.
The stentorian voice spoke. ‘As I gather my son explained to you before, Inspector, he is unable to help you. Occasionally, in order not to disappoint friends, he accompanies them to the theatre – the Lyceum. He has no knowledge of the Galaxy or of the persons employed there.’
‘And as I explained earlier, ma’am, we have several witnesses who claim that Miss Walters told them she had arranged to dine with Lord Summerfield the evening she disappeared.’
‘My son,’ said an icy voice, ‘does not dine with girls of that class. These people are clearly mistaken.’
Rose turned to Lord Summerfield.
His knuckles were clenched white around the pipe stem. ‘So you told me before, Lord Summerfield. Is it true?’
‘I – well, just that once, perhaps – there were to be several of us, Mother.’ He was more scared of revealing the truth to her than to the police, Rose noted dispassionately. ‘I hardly knew the girl, however.’
Lady Summerfield said nothing, though her lips grew a little thinner and her stare icier.
Once Rose might have been intimidated. Now he wasn’t. ‘Nothing wrong with those Galaxy Girls, ma’am,’ he said easily. ‘Nice lot they are. Why, the Duchess of Stockbery once told me that within ten years’ time half the aristocracy—’
It had its effect. Mention of the Duchess mollified Her Ladyship and, though still suspicious, she stayed out of the conversation.
‘Now what happened that night, My Lord? Not that fangle dangle you told me before. What really happened?’
Lord Summerfield looked uneasy. ‘Nothing, Inspector. Nothing at all. That was it. That was why I felt no need to tell you. She never arrived.’
‘What?’
‘I had arranged to meet her – with the others, of course,’ he added hastily, and manifestly lying. ‘My carriage waited outside the Lyceum in Wellington Street at ten o’clock – our usual time,’ he said artlessly, ‘but she never came. I assumed she had mistaken the day.’ And he stared straight at Rose, as though daring him to doubt this.
Oh yes? thought Rose. With a coronet on your head?
The Honourable Johnny Beauville had no mother. At least not one who maintained a presence as did Lady Summerfield. As younger son to the Earl of Ashford, he shared his brother and sister-in-law’s, Lord and Lady Charing’s, modest Mayfair town house with them while in town.
‘The mater thinks it good for me. The folks stay down in the country. They think Jeremy and Gertrude keep an eye on me,’ he remarked cheerily. He at least had no idea of keeping Rose at a distance.
‘I came to tell you, Mr Beauville—’
‘Bevil, not Bowvil,’ remarked Johnny casually.
It would take more than that to throw Rose off his stride. ‘You knew Christine Walters?’
‘The little darling who disappeared?’
‘Yes, Mr, er, Bevil. She disappeared after the second night of Lady Bertha’s Betrothal, and you were heard enquiring after her very persistently at the stage door on the evening before. You were told that the young ladies were at the party and not seeing anyone, so you informed the stage door keeper you’d return the next night. And the next. And the next.’
He looked alarmed. ‘Me?’ he bleated. Then his face cleared. ‘First night of jolly Lady Bertha? Oh, yes, I remember that.’ He grinned. ‘The Dragon was with me. That’s me sister-in-law. She and Jeremy came round to the stage door in the carriage, in case I came to harm. They looked after me,’ he said wistfully. ‘Bates wouldn’t let me see her – Christine, that is. So I climbed into the old carriage and they dropped me at my club.’
‘And what about the following evening?’
‘Oh, the club, too. Overdid the old oysters the night before, so I thought I would give the Galaxy a miss.’
‘And then Miss Walters disappeared – only a few days or so, according to my information, after you had asked her to marry you.’
‘Really?’ Johnny’s jovial face suddenly went blank. ‘I can’t say I remember – but if you say so, it’s probably true.’
‘You don’t remember if you asked the young lady to marry you?’
‘No,’ said Johnny regretfully. ‘Was she the tall ginger-haired one or the small – no, that was—’
‘Do you propose to a lot of young ladies?’ asked Rose frostily.
‘Quite a few,’ said Johnny cheerily.
‘And do you always say you’ll shoot yourself if they won’t marry you?’
‘Part of the form, you know,’ he said apologetically. ‘Never mean it.’
‘Did you mean it when you said you’d shoot her as an alternative?’
‘Eh?’ Johnny gaped. ‘Seems a bit extreme. Did I really say that? She must be a stunner.’
‘Have been, Mr Bevil. She’s dead. Murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ He blinked. ‘That’s why you’re here to see me—’ Suddenly, he looked intelligent. ‘Oh, I say, you’ve got it all wrong. I love all the little darlings. I wouldn’t touch a hair of their pretty little heads. Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong.’
Traffic at the stage door was hotting up. The mashers began to arrive, agog to see their idols as they entered the theatre, to make certain of their prey for later that evening; those more dignified approached Obadiah Bates with notes, flowers, chocolates, threats or bribes. The tangible offerings he accepted for their recipients, the latter two he ignored. He gloried in his power. Hadn’t Mr Archibald said he couldn’t run the theatre without him? Six o’clock and the girls were now arriving: principals, chorus girls, show girls. Funnily enough, the principals would often come in the growlers, the show girls in the hansoms. The men always seemed to arrive later. He always had young Phipps standing by before the show as a kind of stage door linkman in case any of the young ladies needed an escort through the crowd. The scuff, as he inelegantly called it. But it was all under his control.
‘Evening, Miss Lepin.’
‘Evening, Obadiah.’ The girls were on terms of easy familiarity with him for he was their confidant. He knew their escorts, every stage and nuance of their romances, he fostered where he approved, otherwise discouraged. He would rid them of unwanted admirers, encourage the others.
‘Evening, Miss Maisie.’
‘Let Mr Beauville through tonight, Obadiah, will you?’ She sensed his disapproval. ‘Now then, Obadiah,’ she said robustly, ‘Auguste isn’t going to mind. Nobody in their right senses could be jealous of Johnny.’
‘Very well, Miss Maisie. If you say so. But I don’t hold with his goings on.’
‘Evening, Obadiah.’
‘Evening, Miss Edna. Who is it tonight then?’
‘Lord Summerfield.’ She was scarcely able to contain her pride.
‘Oh ho, looking up, are we? Evening, Miss Julia.’
‘Good evening, Obadiah. If that Captain Hoskins calls here, I am not available. Not tonight, not at all. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly clear, miss. He won’t get past me.’
Business was back to normal, the matter of Trojan cakes and such dishonourable behaviour swept under the carpet.
Edna came into the show girls’ dressing room glowing with triumph. The other girls were duly impressed.
‘Aren’t you worried though? Christine Walters disappeared when she was going out with him.’ Gabrielle pointed out.
Maisie, who had rushed in to borrow some hair-tongs, thought of Auguste and kept her own counsel. She tried to keep apart from the others. They were a good bunch, but she had been brought up in the hard school of Bethnal Green where it was everyone for himself. If you wanted to keep what you had, you kept quiet about it. And she wanted Auguste at the moment. Not that she’d marry him. There was time enough for marriage. Meanwhile, she might as well enjoy life to the full. Johnny Beauville would suit her down to the ground. The other girls might laugh but she never saw anyone turn down a date with him. Except Christine. And Edna, of course. He had plenty of money. Knew how to treat a girl like a lady. He knew all the right places to take you to. Oh yes, Johnny was all right.
Florence entered, glancing round her dressing room nervously, half expecting to see it full of mangled dolls. But it presented its usual flower-filled aspect, and the neat orderliness imposed by her dresser. She relaxed. Perhaps it had all been some horrible first night prank. She slipped off her heavy dark day dress, and into the satin robe held ready by her dresser. She sat before her mirror and examined her paint carefully. No, she was getting ridiculous. As though anyone would tamper with that. She shivered at the thought of anything ruining her looks, and had to calm herself with a great effort before, with a trembling hand, she began to apply the greasepaint.
There was a tap on the door which made her jump. Her dresser opened it. Edward Hargreaves and Percy Brian. She stared in amazement, for it was all but unheard of for men to call at the dressing rooms on the ladies’ side. Even Thomas. They must have sought special permission. It boded no good.
‘Miss Lytton,’ said Edward firmly, ‘it’s about that song.’
Florence stiffened.
‘Percy and I just don’t think we can throw that song away by slowing it down like you want. We slowed it a little last night but we won’t any more. We’ve got our integrity to think of.’
