Murder in the Limelight

by Myers, Amy

  Poor old sod, thought Maisie to herself. Fancy thinking women are like that!

  Lord Charing and his wife flanked the Honourable Johnny Beauville like Nelson’s guardian lions. Not that they regarded Johnny as a saviour of the nation’s honour. They were clearly there to ensure that the family honour was not impugned.

  Johnny did not look grateful for this attention. Lord Charing, a serious-minded gentleman as befitted the bearer of the family title, was in his mid-thirties, a more sober version of the Honourable Johnny himself, with rounded face, sideburns, and a carefully nurtured moustache. His wife, of similar age, was a handsome statuesque woman. Her blond hair was swept up Grecian-style and her brown walking dress was severe – as was her expression.

  Reminds me of someone. Ruby James at the Albion? thought Rose. But Lady Charing did not behave like Ruby James.

  ‘We,’ Lady Charing said severely, ‘do not approve.’ It was not clear whether she was using the royal we or whether she spoke for all Beauvilles, past and present.

  ‘Of what, ma’am?’ enquired Rose blandly.

  ‘Sin.’

  There Rose was essentially in agreement with her, but the relevance of the statement at this moment was not clear to him.

  ‘The occupation of the devil, theatre,’ she graciously explained.

  ‘Yet I understand you were with Mr Beauville here at the first night of Lady Bertha’s Betrothal, and again at Miss Penelope’s Proposal. Keeping an eye on the devil, eh?’

  She frowned.

  Her husband intervened hastily. ‘My wife feels that my brother should not attend these places alone, you understand.’

  ‘And you stayed with him, I understand, until he appeared somewhat unexpectedly in a cake backstage. You weren’t with him then, ma’am?’

  ‘I seldom appear in cakes, Inspector,’ replied her ladyship frostily.

  Johnny shuffled uneasily.

  ‘And did you see your brother-in-law on Wednesday evening, too?’

  ‘My brother-in-law was at his club that evening. May I ask why this sudden interest in his movements?’

  Johnny seemed about to say something, but was quelled by one look from his sister-in-law.

  ‘Miss Edna Purvis has been found dead,’ said Rose. Johnny looked blank. ‘Dead? That long girl? Thin? Handsome filly. Talked like a—’

  ‘It’s come to my attention you were acquainted with the young lady.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Johnny cautiously.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Can’t remember ’em all,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘And you were a friend of Miss Walters too.’

  ‘Yes, but I say – you know—’ Dimly it dawned on the Honourable Johnny that this was more than a friendly chat. ‘I hadn’t seen the little stunner for a week or more. She – Edna, that is – gave me the old boot. Had her eye on better things. They all do,’ he added sadly.

  ‘So you admit you were friends with them both?’

  ‘Love all the little darlings,’ he squeaked. ‘Miss Lepin – little French stunner; Daisy Applechurch; then there’s Ethel Love, and Gladys Milling – that’s the one that kicks her legs up.’ He laughed nervously till he saw his sister-in-law’s eye on him.

  ‘And what about Miss Lytton?’

  ‘Florrie?’ Johnny beamed. ‘Lovely little girl. Pity she’s married. Mind you, I wouldn’t do them any harm. Safe as houses. But she wouldn’t look at me. You’d think she’d like a change after acting with that dull old stick all the evening. She likes all the fuss, but she doesn’t like it when a chap tries to get close.’ His face clouded, and he seemed to have forgotten his audience as he whispered, ‘No, she don’t like it at all.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Didier, where are you, dammit?’

  Archibald’s roar could be heard even from Auguste’s kitchen. He interpreted the roar correctly as being one of the ilk that brooked no denial. Delaying merely to add the shredded truffles to the Francatelli’s most interesting salade a la Rachel he hurried once more to Archibald’s office – there was no doubt as to the direction of the shout, nor of the offender. Florence Lytton was once more having hysterics.

  ‘Ah, Didier, Miss Lytton – under the weather – get one of your drinks – stop her—’ The big man looked helplessly and beseechingly at Auguste.

  ‘Oui, monsieur. But – might I suggest – her husband?’

  It was the wrong suggestion; it merely brought forth a new wave of hysterics.

  Auguste vanished, wondering where he could suddenly produce an infusion of valerian – it was not a product in which the market at Covent Garden specialised. He produced the next best thing.

  Florence sipped gratefully at the soothing concoction Auguste held to her lips. The tears began to flow less rapidly, the red to subside from her cheeks, the hiccups to grow less raucous.

  ‘Ah, that’s better, my dear, isn’t it?’ said Archibald, rubbing his hands together heartily and a trifle briskly. ‘Nothing to beat Didier’s special brews, eh?’

  Nothing indeed, thought Auguste, laughing to himself. Nothing to beat Brillat-Savarin’s simple panacea of sugar and water for such emergencies.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Didier.’ Florence smiled gratefully at Didier, her poise restored, and her image of lovable leading lady redonned. ‘It’s just so – well – horrid knowing that someone is trying to kill you.’

  ‘Kill you, madame?’ said Auguste slowly. ‘You think that?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Florence indignantly, determined to maintain her centre stage position. ‘Those horrid dolls – it’s obvious. For some reason,’ she said hesitantly, ‘Edna Purvis was killed in mistake for me.’

  ‘But Florence, my dear, who would want to kill you?’ asked Robert Archibald, bewildered. ‘Now the girls have admirers, we all know that, but here you are, happily married—’

  Auguste Didier noticed the tightening of Florence’s fingers, and wondered.

  ‘There are others,’ said Florence mysteriously, dabbing at the corner of her eye with an exquisite Brussels lace handkerchief.

  ‘Who are these others?’ asked Auguste urgently. ‘You must tell us, and then make it known that you have told us. And then – pouf! There is no reason to kill you because everybody will know.’

  ‘Mr Hargreaves doesn’t like me,’ Florence blurted out with no hesitation at all.

  ‘Because of a song? Oh, come, my dear, you took it too seriously.’

  ‘No, not because of that,’ said Florence slowly. Her big moment had come. She had always wanted to play in tragedy. ‘It’s because—’ she drew a deep breath, ‘I know.’

  ‘Know what?’ said Archibald, lost.

  ‘About him and Percy.’

  ‘Him and Percy?’

  ‘They live together.’ She waited for her effect.

  ‘Do they?’ said Archibald without much interest. ‘Very good of Hargreaves to give a home to the lad. Look after him.’

  ‘No.’ Florence grew pink, while Auguste watched with more interest than shock. ‘They – they live together – as if they – well – as if they were married.’

  Archibald slowly registered the fact that Edward Hargreaves and Percy Brian were homosexual lovers. In ordinary times he might have exploded into wrath. But these were not ordinary times. It seemed a small issue besides murder. Anything that did not immediately threaten the Galaxy paled into insignificance so Florence was deprived of her effect. Robert Archibald, sensing her annoyance but not understanding its reason, declared placatingly that he would ‘have a word with them’.

  Auguste returned to the restaurant, a puzzled man. It was clear to him, and he therefore assumed it must be clear to all those who worked within its portals, that someone closely connected with the Galaxy was a double murderer, and perhaps the worst kind of multiple murderer – one who kills to a pattern. Those arms were crossed for a reason. Were both Christine Walters and Edna Purvis killed because they were mistaken for Florence, or because they were substitutes
for her – much as in the days of ritual killing of kings, they retained the right to nominate a substitute? An interesting idea that. He thought about it as he raised the crust of a game pie.

  And yet to everyone else it was almost as though murder were not the central issue at the Galaxy. It was like a night-mare where instead of seeing the danger in front of them, they were preoccupied with other matters – the song, the discovery of Edward and Percy’s secret, the dolls, and Herbert. He too was noticeably preoccupied, and so was Thomas. Why? Auguste frowned. Discipline must take over. He was a maître chef. He needed order, reason.

  What does a chef do? He looks at the receipt, assembles the ingredients, prepares his batterie de cuisine. This was the important part. The technique was the preparation, his art the essential that came later. Who was it who said that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains? As the good Mrs Acton had said: ‘Only the genius cook could afford to ignore the precise instructions of a recipe’.

  Auguste gathered together the snipe, the onions, the parsley, the nutmeg (as he grated he noted that unauthorised use had been made of this precious spice), salt, white pepper, the lemon, the sherry and the broth, and bread. One entrée was ready for the evening. Were the dolls the entrée, the murders the plat, the crossed hands the flancs? He reproached himself for thinking so frivolously then decided it was not frivolous. It was a method of discipline. He concentrated again on the receipt. The good Alexis Soyer – Auguste did not always approve of his methods. In this, for example, he preferred a little less sherry, a little more lemon. Once his hands were moving, his brain too began to react. It was necessary for him to take control. Too much had been happening all round him at the Galaxy without his directing events. A maître should control. These murders had to be solved – not only for the victims’ sake but for the survival of the Galaxy. The crowds were flooding in now because of the notoriety, but any more incidents and they might quickly turn. He had seen it happen before. Inspector Rose was good, very good, but he, Auguste, was in a position to discover things that Rose could not.

  ‘A leg of mutton,’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘Who are you calling a leg of mutton?’ Maisie bounced indignantly into the kitchen, furs surrounding her laughing face.

  ‘Not you, ma mie. I was just thinking to myself that these murders are like a leg of mutton à la provençale, garnished with mushrooms au gratin, stuffed with a complicated forcemeat, yet when you take away these accoutrements, voilà, a leg of mutton. What we must seek, ma pigeonne, is the leg of mutton in this case! And I, maître detective extraordinaire, will discover it!’ In his enthusiasm, forgetting the salamander in his hand, he seized her in his arms and waltzed her round the kitchen.

  ‘Tell you what, Auguste,’ she said when they stopped, breathless, ‘if you don’t stop being so modest we’ll all forget you’re a master chef.’

  ‘No,’ he said simply, twinkling at her, ‘that will not happen. I will not forget.’

  ‘Anyway, what I’ve decided we need is not a master chef, but a maîtresse. I was watching old Egbert’ – Auguste laughed to himself – ‘he’s good but he hasn’t got the right touch with the mashers of this world. Now I got the measure of the Beauvilles of this world long ago. And I’ve always fancied myself as Lady Molly of Scotland Yard. I’m going on the hunt.’

  ‘No,’ said Auguste in alarm. ‘No. This murderer has a penchant for Galaxy girls, even if only as a substitute for Miss Lytton. No, you must not do it.’

  ‘I’m not daft,’ she said lightly. ‘Anyway, you can’t stop me. If I want to accept a dinner engagement, I’ll make sure it’s Romano’s or somewhere else public. You don’t catch me walking through an old rookery.’

  ‘But it might not be Summerfield or Beauville. It could be Hargreaves or Percy or any of the other male principals or chorus. Or stage-hands. Props even.’

  ‘Or maybe Obadiah?’

  ‘He’d never leave his door long enough, not even for murder.’

  ‘Now didn’t you tell me, Auguste, that a good cook never overlooks anything?’

  ‘You are so right, ma mie. We must look for the leg of mutton underneath the garnish.’

  ‘Now is Miss Lytton the leg of mutton? The dolls were intended for her, no doubt of that.’

  ‘So do you think she was the intended victim for the murder. Someone clearly hates her.’

  ‘Very careless of the murderer to kill two other women in mistake for Florence,’ commented Maisie scathingly.

  Auguste cast her a look. Delightful though Maisie was she did not understand the power of pure logic. He was not sure he approved of the New Woman, he decided, then dismissed this unworthy thought.

  ‘Yes, indeed. But the dolls,’ he said hastily, seeing a way round this problem. ‘The person who arranged those wished to upset her, to play a trick on her. And then’ – Auguste’s detective instincts were fully warmed up now – ‘the murderer follows his example, and binds the arms of his victims across the chest to make it look like part of the same thing.’

  ‘Bravo, mon maître,’ said Maisie, clapping her hands. ‘Only Christine was killed two months ago.’

  ‘True, ma mie,’ said Auguste, crestfallen. ‘But,’ brightening, ‘suppose the leg of mutton is the girls. The murderer wishes to kill Miss Walters and Miss Purvis, and uses the dolls as a red herring.’

  ‘Why?’ said Maisie practically.

  ‘To make it look more complicated than it is,’ said Auguste. ‘Some cooks thrive on this. There is Francatelli, who in his recipe for boudin à la reine—’

  ‘Auguste,’ said Maisie, dangerously quiet.

  ‘As I said, like the art of theatre, it is all appearance.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem rational to me. Perhaps you’re right and Miss Lytton is at the heart of the mystery.’

  ‘And where the hen pheasant is we must look for the cock, hein? Monsieur Manley who is so in love with his wife. Yet perhaps he is not quite so in love?’

  ‘That’s what they’re beginning to say,’ said Maisie slowly, ‘in the dressing room. A bunch of red roses arrived for Miss Purvis on the first night. The handwriting looked familiar, and the way she was looking at Florence! Like a Band of Hoper with a new convert. And he would have more opportunity to put the dolls in Florence’s dressing room than anyone else.’

  ‘What about Herbert?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him there. Florence wouldn’t like that. Besides, he is hardly likely to want to upset Florence. He wouldn’t have a motive, would he? You know how devoted he is to her.’

  ‘Ma fleur, I always hear how devoted people are to Miss Lytton – her husband, Obadiah, Mr Archibald, Props, Herbert – and yet someone dislikes her. Dislikes her very much indeed. Besides, look what happened to the song. Herbert showed no sign of devotion to Florence then. He’s a strange man.’

  ‘And this is a strange crime,’ said Maisie thoughtfully. ‘All this crossed arms business. It means something, I’m sure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A sort of farewell, perhaps?’ suggested Maisie. ‘I mean, crossed arms. Like those brasses in churches.’

  ‘And paintings of angels, too.’

  ‘Yet if he thought they were angels, why murder them?’ asked Maisie practically.

  ‘I don’t know, my love, I don’t know.’

  The performance was somewhat muted that evening; the show girls conscious of the one that wasn’t there, the artistic groupings that had to be carefully redone to make up for the absentee until a replacement could be found. But expectation on the other side of the footlights was all the keener. The Galaxy, its girls, and murder too! Perhaps by one of the people on the stage. It was a heady mixture. Pure escape.

  The murder seemed real enough, however, to Inspector Rose, poring over files of interviews, reading and rereading the Ripper files in case something should give a clue, an idea as to procedure, the mistakes to avoid. One mistake had already been avoided. No mention had been made in the newspapers of the ritualistic nat
ure of the crossed hands. The strangling was bad enough, giving rise to fears of another wave of garrotters. Yet Edna Purvis had not been robbed. Her silver purse had been found by her side. Would the murderer stop at crossed hands? Or, if unstopped, would he progress further, like the Ripper? Would Florence Lytton be another Mary Kelly? Not if Rose could help it. Ignoring Twitch’s clear signs that enough was enough for the day, he began to read the files again.

  Enviously, Gabrielle watched Maisie drop the heavy yellow silk dress over her head.

  ‘It must be someone special, yes? Not Auguste?’ Had she been less ambitious, Gabrielle would have been a keen rival for Auguste’s favours. Being French herself, she saw herself as the natural choice of any Frenchman.

  Maisie smoothed the folds, pulling the fullness to the back over the heavy petticoat, arranging the lace sleeves beneath which her rounded arms emerged, enticing and lovely, and above which her shoulders were a match for any of the show girls; she was well aware that this dress complemented her auburn hair to perfection.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Summerfield,’ she said carelessly.

  There was a sharp intake of breath round the room. What on Wednesday would have made her the envy of the room was now clearly seen as madness, to all perhaps save Gabrielle.

  ‘What if he does to you what he did to Christine and Edna?’ breathed one. ‘They both went to dine with him. Bluebeard! I wonder the police ain’t arrested him already. Aren’t you scared, Maisie?’

  ‘No,’ she lied, for there was no doubt she was not quite so brave about it as she had pretended to Auguste, who had in any case forbidden her to go, happily confident that as her lover his words would be obeyed.

  ‘We’re going to a restaurant, not for a long walk.’

  ‘It’s that meek and mild type you have to watch,’ declared a worldly wise eighteen-year-old as Maisie donned her wrap, picked up her dorothy bag, crammed her hat a little harder than she meant to on top of her piled up hair with the French hat pin Auguste had given her, and sallied forth. Quite what she hoped to find out she had not yet asked herself, but had she analysed it she would have said that these crimes had to be stopped at once and one way was to eliminate the possibilities. The Galaxy was important to her, and Robert Archibald even more so. He had discovered her in the Britannia at Hoxton, brought her back to the Galaxy and transformed her life. There was no way she was going to let him suffer.