by Myers, Amy
Props looked wildly at him. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he ventured.
‘I daresay, daresay, but all the same it won’t do. You admit you did it?’
Props looked ready to admit anything if only this unwelcome glare of limelight would go away. ‘Them dolls,’ he muttered.
‘Then you’ll have to go, Props – just for a short time. Edward here can carry on. Just stay away a week and we’ll see what we can do.’
Props said nothing, just twisted a piece of paint-smeared rag in his hands, his face growing pinker and pinker. At last he managed to say something: ‘Leave, Gov’nor? Because of them dolls?’
As had been noted before, Props was a simple man.
This was what happened when he left his post, Obadiah brooded. He was going to have to do something with the future of the Galaxy at stake. You had to stand firm, like before the Pathans at the Khyber Pass. But Tommy had shown them all right. Tommy never left his post and nor would he now. Fred – pah! These youngsters had no idea of what was involved in controlling a stage-door. Especially the Galaxy’s. That brought his worries flooding back. Yes, he’d better have a quiet word in someone’s ear before the curtain went up. Then tonight he’d think things over.
It was amazing that, despite her tribulations, Florence Lytton could present such a smiling untroubled face to the world across the footlights. Miss Penelope tripped across the stage as if she had no thought on her mind other than her next Worth gown.
In the wings Thomas Manley studied this stranger, his wife. Would he ever feel the same way about her? She used to be his little Florence, who needed protection. She needed protection like a tiger cub! His masculine pride was bruised, but he was undaunted. Florence, he guessed, would never tell the police about Edna Purvis and his own interest in her because it would make her look foolish. He had several ideas for ways of getting his own back on her, he thought, and ran on to the stage hallooing to the reverberate gods ‘Women are the devil,’ in the baritone that sent delicious shivers up the spine of half of London’s population. ‘But the devil may care, for I’ve not a care, tra la la . . .’
Florence clasped the marionette to the bosom that eschewed the same attentions from her husband. ‘Oh, for a love,’ she trilled, ‘a love to cherish. Ah, if you could but hear, what I say to you . . .’
Were her ears deceiving her? Surely that orchestra had speeded up again? It was a vendetta. She caught Herbert’s eye where he stood skulking behind the desk. It seemed to her he was smirking.
Another performance over, and all things considered it hadn’t been bad. Robert Archibald breathed a sigh of relief. One day at a time. This one was over and all was well.
But he was wrong. The day was not yet over so far as the fortunes of the Galaxy were concerned. Obadiah Bates locked the door behind him, leaving Watch in charge. Another day over. Obadiah walked along Wellington Street, noting with disapproval the Summerfield carriage waiting outside the Lyceum, and turned towards the maze of streets behind Covent Garden where he lived. The night was foggy again, and he never liked fog. It got in his throat and aggravated it where the spear had got him out in India. At least it had been warm out there. A man could be himself there; a good life, the soldier’s. Valuable. Of course, he was doing an invaluable job now, guarding these girls. But two he had slipped up on. He had to be vigilant, very vigilant.
He was not quite vigilant enough. The sound of his footsteps echoed on the flagstones. The noise of the market was deadened by the fog. Once he thought he heard footsteps. He paused. There was nothing. Fog was queer, it distorted things, yet he had this feeling there was someone following him. An old soldier always knew. Nearly home now. He quickened his step as he turned the last corner, shrouded by the fog, only pierced by the occasional gaslight. As he fumbled with the lock on the door, he had a fleeting impression of an outstretched arm and a heavy black shape descending out of the choking mist. He slumped to the ground. The Pathans got me after all, was his last conscious thought.
‘The Inspector won’t want to be bothered with that, lad.’
‘But, Sergeant Twitch – er – Stitch –’
‘I said hoppit, Edwards, hoppit.’
Edwards hopped.
It was thus another hour before Rose, who had spent three days interviewing the Galaxy company and sifting the results, learned that its stage door keeper had been attacked on the Tuesday evening. Egbert Rose prided himself on his mildness, but on occasions his roar could be heard from the Thames.
‘It was a dipper,’ said Stitch indignantly. ‘His money was gone. You mustn’t see coincidences in everything,’ he added kindly.
It was the wrong thing to say to Rose. ‘Laddie,’ he said insultingly, ‘when I say I want to know everything to do with the Galaxy, I mean everything. And that means straightaway.’
‘He don’t know nothing about who hit him,’ said Stitch defiantly to Rose’s retreating back.
At the Galaxy he found Robert Archibald wearing the expression of a much tried man. The deputy stage doorkeeper, whose services had never been so required before, had first let in a major’s wife from Cheshire who thought she’d like to be an actress. What the major thought was not mentioned. Second, a young lady from a ladies’ seminary who insisted on being one.
‘You’ve heard the news, Rose, then. God knows why. He’s not a show girl.’
‘No, sir, but perhaps he knew a bit too much for his own good. I’d like a word with Props, he being the nearest at hand like.’
‘Props has left us,’ said Archibald unhappily.
‘Then I’ll trouble you for his address. He might well have seen something of what happened last night.’
‘I believe I did also,’ said Auguste, coming in, having seen Rose arrive. ‘I chanced to look out of the restaurant window and saw Obadiah go past – he always goes the long way round the Strand in front and then down Wellington Street, in the hope he might bump into Henry Irving en route. Even if he’s not billed to appear, he still does it. Poor Obadiah.’
‘Henry Irving?’
‘It is Obadiah’s one sadness that the Galaxy does not put on what he calls “real plays”, like Mr Irving, and King Lear – not his greatest part, in my view. Nevertheless it made a deep impression on Obadiah. Since the never to be forgotten day he saw Irving perform, he always walks down Wellington Street in the hope that the great man might venture forth at the same time.’
‘I wonder he don’t go there as stage door keeper,’ remarked Rose.
‘There is such a thing as loyalty, Inspector,’ said Archibald stiffly. ‘He believes he has a mission to look after the Galaxy. He’s taking these murders very personally. I wonder if he wasn’t doing some investigating on his own, and his attempted murder is the result.’
‘Was it meant to kill, Inspector?’ asked Auguste.
‘It certainly wasn’t a friendly tap, Mr Didier. Fortunately your Mr Bates has a strong head, a strong bowler and a strong constitution. Bit of an amateur, our head knocker. A professional dipper wouldn’t have attacked – and if he did, he’d have made a better job of it.’
‘There is something else I must tell you,’ said Auguste slowly. ‘It means nothing, I’m sure. After all, we all have to go home, but I did think I saw someone I recognised walking after Obadiah.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Herbert Sykes,’ said Auguste reluctantly.
‘I can’t say, Inspector.’ Herbert was clearly unhappy. ‘No, I can’t say I saw poor Mr Bates in front of me. I was going home,’ he said obstinately, blinking through short-sighted eyes at Rose. ‘No Romano’s for me, you see.’
‘Your home’s in Bayswater, sir.’
‘I walk part of the way, Inspector,’ said Herbert obstinately. ‘No law against that, is there? Look in at the market. Go to my club on the way. If I was going to hit Bates over the head, I wouldn’t walk up Wellington Street for everyone to see, would I?’ His eyes were cold as he glanced at Auguste. ‘Now would I?’ he repeated, pulling
a face and cocking his head on one side.
Auguste saw the smile involuntarily cross Rose’s face. He had seen that effect before too. He had seen Herbert play clown in the Harlequinade more than once. It was the grin he gave after stealing the sausages. He had never seen him do it offstage.
Florence Lytton stepped confidently from her front entrance towards her carriage. Her coachman opened the door, and she clambered in. There was someone in there already. Before her screams had died the intruder had gone and a posy of violets resided in her hand.
Obadiah lived on the top floor of an old house in Floral Street. The stairs were cold and unwelcoming, and it was with surprise that Auguste and Maisie saw the inside of his lodgings after they were admitted by the woman downstairs who ‘did for him’, as she put it.
They were not expensively furnished, but warm and comfortable, a cocoon against the world. Above the small fireplace was a mantel crowded with photographs; an aspidistra stood before the window together with a table with more knick-knacks and photographs, including one of a severe-looking woman in crinoline and bonnet with a boy and a girl at her side, the latter a female edition of her father in embryo, the former roly-poly in sailor suit. Also displayed there were the older generations of Bates, in daguerrotype, their clothes suggesting a more opulent style of living than that enjoyed by their descendant.
‘How are you, Obadiah?’ said Maisie, removing her muff and coat and going to sit by the old man, who was lying on a chaise longue, a large bandage round his head.
‘As well as can be expected, Miss Maisie,’ he said. ‘It’s the Galaxy I’m worried about. I’ve been thinking it over. What are they to do without me?’ His face crinkled up as if with physical pain.
‘Don’t worry about that, Obadiah,’ said Auguste. ‘They’ve got young Fred—’
It was a red rag to a bull. ‘He don’t know how to run a stage door,’ Obadiah shouted. ‘I’d best be getting back.’ He swung his legs to the ground and had to be forcibly restrained by Auguste.
‘You must remain here. You don’t want him to have another go at you, do you?’
The old man glared at him obstinately. ‘You Frenchies don’t understand the English. I’m an old soldier, I am. I’ve got to get back.’
‘Perhaps and perhaps not. But the inspector wants you to take no risks,’ said Auguste.
‘I’m going back,’ muttered Obadiah, struggling to his feet. ‘The Galaxy’s all upset. Ladies and gentlemen quarrelling, shouting at each other – it ain’t right. It’s got to stop. And I’m going to stop it.’
‘But, Obadiah, suppose your attacker tries again. Do you have no idea who it was?’
Obadiah shook his head. ‘Like a thunderbolt it was, Mr Didier. Made me think, I can tell you. But I’m going back all the same. Tomorrow.’
‘But—’
‘And that’s all I’m going to say. None of this, “It may be him, it may be her.” We’ve got the Galaxy to think of. I’ll speak in my own good time.’
It was not the first occasion that Auguste had been forced to grit his teeth when faced with the obstinacy of Obadiah Bates. Even the Afghans had proved no match for him!
The awning above Romano’s had never looked so welcoming. Maisie stared at it from the Galaxy restaurant window. ‘You will not go, ma mie.’ Auguste had said firmly.
‘I will,’ she replied robustly. ‘You detect your way, I’ll detect mine.’
‘Do you not trust your Auguste to solve these crimes? Did I not solve the affair of the Duke of Stockbery? Do you think you are Mrs Paschal? Are you going to write more Revelations of a Lady Detective?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t see the Honourable Johnny inviting you out to dinner,’ said Maisie matter-of-factly. ‘There are some things that need a woman to carry them out successfully. And don’t wait up for me. I’m going back to my lodgings this evening.’ And with this parting shot, she had sallied forth to meet her masher.
The Honourable Johnny had not booked a private room, the Honourable Johnny liked to be seen with his escorts. He was amazed that Maisie should condescend to come out with him again; he’d rather got it into his head that he was persona non grata with the Galaxy Girls. As though the pretty little dears were in any danger from him! He wouldn’t touch a hair of their heads.
Luigi, the maître d’hotel, advanced towards them, smiling. The Honourable Johnny was a regular – and generous – customer. He was shown to his usual table.
‘Now, what are you going to eat, Miss Wilson?’ Johnny said, gulping slightly. Maisie’s blue dress, although not so devastating as the yellow one, was nevertheless considerably lower in the décolletage. She glanced at the menu. Her corsets could not stand too great an onslaught.
‘What do you tell your brother and sister about these evenings out of yours?’ she enquired inquisitively.
Johnny’s face paled a little. ‘Go to my club,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Good fellows they are there. They’ll say anything. Tip them decently, you know.’
Maisie studied Romano’s menu intently. Had the Honourable Johnny not been at his club the night of Edna Purvis’ murder? And on the night Christine Walters had failed to keep her rendezvous with Lord Summerfield? Suddenly the cailles farcies looked much less inviting.
Chapter Eight
‘This is the yeast that rises too much. No, no, non!’
‘Why, Auguste, I’ve never seen you in a temper before,’ marvelled Maisie, helping herself to a large portion of kedgeree and two of Auguste’s brioche rolls. Her waistline’s demands were apparently only mandatory after ten o’clock. Auguste had almost refused to serve her, but he was a maître chef and it was a crime against his honour for anyone to profess hunger and go unfed.
‘I am not in a temper,’ shouted Auguste, eyes flashing dangerously, his hair unruly after an agitated hand had been thrust through it, a misdemeanour for which he had so often to reprove la petite Gladys. ‘I am merely astounded that you wish to go out with murderers.’
Maisie paused in mid-mouthful to cast a look at him.
‘People who may be murderers when I, your – your – alors, I say no, it shall not be.’
‘Your what?’ asked Maisie interestedly, applying black pepper to the kedgeree.
‘What are you doing?’ he cried out in horror once more. ‘You think I do not know how to season food? Is that it? You doubt my judgement? Ma foi, you betray me. First with gentlemen, then with pepper.’
‘Now, now,’ she said appeasingly. ‘You know I have no palate.’
‘That is true,’ he said, partly mollified, ‘but to do so in front of me, your—’
‘Your what?’ she enquired again.
‘Your beloved, Your bien aimé,’ he said, glaring at her.
She laughed. ‘That doesn’t mean you can order me about, as though I were Gladys. I never promised to obey you when you carried me over the threshold of your bed.’
‘I regard my duties to you as those of a husband,’ said Auguste firmly.
‘Do you indeed?’ murmured Maisie. ‘Then why aren’t you?’
With straight face she watched Auguste turn as pink as his own shell-fish dressing. Then his French ancestry reasserted its dominance over his English blood. He waved his hands in Gallic expressiveness. ‘Ma mie, would that – but I explained about my Tatiana – that I could not marry any but her, impossible though that is—’
‘That’s all right, Auguste,’ said Maisie. ‘So I’ll continue to see such gentlemen as I wish.’ She stirred her cocoa vigorously and gave him a charming smile.
‘Non,’ Auguste gulped, torn in a decision even greater than whether to serve carp à la poulette or in a matelote. ‘If you wish it, ma mie, I will marry you.’ It was out. The decision was made. Tatiana was far away. That betrayal he put firmly aside for the moment. He would square his conscience later. At the moment all he could think of was Maisie, sitting there so serenely, high-necked yellow and white lace blouse tucked into a wide belt beneath that entrancing . . . He gulped.
>
‘I’ll think it over,’ said Maisie composedly.
‘Think it over!’ he exploded. ‘But I have asked you to marry me.’
‘Very wise of you, Miss Maisie,’ said an approving voice from the doorway. ‘Takes a lot of thought, wondering whether to marry a Frenchie.’
‘Inspector,’ said Auguste, turning in fury, ‘this is a private moment.’
‘You come in, Inspector,’ said Maisie. ‘Don’t take any notice of Auguste. He’s upset. It’s the shock of having signed his life away. Have a brioche. The quince marmalade is good.’
‘It may be usual for you, Maisie,’ said Auguste bitterly, ‘to receive proposals of marriage, but by me, these matters are taken more seriously.’
‘I can testify to that,’ said Rose cheerily. ‘Remember Miss Ethel, Mr Didier?’ Auguste gave him an outraged look and was strangely silent.
‘How did you find Mr Bates? He wasn’t too good when I looked in,’ said Rose, eyeing the coffee pot hopefully. Mrs Rose preferred her cup of tea.
‘Obadiah insists on coming to work. He is so convinced no one can man the stage door but him,’ said Maisie.
‘I’ll have to give him a guard,’ said Rose. ‘Our friend isn’t going to leave it at that. He’ll try again – and quickly. Ain’t he any idea of who hit him? Or why? He wouldn’t say anything to me.’
‘We asked him to think, think, think of everything that happened that day,’ said Auguste. ‘It must be something that neither we nor he see the relevance of.’
‘Unless he’s keeping something back,’ said Rose. ‘He reminds me of someone I’ve met.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it’s Fingers Field. He kept something back when he split on the Radcliffe gang – and landed up another case for the Thames Police Mortuary as a result. You’re quite sure he cannot remember more about our young lord’s or Honourable’s movements?’
‘No, but I can tell you more,’ said Maisie, not looking at Auguste. A carefully edited account of her last two evenings was passed on to an interested Rose.
