Murder in the Limelight

by Myers, Amy

  He awoke at seven, sweating, trembling, but his mind was crystal clear. He leapt out of bed and capered round the room. Picking up the jug of water left outside by the landlady, he poured it into the bowl and began to shave, fingers slightly trembling.

  ‘Auguste?’ Maisie sleepily stretched out a hand.

  ‘Here, my love. And thanks to you, I see the whole pudding.’

  The sergeant on the desk at Scotland Yard was not impressed by the results of Auguste’s shaving. It took some time for the constable to plod up to Rose’s office and then down again to collect Auguste, by now almost dancing with impatience.

  ‘Inspecteur Rose.’ He stood dramatically on the threshold at last. ‘We have solved it. We know.’

  Rose had also been awake all night with a missing ingredient. The missing ingredient in his recipe was Mrs Rose’s ability to cook. Her massacre of the pork last night had been enthusiastic but ill-timed. She had been inspired by a recipe in her Lady’s Companion for pork and pickled walnuts. A dyspeptic Rose arrived at the Yard to find a copy of Her Majesty’s latest missive; Her Majesty had a longer memory than most of her subjects, and was exceptionally determined. Almost without hope Rose listened to Auguste. The last flicker of hope extinguished itself when he had heard him out.

  ‘But you can’t be right, Didier. Not that.’

  ‘We have made the simplest mistake of all in cookery. The pudding must be turned out before you eat it, but we looked at those crimes the wrong way up! It was this way—’ and he talked earnestly for some minutes. At the end, Rose reached for his bowler.

  ‘Where are you going, monsieur. To see Mr Beauville?’

  ‘Somerset House, Auguste, my lad. Have a look at a few wills and marriage certificates, things like that. Go back to the recipes, eh Monsieur Didier?’

  ‘Open the theatre again? For Boxing Day?’ Robert Archibald stared at them helplessly. ‘But how can we manage it in six days. And how can we take the risk?’ The shock had been enormous. To take such a decision was now beyond him.

  ‘We’ll keep a watch on him. Everyone’s got to be there, mind, just as before. The same staff, same cast.’

  Robert Archibald turned slowly to look at his wife placidly sewing on the Chesterfield. His eyes besought her to make the decision. ‘Do, dear,’ urged Mrs Archibald. ‘Oh, I should, Robert.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Boxing Day 1894 dawned bright but cold. All over the country, wherever there was access to a town, families were preparing for one of the major events of the social year. Cabs were booked, carriages appeared promptly, sailor suits were donned, eyes sparkled. The visit to the pantomime! What wonders lay ahead – demon kings, fairies, the harlequinade, and for the lucky ones, Dan Leno.

  Behind the scenes all over the country, frenetic workers, eager as their prospective audiences, prepared pans of red and green fire, strapped all too solid fairies on to travelling irons, tested traps while strange monsters with grotesque masks and heads stomped by. Wet blankets were checked in the wings, in case the gauze-clad fairies should prove their humanity all too visibly in contact with the floats. The temperature rose as gas jets were lit and adrenalin flowed.

  At the Galaxy similar though more stringent preparations were in hand. Robert Archibald’s safety precautions were stricter than those laid down by the Lord Chamberlain. Unfortunately neither he nor the Lord Chamberlain could legislate for murder. But for the moment murder was playing second fiddle in the orchestra.

  The Galaxy was open again. The public rejoiced. The theatre had served its penance. And, after all, it was Christmas. Even murderers must surely allow a moratorium for the season of goodwill.

  And so trains left suburban stations, underground stations and buses disgorged their passengers, carriages drew up and departed with regimental precision, leaving their charges in the care of the linkman. Over 2,000 privileged persons who had rushed to buy the hastily advertised tickets, made their way towards their Boxing Day Mecca: the Galaxy theatre.

  Herbert Sykes left his married sister’s house in Holloway without regret. They dutifully asked him for Christmas, and in duty he went. But he preferred his own house, even without the ministrations of Mrs Fawcett, the housekeeper, who had departed to her daughter’s house for the festive season. Now the Galaxy was open again, and he could lose himself in work – if it weren’t for the thought of seeing Florence Lytton. The thought tempered his pleasure as he climbed into his hansom cab.

  For Props it was Christmas indeed. The heavens had miraculously opened and by a deus ex machina had restored what had so mysteriously been taken away from him – his job at the Galaxy. He did not understand why it was so, but it was enough that he had the job back. With a last look round his shrine he left. Tonight he would see the real Florence Lytton again. What flowers should he take her?

  The Honourable Johnny Beauville thought it all stunning. Not only could he see all his little darlings again, but it gave him a marvellous excuse to leave the family table, a table only made different at Christmastime by the holly decorations and not by any enlivening of the spirits around him. His nieces and nephew, small editions of their parents, had dutifully played with their musical pigs and model soldiers, and he had dutifully assisted, but his mind had been elsewhere: on the lovely ladies of the Galaxy. He’d missed them. By jingo, how he’d missed them!

  Obadiah Bates hurried to the Galaxy, rejoicing. The theatre was open again. Now these girls would be safe. He’d make sure of that. He didn’t hold the Pathans at the Khyber Pass that day for nothing.

  Edward Hargreaves and Percy walked in the Stage Door with relief, just in time perhaps to save their friendship. It had not been easy these last two weeks, looking at Percy and wondering, wondering whether it were he . . . Now surely the police must know the murderer or the theatre would not be opening? It would soon be over.

  ‘I still don’t like it, Didier,’ said Archibald mournfully. ‘But do what you have to.’

  ‘The boar’s head, as I understand,

  Is the finest dish in all the land . . .’

  Auguste sang in a fine baritone voice while popping two prunes into rings of hardboiled eggs for the boar’s eyes. Yesterday he had feasted on Christmas goose with Maisie at her parents’ house, for once an honoured guest and not the cook. Today was the day of the boar’s head – the dish to end all dishes. So it was in mediaeval times, and was brought in with due ceremony and trumpeting. And so it would be tonight – but he, the chef, would not be there to see it. He had other fish to fry this evening.

  ‘But why not me?’ demanded Maisie.

  ‘Because it is known that you are my fiancée. It would not work.’

  In the show girls’ dressing room, Birdie Page applied her make-up carefully. She slipped the silken gown over her head and as she emerged remarked casually: ‘I’m going to dine with Lord Summerfield tonight. Aren’t I lucky?’

  The hubbub that greeted this piece of news sent a wave throughout the dressing rooms, and had not died down even by the time they reached the wings.

  Obadiah passed on a message that Lord Summerfield would be waiting with his carriage outside the stage door of the Opéra Comique in Wych Street. The call-boy took it to Miss Birdie Page who communicated its contents to the dressing room at large, who discussed it in the wings, where the stagehands picked it up. By the time the curtain raiser had started, practically everyone at the Galaxy knew Miss Page was to dine with Lord Summerfield and where she would meet him.

  ‘No, my pigeon, you stay here. Safely in the restaurant until we return. It will be over quickly now. I have not yet had an opportunity to tell you, but we know who—’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Maisie huffily. ‘It’s obvious who the murderer is. You’re so full of French bravado you think only a man can be a detective. Well, let me tell you this is the age of the New Woman. We’ve listened to you for too long. Great detective, fiddlesticks! I reasoned it out as soon as you had gone prancing off to Scotland Yard, so pleased with yourself that
morning.’

  ‘Then,’ said Auguste in exasperation, ‘you have no doubt guessed why it is so important to be careful. Not that there is danger to you. But to have you around at the wrong moment might distract him – get in our way.’

  From the look in her eye, Auguste deduced that the lid was shortly about to be blown off the saucepan by excess steam, and prudently busied himself with last minute instructions to Robert, the underchef, to whom, perforce, the evening dinner must be entrusted.

  The carriages drew up with slightly less than their former precision after their drivers’ evenings at the various hostelries of the East Strand. Their owners, ushered by the linkman, swept through the door of the Galaxy, cosseted and pampered by the illusion of theatre. The evening had gone well, the final seal on Christmas. Patrons were satisfied. They smiled benignly on the waifs from the rookery behind the theatre who had gathered to gaze on their own version of theatre, remembered it was Christmas and distributed largesse.

  As if conscious that it was on trial, the show had gone without a hitch. Florence Lytton had never looked more beguiling, Thomas Manley more handsome, the songs better trilled, the comics more comical. Murder was a million miles away. Or, to be precise, it was to those whose evening, save for a seven-course dinner, was over. But for a small band of players, the last act was yet to come.

  In the show girls’ dressing room, the others pretended not to notice while Bridie removed her stage make-up and self-consciously donned a taffeta-lined satin evening dress and her diamond bracelet, which looked almost real. Perhaps one day it would be, she thought. She arranged her evening mantle carefully around her shoulders, secured by a jewelled pin the wide-brimmed hat with its profusion of bows and flowers, and drew on her long kid gloves. She took her time, so that the other girls might depart first. In groups for safety they did so, ignoring her, leaving only Maisie in the chorus girls’ dressing room. Bridie descended the stairs towards the stage door.

  ‘Goodnight, Obadiah,’ she called as she went through the stage door. The theatre was quiet now, the lamps turned down to minimum for the night. The Galaxy was left to itself.

  Her cloaked figure with its distinctive hat turned left into Catherine Street as she set off for the stage door of the Opéra Comique. The observant might then have noticed a curious occurrence. Instead of crossing the road to cut through to Drury Lane she turned swiftly left and into the porch of the Royal Entrance to the Galaxy, whence she stepped one second later to resume her journey.

  If there was to be bait in the trap, and she guessed that knowingly or unknowingly Birdie was, why couldn’t it be she, Maisie? Men were unreasonable. They refused to see the obvious. It had taken them all that time to deduce what she had known right from the beginning, intuitively. She and Florence. That there was something abnormal about Props’ devotion. But no, they had to go to all the trouble of closing the theatre, then opening it up so that they could call him back to work.

  She regarded the menu without enthusiasm. There were times when she thought she had only to see another of Auguste’s masterpieces to be off food for good. Suddenly she wished passionately for the comforting jellied eels of her youth.

  She glanced out of the window into Wellington Street where the Lyceum was disgorging its crowds – and was instantly still with shock. A familiar figure was hurrying by. Props – but why? What was he doing there? Why going up Wellington Street? Surely Auguste and Rose would be waiting for him to follow Birdie on the other side of the theatre up Catherine Street. There was only one explanation. Props was going to use his private way in, wherever that was, to break back into the theatre. Yet he must have a reason. The reason must be Birdie Page, she thought with a sickening lurch. He must have realised that it was a trap, and that the decoy he was following was not Birdie Page, who must have doubled back to the theatre. It had been obvious to her, Maisie, so why not to him? Props must know Birdie was back in the theatre, and now was breaking in to get her. She leapt up. She must go through Archibald’s secret entrance and rush across to warn Birdie. Bring her back here.

  Thus to the amazement of Auguste’s kitchen staff, Mr Didier’s pretty lady friend from the theatre suddenly rushed through the kitchen where they were in the middle of serving the entrées, and disappeared into a larder.

  Any moment now, thought Rose, crouched by a window of the public house, he’ll come round that corner. Any second.

  Auguste Didier similarly positioned halfway along the narrow road, was more nervous than ever before. Even at the banquet for Maître Escoffier’s birthday party, he had not felt like this. As if something might go wrong . . .

  A slow fear took hold of Egbert Rose. Bridie Page was almost level with Didier now – and no one in sight. Had he gone by the Strand route by mistake? Was he planning to catch her there and not on the way they had assumed he would take?

  A nightmare thought occurred to Auguste, as if the dish of his dreams were ruined because he had forgotten the salt. The obvious ingredient. ‘Bridie Page’ was in sight – but no one followed. It came to him, so blindingly obvious. The obvious that had been overlooked.

  Not Bridie, Maisie. Maisie, whom he would think alone in the theatre. Dieu merci she knew who it was, she would be on her guard, and dieu merci he had taken her into the restaurant by his private door. But nevertheless a terrible fear lurked. He rushed out, past ‘Bridie’, yelling for Rose.

  ‘Maisie, Inspecteur! Maisie! It is she he wants.’

  ‘Strewth!’ said Rose simply, blowing his whistle. Six uniformed policemen leapt obediently from doorways, and a wide-brimmed hat and wig went flying from the person of Police Constable Drewman as he picked up his skirts and ran, to the intense interest of the dwellers in the tenements of that narrow street.

  Maisie ran down the steps and through the dimly lit corridor linking the restaurant to the entrance the other side of the theatre, past Props’ room and the stage door corridor and up the stairs towards the dressing room. ‘Bridie,’ she risked shouting as she got there.

  ‘Bridie, where are you?’ Her voice fell into emptiness and she knew before she even reached the dressing room that it was empty of life.

  She paused on the threshold, steadying her nerves, afraid of what she might find: Bridie, strangled, with staring eyes and purple face. She gulped in anticipation as she pushed open the door. It was in darkness and she turned up the gas jet: with trembling fingers she turned on the stopcock, the pilot light bringing the jets flickering to full light. She let out a sigh of relief. There was no one. No body. It had been her imagination working overtime. Bridie wasn’t here. She must get back. Back to the warmth and security of the restaurant. She was not fanciful, but it was creepy here. She turned out the gas lights and turned to go. It was then she heard the footsteps. Measured, they were. Slow and heavy. Whoever it was was in no hurry.

  ‘Watch?’ she cried hopefully.

  There was no reply. The footsteps paused and briefly continued. Up the stairs towards her. He’d been quick. He must have run – heard her. Now she was here. Alone with him. Maisie Wilson, the Angel Murderer’s fourth victim.

  ‘Props,’ she shouted, trying to sound reassuring. ‘It’s only Maisie Wilson. Not Miss Page. She’s waiting outside for you. Just as you wanted.’

  The footsteps halted. She waited, breathless.

  ‘It’s you, miss. You I wanted.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ she said falteringly. It wasn’t Props. But the voice, she knew.

  ‘Bates, miss. Only Bates,’ came the reply. Flat, normal, conversational.

  Not Props, Bates! That’s whom Auguste had been after. He’d never intended to kill Bridie. It was her, her, he had been waiting for all along. He hadn’t seen her leave the theatre for the restaurant and had assumed she was still there. And she had walked right back into his hands. His hands. She shivered. Though old, he was a tough man. There was no way she could defend herself. If she tried to reach the window he would get her first. She forced her voice to sound as natural as possible.
‘Just coming, Obadiah, sorry to keep you waiting. Just coming out now.’

  Fool that she’d been! The recollection of how she had insisted Summerfield meet her before Obadiah’s lodge flashed through her mind. She had been signing her death warrant. Her crime in his eyes was all the worse because he thought she was betrothed to Auguste. Auguste! She forced the thought of him away. If she was to see him again, she needed to think calmly.

  ‘I’ll come in, miss, if I may.’ Still the calm flat voice. Perhaps she was wrong – perhaps, it was imagination . . .

  ‘No, really, I’m just coming. Here—’

  She stepped out of the door, turned swiftly and threw several of the chorus girls’ frou-frou skirts over his head. Taken by surprise he fought off the layers of gauze for several precious seconds while she frenziedly pushed her way past him and down the stairs. She glanced back to see a Bates she did not know freeing himself from the last of the folds. Then he was at the steps – and she was in pitch dark. He had turned off all the corridor lights. And then the steps came again. Measured. Towards her. She hesitated for one fatal second and turned in panic, not towards the corridor and safety, but the front door.

  He heard the sound of the rattling door. He heard her scream. ‘It’s locked, miss. You won’t get through.’ His voice came out of the blackness, so eminently reasonable, as though he were explaining the non-appearance of a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘Watch,’ she croaked.

  ‘He’s not here, miss. I told him I’d stay tonight.’ He was standing still, by the sound of his voice. Her searching hands found the side wall and she crept along it towards him. She had to pass him.