Murder in the Limelight (26 page)

‘It was easy enough for him to kill the girls. They trusted
him. He was just old Bates, who looked after them, was devoted to them. It was simple for him to send a message up by the call-boy, or just to tell them that Lord Summerfield had changed the place of the assignation. Easy to approach them in the street, to say there had been another change of plan, offer to accompany them—’

Maisie shivered, involuntarily feeling her own neck.

‘But why the crossed arms?’ she said.

‘He
was
devoted to you all,’ said Auguste sombrely, ‘but he was mad. He thought he was doing his best for you, saving your souls, ready for heaven. Even you, whom he liked especially. Then you met Lord Summerfield in front of him. He had no chance to kill you then, and afterwards he was himself away from the theatre. Only on Boxing Day could he strike. And strike he had to for not only had you dined with Summerfield, but you were betrothed to me,’ he added a trifle grimly.

‘But who was it then,’ said Maisie, determinedly overlooking this remark, ‘who attacked Obadiah? We thought it was the murderer—’

‘Props attacked him, of course,’ said Rose. ‘Not quite sane, is Props. Harmless on every front – except Miss Lytton. And Miss Lytton had been upset by those dolls. We’ve talked to him and he seems never to have realised that Miss Lytton thought he was responsible for strangling the dolls – we won’t tell him. But he guessed who was and attacked Bates. He’s not a robust man, and Bates is an old soldier, so he did no great harm. But he wouldn’t give up. So when he heard Bates tell Watch he wouldn’t be needed, that he would be staying in the Galaxy that evening, it never occurred to him to wonder why: he just knew his chance had come. So he left as normal and entered by his own secret entrance through the meter room – which fortunately we hadn’t yet cut off. Otherwise it might be a different kettle of
sole au gratin
, eh, Monsieur Didier?’

‘
Non
, not in a kettle, monsieur. The
gratin
is cooked—’

‘I still don’t see,’ said Maisie hastily, seeing Auguste was about to pontificate, ‘why he suddenly started to murder us? We’ve been dining and marrying into the peerage for years. Why begin now?’

‘You yourself gave me the clue,’ replied Auguste graciously, ‘when you told me of something that struck you as odd when we met the Honourable Johnny Beauville. The first murder, we assume, was the evening after the first night of
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
. . . Suppose Obadiah’s daughter was not dead, suppose she had not been seduced and betrayed by a peer and left to die, but had legitimately married him? Dead to Obadiah perhaps. Suppose she had not seen her father since? “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.” Irving in
Lear.
Suppose that on the night of
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
he saw her again, that she did not even speak to him, ignored him. Would that not be enough to turn the mind of a man with an obsession? Against a woman who revealed her origins by speaking of a “likeness” not a “photograph” and who accompanied, out of duty, her brother-in-law to the stage door of the Galaxy: Lady Gertrude Charing.’

Lady Gertrude sat stiffly in her chair, clad in imperial purple satin, as if interviewing a recalcitrant servant. Her face was impassive, but out of it stared Bates’ eyes, cold where his had been puzzled; the face that both Rose and Auguste had half recognised and failed to place.

‘Have you anything else to say, Inspector?’

‘You didn’t think you might have visited him once in a while? Written to him, if you didn’t want to see him?’

Her face remained unmoved. ‘I left that life behind me when I married, Inspector. I explained that to my father. He had instructed me always to do my duty. I did it. I have an example to set. I see no reason—’

From somewhere upstairs a scream of fury could be heard from one of Obadiah’s grandchildren.

‘So you don’t hold yourself responsible in any way?’

Lord Charing, hitherto a silent observer, rose in protest. She stopped him with a gesture.

‘No, Inspector, I do not.’ She folded her hands in her lap. The interview was at an end.

‘I think we’ll start rehearsing a new show, Hargreaves,’ said Robert Archibald thoughtfully. ‘Something a bit different. Cheer everybody up. Got any tunes in mind? Let’s call it,
A Kiss for Lady Katie
.’

Hargreaves smiled. A tune was already adrift in his mind, even the words, if he could persuade the lyricist of their merit:

Darling Percy. A new year. A new start. A new play.

Henry Irving walked to the front door of the Lyceum. He sniffed the bracing, cold air. New year, new play. Something different. Something to lift people’s spirits.
King Arthur.
Yes, it had been a good idea. Nothing like blank verse to get them cheering with patriotic fervour.

The Prince of Wales relaxed after reading the long missive from Mama. Thank God the murderer was found. A tramp so it appeared – Lord Charing had worked hard on his wife’s behalf. Mama seemed to be implying that she personally had achieved it. She was in a good mood. Now he could return to the Galaxy again – after a decent interval, of course. Perhaps the next first night. Now whom should he escort?

The gallery and pit queues shivered, part with cold, part with anticipation, keeping an eye on the stage door behind them lest Miss Lytton and Mr Manley arrive without their noticing.
1895 and the coldest winter for ninety years, but it would be worth the long wait to see
Miss Penelope’s Proposal.
What a relief that tramp had been caught and there would be no more murders. The Galaxy was itself once more.

Florence sailed through the stage door, bestowing her bewitching smile on Fred Timpkins. Obadiah would never have approved of his replacement, a mere stagehand. But it saved trouble and he knew the ways of the Galaxy, Archibald reasoned.

A hand thrust a posy of flowers into her hand. She looked up and smiled even more bewitchingly.

‘Thank you, Props dear. Thank you.’ She had spoken for him. After all, no great harm had come to Obadiah from the blow – and he was a murderer. Conscience – stricken at her treatment of Props, Florence had exerted all her charm at Scotland Yard – everybody loved Florence . . .

Especially Props. Miss Lytton had passed. God was in his heaven, and so was William Ferndale. All was right with his world.

Much later that evening the temperature in the kitchen was high and rising further, despite the cold outside. The revellers had gone. Only Auguste and Maisie remained to see that all was in order before retiring to their rest.

‘I tell you,
ma fleur
, that grilled cod is not a dish that I wish to serve to you. It has no part in a respectable kitchen. It may have been the Duke of Wellington’s favourite dish, but one must recall he it was who did not appreciate the cuisine of the Maître Monsieur Ude, even dismissed him. He cannot have been a great general for he had no respect for his stomach. And neither,’ he added rudely, ‘if you desire grilled cod, have you.’

‘I only said that it would be a change.’

‘Ah yes, a change. But a change from what? From the
greatest wonders of Escoffier and Didier? From the choicest
poulets gras
set on a delicate bed of
cresson
? From a
homard
with sauce remoulade. You have no finesse, no palate,’ he railed unreasonably.

‘It’s only that I still don’t feel quite right here yet, after what happened. To sit and eat food – poor Obadiah.’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Yes,’ said Auguste, softening. ‘Poor Obadiah. But you must remember he was mad. And I cannot forget that he attacked you.’ The thought brought back all his terror on that nightmare evening. ‘But if you had not disobeyed me and left the restaurant, it would not have happened,’ he said severely, so as not to betray these emotions. ‘That will not happen when we are married, my heart.’

‘Ah, that’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ Maisie said more cheerfully. ‘I won’t be obeying you after all.’

‘
Comment
?’ he enquired blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I won’t be marrying you.’

He stared at her, speechless, and she went on quickly, ‘I’m very fond of you, Auguste, very fond indeed, but it wouldn’t be right. I know it wouldn’t. You think about it. You’re a master chef used to ordering people about and all that, you want a little wife who’ll obey your every word.’

‘But—’

‘Not someone like me.’

‘But—’ Auguste broke off and stared at the remains of his
filets de perdrix
, for once with unseeing eyes. Not marry him? But he loved her. She loved him. She was his Maisie.

‘There, Auguste,’ she said anxiously, ‘don’t take it amiss. You’ll find someone
much
better than me. Tatiana—’

But Auguste was not to be mollified. He suspected the real truth. ‘Does this have anything to do with—?’

‘Yes, I’m going to marry Summerfield. He doesn’t know
yet, but he’ll see it my way. Someone has to protect him from his mother. I can’t wait to see her face.’

‘
Summerfield
,’ said Auguste in tones of disgust. ‘And will he hold you as I have held you, make you laugh as I have done, love you as I have loved you? Have you not enjoyed my arms about you?’

‘Oh
yes
, that was ever so much fun,’ she said robustly. ‘But Summerfield
needs
me. You don’t. And
I’ll
be able to rule the aristocratic roost. You’d never let me do that.’

‘I am just a cook,
hein
?’

‘Oh, Auguste, no.’ She was hurt. ‘Now I never said that. You’re the maître. Didn’t Monsieur Escoffier say that only
you
could cook his birthday dinner?’

‘That is true,’ said Auguste, brightening just a little.

She patted his head in a motherly fashion. ‘I’ll go now. He’s waiting, bless his heart, further up the road. No more, though.’ She donned her mantle, drew on her gloves, walked up to the door and looked up Wellington Street. A patrician opera-hatted figure was standing by the Summerfield carriage, saw her, but did not move. It waited. Then, as she vigorously beckoned and waved, slowly, reluctantly, it climbed into the carriage to approach her. She turned for one last look at Auguste, smiled and was gone.

He watched the carriage drive off down the Strand into the January night, amid a path of twinkling yellow lights. With a slight sigh he turned back into the empty restaurant. He was cold, he was alone and something seemed to be blurring his eyes. He rubbed them impatiently. When they could see again, they fell on the rejected cod. Grilled cod! Who could make a dish out of grilled cod? It was not even at its best in January. What could one do with grilled cod? Nothing. Maisie, his Maisie. Gone. Never again her arms round him in bed. Never again hear her happy laughter . . .

One could add French wine sauce – not sherry, too heavy – and oyster – cream of oyster perhaps and – and – he felt excitement rise within him – a Chablis. Had not
Tatiana herself always declared the superiority of Chablis over Muscadet in a sauce? Tatiana, with her black hair and dark eyes. Yes – and not oyster sauce but
shrimps
– puréed.
Mon dieu
, that was it! That was what one could do with grilled cod. He would serve it tomorrow. He would call it:
Cod au crème d’écrevisses Maisie
.