Murder in the Limelight (5 page)

Apparently nothing could. The first night of
Miss Penelope’s Proposal
looked set fair to beat even its predecessor. Florence Lytton had never looked more lovely, trilled so sweetly. Perhaps, if one were to be critical, she had been not quite at her best in the song in which she confided her innermost longings to a marionette, but connoisseurs put it down to her not feeling at home with the rather fast tempo.

Watching from the stalls and dress circle respectively, the Honourable Johnny Beauville and Lord Summerfield sat enraptured anew at the sight of all their little darlings.

Lord Summerfield watched the show girls, those stately damsels who adorned the stage with such grace and elegant, tall beauty, not singing, not speaking, simply looking beautiful. His eyes were on Edna Purvis. She had let him kiss her in the carriage on the way back from Romano’s last week, and there was a look in her eye that suggested he might go a little further next time, though she had made it clear that she was a lady. Not like Christine Walters! He still smarted from that indignity. Perhaps Mother was right, he should
marry the Honourable Jane Biggleswade. But, on the other hand, Miss Purvis was so very pretty . . .

The Honourable Johnny did not confine his admiration to the show girls. He loved all the little darlings – show girls, chorus girls, principals – they were all lovely, and he loved them all. He never noticed if they laughed at him, and would not have cared if he had. He was a humble man with no inflated opinion of his own intellectual powers. But as a connoisseur of female beauty, he rated himself highly.

‘There’s a little stunner,’ he remarked enthusiastically, if unguardedly, to his brother. ‘What a big—’ Only the stern eye of his boot faced sister-in-law stopped him from further enthusing on the female form. Why did she insist on coming if she disapproved so much? he asked himself. She’d sat poker-faced all through
Lady Bertha;
not a twitch of amusement on her haughty features.

Herbert Sykes as the jealous toyshop owner had never looked more comic as when, in the last act, he faced the handsome Lord Harry, come in search of the lovely-voiced female who, out of his sight, had been operating the marionettes. In fact he played his comic gestures mechanically, and perhaps all the better for his private gloating: he had overheard the quarrel between the real-life Lord Harry and Miss Penelope, and had not missed the coolness between them.

The stage was knee deep in flowers as Florence Lytton smiled over the footlights at her devoted public. The female bosoms in the audience swelled to the fullest extent their whaleboning would permit as Lord Harry kissed his hand towards them. The final curtain had fallen.

Robert Archibald mopped his brow, faint with relief. He could have sworn there was trouble on the way but everything had passed off perfectly, perfectly. It was a marvellous play and he had another success. Musical comedy was established. He had his new formula for the future. And all
thanks to darling Florence and dear Thomas. And Mr Hargreaves’ music, of course.

Yesterday’s traumas were of the past, forgotten in the excitement of wriggling into tight-fronted trained satins and brocades, removing stage paint (reluctantly, for did not the eyes look so much enhanced?), and donning as many jewels as the Galaxy girls could muster. The men had no such exciting transformation to effect. They changed only from stage evening dress to their own: from fashionable white stage waistcoats to their own more modest black ones.

More prosaic work was in progress on stage.

‘
Mon Dieu
. Not there, Beatrice!’

Auguste’s agonised shout was hardly heard by a staff rushing now not only to accommodate the restaurant but to serve the party dinner. Stage hands, having rushed hither and thither striking the set, were now pressed into service as waiters. Spotless silver and napkins were laid in place by hands grubby with the dust of the wings, but who cared? This was a first night. Auguste cared, but even he was forced to close his eyes from time to time. He need not have worried. The galantines, the cold capon with truffles, the
poularde
, combined with the heady success of the first night, had raised everyone’s spirits and the dinner was a success. Now chorus girls fancied themselves leading ladies, for all they might be dancing with the stage hands. For tonight, stage hands were as good as Lord Summerfield. Indeed, in their borrowed finery, they were almost indistinguishable. The Galaxy was one big happy family again.

‘Edna, dance with me.’

She glanced at Thomas, tempted. It would be nice to make darling Florence suffer a little. Then common sense reasserted itself. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You know what I said. No more of this.’

‘Just a dance. Please.’

She glanced cautiously around. It was true Thomas was a good dancer and, in the absence of stage door johnnies, by far the most interesting man there, even if he did not interest her. But she was anxious not to have Florence’s attention drawn to her again. Leading ladies – jealous ones – could make trouble. Luckily Florence, attired in palest blue satin, was busy charming Mrs Archibald, her earlier irritation forgotten. Edna accepted Thomas’ invitation. Unfortunately for her, the orchestra chose to strike up with one of Florence’s songs from the show in dance tempo, and Florence glanced round for her husband to share this moment of glory with. She was not pleased to see him in Edna’s arms. Florence stood still, feeling quite bereft.

How dare he, how dare he dance with someone else? She thought.
My
song,
our
song, on this night of all nights.

‘That’s a lovely dress, Florence.’

‘What?’

‘I said,’ Herbert cleared his throat awkwardly, ‘that’s a lovely dress!’

Suddenly she smiled at him. Thomas wasn’t going to have it all his own way. She could flirt as well as he could. Better. Even if it was just old Herbert.

‘Thank you, Herbert dear. Do you think, I hardly like to ask . . . perhaps there is someone else you’d rather dance with?’ She paused diffidently.

Herbert reddened. ‘Why, I—’ He held out his arms and she slipped into them, gracefully hooking the train of the blue satin dress over her arm, her little evening bag dangling from one wrist. She peered confidingly into his face. He did not know the reason for this sudden warmth from Florence but accepted it unhesitatingly. Where she was concerned, he was blind.

Thomas was not. Normally he would never have been jealous of Herbert. But today was not a normal day. It was a first night, when overstretched nerves, wrought up to
extreme pitch, wreaked their revenge. He caught hold of Florence’s arm after the dance.

‘That’s the last time you dance with him. I saw you—’

Florence was pleased. She laughed lightly. ‘You’re not jealous of a poor old thing like Herbert, are you?’

And Herbert, returning somewhat quicker than expected with the requested glass of champagne, overheard. So that was why Florence had danced with him.

Furious with herself for hurting Herbert, for she did not like to hurt people, Florence took it out on the first person she saw: Percy Brian. She quickly remembered her grievance against him, ‘I told you not to play the marionette song so fast. Don’t you remember?’

‘Did you?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah yes, so you did. But Mr Hargreaves thought—’

‘I don’t care a fig what Mr Hargreaves thought. You are accompanying me, and I’m telling you I want it slower tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps.’

Stone-walled and frustrated as rarely before in her life, Florence was close to tears. She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I shall ask Mr Archibald for another accompanist. I don’t think he’d like to think of his pianist and conductor living together, do you?’

My happy company, thought Robert Archibald complacently looking round the animated gathering. My family. Yes, the Galaxy was a lucky theatre.

More floral tributes were arriving, dwarfing their call-boy carriers, to be greeted by the recipients with coos of delight.

‘What
is
that?’ whispered Gabrielle, a bright twenty-year-old French showgirl, to Edna. Supported by two stalwart delivery men perspiring more freely than the heat of the stage floods warranted, a huge fruit basket, woven in silver and gold and veiled in delicate pink muslin, was
waveringly carried towards them. It was placed with some difficulty – almost dropped – on the table already cleared for the appearance of Auguste’s grand centrepiece. A lascivious plaster cupid pointed his arrow towards the writing on the card, which proclaimed ‘Miss Edna Purvis’. Florence’s day was blighted anew. Edna? Why the hell should a mere show girl . . .?

Edna went pink, clapping her hands excitedly. She paused to examine the cupid more closely, hoping to identify the source of this extravaganza. As she bent her stately head forward, the basket suddenly heaved, fruit and chocolate flew in all directions, and a black-suited figure leapt out.

‘Good evening, ladies!’ he beamed, sweeping off his top hat, to receive his audience’s acclaim. The Honourable Johnny Beauville had made good his boast that he would pierce the impregnability of Bates’ stage door.

‘Dear me,’ murmured Mrs Archibald.

‘What a dawg!’ said Maisie in disgust.

Archibald goggled at the intruder, glanced at his assembled cast and staff, and recollected the occasion. There was only one thing he could do. He advanced with outstretched hand.

‘Good of you to drop in, Mr—’

‘Beauville’s the name.’

The company was happy again. It was
the
moment, Auguste decided, time for his creation. He walked to the rear curtain behind which the
pièce montée
rested, and drew it aside.

Le flanc.
The highest expression of a maître’s art. There was a concerted gasp – as there should have been. Auguste had never – or seldom – boasted of being a master patissier, but on occasion he could excel himself. He had tonight. There in front of them was an exact replica of the Galaxy stage as set for
Miss Penelope.
It was made with the utmost delicacy, the stage hollowed out of meringue and
whipped cream. Small grapes and bon-bons represented the dolls, the cast were moulded chocolate characters, the flies sheets of wafer-thin rice paper, scattered with crystallised violets and roses. The top of the masterpiece was still veiled in chiffon, to be ceremonially drawn back by Miss Lytton. The honour belonged only to her, the tribute of one artist to another.

‘Mr Didier, it is quite magnificent.’ Florence was happy again.

She advanced to the centre of the stage and took hold of the yellow ribbon that would draw the flimsy curtains to one side.

But the shriek that followed was not the usual appreciative acknowledgment of Auguste’s genius. Nor were the chorus of cries that followed it.

‘Hell and Tommy!’ breathed Maisie, as Auguste gazed in disbelieving, stunned horror at the travesty of his art.

In place of the elaborate moulded figures of Florence and Mr Archibald presiding over the Galaxy, someone had removed the female figure and replaced it with the marionette she had sung to on stage. Only now the marionette had its strings drawn tight around its neck, its head twisted round, its eyes gouged out. And the crossed arms were bound tightly to its chest.

‘Why does this have to happen to
me
?’

Correctly interpreting this cry of despair to be rhetorical, Props continued to stare at Robert Archibald blankly. It was all but unknown for him to turn aside from his majestic path to the stage door in order to pay a call on the props room. It was even more unusual to see him accompanied by the chef. But these, Props acknowledged, were not normal times. His beloved Miss Lytton was in distress.

‘Weren’t my fault, sir,’ muttered Props at last, again correctly interpreting the tenor of the remark.

Archibald looked round the vast room stuffed in every cranny with ill assorted dusty objects. What a cavern of memories. Momentarily diverted from his purpose, he spied with pleasure the stuffed unicorns’ heads from the last burlesque, set on Mount Olympus,
By Jupiter.
There, too, was the sword from
Mrs Julius Caesar
– ah, what splendid days they were. Daisie Wilton prancing round the stage in her tights . . . He was speedily brought back from his reverie by Auguste.

‘These dolls, Monsieur Props. They live in this room when not on the stage?’

‘They stay on the set, sir,’ Props replied promptly, thankfully. ‘I set ’em up for the first full props rehearsal and then they stays there.’

‘Don’t you check them every day?’ asked Archibald severely.

‘Well, yes, sir, in a kind of way.’ Props fidgeted with
some paper flowers. ‘But there was a lot to do before yesterday evening . . .’

‘And so anybody could have removed them?’ said Auguste. ‘And Miss Lytton’s marionette—’

Mere mention of
her
marionette was lese-majesty to Props. ‘I keep that here, sir. Naturally. It’s hers, you see,’ he added simply, as if that explained everything. As perhaps it did.

‘And last night? The same?’

‘I brought it back, sir,’ Props replied, looking as if he were about to cry. ‘Right after her little song. Or rather, young Edward here did.’ He cast a scathing look at his sixteen-year-old assistant, who was busily delving into a large packing case in best ostrich fashion.

‘Then how could it remove itself again?’ demanded Auguste.

‘We went to shift the furniture on the stage, see. For the party. Someone must have come in while we were away and took her—’ Props’ voice trembled.

Auguste stepped outside. Archibald, who seemed to have handed all initiative to Auguste, followed in his wake.

‘Monsieur Bates.’

Obadiah slowly stepped from his cubby hole by the stage door, as though reluctant to leave this position of trust for a single second.

‘Monsieur Bates, can you see Props’ door from your office?’

‘No, sir.’

Archibald sighed. ‘So you would not have seen anyone going in?’

Obadiah looked puzzled. ‘Only Props, and that young scallywag Edward—’

‘And you are sure you never left your office all last evening?’