Murder in the Limelight (9 page)

Edward Hargreaves was too preoccupied with his present
falling out with Percy to cast his mind back to Christine Walters. He took little notice of the show and chorus girls, except when they got in his way. They were a series of numbers, in his mind, to be arranged, rearranged, reprimanded, moved about to complement the perfection of his music. Music was the only reality, the only integrity. You could trust nothing else. No one else. He stole a glance at Percy, whom he had thought he knew through and through. But Percy had not come home last night. The fear went through his mind that he might have gone back to his old life, picked up someone . . .

‘The police will be calling. Coming to talk to you all – just about Miss Walters, movements again and so forth,’ Archibald added hastily. ‘And in the case of the gentlemen’ – he looked uncomfortable – ‘about their own movements. Just routine.’ He stared at his staff unhappily, little knowing what effect his words had on his audience.

Florence was looking at Thomas and wondering; Herbert blenched at the thought of having to think about Christine Walters, particularly after last night; Percy studiously avoided Edward’s eye, and Thomas looked straight ahead.

It was left to Edward, as Archibald seemed inclined to dismiss them, to raise that other important matter: ‘Ah, Mr Archibald, the song. Um – tonight—’

‘The song. Ah, yes.’ The carefully rehearsed sentences and subtle approaches he had planned on the way to the theatre seemed to have deserted him. But inspiration took over.

‘I’ve decided,’ he said (two seconds before if truth be told), ‘I think it would be effective if verse one were slow, as Miss Lytton desires. Then we speed up a little, and for the last verse, as Mr Sykes joins in, we are at Mr Hargreaves’s tempo.’ There was a note of finality in his voice as he beamed at them. There was nothing like compromise. And after all, the Galaxy had always been a unified happy theatre. The unpalatable thought that this might well be a
thing of the past briefly crossed his mind – and was firmly dismissed.

‘Ah, Monsieur Sykes,
bonjour
.’

Herbert watched Auguste in the midst of puréeing peaches for a
vol au vent à la pêche
. Herbert liked his food.

Auguste had always had a soft spot for the comedian who made no close friends, though the girls treated him like a cross between an elderly uncle and a eunuch in a harem, with his inoffensive soft ways. But even Auguste did not quite understand what went on behind those mild eyes. He had the impression sometimes that Herbert was using his wit as a defence against something quite different. ‘You look like a souffle that has failed to rise,
mon brave.
What has happened?’

‘Murder has happened, Mr Didier, murder.’

‘Murder.’ Auguste blinked. ‘
Ma foi
. Over a song?’

Herbert giggled. ‘No, Mr Didier. But that poor chorus girl, the one that disappeared, seems she disappeared right into the Thames. Strangled,’ he said, almost with relish, picking up the strainer and neglected masher from where Auguste in his horror had let them fall. ‘Here, let me do some. I’ve always enjoyed a bit of kitchen work.’ After a moment, ‘Strangled,’ he repeated, his large, strong hands grinding down the fruit. ‘Not pretty, but quick. Like your mixing machine, eh? And there’s something funny about it, too. Mr Archibald says it’s to do with the theatre, but wouldn’t explain why. Myself, I think it has something to do with those dolls. That was nasty, don’t you think? Poor Miss Lytton,’ he added rather belatedly.

Auguste looked at him sharply. Something strange there. Herbert’s head was cocked to one side, a gleam in his eye – an expression, Auguste suddenly recollected, he put on on stage when he had, as he put it, done something ‘a little naughty’.

So Maisie was right, and murder had entered the life of
Auguste Didier again. One should not be surprised in this large city, especially so close to the old rookeries of Clare Market whose reputation lingered long after the market proper had disappeared, and but a short distance from the East End where men and women vanished every day and few noted their absence. But this affair would be different because it was a girl from the Galaxy, and the Galaxy affected everyone’s lives. From the aristocracy to the middle classes and to the services, the Galaxy was known everywhere. Auguste sighed. This place of entertainment, magic and beauty, was a strange setting for murder. Yet was it any more strange than Stockbery Towers, the ducal residence where he had been instrumental in solving two murders?

The hearts that beat under ermine, whether real or stage, had the same passions, if not the same daily preoccupations, as those that dwelt under rags and tatters or the stockbroker’s top hat.

Rose entered the restaurant somewhat unwillingly. He wasn’t one for fancy restaurants as a rule, but he couldn’t deny a spot of lunch was welcome. The morning had been gruelling, to say the least. Over to the Galaxy to break the news of Christine Walters’ death, back to Scotland Yard to find the report of the Maypole Alley murder, conferences with the Superintendent, then the Chief himself, despatching constables to Miss Purvis’ lodgings and to the lady’s parents in Shoreditch, then back to the Galaxy to face Archibald with the shock of the second death. His second interview with Archibald had been even worse than the first. Rose had been to the Galaxy burlesques a few times himself, and had even taken Mrs Rose for a rare night out, to see
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
. She’d enjoyed it very much. ‘Not so, well, rude, Egbert, as some of them others I’ve heard about.’ He’d even spotted a rare tear in his good lady’s eye.

Now he had to break the news to Archibald not only that
it seemed very likely that the murderer was connected with the theatre, but that the possibility existed that he might kill again. The nightmare dreaded by public and Yard alike: another Ripper. True, this one hadn’t yet ripped – but there was that element of ‘nastiness’, as Rose termed it, that could turn in any direction. He could see the newspapers now: the
Pall Mall Gazette
screaming: ‘What are our police doing?’ The
Thunderer
thundering on: ‘Police admit possibility of Ripper’s return.’

Archibald took the news surprisingly calmly, as one whom nothing could further surprise or horrify. Almost as if he’d been expecting it. Indeed he had been, for once concentrated on the possibility of disaster for the Galaxy, his intelligence was remarkable. He’d even courteously suggested Rose might care to partake of lunch in their restaurant before tackling his official duties. The restaurant, as it was a matinee day, was open, and if he took an early luncheon he could have time to see at least the stage staff before the performance.

Rose sat at a table next to the window overlooking Wellington Street. It was a pleasant restaurant, lighter than some. He liked a nice comfortable heavy red decor himself, with good solid chairs. This was more ornate than his taste allowed. All the same, it was very pleasant. He ran his eye down the menu. It would make a change from the offerings of Mrs Rose at any rate.

His eye fell on something familiar. He studied the menu more closely. Then he glanced once again at the decor. An evil look came over his face and there was an anticipatory gleam in his eye as he gave the order. ‘
Sole au chablis
,’ he said firmly, pronouncing the final ‘s’ with relish. ‘And a nice cup of tea,’ he added wickedly.

When the dish was presented to him ten minutes later, he inspected it carefully. Then he sent for the waiter. ‘Take it back,’ he said peremptorily.

‘Sir?’ The waiter was disbelieving.

‘Take it back. Tell the cook that’s not chablis in that sauce.’

A look of stark horror crossed the waiter’s face. It was probably the first time anyone had questioned the authenticity of one of Auguste’s dishes, certainly anyone who ordered a nice cup of tea to accompany it. How to face the maître was clearly the waiter’s dilemma.

‘Take it back. Give the cook my message. Head cook, mind.’

Retribution was swift. Auguste erupted from the kitchen door within twenty seconds, red-faced and quivering with hurt indignation, bearing the scorned
sole au chablis
in his own hands, clearly with the intention of forcing it down the unfortunate customer’s throat.

Egbert Rose looked at him with a bland smile of satisfaction.

‘Morning, Mr Didier.’

‘Ah.’ Auguste Didier’s face changed instantly from a mask of rage to one of great pleasure, ruffled feathers subsiding as quickly as they had arisen. ‘Inspector Rose. It is the joke then. And the cup of tea also?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Now that I wouldn’t say no to – afterwards, of course,’ Rose added hastily. ‘Wouldn’t ruin your dish by mixing the two. You taught me enough at Stockbery Towers not to do that, Mr Didier. I didn’t expect to find you here.’

‘Ah, Inspector, the Towers. It is delightful, your English countryside, but a maître must broaden his horizons and bestow his gifts widely. I came here two years ago – I left the Towers a year after we met.’

‘Never the same afterwards, that it?’

‘Ah, no, it was exactly the same. That is the trouble with your big houses.’

Rose laughed. ‘And now you’re running the Galaxy restaurant. Rather a comedown, isn’t it?’ he said without meaning to cause offence.

‘Ah no, Inspector. I make this run-down restaurant into one of the best in London, then
the
best, and when it is the best, I will go elsewhere. Perhaps have my own restaurant. Perhaps not. It’s too much of a tie. There are other things in life to be experienced before a maître can run a restaurant that is worthy of him.’

‘Like a spot of detection, eh?’

‘Perhaps, Inspector. We agreed once that our crafts are very similar, the cook – the maître, that is – and the detective. The assembling of ingredients, the marinating, the selecting of the main flavours, the mixing, et
voilà le denouement
. But I am right, Inspector, that your visit here is not because of my art but because of yours, is that not so?’

‘Yes, Mr Didier, that’s quite right.’ Rose cast a longing glance at his
sole au chablis
. Appalled, Auguste stepped aside. He had broken his own rule, never to allow an interruption when
le plat
has been served.

When Rose had finished, he sat back and wiped his lips, then summoned an anxiously hovering Auguste. ‘Lost none of your touch, Didier,’ he said kindly.

‘It is the dolls then,’ murmured Auguste. ‘And poor Miss Walters.’

‘And another,’ said Rose sombrely. ‘Edna Purvis, her name was. Found early this morning in Maypole Alley.’

Auguste’s thought flew instantly to that girl who only yesterday had been boasting . . . ‘A late night reveller from the Olympic?’ asked Auguste slowly. ‘It has not a high quality clientele, that place. If she took a short cut home—’

‘With her hands bound across her chest?’

‘Ah.’ Auguste sighed. ‘So the poor Galaxy . . .’

‘Funny, that’s what everyone says,’ commented Rose. ‘Not poor girl, but poor Galaxy.’

‘It is how we feel about this place,’ said Auguste simply. ‘While we are in it, we think of it first. Outside, we have our lives, our loves, our thoughts, but here – it is
the
theatre,
the Galaxy. And now we have lost one – two – of its members. Not good. There is something wrong in the theatre, Inspector. You must find what, and quickly, or more girls may follow Edna.’ His thoughts were with Maisie.

‘There already, are you?’ grunted Rose. He took a sip of tea. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Not so good as that
verveine
stuff you call tea, though. I remember that.’

‘It is not the restful
verveine
you will need, Inspector, but borage “I, borage, bring courage”. That is the saying. I think we will all need courage in the Galaxy. And we must all unite against this murderer?’ There was a note of query in his voice, which Rose picked up.

He thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I reckon so, Mr Didier. I could do with your help. Behind the scenes, information, that sort of thing. The ingredients, you’d term it. Within the same limits, of course.’

‘
Entendu
,’ said Auguste. ‘Now there is one thing, Inspector, from what you have told me that I do not like. Christine Walters disappeared.
Bien
, someone does not like Christine Walters. Now, two months later, we have three nasty jokes played against Miss Lytton.
Bien
again, someone does not like Miss Lytton. It is difficult to understand but perhaps there are reasons. But today you tell me Edna Purvis is murdered. Not Miss Lytton, but Edna Purvis. And that tells me something quite different.’

‘Yes, indeed, Mr Didier.’

‘It tells me that it is possible this murderer did not kill Miss Purvis because he did not like her, but because, perhaps, just perhaps, he does not like women.’

‘Not necessarily, Mr Didier. I see your point, but it could be the same person trying his luck with one after another.’

‘It comes to the same thing, Inspector, in the end,’ said Auguste slowly. ‘When there is a next – if there is a next – if you do not catch him – it could be any of the ladies here. It could be my friend Miss Maisie.’

‘Ah.’ The inspector fastened on this. ‘You didn’t marry Miss Ethel then?’

‘Miss Ethel is married long since to the good Constable Perkins,’ said Auguste with dignity. ‘My heart is—’ he paused.

‘Bespoke. To that Miss Tatiana,’ said Rose, remembering the gossip.

‘Princess,’ said Auguste shortly. Tatiana was not a subject he wished to dwell on unless it were expedient.

‘If it wasn’t for the dolls, of course,’ said Rose, reverting to the matter in hand after a swift glance at Auguste’s face, ‘it could be one of these stage door johnnies wanting to take the girl out, pressing his attentions, girl won’t give, and there you are. But those dolls suggest it is someone inside the Galaxy. And someone with a grudge against Miss Lytton. We’ll have to keep an eye on her.’

‘You have met Mr Bates?’

‘Bates?’

‘Mr Obadiah Bates, the doorkeeper. The most important person in the Galaxy after Mr Archibald, and some would say without that qualification. He will know who goes in, who goes out. It is his proud boast that no one gets past his front door. And yet, Inspector, two nights ago one did.’