Murder in the Limelight (14 page)

She had a momentary qualm as Summerfield escorted her up the staircase into one of the many private rooms. It was all very well the Prince of Wales entertaining Lillie Langtry here, she thought to herself, but despite the rumours about his son having been the Ripper no one could accuse the future king of England of being a possible strangler. She gulped, and tried to look a great deal more confident than she felt.

The table was set for two, and she had few illusions that after the coffee had been served, and doubtless a large liqueur, the service would be as noticeable by its absence as by its assiduousness during the meal. She patted her hair and was reassured to find the hatpin safely in position. With a weapon within reach, she felt more secure, and turned a beaming smile on her escort.

‘Have you noticed,’ she said, ‘all the best cooks are called Auguste? Auguste Escoffier, Auguste Kettner – and Auguste Didier.’

Summerfield blinked. He had not given the matter much thought. He had been thinking, in fact, how soon he could decrease the distance between himself and this desirable creature.

‘Who’s Auguste Didier?’

‘The cook you met at Scotland Yard.’

‘I don’t see why they need a cook at Scotland Yard,’ said Summerfield, with some disdain.

‘He’s a detective as well as a cook,’ said Maisie. ‘And he’s at the Galaxy – he keeps an eye on things there for Inspector Rose. I think,’ she said tremulously, lying with practised ease, ‘he suspects
me
.’

‘Of being a strangler? My dear young lady, you exaggerate, surely.’

‘Of that trick with the dolls – and perhaps of luring the girls into the murderer’s trap. Oh, Lord Summerfield, you
know
what it’s like to be suspected, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said His Lordship bitterly.

‘And it would be such a
help
to me to talk about it with you. To have a
gentleman’s
advice.’

Lord Summerfield’s ego burst forth from the shelf where it had lain neglected for so long, and leapt to meet this unaccustomed challenge with as much eagerness as Auguste would greet a long-buried truffle of Perigord.

As the plovers’ eggs were arriving in the private room at Kettners, Auguste was in the midst of serving evening dinner at the restaurant, an experience that never failed to challenge, exalt, uplift him. Whether for solidarity or out of sheer bravado, an unusual number of the cast had chosen to eat in, thus filling the restaurant. This was fortunate, for while murder had brought a larger audience even than usual to the Galaxy theatre that Friday evening it had deprived the restaurant of anything like its normal clientèle.

‘Perhaps they think, Mr Didier, that a murderer that strangles can also poison,’ remarked Herbert. He was dining on his own, having feigned not to see when Thomas had held out a beckoning finger for Herbert to join him and Florence. Anything to avoid a tête-à-tête with Florence, Thomas had been thinking, yet short of sitting at another table there was little he could do but endure his bravely smiling wife.

Herbert’s grin at Auguste’s pained reaction lit up his face. ‘Not that you would be serving poison, Mr Didier, but some folks have odd ideas.’

‘Miss Lytton does not seem to regard me as a poisoner. She looks happier,
la petite
.’ And so she should, he thought to himself. That is my best soufflé of orange-flower.

Herbert continued to savour the raspberry charlotte on
his plate as though it were the most important thing in the world. This to Auguste seemed perfectly natural, but he acknowledged it was not natural for Herbert to ignore a reference to Florence. ‘But then,’ he continued exploratorially, ‘she has little reason to fear. She has no enemies. Everybody loves—’

Herbert put down the spoon and looked squarely at Auguste. ‘There isn’t anybody doesn’t have enemies, Mr Didier. Even Miss Lytton. There’s several of the girls don’t care for her, if you can get them to confess it. They tell me sometimes. Jealousy, of course. Very nasty about her they can be. Spiteful, women,’ he remarked bitterly to the raspberry charlotte.

‘Ah, there I agree with you,’ said Auguste quietly, quickly changing direction, sensing something of interest was coming. ‘Women can be fickle, false-hearted creatures, not like we men. Why, my own Tatiana did not hesitate to play the coquette with other men, conscious that I as a mere cook could not object. She did not mean to be cruel, but liked to use her power. She will be true to me forever, my Tatiana, but—’

‘That’s as may be, Mr Didier. Your Tatiana might not have meant to be cruel,’ Herbert burst out, ‘but others do. They make use of people. She likes people to be devoted. Oh yes, she likes that. But doesn’t like it when you try to tell her how much you – I didn’t want anything, Mr Didier, not really. I wouldn’t hurt her, she couldn’t have thought that. So she had no cause to do it. No cause at all.’ He gazed now at the raspberry charlotte as if it were responsible for all his woe, then with an effort picked up the spoon and began to eat as if nothing had happened. Auguste knew that the charlotte was wasted on him. It could have been Mr Soyer’s Maids of Honour for all Herbert would have cared (a receipt that, in Auguste’s opinion, might as well have vanished along with the ladies at Queen Elizabeth’s court who inspired it.)

Herbert pretended to take no notice when Florence rose, making her intentions plain. She departed alone, donning her wrap and summoning a hansom from the linkman without one word of farewell to Thomas Manley.

He was left staring into a large glass of Napoleon brandy. ‘Women,’ he remarked moodily to the passing Auguste, with a disillusionment that did little credit to the leading man of the Galaxy whose face adorned so many postcards, whom gods and stalls swooned over, who wore his evening tailcoat to perfection, who kissed a hand with more sensuousness than a Keats’ ode. ‘I tell you, Didier, I don’t understand her. Sweetest little thing, dearest little woman’ – it was possible that he was a little drunk – ‘turns into a vixen, all because I—’

‘Because you—?’

‘No harm in telling another woman she’s pretty, is there?’ said Manley belligerently.

‘Indeed not, monsieur, indeed not. But perhaps the trick is not to let the dearest little woman find out, eh?’

Manley glared at Auguste, then became mournful. ‘There wasn’t any harm in it, I tell you. She didn’t come. It wasn’t Edna Purvis I escorted on Wednesday evening. She didn’t arrive. She had her eye on that lord. She told me she’d come, then she must have changed her mind when Summerfield offered to escort her. She didn’t even bother to tell me. So I hung around for a while, went over to Romano’s and met Gabrielle. I couldn’t leave her sitting alone, could I?’

‘Indeed not, monsieur,’ said Auguste, fascinated, wondering whether Egbert Rose was aware that one so close to Florence Lytton was not impervious to the charms of the other Galaxy Girls.

Egbert Rose was not dining on plovers’ eggs or
foie gras
. He had dined some hour or two ago on Mrs Rose’s boiled tripe and was now feeling the after effects. Mrs Rose was
not a good cook, and thus the one maid-of-all-work was a worse one. Whether Mrs Rose’s was the hand that rocked the cradle of the stove or merely its superintendent, she apparently passed on her lack of prowess by osmosis to their succession of maids over the years. Nevertheless Rose had made a valiant effort.

‘That was a splendid supper, my dear.’

‘Thank you, Egbert,’ said Mrs Rose, gratified.

‘A la mode de Caen
, was it?’

‘Pardon, Egbert?’

The dinner in Kettners had reached its finale. As usual Maisie had to waive the
crème georgette
in favour of the consommé and bypass the
turbot à la crème et au gratin
. Ample her proportions might be, but there was a limit. The Galaxy kept a stern eye on such matters.

‘Miss Wilson.’ She saw with sinking heart the gesture that dismissed the lingering waiter for the last time. ‘I want to ask you something very difficult, very personal.’

Maisie kept the hatpin firmly in mind.

‘Do you think that policeman really suspects me?’

She relaxed. ‘Sure to, I’d say,’ she answered cheerfully.

‘But I’m a peer of the realm,’ said Summerfield, outraged.

‘Same size neck as the rest of us.’

He gave her a shattered look. ‘But neither of them came,’ he bleated in anguish.

‘What did you do then?’

‘When?’

‘After they didn’t come, what did you do? Eat your way through this mountain of food alone?’

‘I walked around.’

‘Go on. A swell toff like you. Walk around?’

‘I went home.’

‘Then the servants will testify.’

He went red. ‘Not right away. That is – I went home, but not immediately.’

‘Look, my old cocksparrow, what
did
you do?’

‘I – I walked around.’

She shut her eyes. ‘Gawlimey, give me patience. No wonder they think you’re guilty. I never seen anyone look so guilty in my life. If you mean you took a stroll up the Haymarket for a spot of the local produce, why not say so?’

Lord Summerfield went red, then white, upbringing warring with relief.

‘And,’ said Maisie, warming to her subject, ‘if I were you, I’d keep to the Haymarket for a while, and forget the attractions of us Galaxy Girls.’

But, despite her warning words, she noticed with alarm that his eyes were fixed on her with a dog-like devotion, and that he seemed to be getting closer.

‘Mr Didier,’ Percy flashed his charming smile, ‘perhaps a little more goose liver – since it’s in season. From the Dordogne, I trust?’

Edward frowned. Trust Percy to cement their re-established rapport by ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.

‘Just that and a little Château Margaux to wash it down. A little
dégustation
before we go to bed.’ He flashed a smile at Edward.

Auguste had never seen a middle-aged man blush like a maid before, and watched in amusement.

‘Percy,’ Edward rapped.

‘Sorry, little
pichets
of Château Margaux have big ears,’ Percy giggled.

‘Monsieur,’ said Auguste, anxious to safeguard Florence, ‘you would perhaps wish to know that’ – he prayed to St Christopher for safety on this perilous journey – ‘that Mr Archibald is aware – um – of your generosity in providing a home for Mr Brian.’

Edward Hargreaves turned the colour of Auguste’s sweetmeat of currant jelly.

Even Percy looked alarmed.

‘The bitch!’ he hissed. ‘He’ll sack us.’

‘I think not,’ said Auguste soberly. ‘
Le bon
Monsieur Archibald has other things on his mind. He is concerned with keeping the Galaxy together, not tearing it apart.’

‘I’ll resign,’ said Edward resolutely. ‘I will not have everyone knowing.’

‘Ashamed of me, darling Edward?’ asked Percy sweetly.

‘Of course not, Percy,’ said Edward, abjectly.

‘I beg that you will not,’ said Auguste, serving the
noix de veau demi-grasse à la purée de concombre
. The cucumber was a masterstroke by Soyer, one small part of his mind was thinking. He could not always admire Soyer’s work and disagreed with his flippant approach, but in this he was irreproachable. ‘The Galaxy needs you.’

Edward set his lips mulishly. ‘I cannot work with Miss Lytton after this.’

‘I beg you to reflect,
mon ami
, that she will be feeling much the same thing. Remember, she is in fear of her life, that one.’

‘But those dolls were a joke!’

‘Perhaps the other girls were killed as a preparation for her, much as it has been claimed the Ripper’s victims were all a preparation for Mary Kelly. It has even been thought that you yourself, monsieur, had a motive for harming Miss Lytton. Now that is disposed of. You and Mr Brian have now no reason to wish her dead.’

Edward said nothing, and Percy inspected the
noix de veau
with great interest.

‘But,
chérie
, what next, what next?’ asked Auguste, hopping with impatience as he ripped off his clothes to don his night chemise.

Maisie removed her silk drawers and struggled ineffectually with the top hooks of the red corset. ‘Ouf,’ she said as the first one gave way. The black lacing parted to reveal
another two inches of Maisie’s white skin. ‘Then he said he just walked around, but—’

‘No,
chérie
, the
minute
– the menu – what came next?’

‘Oh, Auguste, really! I told you, there was this
filet piqué japonaise
– of quail it was – and salad.’

‘Salad?’ said Auguste, pausing in the act of jumping into bed. ‘Salad,’ he repeated suspiciously. ‘Describe this salad to me,
chérie
. This Sangiorgi – pouf, he lives on Kettner’s reputation. And Kettner was not a maître cook – he was a great restaurateur, he wrote cookery books, but it is my belief he is not the genuine cook at heart. He was taught, not born a cook. The great showman, that one.’

‘Do you or do you not want to know what Summerfield said?’

‘In a moment,
chérie
. The
salade
– describe the dressing.’

‘How can I describe a dressing? I’m supposed to be undressing,’ she said impatiently, tugging at the centre hooks. ‘It’s no use, you’ll have to help.’

Auguste, his mind inconsiderately elsewhere, tugged at the recalcitrant corset then stopped. ‘Only if you describe this dressing.’

She sighed, defeated. ‘It was good, I’ll say that for it. Had a bit of onion—’

She felt Auguste’s fingers stiffen behind her.

‘And anchovy – there was anchovy in the dressing?’ he asked, almost viciously.

‘Now you mention it there was a slight touch – oh, Auguste, what
are
you doing?’

He had sprung away, yelping as if in pain. ‘Not the Sydney Smith dressing again! This Kettner was so proud of it but it is Miss Acton who should have the credit for bringing it to public attention. “Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today,” they say the epicure remarked after eating it. But it is overdone. It is interesting, yes, but a meal in itself, no no no! The Chevalier d’Albignac who, you may
recall, travelled the length and breadth of England to demonstrate his salad dressings—’