Murder in the Limelight (16 page)

‘You’re no gentleman,’ Manley replied weakly, taken aback by this new Herbert.

He laughed.

This was what Manley needed. ‘You can laugh,’ he said, firing up. ‘You’d laugh on the other side of your fat face if you knew what she said about you. “Poor old Herbert,” she’d say, “poor old roly-poly. Clown on stage and clown off. And he really believes I’m fond of him.” When you try and sing that song—’

At that unfortunate moment Edward Hargreaves, determined not to surrender and cook Percy’s tea, arrived to take his own repast. The word ‘song’ and he was off. Moreover, his new ally seemed under attack.

‘Charming though Miss Lytton is,’ Hargreaves hissed through clenched teeth, ‘she is hardly a musician. Look at that song, for instance. Now you, Mr Sykes, have a true sense of the poetry of music, but Miss Lytton is merely a
performer
!’ He uttered the word with disgust.

Thomas Manley, perceiving himself in the minority, lost his self-control. ‘My wife,’ he shouted, ‘is the leading lady. Adored by the gods.
The
star in the firmament of the Galaxy. The dearest little woman—’ He almost choked.

Gabrielle leapt in, mindful that he was the leading man at the Galaxy. She fluttered her eye lashes. Herbert remembered that gesture. She had done it to him once in happier days. To dear old Uncle Herbert.

‘I think you’re so right, Mr Manley. Dear Miss Lytton. It did ought to be
un peu
’ – being deliciously French – ‘slower. Her charm deserves it.’

‘You see,’ said Manley triumphantly. ‘Now we shall finish the row about that stupid song once and for all. After the show, we shall remain behind and we shall play it at the piano and
all
decide the best tempo. And after that, I could perhaps offer you supper perhaps, Miss Lepin? My wife retires early.’

‘Not tonight,’ said Gabrielle with pride. ‘I’m dining with
Lord Summerfield tonight.’ Suddenly she had all three men’s full attention.

‘Do you think, um, that’s wise, Miss Lepin?’ said Hargreaves diffidently. ‘Don’t you think you are being rather foolish, all for the sake of trying to get a coronet on your head?’

Gabrielle glared. ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘But do give my love to Percy,’ she added spitefully. ‘Tell him how much I enjoyed the other night.’

‘Percy?’ bleated Edward ‘
Percy
? You’ve been out with Percy?’

‘Why not?’ she asked innocently.

‘You’re lying – he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.’

‘Steady, Hargreaves,’ said Thomas well-meaningly. ‘The lad’s only young. He has to have some fun. He often goes out with the young ladies. Keeps them up
very
late, but then he’s a bachelor! Lucky dog, eh?’ He winked, and then stared, aghast, as Edward burst into tears.

Standing on the threshold, an observer of this revealing scene, was Obadiah Bates, come to deliver a message. What was the Galaxy coming to? Now he was even more worried. The future of the Galaxy might be at stake, Monsieur Auguste had said. He should tell him anything that might help the Galaxy. Where did his duty lie?

Now the principals were grimly concentrating on their pre-performance routines, and even the chatter in the chorus dressing rooms was muted.

Florence, tired of being marooned on an island of persecution, managed to direct a weak smile at Thomas as she passed him in the corridor. After all, he couldn’t really want to murder her, could he?

Herbert stumped morosely around his room, wondering how he was going to summon up courage to make a fool of himself before Florence on stage without thinking of the real life scene the other night, and wondering how he could
ever have felt such slavish devotion to her. His eyes were open now, he told himself.

Props, however, remained faithful where Florence was concerned. This evening, indeed, marked a new departure for him. The posy of violets had been clutched a little more tightly than usual, and instead of being thrust into her hand by a rapidly retreating Props, they remained in his possession as he barred Florence’s path through the wings.

‘Sorry about those dolls, miss,’ he said to an alarmed and nervous Florence as he pushed the violets towards her, still avoiding her eyes. It was the longest speech he had ever made to her.

‘Dolls?’ Florence cried. ‘You mean – you – it was
you
?’ Her voice rose alarmingly.

Props gaped at her. ‘Me? What, miss?’

But he spoke to thin air. Florence had fled, screaming. Props tried to think what it was he had said to upset her so much.

Her precipitate passage ended on the floor, together with a glass, a bottle of whisky, and the remains of a gratin of lobster. She had run full tilt into Auguste on his way back from Archibald’s office with his supper tray.

Auguste supported her as best he could, while she sobbed at him: ‘It was Props, Props all the time!’

‘Now calm yourself, madame, what was Props?’

‘Props is the murderer?’ The door to Archibald’s office had flown open, and Authority stood on the threshold – albeit a panic-stricken Authority with only ten minutes before the curtain went up, and a leading lady apparently once more in hysterics.

A glance was exchanged between Auguste and Archibald, and Florence was lifted bodily off her feet and transported once more to the leather-covered chair in Archibald’s office.

‘Now, dear, what’s all this about Props being a murderer?’

‘He,’ she gulped, ‘
told me
!’

Auguste soothingly and somewhat absentmindedly stroked her back. These were no ordinary times. ‘He said he murdered those two girls, madame?’

‘No, but he said he was responsible for those horrible – things – those dolls—’ She gulped again, her beautiful face distorted with tears.

‘If that’s so, I’ll – I’ll have a word with him. Now don’t you worry. You run off and have a nice –’ Archibald paused, his tongue was running away with him, ‘performance.’ He glanced covertly at the Albert watch on his desk before him. Curtain up in nine minutes.

‘Very well,’ she hiccuped. ‘But I want him out of this theatre, Mr Archibald,
tonight
.’

Robert Archibald duly loomed awkwardly and unhappily at the door of Props’ room.

Props looked round, startled, wondering what possible calamity had brought the great man himself hither, the mountain to Mahomet.

‘Props,’ said Archibald kindly, ‘is there anything you want to tell me?’

It appeared from Props’ gaping expression that there was nothing to communicate.

‘It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it?’ said Archibald helplessly. ‘What made you do it, my dear fellow?’

Props looked wildly at him. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he ventured.

‘I daresay, daresay, but all the same it won’t do. You admit you did it?’

Props looked ready to admit anything if only this unwelcome glare of limelight would go away. ‘Them dolls,’ he muttered.

‘Then you’ll have to go, Props – just for a short time. Edward here can carry on. Just stay away a week and we’ll see what we can do.’

Props said nothing, just twisted a piece of paint-smeared rag in his hands, his face growing pinker and pinker. At last
he managed to say something: ‘Leave, Gov’nor? Because of them dolls?’

As had been noted before, Props was a simple man.

This was what happened when he left his post, Obadiah brooded. He was going to have to do something with the future of the Galaxy at stake. You had to stand firm, like before the Pathans at the Khyber Pass. But Tommy had shown them all right. Tommy never left his post and nor would he now. Fred – pah! These youngsters had no idea of what was involved in controlling a stage-door. Especially the Galaxy’s. That brought his worries flooding back. Yes, he’d better have a quiet word in someone’s ear before the curtain went up. Then tonight he’d think things over.

It was amazing that, despite her tribulations, Florence Lytton could present such a smiling untroubled face to the world across the footlights. Miss Penelope tripped across the stage as if she had no thought on her mind other than her next Worth gown.

In the wings Thomas Manley studied this stranger, his wife. Would he ever feel the same way about her? She used to be his little Florence, who needed protection. She needed protection like a tiger cub! His masculine pride was bruised, but he was undaunted. Florence, he guessed, would never tell the police about Edna Purvis and his own interest in her because it would make her look foolish. He had several ideas for ways of getting his own back on her, he thought, and ran on to the stage hallooing to the reverberate gods ‘Women are the devil,’ in the baritone that sent delicious shivers up the spine of half of London’s population. ‘But the devil may care, for I’ve not a care, tra la la . . .’

Florence clasped the marionette to the bosom that eschewed the same attentions from her husband. ‘Oh, for a
love,’ she trilled, ‘a love to cherish. Ah, if you could but hear, what I say to you . . .’

Were her ears deceiving her? Surely that orchestra had speeded up again? It was a vendetta. She caught Herbert’s eye where he stood skulking behind the desk. It seemed to her he was smirking.

Another performance over, and all things considered it hadn’t been bad. Robert Archibald breathed a sigh of relief. One day at a time. This one was over and all was well.

But he was wrong. The day was not yet over so far as the fortunes of the Galaxy were concerned. Obadiah Bates locked the door behind him, leaving Watch in charge. Another day over. Obadiah walked along Wellington Street, noting with disapproval the Summerfield carriage waiting outside the Lyceum, and turned towards the maze of streets behind Covent Garden where he lived. The night was foggy again, and he never liked fog. It got in his throat and aggravated it where the spear had got him out in India. At least it had been warm out there. A man could be himself there; a good life, the soldier’s. Valuable. Of course, he was doing an invaluable job now, guarding these girls. But two he had slipped up on. He had to be vigilant, very vigilant.

He was not quite vigilant enough. The sound of his footsteps echoed on the flagstones. The noise of the market was deadened by the fog. Once he thought he heard footsteps. He paused. There was nothing. Fog was queer, it distorted things, yet he had this feeling there was someone following him. An old soldier always knew. Nearly home now. He quickened his step as he turned the last corner, shrouded by the fog, only pierced by the occasional gaslight. As he fumbled with the lock on the door, he had a fleeting impression of an outstretched arm and a heavy black shape descending out of the choking mist. He slumped to the ground. The Pathans got me after all, was his last conscious thought.

‘The Inspector won’t want to be bothered with that, lad.’

‘But, Sergeant Twitch – er – Stitch –’

‘I said hoppit, Edwards, hoppit.’

Edwards hopped.

It was thus another hour before Rose, who had spent three days interviewing the Galaxy company and sifting the results, learned that its stage door keeper had been attacked on the Tuesday evening. Egbert Rose prided himself on his mildness, but on occasions his roar could be heard from the Thames.

‘It was a dipper,’ said Stitch indignantly. ‘His money was gone. You mustn’t see coincidences in everything,’ he added kindly.

It was the wrong thing to say to Rose. ‘Laddie,’ he said insultingly, ‘when I say I want to know everything to do with the Galaxy, I mean everything. And that means straightaway.’

‘He don’t know nothing about who hit him,’ said Stitch defiantly to Rose’s retreating back.

At the Galaxy he found Robert Archibald wearing the expression of a much tried man. The deputy stage doorkeeper, whose services had never been so required before, had first let in a major’s wife from Cheshire who thought she’d like to be an actress. What the major thought was not mentioned. Second, a young lady from a ladies’ seminary who
insisted
on being one.

‘You’ve heard the news, Rose, then. God knows why. He’s not a show girl.’

‘No, sir, but perhaps he knew a bit too much for his own good. I’d like a word with Props, he being the nearest at hand like.’

‘Props has left us,’ said Archibald unhappily.

‘Then I’ll trouble you for his address. He might well have seen something of what happened last night.’

‘I believe I did also,’ said Auguste, coming in, having
seen Rose arrive. ‘I chanced to look out of the restaurant window and saw Obadiah go past – he always goes the long way round the Strand in front and then down Wellington Street, in the hope he might bump into Henry Irving en route. Even if he’s not billed to appear, he still does it. Poor Obadiah.’

‘Henry Irving?’

‘It is Obadiah’s one sadness that the Galaxy does not put on what he calls “real plays”, like Mr Irving, and
King Lear
– not his greatest part, in my view. Nevertheless it made a deep impression on Obadiah. Since the never to be forgotten day he saw Irving perform, he always walks down Wellington Street in the hope that the great man might venture forth at the same time.’

‘I wonder he don’t go there as stage door keeper,’ remarked Rose.

‘There is such a thing as loyalty, Inspector,’ said Archibald stiffly. ‘He believes he has a mission to look after the Galaxy. He’s taking these murders very personally. I wonder if he wasn’t doing some investigating on his own, and his attempted murder is the result.’

‘Was it meant to kill, Inspector?’ asked Auguste.

‘It certainly wasn’t a friendly tap, Mr Didier. Fortunately your Mr Bates has a strong head, a strong bowler and a strong constitution. Bit of an amateur, our head knocker. A professional dipper wouldn’t have attacked – and if he did, he’d have made a better job of it.’

‘There is something else I must tell you,’ said Auguste slowly. ‘It means nothing, I’m sure. After all, we all have to go home, but I did think I saw someone I recognised walking after Obadiah.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Herbert Sykes,’ said Auguste reluctantly.

‘I can’t say, Inspector.’ Herbert was clearly unhappy. ‘No, I can’t say I saw poor Mr Bates in front of me. I was going
home,’ he said obstinately, blinking through short-sighted eyes at Rose. ‘No Romano’s for me, you see.’