Murder in the Limelight (22 page)

‘Pardon, monsieur
?’ Auguste looked blank.

‘Just an old nursery rhyme,’ said Rose hastily.

‘And Monsieur Beauville,’ went on Auguste, ignoring
him, ‘is well known for his admiration of many ladies, of whom Florence was one. And of course there is Mr Manley. It is not always improper advances that one rejects. Perhaps proper ones also. And Miss Lytton has been observed not to be on good terms with her husband recently.’

‘Of them all,’ said Rose consideringly, ‘Beauville’s most likely – or Props, to my mind. Because Bates would have been in the best position to observe their movements, and for them to think he was a threat to them. I think perhaps,’ he added, ‘our friend Bates had better have another think.’

Obadiah Bates was slumped in front of his fire and a stalwart police constable guarded the front door, to the great indignation of his highly respectable landlady.

He looked up hopefully as they entered. ‘Theatre opening again, is it?’ he asked. His face looked thin and drawn. He was an old man, a fact brought home to them by the photograph of a younger Bates in a photographic studio, stiffly posed in uniform. It was a very old photograph.

‘Not yet, Mr Bates, we’ve still got to find our murderer,’ said Rose soberly. ‘And we need help. You don’t want another bang on the head, do you?’

Bates clearly took this to be a rhetorical question for he did not answer, merely touched his bandage in puzzled fashion.

‘No one attacked you after the death of Miss Walters, so I think we can assume that whoever hit you thought you saw something dangerous to him on the evening of Miss Purvis’s death.’

‘Mr Beauville came in in a cake,’ said Bates firmly.

‘No, Obadiah, that was the evening before. This was the next night when all the girls’ beaux came to collect them as usual.’

‘Yes,’ said Obadiah considering. ‘That’s right. Young Captain Starkey – him as is going to marry Miss Birdie, was round. Miss Purvis, she liked him. Yes, I remember.
Mr Beauville was there too. Ah, it were
that
evening.’

‘What evening, Obadiah,’ said Auguste eagerly. ‘What was special?’

‘She were late down,’ he said slowly, ‘on account of her prettying herself up. Paint and all,’ he explained disgustedly. ‘They nearly always comes down together, but that evening she were nearly last. I was watching for her, ’cos I knew she was going out with Lord Summerfield, yet Mr Sykes had been enquiring for her and Mr Manley came hurrying down earlier to send up a note. ’Allo, I says. Hallo. Very popular, Miss Purvis. Nice young lady. Sad,’ he added. ‘Very sad.’

‘Was Props there when she came down?’

‘Props? I expect so. I can’t rightly remember.’ His brow furrowed. ‘He allus came out of the door when he heard the ladies descending. He likes Miss Lytton best, of course. Likes to see her before he goes home. Or did, I should say. Liked to watch the girls coming down, too. ’Course, he’s only young really. But strange. You think he’s the one then?’

‘He wasn’t at the theatre the evening Miss Lepin was killed.’

‘Hanging around outside though, weren’t he?’ said Obadiah. ‘I heard that afterwards. Like last night.’

‘Are you positive he didn’t come in the stage door last night?’

Obadiah looked mulish. ‘When I says no one gets past me, I mean he never came in. Pathans, Fuzzie Wuzzies. They don’t get past Tommy, oh no.’

‘And that’s all you have to say?’

Obadiah glared at Rose, folded his arms. Enough had been said. No reason these police fellows had to know everything.

‘I’m getting too old for this game,’ said Rose, doubling up to clamber across a lowered grave trap, every other available space in the cellar seemingly taken up with machinery or mess.

‘There
must
be an entrance down here somewhere,’ said Auguste, gazing hopefully upward. ‘The entrance to the Royal Box and the gallery and so on are all locked at night, and he could not rely on finding one of them accidentally open. The only other entrance is to the restaurant, to which only Archibald, myself and Watch have a key. Even Bates has no key. And then he would have to know about the secret entrance to the theatre. No, it is not possible. Yet it must be.’

‘Does it matter?’ grunted Rose, falling over a gaspipe and regarding it severely.

‘It cannot be up,’ said Auguste thoughtfully.

Rose shut his eyes and prayed that Auguste would not invent an entrance through the roof. He didn’t think he could face the grid again. If there was another world up there aloft, he preferred not to know about it.

‘So it must be down,’ Auguste went on. ‘It cannot be right under the stage here in the cellar – it – where does that lead to?’ he demanded of one of the cellarmen who had been working industriously away greasing machinery and traps, attending to floats, sinks and rises. From above came the sound of pounding feet. A rare understudy rehearsal was in progress, taking advantage of the theatre’s closure to the public, and the sound of girlish voices rose and fell, with the occasional shout interspersed by Edward Hargreaves. Auguste pointed to a smaller corner door.

‘Gas room, meter room – and an odd props room,’ answered the cellarman indifferently.

They looked at one another in sudden hope.

The narrow stone cold passage was dimly lit by a solitary gas jet, with two doors leading off it. The first proved to be the odd props room. Junk room was more like it. Dusty, cold, forlorn paraphernalia of revels past. Moth-eaten animal heads regarded them sorrowfully from a pile of grinning demon masks. A sad-looking fairy coach waited disconsolately for another hour of glory. Paper flowers
strewed the floor haphazardly. A cardboard cloud patiently awaited a summons to Mount Olympus.

The next room was the gas room – occupied by the gasman, that all important gentleman who glared at them for interrupting his serfs’ work. Bunches and tee lights stood in one corner, an electric carbon arc fan producing sunrise, Bunsen cells littered tables, gas piping crazed the floor like a maze.

‘Way out?’ grunted the gas man. ‘No way out of here. Only to meter room.’

‘Meter room?’ asked Rose.

‘Where the oxygen and hydrogen tanks are kept for the limelight,’ said the gas-man pityingly. ‘See it if you like. If you can crawl, that is.’ He opened the half size door in the far wall. A short tunnel led to a small brickbuilt room.

‘But it has an outside door?’

‘Well, someone’s got to fill the tanks,’ the gas-man pointed out reasonably. ‘Not like the old days when they came round with bags on their shoulders, straight up to the flies, press the bag, and hey presto, limelight. We’re too fond of our skins for that now.’

‘But that door—’

‘Leads on to the basement court and up to old Exeter Arcade as well. ’Course, no one ever uses it.’

Herbert Sykes savoured his soggy toast with a slow, suffusing sense of triumph. He had scored over Florence. He did not care any more. Oh, the power he had felt when he sided with Hargreaves over that song! True, the theatre was now closed, but it would open again. Now he felt he could face her again. He felt in command for the first time since he had met her, as though he, Herbert Sykes, held her destiny in his hands. Accordingly, when his landlady showed Inspector Rose and Auguste Didier in, he was, for Herbert, expansive. He bustled importantly, seats were brought forward, coffee was ordered, an air of smugness
pervaded him. He had not even bothered to remove the photograph of Florence, smiling incessantly from her flower-decorated mount.

‘Miss Lytton, sir,’ said Rose, making himself comfortable.

‘What about Miss Lytton?’ said Herbert. A certain belligerence entered his voice.

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Everyone likes Miss Lytton,’ replied Herbert expressionlessly.

‘I understand you quarrelled with her though.’

Herbert went white. ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ he said, his composure faltering. ‘A misunderstanding. She actually thought,’ he managed a little laugh, ‘that I was threatening her.’ He swallowed. ‘As though I’d do that.’

‘And why should she think that?’

‘I – well – I heard someone in the ladies’ dressing rooms late. Thinking it might be an intruder, I naturally went to investigate, and found it was Miss Lytton. I suppose being alone in the theatre she might have wondered what I was doing there.’

‘But you told her—’

‘I was going to,’ he said quickly. ‘But she was very nervous. Those dolls – it was the dolls,’ he said eagerly, grasping at the lifeline. ‘She was upset.’

‘You didn’t touch her at all?’

‘
Touch
her, Inspector?’ He drew himself up theatrically. The gesture failed in its effect. ‘Are you implying – good heavens! Is that what she told you? Poor darling Florence. She
must
have been upset.’

‘Yes, indeed, sir. Now the other young ladies. Miss Lepin, Miss Walters, Miss Purvis. I understand you were by way of being a particular friend of all of them.’

‘An escort, an occasional escort.’ His composure, haltingly recovered, now faltered again. ‘I am a principal, Inspector. I do my part in looking after the newer young
ladies. Take them out to dine. Introduce them to London.’

‘Very good of you, Mr Sykes,’ answered Rose woodenly. ‘A fatherly interest, you might say.’

‘Precisely, Inspector,’ said Herbert unhappily, looking at the floor.

‘And were you with any of these young ladies the evenings they got killed?’

‘No – Good heavens, no!’ He gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Then who were you with, may I ask?’

‘I don’t remember,’ Herbert said, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘No, really I don’t. I don’t remember at all.’ He gave a slight gesture which this time did not puzzle Auguste. He had seen it before; once from Herbert a few days ago, and before that from Dan Leno. Grimaldi lived on, the eternal mischievous lovable thieving clown.

‘Miss Lytton, we are still gravely worried for your safety.’

‘But the theatre’s closed.’ Lying on a chaise longue in an elegant rose chiffon tea gown, Florence looked fragile, petite and entirely bewitching. Edward Hargreaves would not have recognised her.

‘That won’t stop our villain if he’s determined to get you,’ said Rose grimly. ‘I’m going to post a police constable outside your home till we’ve caught out man.’

‘But
I’m
not at risk.’ Nevertheless her eyes widened in alarm.

‘With a madman around you are. Those dolls—’

‘But it’s show girls he kills, not me.’

‘It may be you next time. Now he’s got up courage. That’s what we fear.’

‘Oh . . .’ Her hands fluttered feebly, but her brain was clearly not affected. Auguste recognised this gesture too. She had used it in
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
, to great effect. ‘Then you know who it is?’

‘We can’t prove it,’ said Rose guardedly. ‘Of course I
know you’re worried by Mr William Ferndale – Props. But there’s no proof. He’s never touched you.’

‘He played that trick with the dolls,’ said Florence indignantly.

‘Maybe, maybe not, but we’ve got to be sure. Now, is there any reason that Herbert Sykes should suddenly have turned against you?’

Florence suddenly ceased to mind if she looked a fool. It was as well to be sure where her own neck was concerned. ‘Indeed there is, Inspector,’ she said eagerly. ‘He
is
mad, you’re right, I’ve known all along. It was one evening – the evening Edna Purvis was murdered . . .’ And she proceeded to give them a lurid account of how Herbert Sykes had burst into her dressing room with a maniacal expression on his face, babbling about how she, Florence, was his, his alone, how he’d make her his, and proceeded to lay hands on her. He’d torn her clothes, and when she had fought him off, lay slobbering on the floor kissing her feet, and then, as she had gently repulsed him again, sworn eternal vengeance against her. This was an exaggeration as befitted a leading actress, but the basic story was true enough. He was out of his mind. She had been terrified.

She did not mention that a flourish of a button-hook had been all it had taken to quell him.

‘And you’re sure this happened the evening Miss Purvis was murdered?’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ she sighed.

‘Then why didn’t you tell us before, miss?’

‘Because’ – she flushed – ‘I was frightened.’ It was true enough. He was a strange fish, Herbert.

‘Ah, Miss Lytton, but there is another reason, is there not? A sensible lady who thinks a man is so deranged that he could rush straight from her to murder someone else in revenge, is sensible enough to suppose he might return to murder her. Now why therefore did you not rush to tell me? I take it’ – as she said nothing – ‘it is because you thought
you knew someone else was to blame for these murders. Am I right?’

She stared at Rose open-mouthed and burst into tears.

‘Come, come,
ma chérie
,’ said Auguste, patting her in a way that won Rose’s full approval. Though what Mrs Rose would say if he set about patting all lovely young women witnesses on the back . . .

‘You must tell us,
chère madame
,’ said Auguste, ‘you cannot continue. It is too much for you. After all, if he is not the man, then he will not be arrested. He is not Inspector Lestrade, our good Inspector Rose.’

‘No, no,’ murmured Rose, ‘Mr Holmes.’

‘It’s – it’s –’ she hiccuped, ‘it’s my
husband
!’ A fresh wail followed.

‘But why,
chérie
, should you think that the good Mr Manley should wish to murder you?’ Auguste was amazed. A wife suspect a husband?

‘He doesn’t,’ she wailed. ‘But he was out – out each of those evenings.’

‘Was he, indeed? But he said he was with you, miss.’

‘He wasn’t,’ she shouted, the mask of fragility slipping. ‘He told me he was seeing them. He doesn’t like me any more.’ And she burst into a storm of entirely unassumed tears.

‘Would you care to reconsider your statements of where you were on the evening of Miss Purvis’ and Miss Lepin’s deaths, sir?’ enquired Rose resignedly. Just as he’d got it nicely sorted out in his mind again after the Summerfield débâcle, along come another red herring. For red herring he must be. He could not see this tall good-looking actor as a murderer. Still, you never knew. Perfectly ordinary fellows – that’s what these psychopaths looked, apparently. Or like Mr Didier’s Dr Jekyll.