Murder in the Limelight (2 page)

‘There’s something wrong with that set, Didier,’ he pronounced as the chef approached. ‘Something very, very wrong.’ He paused and tugged worriedly at his long walrus moustache. ‘Only I don’t know what it is,’ he added querulously.

Framed by the ornate blue and gold proscenium arch was the main set for
Miss Penelope’s Proposal
– a toy shop. Auguste studied the array of puppets, train sets, dolls, toy theatres (each carefully made by Props to resemble the Galaxy), hoops and kites – the trained eye must move to a system.

‘Check from left to right, monsieur. Remember what you envisaged in your grand conception.’

There was a short silence as Robert Archibald hopelessly surveyed the stage. ‘It’s no good, Didier. Can’t see it. I just know there’s something wrong. There’s doom hanging over this production – doom!’

‘It is clearly luncheon you need, monsieur,’ said Auguste practically.

‘Luncheon?’ Robert Archibald yelped. ‘You talk of luncheon when my livelihood, the theatre’s livelihood, the players’ livelihood, depend on—’ A hand mopped a brow.

‘Food, monsieur, as Brillat-Savarin maintained, provides the answer to many problems.’ Auguste was undeterred.

‘Nothing too rich, I hope,’ said Archibald, momentarily diverted from his study of the stage.

‘Fillets of turbot with Dutch sauce, though I maintain, monsieur, that Francatelli errs when he—’

‘Turbot?’ yelped Archibald. ‘For all the company? Sprats
were good enough for me at their age.’ He was fond of referring to his Hoxton youth when it suited his pocket, yet the slightest hint that one of his beloved company was in trouble and, miraculously, money was no object.

‘Sprats, pah! Good enough to feed the roses, monsieur, but not the palate.’

‘Let me tell you, Didier—’ Robert Archibald began animatedly, paused, then whirled round surprisingly speedily for such a portly man. A gleam came into his eye. ‘Props!’ he yelled. ‘Props.’ Distantly a door banged.

‘I knew it, Didier,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Something
is
wrong. Two of those damned dolls are missing.’

The Galaxy was a testament to the theatrical genius of Robert Archibald. Now fifty-nine, he had been running it for twenty-six years, ever since it opened in 1868. Burlesque had been the order of the day then, with its parodies of well-known stories, everyday tunes adapted to new words; Daisie Wilton in her tights as principal boy, captivating male and female alike. Ah, those were the days. But times change.

A year or two ago he had been taking the air with Mrs Archibald on a spring day in Hyde Park. It was warm, and bright colours were fashionable. He watched three young ladies feeding the ducks. His eyes lingered and Mrs Archibald’s followed them. ‘What pretty girls,’ she had observed. ‘Such lovely dresses.’ The result had been the Galaxy Girls. There was something magical about the word ‘girl’ in the theatre. His Girls didn’t have to act, and only some of them had to sing. The rest had simply to adorn the stage, looking desirable, rich, and unattainable – as they were sternly advised to be in their private lives also. As a result several of them had already married into the aristocracy, and few of them would want for a penny in their old age.

Then Daisie left the stage to marry and an entirely new
idea had occurred to him. How about
new
music,
new
stories and girls with even prettier frocks? The days of burlesque were over.
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal
had been the first musical comedy, as he’d termed his new concept. There was little to the book, a story of titled ladies, disguises, lords and loves. But the clothes were by Worth, it all ended happily, and the audience departed delighted.
Playgoers’ World
had devoted three pages to Miss Florence Lytton’s Paris gowns, Robert Archibald noticed. Those for
Miss Penelope
were even prettier. Everyone in the company must have the best, that was his rule. No dressing the chorus in last year’s Grecian tunics. The crowds round the stage door had doubled for
Lady Bertha.
It was even more of an honour to take out a Galaxy Girl to supper.

Two years ago, in 1892, Archibald had observed that the Galaxy Girls were an institution off stage as well as on. Across the Strand, the fashionable, flamboyant Romano’s was always crowded with theatre folk, where they rubbed shoulders with royalty, society and any lesser mortals fortunate enough to find a table. His principals as well as his Girls lent their lustre to the lure of Romano’s. That seemed a pity, mused Archibald, when the Galaxy had a restaurant of its own . . . And so he enticed Auguste Didier, the thirty-three-year-old French maître chef to the Duke of Stockbery, to desert Kent for the lights of London. It had not been easy for there was little about the Galaxy restaurant to tempt a former apprentice to Auguste Escoffier. Robert Archibald was, however, a diplomatist. He made mention of the lovely girls of the chorus – a momentary gleam had been replaced in Auguste’s eyes by the remembrance of his attachment to a Russian princess. But then Archibald persuaded the chef of the reputation he could make by establishing a superb restaurant at the Galaxy. At last Auguste had succumbed.

Auguste flattered himself he knew how to handle Archibald. He hadn’t, naturally, wished to seem too eager
to accept the offer, but he was ready for London. He could no longer bury his art in the country. Many people had sought his services but this offer had strongly appealed. There were, after all, those lovely Galaxy ladies . . .

He had been at the restaurant two years now. Previously it had been a place into which pit-goers and gods would scuttle to save seeking further in the rain. Now it was a mecca to which those in the boxes and stalls would eagerly repair. Romano’s viewed this development with dismay, and insidiously planted the idea in the minds of the Galaxy Girls that guaranteed privacy in the booths and private rooms of Romano’s would further their matrimonial prospects more than sampling Didier’s
cuisses des nymphes d’Aurore.

Auguste did not mind. He had plenty of Galaxy Girls all day – and one at night. His darling Maisie. He had explained to her he must always be true to Tatiana, though Fate had meant they could never be united, but Paris was a long way away . . .

‘I don’t like it, Auguste, that’s straight.’

‘What,
ma petite
?’ he replied guardedly, momentarily distracted from the sight of Albert stirring the hollandaise far too rigorously.

‘Things aren’t the same. I know they seem to be, but they’re not. Not for a couple of months now. Not since the beginning of
Lady Bertha
. Not since—’ Maisie broke off.

‘Not since
la belle
Christine left, perhaps?’ said Auguste quietly.

Maisie shot a sharp look at him. With her sturdy East End commonsense, she was inclined to discount Auguste’s Gallic perceptiveness.

‘Tell you what, Auguste, you’re not so bad, for a Frenchman.’

‘You do me too much honour,
chérie
,’ he murmured. ‘But do not forget, I had an English mother.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Maisie prosaically, and Auguste laughed to himself. Lovely Maisie. Lovely, cuddly, dependable, oh so English Maisie, with her full breasts, ample figure and generous loving heart. ‘You don’t think she went to France then, to the Folies Bergères? That’s what she was always boasting she would do.’

‘No, I think not,
ma chérie
. She was not the type, that Christine, to go to a foreign land on her own.’

‘With someone then? And anyway, Auguste, why should that have any effect on us here now?’

‘I do not know. But something, just something, is making this lovely mayonnaise of a theatre curdle.’

Another custom instituted by Robert Archibald for the good of his company – and his plays – was the company luncheon. For, so his straightforward thinking went, if the company and stage hands were together for this meal, the resultant unity would weld them together for afternoon and evening – and however long it took to get the dress rehearsal perfect.

The restaurant, all that Monday morning a silent empty cave, was suddenly full of life as chorus girls, show girls and principals erupted into it, filling the air with scents that vied fiercely with the aromas emanating from Auguste’s kitchen. If they were on edge for the rehearsal that afternoon – or for any other reason – they gave no hint of it as they settled at the long tables set out thus to unify the company. Yet it was noticeable that however democratic the theory, in practice principals sat in due order of precedence, the chorus and show girls and musicians well below the salt, the stage staff at another table by unspoken agreement.

‘Mr Brian.’ Florence Lytton paused behind the chair occupied by the young pianist. ‘Do you think my marionette song at the end of the second act – just a little slower, perhaps? Like this –
pa, pa, pa, pa
, pa pom!’

This had been a controversial issue throughout rehearsal.
But who could resist an appeal from Florence Lytton? No one. Not even Percy Brian, though his preferences lay in another direction altogether from the pretty flaxen-haired blue-eyed heroine of the play. So – even though it would annoy Edward – Percy wavered. His eyes went momentarily to Edward Hargreaves, the composer and leader of the band, listening stonily to a show girl’s chatter. He would placate Edward at home tonight. He could talk Edward into anything.

‘I do dislike asking,’ Florence added disarmingly.

She did indeed, for she liked to be liked. Not that there was any difficulty about that. She was the darling of the Galaxy gods and had only to trip on to a stage, pause delightfully for that moment of applause and breathless anticipation, then sing in her beguiling, tremulous voice – and the house was at her feet. Everybody loved Florence, even the manager, an unusual state of affairs for the London theatre and one of which Archibald, recipient of the tantrums of Florence’s predecessors, was devoutly glad. Her husband too loved Florence.

Yet Auguste, superintending the arrival of
le turbot
, noticed that for once Thomas Manley’s eyes were not on his wife. Seated several places away, he was talking with unusual animation to one of the show girls.

‘I think your best moment’s in the third act,’ said Edna Purvis with practised artless charm. ‘When you come on like that, singing “Take my heart, little bird” – oh, it’s wonderful. You look so – so—’

‘Do you really think so?’ Thomas’s good-looking face, reminiscent of a Greek god ranking rather junior in the Olympian hierarchy, flushed with gratification.

‘I do. Why, if you were my husband I’d—’

She broke off in maidenly confusion, leaving Thomas to reflect that, wonderful though Florence was, all too often he found himself telling her how beautiful she looked without receiving any reciprocal assurances, and that
her – quite understandable – exhaustion after a performance contrasted rather sharply with Edna’s playful exuberance. Momentarily he imagined himself in bed with the handsome Miss Purvis, then hastily dismissed the idea, shocked at his thoughts. Florence was his sweetheart, his wife, his only love. All the same, Edna’s obvious admiration was very pleasant. He edged his chair very slightly closer so that in adjusting his napkin his hands might accidentally brush her satin-clad thigh.

He hastily restored his hand to a more proper position when he noticed Herbert Sykes’ watchful eye on him. Herbert’s total devotion to Florence was well known. Her bull-dog, Florence called him, giggling about her admirer. Poor Herbert; he always looked so sad, so deadly serious, yet he had only to walk on stage and make the slightest gesture for the house to collapse with laughter. Like the great Grimaldi, he did not need words for his art. He was one of nature’s natural clowns. Thomas didn’t resent his paying attention to Florence. There could, after all, be no danger from Herbert. At only five foot two inches, and aged around forty, his roly poly figure typecast him for the role of unrequited lover. All the same, there was something in Herbert’s eyes that made Thomas uneasy. What, after all, did they know about him? Was he married? Where did he live? He said nothing about himself – and somehow Thomas had never liked to ask.

‘Mr Sykes,’ Florence appealed to Herbert and he was instantly all watchful attention. ‘Do you not agree with me? The dance in the last act—’

‘A trifle heavy, Miss Lytton. Like Mr Didier’s puddings.’

Everybody laughed – except Auguste, who frowned. Not so much at the slur on his puddings, perhaps not quite his forte, but because it was not like Herbert to make a joke that might hurt, that smacked of impoliteness. The Galaxy was a united company.

Wasn’t it?

‘For you, miss.’

Props pressed his daily floral tribute into Florence’s hand and, as was usual, darted away.

‘Props!’

This time Robert Archibald’s roar stopped him.

He turned slowly in his tracks, apparently unwilling to face his master, or perhaps Miss Lytton. A rather weaselly-featured, tall, thin young man, William Ferndale gawped helplessly in the presence of his idol, tongue-tied at being forced from the shadows.

Robert Archibald came panting up the corridor. ‘Dolls, Props.’

Props blinked.

‘Two missing.’

Still Props said nothing.

‘There are two dolls missing,’ repeated Archibald patiently.

Props stood, twisting his hands nervously together.

‘I’m not blaming you, Props. Just find them,’ said Archibald firmly.

‘A-a-all there this m-morning, Mr Archibald,’ Props managed to stutter, with an air of finality. Props was as perfectionist in his way as Mr Archibald in his.

‘I don’t doubt it. But they’re not now. Find them.’ It was a command. Props, interpreting the tone aright, hastened through the wings to the stage to check the set, muttering to himself in bewilderment.

He had checked only the left-hand shelves when a scream pierced the air, silencing the chatter in the chorus girls’ and show girls’ dressing rooms, and percolating to the far side of the theatre where the men’s dressing rooms were situated.

Identifying the shriek through experience, Thomas rushed down the stairs and, ignoring protocol, up the steps towards his wife’s dressing room. Props too identified the source and stood gazing up the staircase. Even Obadiah
Bates came out of the stage door keeper’s cubbyhole, though without abandoning his post totally. A female scream was not worth that dereliction of duty.