Murder in the Limelight Read Online Free PDF Page A

from the day before, and a certain alien paleness to Florence’s cheeks, Robert Archibald might almost have convinced himself that his fears were unjustified and that the unfortunate events of yesterday had never taken place.
    His portly, impressive figure in tailcoat and silk hat was everywhere in the building. He believed in being seen to manage his theatre. He was the host to its many thousands of guests. In the chorus and show girls’ dressing rooms, frilled dresses were being carefully lifted over tightly boned bodices, silk drawers pulled over multi-coloured corsets. This latter was Archibald’s idea – or rather, his wife’s. Let them have silk underwear, she had said percipiently, then they will feel expensive as well as look expensive – you’ll see. And he did. Dr Jaeger’s best wool might be healthier, but he bowed to his wife, a very sensible woman, and paid for the girls’ silk drawers without a murmur. With the gentlemen he compromised on pure silk handkerchiefs and neckties and, once bought with his usual generosity, told them they could keep them afterwards. His generosity to all who shared his family roof was boundless.
    ‘Who do yer reckon did it last night?’
    ‘Must have been someone who don’t like Miss L,’ commented a newcomer.
    Fourteen indignant pairs of eyes looked scathingly in her direction. She flinched.
    ‘There ain’t none of us don’t like Miss Florence,’ explained one, kindlier than the rest.
    The newcomer was silenced, but not convinced.
    ‘Ah, Mr Hargreaves.’
    Florence was at her most winning. She was by nature charming, but on occasion lent artifice to natural ability. She would be charming but determined, she told herself. Unfortunately womanly charm had little effect on Mr Hargreaves, a fact that she should have realised since she was perhaps the only member of the company who knew about his private life.
    ‘Miss Lytton. All ready?’
    It must be quite obvious to him that she was ready, she thought, with an unusual trace of irritation. She would hardly wear a white silk dress with rosebuds down the side and paint on her face for walking along the Strand. But she suppressed a tart rejoinder.
    ‘Quite, thank you.’ If only he wasn’t so – so –
stolid
, she thought. He made a somewhat unattractive figure with his attempt to add to his face and sideburns the hair he had lost from the top of his head. ‘I wanted to ask you again – my song at the end of the second act –’ Edward Hargreaves stiffened. ‘Do you think just a little slower?’ She smiled winningly. ‘Such a beautiful tune.’ She hummed a few bars. ‘I should like the audience to hear, to appreciate the melody. Such a beautiful melody.’
    He glared at her. ‘It’s meant to be fast for its effect, Miss Lytton.’ Then he remembered that Florence was the leading lady and added placatingly, ‘You sing it charmingly. You always do. Believe me, though, it’s not right at that slow tempo. Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pom.’ He hummed tunelessly. He wished she’d go away. Singers were necessary evils, but he refused to allow them to come between himself and his music.
    ‘Why did you send flowers to Miss Purvis, Thomas?’ asked Florence, already aggrieved after her defeat in the matter of the song. She regarded the bouquet of lilies sent by her husband balefully – it had not escaped her notice that Edna had received late red roses.
    ‘Darling – you wouldn’t begrudge a present to her on her first show.’
    ‘Second actually,’ said Florence absently, reading the card. Was it her imagination or was the wording a little more offhand than usual? True, he had taken the trouble to ask Obadiah’s permission to present the bouquet personally, since it was not usually permitted for a gentleman to visit the ladies’ side of the theatre, but he had also taken the opportunity to present Edna’s personally.
    ‘Second then,’ said Thomas shortly. He had expected more glowing thanks from his Florence.