Free Murder in the Limelight by Amy Myers

Then, as he strode along the corridor to the office, he recalled the disappearance of Christine Walters and the subsequent routine call by the police.
    His worst fears were realised as he entered his office to find Egbert Rose studying the photographs of DaisieWilton (in her tights) adorning the walls, his bowler laid carelessly on the desk on top of the box office returns for the first night. Two things came to Archibald’s mind: this was clearly not a police constable, and it was clearly going to be a bad day.
    Just how bad neither he nor Egbert Rose could possibly imagine, but Rose’s present mission was quite enough for the moment.
    ‘Murdered?’ Robert Archibald was aghast. ‘Poor girl, poor girl,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. He felt it as a personal loss. The girls were his concern, his family. After they left the Galaxy he might lose all interest in them, but while working under its portals everything about them – their health, their happiness, their private lives – were all part of the Galaxy so far as he was concerned. And if she had died while in Galaxy employ, then Christine Walters was most definitely his concern.
    ‘When?’ he asked abruptly. He thought of the dreadful probability that the girl must have gone straight from the Galaxy to her death.
    ‘Can’t say, sir. Been in the water, you see. About the time you reported her missing, though. That was’ – Rose glanced at his notebook – ‘30th September, and you said you last saw her on the 27th.’
    The 27th, the day after the opening of
Lady Bertha’s Betrothal.
Such had been the excitement, the ferment at the Galaxy at the unexpected popularity of this new piece, of the possibilities for an entirely new kind of entertainment, that so far Archibald had scarcely spared a thought for the missing girl. To him she was an empty place in the show girl line. Even though he reported it as a matter of form, since she had sent no explanation of her disappearance, he had assumed that she had gone off with a man. She was a flighty little filly. Lived in lodgings on her own. He always discouraged that among his girls. But all that time she had been dead. Strangled. There was a pause while Archibald’s mind conjured up unpleasant pictures.
    ‘I’ll have to talk to your staff, the cast,’ said Rose, watching conflicting emotions run over the manager’s face. His hand was absent-mindedly stroking the large drooping moustache, the pride of his life after the Galaxy and Mrs Archibald, carefully preserved with Oldridge’s Balm.
    ‘It’s changed,’ said Archibald. ‘We’ve a new show now. But you talked to them at the time.’
    ‘Not me,’ said Rose. ‘Different department. Missing girl, thousands go missing every year. They don’t all end up murdered in the Thames though,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And since bodies tend to go into the Thames at night, and it’s a noticeable fact that the old river runs mighty close to this theatre, we’ll have to do a bit of investigation. Talk to the men in particular. And I’d like a list of any of the gentlemen who were here then, who aren’t here now. Any you remember as being special friends of hers, if you get my meaning.’ He stood up and clapped his bowler on his head. ‘One more thing, Mr Archibald. Do you keep rope around this theatre?’
    Archibald blinked. ‘Rope?’
    Rose produced a short length of rope from his pocket. ‘She was tied up, you see. Hands bound across her chest.’ He glanced up to see Archibald’s face slowly turning paler. ‘Ah, I see that means something to you, sir.’
    Half-an-hour later found Rose walking gloomily along the Strand. It was a mild day and the pavements were crowded with workers and shoppers. Ah, he could remember the days when the Strand really was something, a majestic sight with the old Temple Bar dominating it. He was just a young police constable then, all eyes, long gangly limbs, and far from the heftiest lad in the force. But Williamson