Free Murder in the Limelight by Amy Myers Page A

had spotted him. ‘An eye for the villains, you’ve got, lad,’ he’d said when Rose proudly brought in that bit faker.
    Now Temple Bar was long since gone, and the Strand was losing its dignity to progress – traffic, traffic and moretraffic. Mind you, St Mary’s in the early morning was still worth a dawn rising to enjoy its quiet before the rush of London’s workers poured out from Charing Cross. What was it Dr Johnson had said? “The full tide of existence is at Charing Cross.” His eyes would have popped out of his head if he could have seen Charing Cross Railway Station today. But the Old Thames never changed . . . Rose brought his mind back to the unpleasant case ahead of him – the girl, poor lass, and now these dolls.
    They might just be dolls, but it was too close to what had happened to Christine Walters for his liking. Archibald seemed to think them just a joke directed against Miss Lytton. His superiors might scoff, but all the same it didn’t look like a joke to Rose. In a sense it made his job easier, though, for it looked like someone inside the theatre. A nasty business. Menacing. Something not quite sane about it. He greeted a crossing sweeper with surprising cheerfulness considering the nature of his thoughts and made his way to the Yard.
    Reports had been piling up on his desk, but he did not get past the first one. Young girl, body found in Maypole Alley. He sighed. Another courting couple, passions flaring, too much force . . . He read on. He’d been wrong. The description of the clothing did not sound like a market girl. Nor the fur. By the time he got to the end of the report, his worst fears were confirmed. Her arms had been bound across her chest. So as news of the first murder had not been released, it was odds on it was the same villain. He hardly bothered to read the rest of the report for he knew what would be in it. The contents of her handbag revealed her to be a member of the Galaxy.
    Edna Purvis would never fulfil her ambition to become the wife of a lord.
    Auguste Didier had been right in his analysis of the stew. The meat had grown tough. Overnight the principal actors had become entrenched in their positions. They were not speaking to each other. Percy was now convinced of his rightness insupporting Florence. Edward Hargreaves was implacable about defending his integrity as composer and conductor. Thomas Manley found it impossible even to face his beloved Florence. Florence felt persecuted by the whole world, while Herbert Sykes now had no option but to commit himself wholeheartedly to the support of Edward Hargreaves.
    Their first sight of Robert Archibald was not reassuring. The interview was clearly going to be tough. Each mentally wriggled more firmly into position. Lesser deities in the presence of Jupiter, they waited for Archibald to speak.
    ‘Our Miss Walters, it appears, did not disappear.’ He smiled deprecatingly as though reluctant to give such bad news. ‘She was, I regret to say, murdered.’
    Herbert replied first. ‘
Murdered
, Mr Archibald?’
    ‘Drowned, strangled. And in circumstances which – ah – look as if the matter might have something to do with this theatre.’ He forbore to say exactly what circumstances. There was little point in alarming Florence unnecessarily.
    ‘The theatre!’
    Edward and Florence spoke with one voice, the marionette song, if not forgotten, laid aside.
    ‘But surely –’ Florence paused delicately, ‘Miss Walters was well known to – ah – have a wide variety of gentlemen friends.’ She did not look at Thomas. ‘Why is the Galaxy involved?’
    Robert Archibald shifted uncomfortably.
    Herbert could hardly remember Christine Walters. Tall, he remembered, classical features until one looked more closely and saw the mean jaw, the insufficient space between the eyes – the coarse mouth that had spoken slightingly of Miss Lytton. Florence. He closed his eyes briefly. The horror of last night still filled his every