than you seem to . . .’
Alone, Florence burst into tears. She wept for a long time. How could they? Nobody loved her. They played horrible jokes on her. Now they’d gone and left her alone. All was quiet in the corridor. Deathly quiet. She must be the last one left. She called out to the girls but there was no reply. She looked at her little French clock. Even Obadiah would have left now. The night watch should be here, but suppose he wasn’t? She might be alone in the building.
She was suddenly scared. Usually Thomas was with her. He came to the theatre with her; he went home with her. They had dinner when they got home. Now she’d have to summon a hansom and go home alone. Could she do it? She’d never summoned one before in her cosseted life. She supposed she could. It was just a matter of pulling herself together, of getting out of this horrible empty place. Just a matter of walking down that corridor, down the stairs, and finding her way out.
She began to wipe the paint from her face, then to bathe her eyes, to remove the tearstains so that she could leave. She realised she was still in her costume. Rapidly, illogically nervous, each sound she made seeming magnified in the empty room, she stripped off her costume. Fool to tell herdresser to go home, because she couldn’t bear to face her after the disaster! She slipped the mauve woollen day dress over her head and began to fasten the many buttons, fingers nervously fumbling. She pulled on her boots, picked up the long button hook, her stays digging in viciously, and began the tedious task.
She stopped and straightened up. Quite clearly through the door, which was ajar, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy footsteps. Her heart in her mouth, she tried to subdue her rising panic.
‘Watch?’ she cried out interrogatively. It must be the fireman who kept guard during the night once Obadiah had gone home. ‘Watch?’
But there was no reply.
The footsteps advanced along the corridor. A male shadow fell across the doorway. Petrified, Florence sat there, steel button hook in hand, and watched the door slowly open . . .
An early morning butcher’s boy whistled cheerfully through his short cut from Newcastle Street to Wych Street at the back of the Olympic Palace Theatre, a favourite route since he often found old programmes amongst the trash thrown out by the theatre. There was an extra large pile this morning. Kicking it in the way of all errand boys, he felt something hard and, curious since the litter was generally paper, bent down to find the reason for this hardness.
It was only relatively hard. It was a woman’s body.
He gurgled, then gagged. At his feet, eyes bulging in a purple face, was the body of a woman. Her hands, neatly folded across her chest, were tied into place with thick rope.
Chapter Four
Robert Archibald had risen on this Thursday morning with a new determination. A night’s sleep and the calm ministrations of Mrs Archibald had restored to him his sense of proportion. One mistake in a performance did not mean the end of the Galaxy. Something was undoubtedly wrong in the state of Denmark, but it should not be beyond his powers to discover what and put it right. There was a bad ’un somewhere, but close questioning of those involved should reveal who it was. You could always trace these ripples back to their source. With these cheering thoughts, he entered the Galaxy with more or less his usual sprightly step.
‘Morning, Mr Archibald.’
‘Good morning, Bates.’
‘Gentleman waiting to see you.’
‘What?’ Irritation replaced geniality. ‘Good God, Bates, you know my rule. Not before eleven, and particularly not today.’
‘Police, sir,’ replied Bates with some relish.
It says much for the state of Mr Archibald’s preoccupation with the problem of Miss Penelope’s marionette song that it was a little while before his brain could diagnose any possible reason why the Law should wish to see him.
Alone, Florence burst into tears. She wept for a long time. How could they? Nobody loved her. They played horrible jokes on her. Now they’d gone and left her alone. All was quiet in the corridor. Deathly quiet. She must be the last one left. She called out to the girls but there was no reply. She looked at her little French clock. Even Obadiah would have left now. The night watch should be here, but suppose he wasn’t? She might be alone in the building.
She was suddenly scared. Usually Thomas was with her. He came to the theatre with her; he went home with her. They had dinner when they got home. Now she’d have to summon a hansom and go home alone. Could she do it? She’d never summoned one before in her cosseted life. She supposed she could. It was just a matter of pulling herself together, of getting out of this horrible empty place. Just a matter of walking down that corridor, down the stairs, and finding her way out.
She began to wipe the paint from her face, then to bathe her eyes, to remove the tearstains so that she could leave. She realised she was still in her costume. Rapidly, illogically nervous, each sound she made seeming magnified in the empty room, she stripped off her costume. Fool to tell herdresser to go home, because she couldn’t bear to face her after the disaster! She slipped the mauve woollen day dress over her head and began to fasten the many buttons, fingers nervously fumbling. She pulled on her boots, picked up the long button hook, her stays digging in viciously, and began the tedious task.
She stopped and straightened up. Quite clearly through the door, which was ajar, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy footsteps. Her heart in her mouth, she tried to subdue her rising panic.
‘Watch?’ she cried out interrogatively. It must be the fireman who kept guard during the night once Obadiah had gone home. ‘Watch?’
But there was no reply.
The footsteps advanced along the corridor. A male shadow fell across the doorway. Petrified, Florence sat there, steel button hook in hand, and watched the door slowly open . . .
An early morning butcher’s boy whistled cheerfully through his short cut from Newcastle Street to Wych Street at the back of the Olympic Palace Theatre, a favourite route since he often found old programmes amongst the trash thrown out by the theatre. There was an extra large pile this morning. Kicking it in the way of all errand boys, he felt something hard and, curious since the litter was generally paper, bent down to find the reason for this hardness.
It was only relatively hard. It was a woman’s body.
He gurgled, then gagged. At his feet, eyes bulging in a purple face, was the body of a woman. Her hands, neatly folded across her chest, were tied into place with thick rope.
Chapter Four
Robert Archibald had risen on this Thursday morning with a new determination. A night’s sleep and the calm ministrations of Mrs Archibald had restored to him his sense of proportion. One mistake in a performance did not mean the end of the Galaxy. Something was undoubtedly wrong in the state of Denmark, but it should not be beyond his powers to discover what and put it right. There was a bad ’un somewhere, but close questioning of those involved should reveal who it was. You could always trace these ripples back to their source. With these cheering thoughts, he entered the Galaxy with more or less his usual sprightly step.
‘Morning, Mr Archibald.’
‘Good morning, Bates.’
‘Gentleman waiting to see you.’
‘What?’ Irritation replaced geniality. ‘Good God, Bates, you know my rule. Not before eleven, and particularly not today.’
‘Police, sir,’ replied Bates with some relish.
It says much for the state of Mr Archibald’s preoccupation with the problem of Miss Penelope’s marionette song that it was a little while before his brain could diagnose any possible reason why the Law should wish to see him.
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