Murder at the Piccadilly Playhouse (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #2)

Chapter 1

“That was marvelous!” Flossy applauded loudly as the lights in the Hippodrome’s auditorium came on. “I don’t know which act I enjoyed more.”

Floyd blinked into the sudden brightness. “I liked the acrobats.”

“Of course you did. The girls wore little more than their underthings.” Flossy suddenly clasped her mother’s elbow and thrust her chin in the direction of two women trying to get their attention. “Oh look, there’s Susannah and her mother.”

Aunt Lilian had already spotted their friends and begun to move off. “We ought to speak to them. Come along. Everybody follow me, now. Try not to get crushed.”

Flossy lost her grip on her mother’s arm. “You’re going against the crowd,” she whined. “We’ll never reach them.”

“Fiddlesticks. We can make it.”

Flossy appealed to her father. Uncle Ronald seemed to agree with his daughter’s opinion that it was hopeless. The audience was simply too thick and they were all heading in one direction—out.

“We’ll see them in the foyer, my dear,” he said to his wife.

Aunt Lilian waved him off and plunged into the stream of people, moving up the aisle. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said as she battled her way to her friends, three rows down.

“I’m not going that way,” Floyd said. “See you all in the foyer.”

Flossy and I followed him, but Uncle Ronald waited in our row for the tide to deposit his wife back up the aisle to him.

If my hand hadn’t been held tightly by Flossy, I might have lost her, but we made it safely to the foyer with Floyd.

He ordered us not to move while he fetched our coats from the cloakroom, and we kept an eye out for their parents.

While some of the audience left straight away, many remained behind to talk with friends, and the foyer quickly became crowded.

Now that we had a moment to catch our breaths, Flossy wanted to discuss the show again. “I think my favorite part was the polar bears sliding from the stage into the water. What was your favorite, Cleo?”

It was difficult to choose just one item from the evening’s program—printed on silk, no less.

I’d never seen anything like tonight’s performance.

Flossy might be one of the most excitable people I knew, but tonight I felt just as giddy after watching London’s newest venue’s opening night show.

Indeed, to call it a show wasn’t doing it justice.

It was a spectacle. A large area in front of the stage had been left bare with no audience seating.

Performers had used both this arena and the stage to full advantage.

As with any circus, there were contortionists, acrobats, and high-wire acts, as well as trained dogs, ponies and lions.

But the second half of the show was even more thrilling.

The arena floor sank and was flooded with water, streaming from brass nozzles.

A theater show was performed on the lake with more circus animals, singing, dancing, comedic routines, and swimmers in figure-hugging costumes.

Brightly lit fountains spouted water in time with the music.

Boatmen rowed actors from one side to the other, and even deliberately pushed them in, much to the delight of the audience.

The entire production was wonderful, and the brand new venue itself was just as spectacular.

I’d grown used to seeing luxury at every turn at the Mayfair Hotel, but the opulence of the Hippodrome’s auditorium was more vivid.

The gilded trimmings and red, blue and gold ceiling wouldn’t have looked out of place in a palace.

“I can’t choose,” I told Flossy. “I enjoyed it all. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Why wouldn’t you come along? You’re family. We were terribly fortunate to secure five tickets. It’s a shame they weren’t for the dress circle, but Floyd said Mr. Hobart did his best.”

If the Mayfair Hotel’s manager couldn’t obtain dress circle tickets then I doubted anyone could. According to the staff, Mr. Hobart could get guests and the Bainbridges whatever they desired.

Aunt Lilian and Uncle Ronald found us, dragging a group of friends in their wake liked salvaged flotsam.

We ladies waited while the gentlemen fetched coats, chatting about the grand evening we’d had.

I recognized some of the group from the New Year’s Eve ball, and they claimed they remembered me.

Thankfully none knew what I’d got up to that night and the danger I’d faced when a murderer revealed himself as the clock struck midnight.

If they ever found out, they would probably never look at me the same way again.

It was better this way, with them not knowing, and Aunt Lilian was also being kept in the dark.

I was glad my aunt didn’t know. She’d be horrified to learn that I’d been in danger, and even more horrified to learn that I was getting my hands dirty by investigating a murder. Bainbridge women were not supposed to do anything more than look pretty and socialize with the guests.

I’d frequently protested that I was not a Bainbridge woman, I was a Fox, but it had fallen on deaf ears.

In truth, I didn’t want to push the point and test the boundaries of my aunt and uncle’s goodwill.

They had set aside old family wounds and given me a home after my grandmother died, when I had no one else in the world. I would always be grateful.

Aunt Lilian was in one of her energetic moods tonight.

She was as excitable as Flossy and just as talkative.

Her moods seemed to oscillate between highs and terrible lows.

During the lows, she remained in her room and did not accept visitors.

She also suffered from dreadful headaches.

The only thing that helped was her doctor’s new medicine.

The men returned and handed out cloaks and other winter accoutrements to the ladies. The audience had thinned, and there was a little more breathing room in the foyer, but we only stayed long enough for Uncle Ronald to invite their friends back to the hotel for a drink.

I eyed Aunt Lilian carefully, worried she might be growing tired, but she seemed enthusiastic to play hostess to a late evening party.

Dressed in navy velvet, with cream lace trimmings, she was at her most elegant.

When she was happy and well, she reminded me of my mother.

My memories of her were some thirteen years old, so it was bittersweet to see her likeness in the form of her sister.

Some people mistook me for her daughter, not Flossy, as I’d taken after my mother in appearance and, according to some, her character too.

Even though I only knew my mother while I was a young girl, and I’d only recently met Aunt Lilian, at times like this, when Aunt Lilian held court, I knew she must have been the more vivacious of the two.

My mother had a more subdued character. Not serious but not someone who liked to be the center of attention, although she had a witty sense of humor.

We headed into the cold night air and spotted the Mayfair Hotel carriage in the long line of conveyances waiting to collect their masters and mistresses.

We five piled inside and headed home. Flossy and Aunt Lilian talked about the show, while Uncle Ronald, Floyd and I found it unnecessary to interject.

Uncle Ronald and Floyd stared out of different windows, seemingly distracted by the lights.

Indeed, there were so many lights, it was as bright as day.

All the street lamps were on, of course, but light also streamed from the windows of the theaters and concert halls.

Powerful lights illuminated advertising signs, and a river of carriage lamps stretched as far as I could see.

It made the darkness shrouding the Piccadilly Playhouse seem out of place; a missing tooth ruining a bright smile.

“Was there no show tonight at the Playhouse?” I asked.

Floyd seemed grateful for something to talk about while his sister and mother continued their lively chatter, unaware I’d spoken.

“Cat and Mouse was supposed to be on.” He peered past me to the darkened theater.

“How odd that it’s not playing. I believe it’s been very popular.

” He sat back as the theater passed out of view. “I’ll ask Rumford. He’ll know.”

“Lord Rumford? Is he a lover of the theater?” His lordship was a guest staying at the hotel. While I didn’t know all of the guests by name, I made a point of learning the important ones and making myself known to them.

Floyd’s smile looked wicked in the dimness of the cabin. “You could say that.”

“Floyd,” his father barked, proving he was listening to us, after all.

The sharp tone silenced Aunt Lilian and Flossy and nobody spoke for the remainder of the short journey.

The carriage deposited us at the hotel’s front door.

The night porter greeted us in order of importance, beginning with Uncle Ronald and ending with me.

The chandeliers in the foyer blazed, and a small number of guests passed through on their way to the lift or stairs after an evening out at one of London’s theaters.

The new assistant manager said something to the man he was talking to and approached us.

Mr. Hirst wasn’t nearly as handsome or as young as Harry Armitage, the man he’d replaced, but he was just as charming.

He was a quick learner, according to the manager, Mr. Hobart, and had already settled into the Mayfair’s way of doing things after ten days.

Having worked as assistant manager at another of London’s luxury hotels, he was familiar with the role and expectations.

No doubt Mr. Hobart and Uncle Ronald had chosen him for that very reason, to ensure the transition was as smooth as possible.

With the hotel being only half full, now was the best time to hire new staff and train them, so Floyd told me.

That way there would be no hiccups when spring saw society flock to the city for the opening of parliament and the many entertainments the social season brought.