A Death At His Majesty’s

“Gentlemen,” boomed Treadbold. “Allow me to introduce Miss Miles, Noël Coward’s secretary—”

“Personal assistant,” Bill interrupted.

“Of course.” Treadbold took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “Miss Miles, this is Detective Sergeant Daniels and Constable Smith from Scotland Yard. Bad business this. Very bad business.”

“What is?” Bill asked.

“Miss Miles?” Detective Sergeant Daniels was perched on the corner of Treadbold’s desk. He stood and doffed his hat to Bill. “The body of a woman has been discovered by the stage door of this theatre—”

“Good God.” Bill reached into her trouser pocket for a cigarette case.

The constable pulled out a chair tucked under the front of the desk. “Would you like to sit madam?”

“No thank you, my dear.” Bill waved her cigarette at him. “But I’m in desperate need of a light.”

The detective sergeant rummaged in his pocket, took out a box of matches, and lit her cigarette.

“Thank you.” Bill exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Do you know who the poor lady is?”

“Sadly, they do.” Treadbold blew his nose again. “It appears to be a member of the Bitter Sweet company.”

“We believe the deceased is a Miss Maureen Lyon,” added the detective sergeant.

“Good Lord.” Bill reached for the chair the constable had offered and sank into it.

“Did you know her, Miss Miles?” asked the detective sergeant.

“I do.” Bill took a long drag on her cigarette. “I mean, I did. She was a very reliable member of our company. And an extremely good friend.”

“When did you last see her?”

Lobster paste sandwiches and caviar. That was what they had eaten. Lying on Bill’s bed in the Savoy Hotel last New Year. Giggling guiltily for drinking too much champagne at three o’clock in the afternoon when they both knew they had to be ready for a grand reception organised in Noël’s honour in a little over two hours. The year had gone well for the theatre company and Noël had generously booked Bill into the Savoy. He had even arranged for the caviar and champagne to be delivered to her room before the festivities began. It was the time Bill had run her finger gently over the heart-shaped birthmark at the top of Maureen’s thigh. When they had talked about what might have been.

“Miss Miles? Did you hear what I asked?”

The detective sergeant’s question jolted Bill from her daydream.

“I’m sorry detective.” She reached across to the desk and flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette into an ashtray. “How did she…?” Bill took another long drag on her cigarette. “What happened?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much at the moment,” replied the detective sergeant.

“She was strangled, Miss Miles.” The theatre manager’s voice boomed across the desk. “Murdered by strangulation. The murderer used a sash cord of all things. Her lifeless body hidden behind the rubbish bins stored close by the stage door.” Cameron Treadbold took a large cigar from a wooden box on his desk and trimmed one end with a penknife. “Gruesome. Poor Mr Cheffins the caretaker found her when he went on his regular rat inspection late this morning—”

“Thank you, Mr Treadbold,” the detective sergeant interrupted. “I think Miss Miles can be spared the details.”

“Are you sure it’s Maureen?” Bill asked. “Has anyone identified…?”

“Not formally,” replied the detective sergeant. “An opened letter addressed to Miss Lyon was found in her possession. We would be grateful if someone from the company might help us with confirming her identity.”

It took Bill a moment to realise the statement was more of a question directed at her.

“Me?” She shook her head. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

“You are the de facto company manager for Bitter Sweet.” Treadbold pointed his cigar at her. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to delegate such a ghastly task to one of your junior staff.”

“Thank you for your kind assistance, Mr Treadbold.” Bill glowered at him. “Presumably this is why you sent for me? No intention of offering yourself to assist the police in their inquiries at your theatre?”

“But I have no idea what the dear lady looks like,” protested the theatre manager. “She’s a member of Mr Coward’s company, not mine. Unless you intend to hand the gruesome task to him?”

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped Bill. “Noël has quite enough on his plate as it is. Besides, he’s in the middle of a press conference at the moment.”

“The press are here?” Treadbold slapped his hand to his forehead. “My God, this is a disaster.”

“I told you a moment ago, if you’d been listening,” Bill replied. “That’s where Noël is now.”

“We mustn’t let the press know about this.” Treadbold turned to Detective Sergeant Daniels. “You don’t have any more of your chaps in uniform roaming the building as we speak?”

Daniels shook his head. “Apart from Constable Smith and myself, there’s one other officer standing guard over the body by the stage door. An ambulance will be here shortly to remove it to a mortuary. I’ve called for more assistance but the summer season has brought out the pickpockets. The force is pretty thinly stretched at the moment.”

“My dear detective sergeant.” The theatre manager’s voice was plaintive. “We’re on the eve of opening what may prove to be Mr Coward’s finest piece of work yet. We can’t have the theatre swarming with police officers. If the press get wind of this there’ll be scandal. Outrage. I implore you, dear man, to keep as low a profile as possible. At least until we are clear of the opening night.”

The detective sergeant scratched his head. “I’m going to need to interview everyone in the building—”

“Everyone?” Treadbold wiped his hand across his glistening brow. “Surely you don’t need to interview the press? They only got here about twenty minutes ago. You told me that the poor lady’s been lying out there for much longer.”

“Do you mean to say you’re going to interview the whole cast?” Bill asked. “With the stage crew and orchestra that’s over a hundred people. You do realise we’re in the middle of a vital rehearsal. We open tomorrow night.”

“And I’m investigating a murder, madam.” The detective sergeant took a pipe from his coat pocket and poked at the contents of the bowl with his finger. “Some things are more important than the theatre.”

“There’s no need to take that tone with me, my good man,” Bill snapped.

“You didn’t tell me when you last saw Miss Lyon.” The detective sergeant replenished his pipe from a tobacco pouch and struck a match. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to answer my question.”

“I left the theatre about eight o’clock yesterday evening. She was still there, organising the props.”

“And what happened when she didn’t turn up for work this morning?”

“I sent a young lad round to her house.” Bill stubbed out her cigarette and took another from her cigarette case. She leaned forward in anticipation of the detective sergeant lighting it for her. “Thank you. She shares a little place in Notting Hill with Miss Casewell, another member of the company.”

“Why didn’t Miss Casewell raise the alarm? Surely they would travel to the theatre together.”

“Miss Casewell isn’t working on this production,” Bill replied. “They may share a house but they lead separate lives. They’re not responsible for each other.”

“How well did you know Miss Lyon?”

“I told you we’re very good friends.” Bill exhaled smoke through her nostrils. “I mean, we were very good friends. Why?”

“Does she have any next of kin?”

“Not in London. If there is anyone they’re down in the darkest parts of the west of England. I think she lived in Bath or somewhere equally provincial. She moved to London to work in the theatre. It was her passion.”

“I see.” The detective sergeant drew on his pipe and the tobacco embers glowed red in the bowl. “Well. If you’re ready perhaps you would accompany me to the stage door to help identify the body.”

“And I shall accompany Miss Miles.” Treadbold shoved his chair back against the wall and struggled to his feet. “The lady should not be expected to do such a dreadful deed alone.” His imposing figure towered over the room.

“Do sit down, Cameron.” Bill waved her cigarette at him dismissively. “You’re making the place untidy. Where had this sudden spirit of gallantry come from? Don’t patronise me. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m incapable of identifying a corpse without getting a fit of the vapours.”

She reached forward and knocked the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. “I’m ready, detective sergeant.”

“But, Miss Miles—"

“Enough, Cameron.” Bill stood and grasped the back of the chair as she felt a moment of lightheadedness. Maybe it was the cigarette. Maybe she had got to her feet too quickly. “Shall we do it now? Let’s get it over with.”

“Miss Miles.” Treadbold slumped back into his chair and wiped the sweat from his brow again. His face was ashen. “Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?”

“Thank you but no,” Bill replied. “You don’t look like you’d survive the ordeal and the detective sergeant hardly wants another body to deal with.”

“Mr Treadbold could help with getting the members of the company together ready for me to interview them.” Detective Sergeant Daniels suggested.

“Oh God, no,” Bill said before Treadbold could respond. “I’d rather he didn’t. I need to talk to Noël first. Wait until he’s finished with the press. He should be the person to tell the company about this. It’s better coming from him.”

Treadbold’s face showed a man humiliated.

“Don’t pout like that, Cameron darling. It doesn’t become a man in your position.” Bill stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray in front of Treadbold and smiled. “I’m sure there’ll be something useful for you to do. We just haven’t managed to think of it yet.”