Limelight

I guessed the man in the bowler hat was a detective as soon as he approached me. I had just left the reading room at the British Museum and was hurrying down the steps to catch an omnibus that would transport me home.

The chill of the stone seeped through the worn soles of my boots and the street beyond the railings was lost in an October fog that was the colour of tea. I wanted to get back to my lodgings before the weather worsened and my feet grew colder still.

“Miss Green?”

Along with his hat, the man wore a dark overcoat and had a young, square, clean-shaven face, thick, dark eyebrows and bright blue eyes. He had an awkward but insistent manner, which suggested that he didn’t wish to accost me but that his business required him to do so.

“I am Inspector James Blakely from CID at Scotland Yard.” He raised his hat. “I need to speak to you about an unfortunate incident.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, no. Of course not, Miss Green. It is in your capacity as a news reporter that I call upon you for help.”

“I am no longer a news reporter. The commissioner of Scotland Yard saw to that.”

He cleared his throat. “So I understand, Miss Green. I do apologise.”

“I appreciate your apology, Inspector. If only it had the power to change what has happened.”

“Perhaps I could speak to the commissioner about it.”

“Perhaps you could. Would he listen to you, do you think?” I couldn’t imagine Commissioner Dickson paying much attention to a man I assumed to be the most junior detective at the Yard.

“I can try.”

“It’s growing dark,” I said, glancing at the thickening gloom around about us. “I should be happy to help Scotland Yard once I am reinstated at the Morning Express. Good evening, Inspector.”

I continued on in the direction of the gate.

“Miss Green!” He caught up with me and matched my stride. “I really would appreciate your assistance.”

“I am in no position to help you, Inspector Blakely.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Green.”

We walked through the gate into the busy street. The gas lamps were being lit as we reached a section of raised paving that served as a pedestrian crossing.

“Miss Green, you are one of the few people who can help with this most unusual case.” The inspector was forced to raise his voice above the sound of clopping hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels.

“Can you not see that I am trying to cross the street?”

A hansom cab emerged from the grimy brown fog. I waited for it to pass before skipping out onto the crossing, avoiding the flattened patches of horse manure as best I could.

“Miss Green!”

We reached the pavement by the Museum Tavern.

“Are you still following me, Inspector?”

“Miss Green, it is most urgent that I speak with you. It is regarding the actress, Lizzie Dixie. She has been murdered.”

I came to an instant standstill. My ears felt as though they had been boxed.

I stared at the young inspector and turned his words over in my mind. “Lizzie Dixie? But it’s impossible. She drowned. Years ago.” I paused to think. “Five years ago, in fact.”

“So we thought.”

“But she did! On the Princess Alice.”

“Yes, Miss Green. Now you must understand why I need to speak with you.”

He took my arm and hurried me through the swing doors of the tavern before I could present any argument.

“We can talk in here.”