‘Well…’ Stoker’s ruddy features drained of colour. ‘I might have stepped out for a few minutes to take a bite to eat. But I always keep an eye out and can see who comes and goes.’
‘And who did come and go whilst you were not here?’ Lord Torbay asked, making the question sound as ridiculous as it actually was.
‘Not a soul. Upon my life, sir, had anyone come by I would have been here in a flash.’
Lord Torbay shook his head but didn’t pursue the point, probably sharing Sophia’s opinion that they would never get a straight answer from the man. Unless he had supped his ale standing outside the tavern in the rain, he couldn’t possibly have known who had come and gone.
‘When people call at this building, do you ask them their business?’ Mr Milton enquired.
‘That depends, sir. If I know them and they’re regular visitors, like, then I tell them just to go on up. Otherwise, I ask who they’ve come to see, if they’re expected and everything.’
In other words, anyone could have sneaked in when Stoker was wetting his whistle, and he would be none the wiser.
‘What regular visitors did Miss Saville have?’ Lord Torbay asked.
‘All sorts, sir. She was right popular. Theatrical types. Her agent. A man called Felsham. Another by the name of Woodford. He was here a lot.’
Lord Torbay and Mr Milton both glanced at Sophia. She shook her head. She hadn’t heard of Woodford before, either.
‘Very well.’ Lord Torbay offered him a chilling look. ‘Stay at your post if you can possibly manage it. We might have more questions for you.’
Sophia led the way up the stairs to the first floor, trying not to shudder as she stopped at Connie’s door. Mr Milton was at her shoulder. He smiled at her, took the keys from her trembling fingers and unlocked the door. Olivia took Sophia’s hand and led her through it, into a small entrance hall. The parlour led off one side, the bedroom the other. There was a small kitchen that seldom saw much use—Connie was no cook—and a modern bathroom.
‘Why do we not sit in the parlour while the gentlemen look at the bedroom,’ Olivia suggested. ‘It will give you time to…Goodness, it’s stuffy in here.’
Despite the cold and the persistent drizzle, Olivia opened one of the windows and allowed fresh air into the room. The light curtains billowed in the wind, carrying the stench of death away on the breeze. Olivia and Sophia sat side by side on a comfortable sofa. Sophia’s gaze travelled around the well-proportioned room with its high ceiling and elaborate wainscoting. She recalled it frequently being filled with exotic, artistic types who lived by their own sets of rules and whom Sophia found fascinating. A refreshing and eye-opening contrast to that which she had been accustomed her entire life.
‘Your sister certainly had the courage to follow her dream,’ Olivia said, standing to finger a pretty bronze figurine that sat on the mantelpiece. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you should take this with you. It has some value and I don’t trust that Stoker fellow not to make off with it the moment he thinks the coast is clear.’
‘I fully intend to take all of Connie’s things, although I don’t yet know what I shall do with them, or where I will take them. I had thought Grandmamma…but not anymore. I certainly cannot take them home to Hertfordshire, even supposing I return there myself.’
Olivia raised a brow. ‘You are thinking that you might not?’
Was she? ‘I don’t really know yet,’ Sophia replied. ‘Papa’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge Connie, even now that she is dead and can no longer offend his sensibilities, has opened my eyes to his mean-spiritedness. I would find it very difficult to go home, to see him every day, and not tell him precisely what I think of him. Besides, with Connie gone, I will have less reason to come up to London and therefore it will be harder for me to carry on with my newspaper articles without arousing Papa’s suspicion.’
‘He does not know?’
‘Lord no! He would be horrified if he did, and he would order me to desist immediately. Grandmamma knows—and now that I think about it I’m surprised she hasn’t told him. She disapproves, of course. Writing anything intelligent or thought-provoking for a newspaper is no occupation for a woman.’ Sophia flashed a mirthless smile. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘Poor you,’ Olivia said, smiling as she shook her head.
‘Either way I am of age, so he cannot force me to return if I would prefer not to. If I live frugally, I can just about support myself, always supposing that the newspaper continues to pay for my articles.’
‘Now is not the time to make hasty decisions. Take it from one who knows, it requires time to recover from the violent and unexpected death of a loved one. I did not love my husband, but his death was still a massive shock and I wasn’t thinking coherently for a long time afterwards.’
The gentlemen reappeared from the bedroom. Mr Milton clutched a box. ‘Your sister’s jewellery,’ he said. ‘Is it all here, to the best of your knowledge? If not, I shall take great pleasure in persuading that individual downstairs to tell us what he’s done with it.’
Sophia took the familiar wooden box lined with pink silk from Mr Milton and examined its contents. She and Connie had often gone through it together on Sophia’s visits to London, exclaiming over the value of the jewels that Chichester had tried to buy Connie’s loyalty with. As far as Sophia could recall, everything was there.
‘Take it back to Grosvenor Square,’ Olivia said. ‘That bronze figurine too, Jake. I cannot see anything else of value. We can return for your sister’s clothing on another occasion.’
‘These things don’t belong to me,’ Sophia said. ‘Won’t I be stealing?’
‘That rather depends upon whether or not your sister made a will,’ Mr Milton replied. ‘If she did not then your father, as her next of kin, will be entitled to them.’
‘I doubt whether he would want them, despite their value. He would consider them the wages of sin. Besides, Connie would be horrified if she thought of them passing to him. But Lord Chichester might want them returned.’
‘They were gifts, my dear,’ Olivia said. ‘One cannot ask for the return of gifts, and I doubt whether you would want him to have them back anyway, given that you suspect him of killing your sister.’
‘Well, I suppose…’
‘I can see that your conscience is troubled,’ Lord Torbay said. ‘Think of it as taking them into safekeeping for the time being, if that reassures you.’
‘Yes, thank you, it does.’
‘Do you want to go into the bedroom?’ Mr Milton asked. ‘Jake and I have conducted a search and found nothing we wouldn’t expect to see there.’
It was the last thing that Sophia wanted, but if she didn’t face up to her demons now, she would probably never find the courage. She swallowed several times and nodded.
Come,’ Mr Milton said softly, taking her hand. ‘There is nothing in there that can hurt you now.’
More grateful that she was willing to admit for the feel of his fingers gently stroking her own, she swallowed for a second time and walked with him into the room. The bed was neatly made, everything was where she remembered it being and for a moment it felt almost as though Connie would walk through the door at any moment. Sophia inhaled and let her breath out again slowly, making no attempt to stem the tears streaming down her face as she touched Connie’s possessions—her hairbrush, a bonnet thrown carelessly onto a chair, her nightgown.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ she said softly. ‘I shall find out who did this to you and make him pay. You have my promise.’
She accepted the handkerchief that Mr Milton handed to her with a nod of thanks, mopped her eyes and blew her nose.
‘Better?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her throat worked but she managed to keep the fresh tears that threatened at bay. ‘We can go now. Connie didn’t keep a diary. She said she didn’t have the patience to record her activities, but that one day she would tell me all her secrets and I could write her biography and
shock the world.’ She gave a sad little shake of her head. ‘Now I shall never have that opportunity. Anyway, I tell you that only so that you will realise there won’t be anything amongst her papers to lend clues to her murderer’s identity. I should have told you that earlier. It’s only just occurred to me. I’m not thinking straight at present.’
‘One wouldn’t expect you to be.’
Olivia stood when Sophia returned to the parlour and linked her arm through Sophia’s. ‘I think you and I should return home and allow the gentlemen to continue with their enquiries.’
‘Where do you intend to start?’ Sophia asked.
‘With your sister’s agent. Then Felsham. Hopefully, one or both of them will be able to tell us who the mystery man Woodford is.’ Lord Torbay led the way from the apartment and Mr Milton locked the door behind them, pocketing the key. ‘I dare say Stoker has a master key, but now that he knows we are involved he will think twice before helping himself to anything. Take the carriage, my dear,’ Lord Torbay said to his countess. ‘Otto and I will hail a cab.’
Chapter Seven
Jake and Otto saw the ladies off in the carriage and then climbed into the first of two cabs that competed to reach them in response to Otto’s whistle.
‘What did you make of Stoker?’ Jake asked.
‘A lying, conniving jackanapes if ever I met one,’ Otto replied with asperity. ‘Anyone could have gone into that apartment building while he was getting foxed and he would have been none the wiser.’
‘Which means Chichester couldn’t be accused of the crime, even if he didn’t have Dowd in his pocket. Someone like Isaac, if he was acting for Chichester, would tear a witness like Stoker to shreds.’
‘So, if Chichester is our man, we will have to prove it by other means.’
Jake shrugged. ‘I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but if he did kill the girl, I doubt whether we will be able to prove it. He would never have been foolish enough to commit the crime if others had been there—’
‘What about the neighbours? Someone might have seen or heard something.’
‘They might have, but I doubt that they will be able to tell us anything definitive. Those walls are thin, it’s true, but the neighbours would be accustomed to hearing parties, laughter and arguments coming from Connie’s apartment and wouldn’t think anything about it. As to hearing the killing itself, since she was strangled, she wouldn’t have been able to make any noise. Not with the killer’s hands crushing her windpipe. Besides, I should like to think that if anyone had actually heard it, they would have attempted to intervene, or at least alerted Stoker.’
Otto gave a disgruntled shrug. ‘For all the use he would have been.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Unless whoever heard a commotion knew the marquess was involved and was too intimidated to interfere.’
‘Or planned a spot of blackmail,’ Jake added.
‘We should ask Chichester if he’s been approached.’
‘He wouldn’t tell us if he had. It would be paramount to admitting guilt. Besides, we no longer represent his interests. He dismissed us, if you recall.’
‘In which case, I hope our mythical witness bleeds him dry.’
‘Going back to Stoker, I wish I knew what his game was. Your Miss Larson seems to think that he was almost as shocked as she was when they found the body. The weasel is not blessed with any acting abilities of his own and wouldn’t have been nearly so convincing if he’d known in advance what he was going to find. Nor would he have blurted out an accusation against Chichester if he’s in that man’s pocket.’
‘Or if he planned to blackmail him.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Well then,’ Otto said with an exasperated sigh. ‘Let’s hope Connie’s agent can tell us something that will steer us in the right direction.’
‘Oh, I dare say he will give us some pointers, but whether they prove to be helpful or set us chasing our tails remains to be seen.’
‘You suspect him?’
Jake chuckled. ‘I suspect everyone. In my experience, the least likely person usually proves to be the guilty party in such situations.’
‘In that case I shall take everything he tells us with a hefty pinch of salt.’
‘You’re learning.’
William Barton, unlike his fellow theatrical Agents, didn’t have offices located in the Strand or thereabouts. Instead he conducted his business from a two-storey terraced house, which also appeared to be his living accommodation, in Shoe Lane.
‘Rather smart for a man of his stature,’ Otto said, standing on the pavement outside number seven and looking up at the freshly painted premises. ‘He must be doing well for himself.’
Jake, also examining the building, nodded. ‘Presumably so.’
As they waited for their knock to be answered, Jake tried to rein in his dislike and mistrust of theatrical agents collectively. Given that Olivia’s first husband had been a violent, unfaithful and highly unscrupulous member of that profession, his judgement was, he conceded, bound to be impaired. Be that as it may, he would do his level best to keep an open mind unless—until—Barton gave him reason to do otherwise.
The door was opened by a maid who took their cards and asked them to wait in a small ante-room.
‘I shall see if Mr Barton is receiving,’ she said. ‘He’s not himself today. He’s had some very bad news—’
‘Tell him that is what we wish to talk to him about,’ Jake replied. ‘We are here at the behest of Miss Larson.’
The maid’s eyes widened, presumably because she recognised Connie’s real name, and she scurried off to deliver Jake’s message.
‘If he doesn’t see us,’ Otto said, prowling around the room like a caged animal, ‘it will make me damned suspicious.’
‘Excellent! A healthy dose of scepticism is just what’s needed.’
‘Blame Isaac for that. He’s drummed it into me that I shouldn’t take anything a witness being cross-examined says at face value. Prosecution witnesses, he insists, are of no help to our side if they happen to be telling the truth, but fortunately most of the time they are not. At least not completely, and Isaac is masterful when it comes to finding chinks that create doubts about their evidence.’
‘I have seen him reduce some of the most reliable-seeming witnesses to shreds, so I suppose I can’t argue with his rationale. Besides,’ Jake added, chuckling, ‘it was I who encouraged him to cultivate a suspicious mind.’
‘Well, I want Chichester to be the guilty party in this particular case, but if we can’t prove it then I suppose it would be better if the culprit turns out to be someone whom we can catch and cross-question. At least then Miss Larson will have some answers.’
‘Patience, Otto. We have many stones to unearth before we reach any conclusions. Besides, I for one don’t look upon Chichester as untouchable. If he is guilty we will find a way to make him pay for his crime.’
The maid returned. ‘My master will see you now, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.’
She led them into a spacious room that appeared to serve as a drawing room, library and place of business combined. Books lined one wall, a large desk occupied one end of the space and a comfortable arrangement of chairs formed a semi-circle around the fireplace. The man who rose from behind the desk was in his middle years. Tall, with thinning brown hair, bushy brows and a long face that had once been handsome, he had a presence about him that would still, Jake suspected, appeal to females of all ages. The man clearly cared about his appearance and was fastidiously attired. He wore a black armband on one sleeve of his frockcoat and an expression of uncontrived grief.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, waving them into the chairs in front of the fire and dismissing the maid without asking them if they would like refreshments. ‘A sad business.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot begin to tell you…’
When he lapsed into silence it became evident that he didn’t intend to try.
‘Miss Saville was one of your most
prodigious clients, I should imagine,’ Jake said, not without sympathy in his tone.
‘The most prodigious. A remarkable talent and a lovely person. I do not know how I shall manage without her. She was more than just a talented actress. I would like to think she was also a close friend.’ Tears glistened in his eyes. ‘This is a tragedy. An unmitigated disaster. She will be impossible to replace.’
‘How did you hear of her death?’ Otto asked.
Barton shrugged. ‘There are no secrets in this business. Besides, bad news always spreads fast.’
Which was no answer at all. ‘But someone had to do the spreading,’ Jake pointed out.
‘Oh well, yes, Stoker, the porter at Connie’s apartment building, sent a lad to tell me after he and Miss Larson made the discovery. I paid him a few shillings to keep an eye on her and let me know if there were any problems. She was sometimes subjected to unwanted attentions from people who discovered where she lived, had seen her perform and wanted to…well, inflict themselves upon her. Connie was too soft-hearted for her own good and never could find it in herself to turn them away.’
Jake glanced at Otto, who probably also realised that Stoker hadn’t thought to mention the arrangement. Perhaps that was because he had a similar one with Chichester. Or possibly because he used the authority vested in him by Barton to snoop upon Connie. Stoker knew a great deal more about Connie, both in life and the means by which she had met her death, than he had thus far revealed. Whether or not she had died by his hand Jake had yet to decide. Perhaps he was a better actor than Jake had originally given him credit for. Several of the apartments in Connie’s building were, Jake understood, occupied by theatrical types. Mix with them for long enough and, he imagined, picking up a few pointers—like pretending to be something one was not—would be easy enough.
‘Connie hadn’t been missed by anyone before Miss Larson and Stoker discovered her body?’ Otto asked.
‘No, it was her evening off. There were no rehearsals scheduled, she had performed the night before, so she would have slept late the next day. No one would have expected to see her. She didn’t like to be disturbed when she was in the middle of a run, you see. She needed her sleep and time alone to reflect. We all knew that and respected her wishes.’
Social Graces Page 9
