Mr. Thurmond muttered something, but a motion told her that he had heeded Neville’s request.
‘Take this,” Neville said.
The Bow Street Runner’s hand came near Priscilla’s face. She sensed rather than saw it.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Thurmond.
“Your man at the door had several sticks in case someone was more persistent than we were about getting into the theater. In close quarters, they should be effective.”
“As long as the murderer has Lady Priscilla’s compunctions about firing off a gun in the theater.”
“He will have only a single shot, so he cannot slay us all.”
“If that is supposed to be comforting,” Priscilla said, “you are failing.”
“You are the one who asked we put our pistols away.”
“Holding a duel in the dark is a mad idea.”
When Neville’s hand on the back of her waist gave her a gentle shove, she took a single step in the direction he had indicated. The floor was uneven. She did not know if only this side of the theater had boards jutting up at strange angles or if she had not noticed the bumpy surface when the lamps were lit.
Suddenly something struck Priscilla’s left arm. A fierce tingle leaped from her elbow to her fingertips. An ache rose to her shoulder. She stepped back, bumping into Neville. Light blinded her, and she raised her other arm to protect her eyes. She heard Mr. Gill yell something as Neville grasped her, trying to push past her in the narrow passage.
She was hit again as she tried to shake feeling back into fingers deadened by the blow to her elbow. Hit
again by a door, she realized, as a block of light emerged from the blinding brilliance. Blinking, she tried to see through it.
A woman peered out. She held a lantern. Raising it, she gasped, “Oh, my!” As she stared at the men and the sticks they held, her face was ashen.
Priscilla recognized her as the actress who had been rehearsing while Priscilla and her son watched back- stage. She was incredibly beautiful, with an ethereal grace that had allowed her to appear to float across the stage.
As the woman stepped out into the corridor, Priscilla saw a motion in the room. It was a flash of red—red hair or the waistcoat of another Bow Street Runner?
“Neville, someone else is in there,” she whispered.
He glanced at her, then, handing her the cudgel he held, edged toward the room while Mr. Thurmond told the woman to remain where she was. Neville looked into the room and then back at her.
“Red,” she said lowly.
“Ella Ayers,” the woman said in response to a question Mr. Thurmond must have asked. “I had the first female lead in Mr. Wiggsley’s most recent play.”
“But the play has closed,” Neville said. “Why are you lurking in theater at this hour?”
“I came here to get some of my . . . things.” She glanced guiltily at the large bag she was carrying. Her expression told Priscilla that the actress had helped herself to props or costumes that she could sell to give her money until she found another role.
“How long have you been here?” Mr. Thurmond asked.
Neville motioned for them to keep Miss Ayers talking. Then he slipped into the room. Priscilla wanted to watch him, but kept her gaze focused on the actress
so Miss Ayers would not notice what Neville was doing.
“Long enough to know there has been another murder.” She shuddered. “I did not see it, but everyone is whispering about it.”
Mr. Thurmond pounced on a single word. “Everyone? How many people are here?”
“A few of the other actors were collecting their personal items when you and your fellow Robin Red-breasts appeared.”
“And you decided to keep hidden?”
She raised her chin. “We actors know how others look down on us because of our profession. Men like you doubt we are telling the truth because we make lies appear so real when we are on stage.”
“I will want to speak with anyone who was in the theater when the murder took place.”
Neville came back out of the room and raised his hands, palms up, empty.
“If you are asking me to tell you who was here,” Miss Ayers said, still paying no one but Mr. Thurmond and his comrades any mind, “you should know that I do not buy and sell my fellow thespians.”
“I am not asking you to betray them. I am asking you to let me talk to them, so they can be cleared of any connection with the murder.”
‘They might be willing to talk to you so they are not blackballed from another theater.” Her mouth straightened as she focused her gaze on Neville. “After all, nobody seems to know when our patron will be arranging for another performance at this theater.”
“Not until,” he replied, appearing unruffled by her accusing stare, “it is safe for the audience to return. Killing off an audience one by one does not lead to profit for any theater.”
Before the actress could fire back more angry
words, Priscilla said, “Mr. Thurmond, I think we should continue on.”
‘"Where are you going?” asked Miss Ayers.
“If you would wait here, Miss Ayers,” said Mr. Thurmond.
She gave a soft squeal when the light shone off his red waistcoat. “Do you mean she is still here?”
Priscilla did not bother to answer, and neither did the men as they continued along the corridor. Their shadows stretched out in front of them, because Miss Ayers followed close behind. The actress might be dismayed to see Bow Street Runners in the theater, but she clearly did not intend to miss what he was there to investigate.
“All I saw was a length of red cloth,” Neville murmured as he leaned toward Priscilla.
“I saw a motion. I would take an oath that it was a person.”
“There is a window in the room. A breeze could have fluttered the cloth.”
“And a person could have slipped out of the window.”
He regarded her with a smile. “You are becoming even more adept than I at seeing unscrupulous behavior.” Turning to the Bow Street Runner, he said something too low for her to hear.
“All right,” Mr. Thurmond said. “Gill, go.”
The other man nodded and slipped back into the darkness beyond Miss Ayers’s lantern.
When Mr. Thurmond shouldered aside a drapery, Priscilla was astonished. Another murder in a box? This made no sense. Why would someone be in one of the boxes when the theater was closed?
A nervous laugh tickled her throat. She had learned that, although in the murderer’s mind the
crime might make sense, she must never judge these atrocities by normal logic.
The Bow Street Runner looked at her and started to speak. Then he stepped aside so she could enter. He must have guessed that, having come this far, she would not be turned away.
Priscilla almost wished he had insisted that she remain in the corridor when she saw the corpse in the faint light edging past the drapery. Unlike Harmony Lummis, this woman was lying facedown. Like Harmony, a knife was driven into the woman. It had pierced her heart from the back.
When Neville took the lantern from Miss Ayers and stepped past Priscilla, he hooked the lantern’s handle over the lamp on the wall. Light spread across the box, glistening on the blood on the carpet. Filthy footprints obscured the rest of the carpet.
His jaw tightened, and Priscilla knew he was furious that someone else had died so horribly.
“When was Lady Dentford found?” he asked.
“Her body was discovered a few hours ago,” Mr. Thurmond said, “when the manager came to the theater to make sure no one was here who should not be.”
“Where is Robertson?”
“Drinking in his office,” Miss Ayers replied.
“Alone?”
“With Morton when I was there several hours ago.”
Mr. Thurmond turned to his companion. “Bintliff, see if they are still there or if anyone saw one of them leave.”
The Runner nodded and hurried away into the darkness.
> Mr. Thurmond drew the curtain closed. “You said you know the lady, Hathaway.”
“Indirectly. I have met her husband several times.
He is a quiet man, and I had understood that they had an excellent marriage.”
Priscilla could not tear her gaze from the corpse. She went back to the drapery and pulled on one side. It snapped from its rings. Stepping forward, she began to spread it over Lady Dentford.
“Then why would she have been here?” she asked. “Is it possible that she was having an affair, too, with one of the actors?”
“Are you suggesting she has been involved with Birdwell?” asked Neville.
Miss Ayers shook her head vehemently as she pulled a handkerchief from her bodice. “That was impossible.”
“Impossible? Why?”
“Mr. Birdwell...” She flushed and swallowed hard before going on. “He has his—um, admirers. The lady murdered the opening night of our latest play was one. The other is an actress from a theater in Drury Lane.”
“Obviously he is a better man than I am,” Neville replied. “I find one woman keeps me on my toes.” He gave Priscilla a smile.
Drawing the drapery farther over the dead woman, Priscilla said, “Mr. Birdwell would have no reason to wish Lady Dentford dead, it appears.”
“No.” Miss Ayers worried the handkerchief, threatening the lace on its edges. “He has not been at the theater in several days. I doubt if he and this woman ever met. If—”
“Oh, sweet heavens! ”
Neville bent toward her. “Pris, what is it?”
She pointed to Lady Dentford’s left hand, which still remained uncovered. “Her third finger shows an indentation where she was wearing a ring. The ring is gone.”
He motioned her aside. Priscilla rose and put her hands over her stomach as Neville knelt, lifting the dead woman’s left hand to examine it. He did the same with the right.
“Find anything?” asked Thurmond.
“It appears she was wearing several rings. All of them are gone.” He turned to the Bow Street Runner. “It seems you must begin your investigation of Lady Lummis’s murder anew, for this is too much of a coincidence to be ignored.”
“I had hoped to obtain your help, Hathaway, in finding these murderers.”
“Murderers? Do you believe there is more than one?”
“I hope so.”
Priscilla glanced at Neville, then asked, “You hope so, Mr. Thurmond? Why would you wish there to be more than one murderer?”
“It would be easier to find two murderers, each with a reason to prey on a specific woman, than to have to chase down a single killer murdering rich, titled women.” He glanced over his shoulder and motioned.
Mr. Gill entered the box, crowding past Miss Ayers. “No sign of anyone, Thurmond, in any of the alleys. The ground beneath the window is hard, so no footprints would have been left.”
“Miss Ayers,” asked Mr. Thurmond, “who was with you in the room you stepped out of?”
“I was alone,” she replied, but did not meet his eyes. Priscilla folded her hands behind her back, waiting for Mr. Thurmond to denounce the actress as a liar. Instead he asked Mr. Gill more questions about any other routes out of the theater.
Turning to Neville, Priscilla said, “If the murderer was in the room with her—”
“She is not that skilled an actress. She would have come screaming out of the room.”
“But if she did not know the person was the murderer, she would have no reason to scream.”
“Wait here.” Neville squeezed past where Mr. Thurmond was in intense conversation with the other Robin Red-Breast about the missing rings. Going to Miss Ayers, he spoke as quietly to her as he had to Priscilla.
The actress was defiant and started to leave. Neville caught her arm, and her shoulders sagged. She nodded, glancing at the Bow Street Runners. He patted her arm, then elbowed around Mr. Thurmond again.
“There was a man with her,” Neville said. “Her lover.”
Priscilla began, “If he—”
“Impossible. When the murder took place, they were—shall we say occupied?”
“But who is to say exactly when Lady Dentford was murdered? It could have been any time in the past few hours.”
“Which gives the man with her a good alibi.”
Her brows rose as she smiled. “Really?”
“Really.” He chuckled. “He apparently is a very attentive lover.” Raising his voice, he added, “Thurmond, if you want to try to find the missing jewelry, I suggest you contact a fence near the Thames. A fence by the name of Carter.”
Thurmond nodded. “You spoke of him when you brought Lady Lummis’s brooch to Bow Street’s offices.”
Bintliff appeared out of the shadows. His report was quick and concise. Morton and Robertson had been sharing a bottle in the theater manager’s office. Both had fallen asleep, so neither could be completely certain the other man had been there the whole time.
Just as importantly, neither had been sober enough to hear anything out of the ordinary in the almost deserted theater.
“That is no help,” Neville said, frustration seeping into his voice.
“I leave you to your task, Thurmond. I assume Lord Dentford has not been notified.”
“No.”
“I will—”
Priscilla interrupted, “We will speak with him while you tend to what you must, Mr. Thurmond.”
The Bow Street Runner drew back the remaining piece of drapery. “Let me know if you learn anything, my lady.”
“If you will share with us what you glean from those you speak with.”
“My lady, you cannot expect—”
Knowing she was being rude, she halted him by saying, “I expect we all shall work together to solve the puzzle of these crimes. I know I am interested in what you learn after speaking with Carter and Mr. Bird- well.”
“But Birdwell may not be involved with this lady’s death. If you remember what she said . . .” Mr. Thurmond turned around, looking in every direction. “Where did Miss Ayers go?”
“She must have taken it into her mind,” Neville replied, “to disappear before you asked her more questions.”
“But she is not a suspect.”
“In this crime.”
Thurmond’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Point well taken, Hathaway.”
“And I hope you took Lady Priscilla’s point as well.” Neville steered Priscilla out of the box before Thurmond could give them another argument about why he could not share any information he gathered. Neville understood why Bow Street wanted to keep its information close to its collective chest, but the fact remained that most of what it had thus far had been brought to Bow Street by Neville and Priscilla.
Mayhap the two of them should open an investigation agency of their own. So far, their skills had rivaled or bested Bow Street’s, and they were welcome amidst the Polite World. He almost laughed as he realized he seldom had considered belonging to the ton a beneficial circumstance.
“What do you find amusing?” Priscilla asked as they went down the stairs.
He put his finger to her lips and motioned with his head toward where several men were arriving with a litter. He recognized at least two of them from St. Julian’s Church. They must be coming to take away tine lady’s corpse. Nodding to them, he hurried Priscilla out into the rain and to the waiting carriage before anyone could ask them questions.
Telling the coachman to take them to Lord Dent- ford’s house and handing Priscilla into the carriage, Neville sat. He shut the door and slapped the wall.
“Will you tell me what you find amusing now?” she asked.
He wished he could see her face in the darkness. The light from the street lamps was dimmed by the rain. “I was thinking about how we discussed establishing an agency to do publicly what we have found ourselves doing privately in the past year.”
“I doubt that is legal.”
“Bow Street is well within the law.”
As her lips played across his, lingering to lilt a melody he heard in her rapid breath, he swept his
arms around her. The silken warmth of her gown teased him to discover the soft skin beneath it. Losing himself in her touch and touching her would be the best antidote to the horror of the murders.
Again he wondered if she knew his thoughts, because she drew back and whispered, “We must recall what we need to do.”
“We need to do this.” He kissed her deeply and smiled when her breath pulsed against him. Releasing her reluctantly, he added, “But we also need to stop this murderer.” He took a deep breath and released it through his tight lips. “There seems nothing in common about these murders other than the location, Pris.”
“Killing someone in a theater is a risky matter.”
“Killing someone anywhere can be risky.”
“I shall not ask you how you know that.”
“That shows good sense, in this case.” He leaned one elbow against the window frame and stared out at the square they were passing through. “But the theater was almost empty when Lady Dentford was slain. The question is why was she there?”
“She must have been lured there for a specific reason.”
“Agreed. I suspect if we had further information, we would see something we have overlooked.”
“Mayhap Lord Dentford will be able to help.” Her voice quivered. “Although I hate to ask when we are bringing him the news of his wife’s death. I wish we had never gone to the theater with Daphne that night.”
“This is not the Season you hoped for.”
The Wedding Caper Page 16
