Death at the Emerald

by R. J. Koreto

  “That sounds acceptable and reasonable. But there’s no reason for my maid, Mallow, to be part of this. She is an excellent seamstress and perhaps can assist your costume mistress and her staff while we speak. The recent tragedy must have set you back, and she can help.”

  “Oh . . . yes, thank you. Miss Mallow, continue down the hall and ask for Mrs. Mancini. Tell her Mr. Rusk sent you.”

  “Very good, sir. My lady . . .” She gave her mistress a meaningful look and departed. Frances and Prescott took seats, and by a silent understanding, Rusk began to talk.

  “This is going to seem very silly and romantic to a modern young lady like you. Helen just appeared here one day. She didn’t say where she had come from and never spoke about her past, and we never asked.” He smiled. “She begged to join the company. She had a way with a nice upper-class accent but could also sound like a Cockney wife. I remember so well what she said—‘I’m a good hard worker, Mr. Rusk; I’ll remember my lines, follow all direction, and never give you a moment to regret engaging me.’ So earnest. I bet she had written down and rehearsed those lines.”

  He lost himself in the memory. “That was all well and good, but in fact, none of us had ever seen such a beauty. It was more than that . . . she had a presence.” He smiled shyly. “I was bewitched by her—we all were—but we weren’t idiots. She was only an adequate actress, no more, but with her beauty and unapologetic boldness, she commanded the stage, and for many roles, that was enough. It was more than enough.”

  “And you all wanted her? That’s where the oath came in?”

  Rusk looked a little embarrassed. “Yes. I know we look like fools, but we were young, my lady, and those were different times. There were six of us. Myself, Prescott here, Mattins, and three actors no longer with the company: Nicholas Garfeld, Dennis Oppington, and Alexander Braceley. We swore we would support whoever she chose to marry with no hard feelings and that her happiness would always be foremost with us.”

  Braceley’s name was familiar—he had played Romeo opposite Helen’s Juliet according to the program Frances had uncovered. “Which one did she choose?” she asked.

  Prescott laughed at her question. “That’s the thing, my lady. It never occurred to us she would take anyone but a man of the theatre, but full of surprises was Helen. We had a man of business here who kept our books, working while he studied for his accountancy exams. His name was Douglas MacKenzie, a pleasant enough fellow for a Scot, who seemed likely to make his way in the world, but you never would’ve thought he’d capture the heart of a woman like Helen.”

  “Women are romantic but also practical,” said Frances. “You men thought of her beauty, but for a life partner, she thought about more than a handsome face and glamorous figure.”

  Prescott burst out laughing at that, and Rusk forgot his melancholy long enough to smile. “Oh, Lady Frances, you are too right,” said Prescott. “I bow to you.” And he did just that, like a Stuart-era cavalier. “He wasn’t even one of the signatories.”

  “So she married him?” asked Frances.

  “Yes,” said Rusk. “He passed his exams and landed a government position in Jamaica. They were going to take a brief visit to his people in Edinburgh before sailing. She had only been with us for about year. We kissed her good-bye, shook MacKenzie’s hand, and we never saw them again.” He buried his face in his hands.

  “No letters? You never heard from her?” asked Frances. Rusk looked up and shook his head.

  “There was no point. She was starting another life, halfway around the world. Our part was done. Helen left us with memories, and for us, that was enough. We continued with our lives.”

  Frances nodded. Unless they were lying beautifully, they had no idea that there was a grave with Helen’s name on it in Maidstone, MacKenzie was apparently murdered, and a vicar in Wimbledon knew at least some of the story.

  “Thank you for being frank. I know about the two of you and Mr. Mattins. What happened to the other three signatories?”

  “Oh, that was a long time ago,” said Rusk. “Let’s see, Nick Garfeld was tall and gangly and completely tongue-tied around Helen. Did well in comic roles. He left a few years later, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, met an innkeeper’s daughter while on tour in Rye and took over the business. He had a couple of sons, but the last time we were there, three or four years ago, we heard he had died.”

  “And Dennis Oppington—” continued Rusk.

  “Big man. Always bought flowers for Helen,” said Prescott. “Might’ve made a good Falstaff someday if he could’ve lost that accent of his. His family were gamekeepers or something in Yorkshire, and eventually he went home to do whatever gamekeepers do. He sent a letter every year at Christmas until he went to his final reward.”

  “And then there’s Braceley, Alexander Braceley,” said Rusk, grinning at the memory. “My God, there was never a more ardent suitor.”

  “Pressed his attentions hard?” asked Frances.

  “The poor girl was flattered at first. He was handsome and could be amusing, but he became tiresome very quickly. She once doused him with a pitcher of wine.”

  “I don’t blame her,” said Frances. “What happened to Mr. Braceley?”

  Rusk grimaced and Prescott shook his head. “That was a tragedy, my lady,” said Rusk. “He always thought Helen would come around. He was already making a name for himself, receiving good reviews. He was going to be celebrated. I thought he might actually win her. But he was always a little high-strung, and when she announced her marriage, he broke down. He hoped she would change her mind, but sometime after she married, he left the company and joined the army.”

  “He was the best actor this company ever had, and you can imagine, I don’t like to admit anyone was better than I, so you can believe it,” said Prescott.

  “Better than you—he must truly have been great,” said Frances with a wry smile.

  “He was young, scarcely older than Helen, but we knew he’d be a great leading man. It broke my heart to see him give up like that. Just the kind of grand gesture he’d make. He thought he’d come back with a row of medals, covered in glory, and win her back in some manner. She’d leave her husband. What a waste,” said Rusk.

  Prescott even relaxed his mocking features long enough to look sad. “I, and a few of the other lads, saw him off on the train. So cheerful he was, still pledging undying love for Helen. And that was that.”

  “He died?” asked Frances.

  Rusk shrugged. “He was sent to the Sudan with the Suffolk Rifles. I don’t think I need to tell you, my lady, what happened there.”

  No, he didn’t. No one had come home from the Sudan campaign.

  “That leaves just me and Prescott here,” said Rusk. “I married a few years later, raised children, eventually became manager, and am now a widower. Prescott here remains a confirmed bachelor and an adaptable mainstay of the company.” Prescott gave another bow. “And so now you know all, my lady. I wish we could help you with your task, but if Helen and Douglas remained in Jamaica, or came back to England, or went to another colony—we have no idea.”

  “We still have to account for Mr. Mattins’s murder,” said Frances, drumming a finger on Rusk’s desk for emphasis. But he just rolled his eyes, and Prescott chuckled.

  “You are thinking like a playwright, my lady. In a play, the death of Mr. Mattins would dovetail with the disappearance of the divine Helen. But this is real life, and in real life, scenes don’t work themselves out so neatly,” said Prescott.

  “Perhaps,” said Frances, not wanting to give up her idea. She looked to both men and smiled slyly. “Mr. Prescott, I’ve heard of the others. But how did the rest of you love Helen?”

  “Oh, my dear, what a question!” said Prescott. “I’m in danger of forgetting that you are of the aristocracy. I loved Helen most poetically. The late Mr. Mattins was older. He loved her protectively. And you, Gil.” He looked at the manager. “There was no dissembling there. You were the only one of
us, I think, who wasn’t just entranced by her. You really loved her, completely.”

  Frances looked closely at Rusk’s face and realized that Prescott might well be right.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mallow found the backstage as busy as a kitchen in a great house before a dinner party. Men were hammering away at some sets and painting others. Dressers were holding costumes for fittings, and actors shouted lines on the stage. A pair of women were sorting through props—scrolls, fans, bottles, and swords.

  Mallow found the costume mistress with pins in her mouth as she held up a dress, giving it a critical look. She was pleasantly round in body and face, and her brown hair, shot with silver, was pulled back neatly and simply.

  “Excuse me,” said Mallow. “Are you Mrs. Mancini? I’m Miss Mallow, personal maid to Lady Frances Ffolkes, who has business with Mr. Rusk. My lady thought I could assist you in the meantime.”

  Mrs. Mancini put down the dress and removed the pins from her mouth. Mallow pulled herself up and tried to look haughty, as befitted a lady’s maid in the House of Seaforth, while Mrs. Mancini looked at her with a shrewd eye.

  “You can sew?”

  “I am an excellent seamstress,” she said.

  “Very well then.” She picked up a dress and a sleeve and handed Mallow needle and thread. “Take a seat and sew this on, thank you.”

  Mallow began sewing and was well aware of how closely Mrs. Mancini was watching her. Very well then. Mallow had repaired costly dresses from the finest dressmakers in London, even dresses brought all the way from Paris.

  “You do fine small stitches, I’ll give you that. But if that’s how you’re planning to do it, on opening night, half the cast will be naked.”

  “I was taught to make it perfect,” said Mallow. Indeed, Frances’s late mother, the old marchioness, had more than once praised Mallow’s work.

  Mrs. Mancini laughed, though not unkindly. “Fair enough, my dear, but this isn’t a Belgravia ball. Look at the other sleeve. It doesn’t have to look good for the other actors, just for the audience. We do it fast, just good enough for the front row, and after we’re done with the show, we tear the sleeves off again and use it for something else. It’s all make-believe, Miss Mallow.”

  Mallow thought on that. It made sense, when you thought about it. A lady on the stage was not a lady in a fine house. She felt the cloth carefully while Mrs. Mancini watched her.

  “It’s not very good material,” said Mallow, with a little hesitation.

  “Of course not. We’re not going to buy the finest silks and satins for the stage.” She sighed. “Everyone is always surprised the first time. But never mind. Just have a go, and try to be fast rather than perfect. The other seamstresses are busy with fittings, and I could use the help and the company.”

  And soon they were sewing away together. “So, Miss Mallow,” said Mrs. Mancini. “I can tell that you’re a fellow Cockney.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Mancini, born within the sound of Bow Bells, though I have been in service in good houses since I was thirteen.”

  “Good for you, my dear, being a maid to a fine lady. You’re set up proper, you are, but we’ve had some fun here, I can say. Though my father was an Italian, I’ve lived my whole life in London. Been at the Emerald since I was your age.”

  Oh, good, thought Mallow. Since Mrs. Mancini had been here more than thirty years, she could help with their investigations. But when sharing gossip, it didn’t pay to be too direct.

  “It must be exciting, being around all the actors and actresses,” said Mallow.

  “Oh, that wore off long ago. I’ll tell you the truth; they can be rather exhausting.”

  “We don’t see many actors where we live,” said Mallow. “Lords and ladies and so forth.”

  “I can imagine,” said Mrs. Mancini. She gave Mallow a sharp look. “What is your lady doing here, anyway?”

  “She’s a patron of the arts,” said Mallow grandly, and Mrs. Mancini nodded. “Lady Frances’s brother is a marquess and in government. She knows all the best people. The king even came to dinner once.”

  “Ooh, he did, did he? The king has also been to this very theatre.”

  “Did Queen Alexandra come too?”

  Mrs. Mancini smirked. “No. He brought a ‘friend.’”

  Mallow blushed a little. Well, kings did that kind of thing . . .

  “Just last week, Viscount Hallifax came to dinner at the house of her ladyship’s brother and sister-in-law. Eldest son of the Duke of Uxbridge, he is, and grandson, on his mother’s side, of the Bishop of Borham.”

  Mrs. Mancini laughed. “Dear Andy! He practically lives here. Sweet on one of the actresses, takes her out to dine two or three nights a week and keeps half the florists in London in business.”

  Well, thought Mallow. My goodness. She knew that not all of the nobility showed perfect behavior, but for the heir to a dukedom to take actresses out to dine . . . It was one thing for Lady Frances to make friends with an actress, but when it came to romance . . .

  From there they went back and forth, with Mallow mentioning the leading members of Society who the Seaforths knew and Mrs. Mancini responding with names of gentlemen who (with various degrees of discretion) called on actresses after performances. There was a lot more overlap between the two groups than Mallow had suspected.

  “As I said, her ladyship is a patron of the arts,” said Mallow, “and she knows others in the best society who also support respectable theatre. Indeed, a friend of her late father’s, the Marquess of Seaforth, was such a patron as well, Sir Arnold Torrence.”

  “Sir Arnold? Oh, dear lord, Miss Mallow, really!” And Mrs. Mancini laughed and laughed. “A patron of the arts, was he? Is that what they called it?”

  “Did I say something funny?” said Mallow, a little stiffly.

  “Sorry, Miss Mallow, no wish to give offense. Sir Arnold—haven’t heard his name in . . . well, it must be thirty years. He must’ve gone to his final reward by now. But back in the day, he spent more time here than with his wife and children, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Are you saying,” said Mallow with some hesitation, “that he had an affair with an actress?”

  “Oh, my dear, not with an actress. With all of them.”

  “But . . . he was such a distinguished man, I heard.”

  “Ha—they’re the worst. Being proper all day and then in the evening . . . I could tell you stories, Miss Mallow. Anyway, Sir Arnold certainly loved actresses, wooing half a dozen at a time. You should’ve heard the talk. Anyway, he moved overseas, I heard, and we never saw him again. Don’t know if he ever came back to London. He’d be very old if he was still around.”

  Were any of his actress lady friends still around? Mallow knew her ladyship would want to know, but it was hard to ask something like that directly without making Mrs. Mancini suspicious. Mallow was rather horrified at Sir Arnold’s behavior but thought it best not to appear too unsophisticated.

  Mallow sighed. “It’s an unfair world for women. The men can have their bit of fun no matter how old they get, but think of those actresses—they’d be in their fifties and sixties now. I don’t suppose anyone wants a bit of fun with them anymore.”

  Mrs. Mancini gave her a curious look. “Funny thing to say, especially from one as young as you, but I daresay you’re right. Still, the men would give their women gifts, and the smart ones saved them for a rainy day. They got by.” She paused in her sewing. “You made me think of Genevieve. Do you like motion pictures, Miss Mallow?”

  “Oh, very much!” Mallow said with much enthusiasm. Mrs. Mancini smiled.

  “Yes, you young people do love them. Genevieve D’Arcy was in this company once, and she aged into character parts. Then her voice started to go, but she was able to keep working at Emerald Film Studios, where they make motion pictures. They’re not far from here. Tell her Mrs. Mancini says hello, and maybe you can see a motion picture being made. But I wouldn’t bring up Sir Arnold. That was a long time ago, and
I’m not sure she wants to think about it.”

  “It ended badly?” asked Mallow.

  Mrs. Mancini shrugged. “I couldn’t say. The thing of it is, there aren’t many roles for older women. People want to see young beautiful women on the stage, and gentlemen want young beautiful women in their beds.” Mallow flamed at that, and Mrs. Mancini chuckled. “As you say, Miss Mallow, it’s an unfair world.”

  Shortly after that, Frances came to fetch her maid.

  “Thank you for the loan of Miss Mallow, my lady. She’s a fine seamstress and helped me get a lot done.”

  Mallow enjoyed the compliment.

  “I am glad to hear it. I hope to see these costumes onstage during a performance. By the way, I was speaking with Mr. Rusk about the history of this company, and the name of an actress who worked here briefly, many years ago, came up. Helen. Did you know her?”

  Mrs. Mancini looked amused. “Can’t say she was a close friend of mine, my lady. I was just a simple seamstress back then, so I really didn’t know the actors and actresses well. I remember her because she was so beautiful, and if I may say, the men all made themselves fools over her.”

  “But which one did she like?”

  “I don’t recall her caring much for any of them, my lady. Married someone respectable, if I remember right, an accountant who did some work here, and headed off to the colonies. Mr. Rusk, who was just an assistant stage manager then, didn’t come to work for two days, he was so broken up, and Mr. Rusk never missed work, before or since.”

  “Because he was losing a valuable actress or the love of his life?” Frances smiled, and Mrs. Mancini matched her.

  “After all this time, my lady, I really couldn’t say.”

  Frances and Mallow said their good-byes and left. They were heading out of the door just as another man was coming in. He was tall and narrow with a full beard. His eyes lit up as he saw Frances.

  “Major Frances, what a pleasant surprise,” he said in an Irish accent. “It’s been a while. When did we last meet?”

  “Mr. Shaw, a happy meeting. It’s been nearly a year since we saw each other at a house party, where you tried to get me to become a Fabian.”