Death at the Emerald

by R. J. Koreto

  CHAPTER 24

  Frances found the meeting very refreshing, giving her the chance to be among other strong and focused women. Feeling full of purpose, she pedaled back to Miss Plimsoll’s. Her legs were getting weary. Bicycling was all well and good, but on a busy day, it was tiring. She had some lunch, allowed Mallow to clean her up a bit, and then they were off to the film studio in a hansom.

  “Although I’m excited to see ourselves on film, I also want to talk to Genevieve D’Arcy again,” said Frances. “I only thought of her as Sir Arnold’s mistress, as someone who knew Helen, but now that we’ve grappled with our soldier, I realize I need to ask her about Alexander Braceley and Helen’s other suitors. Miss D’Arcy was one of the Green Players and is the right age to have known them. The other men who signed the Oath of Tyndareus appear to be accounted for, but we don’t know for a fact that Braceley died in the Sudan.”

  “So was that Mr. Braceley who attacked us last night, my lady?”

  “Perhaps. But even if he wasn’t, someone wants us to think it was him. And even if the stalker is only pretending to be Mr. Braceley, that doesn’t mean that he’s dead. I shouldn’t have taken Mr. Rusk’s and Mr. Prescott’s accounts of themselves regarding Helen at face value. We need another point of view. Miss D’Arcy can provide that. She knew Helen, but she can also tell us about the rest. I’m also thinking about babies, Mallow. I know I can trust you with a secret—Lady Seaforth is expecting.”

  “That is wonderful news, my lady. I am most pleased to hear it.”

  “You and I and his lordship are the only ones who know.”

  “I will be most discreet, my lady.”

  “There is a baby in this case, Mallow. We can’t forget about the infant child in Helen’s grave. Who was the oversized monument for? We assumed it was for Helen, who wasn’t even there. Was it for that child?”

  “But why was the child so important, my lady?”

  “I don’t know, Mallow. Who were those child’s parents?”

  Mallow frowned. “And why bury him secretly, my lady?”

  “That is something we must find out. Step by step, Mallow.”

  The hansom pulled up in front of the movie studio, and Frances and Mallow walked right in. As before, the room seemed a study in controlled chaos, with actors walking around, young women consulting their papers, and workmen dragging scenes, sets, and cameras into place. Mr. Pyecroft was giving directions, trying valiantly to maintain an authoritative air, but he smiled when he saw Frances and Mallow.

  “Ladies, thank you for acting in our film, and now please join me. We have a small theatre here, and I have asked our projectionist to queue up the reel with your scene. We think it came out very well.”

  “We are looking forward to it,” said Frances, glancing at Mallow. Her maid, as usual in a public situation, stood demurely behind her mistress, but Frances could see her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  Mr. Pyecroft led them into a side room about the size of drawing room. A dozen chairs were arranged as in an auditorium, while a screen sat at the far end of the room. They looked at the projector, an intricate collection of knobs and levers, which had a spool of film already loaded. Mallow had never considered any job aside from being in service, but now she imagined being a projectionist, getting to see the pictures every day . . .

  They took their seats as Mr. Pyecroft turned off the lights and started the projector. The screen flickered for a few moments—and there they were, Frances and Mallow flashing across the screen, with Mallow serving her mistress and the pair of them talking in silence. Frances heard Mallow gasp next to her, and Frances herself was a little stunned too.

  The screen went dark, and the lights came back on.

  “Did you like it, ladies? Very startling, isn’t it, to see yourselves on a screen?”

  “Yes, it is, sir,” said Mallow firmly, blushing a little.

  “I agree. Very exciting, Mr. Pyecroft. Thank you very much.”

  “And thank you both for appearing in my film.” He coughed delicately. “And I do want to remind your ladyship that we are available for private showings.”

  Frances turned to Mallow. “Should we have my brother and sister-in-law rent out a theatre at the height of a season for a party?”

  “I think that would be very popular, my lady.”

  She turned back to Mr. Pyecroft. “I’ll talk to my brother, the marquess. For now, is your actress Miss D’Arcy around? We had a lovely conversation last time, and I would like to see her again.”

  “Jenny? She just finished filming for the day and probably is getting changed in her room. I’m sure she’s still here.”

  “Thank you again,” said Frances. “We know our way to the actors’ rooms.” They made their farewells and headed to the dressing rooms.

  “So, Mallow, did you find it as exciting as I did to see yourself on the silver screen?”

  “Oh, my lady, I couldn’t believe it. It was like . . . magic. To watch yourself moving like that. It’s like, well, being in two places at once, isn’t it?”

  Frances stopped. “That’s a very insightful comment, Mallow.” Another illusion. Helen in two places at once, in her grave and perhaps . . . wandering about somewhere? Was their attacker in two places, both stalking them in London and lying dead in the Sudan? And Mrs. Lockton, both a long-deceased child in Shropshire and the proprietress of a distinguished Bond Street shop. Frances thought about what George Bernard Shaw had told her about theatrical illusion—directors, actors, and playwrights.

  “Thank you, my lady.” And then, with a little hesitation, Mallow said, “Although I will not publicly discuss your investigations, my lady, would it be all right if I mentioned the filming to my friends?”

  “I see no harm in that,” said Frances, and Mallow lost herself for a few moments imagining telling other maids in great houses that she, June Mallow, had been in a motion picture.

  When they reached the correct door, they knocked and heard someone say, “Come in.”

  Genevieve D’Arcy had just changed out of her costume and was adjusting her dress as they walked in.

  “Oh!” she said. “The two of you again. If you have more questions, I’m afraid I told you all I know about Sir Arnold and Helen. I’m done filming for the day and will be heading home now.”

  “Actually, we’re interested in some other members of the company, the men who loved Helen.”

  “They’re gone, mostly, my lady. And those that are still with us are friends of long standing. I won’t gossip about them now. But I do have a long trip home, so if you don’t mind . . .”

  Miss D’Arcy’s dress was well out of fashion, and Frances had no doubt that it was kept together with careful stitching. It had been a long time since men lined up outside of her dressing room, and any gifts she had received over the years were probably being sold one by one to pay for rent and food.

  “I see I’ve started very badly,” said Frances. “I’m not here to interrogate you, but I am still trying to find Helen. I believe the men are hiding things from us, but you as a woman would know about them. So it’s not sordid gossip I’m after but important memories. If it helps, I won’t tell anyone what we discuss.” She saw Miss D’Arcy waver a little, and then Frances sweetened the deal. “But I’m being rude. You probably want to get home to your evening meal. If there’s a place nearby you know of, I’ll buy the three of us something to eat.”

  Miss D’Arcy’s eyes lit up at that. “Seeing as you’re doing this for the good of the family, my lady, it wouldn’t be very nice of me to refuse you. The Nell Gwyn around the corner has a very nice steak and kidney pie with potatoes and a more than passable beer. Of course, it is quite respectable, my lady. You need not be ashamed to go there.”

  “I’m sure I won’t,” said Frances. “It sounds more than acceptable, and as it’s a little early, we should be able to find a quiet table.”

  “Certainly, my lady,” said Miss D’Arcy and, cheered at the prospect of a generous meal, g
rabbed her jacket and bag, and the three headed out.

  “Nell Gwynn—I suppose that’s a reference to the actress, as we’re near so many theatres,” said Frances as they walked. Her uncle, Lord Hoxley, had mentioned the name.

  “Oh, yes, my lady. Something of a legend here, as you can imagine. Became mistress to the king, she did, and their son became a duke, so they say.” She sighed. “Some women have all the luck.”

  The Nell Gwynn was better than Frances had feared. It was clean and reasonably well lit. The few midday patrons appeared to be actors, talking over drinks at the bar. A waiter seemed a little surprised to see someone of quality and quickly sat them at what was clearly the “best” table, toward the back. Mallow inspected the seats and grudgingly accepted them as suitable.

  Frances and Mallow had already had lunch, so they requested some little cakes and tea, but Miss D’Arcy ordered a pint and her steak and kidney pie with a side of potatoes. Frances watched Mallow’s hint of a bristle there. When women ordered beer, which shouldn’t be too often, it should only be half-pints. But Miss D’Arcy was in too good a mood to notice.

  “Miss Mallow, I owe you an apology from last we met for speaking to you so sharply. It isn’t easy getting older, especially for a woman in the theatre, and so I was a little oversensitive, as they say. I want to tell you that you have a pleasing face and figure, and I have no doubt that if you had a mind to, you could do well for yourself on the stage.”

  Mallow wanted to say that no amount of money would ever tempt her to be actress (except for a brief film role, just to help her ladyship), but she realized this was meant to be a compliment, so she just smiled. “That is very kind of you to say, Miss D’Arcy,” she said, and the actress was as pleased with the restoration of good humor as she was with the arrival of the beer.

  “So, my lady, you’d be wanting to know about the men and how they made fools of themselves over Helen with some sort of oath they made—the Oath of Tyneside, I think they called it. I don’t know why; we rarely traveled that far north. They thought it was secret, but there are no secrets inside a theatre.”

  “The name is actually . . . well, never mind,” said Frances, not wanting to give Miss D’Arcy a mythology lesson. “There were half a dozen men involved. At least two are dead from natural causes in the past few years. Mr. Mattins, as you know, was killed recently.”

  “Yes, I was at his funeral just yesterday,” Miss D’Arcy said solemnly. “He had no family, like many of us, but we all turned out from the Emerald and other theatres, so he had many to see him in the ground. We take care of our own in the theatre.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. He struck me as a good man, if a quiet one.”

  “Yes, that’s the truth of it, my lady.”

  “But in his quiet way, he loved Helen?”

  Miss D’Arcy nodded. “Yes, he did, my lady, but I would say, to be fair, he loved her almost as a father. He was somewhat older than the rest, you see. I think he felt protective of her.”

  “I can see that. But what about Mr. Rusk, the company manager?”

  She smirked a little at that. “Oh, my lady, you see him now, a plump manager of middle years, but he was a fine man back then, still just an assistant manager. Afraid to say ‘boo’ to a woman as beautiful as Helen but devoted nonetheless. Indeed, most of them were like that.” She snickered at the memory. “But I’d have to say, of all of them, his love was truest.”

  “That’s interesting. What makes you say that?”

  “After all this time, my lady, I can tell those who love a girl from those who just want to get her into bed. Pardon my frankness.”

  “On the contrary, I admire your honesty,” said Frances. “And Mr. Prescott?”

  “Oh, him? He couldn’t shut his damn mouth.”

  Mallow had heard far worse words than that but not from those taking hospitality from her ladyship. Frances watched her maid’s lips purse, and Miss D’Arcy looked a little embarrassed.

  “Pardon me, both of you. But you should’ve known him. Poetry, compliments that were old back when Nell Gwynn herself was on the stage, flowers. Made quite a pest of himself with wandering hands, let me tell you. She slapped him more than once. But I don’t know if he was truly serious.” She shrugged.

  So Prescott’s description of his and Rusk’s love for Helen had been accurate, thought Frances. Except that Prescott had been a little more aggressive than he had admitted. Prescott certainly sounded a lot more forward than the rest, but if Rusk really loved her . . . that could be a powerful emotion. More than mere lust.

  And now for the one she really wanted to know about. “What about Alexander Braceley?”

  “Ah, yes,” Miss D’Arcy said. “Dear Alex. Just between the three of us here, he belonged in Bedlam.”

  The conversation was temporarily suspended by the arrival of the food. Frances and Mallow were left wondering why Braceley should be confined to London’s infamous insane asylum while Miss D’Arcy savored her hot pie.

  “He went mad?” Frances finally prompted.

  “I don’t think he went mad. I think he was born mad. He was always a little nervy—full of odd humors, my mother would’ve said. And it all came out for Helen. He worshiped the ground she walked on.”

  “So like Prescott?” asked Frances. But Miss D’Arcy shook her head.

  “No, Prescott was irritating, but with him it was more the thrill of trying to seduce her. He took it hard when she turned him down, but I don’t think he mourned over her.”

  “It hurt his pride, not his heart,” said Frances.

  “Well put, my lady. That’s exactly it. But Braceley felt it deep down. He’d seat himself in front of her dressing room for hours, waiting for her to arrive. Spent all his wages on flowers for her.”

  “Did they act together? That is, in the same play?” Frances remembered from the program they had found that Helen and Braceley had been Romeo and Juliet—did Miss D’Arcy remember too?

  “Oh, yes, my lady. They played Romeo and Juliet together. To have a Romeo who was really in love with Juliet!” She laughed.

  “But Juliet didn’t love Romeo.”

  “Well, sometimes things don’t always work perfectly. Helen had to act.” Then she paused. “As best she could, anyway.”

  Frances tried leading her to a deeper discussion of the clash of personalities. “My impression was that Prescott’s pride might have been hurt that he didn’t get to play Romeo.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady. Funny you should say that.” She was enjoying her visit to the past. Everyone else she knew had already heard these stories. “Prescott thought he’d get to be Romeo, that maybe Braceley wasn’t seasoned enough, as they say. But Helen said she wouldn’t take the role opposite Prescott because of his behavior, so they gave him Mercutio, which I think he was better suited for anyway. But he was very upset. Took it personal, and Mr. Rusk had to calm him down.”

  “Helen wasn’t afraid of Braceley’s behavior?”

  “Oh, no, my lady. He was crazy, it’s true, and would even sing poems to her under her window. But he was well-behaved, and they acted well together. But I knew it was one-sided. When she married, he just went to pieces, and the next thing you knew, he had joined the army. Said he couldn’t stay in the theatre anymore. Most people didn’t think he was serious, but I did. And there he was off to the Sudan, and we never saw him again.” She looked a little mournful and gestured to the waiter for another beer.

  Frances nodded and caught Mallow’s eye. Her maid wasn’t impressed with anyone’s behavior here.

  “My understanding was that Braceley went off cheerfully when he joined the army,” Frances said.

  “Ha! Who told you that, my lady? Not the other men who signed that silly oath. He was furious with Helen. He felt he had been humiliated and had to run off. He said he couldn’t show his face around the theatre. I remember him saying that if Helen had run off with a Duke or Earl for a soft life, he might have understood. But to turn down love like his for an
accountant. He roundly cursed her and all women.”

  “That is a revelation,” said Frances. “But tell me about this accountant. You mentioned him briefly when last we spoke, yet no one seems to know about him.”

  Miss D’Arcy took a healthy sip of her second pint. The alcohol would loosen her tongue, Frances realized. However, she also knew that she’d better get all her questions answered while the actress was still upright.

  “Not much to say. Well-dressed, well-spoken when he spoke, which wasn’t often. He took care of the money on payday. Hardly a man to stand out in a theatre full of actors. Now you, Miss Mallow. You’re like me, women who work for their bread. You tell me why Helen married an accountant.”

  Frances watched Mallow pull herself up and order her thoughts. “An accountant is a respectable position. Steady work, as I understand it, and a good Christian life. Why take an actor if you can have an accountant? At least, that’s my opinion.”

  “Well said!” cried Miss D’Arcy, who turned her attention to Frances. “Do you agree, my lady?”

  Frances smiled. “You and Mallow have made your point clear.”

  Miss D’Arcy smiled sadly. “That’s about it, my lady. Braceley, hurt and angry, running off to war to prove something. Rusk shrugging and marrying a hostler’s daughter from down the street. Prescott licking his wounds, and the others eventually moving away, the oath forgotten.” She sighed. “This has been very nice, my lady, but it’s been a long day, and I should be getting home.” She stood a little unsteadily.

  Frances produced some money and gave it to Mallow. “You have been so helpful,” she said to Miss D’Arcy. “I’d like to thank you by sending you home in a hansom. Mallow will see you into one.”

  “Well, you are a lady. A nice drink and meal and a hansom cab. Thank you so much.” Mallow led Miss D’Arcy out of the restaurant and came back a few minutes later.

  “I told the driver most particularly that he was to take Miss D’Arcy home and that she was a friend of Lady Frances Ffolkes, sister of the Marquess of Seaforth, so to treat her with full respect.”