by R. J. Koreto
Mrs. Mancini shrugged. “I agree. Maybe Mr. Prescott was feeling old and saw an insult where there wasn’t one. He is no longer young enough to play the active roles as the young men do. Actors don’t like getting old.”
“Neither do gentlemen,” said Mallow.
Mrs. Mancini shook her head. “It’s different in the theatre, dearie. The gentlemen you know, running their estates and serving in Parliament—well, they can still do that when they get old. But there are things actors, no matter how good, can’t do any more once they get old, and they feel that.”
That made sense to Mallow, but she was thinking about weapons, Mr. Rusk suddenly posting guards in the theatre, and Mr. Prescott getting so upset because he was seen to be knowledgeable about swordsmanship. Her ladyship would find that very interesting, Mallow was sure.
“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Mancini. “There’s always a lot of fuss when you’re working with actors. It’s hard to tell when they’re acting and when they’re just behaving like children. Anyway, I only came to catch a look at the king. There are seams to fix before tomorrow’s show—”
As she said that, Susan Lockton appeared. She seemed surprised and a little dismayed to see Mallow, but she didn’t admit to knowing her in front of Mrs. Mancini.
“I was just looking for you, Mrs. Mancini. Did you want me to start on those hems?”
“Yes, please. And I’ll probably have more.” She turned back to Mallow. “A pleasure to see you again. Although I know you have a good position, if you ever want a job at the theatre, just come by.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mancini.” But she would never consider it. Lady Frances may be unusual, but the theatre was a madhouse.
Mrs. Mancini left, but Susan hung back, saying she wanted to see if she could grab a peek at the king. When they were alone, she said to Mallow, “Please don’t tell my mother I was working here again. She thinks I’m visiting some cousins, who support me in this.”
Mallow didn’t approve of lying, especially to mothers, but lord knew she had helped her ladyship evade her mother many times . . .
“I will be discreet, and so will her ladyship,” said Mallow.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Mallow. Every shilling I earn will go to buying a dress shop.”
Or provide a dowry to marry a vicar, thought Mallow. She watched Susan turn and stride back to the workroom. Meanwhile, Mallow headed toward the stage, where she had last seen Lady Frances, but her mistress was already rapidly approaching her.
“Mallow, come with me. We have had a bit of luck. If I played my cards right, we will be able to eavesdrop on Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott.”
“Eavesdropping again, my lady?” She hadn’t forgotten hiding in the closet in Mr. Mattins’s room.
“It’s the wonderful thing about theatres, Mallow. There are lots of places to hide.”
“Very good, my lady. I found out some interesting things.”
“Good. Tell me while we walk.” Mallow quickly summarized her talk with Mrs. Mancini.
“Very good. So they’re frightened and on edge. Mr. Rusk is worried about security, apparently for no reason. And Mr. Prescott is unaccountably nervous when blades come into conversation.” She frowned. “Did Mrs. Mancini say exactly when Mr. Prescott got so upset about swordplay?”
“Just yesterday, my lady.”
“Ah. So after we foiled the attack at Mr. Wheaton’s house. That is very telling.”
“Oh, and Susan Lockton is here, my lady, sneaking around her mother to work on the costumes. I told her we’d keep her secret.”
“You told her you’d tell an untruth?” teased Frances.
“In Proverbs, my lady, the Bible talks about the virtuous woman, saying, ‘She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.’ We’re just helping Miss Lockton live a virtuous life.”
“I don’t think there’s a theologian alive who could dispute your reasoning,” said Frances.
She led them to a staircase, but not the one that led up to the storage rooms. This one went down to the basement.
“What’s down here, my lady?”
“Every theatre has a space below the stage. It helps move scenery and allows actors to appear suddenly through hidden doors in the floor. Now it’s going to be dim in here, and we risk being overheard, so let’s walk carefully.”
The room reminded Mallow of the basement at the Seaforth country manor, where she had occasionally had to go to fetch something when she had been a housemaid. It was low ceilinged and dusty, filled with boxes of what seemed to be carpentry tools and some old furniture no one knew what to do with. A stab of light at the far end provided the only illumination. It took Mallow a few moments to get her bearings. The light was coming from a hooded box she saw at the front of the stage. There were a few rickety stairs that led to it.
“It’s called the prompter box,” whispered Frances, following her gaze. “It’s for the director to help the actors with their lines without the audience knowing. If I worked things out right, Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott are talking just above us, and we can overhear them. We’ll sit on those steps. With two pairs of ears, we should be able to catch everything.”
It was clear “Lady Capulet” was still talking with Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott, and Frances was hoping she’d leave so the two men could talk about what was no doubt on their minds. There were a few minutes of catty gossip about who had missed a line or stumbled over an entrance, and then they heard her laugh and say, “I’m going to find some of that awful wine you bought.” Her footsteps faded away overhead.
It didn’t take too long for the men to get to the heart of the matter.
“What the hell was that about you playing Romeo? You damn well know you played Mercutio,” said Rusk. “Did that have to do with the tantrum you threw over the fencing lessons?”
“The boy was an idiot. I’m not his assistant.”
“Don’t play games with me of all people,” said Rusk, and Frances heard real menace in his voice. “You and I were boys together in this theatre, but that doesn’t give you carte blanche.” She didn’t hear anything immediate from Prescott. Perhaps he had shrugged.
“It’s just nerves,” he eventually said. “Mattins is dead, and Lady Frances keeps asking questions, poking around. I thought she was just bored, making excuses to visit a theatre, but she keeps coming back.”
“I noticed,” said Rusk dryly. “I gave her tickets and an invitation but never thought she’d stay after the performance. And she wasn’t bluffing about her connections. Her brother is a powerful government minister, and she’s close enough to the king and Mrs. Keppel to feel comfortable joking with them. Worse, she knows something. She was taunting us.”
“Just showing off some gossip she picked up backstage. You know what those toffs are like.”
Frances heard Mallow tense up. Insults, even overheard, were not to be borne.
There was a long pause, and Frances was afraid they were leaving, but then Rusk continued, “Do you think he came back?”
“Who?”
“Braceley, of course. We never had proof he died, and he was mad on his best day. Can you imagine what he’d be like after the Sudan campaign if he managed to find his way back to England?”
“Are you saying you think he killed Mattins? That’s why you hired extra porters?” Frances heard doubt in Prescott’s voice, but also fear. A mad ex-actor with a soldier’s training was something to be frightened of.
Rusk didn’t answer him. “Do you know who visited me yesterday? The Reverend Samuel Halliday.”
“Halliday? You mean that group that keeps trying to drag us off to church? I knew they were still around, but I thought the Hallidays themselves were long gone.”
“It’s their son. He’s not involved directly in the mission, but he asked if I knew anything about Helen. Apparently, she was close to his parents. Said he’d heard some new information and was trying to locate her.”
That was interesting, thought Frances. She had inadvertently excit
ed the Reverend Halliday’s curiosity. Or perhaps he was worried about damage to his family’s reputation just like Emma Lockton had been. Was the Helen connection the real reason she didn’t want her daughter at the Emerald?
“So what?” asked Prescott.
“He was discreet, but vicars have trouble lying. Just like actors have trouble telling the truth.” Rusk laughed without humor. “He kept talking about her in the past tense—like she was dead. Why would he think that if he didn’t know? She’d only be in her fifties. And why is anyone showing up at all?”
Of course, thought Frances. The actors still imagined Helen living abroad with her husband. Only the Reverend Halliday knew she was buried, or should have been buried, in Maidstone. And he wouldn’t give that away to the actors, having promised his parents he would be discreet.
The men shifted, and Frances heard a dramatic sigh from Prescott. “For a man who’s not an actor, you certainly have a lively imagination,” said Prescott.
“And even for an actor, you’re not being very bright. Some of us have more to do than read a few lines and chase girls young enough to be our daughters. Did you know who our new masters are?”
“Some city gents. Who cares?”
“I had to ask around a lot and call in some favors. It’s a syndicate led by a very wealthy peer, Lord Freemantle. And guess who he is? The son-in-law of the late Sir Arnold Torrence, who had half the actresses in the company.”
Prescott laughed. “That’s funny. I wonder if this Lord Torrence knows? For God’s sake, Gil, you know how many gents have worked their way through the female company here. It would be odd if our owners did not have a connection. You know how close and tight Society is. Mattins spooked you. And me too, I admit it. But that’s all.”
There was another moment of silence before Rusk said, “I searched his room, afterward. It was locked. You know he kept it locked. But I didn’t find anything.”
“You didn’t? I’d have thought he’d have saved something about Helen. He was very sentimental, despite his behavior. You can’t think Braceley killed him for some reason after all these years and then stole something from his room.”
“Killed him? Maybe he came back to avenge him.”
“Gil, do you know something you’re not telling me?”
“Me? I’m an honest man.” Rusk’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “You’re the actor. What are you hiding? Would either of us even know what Braceley might look like after all these years?”
There was the sound of another pair of shoes on the floor, a light tread, probably belonging to a woman.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rusk.” It was Susan Lockton. “I do sewing for Mrs. Mancini, and she wanted me to tell you we’re almost done with the hemming and she’ll do those new sleeves tomorrow.”
“What? Oh, yes. Fine. Tell her thanks. Tomorrow is soon enough for the sleeves.”
“Very good, sir,” she said, and they heard her walk away.
“Who was that?” asked Prescott.
“You heard her—one of Mrs. Mancini’s seamstresses.”
“I mean, what is her name?”
“Sally? Susan? There’s always an army of them in and out. Why—? Oh, God, Quentin. It’s bad enough what you do with the actresses, but leave the respectable girls alone. I mean it. I don’t need any more problems, like Mrs. Mancini yelling at me that decent seamstresses won’t work here anymore.” The tone carried the full weight of the company manager.
“Don’t be ridiculous—although she is a lovely thing. That’s not what I meant. Didn’t she remind you of someone? Perhaps she’s some actress’s sister or niece or something?”
“And if she is? So what? Look—there’s the king’s equerry. His Majesty will probably be following. Change and go home, Quentin. And be careful.”
“You too, Gil.” There was no word or movement for a few moments. Frances imagined both men looking at each other, wondering what the other one knew. After a few seconds, footsteps departed in different directions, and then there was nothing.
Frances hadn’t realized how tense she was, concentrating so hard on the conversation. Mallow, now that they were alone, made herself busy brushing cobwebs off them both.
“We have a lot to think about,” said Frances, “but let’s do our thinking in our comfortable rooms instead of below the Emerald stage.” She giggled. “If some stagehand finds us here, I don’t think we’ll get away with claiming we got lost on our way to the front door.”
CHAPTER 27
With all the security due to the king’s attendance, Frances didn’t expect any attack when they left the theatre. There were plenty of hansoms, and soon they were back in their rooms. After their good dresses were hung up nicely, Frances got out the biscuits, Mallow made the tea, and then they put their feet up in their sitting room.
“A very entertaining evening, Mallow. And a very profitable one. Both Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott think Mr. Braceley has come back. Or they want the other one to think so. And we’ve upset the Reverend Halliday.”
“He seems like such a good man, my lady,” said Mallow, sorry that they had disturbed a vicar.
“I believe he is, Mallow, but we may have touched on some sensitive family history. Something can be embarrassing without being in any way sinful. We’re making the surviving signatories of the oath increasingly nervous. They’re afraid that Mr. Braceley has come back. Mallow, aside from those we’ve directly upset from our investigations, have you ever been afraid of someone trying to avenge themselves on you?”
“Certainly not, my lady.”
“Because you have led a good and virtuous life. But what if Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott have not? Their agreement was based on an ancient Greek oath. The Greeks spoke of a sort of avenging angels, the Erinyes, or Furies, which were hideous creatures who attacked those who committed grave crimes, tormenting them to death.”
Mallow suppressed a shudder. “They sound terrifying, my lady.”
“Oh, they were. The Greeks believed in vengeance, Mallow, and they didn’t forget. Not for years, not for generations, and one of the worst crimes was breaking an oath.” Frances had seen pictures of the Furies, but there was no reason they couldn’t wear the uniform of a soldier of the Suffolk Rifles and mete out punishment with a bayonet. Or avenge a death with one.
They drank their tea in silence. Frances’s mind wandered to a remark Mallow had made the previous day about how a motion picture let one person be in two places at once. There had been a lot of that, and the same thoughts kept going through her mind: Helen buried in Maidstone but quite possibly alive elsewhere. Emma Lockton née Bradley, a dead child in Shropshire and running a fine shop on Bond Street. Mr. Braceley, who should have died with the rest of his battalion in the Sudan but was possibly running around with a bayonet in London.
Actors were like that, and not just film actors. They changed clothes and masks, moved from one side of the stage to the other without the audience seeing them, rising or disappearing from the stage. She thought not of Romeo and Juliet but of Rosalind from As You Like It, one of her favorite Shakespearian heroines. A strong, resourceful woman, she spent much of the play disguised as a boy. Of course, as Mr. Rusk had reminded her, before the Restoration, men had played women’s roles. So Rosalind would’ve been a male actor, playing the role of a woman pretending to be a boy.
The kitchen maid. Frances and Mallow had been threatened by a man dressed as a woman.
Frances got up and fetched the program from the old staging of Romeo and Juliet, the one starring Helen. What an odd argument to have after all these years—whether Mr. Prescott had played Romeo or Mercutio. Was he that vain?
“Mallow, we thought that Mr. Mattins’s secret was the oath. But what if that wasn’t all? The items in this box were important because they were essential clues. They led us to the Hallidays and the rest of the signatories of the oath. But what about the program? It doesn’t really tell us anything. I mean, everyone knew Helen played Juliet. We would’ve found that out. But
what if there is something else? Something to do with Mr. Prescott playing Mercutio. We did find out that Helen prevented him from playing Romeo.”
“Was he embarrassed, my lady?”
“Perhaps, even after all these years. But why try to make everyone forget? Was it aimed at me? What is special about Mercutio? He dies in the play, of course.”
“It seemed that by the end, half the cast was dead, my lady,” said Mallow, a little disapprovingly. “I kept count: Mercutio, Tybalt, Paris, Romeo, and Juliet.”
“Oh, Mallow, you’ve hit on it! Yes, but Mercutio was first; he was first to die. Fairly early in act three.” She grabbed some other papers in the case file she had assembled, and Mallow saw the unmistakable smile of triumph on her ladyship’s face.
“Have you figured it out, my lady?”
“I’ve figured out a lot, Mallow. What a horrible situation this was. You were right when you noted that the inhabitants of Verona did not behave like Englishmen—there is something very un-English about all this. But there is one thing I still haven’t figured out . . .”
She sat back down in her chair and smiled ruefully. “The reason we started all this. Where is Helen? I bet Emma Lockton knows, but she’s sharp and tough—I’ll never get anything out of her. She’s the gatekeeper here, I sense. Her name connects her to Shropshire. Let’s say that somehow Louisa ended up there—she told her sister that’s where she’d be happy. So I can’t force something out of Mrs. Lockton. Let’s say Mrs. Lockton’s ‘stolen’ name, Emma Bradley, is a hint of some kind that this is really about Shropshire; then perhaps Louisa has been in Shropshire for all these years, and Mrs. Lockton is the only one who knows under what name Louisa is living. We can’t frighten Mrs. Lockton or she’ll get word to Louisa, and she’ll disappear again—for good. It’s maddening. Still, if I’m to be thwarted, Mallow, I take some perverse pride that it’s by a woman. We need to attack from another angle.”
