by Darcie Wilde
“Was it usual for him to return to the theater so late?” Rosalind asked.
“Not terribly.” Mrs. Seymore reclaimed her teacup and drained the contents. “But he sometimes left behind some book or manuscript or letter only to discover he needed it. So I went there after him.”
“You went to the theater? Alone at night?”
“I have done it so many times and I did not particularly think of it,” said Mrs. Seymore, her tone almost daring Rosalind to be shocked. “And yes, I am aware of how it might appear to those less familiar with the peculiar customs of the theater world.”
Rosalind busied herself with pouring out more tea for Mrs. Seymore, and for herself. Rosalind knew that those who dwelt in the tribes of the artists, theater dwellers, and pen wielders had their own courtesies and their own rituals. They could forget how their habits might look to those more straightened and correct foreigners who gazed upon their shores. But what concerned Rosalind was how each word Margaretta spoke indicated her familiarity with the routine of the theater, and the particular habits of Fletcher Cavendish.
“Paulling, the day porter, had gone off duty by then, but I remember I spoke with Ulbrecht, the night porter.” Mrs. Seymore’s eyes had gone distant, and she drummed her fingers against the rim of her cup, trying to recall each detail. “He told me he’d seen Mr. Cavendish go up to his dressing room. That’s on the first floor, so I went up the house stairs, and knocked. I may have called as well . . . But there was no answer. I then returned and asked Ulbrecht if he had seen Mr. Cavendish leave, but he said he had not. Some presentiment reached me, and I asked Ulbrecht to unlock the door.”
“It was locked?”
“No, as it turned out,” she admitted. “But while I am somewhat casual in my habits, I could not quite bring myself to enter a man’s dressing room without some witness. Not with . . . all that is hanging over my head right now.”
And yet you went to him alone at night. You proceeded from hotel to theater, all alone. You only took care for your reputation once you understood something might be amiss.
“Of course. Go on.”
“Fletcher was on the floor. He was on his back. He was . . . There was blood everywhere, Miss Thorne. Ulbrecht started howling and I ran to Fletcher . . . I . . . He was dead. His hands . . . I tried to pry them free.” She held up her own hand, as if, like Lady Macbeth, she would see the stains still there. “They were warm and soft and . . .”
Mrs. Seymore reclaimed her teacup and took another large swallow. It was clear she was determined to stiffen her spine against all she had seen, which was just as well. Rosalind was keenly aware of the ticking of the clock, the brightening of the room, and the continued absence of the captain.
She wondered what was happening in the dressing room now, and if the officers from Bow Street had been summoned yet. Would Adam Harkness be set on this work? In her own mind, Rosalind saw Mr. Harkness as she had the previous night in front of the theater; a figure lost in the shadows, calmly watching all that occurred.
“I became aware of a terrible commotion,” Mrs. Seymore was saying. “Ulbrecht kept shouting and people were running and . . . I am very ashamed to admit it, Miss Thorne, but I lost my head. I ran away.”
Rosalind said nothing. She looked again at Mrs. Seymore’s ruined skirts.
“I couldn’t think,” Mrs. Seymore protested softly, even though Rosalind hadn’t said a word. “I couldn’t see anything except . . . Oh, my dear lord, Fletcher. What have I done?” Her hands trembled again.
Rosalind snatched the cup from her hands before she spilled it. “Mrs. Seymore, you must remain strong. Tell me, was the house empty when you returned?”
“Yes, and quite dark,” she whispered. “Much as it was when you arrived. Only Eustace and little Margie were here, and I had to send Eustace for you. After that, I was in rather a fog until you arrived.”
“Did anyone say when the captain left?”
“Yes. Eustace did. It was about ten o’clock.”
Ten o’clock. That would have given the captain more than enough time to polish off another bottle somewhere, in company or alone, and then to travel to the King’s Arms and climb to the private dining room in the hopes of catching his wife with Mr. Cavendish. Where had he gone after that?
“Mrs. Nott,” said Rosalind to the housekeeper, who had taken up an unobtrusive post in the corner. “Could you go ask Eustace if the master possibly came back and went out again? Very early?” It was a forlorn hope, for the captain would have had to go before daybreak.
“No,” whispered Mrs. Seymore before Mrs. Nott could make an answer, or a movement. “Oh, merciful heavens, Miss Thorne, you cannot think William did this. I will believe a great deal of my husband, but I tell you flatly, he hasn’t the heart to kill a man in cold blood.”
“No, of course not,” said Rosalind hastily. “But it is important that he be found. You were seen at the theater. There will be questions about all the things that happened last night. He must be here to help answer them.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
But Rosalind could tell that despite her protestations, all manner of unpleasant ideas were forming in Mrs. Seymore’s mind. “He may have gone to his club,” Margaretta said. “He has spent the night there before. Or perhaps he met Sir Bertram and returned to his house? He does that sometimes.”
“Very good,” said Rosalind. “We can send your man to either place.”
Mrs. Seymore closed her eyes. “But . . . once we find the captain, then what? I must know what to do and what to expect.”
It was difficult to think of the correct answer. Rosalind knew too little of the forms and procedures. This was not her world.
One thing she could say with certainty, however.
“You must come forward at once,” said Rosalind firmly. “If you try to hide your connection to this thing, it will go the worse for everyone. You must let me send to the Bow Street Police Office. There is a man there, Adam Harkness. He is one of the principal officers and you may trust him to hear your story with disinterest.”
And that disinterest would be needed, as would all the shrewd and careful insight Mr. Harkness possessed, and not a little of the friendship Rosalind knew he felt for her.
Because Mrs. Seymore at this moment might be telling a terrible truth, or a terrible lie. As soon as the lights had been brought, Rosalind was able to see that not all the stains on Mrs. Seymore’s pale skirts were street dirt.
Several were very clearly dried blood.
CHAPTER 12
The Supporting Cast
[He] may, and ought, to inquire of all circumstances of the party’s death, and also of all things which occasioned it.
—John Impey of the Inner Temple,
The Practice of the Office of Coroner
“And you knew Mrs. Seymore on sight?” Harkness asked the night porter.
Harkness sat in Dr. Arnold’s office with a glass of brandy in his hand to help wash away the iron tang that being in the room with a dead man left in the back of his throat. As he drank, he listened to the night porter relate how the body had been found.
“I did know her that plain, sir.” Stanislas Ulbrecht was a weathered man who seemed to be composed entirely of bones and knobby joints held together by sinew. Despite his name, his accent was that of a native Londoner born within sight of Covent Garden. “She been at my door many’s a time.”
“But you had not seen her last night, before she came asking if Mr. Cavendish was there?”
“Not she, sir. Nossir.” Unlike some Harkness talked to, Ulbrecht did not seem to relish his chance to stand before one of the famous Bow Street “runners.” But neither did he look worried, like a man with something to hide. Ulbrecht just seemed put out, like a man who wanted to finish his work and be off to his breakfast, and his bed.
Harkness had a great deal of sympathy for
Mr. Ulbrecht, but unfortunately there were other things he needed to know. “Did any others come asking for Mr. Cavendish?”
“Ha! Everybody wants to see Mr. Cavendish. Or they did.” For the first time, unease crept into Ulbrecht’s manner. “Damme, sirs, I must get back to my door, or we’ll have the whole of London pouring through trying for a peek.”
“You stand there, Ulbrecht,” said Dr. Arnold. “I’ve put Selby outside, he’ll see to it. You answer Mr. Harkness. Who else asked after Mr. Cavendish last night?”
“Well.” Ulbrecht’s keen eyes darted this way and that, as if he was looking for answers in the corners of the office. “It weren’t Mr. Cavendish he asked for . . .”
“Who is this?” Harkness set his glass down and met the man’s gaze, making it perfectly plain he was ready to wait as long as necessary for the answer.
“Cap’n Seymore, sir. Dead drunk and bellowing, but it weren’t for Mr. Cavendish. He wanted Mrs. Seymore. But that was ’afore I seed her.”
“And who is Mrs. Seymore?” Harkness asked.
“You don’t know Mrs. Seymore, the poetess?” exclaimed Dr. Arnold. “A very famous lady of letters, and a friend of Mr. Cavendish’s.”
“And Captain Seymore is . . .”
Dr. Arnold’s face twisted. “The lady’s rather less famous and much drunker husband, I’m afraid.”
“What time did the captain make his appearance?” Harkness took care to keep his voice and manner calm.
“Well, now, let me think.” The porter scratched his nose, and his ear, and his stubbled chin. “Curtain’d come down. Good run, good house, quite the crowd there was, but that’d cleared away . . . aye. Morgan cut his hand . . . aye . . . Cordington got into a fight with Betty Lucas . . . aye . . .”
“Go on, man!” Dr. Arnold slammed his hand against his desk.
Ulbrecht didn’t even flinch. He did tug at his ear. “Half two!” he cried triumphantly. “I was opening the door for Mrs. West. Her carriage had just come, and the watch was calling out, and Seymore comes rolling up himself, you know that walk that sailors have.” He showed signs of being willing to demonstrate, but Harkness held up a hand to stop him.
“You could swear it was Captain Seymore?”
“As easy as I’d swear to me own name. He’d come to my door ’afore, just like his missus. Well, not just like. Alwus glad to see her. Grand lady, alwus quiet and polite with a please and a thank-you and . . .”
And probably a shilling or three. “Was the captain here before or after Mrs. Seymore came?”
“Oh, ’afore, sir. An hour maybe, maybe a bit more, but not so much, or I would not a’ been here, you see, but Mrs. West was late an’ wanted her carriage brought ’round then and somebody ’ad to get between Cordington an’ Betty Lucas ’afore they tears themselves to bits. It was—”
“Did you let Seymore up to the dressing room?” interrupted Harkness. Maybe Cordington and Betty would become important later, but he could not let Ulbrecht go chasing down that road just now.
“When he could state no proper business?” Ulbrecht drew himself up indignantly, and with a worried glance toward Dr. Arnold. “Not I, sirs. Not the lord mayor himself. Not the king!”
But you did let the lady up, an hour and maybe a bit more later.
Harkness thought about the warren of passages and stairways that made up the back of the theater; about all the people going about their own work, or thinking to get home to their own beds and families. With the porter sending for carriages and breaking up fights, it would be simple enough for a man to slip through any one of the dozen open doors, find a place to hide, and wait.
“Thank you, Mr. Ulbrecht,” said Harkness. “You can go, but we’ll be wanting to ask you more questions soon, and you should know you may be called to give testimony at the coroner’s inquest.”
“At yer service, sir,” Ulbrecht said, although he did look to Dr. Arnold to confirm it. Arnold nodded and waved in dismissal. As soon as the office door shut, he got up and went to the sideboard to pour himself a fresh brandy.
“What is it we’re to do next, Mr. Harkness?” Dr. Arnold asked as he stared at the fresh spirit in his glass. “Cavendish has no family that I know of.”
As if the question were some cue upon the stage, the door burst open and a short, bandy-legged man all but tumbled into the office and fetched up against the manager’s desk.
“Arnold!” the man cried. “Is it true?”
“Ah, Mr. Kean.” Dr. Arnold settled himself back into his chair. “You weren’t long in coming.”
“Did you think this could be kept a secret from me! Did you think—”
“And you are, sir?” asked Harkness.
The new arrival, Mr. Kean, pivoted toward Harkness, his dark eyes flashing fire and daggers and all the rest that an insulted man might think to throw into such a glance. “Arnold, who is this?” Kean demanded.
With a sigh, Dr. Arnold put down his brandy. He also swept out his arm in a grand gesture. “Mr. Kean, I present to you Adam Harkness, principal officer of the Bow Street Police Office. Mr. Harkness, I present to you Edmund Kean, one of the greatest actors ever to grace the stage of the Theatre Royal.”
Harkness made his bow. One of the greatest actors ever to grace the stage inclined his head without any trace of modesty. Edmund Kean was a short man with a rugged, horsey face and dark hair that he wore a bit longer than current fashion. His legs were both a little crooked, and Harkness wondered if he had suffered some accident.
The small man looked up at Harkness with dark and searching eyes. “Not the famous Watchdog Harkness, scourge of the highways!” he exclaimed in a voice trained to carry in a much larger space. Harkness acknowledged the cant name, and the title. “Then it is true! Cavendish is dead?”
“He is,” said Harkness.
To his surprise, Kean barked out a harsh laugh. “Well, well. I would have thought the pox would get him first. Which husband was it?”
“Husband?”
“Of course, husband!” Kean grabbed Dr. Arnold’s brandy off the sideboard and drank it down. Arnold neither flinched nor complained, he just got out a fresh glass and unstoppered the bottle, taking care to fill Kean’s glass first. “There’s not a bed in London that our Mr. Cavendish hadn’t made himself comfortable in. Half of old Ulbrecht’s business is turning sputtering spouses and other such righteous relations away from the door after a show.” It might well have been jealousy that colored the actor’s words, along with contempt. But whether it was or not, nothing was going to keep Kean from his main objective. “Arnold, they’re talking nonsense outside that we’re closing down for tonight.”
“We have to. Mob’s already gathering out there.” Arnold gestured toward the window with his glass. “If we open again too soon, they’ll pour in and tear the place down.”
“But you’re missing the best take of all our careers!”
“No, I’m not. You’ll have to trust me, Kean.”
“And what about our pay, eh?”
“I tell you to trust me.” Arnold put his arm about the man’s shoulders. He also poured some more brandy in his glass. “You get your eulogy ready and brush up your doleful sobs. As for the public”—Arnold winked as he stepped back—“let’s just let them stew a little, shall we? Let the anticipation grow and the word spread itself out properly. Why should we bother our heads with a buildup when the newspapers will create one for us? We’ll reopen in three nights, and I swear to you, Mr. Kean, you’ll have the entire house in the palm of your hand and a bigger profit than you’ve seen in your life. We’ll be giving Cavendish farewell performances for a month and all be rich as Croesus when we’re done.”
Kean threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Now, that is the way I like to hear a theater manager talk! I’ll go convey the good news to Mrs. West. She’s quite beside herself. Mr. Harkness.” Kean bowed a
nd breezed out with a considerably more lighthearted air than he’d brought in.
Harkness looked at Dr. Arnold with raised brows. Arnold met his gaze calmly. “I know what you’re thinking, sir. He’s a callow, heartless money-grubber.”
“No, Dr. Arnold, that is not at all what I was thinking.” Actually, he was thinking about the jealousy he’d heard under Kean’s words, and wondering what the man might know about Cavendish’s friends, acquaintances, and affairs.
“Well, you should have been, because I am.” Arnold slumped down in his chair. He considered his brandy glass, but pushed both it and the bottle away. “Damme if I can do anything else with this, though. Cavendish was the biggest draw we’ve had since Garrick, and we’ve no choice but to wring the last bit out of him we can get.”
“Who is Mrs. West?” Harkness asked.
“I see you are not one of our regular patrons. Mrs. West is an actress. As great a leading lady as that”—he raised his glass toward the closed door—“is a leading man.”
“Then it was her carriage Ulbrecht said he was calling for about the time Captain Seymore tried to get into the theater?” Which meant she might have seen or heard something of the encounter in the dressing room, or its aftermath.
“We have no other Mrs. West here, you may be sure,” Arnold said. “If you need to talk with her, I’ll see it’s arranged.”
“Thank you, Dr. Arnold,” Harkness said. “May I ask where you were last night?”
Arnold spread his hands. “Where wasn’t I? Mostly I was in the strong room, counting the receipts and going over the accounts. I was here in my office for a bit with the cash box and the ledger, settling with our fruit sellers and a few others. But all that was finished before two o’clock and then I was in my own carriage and on my way home.”
“And you saw nothing missing and noticed nothing wrong?”
“Our treasurer and all his clerks are counting every ha’penny and farthing now, you may be sure. We’ll let you know if any turn up missing.” He shook his head. “Damme, I almost wish it would turn out to be a robbery or something of the kind. It’s too bad when a man’s life just gets the better of him.” He looked bleakly up at Harkness. “Mr. Kean interrupted us before you could answer me, Mr. Harkness. What happens now?”
