Drury Lane Darling

by Joan Smith

  This was the side of Pamela he found least lovable. He remembered what a shrew she could be, and turned sulky. “What do you want to do then?”

  “Go to Drury Lane.”

  “We’d be better off checking out Newman’s Stables to see if the rig Halton hired is back yet.” As this was of some interest, Pamela agreed to go there first.

  “What’s so important about that particular rig?” the stableman asked suspiciously. “Has it got something to do with Fleur’s murder? I already have orders from Lord Breslau to send word the minute it lands in, and let him know who was driving it. If you want a lad to notify you as well, it’ll cost you a crown.”

  “Never mind,” Nigel said.

  “Now may we go to Drury Lane?” Pamela asked, in exactly the tone of voice he liked least.

  “Damme Fleur ain’t at Drury Lane. You heard the man say the rig ain’t back yet. I have half a mind to go to Belmont.”

  “Then you will please drop me off at Drury Lane.”

  “Yes, to roll your eyes at Breslau. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. I see you’ve been cranking your hair into ringlets. You’ll catch cold if you think to make any headway in that direction, my girl.”

  A surge of suppressed anger rose up and engulfed Pamela. “You impertinent puppy!” It was the charge of chasing Breslau that hit home, but she had more ammunition to wound him in a different direction.

  “I’ve wasted quite enough time pandering to your stupidity. Any fool can see General Maxwell is in love with Fleur and worried sick at her disappearance. Bear in mind it was your own father’s coat and galoshes that were covered in mud, your badger sett where her shawl was found, your father who gave her the diamond bracelet, and your house from which she disappeared. I hope for your sake Fleur is alive, for if she’s dead, it’s not General Maxwell who will dance on the end of a rope.”

  Bereft of a sensible reply, Nigel said, “You sound for the world like Mama when you go into one of your rants. You might as well blame me as Papa.”

  “Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me. You only blame Maxwell because you’re jealous of him. Jealousy has led to murder before now. You were loathe to share the profits of your drama with Fleur, too. With her dead, you could keep all the money yourself.”

  “If we’re talking about jealousy, don’t leave your old favorite out. Breslau’s in love with her, too, you know, which don’t prevent him from using her death for cheap publicity. And why is he so eager to know when the carriage gets back to Newman’s Stables? He wants to get hold of the driver and make sure he don’t talk. He probably plans to murder him, too. Papa saw him skulking around the corridor by her apartment the night she disappeared. What was Breslau doing there at one o’clock in the morning?”

  “What was your father doing there?” she countered.

  “Trying to get back the bracelet she bought.”

  They glared at each other, then Pamela said, “If you’re returning to Belmont, pray leave me off at Drury Lane.”

  “That I’ll not.”

  “Then I shall walk,” she said, and turned to do just that.

  Nigel sulkily agreed to deliver her. As the carriage progressed toward its destination, he began talking himself out of returning to Belmont.

  “I think you should go,” Pamela told him. “It’s your neighborhood. You would know better than anyone else where Fleur might be. Are there any empty houses in the neighborhood?”

  “No,” he answered, without even considering the matter.

  A little later he continued. “If Fleur were alive, which she ain’t, don’t think she’d let Max hide her in some cold and lonely, old abandoned house. The place she’d hide is right here in London, where she could hear all the gossip about her disappearance.”

  “Yes, if her kidnapper was that considerate,” she said ironically. “And in that case, the carriage would be back at Newman’s. You’re speaking as though she had kidnapped herself.” Pamela stopped and thought about what she had said. “Could she possibly be so conniving?”

  After a judicious pause for mind-changing, Nigel allowed that she might. “The sliest woman in London. It was very cagey the way she got me to ask her to Belmont, now I think of it. And she only did it to be near Maxwell.”

  “How did she convince you? I was amazed you ever asked her, Nigel, knowing how your mother would feel.”

  “I dropped around her flat one afternoon—to work on the memoirs, you know. We were always interrupted a dozen times, but that day there wasn’t a minute’s peace. Her modiste came, and her hairdresser.”

  “They wouldn’t come without an appointment.”

  “She put them up to it, certainly. Two or three runners came from Drury Lane. Spiedel dropped in.”

  “I wager he was invited, too.”

  “And half a dozen other hangers on. She said how impossible it was to work there, and would it not be better if we went away somewhere. Truth to tell, I thought she meant just the two of us—I hardly knew which way to look. But it soon came out it was Belmont she meant. She was so enthusiastic about it, you know, and I could hardly tell her Mama would have me minced and fed to the carrion crows. I told her Belmont would be pretty well filled up, but she kept at me till I had to ask her, so I did, and got Wes to come along. He can handle her. But she put me up to it.”

  Nigel fell into a fit of silent concentration. When he revived, he had completely switched his opinion of Fleur around. “And she asked the deuce of a lot of questions about Papa, too,” he said accusingly. “Letting on she was only interested in me. How much money would Papa leave me, and a dozen questions about his youth. Brighton, in particular. I say, Pam, you don’t suppose there was anything between them?”

  “Possibly. Your father was handsome when he was young.”

  “You wouldn’t know about it, for you’re not the type, but to tell the truth, he still has a streak of tomcat in him.”

  “I do know it.”

  “Pam, you don’t mean he’s been trying to get you into corners!”

  “No! No, but I am aware of his—his reputation,” she said, softening the charge with a forgiving smile.

  “Imagine Fleur dunning Papa. I should like to have witnessed that scene. He’d kill her.” Nigel’s eyes flew open at what had slipped out. “Only speaking metaphorically!”

  “Of course. He wouldn’t have given her the bracelet if he meant to—to silence her more permanently. Let us not waste time discussing anything so ridiculous.”

  Nigel had turned quite pale. “Perhaps Papa was in her apartment the night she disappeared, to try to get the bracelet back. He might have given it to her to keep her quiet till he had an opportunity to—silence her more permanently,” he said, borrowing Pamela’s phrase. The word murder stuck in his throat. “There’s no denying he has a wretched temper.”

  “Breslau didn’t seem at all worried, Nigel. I am convinced he knows something. What he doesn’t know is where Fleur is hiding. That is what we must discover. Now think where she would go if she wanted to disappear for a few days.”

  “She was pretty close with Spiedel.”

  “We’ve been there, and to Henry Halton’s place as well. Is there someone else?”

  “She has a bunch of French friends scattered around the city. And she knows actresses all over the country, from her days in the provinces. She calls actors her real family. I wouldn’t have a notion where to begin looking.”

  They discussed possibilities till the carriage reached Drury Lane. The front door was locked, and Nigel had the pleasure of showing off his familiarity with the place by going to the rear door. At noon, the theater was practically deserted. A stagehand told them Breslau and General Maxwell had been there talking to Rose Flanders, but left an hour ago.

  “The Drury Lane Restaurant!” Pamela exclaimed.

  The place was in an uproar discussing Fleur’s disappearance. It took several minutes to scan the crowd and assure themselves Breslau and Max were not there. After a few questi
ons, they learned they hadn’t been there. No one had seen them since they left the theater.

  “Breslau’s out setting Rose up in a love nest,” one wag suggested.

  “Aye, Fleur’s death was the making of Rose Flanders. She’ll be his new leading lady, both on the stage and off.”

  “Is that the reputation Breslau enjoys?” Pamela asked when they returned to the carriage.

  “He wouldn’t waste his time on Rose. He has much prettier flirts than that. It’s just business, getting her signed to replace Fleur at a bargain price. Mind you, that ain’t to say he hadn’t got eyes for Fleur. She was different. More cunning,” he added grimly.

  The idea was taking root in his head that the play might show Fleur in a less attractive light than the memoirs. A bit of a vixen, toying with young gentlemen, scattering broken hearts to left and right. He became aware that the gnawing at his vitals was not all due to Fleur’s perfidy.

  “It’s time for fork work,” he said. “Do you want to return to Breslau House, or eat in peace at a restaurant?”

  Breslau House without Breslau held no charm, and she opted for a restaurant. Over lunch, they continued discussing the case.

  “Let us go back to Spiedel’s and Halton’s flats,” Pam suggested. “They are the only solid leads we have.”

  They went first to Spiedel’s, with no real hope of discovering anything. As they drew near the corner of Drury Lane and Macklin Street, Pamela scanned doorways, trying to recognize Spiedel’s building.

  “There, that’s it. The one with the carriage out front. Nigel, you don’t think it could be Fleur! It’s a traveling carriage.”

  Nigel’s face had turned to ash. “It’s Papa’s carriage!” he whispered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nigel’s surprise was hardly greater than Miss Comstock’s. “What could Sir Aubrey be doing here?” she asked.

  He pulled the check string but made no move to leave the carriage. “I can’t face him, Pam.”

  “We’ll wait till he leaves, and ask Mr. Spiedel what he wanted.”

  It was five minutes before a hag-ridden Sir Aubrey came out. He looked up and down the street nervously, apparently finding nothing suspicious in a lingering cab. He hopped into his carriage and drove away at a smart clip.

  As soon as he rounded the corner, Pamela and Nigel alit and hastened to Mr. Spiedel’s doorway. They were admitted by his factotum and shown into Mr. Spiedel’s modest living room. Thus far, Mr. Spiedel was only a name to Pamela. She had formed a mental picture of what he would be like—something of a dandy, handsome in a second class sort of way. She was not prepared for a regular Adonis, but that was what she found herself gazing at. If he was Fleur’s cher ami, she had to approve the actress’s taste.

  Mr. Spiedel was no stripling like Nigel. Though young, he was well-formed, with a man’s broad shoulders and full chest. His clothing was genteel without being flashy. Hair the shade of a ripe chestnut, and as glossy, sat on his well-shaped head. His regular features were lent charm by the intelligence in his brown eyes. His manners, too, were more than acceptable.

  “Mr. Raleigh, isn’t it?” he said, shaking Nigel’s hand. “I believe we met at Lady Chamaude’s place.” He turned a questioning face toward Pamela, and Nigel introduced them.

  “I’ve never had so much company in my life,” Mr. Spiedel said, and laughed. “Your father just left, and before him, Lord Alban came to call. I never met either of them before in my life.”

  “What did Papa want?” Nigel asked.

  “Like Lord Alban, he came to offer his assistance—Fleur has been speaking to them, I assume. She has promised in the past to help me land a position. Thus far I haven’t had the offer I really want. I wish to become an actor. Convent Garden has offered me a speaking part, hardly enough to live on. I haven’t accepted it, though I was just reading in the morning papers that I have. Alban wanted me to act as his secretary, and Sir Aubrey has offered—er, financial assistance in whatever project I choose to undertake. Very generous of him.”

  “How much?” Nigel asked jealously.

  Mr. Spiedel smiled. “Not enough for you to worry about, Mr. Raleigh. Your father hardly plans to beggar his family for a virtual stranger. I am amazed that he came at all. Is he some kin to Lady Chamaude?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Mr. Spiedel’s laughing eyes skimmed in Pamela’s direction, but he said nothing. The feeling was in the air all the same that there was something between Fleur and Nigel’s father. Pamela studied Mr. Spiedel for any resemblance to Sir Aubrey, and found none. This fine-featured face was not in the Raleigh style. That left Lord Alban as Spiedel’s natural father. Surely that was the connection between this disparate group.

  “Did Sir Aubrey mention Lady Chamaude?” Pamela asked.

  The handsome eyes clouded over with apprehension. “He knew her some years ago and, of course, she was visiting him recently. He has no idea where she is now. He asked me in particular if I had heard from her since she left Belmont. Those articles in the morning papers have put the fear of God into me.”

  “Where’s he putting up?” Nigel demanded.

  “At the Reddleston.”

  “I take it you’ve been looking for the marquise?” Pamela asked.

  “I’ve called on every person I ever heard her mention. No one has seen her. I can’t believe she’s dead. Who would kill such a charming, harmless lady? Fleur hasn’t an enemy in the world. I refuse to consider the other possibility.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Spiedel?” Pamela asked.

  His frown deepened. “I’m talking about suicide.”

  “Oh, no! She’d never do that!”

  Spiedel shook his head doubtfully. “In the normal way she wouldn’t, but when I read of General Maxwell’s visiting Lady Margaret Irving, I wondered—”

  “But he isn’t!” she exclaimed.

  “I read it in the Morning Post. Lady Margaret had nearly brought the general up to scratch before he met Fleur, you must know. I feared his mother must have ordered him to marry Lady Margaret when he was at home visiting her.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Nigel scowled. “It was even in the papers.”

  Pamela considered this problem a moment, then said, “It seems the papers have published more than one piece of false information today, does it not? Your having accepted the offer from Convent Garden, Mr. Spiedel, and Maxwell’s visiting Lady Margaret. That is rather—odd,” she said. Nigel paid no heed to the meaningful look she bestowed on him. His eyes were fully occupied in studying Spiedel’s cravat, which had a fine, careless air, yet was decidedly stylish.

  Pamela felt in her bones that Lord Breslau was involved in all these misleading announcements. Why else had he been smiling over the papers at breakfast? Of more importance, why had he sent them in? She was fairly sure by this time that Breslau was also responsible for announcing Fleur’s disappearance. That, at least, was true. And where did Lord Alban fit into any of it?

  “When Lord Alban called, did he mention Fleur?” she asked Spiedel.

  “Not by name. He said a friend had recommended me very highly. I know Fleur is acquainted with his lordship. More than acquainted; the friendship goes back several years. Certainly it was Fleur who brought me to his attention.”

  “Have any other gentlemen called offering favors?”

  His smile was disarmingly frank. “Not so far, but the day is young. Ah, there is the door knocker now!”

  While his guests looked at each other in consternation, a Mr. Webb was shown in. He, too, was a prosperous-looking gentleman of middle years, a stranger to Mr. Spiedel, but presumably not to Fleur. He wished for a moment’s privacy with Mr. Spiedel to discuss a business matter.

  Nigel and Pamela left. As they returned to the carriage, they were too confused for rational conversation. Ideas darted around in their heads, looking for a pattern. The announcement of Fleur’s death had brought a host of middle-aged, well-to-do gentlemen calling on Mr. Spiedel o
ffering assistance. The reason was staring them in the face. They felt they owed Spiedel something, that the young man had some claim on them. The only possible idea Pam could come up with was that one of them was Spiedel’s father, and Fleur his mother. Mr. Spiedel couldn’t be aware of it. He was genuinely bewildered at all the offers showered on him.

  The marquise’s apparently casual remarks at Belmont assumed a new significance. Pamela scoured her mind to recall what she had said. “You’d be surprised what talking over the old days can bring up. Alban, for instance, has been most helpful. All my old friends are very generous in assisting me.” Surely they hadn’t all saddled her with pledges of their troth? Spiedel was the only young man they were rushing to assist, unless Henry Halton, too, had been receiving offers. He couldn’t though. He wasn’t to be found.

  Of course, the clever marquise could be telling each of her erstwhile lovers that he was the father. The words your son had definitely been overheard at Belmont. Blackmail hardly seemed too strong a word for her stunt. Had one of her victims decided to kill Fleur rather than pay up? Breslau wouldn’t be filling the papers with lies if Fleur were dead. What would be the point? Indeed she could see no point in it whether Fleur was dead or alive.

  If she were dead she’d never read them, and if she were alive it would only infuriate her. Every item was an offense: that General Maxwell had deserted her, that her son was joining the theater when her aim was to keep him out of it, that Rose Flanders was to replace her in the new play. Breslau would be fortunate if Fleur didn’t come dashing back and murder him. A flash of understanding struck her and she gasped. So that was it!

  “We might as well take a run over to Halton’s place,” Nigel said.

  “It isn’t necessary. We can go home now.”

  “I’m going to the Reddleston and have it out with Papa. What business has he giving my patrimony to Mr. Spiedel? If he thinks Mama will stand still for that, he has another think coming.”

  Should she tell him? No, that was Sir Aubrey’s secret, to share if he wished. One of the marquise’s victims must actually be Spiedel’s father. One of them owed him and Fleur something. And if it was unsure which one was the father, then each should pay a part. Fleur wasn’t asking so much, to judge by Spiedel’s words. “Not enough to beggar him.” It would teach them all a lesson.