Magdalena’s eyebrow rose and she smiled.
‘Anyway, when she was eighteen she eloped with Victor Meyer Rothschild, a younger member of the great European banking family.’
‘The Rothschilds? They’re the Jewish bankers, yes?’ Her smile fell. ‘Such a marriage, across the religions, would not have suited their families, no?’
Lavender hesitated while he considered what more to tell Magdalena and what to leave out. She was so excited about her new friend that he didn’t want to take the edge off her happiness. He wasn’t completely convinced that Lady Caroline was a suitable companion for Magdalena, but he couldn’t deny they had plenty in common. Nor would he deny the mutual attraction that seemed to have sprung up between the two women. He shrugged and made his decision. Magdalena was an intelligent woman who would make up her own mind. ‘Both families disowned the couple and cut them off without a penny,’ he said. ‘They eloped to the continent, where I believe she made a living from her art. I suspect they supported themselves through Lady Caroline’s painting.’
‘She must have loved her husband a lot’ – Magdalena’s dark eyes shone with emotion – ‘if she was prepared to give up everything for him – and work to provide the food on their table.’
‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ Lavender said. ‘However, their happiness was short-lived. They were involved in a coaching accident in northern France and Victor was killed. She was badly injured and, as you can see, has never fully regained her health, or her mobility, since then.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Her father brought her back to Kirkleven and arranged a new marriage for her to an elderly neighbour. She once told me that she was too ill and distraught to protest. I don’t think Baron Clare was particularly wealthy or left her much income. She now supports her lifestyle in London through her portrait commissions. It is quite the fashionable thing to do, I understand, to have a portrait painted by the notorious Lady Caroline Clare.’
‘Did they have children?’
‘There are a couple of stepchildren, I believe, from the baron’s first marriage.’
‘They may have been some comfort to her.’ He could see in Magdalena’s eyes that she was thinking of Sebastián, her ten-year-old son, who was away at boarding school. The romanticism of Caroline Clare’s history clearly fascinated her.
‘I suppose the scandal of her elopement with Rothschild affected her chances of a making a more suitable second marriage.’ Magdalena’s tone was thoughtful, her words matter-of-fact.
‘Yes, it was a great scandal, at the time,’ he said.
Finally, she asked the question he was most concerned about. ‘How do you know her so well, Stephen?’
‘She required my services in a professional capacity a few years ago,’ he said slowly.
‘Oh?’
‘She was being blackmailed by a young lover.’
Magdalena spluttered, threw back her head and burst into peals of laughter. Her whole body heaved in the most charming way. Several people turned in their direction, their eyes resting on the beautiful, laughing woman beside him. ‘I never expected that,’ she said.
‘There are some who claim that Lady Caroline Clare is not a respectable woman.’
‘I don’t want to know,’ she said. ‘I shall be the judge of Lady Caroline’s character – upon better acquaintance.’
Suddenly, her smile vanished. Her attention had been caught by a group of people across the foyer. Lavender glanced up. He realised at once from their dark complexions and alien clothing that they were foreign. Black lace covered the heads of the two frowning women, held in place by high combs. A tall, sour-faced man of about twenty-five with the shoulders of his black coat enhanced with the embroidered decorative pads in the style of a Spanish matador, glared back at Magdalena. There was no mop of foppish curls for him; his sleek black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He had a long nose and prominent cheekbones beneath a swarthy face.
Magdalena smiled and bowed her head at the group but they turned their backs towards her and began to converse amongst themselves. He heard Magdalena gasp at the snub and felt her quiver with anger.
‘Do you know those people?’
‘Yes, that is Felipe Menendez and his sisters, Juana and Olaya. They were my neighbours back in Oviedo,’ she said. ‘I had no idea that they had also fled from Spain; I assume that they’re now émigrés like me.’
‘Your neighbours?’ He was startled. ‘Why on earth didn’t they acknowledge you?’
She sighed. ‘It is a long story, Stephen – and not a happy one. I will tell you some day. Let us take our seats in the theatre. I no longer wish to wait for the arrival of the duke.’
Chapter Six
Their burletta, Mary, the Maid of the Inn; or, The Bough of Yew was based on the tragic story of Robert Southey’s poem ‘Mary’. The story followed a young tavern wench, Mary, who accepted a wager to walk into a haunted abbey on a stormy night and retrieve a yew bough from the chancel. While Mary cowered beneath the ivy-clad ruins she witnessed her idle lover, Richard, and his companion burying the body of a man they had murdered. When Richard is later hanged for the crime, Mary sinks into madness and spends the rest of her life roaming the parish as a wild-eyed beggar.
Before the play began, they were entertained by Toby, the performing dog. The Jack Russell terrier wore a glittering, frilled collar, which matched that of his human handler. Toby walked on his hind-legs, played tricks on his human co-star and jumped through hoops in time to a lively Irish jig played by the theatre’s orchestra. Teresa was enchanted with the little dog’s antics. Flushed and excited, the young maid clapped her hands and rose to her feet with the rest of the boisterous audience to cheer and applaud when Toby bowed and made his exit. But Magdalena seemed unmoved and stared blankly at the stage.
‘There was some trouble at this theatre last week,’ Lavender told her. ‘An audience threatened to riot when they didn’t get the performance that had been billed. I suspect that the management have included the dog act to sweeten their clients.’
‘It was charming,’ she said, quietly. Her despondency contrasted sharply with the ebullient mood of most of the audience who chattered excitedly, waved across the theatre to their friends and consumed copious amounts of alcohol – and in some instances, food – in the stalls below. Apart from the traditional proliferation of oranges in the theatre, some patrons appeared to have brought picnics with them.
‘What do you think of the theatre?’ he asked.
‘It’s pretty,’ she said, refusing to be drawn into further conversation.
Lavender glanced around and found that he agreed with her. The decorations and embellishments of this new theatre were in good taste: glittering gilt candelabras hung from the ceiling and broke up the pastel-coloured wooden inlays of the cream-coloured gallery, which reached around the walls of the auditorium. There was a light and airy feel to the whole place. It compared favourably to the bigger and now destroyed Drury Lane Theatre, where the management had the audience packed like sardines. At the Sans Pareil, their box was commodious and the red cushioned seats were comfortable.
Although melodramatic in the extreme, the play was enlivened by several solo renditions of songs written especially for the show. William Broadhurst, as the villainous lover, Richard, gave a particularly good performance. John Isaacs and Gabriel Gomez also stood out for their excellent singing. But Lavender was disappointed with the quality of Gomez’s acting; the man clearly relied on his singing voice to make his way in the theatre.
Jane Scott herself took the role of Mary. She had both a confident and powerful stage presence and an excellent singing voice. As the actress wept and wailed her way through a sad ballad, Lavender heard several people in the audience sniffle. Even Teresa, whose English was limited, had tears glistening on her soft cheeks.
‘Do you think she sings well?’ he asked Magdalena. Her face was rigid; she was still angry about the incident in the foyer.
‘She has the sweetest voice,’ Magdalena commented, sharply. ‘But I can tell by the way she moves that she was afflicted with rickets as a child.’
Magdalena was sullen and barely spoke while they waited for the curtain to rise on the final act. Lavender waited patiently for her mood to pass and silently cursed the Spaniards who had spoiled her evening. He wasn’t in a rush to find out the cause of their open hostility towards the woman at his side. He already knew from something John Read had said and his subsequent inquiries that Magdalena had been forced to shoot her way out of Spain in order to escape with her son. He suspected that the two incidents were related. Magdalena would tell him about it when she was ready.
They had a good view of the Royal Box and its occupants from where they sat, although Magdalena only gave them a cursory glance. The Duke of Clarence and his party were sumptuously dressed in rich and colourful gowns and uniforms. The women glittered with jewels. The duke wore a silver badge with the insignia of an admiral on the lapel of his dove-grey velvet topcoat. Beside him sat a short man in the dark blue and gold-braided coat of a naval lieutenant. Lavender recognised him as the duke’s aide, Sir Lawrence Forsyth, who now worked for the naval department in Whitehall. From the sour expression on his face, Forsyth wasn’t enjoying the show. His close-set eyes narrowed with distaste at the performance on the stage. He seemed dwarfed in his chair sat beside the tall, stocky duke. Something about the aide’s face and his long nose reminded Lavender of a weasel.
Prince William had a broad face and a double chin that wobbled above his high-necked cravat when he laughed. He was delighted with the show. He clapped his large hands loudly and boomed ‘Encore!’ at the end of each act. ‘Damned cove!’ he’d exclaimed when Richard’s villainy was exposed. Lavender smiled to himself as he noticed that when the duke became animated, Forsyth dropped his sour expression and mimicked every action and every exclamation of the prince.
Magdalena followed his gaze and scrutinised the occupants of the Royal Box. ‘That stout woman with the prince,’ she asked, ‘who is she?’
‘Which one?’ There were several women in the party.
‘The one with the sequined headband and ostrich feathers in her frizzy hair.’
Lavender glanced across at the short, plump woman seated next to the duke. He lowered his voice. ‘That is the famous actress, Dorothy Jordan. She’s the duke’s long-time mistress and the darling of Drury Lane. They have been together nearly twenty years.’
‘I have heard of her,’ said Magdalena. ‘She was a great comedy actress, was she not? And quite famous for strutting across the stage in men’s clothing.’
‘Dorothy Jordan still acts occasionally and always draws huge crowds,’ he said. ‘Her popularity is undiminished.’
Magdalena’s head turned sharply. ‘She still acts? But she’s the mistress of a prince! Why does she need to work?’
‘The prince is heavily in debt,’ Lavender explained. ‘They have ten children back home in Bushy Park. It is rumoured that the money Mrs Jordan earns from theatrical tours and benefits is the only thing which keeps their home and the Duke of Clarence afloat.’
‘I think your British women are very practical,’ she said. ‘Tonight I have been in the company of at least three talented women who support themselves – or their families – through their work.’
He nodded towards the stage. ‘I don’t think Jane Scott needs the money. Her father is wealthy.’
‘No, she works in this theatre to satisfy her passion. I suspect that both Lady Caroline Clare and Dorothy Jordan also have a passion; they would not be so successful if they didn’t.’ She frowned and looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe it is time I became more practical about my own situation.’
He sensed that she was pondering something but there was no time to enquire further about the meaning of her words because the curtain swept aside and the actors and actresses returned to the stage for the final sad act. Lavender didn’t particularly enjoy melodrama. He grimaced throughout most of the act, especially when Mary killed herself from grief. Many of the audience dabbed at their eyes with their handkerchiefs but he was relieved when the final curtain fell.
Led by the upstanding and appreciative Duke of Clarence, the audience rose to their feet. The applause was deafening. The Hanoverian princes were a sentimental bunch, Lavender decided.
As she applauded, Magdalena pointed to the three huge candelabras, which still burned fiercely at the front of the stage. Each one must have held twenty fat candles. ‘There were several occasions when I thought that Miss Scott’s costume may catch in the flames.’ She had to lean in to Lavender to make herself heard over the cheering and the applause. ‘But I don’t suppose that it would have been the first time an actress caught fire.’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’ He enjoyed this enforced closeness to her warm body and the smell of her hair. ‘It is quite common for an actor to catch fire during a performance. However, it does tend to liven up a dull play.’
She slapped him playfully on the arm with her fan and he thought he saw the glimmer of a smile at the corner of her lips. Relieved that her mood had lightened, he took his leave and arranged to meet her and Teresa in the foyer after he had finished his business backstage.
He went down to the stalls and, pushing his way through the tide of bodies trying to exit the theatre, made his way towards the exit at the side of the stage. A porter, resplendent in the green and gold livery of the theatre, barred his way but once Lavender explained his business the man led him through the dark maze of narrow passages backstage.
‘Duke of Clarence and ’is party are coming backstage to congratulate the cast,’ he told Lavender. ‘Everyone’s waiting for ’im in there in the green room.’ He pointed to a door fifty yards down the corridor.
Lavender nodded. Even without guidance from the porter, he would have easily located the green room. Apart from the buzz of excited voices emanating from the crowded chamber at the end of the corridor, there was a constant stream of animated cast members going in and out. Every time the door opened, he caught a glimpse of the soft green interior walls, which according to tradition, helped to rest the cast’s eyes after the glare of candlelight on the stage.
He grimaced inwardly. After such a successful performance and a visit from the Duke of Clarence, Lavender knew he would be as welcome amongst these people as the spectre at the feast. The news he carried about April Divine would dash their high spirits and ruin their night.
His guide obviously had the same idea. The porter stopped abruptly halfway down the corridor, and opened the door to a chilly office littered with props, discarded costumes and bookkeeping files. He gestured for Lavender to walk inside. A weak lamp glimmered on the battered desk. It smelt of paint and sawdust.
‘If you can wait in ’ere for a while, Detective,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’ll get a message to Miss Scott that yer ’ere.’
Lavender glanced around at the cluttered space and nodded.
When Jane Scott limped stiffly into the cramped room her father accompanied her. Lavender stood up from the solitary chair in the room and offered it to Jane. She sank into it gratefully.
‘My father is the general manager of the theatre,’ she explained. ‘If your business pertains to the Sans Pareil, then he needs to hear it.’
Jane Scott was tiny. Her magnificent stage presence had belied her diminutive stature. Beneath the heavy grease paint of her stage make-up, he saw the disfiguring marks of smallpox. She looked exhausted.
‘Good grief! This is terrible!’ she exclaimed, after Lavender had told them the reason for his visit. ‘Poor April! What a dreadful way to die!’ She put her face in her hands and began to sob. Her father placed a comforting arm round her quivering shoulders. After a few moments Jane lifted her head and wiped away her tears with a lawn handkerchief. Great smears of greasepaint and rouge came away on the material, further exposing her disfigured skin.
‘We’re not certain how she died,’ Lavender said. ‘We won’t know u
ntil we have the results of the autopsy. But we can’t rule out foul play.’
‘Murdered? Oh, this is dreadful!’ John Scott had a catch in his voice. His grey eyes were wide with shock. ‘Who would want to kill the poor girl?’
‘We’re doing our best to find out,’ Lavender said.
Scott was a tall, plain and balding man with a strong London accent. Lavender saw the intelligence in the eyes beneath his worried frown. Scott pulled himself together and cleared his throat. ‘What do you need from us, Detective?’ he asked.
‘Firstly, I need the address of the girl’s lodgings and any information you have about her family. Then I need you to share with me everything you know about Miss April Divine.’
‘That probably won’t be much,’ John Scott said. ‘She hasn’t been with us very long. She joined us soon after the fire at Drury Lane. She’s – was – a competent actress for minor parts but she was never destined for the leading roles.’
‘When did you last see her?’
Scott paused for moment and glanced at his daughter. Jane Scott had now rallied herself. ‘Last Thursday,’ she said. ‘April played one of Columbine’s four female attendants in The Necromancer. We’re not due to perform that play again until tomorrow evening.’
‘We will have to organise an understudy to play the role for the rest of the season,’ John Scott said quietly.
At that moment the door flew open and a flushed young woman strode into the room. ‘Miss Scott!’ she exclaimed. ‘Helena has taken my rouge pot again. She won’t give it back.’
‘Not now, my dear,’ Jane Scott’s voice was strained and weary.
The actress glanced at Lavender and quickly dismissed him as unimportant. Ignoring the obvious distress of her employer she opened her mouth to protest and insist on immediate help with this alleged theft. John Scott spoke first: ‘Come back later.’ There was no arguing with his tone. The actress pressed her lips tightly together in a pout and retreated into the corridor.
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 5
