‘You never thought through the consequences of your actions, did you?’ he said, slowly.
‘No, I didn’t. I’m so sorry for all the problems I have caused.’ April Clare whispered and he was pleased to see that at least she had the grace to look embarrassed by her foolishness. ‘But you must believe me, Detective, when I said that I was motivated by fear for my life – and fear for poor Harriet.’ If this was another performance, then it was a good one. He almost believed her.
‘Did the kidnappers find out the truth that they had taken the wrong woman, do you think?’ she asked. Her body trembled and her voice rose to a crescendo. ‘Did she die because they realised she wasn’t me? Did they kill her because of that?’ She stared up at him, imploring him to answer in the negative.
‘Mrs Willoughby didn’t suffer for long,’ he said. ‘I have had the results of the autopsy from Sir Richard Allison this morning. Your sister’s weak heart gave way sometime on Friday night. She wasn’t murdered. The shock of the abduction killed her within a few hours. Continuing your deception only served to protect your own life; it didn’t help your sister.’
April Clare’s pretty face crumpled and she sobbed quietly. Lady Caroline leant forward, gave her a handkerchief and patted her knee affectionately. ‘We must take some comfort from that, April,’ she said. ‘At least Harriet’s terrible ordeal was short-lived.’ The strength in her voice seemed to help her stepdaughter, who sniffled and dried her eyes.
Lady Caroline now turned to face Lavender. ‘I have to confess that I’m at a loss about what to do now, Detective,’ she said. ‘Poor Harriet needs a funeral but the world thinks that she’s April. And if we announce that there has been a terrible mistake, and that it was Harriet who has died, then I’m concerned that this might place April’s life in great danger once again. Those scoundrels were clearly after her from what she has told me. It was April Clare the actress they intended to kidnap. Would they seek her out again, do you think?’
‘Yes, I think they would,’ he said, ‘because Miss Clare has something they desire.’ He sipped at his tea while they absorbed this latest revelation, grimacing slightly at the taste. Coffee was his preferred beverage.
Both women stared at him in surprise.
‘I don’t understand, Detective,’ Lady Caroline said.
He drained his cup and put it down. ‘This morning my constable tracked down your coach driver from the other night. His account of the events of that evening match your own. However, there is one thing he has told us which you have not.’
‘Which is?’ April Clare’s voice was emotionless.
‘That as they rode away, one of the kidnappers asked if “she had it on her”.’
‘What does that mean, Lavender?’ Lady Caroline asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I hope that Miss Clare can tell us. What do you have in your possession, madam, which would prompt a group of scoundrels like that to kidnap you?’
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly as he and Lady Caroline waited for the actress to answer.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ the young woman said. ‘I never heard this conversation. I was cowering inside the carriage.’
‘No?’ Lavender was disappointed. ‘You definitely have something those kidnappers want, Miss Clare. I’m sorry to tell you this but someone has also broken into your lodgings and ransacked the place.’ She took a short sharp breath. ‘I’m not sure when this happened, or if it is a coincidence but someone appears to have been searching for something in your rooms.’
‘Good grief.’ Lady Caroline again leant towards her stepdaughter. Her voice became resolute and businesslike. ‘April, come on now. You must think and think hard.’
But the pale young woman just stared back at them.
‘Tell me about your friends and acquaintances – and your lovers,’ Lavender said. ‘And tell me the truth. Are any of them entangled in the criminal underworld of the city? What are they involved with? What are you involved with?’
‘Nothing!’ she protested. ‘I live quietly. I’m focusing on my career. Yes, I have friends at the theatre but they’re just normal people, silly at times, yes – but criminal? No.’
‘What do have in your possession that would lead to such a heinous crime?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And your lover?’
‘I have no lover,’ she snapped. She dropped her gaze beneath his glare. ‘I, I was once close to another actor at Drury Lane.’
‘His name?’
‘Mr Seamus MacAuley. But the relationship came to nothing and he returned to work at the Theatre Royal in Cork after the Drury Lane fire. As you know, I moved to the Sans Pareil.’
Not immediately, you didn’t madam, he thought. But he decided to leave the issue of Mr Seamus MacAuley alone at this point. It would be easy enough to find out if the man was still in Ireland. He softened his tone. ‘Think, Miss Clare, think carefully. Is there anything out of the ordinary that has happened over the last week or so? What have you acquired in that time which these scoundrels might desire?’
Suddenly, realisation flashed across her face. ‘Well, there is something . . .’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t think it was anything important.’
‘Everything is significant at the moment.’
‘Wait a minute.’ She rose gracefully to her feet and went across to a cabinet on the far wall of the room. She opened a drawer and removed a huge sheaf of papers. She carried it back to her seat and placed it on her lap. Lavender recognised the typescript from the papers he had seen scattered in her lodgings. It was a play script from the Sans Pareil.
She licked her finger and leafed her way through the rustling pages. Her hand shook. ‘This is my script for The Necromancer. I brought it with me last Friday to read it over the weekend. I needed to refresh my memory of the lyrics for some of the songs. When I picked it up on Friday afternoon I was surprised to find—’
‘To find what?’ Lady Caroline shuffled to the edge of her seat.
‘This.’ April pulled out a sheaf of paper from amongst the pile and offered it to him. He saw at once that the paper was a different quality to the others in the pile. ‘I didn’t think it was anything unusual at first . . .’
Lavender scrutinised the page of writing. It contained a handwritten column of random numbers. There was only one word at the bottom of the page: Victor. It had a line drawn through it. He frowned. ‘What is this?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Miss Clare said. ‘I just found it amongst my script, which I’d placed in Captain Willoughby’s bureau. I assumed it belonged to him and had become mixed up with my own papers.’
‘Why did you think it was Captain Willoughby’s?’
She gave him a brilliant smile, leant forward and pointed to the word Victor. ‘Because, Detective Lavender, that was the name of one of the ships in the fleet. They captured it from the French and renamed it. Captain Willoughby wrote and told my sister about it. The ship was only a few years old and it was a great prize. He enjoyed the irony that the British navy were now using a French ship against the French.’
‘Why is there a line through the ship’s name?’ Lavender asked.
The actress shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
Lavender stared back down at the paper in his hand. Are those columns of numbers degrees of latitude and longitude? he wondered.
‘If this is not one of Captain Willoughby’s papers, then how on earth did it end up with your play script?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea,’ she replied.
Lady Caroline’s face flashed with irritation. ‘Think harder, April,’ she said. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this.’
‘I keep my scripts safe in my lodgings when they’re not with me in the theatre,’ Miss Clare said.
‘So this pile of papers travels with you to the theatre sometimes?’ Lavender asked.
‘But of course! I took it with me on Thursday when I last performed,’ s
aid the actress. ‘I left it in the green room for a while.’
Lavender had to think for a moment. The green room. Often used, as he observed the other night, as a reception room for visiting dignitaries. ‘Whereabouts in the green room at the Sans Pareil did you leave the script?’
‘On a table beneath the window.’
‘Was there anything else on the table?’
She smiled again. ‘There’s always something on that table, Detective. Actors are messy creatures. It’s cluttered with old props, discarded grease paint sticks – and random papers and news-sheets.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Why I do believe that may be where I picked up this piece of paper. Do you think it is significant, Detective? Is that what the kidnappers wanted from me?’
He frowned and glanced back down at the paper in his hand. Victor. HMS Victor. Why did the name of this ship seem familiar to him? Where had he heard it before?
Suddenly he remembered. A dreadful realisation flooded over him. He glanced back down at the innocuous piece of paper. Captain Willoughby was not responsible for the neat line drawn through the words HMS Victor. This list did not belong to him.
‘Good God,’ he exclaimed.
‘What’s the matter, Detective?’ asked Lady Caroline.
Lavender stared at the crackling fire in the hearth as his mind raced to try and make sense of this latest discovery and connect it to the brutal kidnapping of Harriet Willoughby. The two women waited patiently for his reply, their faces etched with concern.
If his suspicions about that slip of paper were correct, then April Clare was in far greater danger than either he, or she, had ever imagined. Other lives may also be in grave danger. And the significance of this discovery could have national repercussions. Any lingering annoyance at the woman’s earlier deception now disappeared from his mind and was replaced with nothing but concern for her immediate safety. He must return to Bow Street as soon as possible and seek out James Read.
‘I have no idea what it is at present,’ he lied. ‘But I do know where I can find some answers to this mystery. I need to take this paper with me. In the meantime, Miss Clare and Lady Caroline, you must stay indoors and take the utmost care of yourselves. I shall send down some constables from Bow Street to watch the house. I think it is best that you have some extra protection until we know what we’re dealing with.’
Both women sat back, startled. April Clare turned pale. ‘Are we in danger, Detective?’ she asked.
‘You may be,’ he said. ‘The gang of men who kidnapped your sister may have now given up their search for this document, now that they think that April Clare is dead. Alternatively, they may try to gain entrance here to continue their search.’
‘Is this why poor Harriet died?’ Lady Caroline demanded. ‘For a piece of paper?’
‘It may well be.’
Miss Clare leapt to her feet and threw her hands over her mouth in horror. ‘What have I done?’ she asked dramatically.
Lavender and Lady Caroline also rose to their feet. Lady Caroline walked swiftly across the carpet and put a comforting arm around her stepdaughter. ‘Don’t worry, April, I shall move in here with you to protect you – and I’ll send for Solomon and Duddles to come and stay, too. We must trust in Detective Lavender.’
Despite his anxiety for the women’s safety, the corners of Lavender’s mouth twitched at the thought of Duddles trying to fend off a gang of determined criminals intent on ransacking the Willoughby household. ‘The Bow Street constables will be on the street within an hour,’ he said as he reached for his gloves.
‘Thank you, Detective.’ Miss Clare was visibly relieved.
‘I will also arrange to have the body of Mrs Willoughby returned to you, so that you may organise a quiet and discreet funeral.’
‘What should April do?’ asked Lady Caroline.
‘Keep on with the deception,’ he advised. ‘Tell nobody who you really are; keep up the pretence that you are your sister. I will return as soon as I have some news and I will instruct you about how we’re to proceed at that point. I will see myself out.’
‘Thank you, Detective Lavender,’ said Lady Caroline as he gave them a short bow. ‘But before you go, please tell me how you worked out that April was pretending to be Harriet.’
He paused and stared back at the beautiful young actress. Black suited her, he realised – it gave her creamy complexion a luminous quality. Was there a hint of unease behind those dark eyes? Perhaps his brusque questioning about her former lover had unnerved her? But this wasn’t the time to expose all of her deceptions. He had a gang of murdering villains to catch.
‘When Sir Richard Allison discovered the full extent of Mrs Willoughby’s frail health, I realised that it was impossible for the dead woman to have conducted such a lively and successful career on the stage.’ With that, he bowed again and left the house before they questioned him further.
Chapter Eighteen
It was raining softly when Magdalena and Teresa returned to their lodgings but Magdalena barely noticed the drizzle. She couldn’t stop thinking about the passionate kiss she had shared with Stephen. She was shocked at her own reaction. She lowered herself down into one of the chairs by the window and stared out at her favourite view of the street, trying to calm her reeling mind. I have been without a man for too long, she told herself. But deep down she knew that this was more than just carnal desire: she had feelings for Stephen Lavender.
Stephen’s spontaneous burst of passion had startled her out of her naïve complacency and she knew it. His physical magnetism was indisputable. Her mind relived every nuance of his closeness, his masculine scent, the warmth of his lips on hers and the faint brush of the stubble re-emerging on his close-shaven chin. Since their first meeting last November, she had enjoyed his company, basked in his kindness and relished his humour and intellect. Their ‘friendship’, as she called it, had been a welcome distraction from the loneliness and isolation of her exile. His influence, knowledge and advice had helped her adapt to her new life in London and made her plight bearable. But she was a young widow, not a virgin, and she could no longer deny the excitement and heightened passion that was coursing through her veins at the thought of him.
Behind her, Teresa clattered around making coffee, but Magdalena didn’t hear her. She removed her gloves and ran a hand over her still tingling lips. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what kind of lover Stephen would be. She was sure that he would lavish far more attention on her than her late husband, Antonio, had. Her imagination whirled in wicked delight and she struggled to shut out the fantasies of steamy love-making with Stephen that leapt unbidden into her head.
But with the excitement also came caution. Marriage was out of the question, of course. She would ruin his life if she married him. Perhaps she should take Stephen as a lover while she was in London? Why not? Other women took lovers, she told herself. She went through the list of her acquaintances who would either notice or care about such a lapse into depravity. It was deplorably small.
‘Doña Magdalena, there is a message from Señor Read at Bow Street.’ Teresa’s voice cut through her fantasies like a pail of cold water.
‘Thank you.’ Magdalena took the note from her maid and tore it open. She hadn’t even heard the knock at the door when their landlady had brought up the note and passed it to Teresa. Magistrate Read was brief and to the point:
Doña Magdalena,
You have been engaged to deliver lessons in the Spanish language at the language school on Hart Street, each afternoon at 2 o’clock, commencing tomorrow. Your remuneration shall be four shillings per week. Please call on me at Bow Street an hour before your first lesson as I have another confidential matter I wish to discuss with you.
James Read
Magdalena couldn’t restrain her satisfaction. Four shillings a week wasn’t much but it would feed her and Teresa and pay their rent. The teaching and preparation would relieve some of the interminable boredom of her life, while she waited for her son to com
e home from school each term. Yes, there was still the money to find for Sebastián’s school fees next year but Magdalena had become adept at dismissing that problem and was happy to believe that somehow it would resolve itself. Magistrate Read’s final sentence intrigued her, but before she had time to ponder on its meaning, Teresa interrupted her thoughts again.
‘We have visitors.’ Teresa pointed out of the window.
Magdalena glanced up. Through the streaming rainwater on the window she could just see the glint of black bombazine and tortoiseshell hair combs, as Juana and Olaya Menendez alighted from a carriage on the street below.
‘Dios mío!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’re popular today, Teresa.’
Five minutes later, the two Menendez sisters sat stiffly on hardback chairs around the spluttering fire in the grate. It was still chilly in the room and the sisters retained their high-necked cloaks, which were damp from the rain outside. Magdalena compared their severe hairstyles and dark, foreign clothing with the lighter colours and softer, more feminine styles preferred by English women like Lady Caroline and Dorothy Jordan.
To distract them from the poverty of her surroundings and to fill in the time while Teresa prepared more coffee, Magdalena showed off her new boots and praised the generosity of the Duke of Clarence. The sisters made appreciative noises about her choice of footwear but her ploy to distract her guests only partially succeeded. The sisters’ sharp eyes still took in every detail of her lodgings: the draughty floorboards, the shabby furnishings and the limp and faded curtain that divided the room and hid from sight the bed Magdalena shared with Teresa.
‘It was a pleasure to see you again at the theatre, Doña Magdalena,’ said Juana. ‘We weren’t aware that you had settled in this part of London.’
‘Or that you had emerged from your mourning so soon,’ said Olaya. There was a short pause while Magdalena tried to decide whether the woman’s comment was designed to be critical or had just been tactless. Juana frowned and gave her sibling a withering glance. Olaya seemed to shrink inside herself for a moment.
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 15
