Jane Scott had let it be known that she had taken pity on this poor, mute, old man and given him a job cleaning the backstage of the theatre. So far no one had questioned the philanthropic generosity of Miss Scott or seemed to care a fig for the wheezy old geezer lurking in the corridors. Not that he expected anyone in the cast or crew of the Sans Pareil to recognise him, but he knew from experience of undercover work that the more he slunk in the shadows, faded into the background and kept himself to himself the better.
Woods soon familiarised himself with the maze of dressing rooms and dark, narrow corridors backstage and eavesdropped on conversations in order to identify the different actors and actresses. As he loitered with his mop beside the door of the green room, he heard male voices approaching behind him. He lowered his head, let his jaw go slack and a bit of spittle run down his chin.
He recognised the deep tone of William Broadhurst, the company’s leading man, who struck him as a pleasant, jovial fellow. Broadhurst was with another actor, John Isaacs. Isaacs had a higher-pitched, more affected voice. Head bowed, Woods shuffled to the side of the corridor to let them pass. But when they came up behind him, that princock, Isaacs, pinched him hard on the backside.
Woods spluttered, lost his balance and fell. He landed with a clatter in a pool of dirty water beside his upset bucket. He spun around to protect his rear from further assault. He also clenched his fists in anger but managed to bite back the curses that sprang to the tip of his tongue. They came out as a strangled gargle. The two actors clutched their sides with laughter. Fighting back an urge to jump up and punch Isaacs on the nose, Woods spluttered some more and grinned up at them like a lunatic from Bedlam.
Broadhurst was bent double, the shoulders of his green velvet coat shaking with laughter. ‘For God’s sake, John! Leave the poor fellow alone – can’t you see he’s a bit simple?’
‘I just wanted to know if he preferred the back passage.’ Isaacs grinned.
‘The poor fellow can’t talk, so how can he tell anyone which way he navigates?’ Broadhurst asked. Still grinning, he held out a friendly hand to haul Woods back to his feet and continued to talk about him to Isaacs. ‘He’s clearly not interested in navigating the windward passage – or not yours anyway. All right there, fellah?’
Woods grinned again and nodded his head furiously. He wasn’t really; his trousers were soaked. The two actors turned away and entered the green room. For the first time, Woods noticed the extreme tightness of Isaac’s breeches and his mincing gait. ‘Well, at least a mute won’t run telling tales of sodomy to the Bow Street Runners,’ the young actor said.
As the door to the green room closed behind them, Woods allowed himself a smile at the irony of the situation. Magistrate Read and Betsy had been so busy worrying about the immoral women in the theatre, they had forgotten to warn him about the men. Sighing, he squeezed out his mop and cleared up the pool of water around him. He had an uncomfortable few hours in sodden trousers ahead.
Woods realised, as the day progressed, that the dramatic news of April Clare’s resurrection from the dead and planned return to the theatre was the main topic of conversation amongst the cast, especially amongst the women.
‘Damn her!’ one young actress said as he hovered near the open door of a female dressing room. ‘I enjoyed playing her part in The Necromancer – no doubt she’ll want it back now.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, darling,’ said another. ‘It’ll be too small for her now. After this little performance, April will have her sights set on the lead roles. The public will be clamouring for her. Even our darling Janey had better watch out! Only a spot in the limelight will be good enough for Miss April Divine after this.’
‘Never mind our darling Janey,’ purred another. ‘The great Sarah Siddons will quake in her boots when she hears about this. Even she never managed to rise from the dead! What a stunt!’
Woods wrinkled his nose at the strong aroma of body odour that emanated from the dressing room and moved on. There was something else mixed with the smell: spite. Actresses, he decided, were a catty bunch of women.
And he had never known a group of men to fuss so much about their appearance as the actors. He doubted if Beau Brummell himself took so much time brushing his sideburns, plucking hairs from his nostrils and smoothing out every wrinkle and crease from his cravat. The friendly William Broadhurst seemed to be the only normal man in the troupe.
Another thing that bothered Woods was the heavy door to the green room. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that this was going to be a problem. There was nowhere to hide in the cramped green room but he needed a good view of the cluttered table beneath the window. His only other option was to prop the door open and camp outside at the end of the corridor. He wedged it open for a while but it wasn’t long before one of the cast members had shut it, complaining about the draught.
In the end, Woods decided that there was only one thing to do: he would have to remove the door. He waited until late afternoon when the theatre was almost deserted then he took a turnscrew from the carpenters’ toolbag and loosened the hinges. The damned door was heavier than he expected and he was relieved that no one was around to watch him struggle and curse as he lowered it to the floor and dragged it to the back of the stage. He swiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead then hid the door beneath a pile of old curtains, rope and pulleys in the void below the stage. He didn’t want any interfering fool replacing it before tomorrow night.
Isaacs and Broadhurst were the first actors to return to the theatre for that evening’s performance. Woods loitered over his mop and bucket in the corridor and watched their reaction to his handiwork.
Isaacs did a double take in the entrance of the green room. ‘God in hell!’ he said. ‘The damned door’s disappeared.’
William Broadhurst shrugged and sighed. ‘The buggers around here will steal anything.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Their carriage drew up outside the grey-bricked terraced house in Marylebone. On the opposite side of the road, the wrought-iron railings separated them from the quiet garden in the centre of the square. As he helped the women alight from the carriage, Lavender glanced up with pride at the smart exterior of his new home. He appreciated the proportions and perfect symmetry of the building; he liked this geometric style. Three storeys of white oblong windows towered above them, all topped with a cream stone lintel. The only curve in the architecture was the semi-circular fan-window above the wood-panelled front door.
They climbed the two shallow steps and he rapped on the door with the gleaming brass doorknocker. ‘I’ll need some help choosing the furnishings,’ he said.
Magdalena nodded and said nothing. Her eyes took in every detail of the frontage of the house, including the gate in the iron railings beside them and the flight of steep stone steps which led down to the basement kitchen.
The door swung open and Lavender’s new housekeeper beamed at them from below her frilly mob cap.
‘This is Mrs Hobart,’ he said. ‘Doña Magdalena, Mrs Hobart.’
‘Welcome to Westcastle Square, sir – and ma’am.’ She bobbed Magdalena a curtsey. The heat inside the house was welcome after their cold journey and the even colder funeral service. ‘I’ve lit the fires, as you instructed, sir,’ Mrs Hobart said. ‘You’ll see the house at its best today.’ She took their damp cloaks and led them downstairs to the cheerfully tiled kitchen in the basement. It was an impressive well-lit and ventilated room that smelled of freshly baked bread and strong coffee. Before they went any further, Mrs Hobart insisted they take a seat at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, drink some coffee and try out her warm scones with a little homemade jam.
They didn’t need a second invitation. The coffee was particularly welcome to Lavender. Mrs Hobart chatted amiably as they ate and drank and pressed a second plate of scones onto Teresa. He and Magdalena left the young girl chatting in broken English to Mrs Hobart while they explored the rest of the house.
‘I’ll h
ave a fresh pot of coffee waiting for you when you’ve finished looking around,’ Mrs Hobart said.
Magdalena was quiet as he led her from floor to floor, and room to room around the house. There were four large bedrooms upstairs and several reception rooms led off from the spacious hallway. An ornate, curved staircase wound its way up the centre of the house to the servant’s attics on the top floor. Despite the dullness of the day, light still poured through the tall windows and the skylight at the top of the staircase with its coloured glass inserts. The previous owners had left several tasteful window drapes, carpets and random items of furniture. ‘They have emigrated to the Americas,’ Lavender told Magdalena. ‘I assume that they were unable to take everything with them on the ship. Obviously, we need to purchase some more furniture and paintings and ornaments to make the house more comfortable.’
Magdalena nodded. ‘It will be my pleasure to help you choose them, Stephen. What about Mrs Hobart?’ she asked. ‘Did the previous owners leave her as well?’
He frowned in confusion. ‘Well, I don’t remember asking for her services, but she seems to be part of the fixtures and fittings. I haven’t dared to question the situation.’
Magdalena smiled. ‘Have you ever dealt with servants before, Stephen?’
He shook his head. ‘No – apart from Mrs Perry who launders my shirts.’
She smiled at his discomfort. ‘Mrs Hobart seems a nice woman and an able housekeeper,’ she said, ‘and she has already worked out exactly how you like your coffee. I would recommend that you keep her for now.’
The previous owners had left a large Turkish rug, which covered the floorboards in one of the front bedrooms. An abandoned cream chaise longue was pushed up against a wall near the fireplace where a warm fire crackled gently in the grate. Magdalena crossed to the window, pulled back the white lace curtain and looked down into the square outside.
‘This is a beautiful room,’ she said. ‘The whole area is so peaceful and pleasant.’
Lavender moved to stand by her side. ‘I understand that those gardens are very pretty in spring,’ he said. ‘They’re also popular with the neighbourhood children. I’m sure that Sebastián will make many friends, very quickly if he came to live here.’
‘Why would Sebastián come to live here?’ She stared at him in surprise.
‘Because I hope that you and Teresa will be living here when he comes down from school at the end of term.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let me explain,’ he said, slowly. ‘I have a lot of money lying idle in the bank, Magdalena. I decided to invest in some property, which is why I have bought this house. But at the moment, I’m quite comfortable in my rooms in Southwark and they’re convenient for my place of work at Bow Street. I had a fancy to let the house for a while and I would be honoured if you and Teresa would move in here – with Sebastián, of course.’
Her mouth formed a perfect circle with surprise then she laughed and patted his arm. ‘That is so kind and generous of you, Stephen – but I could never afford to rent this beautiful house! I can barely afford the lodgings I already have.’
‘You wouldn’t have to pay for it. I don’t need the money.’ Her eyes widened but she said nothing. ‘There is no rent to pay, Magdalena. Removing you from that dreadful street in Spitalfields would be reward enough for me.’
Her hand fluttered to her breast and her mouth seemed to struggle to formulate her words. ‘But I would be beholden to you!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not sure . . . I couldn’t possibly . . . To live here rent free?’
‘Yes, that is what I hope.’
A frown line appeared between her eyebrows. ‘If anyone found out about our arrangement, then everyone would assume that I was your mistress,’ she said bluntly.
‘Ah.’ Damn, this wasn’t an objection that he had foreseen. ‘My apologies, I never meant to imply—’
She held up her hand to silence him. ‘I know that you meant no offence, Stephen. You’re the kindest, most thoughtful man I have ever met.’
‘Then it is agreed then? You will move in here with Teresa?’
She smiled gently at him, her eyes soft with gratitude but tinged with a little sadness. ‘It is a wonderful idea, Stephen and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness but I’m afraid I must decline.’
His face fell.
‘Everyone in my acquaintance knows of my desperate financial situation. If I moved in here, into your home, then everyone would assume the worst – including the kind Mrs Hobart downstairs.’
‘No one needs to know!’ he said.
‘People have a way of finding out the truth, Stephen and as I have said before, my reputation is all that I have left. I can’t afford to give the gossips and the scandalmongers any cause to speculate about my morality.’
‘Then marry me,’ he said suddenly.
She let out a sharp breath.
Lavender stepped forward and took her hands in his. The words rushed out of his mouth. ‘I know that you have said you needed more time to come to terms with Antonio’s death, Magdalena, but I’m not sure that you have the time. I worry daily about the foul things that could befall you and Teresa in that neighbourhood. Marry me, move in here with me and let me protect and cherish you, as you deserve. You must have realised by now, surely, how much I have fallen in love with you?’
‘Oh, Stephen!’ Her eyes welled up with tears and for a moment he thought she was going to say ‘yes’ and throw herself into his arms. Then she pulled away from him. With her hand over her mouth, she walked across the room and collapsed sobbing onto the chaise longue by the far wall.
He was by her side in an instant, his arm around her shaking shoulders. ‘Magdalena, what’s the matter?’ This wasn’t the reaction he had expected. A slap across the face for being so presumptuous would have been more welcome – and more in character – than this level of distress.
She turned to face him and laid her head against his shoulder for a while. He smelt her hair and felt its softness. Tears still rolled unchecked from her closed eyes as she sat encircled in his arms and he waited. ‘You must think I am such a fool,’ she said. ‘You have no idea how much I have longed to hear you say those words of love, Stephen. I have gone to sleep every night dreaming about it.’
Lavender gave a huge sigh of relief. Everything was all right; she felt the same way about him as he felt about her. He smiled and pulled her close again. ‘I’d never think you were a fool, Magdalena,’ he said. ‘But what is it which bothers you, my love? Why the tears?’
She pulled herself back out of his arms but still held onto his hands, she looked him in the eyes. He saw the pain in hers. ‘Because it can’t be, Stephen,’ she whispered. ‘No matter how much we desire each other, our union can’t be.’
His heart fell into the pit of his stomach and disappointment rose along with the bile in his throat. ‘Why? Is it your religion? The difference in our class?’ The words seemed to catch in his throat. ‘I know that I am not worthy of your love but—’
‘No!’ she said. ‘It is me that is not worthy of yours. I would make a poor and shameful wife for you.’
He was startled by the ferocity of her expression. He felt the blood pounding in his temple. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘It would be an honour—’
‘Stephen – listen to me,’ she interrupted.
Quietly, Magdalena told him her story. She left nothing out. She confessed that she had defied her husband, abandoned her parents-in-law to their fate with the French, and shot dead several of the French officers who had come to arrest her. She didn’t look at him as she spoke. He squeezed her hand. When she had finished, she broke away from his grasp, leant forward, lifted the poker and stirred up the embers of the fire.
He felt calmer. Was this all that she fancied stood in the way of their marriage? He had had his suspicions about Magdalena’s flight from Spain confirmed some time ago. Magistrate Read wasn’t the only one with contacts in the Foreign Office. This was not a s
candalous revelation for him.
‘Magdalena, I already knew a little about what happened to you when you left Spain. It doesn’t shock me. It just shows your courage and your great love for Sebastián.’
But she didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Antonio never forgave me for abandoning his parents.’ She stared into flames. ‘Once I had arrived in England, I managed to make contact with him in Spain. He sent me a letter. He refused to help me financially. He paid for Sebastián’s school fees for this year but he wrote that I could rot in hell.’
A sharp pang of anger seared through Lavender, followed by a fresh wave of sympathy for Magdalena. She must have been terrified to find herself abandoned, penniless and friendless in a foreign country. He knew she had spent most of last year moving from the charity of one set of Spanish émigrés to another. ‘He had no right to disown you,’ he said. ‘Yes, you went against his wishes but you were protecting your child – as any mother would have done. What happened to Antonio’s parents?’
‘They have disappeared,’ she said simply. ‘No one knows what happened to them after we fled. Antonio claimed that the French probably shot them in retaliation for the officers I killed.’
Lavender grimaced and realised that she was probably right. ‘Your country is at war,’ he said. ‘Atrocities happen in war and the blame for them should be laid firmly at the door where they belong; in this case, with the French.’ He felt more hopeful for himself and Magdalena. There was no new dreadful revelation within her confession, nothing that he didn’t already know. ‘It seems to me that your late husband also should have accepted the part he had to play in this tragedy. He was a notorious Spanish rebel. Even the British had heard about the stand he took against Bonaparte. The French would have killed both you and Sebastián if you hadn’t shot them first and escaped – of that I’m sure.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What’s done is done,’ she said. ‘But in saving my child I’m now branded a heartless murderess.’
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 23
