by C. J. Archer
Victor almost smiled. Despite his seriousness, I was quite sure he had a sense of humor, particularly when it came to teasing Harmony.
“She was a beauty, all right,” Frank said, as if we’d just been talking about Pearl’s looks. “I went to see her perform once, but I couldn’t afford the good seats. But her presence on the stage carried all the way back to me.” His gaze took on a dreamlike quality as he remembered the show. “Rumford was a lucky man.”
Goliath smacked him in the shoulder. When Frank frowned at him, Goliath tried to surreptitiously indicate me with a sideways glance.
Frank shrugged and said, “What?” with oblivious innocence.
“It wasn’t luck,” Harmony said. “Rumford paid her to be with him. Not that I blame her for being his mistress.” When the men all blinked at her, she added, “At least she got something out of the arrangement. Unlike a wife.”
The men continued to stare.
“I don’t blame Pearl either,” I said. “Her beauty was a gift, and must we not use our natural gifts in whatever way we can?”
“It’s a gift that wouldn’t last,” Harmony pointed out.
Mrs. Larsen had said the same thing, that she’d tried to tell her sister her beauty would fade and that she shouldn’t rely on it. I didn’t think Mrs. Larsen was jealous of Pearl, simply a more practical person.
“From looking around her flat, I do think Pearl was rather vain,” I said. “From the photographs, I’d say she knew how to pose, how to look her best, and how to appeal to men. Almost all of the photographs had her standing with one or more men.”
“Maybe a jealous lover killed her,” Victor said. “Someone who hated that she was Rumford’s mistress.”
“Someone who didn’t have enough money to compete against Rumford,” Harmony added. She turned to me. “You should find out if a man came to the theater asking after her.”
“I’m planning to,” I said. “Considering she died at the theater, the murderer is probably someone she knows from there. An actor who was in love with her, perhaps, or a jealous actress, or a besotted audience member. I’ll go tomorrow afternoon, after the funeral.”
“Why go to her funeral?” Goliath asked.
“To see who cared enough about her to show up.”
Our meeting over, we exited the parlor. Goliath and Frank disappeared into the service rooms behind the parlor, while Victor peeled away from them to head down the stairs to the basement kitchen.
I held Harmony back. “Did you overhear Lord Rumford talking to Mr. Hobart about his suspicions that Pearl was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Were you listening in from the other side of Mr. Hobart’s office door?”
She looked somewhat sheepish and yet defiant at the same time. “I was dusting in the corridor and saw him go in. I didn’t plan to listen in, it just happened.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Mr. Hobart was going to tell Mr. Armitage about the investigation. Mr. Armitage accused me of stealing the case from him.”
She cringed. “In my defense, Lord Rumford didn’t once specifically say he needed the services of a private detective.”
“It was implied, and you know it.”
She chewed on her lip. “Was Mr. Armitage very mad?”
“Yes, but he calmed down eventually. And thank you for leaving me to face him alone, by the way. I hadn’t pegged you as a coward.”
“He used to be my superior. It’s hard to think of him as an equal now. Anyway, you were better off being alone with him, without me interfering.”
“Why?”
Mr. Chapman, the restaurant steward, came around the corner and stopped short upon seeing us. Dressed in the tailcoat all the senior male staff wore, the rosebud he always added to one of the buttonholes each evening was already in place. He was tall, but unlike Mr. Armitage and Goliath who were also tall, Mr. Chapman took advantage of his superior height to look down his nose at us.
“Harmony, stop bothering Miss Fox,” he said snippily.
“She wasn’t,” I said.
I might as well not have said anything. He ignored me and glared at Harmony until she bobbed a curtsy and hurried off, the book hugged to her chest again.
“That wasn’t necessary,” I said. “Harmony is finished for the day so she isn’t taking time off from her duties, and we were just having a conversation. She certainly wasn’t bothering me.”
He tugged on his shirt cuffs until they appeared just beneath his jacket sleeves. “Friendships between staff and family or guests shouldn’t be encouraged. It leads to liberties being taken.”
I rolled my eyes and marched off. There was no point in arguing with him. He wasn’t going to change his opinion because of something I said. I hoped Harmony would suffer no repercussions.
I sat with Aunt Lilian until it was time to dress for dinner. She would not be joining us in the dining room, as her headache was too intense, but she wanted me to stay to keep her company for awhile.
“I can only rest so much,” she said with a twitch of her lips which I took as an attempt at a smile.
We sat in the sitting room in her suite, me on an armchair, Aunt Lilian reclining on the sofa. A blanket covered her legs and feet, and her slender fingers fidgeted with the edge, teasing and twisting the fringe. She looked so delicate lying there, like a flower past its spring bloom. According to all of the photographs I’d seen, Aunt Lilian had been a beauty in her youth.
“Last night’s party after the show took it out of you,” I said gently.
“Oh, but what a wonderful evening it was. Did you enjoy yourself, Cleo?”
“I did, thank you.” I’d retired before my aunt, uncle and cousins. While I had liked the evening, my family appeared to enjoy it more than me. They were their friends, after all, not mine.
She reached out a hand to me. It shook violently. I took it gently, afraid of snapping off her boney fingers. “I’m so glad. Your mother would be proud of you, carrying on with such courage after your grandparents’ deaths. I don’t know if I could have been as brave as you at your age. To think you’ve journeyed to a new city and left your life behind!”
It hadn’t been a difficult decision. If I’d stayed in Cambridge I’d have lived in poverty. But I didn’t say that.
“We’re very glad you wanted to live with us,” she said. “Very glad indeed. Already I can see what a steadying influence you’re having on Flossy. She looks up to you.”
“She’s been very good to me,” I said. “You all have. It made settling in so much easier. The hotel already feels like home.” I hadn’t expected it to be this easy. Before coming to London, I’d been rather terrified of meeting my mother’s sister and her family. I’d been expecting a tyrant in my uncle and a snob in my aunt. While he’d proved to have a temper, and they’d all displayed some snobbery at times, they were far from intolerable.
My comment about home brought a smile to my aunt’s face. “I am so glad to hear you say that, Cleo. So very glad.” She smothered a yawn with her hand. “How can I possibly be tired after resting all day?”
She might be tired, but she was also restless. Her fingers resumed their fidgeting of the blanket fringe and her legs and feet shifted constantly. Her gaze darted too, sometimes flicking over me before scanning the room, then once again settling on me.
“Forgive me for asking,” I said carefully, “but what ails you? Do the doctors know?”
She hesitated before answering. “They say it’s melancholia.”
In my experience, melancholia was a general term used to describe a lowness of spirits, the cause of which was unknown. “Is there a cure?” I asked, although I was quite sure of the answer.
“No. The new tonic the doctor gave me helps revive my spirits for occasions such as last night, but I mustn’t take it all the time. It makes the headaches so much worse when the tonic wears off. Unfortunately, it’s not as effective as it used to be. It used to lift my spirits all night, but now it lasts only a few hours.”
“I don’t know, but I must take it. I’d be terribly dull otherwise, and no one wants a dull hostess or party guest.” She laughed, but it didn’t ring true. She believed what she said.
“I’m sure no one would think you dull, Aunt. I don’t.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but my conversation is limited. Your mother inherited all the wit and intelligence, not to mention beauty.” Tears welled in her eyes, and my own eyes filled in response. “She wasn’t too keen on large parties, but other than a reservation around strangers, she had every natural advantage. Everyone liked her when they got to know her. That’s why it was so strange when she chose your father.”
I emitted a small gasp of air and stared at her.
“Oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand then lowered it to her throat. “I am sorry, Cleo. I didn’t mean to imply there was something wrong with him. There wasn’t. He was handsome and witty too, and very intelligent, of course. But he came from nothing. That’s all I meant. Your mother could have married a nobleman, either English or foreign, but she chose love.”
“And your parents couldn’t abide it.” I didn’t want my bitterness to come through in my tone, but it did.
“No, they couldn’t.” It was spoken so softly I could barely hear it.
This was new ground we were venturing into. So far, I’d avoided the sensitive topic of the estrangement. I’d not wanted to get into an argument with my aunt and uncle, who would naturally defend her parents. It had happened so long ago, and my parents and grandparents were gone, that it seemed unnecessary.
“This is what I mean when I say I need my tonic.” Aunt Lilian’s pained gaze fell on the closed doors to her bedroom. “If I don’t take it, I say silly things like that. I’m a dreadful person, Cleo.”
My annoyance dissolved. I reached forward and touched her hand. Her busy fingers stilled. “I know you had no choice in the estrangement.”
She nodded, blinking tear-filled eyes.
“Your parents would have scolded you if you fought against their wishes, or worse, and Uncle Ronald wouldn’t have liked it either.” Perhaps I was overstepping, but I wanted her to know that I didn’t blame her. I could see now that she didn’t have the strength to stand up to a man with a temper as fierce as her husband’s.
She blinked at me. “You have it a little muddled, Cleo. While my parents cut out your mother from their lives, Ronald and I tried to keep the line of communication open. But my sister—your mother—wanted nothing to do with any of us. We tried again, after my parents died, and still she refused to see us. Then, after your parents’ accident, we asked your grandparents if we could take you in. They refused, saying your parents wouldn’t wish it. Ronald offered them money for your education and upkeep, but they only allowed him to give you a small amount each month. We asked if we could at least visit, so you would know us, but if they answered our letters at all, it was just to reply with a brief no. When you came of age, we wrote to you, but you never answered.”
I sat there, stunned. I couldn’t even form a coherent thought let alone a response.
“I thought you knew,” she murmured.
After a long while, I sucked in a shuddery breath. “I didn’t.”
“Ronald suggested as much, but… I wasn’t sure until you came here. Once I realized how lovely you are, I knew it must have been your grandparents’ doing.”
My grandmother had always collected the mail before me. Always. And when I asked about my London family, neither she nor my grandfather wanted to talk about them. All they would tell me was that the Bainbridges were snobs and wouldn’t like me because they felt my father was beneath them, and my maternal grandparents had been cruel in cutting us out of their lives. While the latter might be true, the former wasn’t.
How could my beloved grandparents have lied to me?
“I have their letters somewhere.” My aunt rubbed her forehead. “Where have I put them?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said weakly. “I believe you.”
She looked relieved.
“You’re owed an apology for the way my grandparents responded to your letters,” I said.
“Yes, but not by you, dear. No more than I need to apologize for the way my parents treated your mother and father.” She patted my hand. “I admit to being angry when your mother chose him over me. I looked up to her so much, you see. I adored her. And by choosing your father, she knew she might never see me again. That was painful, at the time, and my last words to her were angry ones. I was foolish and jealous, still just a silly girl, in many ways. I regret parting with her like that.”
She sank back into the sofa and her gaze took on a faraway look. She’d been hurt by her parents’ cruelty just as much as my mother had, and had lost a sister too, yet her gaze seemed more wistful than sad.
“I’m glad we had this conversation,” she suddenly said.
I kissed her cheek. “Me too.”
I saw Mr. Hobart in the foyer while I waited for Frank to hail a cab to take me to Kensal Green cemetery. He greeted me cordially, but there was a slight strain to his smile. Mr. Armitage must have informed him of my involvement in the murder investigation.
“Let me explain,” I began.
“There’s nothing to explain. Harry told me you weren’t aware Lord Rumford had approached me about his suspicions and I was going to give the investigation to Harry.”
“Did he also tell you I tried to offer it to him but he refused?”
He nodded.
“You’re upset with me,” I said.
“Of course not.”
I gave him an arched look. “Your disappointment is written all over your face, Mr. Hobart. I can read it as clearly as a book.”
He sighed. “I’m not disappointed in you, as such, just disappointed for Harry. If it does turn out to be murder, and he could prove it, his name would get into the papers. It would have led to more clients.”
I sighed too. “I know. I really do want to share the case with him, at the very least.”
“His pride won’t allow it. He thinks you’re offering out of charity.”
“How can I get him to change his mind?”
Frank opened the front door and cleared his throat. “Your cab is waiting, Miss Fox.”
“Just a moment.” I turned back to Mr. Hobart. “What shall I do?”
“You’ll think of something when the time comes.” He frowned at Frank. “You ought to be riding in a hotel carriage, not a cab. Frank, next time, have a conveyance brought around for Miss Fox.”
Frank stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“There’s no need for a fuss,” I told them both as I slipped on my gloves. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a funeral to get to.”
It had been raining steadily since I awoke and it hadn’t eased by the time the burial began. The small crowd huddled under umbrellas at the plot as cemetery staff lowered Pearl’s coffin into the ground. Her sister wept. Beside Mrs. Larsen stood a man, most likely her husband. They hadn’t brought Millie.
When Lord Rumford took up a position beside the plot, Mrs. Larsen had moved to the other end, her husband following. If he’d noticed, Lord Rumford gave no sign. He seemed lost in his own thoughts as he stared down at the coffin.
I took note of the other faces in the small gathering. Some wept, but most didn’t. The majority of the thirty-five mourners were men. The funeral had not been announced in the newspapers, however this morning’s editions reported there would be an informal public memorial held at the Piccadilly Playhouse this afternoon. The show would resume tomorrow night with Pearl’s understudy in the lead role.
I’d already added her to my list of suspects.
A movement at the edge of my vision caught my eye. A man stood a little distance away, almost hidden by the trunk of a chestnut tree. He had no umbrella and hunched into his great coat, but I could just make out his face and t
he wart-like rash at the corners of his mouth.
The service came to an end and the crowd dispersed. I hurried off in the direction of the man, but he’d already disappeared. I followed the path to the cemetery’s entrance just in time to see a brougham drive off. Instead of the ubiquitous black, its doors were painted dark green and the curtain fabric matched.
I waited as the other mourners left and nodded at Lord Rumford. I had assumed he wouldn’t want to acknowledge me, but he approached.
“May I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Miss Fox?”
“No, thank you. My lord, do you know a man with warts on the sides of his mouth?”
“No.”
He did not ask me why I asked. He touched the brim of his hat and headed for the waiting carriage emblazoned with the Mayfair’s insignia on the door. The exchange had been all rather mechanical, as if he were an automaton going through the motions after someone wound him up.
Mrs. Larsen and her husband arrived next. She introduced me to him and after exchanging the obligatory niceties about the service, I asked, “Did you see the man standing behind the tree watching the burial? He had some warts or lesions on his face.”
“I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Larsen looked to her husband but he also shook his head.
“Did you recognize any of the other people attending the funeral?”
They both shook their heads. “As I said, I didn’t know any of Nellie’s new friends or people she worked with,” Mrs. Larsen said. “No one from her old life showed up, but that’s understandable given she never tried to keep up the connections.”
“Are you going to the memorial at the theater?”
Her lips pinched. “No.”
“It’s not really our sort of thing,” Mr. Larsen added. “We’ll go home and mourn Nellie in our own way.”
“Quietly,” his wife added with a pointed glance at the last of the cabs driving off with the theater set.
I caught my own cab back to the hotel for a light luncheon and a change of clothes, since my dress was wet from the knees down. By the time I set off again, the rain had stopped, and I was able to walk to the Piccadilly Playhouse without putting up my umbrella.
