by C. J. Archer
All of the Playhouse’s lights were blazing, despite it being mid-afternoon. Several bouquets of pink flowers had been placed on the pavement beside the theater’s doors, as well as cards and messages that had run in the earlier rain. A burly doorman stood beside a portable blackboard. MEMORIAL FOR MISS PEARL WESTWOOD: ENTRY 1/- it read.
A shilling was a lot to ask for the public to pay their respects, and it explained why many turned away without going in. I paid the doorman and entered just as two people left.
Inside, those who’d paid the entry fee wandered up and down the foyer, admiring the many posters, costumes and props from various shows that had starred Pearl. Interspersed between the items were photographs of Pearl with her co-stars or other theater staff. They looked similar to the ones I’d seen in her flat. The refreshment counter was open, and drinks could be purchased, although few did. A string quartet at one end of the foyer played somber music. Some patrons cried while others caressed or kissed the framed photographs of Pearl. I wondered how many of these people actually knew her or were merely theater-goers who’d adored the star but never known the real person wearing the costumes.
It didn’t take long before I recognized a man from the funeral. He stood in the middle of the foyer and accepted the sympathies of passersby with a grave air. I stopped a busboy collecting empty glasses and asked him the man’s name.
“That’s Mr. Culpepper,” the busboy said. “The Playhouse’s manager.”
He was younger than I expected, about mid-thirties, with a thin mustache and slicked-back hair. I waited for him to finish speaking to a couple who appeared to be giving their condolences and approached before anyone else could.
“Mr. Culpepper? I’m Cleo Fox.”
His smile was polite but sad. “Welcome to the Playhouse, Miss Fox. Thank you for coming. Have you had a chance to look around at all the things our precious Pearl touched?”
“I’m an acquaintance of a friend of hers. I’ve been tasked with making discreet inquiries into her death.”
The muscles in his cheek twitched. “I don’t understand.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“I must be out here.” He looked over my head, perhaps searching for someone to rescue him, but the mourners were occupied with quiet chatter amongst themselves, or admiring the photographs and props as if they were items in a museum.
“Do you think Miss Westwood killed herself?”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Pardon?”
“Is she the type to kill herself?”
He stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Ordinarily I’d say no, but…”
“Go on.”
“But she seemed troubled these last few weeks. Ever since we resumed performances after our mid-winter break, she was different.”
“Different how?”
He gave a small shrug. “Worried.”
“Enough to kill herself?”
He gave a small wince. “I…I can’t say for certain.” He looked away and swallowed heavily.
“The person I’m working for doesn’t think she killed herself, so I’m asking some questions of those who knew her. I’m afraid some of my questions might be painful to answer, and I am deeply sorry about that. But it’s important we get to the truth.”
“I understand. And if she didn’t kill herself, then I’d like answers too, of course. Pearl deserves that.” He finally met my gaze. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes. “Do you work for Rumford?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Mr. Culpepper, do you know someone who’d want to kill her?”
“Kill her? Miss Fox, I thought you were implying she met with an accident and merely fell over the balcony.”
“Is that easy to do? Fall over the balcony?”
He swallowed again. “I suppose not. Good lord,” he murmured. “Someone murdered her. We must notify the police.”
“The police aren’t interested in classifying this as anything other than suicide, unless I present them with firm evidence. So if you could answer my questions, Mr. Culpepper.”
“Very well. No, I don’t know anyone who’d want to kill her. Everyone adored her.” He indicated the mourners. “Pearl was the life of the party. She lit up the room with her presence. On stage, she was the brightest star in the sky.” His smile was wistful. “She was a little forgetful of her lines, but it didn’t matter. The audience adored her.”
“Such adoration can invoke jealousy in others. Do you know anyone who might have been jealous of her?”
He hesitated before saying, “No.”
“Other actresses, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
“What about the understudy who will be taking over Pearl’s role in Cat and Mouse?”
“No! Absolutely not. Dorothea Clare was a friend of Pearl’s.” He nodded at a young blonde woman chatting to two men. I’d seen her and both men at the funeral earlier. Miss Clare had not cried, but I’d noticed one of the gentlemen wiping away tears.
“What about former lovers?” I asked.
His gaze sharpened. The lips beneath the mustache thinned. “I beg your pardon?”
I steeled myself for his anger and forged on. No matter how awkward the subject was for her friends to hear, it had to be discussed. “Did she have other lovers?”
“I believe there was only Rumford.”
“And before him?”
“That was two years ago. I can’t remember.”
“Please try. Could there have been a gentleman who had warts on his face?” I indicated the area near my mouth.
Mr. Culpepper looked appalled. “No! Pearl would never be with anyone with a disfigurement.”
“They could be sores or lesions, not permanent.”
The disgusted face he’d pulled did not change. “I don’t remember who she was with before Rumford.”
“But there was someone?”
He merely lifted a shoulder and looked over my head again.
“You introduced her to Lord Rumford, didn’t you?”
He snorted. “Introduced? He demanded to see her after a show. I couldn’t refuse him, could I? Not a bloody lord.” He suddenly straightened. “Do you know, Miss Fox, I think she might have killed herself, after all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I think she killed herself and he was the reason. Rumford. I’m sure he was giving her up, or had at least threatened to. That’s probably what was troubling her these last few weeks. He was threatening to give her up because he knew she didn’t love him.”
“I don’t understand. If she didn’t love him, why would she kill herself if he was going to give her up? Wouldn’t she be pleased, or at the very least, relieved?”
“Relieved to give up the trinkets and flat? Not Pearl. She might not have loved him, but she loved his gifts.” His jaw hardened and his eyes turned cold. “I’m sure it was suicide, and he drove her to it by threatening to withdraw his generosity. You ought to confront Rumford about it. He deserves to feel guilt. He deserves to rot in self-loathing and pity for sending her to her death.”
It hardly seemed like a reason to throw oneself off a balcony. Pearl was still young and beautiful; shecould find another benefactor. Not only that, but Mrs. Larsen had mentioned her sister was excited about going on a holiday with Lord Rumford in the autumn. That didn’t sound like he was going to give her up soon.
I was beginning to think Mr. Culpepper was jealous of Lord Rumford and was trying to place the blame onto him for Pearl’s death. That was the action of a guilty man.
Chapter 5
I managed to speak to Dorothea Clare before she left the memorial, but not on her own. She was always surrounded by an admirer or colleague, sometimes several. I took my chance as the memorial drew to a close, when she was with just one other man, the fellow I’d seen crying at the burial.
He introduced himself as Perry Alcott and bowed over my hand. Like Mr. Culpepper, Mr. Alcott was slickly groomed with an impressive head
of hair sculpted into a wave above his forehead. He was cleanly shaved and wore a fine pin-striped suit with a pink tie and matching pink rosebud in the lapel. The color must be chosen for Pearl.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I told them both. “It must be very difficult for you.”
“It’s been awful,” Mr. Alcott said. “Just awful.”
“A very distressing day,” Miss Clare agreed. She couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-one, with wide gray eyes fringed with dark lashes and full lips. She wore makeup, but it was subtle, and an evening gown of cream silk that seemed an odd choice for the occasion.
“I saw you at the funeral and wondered where you fitted into Pearl’s life,” Mr. Alcott said. It wasn’t posed as a question, but he was certainly fishing for information.
I told them what I told Mr. Culpepper, without mentioning that it was Lord Rumford who hired me. Like Mr. Culpepper, Mr. Alcott guessed anyway.
“I agree with his lordship,” Mr. Alcott said. “Anyone who thinks Pearl killed herself didn’t truly know her. She would not do that. Not in a million years. Pearl had everything to live for. Her career was like a dream, she had an attentive friend in Lord Rumford, and an adoring public. Don’t you agree, Dotty?”
Miss Clare nibbled on her lower lip. When she let it go, a little lip color had come off on her teeth. “She was a little upset lately.”
Mr. Alcott put his hand on an outthrust hip. “Upset? Darling, she was hardly upset enough to throw herself over the balcony.” He turned to me. “Something certainly troubled her, but not enough to take her own life.”
“Dearest Perry, you would defend her.” The acerbic edge to Miss Clare’s otherwise sweet tone was unmistakable. “How can you say that when she never told you what the problem was?”
Mr. Alcott sniffed. “She might not have confided in me, but I don’t believe it was that bad, and you must stop suggesting it, Dotty. Pearl was a dear friend, and I won’t hear a thing said against her now she’s not here to defend herself.”
Miss Clare turned her back on him to face me. “The truth of the matter is, the police think she killed herself and so do I. Nobody wanted to kill her. The suggestion is ridiculous.”
“What about a jealous admirer?” I asked. “Someone she rejected, perhaps.”
“I can’t think of anyone.”
Mr. Alcott barked a laugh. “Can’t you? I can. Men wanted to see her after every performance. She would flirt with them, but that was all. She never accepted their offers. She was content with Lord Rumford and not looking to move on yet.”
“Not until she’d milked him for everything she could get.”
Mr. Alcott’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Miss Clare.
Miss Clare tossed her head, making her blond curls dance jauntily. “Lord Rumford was good to her, and Pearl was indifferent, at best. I’m not suggesting she entertained other men, but she should never have allowed them into her dressing room after the show. Someone ought to tell Lord Rumford now that she’s dead, just so he knows what she was truly like.”
“Looking to step into her shoes in more ways than one, Dotty?” Mr. Alcott sneered.
“I simply feel sorry for him. Pearl had a fickle nature.”
“They’d been together for two years!”
“Did either of you see another gentleman at the burial this morning with warts on his face?” I asked. “He was half-hidden behind a tree and left before the end.”
They both shook their heads.
A gentleman entered and glanced around the foyer. When his gaze fell on Miss Clare, she smiled broadly and excused herself.
Mr. Alcott watched her as she accepted the gentleman’s kiss on her cheek. “She’s going to be a handful, that one, if she ever becomes a star of Pearl’s stature. Pearl might have lived a fast life, but she was never mean to others, she never put anyone down. She was just too carefree and frivolous to be mean.” He nodded at Miss Clare and the gentleman. “He hasn’t come to pay his respects to Pearl, he’s come to see Dotty. Little does he know, he’ll be overthrown by mid-year.”
“Why?”
“Because Dotty is taking over the lead female role in the play, and her star will rise just as quickly as Pearl’s did. When that happens, Dotty will aim higher than that poor man. He’s not rich enough or influential enough to satisfy her ambition.”
“How ambitious is she?”
His gaze slid to mine, but he took a moment to answer. “Dotty was jealous of Pearl. Peal had what Dotty wanted—fame, adoration, the best roles.”
I arched my brow, hoping I didn’t have to ask the question outright.
Fortunately he seemed to understand. “Dotty wouldn’t have resorted to violence to satisfy her ambition. She is young; she simply had to bide her time before Pearl’s star began to fall.” He did not sound convincing, however. Pearl hadn’t been very old, after all. Her career and stardom could have lasted several more years.
“You say you were Pearl’s friend, but how well did you know her?” I asked.
“Probably as well as anyone here, except Culpepper.” He nodded at the manager, seeing off some mourners at the door. “They go back quite a few years. She played minor roles in other theaters, until he cast her in her first leading role here at the Playhouse. She worked for him ever since.”
“Were they ever intimate?”
“I don’t know. I often wondered, but I never asked. They had a good working relationship, but they occasionally argued.”
“What about?”
He shrugged. “I’d see her storming out of his office, or hear raised voices but not the words. I asked her about it once and she said Culpepper was being unreasonable and that was that. I assume he’d asked her to add an extra performance, or to sing a song that didn’t suit her voice. She had trouble with the high notes,” he said as an aside.
“Did Pearl ever mention her family?”
“Very rarely and it was usually in casual conversation. Most recently, I asked her what she was doing for Christmas, and she said dining with her sister’s family. That’s what I mean by casually. I got the feeling she hardly saw them, but I don’t think there was any ill-feeling between them. Pearl never made a face when she spoke about her sister, for example. They probably just grew apart. It can happen in our business. Some family members don’t like our choice of career.”
“Or lifestyle?”
He gave me a humorless smile. “Quite. Do you know, today at the funeral was the first time I’d ever seen her sister. She looked a little like Pearl, although not nearly as beautiful.”
“Did Pearl ever ask you for money?”
My question seemed to surprise him. “No, but she knew I couldn’t give her any. I only ever get minor roles, you see, and I have expensive tastes in suits and lovers.” His eyes flashed wickedly. “Does that shock you, Miss Fox?”
“Not at all,” I said smoothly.
“Then you’re a woman of the world.” He removed a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket. “Care to join me in the smoking room?”
It was nice to be asked. When I’d attempted smoking in order to glean information from a suspect in the last murder, the men in the hotel’s smoking room had judged me to be a certain type of woman. It seemed Mr. Alcott was not like other men.
“Thank you, but I must be getting home. If you think of anything relevant, would you please send word to me at The Mayfair Hotel.”
His eyebrows rose. “Rumford’s putting you up at the Mayfair while you investigate? You must be good.”
I almost didn’t tell him, but it seemed wrong not to be honest. “Actually I live there and just happened to overhear Lord Rumford saying he suspected Pearl’s death wasn’t suicide. I offered to investigate.”
He wagged a finger at me. “I know who you are! You’re the niece of Sir Ronald Bainbridge. I’ve heard about you.”
I didn’t know what to say. We’d kept my involvement in the previous murder out of the newspapers, and few people outside the hotel st
aff and the Bainbridge’s friends even knew I existed.
“You look like a startled deer, Miss Fox. It’s all right. Your secret is safe with me.” He winked.
“What secret?” I asked weakly.
“How you solved the case of that guest’s death. I’ve already been sworn to secrecy by a very good friend of mine.”
“And who is your friend? My cousin, Floyd?”
He laughed. “Lord, no. Your cousin is the sort to be friends with women like Pearl and Dotty, not men like me. No, it was a young friend of mine who works there. Danny. He’s a footman. You probably don’t remember him, but he credits you with getting him off the hook with the police”
I certainly did remember Danny. He’d been the police’s main suspect in the Christmas Eve murder, but all the staff knew he hadn’t done it. He’d finally been freed after admitting where he’d been at the time of the murder—in another man’s bed.
“Danny is very sweet,” I said.
Mr. Alcott’s eyes sparkled with his smile. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, he is.”
He headed off while I made my way to the door. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized there was one very important question I’d failed to ask everyone. Pearl’s funeral had not been announced in the newspapers. Lord Rumford had insisted it be a private affair for those closest to her. If no one knew the man with the disfiguring warts, how did he come to be at the funeral? How did he know when and where it would take place? If he hadn’t made inquiries of the theater manager, two of her friends, or her sister, then who had told him?
I exited the theater and found the doorman standing exactly where he had been earlier, beside the blackboard sign. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you always work here on the door?”
“Only during performances, and at special events like today.” He jerked his head towards the sign.
“Were you on the door last night even though there was no performance?”
“Aye. Mr. Culpepper needed me to keep everyone out. Miss Westwood’s admirers wanted to get in and pay their respects, see.”
