His smile never wavered. “Not at all. I’m fortunate in having a good director for this production.”
“Do you? I had no idea.”
“Perhaps you should have brought Mr. Hazelton with you the other night, to interview the male performers and staff.”
“If you recall, my intention in visiting the theater was to look for the letters Miss Teskey spoke of, not to interview—”
His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Never, my lady. It’s just that I now understand why you were so diligently investigating on Irena’s behalf. It was imperative you find another suspect in order to take suspicion off yourself.”
I sputtered a moment before finding my voice. “I am not a suspect in Miss Teskey’s murder.”
He gave me a knowing look. “The newspapers may not have mentioned you by name—they wouldn’t dare unless they had absolute proof—but they did mention Hazelton. They questioned if he was Irena’s husband, and mentioned the two of you are betrothed. Well, it didn’t tax my brain overmuch to trace the connection from one to the other, and the line circles right around you.”
“How dare you come to my home and accuse me of murder!” I came to my feet and loomed over him.
“You came to my theater and accused me of murder.” Gilliam rose until we were nose to nose. “I’d say we’re even—except I really don’t think you did it.”
“Well, I . . . What?” Once again, I saw the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.
He spread his arms wide. “I was just trying to illustrate how easy it is to implicate anyone with a connection to Irena as a suspect in her murder.” He twisted his lips in a grimace. “She had a gift for pushing people too far. Though I doubt she’d gotten to you yet, you have a stake in finding the culprit if you wish to take suspicion off Hazelton.”
I took a step back, watching him warily, trying to determine what game he was up to. A part of me believed he wasn’t playing at all, just speaking his mind—not something I was accustomed to. Nobody of my acquaintance ever said what they actually meant. Well, close friends did, but I couldn’t count Gilliam as one of those.
“I still think you were laughing at me,” I said.
“Not you. Your methods, perhaps.”
I raised my chin. “My time with your cast was limited, due to their eagerness to leave for home. My method was to use that time to the best advantage. I couldn’t question all of you, and I knew the police would come to question everyone I’d missed.” Since my goal in the first place had only been to search Miss Teskey’s office, I didn’t know why I was defending myself. The man could think what he wished.
He grinned. “Of course.”
“Fine. Call me inept if you must. Just don’t call me a murderer. Nor should you consider Hazelton one.”
“Then you should do something about the newspapers. I’ve seen nothing new today, but yesterday they were spreading innuendo as thickly as marmalade.”
“Today the Daily Observer indicated the police had a new and more likely suspect, someone outside of London.” I returned to the sofa, watching him for a reaction.
“Did they? I don’t read that paper. No theater reviews, and it seems they largely deal in gossipy, sensational stories.”
“Well, that should bode well, don’t you think, Frances?” Hetty said, slipping in through the half-open doors. “If they deal in gossip, one would assume all the gossips read it.”
“That is the audience I’m hoping to reach.”
“Did you have something to do with that article?” Gilliam examined me through one narrowed eye.
“Of course not.” Hetty spoke up first, joining us at the tea table. She shooed him back to his chair and took a seat on the sofa, observing the empty table. “No tea?”
“Forgive me, Aunt Hetty. My manners must have taken their leave while Mr. Gilliam and I were accusing each other of murder.”
“I’m not stopping long enough, Mrs. Chesney.” Gilliam’s smile for Hetty was quite tender, and I had to remind myself to be suspicious of him. “I’m not certain we agreed on a time for me to collect you. I also wanted to assure myself that you would be comfortable with our mode of transportation.”
Hetty looked like a child anticipating a sweet. “Our mode of transportation? How intriguing. Are we to take bicycles?”
He chuckled. “Not bicycles. I believe the weather will be a bit too cool for that.”
She lowered her eyelids and sent him a sultry glance through her lashes. “Perhaps the Underground. Doesn’t that have an exotic sound to it?”
He stared at her, completely transfixed. “It does when you say it.” He cleared his throat. “Do you wish another guess, or shall I tell you?”
“Oh, do tell us, Mr. Gilliam,” I said.
“No, let me make one more guess.” Hetty leaned back and examined the man with a lingering gaze. “You are a man of the times. Rather an adventurous one at that. Do I dare guess that you will be collecting me in a motorcar?”
“If that is your guess, you would be correct. And it sounds as though you might just enjoy such an adventure.”
Gilliam beamed. Hetty sparkled. I dearly hoped this man had not murdered Miss Teskey.
“I would enjoy it very much indeed,” she said, smiling prettily.
If I remembered correctly, Hetty’s opinion about motorcars was that they were completely unreliable. Of course, she also thought she was too old for romance, and that was utter rot.
While I observed their flirtations, Mrs. Thompson opened the door and nodded to me when she caught my attention.
“There’s a gentleman calling for Mr. Hazelton, ma’am. I was about to send him next door but thought I might check to see if he was here first.” She went on to mumble something about Mr. Hazelton popping up unannounced, probably referring to the way we traveled from one house to the other through the garden.
“He’s not here at the moment, Mrs. Thompson.” Then my curiosity got the better of me. “Who’s calling?”
The usually stoic housekeeper scurried forward and lowered her voice. “A Mr. Petrov, ma’am. An imposing figure of a man.” She lowered her voice even further. “I don’t think he speaks much English. I already tried directing him next door, but he only became agitated.”
Petrov! Well, now I was intrigued. “Why don’t you show him in and send Jenny to fetch Mr. Hazelton. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Mrs. Thompson looked relieved and returned to the hall.
“Have you met Mr. Petrov?” I asked Gilliam.
He tore his gaze from Hetty. Really, the man’s infatuation could not possibly be pretense. “Petrov?” he said. “Irena’s man? A time or two. Haven’t seen him around lately, though I suppose that’s only natural now she’s gone.”
He was still speaking when Mrs. Thompson brought Mr. Petrov in. I could easily see why she’d been intimidated. Like Michael Mikhailovich, he was tall, certainly over six feet, and his hair was clipped short and showed some signs of silvering, but that was where the similarities ended. His beard, a rich brown, was magnificent, covering his lower face and extending to his shirt front. And while the grand duke was lean, this man was heavily built and muscular. In other words, the perfect candidate for Irena’s protector. Alexei had done well. Who would dare abduct her with Igor Petrov around?
He became even more fearsome when he lunged at Gilliam. The jovial grin vanished from the man’s face, to be replaced by shock as he jumped over the back of the sofa, placing it between him and his adversary. Petrov took a step back and spat at Gilliam.
Heavens, now I’d have to have Jenny clean the sofa.
“Please, sir! I will not allow such behavior in my home.” I tugged on the man’s arm with both hands until he backed himself against a chair. At the same time, Hetty was apparently checking Gilliam for signs of injury—at least I think that was what she was doing. I returned my attention to the Goliath at my side.
“You!” He pointed a meaty f
inger at the theater owner. “You kill Irena.” He spat—again.
“Mr. Petrov, if you persist in doing that, I will have to ask you to leave.”
He gave me a blank stare. I had no knowledge of Russian, but I recalled the man had been residing in France. “Would you prefer to speak French?” I asked him in that language.
“Oui,” he said and proceeded to speak at such a speed, he quickly lost Hetty. Gilliam, too, looked confused. Wonderful. I’d have to act as translator. Once he finished, I convinced him to sit. I faced the others.
“I doubt his dislike of you needs any translation, Mr. Gilliam, but it seems he bases his accusation on your treatment of Miss Teskey. He feels you lacked the proper respect.”
“What rot! I’ve never disrespected a woman in my life. How dare you, sir?”
“He said the two of you argued incessantly, in raised voices.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s well documented.” He looked a bit disgruntled by his inability to deny the charge. “Repetition didn’t work with her, so I hoped increasing my volume would do the trick. She shouted right back at me. It was hardly one-sided. Our disagreements were always of a business nature, nothing personal.”
I wondered if Mr. Petrov understood that Irena was a partner in the theater venture and not just an actress Gilliam argued with. I explained as best I could and asked him if he ever saw Gilliam threaten her safety in any manner. He grudgingly replied in the negative. He also slowed his speech enough for my companions to pick it up.
“Why don’t you ask him where he was when Irena was murdered?” Gilliam spoke in English. “He was always at her side. He’d have known to find her here. Perhaps he’s the murderer.”
I stared at him. “Are you quite mad? You want me to ask this bear of a man if he’s a murderer? Hetty and I just barely stopped him from tearing you apart.”
Gilliam’s answer was forestalled by George’s arrival. He’d shown himself in, so I assumed he’d taken the garden path. Mrs. Thompson would be miffed. The smirk he wore indicated he’d heard me, but I had the last laugh when I introduced him to Mr. Petrov. His eyes rounded as the other man stood, displaying his vast proportions.
Nonetheless, he offered the giant man his hand. Personally, I’d be afraid he’d rip it off and throw it back at me. Fortunately, Mr. Petrov was more civilized than I’d given him credit for—spitting notwithstanding. The scowl remained in place, but he did shake George’s hand.
“Perhaps you should take over,” I said. “So far, each man has accused the other of murder, but both claims seem to be unfounded.” I lowered my voice. “Neither holds the other in much regard.”
George raised his brows. “And the other half of this argument is?”
“Forgive me. I’d forgotten you haven’t met Mr. Gilliam. He owns the Hanover Theater. Mr. Gilliam, this is Mr. Hazelton.”
The two men shook hands, and George returned to Mr. Petrov. “Why don’t we start with when you first lost track of Irena?”
I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “First of all, you should speak to him in French. Mr. Petrov doesn’t speak much English. And secondly, you might want to rephrase your question. It sounded too much like an accusation.” I sidled up to him and lowered my voice. “He has a bit of a temper.”
He replied in the same manner. “You think I’m afraid of him?”
“I think you’re too intelligent to ask for trouble.”
“Well, in that case.” Facing Petrov he switched to French. “When did you last see Irena? How did you become separated?”
“Three days ago,” the Russian said. “She asked me to collect something from her hotel room. While I was gone, she slipped off to talk to the grand duke. She knew I wouldn’t approve. This was just her way to get around me. I didn’t know this at the time, of course. She never came back to the hotel, so I checked at the theater and learned she’d missed the performance.”
“That’s confirmed by two of the actresses I spoke to the other day,” I said. “They told me they saw him backstage that evening, looking for her.”
“Where did you go when you left the theater?” George asked.
“There was a restaurant she frequented. I checked there. When no one had seen her, I returned to the hotel for the night. The next day, I went to Michael Mikhailovich to ask if he’d seen her. He told me what had happened, but he didn’t know where she was. I assumed the police had her. I didn’t know what to do, but the grand duke told me to go back to her rooms and wait.” His features softened as he glanced at me. “She was here all that time, wasn’t she? Was she murdered here?”
“I’m afraid so.” I glanced from Petrov to Gilliam. “Miss Teskey told me she thought someone was following her. Did either of you happen to notice anyone?”
Gilliam gave a quick denial, but Petrov grew thoughtful. “There was a man,” he said. “I don’t know that he was following her, but I noticed him at the hotel because I had also seen him at the theater.” He gave me a close look. “Was she in danger from him?”
“We’re not sure,” George answered for me. “Did you get a good look at him? Was he an older man?”
“He was a bit older than me,” Petrov said. “Near sixty. I saw him at night. He just looked like most of the theatergoers. He wore a hat, a coat with the collar turned up. He was built like you. What I could see of his hair was gray. He was clean shaven, with a pinched look. I would know him if I saw him again.”
“Well, now that you describe him, I might have seen the same man.” Gilliam spoke up from his seat next to Hetty. “Didn’t think anything of it at the time. Must have been a week or more ago. A man, well dressed, aged sixty or so, bumped into me outside the theater after a performance.” He glanced up at the ceiling, as if remembering the scene. “I begged his pardon, even though he was the one not watching where he was going. He took a step back and looked me over. Asked me if I was the manager, and I admitted I was. He told me I should replace my lead actress. Then he simply walked off, just like that.”
Gilliam shrugged. “Can’t say I disagreed with him, and he might not be your man. But if he is, I can add that he was definitely upper class—had the tone and drawl.”
“Is this man her killer?” Petrov asked, still speaking French.
George moved to the back of the sofa to pace, something he liked to do when he was pondering a problem. “Until now, I’d have said the man was a figment of Irena’s imagination. Indeed, he still may be, but it is possible he’s responsible for the threatening letters.” He glanced across the room at me. “It’s also quite possible he murdered her.”
Chapter Sixteen
I woke the following morning feeling quite sorry for myself. I’d done nothing to bring these troubles to my door, yet they seemed to be mounting daily. Despite Inspector Delaney’s warning against interfering in his investigation, George planned to return to the theater, in the hope of learning something more about the man who’d been following Miss Teskey. He’d asked both Gilliam and Petrov to look out for the man before they left my house yesterday.
Meanwhile, I was left with nothing more productive to do than to bide my time until one of them solved the mystery of who had murdered her. Worse, I had to do that without George. It just wasn’t fair.
My gloomy attitude persisted while Bridget helped me ready myself for the day. What difference did it matter what I wore? I had no plans. Neither did I have any patience for conversation, and I was far too fidgety to sit still while she dressed my hair. By the time I made my way to the dining room, wearing a tea gown and my hair pulled back in a ribbon, I was thoroughly sick of myself.
I could only imagine how Bridget felt.
Hetty had already left on some errand, so I broke my fast alone. I poured a cup of coffee and thumbed through the post. Nothing of particular interest except a note from Mosley, asking for further information. Unfortunately, I had nothing to provide him. I should send a message to Graham, asking if he’d escort me to the reception this evening, but I couldn’t bring mys
elf to do it. I wanted to attend with George, not Graham.
Just as I was bemoaning the absence of a telegram from my mother, I took myself in hand. Enough was enough. I was in danger of drowning in all my self-pity. Perhaps there was nothing I could do at this very moment to move this investigation forward, but I had to do something to relieve my mind of its current misery before I went completely mad.
Fiona was the only person I could call on so early, and without warning, so my decision was easy. I returned to my bedchamber and rang for Bridget. Fortunately, she was understanding of my earlier ill temper. She was so eager to move me on my way, I found myself in a hired hackney within the hour, and in Fiona’s drawing room a mere twenty minutes later. Fiona joined me just as a maid brought in the tea service.
She was still dressed for a morning at home, as I had been an hour ago. After a hug, she looked me up and down. “Would you prefer coffee? You seem a bit out of sorts.”
I assured her tea would be fine, and we seated ourselves at either end of the sofa.
“Trouble with the investigation?” she asked.
“We’re at an impasse at the moment. Delaney has located Bradmore and gone to fetch him, and he warned George and me to stay away from the investigation. Of course, George thinks that order applies only to me, so he’s gone to the theater to ask more questions.” Her eyes filled with sympathy, and I succumbed. “The worst part is he has decided to cry off the Stoke-Whitney reception, and I am to attend with Graham.”
“Oh, my dear.” She reached across the sofa and squeezed my hand. “I understand how galling that must be, but he is only trying to protect your reputation.”
“It just feels like we’re giving up and letting society dictate our actions.”
“It’s awful, and it’s wrong. Usually, I would be in favor of directly confronting those who would judge you.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.”
“But not this time.” She averted her gaze. “In this case, I fear the scandal about my brother and Miss Teskey has already grown roots.”
A Fiancée's Guide to First Wives and Murder Page 18
