by Lynda Wilcox
“Yes, it is,” Eleanor murmured, without taking her opera glasses from her eyes.
The Burning Heart was a powerful melodrama. The actress gave it her all — in three acts, going from the innocence of young love, to harassment and betrayal as a wife and mother, to glorious and vengeful vindication in old age. The performance was a tour de force by someone so young. Miss Dacre was rumoured to be twenty-six, though many suspected her of being somewhat older.
“Had you heard that she’s Sir David Bristol’s mistress?” Ann whispered. “He’s supposed to have put the money up for the production.”
“Yes, so I understand. Judging by the House Full signs every night, he’s more than made back his investment.”
The millionaire Sir David was renowned for his good looks as much as his money and Eleanor despised the man as much as she despised his politics. She found him cold-hearted and callous. He owned the Daily Banner, a right-wing newspaper much opposed to the newly elected Labour government and its Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald.
Presumably it was his money that had attracted the woman on the stage. Eleanor stared at her, surprised to detect a glint of worry and, yes, fear in those expressive eyes, over and above the emotion the role called for.
When the interval came a couple of the men were deputed to fetch a bottle of champagne and six glasses from the bar while the women discussed the play.
“She’s so good.”
“Isn’t she, though?”
“Does anyone know the playwright? I wonder if he wrote it with the divine Deanna in mind.”
“Oh, he’s had a string of successes.”
“So will she. I shouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t end up on Broadway after this performance.”
“Yes, or even in films.”
Eleanor joined in, happy to swap opinions on a subject she knew little about and after Ann’s words on the way to the box, wondering how many of her companions’ necklaces were fakes.
The men returned, the champagne was opened, and the dowager drank hers straight off.
The play resumed, but of a sudden, it failed to hold Eleanor’s interest. Instead she looked about her at the occupants of the boxes, first on the upper and then the lower circles.
She spotted Lady Lancashire sitting alone in the box closest to stage left. There was no sign of her husband, though Eleanor was convinced that earlier in the day Barbara had included him and said, ‘we are going to the theatre.’
Eleanor raised her glasses and studied Barbara, whose attention lay fixed on the stage until she suddenly turned her head to look at a point to Eleanor’s right. In one hand her ladyship held a pair of opera glasses, while the other lay, fingers splayed, on her right shoulder as if she was clasping something there. In the absence of her pearls, an ugly diamond affair lay around her neck.
The curtain fell for the end of the second act and a sigh went around the auditorium as the house lights went up and the place erupted into thunderous applause.
“Did you hear something just then?” Eleanor leaned towards her friend, raising her voice slightly above the noise.
“When?” Ann shook her head and looked blank.
“Just before the curtain fell?”
“No, I don’t think so, though to be honest I was too busy listening to what was going off on the stage. That John Sinclair is a right villain, isn’t he?”
Eleanor didn’t bother to point out that it was fiction.
“I shan’t be a minute.”
“Well, don’t be long. It isn’t so long an interval this time, but if you’re going to the bar, you might bring me back a cocktail.” Ann’s mouth turned down at the corners. “The champagne has all gone.”
“Sorry.”
Eleanor made her excuses and stepped out of the box into the corridor beyond.
Ann may have been wrapped up in the play, but Eleanor was quite certain she had heard a noise from the box next door. It might only have been the popping of a champagne cork, but it might just as easily been a gunshot.
Thinking that she was about to make a fool of herself, and admitting that it wouldn’t be the first time, she tapped discreetly on the door. When no one answered she tapped again and went in.
With a gasp she stepped back. For one wild moment she wanted to tiptoe away and pretend she had never laid eyes on the interior of box number 11, but there was no way to unsee the dead man sprawled over the plush edge of the box. Nor any way to forget the bullet hole in the back of his head.
Chapter 3
One quick glance was enough to show Eleanor that the man had been alone in the box. Alone, that is, apart from his killer.
There was no evidence to suggest he’d shared the box with anyone, no discarded programme, no coat, scarf, or hat left behind in the flurry of departure.
The man’s own programme lay on his lap, and a pair of opera glasses were on the floor beside his seat, as though dropped from his dead hand.
Eleanor shuddered and hurried away, along the corridor and down the stairs to the manager’s office.
“There’s a man dead in Box 11,” she told him. “It’s murder, so you need to call the police.”
“Box 11, madame? But that’s Sir David Bristol’s box. Is this some sort of joke?”
“Certainly not.” Annoyed by the man’s dithering, his refusal to take her seriously, she straightened her back and fixed him with an imperious gaze. “I’m Lady Eleanor Bakewell. I’m in the next door box and heard a shot. The man is definitely dead, and this is definitely murder. Now will you please call the police.”
“Perhaps I ought to go and see for myself.” The manager grimaced and wrung his hands together. “Just to be sure.”
Eleanor lost her temper. “Good God, man. He’s got a bullet hole in the back of his head. What more do you need to know? Call the police.”
With a show of reluctance, the manager picked up the phone and asked for Scotland Yard. Satisfied that the police were on their way, Eleanor went back upstairs to stand guard outside the door of box 11.
“Botheration,” she muttered, when she got there. “I should have asked him, or the doorman, if he’d seen anyone leave the building.”
She shook her head. The killer was probably still somewhere around. Leaving mid-performance would only have drawn attention to himself, something he’d likely want to avoid at all costs.
Eleanor’s lonely vigil didn’t last long. She heard the heavy tramp of police boots and the voice of the twittering manager coming up the stairs well before they appeared around the curve of the corridor.
“Well, well. I might have known.” The familiar face of Chief Inspector Blount of Scotland Yard scowled down at Eleanor. Behind him came the doctor with his bag and a constable, as well as the Viceroy’s manager.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector.” Eleanor stood away from the door.
“All right, my lady, you can leave it with us now.”
“Thank you. I shall be next door in Box 9 when you want me.”
With a sense of relief, Eleanor left the professionals to their work and retook her seat beside Ann.
“Where have you been?” Her friend hissed. “You’ve missed the best bit.”
Eleanor gave a tight lipped smile, but said nothing. The play was moving towards its climax. She neither saw it nor heard it, and remained lost in her own thoughts.
Was it mere coincidence that Bristol had been killed while watching a play that, if the gossip were to be believed, he had sunk a considerable amount of money into? A play that starred his mistress and was already rumoured to have taken twice as much in box office receipts as the money Sir David had invested.
Eleanor glanced at the stage where Deanna Dacre, unaware of the tragedy that had descended upon her, was in full flow, carrying a rapt audience along with her. At least she was innocent of murder, though someone else concerned with the production might not be.
Eleanor’s thoughts went round and round.
At last the house lights went up. The cur
tain fell and rose again. The cast took their bows and a bouquet of flowers was presented to the leading lady amidst rapturous applause. The curtain was lowered for the final time and the audience started to depart.
Asking Ann if she would stay awhile, Eleanor said goodbye to the other guests and when they had all taken their leave, flopped down again next to Ann and put her head in her hands.
“What on earth is the matter?”
“I’ve got to tell you, Ann. If I don’t tell someone I think I shall explode.”
“Well, go on, then, tell me. Are you all right? You’re looking dreadfully pale.”
Eleanor brushed this aside with a wave of her hand. “You know that I thought I heard a sound from next door at the end of the second act? Well, I went into Box 11 and discovered Sir David Bristol dead in his seat with a bullet wound in the back of his head.”
“Wha —”
Eleanor clamped a hand over Ann’s scream. “Shh. The police are in there now — it’s Chief Inspector Blount again — and they may want to see me before I go home.”
“Oh, you poor thing. You do make a habit of finding dead men, don’t you?” Ann’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief.
There was too much truth in the statement for Eleanor to take offence. “Only in the last month. Come to think of it, I didn’t find Henry Eisenbach dead, so you can’t hold that against me.”
She referred to an American millionaire steel magnate who she’d danced with on the previous New Year’s Eve.
“No, darling, he just died in your arms.”
A tap on the door put paid to the scathing retort that had risen to Eleanor’s lips. Chief Inspector Blount threw the door wide and strode in.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, my lady.” He nodded towards the other occupant as he put a name to the familiar face. “Lady Ann, did you go with Lady Eleanor into Sir David’s box?”
“No, Chief Inspector, I did not. I’ve only just been told of the tragedy.”
“Then may I ask you to wait outside. I shan’t keep Lady Eleanor long.”
Ann got to her feet and lifted her coat from the hook behind the door. Eleanor thought she looked disgruntled at being excluded, but she acquiesced to the Chief Inspector’s demand readily enough.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs in the foyer, Eleanor. It might prevent us being locked in.”
She disappeared, closing the door behind her and Eleanor gazed sombrely at Blount.
“There isn’t much I can tell you.”
Blount ran a hand around his jowls, already dark with stubble. “If I remember rightly, that’s exactly what you said about Eisenbach’s murder, and you ended up solving that one. Now, come, it’s very late and I’m sure you want to get home — I know I do — so what made you enter Sir David’s box?”
“I heard the shot, or at least, a loud noise that I took to be a shot and went to investigate.”
His eyebrows rose. “Did it not occur to you that someone with a gun might still be in there?”
Eleanor shook her head. That thought had only recently come to mind.
“To be honest, Chief Inspector, I don’t think it did. It could as easily have been the sound of a champagne cork, or someone falling heavily on the floor. I did tap on the door before I opened it and went in.”
“I see. What time was this?”
“Just before the end of the second act. I can’t tell you exactly when that was. Around ten minutes past nine, perhaps?”
Blount nodded. “All right, we can check on that. Did you know who was in there?”
“No, I didn’t. I barely knew Sir David, and, as you saw, the dead man’s face was hidden from me. It wasn’t until I asked the manager to call you, that he revealed the name of the occupant.”
“So, what did you do while you were in Box 11?” He jerked his head towards the shared wall.
“Nothing. I...There was nothing I could do.”
She told her story quickly and succinctly, telling him everything she’d done until he’d come along the corridor to find her standing by the door.
“Did you see anyone else around?”
Eleanor wrinkled her brow. “No, I’m sure I didn’t, although people were beginning to move around as it was the start of the interval. There was no one in the corridor when I left this box, and I didn’t hear the sound of footsteps, as if someone was running away. There were a few people about when I left to alert the manager, it was the middle of a short interval, but they were nearer the stairs and the rest rooms. No one between the two boxes.”
“And how long between you hearing the shot and entering Sir David’s box?”
“No more than a minute or two.”
“Very well, your ladyship. Thank you, that will do for now. If you do think of anything else that’s pertinent —”
“Then I’ll let you know straight away.” She rose to her feet and he helped her on with her wrap, the only one left hanging on the pegs. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. I hope you find your murderer. Good night.”
True to her word, Ann waited in the foyer. Eleanor found her chatting up the commissionaire, a youngish man who looked very smart, almost military, in his dark green uniform and peaked cap.
“Ah! There you are.” Ann smiled archly. “I was beginning to think the police had arrested you. This is Bert, I thought you might want to speak to him.”
“Good evening ma’am.” Bert raised his cap. “Do you wish me to call a taxi for the two of you?”
“Yes, please.” Weariness swept over Eleanor. She felt desperate for sleep. “Did anyone leave the theatre before the end of the play, do you know?”
“No, she keeps them in their seats does Deanna Dacre. No one leaves for ages after the final curtain. Too busy talking about the performance they’ve just seen. She’s marvellous, ain’t she? An’ she’s a real lady with it, always takes the time to speak to me.”
“Doesn’t she use the stage door?”
“Yeah, she leaves that way, but often comes in by the front, here, and walks down through the auditorium. She says it gets her in the mood.”
Ann, much more of a night owl than Eleanor, looked as if she could have chatted until dawn, but at a signal from her friend, simply thanked the doorman for his company.
“If you would call that cab for us now, please, I’m afraid my friend is about dead on her feet.” She linked arms with Eleanor who glared at her turn of phrase. “Come on, darling, let’s get you home.”
A cab soon pulled up and they got in. Eleanor huddled into the fur collar of her coat and tried not to think of murder.
“Are you all right?” asked Ann. “I’ll tell the driver to drop you first — your place is closest, and you look all in. I’ll pop round tomorrow and you can tell me all about it.”
“Thanks, Ann, but I’d really rather forget about it.”
“Ha!” Ann laughed and waved a finger at her friend. “But you won’t. You’re up to your neck in murder again, darling, and if I know you, it won’t be long before you’ve either solved it — or been arrested for it.”
Chapter 4
Tilly was waiting up for her mistress when Eleanor returned to her apartment in Bellevue Mansions.
“Did you have a nice time, my lady?” she asked, as Eleanor shed her wrap.
“Yes and no. I watched only part of the play before I walked into another murder.”
“Oh, lumme. I take it you’ll want a brandy rather than a cup of tea, then, will you?”
Eleanor flopped into her chair by the fire and smiled. “Just a small one, please.”
Tilly Walton was more than Eleanor’s maid, she was also her friend and closest confidante. The two had been friends since childhood. Tilly was the daughter of the Duke of Bakewell’s cook and Eleanor had refused to be separated from her, insisting that the child of her own age have the same lessons as herself, share a nurse, and even sleep in the same room until they were into their teens.
Allowed to roam free on the Bakewells’ vast country estate — out in
all weathers, watching the lambs being born in Spring, climbing trees, and building dens — the pair had formed a strong bond. When Eleanor learned to shoot and to fish, so did Tilly and when the war came and they were old enough, they had enlisted together — Tilly as a nurse and Eleanor, who had an interest in all things mechanical, as a vehicle mechanic, servicing staff cars and military ambulances.
Now, Tilly was Eleanor's housekeeper, maid, cook, nurse, and protector, all rolled into one.
“Do you want to talk about the murder?”
“No, dear, I don’t. Not tonight.”
“Well, if it will help to take your mind off things,” Tilly said as she poured cognac into a tumbler, “the Duke’s been on the phone this evening. He’s thinking of opening up Bakewell House. He said he’d call again tomorrow” — she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece — “that will be later today now, to discuss it with you.”
Bakewell House was the family’s London residence. Used whenever the family came to the capital and to house refugees during the war, it had been shuttered and closed up since early in 1919. Eleanor’s father might be a duke, and a peer of the realm, but at heart he was a countryman and farmer and hated coming to London.
“Did he indeed.” Eleanor accepted the glass her maid held out to her. “I wonder what he’s proposing. It will take an army of staff to run that place.”
Tilly sniffed. “It will at that, but His Grace didn’t give his reasons.”
Eleanor waved a hand. “Then I’ll wait until I hear from him. I’m too tired to think of anything now. I shall finish this” — she raised her tumbler — “then I’m away to my bed. You should go, too. I shan’t want you again.”
The duke, a considerate man, waited until mid-morning before phoning his daughter. Even so, Eleanor hadn’t slept well and, as a consequence, had barely finished her breakfast by the time the call came through.
“Your mother,” he said, “has taken it into her head to come to London for the season, and wants me to squire her around the place. Lord knows what’s got into the woman. I think it must be her age. Anyway, I’m not paying for a hotel for a month or more when the house is sitting there idle. Will you go and have a look at the place, make sure everything’s ship shape? You needn’t worry about doing anything yourself, I’ll send a crew down in advance to open her up, unless you think it needs major work doing to it.”