Death Comes to the Nursery

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Are you going out, Sir Robert?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The butler inclined his head. “Then I will make sure that someone is up and alert for your return.”

  “There’s no need,” Robert said. “We can enter through the kitchen.”

  “That would hardly be fitting, now, would it, sir?”

  “It will be a lot easier.” Robert held his gaze. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t wish to cause additional work for any member of the earl’s staff.”

  The butler gave a slight sigh. “As you wish, sir. I will make sure that the kitchen door is left unlocked.”

  “Thank you.”

  Patrick came down the stairs just as the butler glided off into the nether regions of the house.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Robert grimaced. “I forget how restrictive London society is sometimes.”

  “Which is why we both prefer to live in the countryside.” Patrick headed for the door. “Shall we go? I expect it will be easy to pick up a hackney cab if we walk down to the main thoroughfare.”

  In the rarified air of Portland Square, the lamps were lit, and there were no loiterers in the cobbled street or in the garden center. Robert carried his walking cane, but that was more as a precaution and a potential weapon than because he needed it. Since Patrick had opened up his leg again and he’d enjoyed the spa waters in Bath, he’d been in remarkably good health.

  “Where first?” Patrick asked as they approached the much busier main road.

  “Covent Garden. The Corinthian is just behind the church.”

  Patrick hailed a hackney cab, and they were soon delivered to the front of a small theater huddled between a bank and a church. It was an insignificant place and quite unlike the more fashionable theaters where Robert squired Lucy. It was, however, exactly the sort of place he had frequented as a young officer of the Hussars.

  “Let’s go around to the back.” Robert indicated an alley to the right of the building. “But be on your guard.”

  It had never occurred to him as a young man convinced of his own invincibility to worry about such things. He and his companions had roamed around the city, oblivious to the dangers in a reckless fashion that made him shudder now. The thought of Ned behaving in such a way made him feel quite unwell . . .

  A single lantern illuminated the shabby stage door. Robert knocked, and a burly individual who looked remarkably like an English bulldog opened the door.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over Robert and his companion

  “Good evening,” Robert said. “I wish speak to the manager of the theater for a few moments.”

  “Do you now?” The man held out his hand. “I might see about making that happen for a small fee, if you gets my meaning.”

  “Indeed.” Robert placed half a crown in the man’s palm and waited until he was invited in over the threshold.

  “Come this way, sir.”

  Despite their giggles and calls, Robert averted his gaze from the skimpily attired females who were changing their garb behind the stage and focused on his destination.

  “Gentleman to see you, Mr. Bourne.”

  “Thank you, Will.”

  Robert waited until Will left him and Patrick alone with the man in front of them, and then focused his attention on him. Mr. Bourne was a large man with an even larger moustache and very bushy eyebrows.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m wondering if you currently have a Flora Rosa in your employ?”

  Mr. Bourne’s welcoming smile died. “Did the little bugger ditch you, too?”

  “I’m not quite sure I understand you.”

  “She was working here, all right, and then suddenly, she says she’s gotten a better offer, and off she goes without a word of thanks.” Mr. Bourne shook his head. “I was foolish enough to employ her when she was just a child, and that’s how she repaid me. With all due respect, sir, did she leave you for that toff?”

  “Leave me?” Robert suddenly realized Mr. Bourne’s meaning and almost recoiled. “Her family are concerned for her safety, and as one of her cousins works for me, I offered to inquire for her when I was next in London.”

  Mr. Bourne didn’t look particularly convinced by Robert’s hastily contrived explanation but didn’t seem inclined to argue about it, either, which suited Robert perfectly.

  “Just to make sure that we are talking about the same woman, was Flora Rosa blond-haired and very pretty?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, indeed. And she was a passable actress as well.” Mr. Bourne nodded. “Much better than I realized after all her bamboozling, promising to stay here forever, to elevate my theater with her talent . . .” He sighed. “I heard she went to the Prince of Wales on the Strand, but I haven’t bothered to go and see her perform. What’s the point?”

  “I will certainly ask for her there,” Robert said. “Did you ever employ a woman called Polly Carter?”

  Mr. Bourne shook his head. “The name’s not familiar to me, but you might care to ask Will on your way out. He knows everyone who has been employed here for the last ten years.”

  “Thank you for your assistance, sir.” Robert handed over his card. “If you do see Flora or Polly Carter, I would appreciate it if you would let me know. I am currently residing at number nine Portland Square if you need to reach me.”

  “Fancy address, eh?” Mr. Bourne’s shrewd gaze reassessed Robert’s worth.

  “My wife’s family.”

  “Married up, did you?” The manager gave him an approving nod.

  “Not that it is any of your business, but yes,” Robert replied. “Thank you again.”

  He turned and followed Patrick out, down the corridor and through the green room. The dancers were now onstage, so there was no one to impede their departure or offer unsolicited advice. Patrick paused at the door to ask Will something, and then they were both out in the rapidly cooling night air.

  “He doesn’t remember Polly Carter,” Patrick remarked as they made their way back down the alley to James Street. “We can walk down to the Strand from here if you like.”

  “Yes, let’s walk.”

  It wasn’t very busy, which was a blessing, and there was no rain, which made the cobbled streets much easier to walk on. Keeping a close eye on his pockets, Robert skirted the delights of Covent Garden proper and headed down Southampton Street. The unpleasant stench of the River Thames wafted up to them, making Robert catch his breath.

  “I am not the sort of man to inquire too deeply into your private life, Major, but perhaps you might enlighten me as to why we are searching for two women, one of whom is currently dead and awaiting burial in Kurland St. Mary?”

  “Lady Kurland and I believe that the woman we knew as Polly Carter was actually an actress called Flora Rosa.”

  “Ah.” Patrick walked another few steps. “Why was an actress impersonating your nursemaid?”

  “That is the question I am attempting to answer. As far as I understand it, Polly Carter sent Flora down to Kurland St. Mary to avoid some trouble in London.”

  “I doubt Mr. Bourne would’ve come all that way to find her.”

  “I agree, but you never know.” Robert paused on the corner of the Strand, which was a much busier road and looked both ways. “I hope we will find out more at the Prince of Wales.”

  “Did someone murder Flora thinking she was Polly, or was Flora murdered for herself?” Patrick asked.

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Robert stopped to look at his friend with grudging admiration. “I assumed Flora failed to escape whatever or whoever was pursuing her in London. If we find no trace of Polly Carter, either, I might have to reconsider.”

  The Prince of Wales was a better class of establishment than the Corinthian and probably twice the size. Robert noted several private carriages dropping off their occupants, which indicated that the audience was probably of a higher social class.

  There was no ob
vious entrance to the rear of the theater, so Robert stepped inside to ask for directions from one of the footmen.

  He was directed down a narrow lane to the left, which, after a right turn, eventually led around and past two other buildings to the rear of the theater. The stage door was brightly lit, and there was a man on guard outside it.

  “Good evening. I wish to speak to the manager of the theater,” Robert said.

  “Then you’ll have to call back tomorrow, sir. Mr. Frobisher doesn’t allow visitors in while the performance is on. He likes to direct his full attention on the show.”

  “Which is admirable, but what about during the interval or between acts?” Robert asked. “I need only a few moments of his time.”

  “He will not see you, sir.” The man was respectful but firm. “He will be here tomorrow afternoon, working on the new production, if you wish to speak to him then.”

  Unwilling to draw too much attention to himself by getting into a pointless argument, Robert nodded. “Thank you. I will come back.”

  “Is there a message you wish to leave for Mr. Frobisher, sir?”

  “No. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Thank you.”

  Robert retreated, Patrick at his side.

  “Why didn’t you leave a message?” Patrick asked as they walked away.

  “Because I’d rather see his face when I ask my questions than give him the opportunity to think up a story.”

  Patrick chuckled. “Which is exactly why all the men under your command were so afraid of you.” He paused to read the playbill at the front of the theater. “Shakespeare, followed by dancers and a contemporary farce.”

  “As the theater appears to be prospering, I have to assume he knows his audience,” Robert commented.

  A hackney cab pulled up behind Robert, and he stepped aside to avoid being knocked down by the gaggle of gentlemen who were descending, intent on rushing into the theater. None of them thanked him for his efforts or excused themselves, which irritated Robert, and then made him realize he was getting old.

  One of the men turned to shout back at a companion, his face illuminated in the theater lights before he went into the theater proper.

  “Interesting,” Robert murmured.

  “What is?”

  “I just saw Lord Northam, my cousin Henrietta’s husband.”

  Patrick shrugged. “Maybe he enjoys Shakespeare.”

  “Somehow I doubt it. The man barely knows how to read.” Robert stared into the theater. “According to my aunt Rose, who does not like him at all, he does have a fine appreciation of the female form. At her daughter’s behest, she once paid off one of his mistresses who was with child. Northam refused to accept any responsibility in the matter.”

  Patrick snorted. “Typical.”

  “I wonder if he comes to this place often.” Robert turned away from the theater. “It might be worth the attempt to find him at his club and ask him if he has any memory of Flora Rosa.”

  Robert looked up to find that Patrick’s attention had wandered down the street.

  “Is there something the matter?”

  “Not at all.” Patrick grinned at him. “Seeing as our investigations have ended for the night, maybe we might stop for a tankard of ale at the Crown and Anchor?”

  “I think that is an excellent notion,” Robert agreed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 10

  “It is very kind of you to see me, Mrs. Carter.”

  Lucy smiled reassuringly at the pinched face of Polly Carter’s mother, who had only very reluctantly allowed Lucy through her front door. It was almost midday, but very little light filtered through the lace curtains and dirty front window of the terraced house in St. Giles where the Carter family resided. Silas, who had accompanied her when Robert had decided to go and speak to his cousin’s husband, remained outside the front door, his billy club prominently displayed and his expression menacing.

  “I apologize for not apprising you of my intended visit sooner.”

  Mrs. Carter’s gaze fixed on the unlit fire in the grate, and she ducked her head low. She wore a gray dress with a high neckline and very little ornamentation that made Lucy’s choice of a fashionable blue ensemble positively garish by comparison. They were sitting in the cramped parlor at the front of the house on the two chairs that faced each other across the fireplace.

  “Did you receive my letter about Polly?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t read too well, my lady.”

  “Ah, was one of your family able to read the letter to you?”

  “Mr. Carter did. He told me not to bother my head about one of Polly’s friends getting herself into trouble.”

  “So Polly did know Flora Rosa?”

  “Polly works as a seamstress at the theater, my lady. That’s probably where she met the woman.”

  “Which theater?” Lucy asked.

  “The Prince of Wales on the Strand.”

  Lucy nodded. That information certainly established a connection between the two women. “Did you ever meet Flora?”

  “Oh, no, my lady.” Mrs. Carter pursed her lips. “Mr. Carter doesn’t approve of such goings-on. He didn’t want Polly working there, either, but she wouldn’t listen to him.”

  “Mr. Carter doesn’t approve of the theater?”

  “He believes it is ungodly and sinful, ma’am.” Mrs. Carter glanced at the table beside Lucy, where a large family Bible was prominently displayed. “And when we received your letter asking whether we knew this Flora, he was rightfully angry with Polly for dragging us into a scandal.”

  “Did he and Polly argue about it?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Carter sighed. “Polly hasn’t been back to see us since.”

  “She doesn’t live here with you?”

  “She has her own place near Covent Garden with some friends.”

  “Could you give me that address?” Lucy asked. “It is imperative that I speak to Polly as soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Carter reluctantly obliged, and Lucy stored the information in her memory.

  “How often do you see Polly, Mrs. Carter?”

  “She usually comes during the day when her father is out and helps with the younger ones. She does a lot of her work at night—repairing costumes after the performances, refitting understudies, and generally making sure the props are still usable. So once she’s had a sleep, she comes to see me.”

  “You must be proud to have brought up such a helpful daughter.”

  Mrs. Carter’s expression didn’t reflect much pride. “She is not good at obeying her father, and she causes many disruptions to the peace of this household.”

  “Did Polly read my letter herself?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Carter nodded vigorously. “Mr. Carter made her read it before he expressed his disapproval about her immoral friends.”

  “And that caused an argument and Polly left?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Carter hesitated. “Usually after one of their rows, Polly still comes to see me, but she hasn’t been in for over a week.”

  “Did Polly say anything to you about the letter, or about what happened to Flora Rosa?” Lucy asked.

  “She seemed . . . shocked and became tearful, which was when Mr. Carter lost his temper with her for caring about an immoral woman who had probably met her just end.”

  Lucy rose to her feet. “I don’t wish to disturb you for too long, Mrs. Carter, so I will take my leave. Thank you for your help in this matter.” She took her aunt’s calling card out of her reticule and placed it in Mrs. Carter’s lace-mittened hand.

  “If Polly does return, I would appreciate it if you could let me know. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle at this address, and I would very much like to speak with her. I had hoped to deliver a letter for her from her cousin, Agnes.”

  Mrs. Carter glanced down at the card but didn’t seem inclined or able to read it. “If you see Polly yourself, my lady, would you tell her to come home?” For the first t
ime, she looked worried. “I would very much like to see her myself.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Carter.” Lucy closed her bag and made sure she had her umbrella with her. “I will certainly do that.”

  She went back out to the front of the house, where despite his menacing demeanor, Silas had gathered a small crowd of youthful admirers. Compared to a lot of streets in St. Giles, the Carters’ road was remarkably clean, with a drain down the center of the cobbles containing only water and no refuse, human or otherwise. Lucy abhorred the poverty in the countryside but found the scale of misery in the capital far more harrowing.

  “Are we going back to Portland Square now, my lady?” Silas asked as he followed her to the end of the road.

  “No, we have one more visit to make.” Lucy looked up and down the street. “Which is the best way to reach Covent Garden?”

  Silas frowned. “It isn’t far from here, my lady, but I suggest we find a hackney cab.” He, too, scanned the street. “We will probably need to walk down to the main road. I doubt many drivers venture in here for fear of being robbed.”

  “I suspect you are right.” Lucy was glad that she’d put on her stout walking boots. It started to rain, and she handed Silas her umbrella to protect them both.

  “I don’t suppose any of the children you were talking to mentioned Polly or the Carter family?” Lucy asked.

  “They said that the old man was a miserable sod—begging your pardon, my lady—and that no one liked him much.”

  “He didn’t sound very likable,” Lucy commented, and she increased her pace as the rain came down faster.

  “Mr. Carter works as a clerk down at the docks and preaches at one of the local religious halls when he has the time.”

  Lucy cast Silas an approving glance. He’d gleaned almost as much information from the doorway as she had from inside the house.

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to return, my lady?” Silas asked again. “Sir Robert told me to make sure you didn’t wear yourself out.”

  “I am feeling quite well, Silas.” Lucy spotted a hackney and waved energetically at the driver. “I assure you that after we visit this last address, I will be more than happy to return to my uncle’s.”