by Robin Paige
“Yes,” Lillie said shortly. “Two years before, on Jersey. Ned was a . . . yachtsman. We spent a great deal of time sailing about, here and there.” She became cheerful again. “And then I fell ill with typhoid fever and when I recovered, the doctor prescribed a visit to London to cheer me up. Then there was Lady Sebright’s salon, and quite wonderful things began to happen, amazing things, really. His Highness the Prince of Wales asked to be introduced to me at a supper given by Sir Allen Young, the Arctic explorer. Oh, my dear Beryl, can you imagine how I felt?” She laughed a little. “I was utterly panic-stricken. For one bewildered moment I really considered the advisability of climbing the chimney to escape, like a little monkey! But I stood my ground and made my curtsy, and that was the beginning of our friendship. He was kind enough to see that I was presented to the Queen, and there were house parties and race meetings and yachting holidays.” Her tone became soft and reminiscent. “Oh, such times, such sweet, wonderful times. It’s hard to believe, looking back on it, that so much could have happened in three short years.”
“But then things changed?” Kate murmured, prompting.
“Yes, they changed,” Lillie replied, almost as if she were not aware of Kate. “Ned became a bankrupt and we were sold up. Baliffs invaded our little Norfolk Street house and took all our furniture, even my gowns. There was no money, apart from what I was offered by my friends—but who with a brain in her head would depend on others for support? And Ned was worse than useless, of course. Not an ounce of business sense. I knew that somehow I had to provide for myself.”
Feeling that much was being omitted here, Kate asked, “Was that when you went on the stage?”
Lillie nodded. “His Highness suggested it. Then Oscar Wilde—we were great friends in those days, before his disgrace—introduced me to Harriet Labouchere. It was she who actually pushed me into it. I wasn’t eager for the public exposure, of course, but I really felt I had no other alternative. Mrs. Labouchere and I did a two-character play called The Fair Encounter—very well received, it was. My first serious role was that of Kate in She Stoops to Conquer, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund at the Haymarket. The Prince favored my performances with his presence, and in no time at all, I was an established actress.”
“You make it sound very easy,” Kate said quietly.
“Perhaps so, my dear,” Lillie said in a confiding tone, “but true success is never easy. Behind the scenes, one must spend a great deal of time working and worrying, and continually searching for funds to support one’s efforts. I went on tour in England, and then in America, and then in England again, and so it went for the next ten years or so. Since the early nineties, though, I have more or less settled in England.” She grew still, and a reflective look came over her face. “It is enormously exhilarating to be admired, and delightful to find oneself in constant demand. But one tires of the unceasing effort.” A small, unconscious sigh escaped her lips, and she seemed to shake herself and become lively once more. “When Suggie and I are married, I think I shall give the theater a rest for a time and simply enjoy being Lady de Bathe. After I’ve produced your play, of course, dear Beryl. We mustn’t forget to talk about that.”
As Lillie talked, and as she wrote, Kate thought perhaps she had heard several true things: Lillie’s remarks about the constant work and worry and the continual search for funds. And of course she had to have tired of the unceasing effort. It must be unspeakably wearying to be always in the public eye, always on stage. How did Lillie restore herself when her energies flagged? And where in her harried, hectic life could she find any peace?
“What about your family?” Kate asked, still scribbling. “Your husband? Your mother? Your niece?” She could feel Lillie’s eyes on her, suddenly intent, as if gauging her knowledge. She glanced up, innocently. “Did they travel with you?”
“Travel with me?” Lillie laughed lightly. “Oh, my dear, no! Touring is terribly demanding. Long hours aboard ship and on dirty trains, one hotel upon another, crushing mobs at the railway stations.” She sighed theatrically. “It is a purgatory one must not inflict on one’s loved ones. Ned pursued his own affairs, of course, up to his death about a year and a half ago. Mother and Jeanne-Marie, my brother’s daughter, come to be with me when I’m in London. Jeanne-Marie has grown to be quite a lovely girl, and of course I do all I can for the child.” Her smile was indulgent. “Lessons, dresses, whatever she wants that a doting auntie can provide. The Prince has even made it possible for her to be presented at the Queen’s Drawing Room next month. And of course I’m anxious to see her make a respectable marriage and lead her own private life.” She made a wry face. “I certainly don’t want her to live as I do, eternally in the public eye.”
The drawing room door opened and the butler entered, carrying a card on a silver tray. “A gentleman to see you, ma’am.” There was a slight emphasis on the word gentleman.
Lillie frowned severely. “Didn’t I say that we weren’t to be interrupted on any account, Williams?”
“He insists it is quite urgent, ma’am.” The butler was apologetic. “He won’t say what it’s about, but I fear he won’t go away until you have seen him.”
“Forgive me, Beryl.” Lillie reached for the card. “Let’s see who this insistent fellow is.” She read it and glanced quickly up at Kate, her eyebrows arched in a look of great surprise.
“Why, it’s Lord Sheridan!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
At Regal Lodge
Charles, Kate, & Lillie
In spite of the many difficult and even dangerous situations in which I have found myself, I have rarely been afraid, because I have usually had the good fortune of having someone at hand to offer protection.
Lillie Langtry
If Charles had expected to be overwhelmed by Lillie Langtry’s legendary beauty, he would have been disappointed. Beside his auburn-haired wife, whom he genuinely considered the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, Lillie Langtry looked slightly frayed and world-weary. While the actress was still undeniably pretty, the face and figure that had caused such a sensation in the late seventies now carried the marks of two decades of indulgence: there were wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, and one cheek bore the telltale bruise that Kate had described; the waist had thickened; the alabaster arms and throat, still white, had grown noticeably heavy. But there was a firm determination in her mouth and resolution in the set of her jaw, and he could not help but recall Sarah Bernhardt’s retort when told of Mrs. Langtry’s plans for a stage career: “She will go far, not with her talent or her beauty, but with her chin.”
He bowed over Lillie Langtry’s outstretched hand. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said, and smiled slightly at his Kate, a pen in her hand, a notebook open on her lap, who was regarding him with undisguised astonishment. “I am sorry to have interrupted your talk.”
“Lord Sheridan,” the actress said, in a low, velvety voice. “How thoughtful of you to drop in and make sure that your wife is being properly looked after.” She patted the sofa beside her invitingly. “Do come and sit beside me, my lord. Will you have coffee or tea? Or perhaps—”
“Thank you, no.” Charles took the chair opposite, where he could observe her face. “I’m afraid this is not a social call, Mrs. Langtry. I’ve come on a rather unpleasant errand.”
Kate leaned forward. “Charles, what in the world—” Uneasily, her gray eyes searched his face. “Is Patrick all right? Nothing’s happened to—”
“Patrick is quite well, my dear.” He looked at Lillie, whose expression was openly inquiring. “Perhaps you would prefer to speak with me in private, Mrs. Langtry. Our conversation may be somewhat . . . distressing.”
“Fie, my lord, fie!” Lillie exclaimed, lifting her chin. She laughed lightly, a teasing laugh. “What distressing thing can you possibly wish to say to me? And what in the world have you to say that your lovely wife might not hear?”
The brittle, half-mocking laugh decided him. This woman was an experienced
actress, skilled in imitating a variety of emotions. To obtain anything like an authentic, a genuine response (if that were indeed possible), he would have to shake her, to shock her, and probably Kate as well.
“Mr. Alfred Day has been murdered,” he said bluntly. “He was shot to death last night between the hours of nine and ten. You are suspected of having committed this crime, Mrs. Langtry. Where were you at that time?”
Lillie sat very still, her face suddenly pinched and white, her eyes large and dark. But she did not seem as jarred by his words as she surely should have been: an indication to Charles that she already knew of Day’s death and was perhaps even prepared for the accusation. She looked down at her folded hands and after a moment’s silence, murmured, “Isn’t it curious for a gentleman of your stature in Society to be doing the business of a common policeman?” She managed to make the last word sound obscene.
“I am here at the request of the Prince of Wales,” Charles said, in the most autocratic tone he could summon. He saw Kate’s eyes widen. “It is His Highness’s intention to keep this matter out of the hands of the police as long as possible.”
At the mention of the Prince, Mrs. Langtry’s head had come up quickly and her eyes had fastened on Charles. Her face was still, the expression in her eyes dark and unreadable. But there was a small tic at one corner of her mouth that she could not control. Charles had rather stretched his commission, but he felt that he had shaken her.
He smiled bleakly and went on. “In the dead man’s waistcoat pocket, I discovered a note written on stationery embossed with the words Regal Lodge. It was signed with your initials. This message directed Mr. Day to meet you at nine in St. Mary’s Square. At what time, Mrs. Langtry, did he join you?”
“You have my note?” Lillie’s eyes flashed and her tone was imperious. “You have no right, my lord. I demand that you hand it over to me, this instant!”
Charles shook his head. “It is evidence, Mrs. Langtry, in a murder case.” He leaned forward, his voice ice-cold. “At what time did Alfred Day join you in your carriage?”
Lillie’s nostrils flared, her jaw tightened, and she could not conceal the fear that flickered in her eyes. But when she spoke, her voice was clear and without tremor.
“You may tell His Highness that I waited for Mr. Day in St. Mary’s Square until nearly nine-thirty. When it became apparent that the man was not coming, I drove on to the Rothschilds’, where I arrived at quarter to ten.” Her voice was emphatic, even defiant. “And that, sir, is God’s very truth. You may confirm it with my coachman. And His Highness will be able to tell you the time of my arrival.”
“No doubt he will have checked his pocket watch at the exact moment you made your entrance,” Charles said dryly. His look was severe. “Why did you ask Mr. Day to see you? What was the matter you intended to discuss?”
Kate leaned forward, biting her lip. “Charles, I really don’t think—”
“Come now, Mrs. Langtry.” he said harshly, ignoring his wife. “We’ll have no secrets in this matter. What did you mean to discuss?”
Again he saw the undisguisable flicker of fear in the actress’s eyes. She bit her lip. “Will you . . . how much will you tell His Highness?”
“Only as much as absolutely necessary.”
She lowered her head. When she spoke, her voice was muffled. “I owed Mr. Day . . . some money. He had asked me to settle my account in full.”
“How much money did you owe him?”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
Kate gasped involuntarily, then covered her mouth with her hand. Charles said, “Did you take this money with you?”
Reluctantly, Lillie shook her head. “I . . . I couldn’t. I don’t have it. I was going to tell him that I . . . I needed more time.”
“The testimony of coachmen can be bought,” Charles said icily. “Can you summon any other evidence that you did not kill Alfred Day?”
Lillie pressed her lips together, to keep them from trembling, Charles thought. After a moment, she shook her head. “I cannot prove a negative.” Her voice was low, scarcely above a whisper.
“I can, Charles,” Kate said urgently. She leaned forward in her chair. Her pen and notebook, forgotten, slid off her lap and onto the floor. “At breakfast this morning, I told Mrs. Langtry that a man had been shot to death, and that I had seen his body. When she heard the name, she was utterly dumbfounded. I thought for a moment she might faint.”
Charles kept his voice level and cool. “Mrs. Langtry is an actress, my dear. Astonishment, bewilderment, shock—these are but a few of the many emotions in her repertoire. You cannot say that you were not a perfect audience for a breakfast-table performance that was designed to deflect your suspicion.”
Kate flinched at his wintry tone and the formality of his address. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I know that no actress, however skilled, could have pretended the shock I saw on her face. It was genuine. I swear it, Charles. Until I told her, she did not know that Alfred Day had been murdered.”
Lillie turned her head toward Kate, and Charles saw an unfeigned expression of gratitude sweep like a wave of color across her face. Her mouth relaxed. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
Charles, too, regarded his wife. Her eyes, meeting his, were clear and intent, her expression open, deeply sincere. Her voice and her words had been utterly uncontrived, and he could only suppose that she believed what she said.
But was Kate deceived? He could not doubt his wife’s honest perception, but he did not dare to accept what she said as the truth. And he could only pray that she would understand and forgive him for his next words, which must seem a terrible betrayal.
“You are too credulous, my dear,” he said ruthlessly. “Too readily taken in. You should cultivate skepticism among your many other talents.” He turned back to Lillie. “Mrs. Langtry, I require you to surrender your gun to me.”
Lillie’s eyes widened and she made a half-strangled noise in her throat. “My . . . gun? How do you know that I own such a thing?”
He had not, of course, but he knew now. If she had not possessed a gun, she would immediately have said so. He regarded her coldly. “Shall we call your servants and ask them?”
She sat for a moment in silence, as if she were deciding whether to test him. At last, she put on a little smile. “Fifteen years ago,” she said, “when I was touring in America, I often played in what were called whistle-stop towns. These were primitive places, full of rowdy, drunken men who desired nothing more fervently than to force their romantic attentions on me. I was not unprotected—a dear friend traveled with me. But as an additional precaution, my friend gave me a small, silver-handled derringer so that I might arm myself against unwanted advances. I recall being glad that I was not called upon to use it, for it is such a toy that I doubt it could do a great deal of harm.”
She rose from the sofa and went to a small table that stood in front of a window. “I have no great need of the gun here, for England is a civilized country.” Her smile was almost saucy. “When a gentleman wishes to kiss me, he asks permission first. My dear little gun is a souvenir of a time past and a reminder of a kindhearted friend, but if you insist, Lord Charles, you may take it.”
Having delivered this almost playful speech, she pulled open the table drawer with a dramatic flourish and reached inside. But within the instant, her face changed. She bent over to search the drawer, frantically pushing papers and other things about. After a moment she straightened, grave and very pale. Her mouth was trembling.
“Let me guess,” Charles said ironically, as if this were a game of charades. “Your dear little derringer is missing.”
“It was here yesterday morning—I saw it!” she cried. “One of the servants must have made off with it!”
“No doubt,” Charles said. He stood and bowed to Kate. “Your ladyship,” he murmured. “I am glad to see you well.” To Lillie, he said, “I must ask you not to leave this vicinity until after the coroner’s inquest.”
Lillie seemed to shudder. “But you can’t mean . . .” Her voice sharpened. “You said that the police weren’t to be involved!”
“I said that the matter will be kept out of their hands as long as possible,” Charles replied. He looked gravely at Lillie. “In the end, however, justice must be served.” He bowed again. “Ladies, I thank you. Good day.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In Newmarket
George Lambton remarked to an American that he supposed there were a good many rogues and thieves racing in America. “There is not one,” was the reply. “They have all come over here.”
Neck or Nothing: The Extraordinary Life and Times of Bob Sievier
John Welcome
The morning’s drizzling rain had given way to a gray mist by the time Charles drove back to Newmarket and found Jack Murray waiting beneath the tower clock, a brown-paper package under his arm. Charles pulled on the reins, stopping the hired gig, and Murray climbed up onto the seat.
“ ’Afternoon, sir,” he said. The mist was beaded on his wool cap and the shoulders of his tweed coat. “Lovely weather, eh? Trust you had good hunting.”
“Better than I expected,” Charles said, lifting the reins and chirruping to the horse. “Which way are we headed?”
“North, toward Snailwell. But let’s stop under those trees up ahead, sir.” Murray put the package on the seat and took two bottles of beer out of his coat pockets. “In case you missed lunch, sir. Hot fish and chips.”
“Good man, Jack.” Charles grinned and pulled the horse under a large beech tree. While they ate, he sketched his conversations with Dr. Stubbings and Mrs. Langtry.
Murray wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stubbings, he’s a deep one. Doesn’t like the Club and abhors racing. And Mrs. Langtry?” Both gray eyebrows went up. “Now, there’s a shocker for you. Cert’nly sounds as if she had a motive. D’you think she shot Badger?”