“Such a sight is not appropriate for your companions.” Neville stepped aside as Daphne came to throw her arms around Priscilla.
Patting her daughter on the back, Priscilla said, “Aunt Cordelia, please take Daphne back to Bedford Square.”
“I will make sure she gets there safely,” replied a deeper voice than her aunt’s. Lord Witherspoon stepped from the shadows as if he had been lying in wait for this very moment.
Priscilla was torn between appreciation that the marquess showed good sense and consternation at how Daphne whirled with an instantaneous smile.
“Thank you, Witherspoon,” said Neville.
Priscilla hurried to add after giving Neville a frown, “I am sure Mr. McAndrews and Lady Cordelia will see my daughter arrives home without incident.”
“I will insure it, my lady.” Lord Witherspoon nodded toward Duncan, who was watching the exchange with a mischievous smile. “We will insure it.”
“/will insure it,” said Aunt Cordelia, stepping forward to put her arm around Daphne’s shoulders.
Knowing her aunt would allow nothing untoward to tarnish Daphne’s reputation, Priscilla took Neville’s arm. They hurried out the door. Mr. Wiggsley rushed after them and climbed into the carriage with them.
The ride to the Prince of Wales Theater was not quick, but no one spoke. At least, no one spoke aloud. The playwright mumbled as he worried the third knuckle on his right hand. It was bright red by the time they reached the theater.
Neville opened the door as soon as they stopped. He motioned for Mr. Wiggsley to get out, then followed. Turning, he held out his hand to Priscilla.
As she let him hand her out, he said, “I trust you realize I was not suggesting to Witherspoon that he do anything out of hand.”
“I am glad to hear that, but you must realize that Daphne may not be thinking as squarely,” she replied.
“The reason your aunt stepped in to serve as watchdog.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “But you knew that once you thanked the marquess as you did, Aunt Cordelia would jump in to protect Daphne’s reputation, didn’t you?”
“And Duncan would not miss a moment of your aunt’s company.” He gave her a smug smile. “You should be ashamed of yourself for doubting my concerns about Daphne.”
She was, but she would not own that. Instead, she looked past him as she heard a shout from beneath the columns at the front of the Prince of Wales Theater.
“See here, my good man,” Mr. Wiggsley was shouting, “I demand that you allow us entrance.”
“Sorry, sir. I cannot let anyone enter,” said a pale-haired man wearing a bright red waistcoat.
“Bow Street,” Priscilla breathed, discovering that, until this very moment, she had hoped Mr. Wiggsley was mistaken.
Neville strode to where the plump playwright was standing nose to nose with the Robin Red-Breast. Elbowing aside Mr. Wiggsley, Neville stuck out his hand and spoke his name.
“I am Gatlin,” said the man in the red waistcoat, shaking Neville’s hand. “I am glad to see you, Hathaway. Mayhap you can persuade this man to heed the orders given to me.”
“By Thurmond?” Neville asked.
“Yes.”
“Is he inside?”
Gatlin shook his head, then bowed it toward Priscilla as she approached. “Good evening, my lady. Thurmond told me to tell you that he would meet you at home.”
“Home?” she asked. “On Bedford Square?”
The man paused, obviously searching his mind, then said, “That is right.”
“Why there?” Neville grabbed Wiggsley’s cloak and jerked him back from where he was trying to slip past the Bow Street Runner.
“He did not say, but he usually arranges such meetings when he has something to say he does not want every ear in the neighborhood to hear.”
Neville took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Giving the playwright a shove toward the carriage, he motioned for Priscilla to follow. Then he turned and offered his arm.
She smiled sadly as she put her hand on it and went with him to the carriage. She was not surprised that, as he helped her in, he was calling to Stuttman to get to Bedford Square with all possible speed.
By the time Priscilla and Neville reached Bedford Square with Mr. Wiggsley, she feared the playwright would succumb to vapors in her entryway. He was taken up the stairs to the back parlor with the help of both footmen. Mrs. Moore followed close behind while she gave orders to the tweener to bring strong tea and brandy. Priscilla was thankful for the housekeeper’s calm head.
“Where is Thurmond?” Neville asked Gilbert as the butler took his hat and Priscilla’s evening cape.
Priscilla untied her bonnet. “First tell me, Gilbert, if Daphne has returned.”
“Yes, my lady. She was delivered here by Lady Cordelia and two gentlemen. The younger gentleman seemed very solicitous of her well-being.”
“Are they here?”
“They took their leave as soon as they were assured Miss Daphne was home safely. As I said, the younger gentleman was concerned about that.”
Neville waved aside the butler’s comment. ‘Where is Thurmond?”
“Thurmond?” The butler’s expression was as impassive as ever, but Priscilla thought she detected a dc by his right eye. He kept his face averted, so she could not be certain. “I am sorry, sir, but—”
“From Bow Street, man!”
She put her hand on Neville’s arm, and he scowled. She did not back down before his frustration. “Neville,” she said with what serenity she could delve up, “we need everyone working together tonight. Venting your aggravation will not help anything.”
His fierce frown vanished. “Forgive me, Gilbert, for my sharp tone.”
“No need, Sir Neville, to apologize.” Gilbert did not meet their eyes as he added, “Mr. Thurmond has not yet arrived.”
“Mayhap Gatlin was mistaken.” Neville struck the banister with his fist, and the whole staircase quivered. “Dash it! I should have sent him to find Thurmond.”
Priscilla slipped her arm through his. “That might have created further delays, and you must own that there are many reasons why Mr. Thurmond may be delayed. Shall we go up and wait for him?”
“Dash it, Pris! Must you be so reasonable?”
“If I am not, I shall shatter into a thousand pieces.”
Sadness dimmed his eyes as they went up the stairs. “I am sorry you have been dragged into the investigation of murder again.”
“You have, too.” She could not keep from smiling. “But the difference is that you revel in the pursuit of the truth.”
“I don’t think we are different in that, Pris.” He looked past her.
Priscilla was not surprised to see her younger children peering over the railing above. Isaac and Leah came rushing down the steps, their mussed hair and nightclothes flying around them.
“What are you doing up?” she asked when the children met them at the top of the stairs. “You should be in bed.”
“We heard ...” Isaac lowered his voice. “Someone else has had her lights put out, right?”
“Isaac, such language!”
“Neville says it all the time.”
She squatted so her eyes were even with her son’s. She did not have to bend as much as she had to just a few weeks ago. He was growing so fast, but he must recall that he was still a child.
“Neville is an adult,” she said, “and you are not. That is why both you and your sister should be in bed. Daphne has not rushed down here with you, which shows she—”
Leah grimaced. “Since she was brought home, she has been trying to decide which gown to wear to the next party she is going to. All she babbles about is some old Lord Withered-up.”
“Witherspoon,” Neville said with a laugh. “And you would be wise to get his name correct in case he gives your sister a look-in.”
“A look-in?” gasped Leah. “She is going to have
callers now? She will be babbling on and on even more
about clothes and what she has worn and what she is going to wear next. Mama, she is impossible.”
“We shall speak about this more in the morning. Now it is time for you two to go to bed,” Priscilla said, although she was tempted to agree with her younger daughter. She thought she would get an argument from Isaac. Neither could hide their curiosity, but complied. Or they did as long as she and Neville stood in the corridor. She would not be surprised if the children crept back down the stairs as soon as she and Neville turned their backs.
Going into the front parlor, she looked at the door that opened into the back one. It was closed. She wondered if she jerked it open if one or more of her children would tumble into the room because they had an ear pressed against the door.
As if the house belonged to him, Mr. Wiggsley was stretched out on the light green settee in front of the fireplace. He had his arm over his eyes, and he groaned at the sound of their footsteps.
“Leave me be,” he pleaded in a lament worthy of one of his characters emoting on the stage. “I cannot bear to speak of the unspeakable just now. There are no words, no words at all, to describe what I have seen.”
“No words?” asked Neville, his exasperation returning. “You are a writer. You, more than anyone else, should be able to describe what you have witnessed.”
The playwright hid his face in his hands, his whole body shuddering.
Priscilla said, ‘You will get nothing out of him now, Neville, and if you press him, I fear I shall have to send Mrs. Moore for the sal volatile.”
“As you wish, Pris.” His mouth tightened. “Where in perdition is Thurmond?”
He stormed toward the front windows. He ran his fingers along the writing desk set between them, but his eyes were focused on the park in the middle of the square. She wondered what he expected to see in the deepening twilight. Thurmond might be in a carriage or on foot. Either way, Neville could not hurry the Bow Street Runner’s arrival by glowering at the street.
Walking around the settee, she put her hand in the center of his back and was surprised when he did not face her. She understood when she heard the anger in his voice as he snarled an oath that elicited another whimper from Mr. Wiggsley, who curled into a ball.
“Where is Thurmond?” Neville repeated with the impatience he displayed so rarely. “I thought he was supposed to be waiting here for us.”
“Mayhap Mr. Gatlin was mistaken. He did hesitate on his answer to my question. Mr. Thurmond may be at your house.”
Neville picked up a bell and rang it so hard she was surprised the clapper did not burst right through its brass sides. When Gilbert answered it himself, Neville gave the butler orders to send someone to his house. “If Thurmond is there, tell him to come here immediately.”
“Yes, Sir Neville.” The butler bowed his head and walked out as serenely as if they had asked for nothing more unusual than a bottle of wine to drink with the end of the day.
At that thought, Priscilla wondered how much longer before the tea was brought. It was certain to be hours before any of them, with the possible exception of Mr. Wiggsley, who was snoring softly on the settee, could find sleep. The tray arrived at the very same
time as she heard the door open below and a man’s voice resonate up the stairwell.
“Thurmond! ” Neville turned from the window and went to the doorway. He drew in a breath to shout.
“The children are in bed, Neville,” Priscilla said quietly.
He gave her a swift smile after releasing the breath and waiting for Thurmond to be shown up the stairs.
The Bow Street Runner glanced at Neville, then bowed to Priscilla. “Thank you for receiving me, my lady.”
“Thurmond,” growled Neville, “save the nice manners for when we have a reason to use them. Tell me what happened. Wiggsley said someone else has been murdered at the theater. When we went there, we were turned away by Gatlin, who said you wanted to speak with us.”
“Yes, there has been another murder. I saw the body myself.” He hesitated, then said, “I thought you would want to know straightaway because it was at your theater, Hathaway.”
“My…” Neville scowled. “Let’s leave that issue for later. Tell me what you can.”
“I think it would be better to show you. If you would come with me, we can discuss what has happened.”
“Now we can go to the theater?”
Thurmond folded his hands behind his back. “I gave orders that no one was to be granted entrance because I did not want the body to be disturbed until I had a chance to speak with you.”
“Why?”
“Because the victim is a member of the ton.”
Priscilla groped for a nearby chair, but her fingers found Neville’s hand. “Another member of the ton?”
‘Yes.”
“A man or a woman?”
“A woman.” He swallowed hard, then said, “It is apparently Lady Dentford, but I was hoping you could identify her, Hathaway.”
“Lady Dentford, did you say?” Neville sighed.
“Yes.” Mr. Thurmond turned again to Priscilla. “If she is a bosom-bow of yours, my lady, I am sorry to have told you in this manner.”
“I have never met her, although I met her husband at the first assembly Daphne attended,” said Priscilla. “Do you know her, Neville?”
He nodded. “I have had the occasion to be introduced to her once or twice.”
“Will you recognize her?” asked the Bow Street Runner.
“Yes.” His voice grew gloomier with each answer. Mr. Thurmond motioned toward the stairs. “Shall we go, Hathaway?”
“Do you have a carriage, Mr. Thurmond?” asked Priscilla. “You are welcome, of course, to ride with us.” His mouth gaped until he closed it so hard she heard his teeth click. “Us? You are coming as well?” Neville put his arm around her waist and smiled grimly. “Only a fool would try to halt Priscilla Flanders when she is determined to do something.”
“But it is not something for a lady to see.”
“I have seen such scenes before, Mr. Thurmond,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. She truly did not want to view another slain woman, but waiting here for Neville to return would be almost as ghastly. “Just a short time ago at that very theater, if you will recall.”
The Bow Street Runner stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. He stepped back and motioned for her to precede them down the stairs. He started to follow, then asked, “What about Wiggsley?”
“He will not be in anyone’s way if he remains in
Priscilla’s parlor.” Neville hurried down the stairs and took the hand she held out to him. “Let’s go. To quote the Bard as I seem to be doing too often of late, ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’”
Chapter Twelve
The theater seemed much bigger when it was deserted. Even the voices of the actors and those who worked behind the scenes had disappeared. Faint light came from the empty stage visible through a half-open door, but the rest of the lower level was lost in the darkness. If there were any lamps burning in the upper boxes, Priscilla could not see the light from where she stood.
Mr. Thurmond said nothing as he led them and two of his fellow Bow Street Runners up the staircase that was the twin of the one she had climbed when she had brought Daphne to watch the play. Did Mr. Thurmond have a bat’s skills to maneuver without light? He seemed to find his way through the darkness without hesitation. Mayhap it was as simple as he was accustomed to lurking in shadowed places while he skulked after thieves.
“How are you doing, Pris?” asked Neville in little more than a whisper. He was walking behind her.
“I never realized how cavernous a theater would sound when no one else was around.”
“It is spooky and very disconcerting, even for those of us who have spent considerable time in deserted theaters.”
She did not answer as she continued to climb. Neither man had spoken of the fact that both victims had been female, bu
t she was not surprised Mr. Thurmond and the other Runners were walking only a step in front of her and Neville close behind.
Was the murderer still within the theater? She warned herself not to assume anything, because there were many places both behind the curtain and in front of it where a killer could hide. What had Lady Dentford been doing in the theater? That was another question she hoped would be answered quickly.
At the top of the stairs where a faint glow turned the blackness to gray, Mr. Thurmond and the men he called Gill and Bintcliff waited for them. Priscilla could not fault them for hesitating to go into the dark corridor. She realized how mistaken she was when, with eyes now adjusted to the low light, she saw Mr. Thurmond reach under his coat and draw out a long item.
A pistol!
She turned to discover Neville doing the same. Not speaking the curse that would be inappropriate for a parson’s widow, she asked, “Are you bereft of your senses?”
Mr. Thurmond asked from the shadows, “What do you mean, Lady Priscilla?”
“If either of you fires a pistol, how do you know you will not strike some innocent person?”
Neville’s laugh was strained. “There are those who say no one in the theater’s demimonde has any innocence left.”
“This is no time for silliness.”
“I can think of no better time than when we are surrounded by silliness, but if it makes you feel better, we shall put the guns away.”
“Hathaway—” began Mr. Thurmond.
“She has a point. We have no idea who might be in the theater.”
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