Closing the distance between them, Neville said, “Hail, fellow, well met.”
“What play is that from?” asked Birdwell, his brow wrinkling.
“It is Jonathan Swift. You should read something other than plays.” Putting his hand on the actor’s shoulder, he steered him toward where Thurmond stood next to the bench holding the lanterns.
Birdwell halted and stared at the Bow Street Runner. “Why is Adhere?”
“We are—as you probably have heard, even though you have not been seen at the theater in the past week—investigating another woman’s death.”
“Another?” His face lost all color. “I had not heard that. Who was killed?”
“Lady Dentford.”
He mouthed the woman’s name, but no sound
came out. He sat on the bench and stared out at the deserted boxes.
“Where have you been, Birdwell?” asked Thurmond.
“I have been ...” He gulped. “I have been busy.”
“With whom?” asked Neville.
Birdwell raised his chin. “It is not a gentleman’s place to say. I am innocent of these crimes.” He motioned toward Thurmond. “He will not believe me, but you have known me for a long time, Hathaway. Tell him that I would not have killed those women.”
“Two women you knew well.”
“Yes.” The answer was reluctant.
“And do you own to having affaires with both of them?”
‘Yes.”
“At the same time?”
“They had no reason to complain that my attentions to them were divided.”
‘You are a fool, Birdwell.” Neville put his foot on the bench and leaned toward the actor. “As long as I have known you, all you ever talked about was when your name was prominent on the playbill posted outside the theater. When did you find that philandering with other men’s wives was more important than your career?”
Birdwell exploded up off the bench. ‘We are not all lucky enough to have a rich relative die and leave us plump in the pockets, Hathaway. While you went off to live a gentleman’s life among the ton, I remained here striving in vain to make something out of another of Wiggsley’s worthless productions, even after most of the audience had left to demand the return of their money.”
“So you grew tired of waiting for your fortune?”
“I started to grow old.” He laughed humorlessly. “I
know my acting skills will never be a match for the greats like Garrick, so I have only my youthful looks to trade on. As those diminished, I had to find some way to keep from ending up starving on the street or taking bit parts that no one else wants.”
“And you believed Lady Lummis and Lady Dent- ford would provide you with that comfortable life you aspired to?”
“They—or I should say their disinterested husbands—had more than enough blunt to give them and me luxury. Neither woman complained about the gifts I was happy to take from them.”
“Are you so concerned about money?” asked Thurmond.
Birdwell whirled, his face pale. “No—I mean, yes— I mean I did not kill them, if that is what you are suggesting. Tell him, Hathaway! I could not have slain them.”
“You could have,” Neville said. “Any man or woman is capable of killing if provoked enough.”
“But I did not kill them!” His voice rose to a screech. ‘You must believe me! I did not kill them.”
“I believe you.”
“You must believe me. I did not—” Birdwell’s eyes widened. “You believe me?”
‘Yes.” Neville walked past the astonished actor to where Thurmond was listening with his arms folded over the front of his red waistcoat. “It seems obvious to me, Thurmond, that even Birdwell is smart enough to realize that murdering his patronesses would not help his financial state.”
“And the robberies?” asked the Bow Street Runner.
‘You know as well as I do how few shillings he would have gotten from any fence for those baubles.” He looked back at the pasty-faced actor. “Those few
shillings would not have kept him in the comfortable state he aspires to.”
“Are you asking me to take him off my list of suspects?”
Neville laughed. “Of course not. Nobody should be removed. I simply am suggesting that he not be considered the most likely suspect in these murders. However, he might provide the key to why these two specific women were killed.”
“How?”
Instead of answering his friend, Neville turned to Birdwell. “How many other women are you involved with?”
The actor flushed to the color of Thurmond’s waistcoat. “No gentleman should speak of that, for the answer could tarnish a lady’s honor.”
“Mayhap, but a true gentleman would be more concerned with a lady’s life than her honor.” He smiled coolly. “Miss Ayers spoke of an actress at another theater.”
“Clementine.”
“Clementine Lang?” Neville frowned. “Don’t I recall you having her mother as your paramour?”
“That was many years ago.”
“I would hope even you were honorable enough not to bed a mother and a daughter at the same time.”
“Of course,” he replied, but his face grew an even brighter crimson.
“Who else?” asked Thurmond.
“Mrs. Kreller and Lady Morley and Miss Greene and ...” He paused, his face screwed up with concentration. “I believe that is the total.”
“Six women?” Thurmond’s brows reached toward his nose as he frowned. “You are asking us to believe that you were keeping six women?”
Neville said before Birdwell could answer, “You forget, Thurmond. They were keeping him. Some men sing for their suppers. Others ...”
The Bow Street Runner guffawed. The laugh echoed through the theater even as he said, “Do not think of sneaking out of Town, Birdwell. We may have more questions as we try to protect your harem.” He chuckled more as he walked off the stage.
Birdwell sank back to the bench. “Thank you for persuading him of my innocence. I am in your debt, Hathaway.”
“Many times over, but that changes nothing. You should find a place far from this theater and go there.”
“You heard Thurmond. He warned me not to leave London.”
Neville’s sharp laugh sounded more like a snort. “You may be able to betwattle Thurmond, but I know you well, Birdwell. There are many places you can stay in the warren around these theaters. Just keep away from any woman until this murderer is found.”
“Any woman?” he choked. “Hathaway, why am I being punished when I am innocent?”
“Innocent? Hardly. An innocent man does not bed other men’s wives in exchange for the gifts they give him.” When the actor began to protest, Neville knew he had to find some way to reach past Birdwell’s pride. “Will you start thinking with what is in your head instead of what is in your breeches?”
“I am.”
‘Then you know that if another of your mistresses is murdered, even I will find it hard to swallow your protestations of innocence.”
The actor blanched again. “Hathaway, if you do not believe me, who will?”
“Mayhap you should take your cue from Hamlet and his comment about protesting.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”’ His shoulders sagged. “But Hamlet was the one guilty of murder, and I am not.”
Neville put one foot on the bench. “Who is the woman for whom Reeve is determined to prove himself in battle?”
“Ella Ayers.” He snorted. “She pays him no mind, even when he follows her around like a lonely pup. She has a rich lover and will not trade his wealth for Reeve.”
“Do you know who her lover is?”
“No, I don’t know his name. I have seen him around the theater. A tall, red-haired man with freckles all over his face. A very large nose and a pointed chin. He is not very old, but must be wealthy because he wears some heavy gold rings. I suspect she may be his first actress.”
&n
bsp; Heavy footfalls came from behind Neville. He recognized them, although he had seldom heard them on the boards of a stage because Morton preferred to remain behind the curtain. Turning, he saw the old man wore an expression as bleak as Birdwell’s. Morton, looking much the worse for his time with a bottle, was holding a wooden box which he thrust into Neville’s hands. It contained knives like the one that had been used on stage and the ones used to murder the two women.
“Look ’ere,” the old man ordered. ‘There be four knives missin’ from the props room.”
“Are you certain?” asked Birdwell, slowly standing.
Morton gave him a withering scowl. “I know wot’s in m’room. Ye should know wot’s in yers.” Reaching under his shirt, he pulled out another identical knife. “I found this one in yer dressing room.”
“Impossible!” cried the actor. “I never handle props. I leave that to others.”
Neville had to own that was true. Birdwell considered himself too grand to be bothered with such details. When he extended a hand, Morton placed the dagger on it. Neville whisded when he saw light glisten off the sharpened edge of the blade.
“It ’as been whetted,” Morton said, then winced as he touched his forehead. His voice must be aching in his skull. “Could Reeve ’ave ’ad it in there for some reason?”
“Possibly. The man is obsessed with learning to use all sorts of weapons.” With a tight laugh, Birdwell sneered, “He views himself as the savior for England in the battle against Napoleon, even though he has probably never shot a loaded gun. He ran like a coward when we were set upon by a thief last year.”
Morton nodded. “I remember that. He took a lot of jestin’ after that.”
“Did Ella Ayers join in with the teasing?” Neville asked.
“I don’t recall.”
When Neville looked at him, Birdwell shrugged. “I did not involve myself in the pranks.”
“Pranks?”
Morton sighed as he sat on the bench and gently kneaded his forehead. “The usual. People poppin’ out from behind scenery to scare ’im. Anythin’ to make ’im wish ’e’d stood ’is ground.”
“So he looked like a coward in front of his beloved?”
“She paid ’im no mind either ’fore or after.”
“Did he start talking about entering military service at around that time?” Neville asked.
Birdwell shrugged. “Mayhap. I do not honestly re-
call. Reeve prattles all the time about things that do not matter.”
To you, Neville added silently before saying aloud, “You should ask him why he brought the knife into your dressing room.” He handed the box back to Morton, who dropped the knife into it. “However, that is not what concerns me the most.”
“What does?” asked Birdwell.
“That there is still one other knife missing from the box. One was in Birdwell’s dressing room. One is unaccounted for. It suggests the murderer has at least one more victim in mind.”
“Who?”
“A question we need an answer to before he strikes again.
Chapter Fourteen
As she sat in her front parlor and listened to the rain strike the windows, Priscilla thought that she had never seen anyone more uncomfortable in her life. Lord Witherspoon wore the expression of a man about to find himself climbing the steps to the gallows. Knowing she should put him at ease, for that was a hostess’s duty, she found it difficult to concentrate on her task. She wanted to be with Neville while he went to the Prince of Wales Theater to ask more questions.
It was just as well she had not gone, because no sooner had Neville taken his leave than Daphne rushed to her with the note she had received. A note from the marquess, Priscilla quickly noted. Daphne gave it to her, explaining that it must have been mis-delivered because it was really meant to be read first by Priscilla. It was a short note saying that Lord Witherspoon was planning to give her a look-in shortly.
Wondering when her daughter and Lord Witherspoon had concocted this call as an excuse to see each other, she knew it was too late to send back a reply that she would not be at home during the afternoon. They may have considered such a call an inspired idea at the time, but she suspected both had changed their minds when the conversation dragged to a halt more than once.
“Stonehall-on-Sea is very lovely,” Daphne said, breaking the silence. “Have you traveled near the southern coast?”
Lord Witherspoon gave her a grateful smile. He was dressed in prime twig with a fawn-colored coat and a chocolate-colored waistcoat. A signet ring glittered as brightly as the shine on his shoes.
“I have traveled there on occasion,” the marquess said, relief in his voice. “I enjoy the fresh air and the lovely vistas.”
“I do believe Stonehall-on-Sea is the prettiest village between Rye and Brighton. Don’t you think so, Mama?”
Hearing the pleading in her daughter’s voice, Priscilla forced her thoughts back to their words. She owed Lord Witherspoon the duty of conversing with him rather than wishing she was listening to whatever sort of questioning Neville was employing at the theater.
“I agree,” she said with the best smile she could manage. “However, I must say as well that I am prejudiced on this matter.”
“The green in Stonehall-on-Sea is a triangle,” Daphne hurried to add, as if afraid silence would grow smothering in the parlor again.
“Very peculiar,” the marquess said.
“Unique is what I prefer.” Daphne held out a plate of cakes. “Do you want another, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Miss Flanders.” Even though every motion was reluctant and every word suggested he wished he did not need to speak it, he came to his feet. “I have enjoyed your hospitality, Lady Priscilla, but I have finished my tea and several cakes. I do not want to overstay my welcome.”
Daphne flashed her a frantic look.
Priscilla pretended not to see it as she stood and held out her hand. “It is very kind of you to call to
make sure we are fine in the wake of the recent disturbing events.”
He bowed over her hand. “I considered it my duty, my lady. A very pleasant duty.” His neck stiffened as he seemed to be fighting to keep from looking at Daphne. “Good afternoon, my lady, Miss Flanders.”
As he walked out, Daphne jumped up. A single glance from Priscilla was enough to curb her daughter’s enthusiasm, which could lead her to a faux pas. Slowly Daphne walked to the door to the hallway, but went no farther. She was silent until the sound of the street door closing came up the stairs.
Daphne flounced back to the closest chair and sat on it without the grace she had exhibited during the marquess’s call. A frown ruined her visage.
Putting the teacups and the plates back on the tray, Priscilla said, “You did well for Lord Witherspoon’s first call on this family.”
“Well?” She jumped to her feet. “It was a disaster.”
“I think you are overreacting. Such calls are never easy, and you must accustom yourself to the fact that being given a look-in by someone you barely know is difficult.”
“Mama, if you do not approve of him, you need only say so.”
“What gave you the idea I did not approve of the marquess?” She faced her daughter, who was scowling more fiercely at her. “I have not spent enough time in Lord Witherspoon’s company to form an opinion one way or the other.”
Daphne threw herself down upon the settee. “But, Mama, you said scarcely a score of words to him. He is going to believe you regret being at home for him.”
Priscilla knelt beside her daughter. Putting her fingers over Daphne’s on the arm of the chair, she said, “If you wish, I shall invite Lord Witherspoon
to join us one evening for dinner. Neville speaks well of him.”
“And Uncle Neville is not easy to please.”
“Most especially where this family is concerned, for he wants to make sure nothing horrible happens to us.”
Daphne’s smile returned. “Do you think we c
ould offer the invitation to Lord Witherspoon during a ride in Hyde Park? The marquess mentioned several times while we were dancing that he and his friends enjoy riding on sunny afternoons.”
‘The next nice day, we shall go to the Park. Even if we do not see Lord Witherspoon, it will be good for you to see how the ton spends its afternoons. If we do encounter him and he accepts my invitation, I will endeavor to apologize for my wandering thoughts during his call.”
Daphne patted Priscilla’s hand. “I know you are distressed with what has happened at the Prince of Wales Theater.”
“You are an insightful young woman. I will be glad when Neville returns.”
“He knows the Prince of Wales Theater well.”
“So does the murderer, I would venture.”
Daphne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “On dits suggests it is someone who works in the theater.”
“That is likely, but you must take care not always to heed what on dits reveals. On dits often proves to be less than reliable.”
From the doorway, Aunt Cordelia, dressed in a lacy dark blue gown, said, “You should heed your mother on this, Daphne.”
“Aunt Cordelia! ” Priscilla could not hide her astonishment.
Her aunt came forward to give her a hug and kiss on the cheek. Priscilla returned both. Although Neville asked so often how Priscilla could have affection for her cantankerous aunt, there was no way to explain. Priscilla suspected it was because both she and Aunt Cordelia saw much of the same in each other and ignored the differences.
The Wedding Caper Page 18