The Wedding Caper

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Neville looked over her shoulder. A furry clump as wide as her thumb and as long as her longest finger lay on the floor between the dead man’s fingers. “Hair. Blond hair. I would guess our murderer is missing what Sitwell pulled out of his head while trying to save his life.”

  ‘That is a lot of hair. If he had a full handful, he—”

  “Let me through!” came a shout from the door. “By all that’s blue, I say you shall let me through.”

  Neville was amazed to see Witherspoon come toward them with two men hanging on him, trying to stop him. He pushed forward like a bull intent on breaking through a fence. When Thurmond shouted for his men to release the marquess, he walked toward them without a backward glance.

  “Lady Priscilla! Hathaway! ” Witherspoon smiled. “I am very glad to see you here.” He looked past them to where his friend was lying dead. “I did not want to believe the tidings when they were brought to my door.”

  “How did you hear?” asked Thurmond.

  “Daphne,” Priscilla answered before the marquess could. “She sent you word, didn’t she, after getting the information from one of my staff.”

  He nodded. ‘You are very astute, my lady.” Turning to the men, he said, ‘Tell me what you know.”

  Neville began to outline the few facts they had. When he saw Priscilla go to where Miss Ayers was hunched on the bench, sobbing, he sighed. Three dead people, too many people grieving, and still no answers.

  That is not much information,” Witherspoon said after Neville finished.

  “We have very little.”

  Thurmond said, “We may have more when we question the others in the theater.” He glanced at the body, then walked toward the door. He reached it just as Priscilla did while escorting Miss Ayers out.

  When Neville started to follow, Witherspoon grabbed his sleeve. The marquess motioned with his head toward the stage. Puzzled, Neville went with him.

  “What is on your mind, Witherspoon?” he asked when they emerged from the shadows.

  This is not the proper time to bring up this subject, but I must.”

  “I know Sitwell was a friend and—”

  “I do not wish to speak to you about Sitwell.” Witherspoon sighed and shook his head. “Don’t think me heartless, Hathaway. I have known Sitwell for more than a year, but he did not heed common sense.”

  “Say what you want to say.” He did not want to remain here. Priscilla probably had no need of his help with Miss Ayers, but she should not be given the responsibility of seeing to the actress’s welfare by herself.

  ‘You are going to be Miss Flanders’s stepfather be-

  fore the week is out. I wanted to get your permission to call on her.”

  Neville was startled into silence, a rare occurrence. He was about to lambaste Witherspoon for speaking of such mundane matters when a man was lying dead not far away. Then he paused. How many times had he pushed aside Society’s rules, especially where Priscilla was concerned? Weren’t his thoughts now of Priscilla?

  He smiled at the marquess. “It is something I must discuss with Miss Flanders’s mother. After all, I am not yet a part of the family.”

  “Will you discuss it?”

  “I shall.” Putting his hand on the marquess’s shoulder, he said, “Now let us see what Thurmond may have learned from any witnesses.”

  Witherspoon gave him a relieved and grateful smile as they went out into the theater’s entry. Chaos had erupted. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, and several people were being held back from the door to the street.

  Neville pushed his way toward the front of the crowd. Raising his voice, he called, “If any of you want to work in this theater again, you will be quiet and cooperate with the authorities. Now!” He repeated himself twice before the frantic people began to calm.

  “Thank you again,” Thurmond said as he watched his men begin to question the potential witnesses once more.

  “What set them off?”

  “Who knows? Some rumor, no doubt.”

  Neville chuckled. “In that way, the Polite World and the demimonde are very much alike.” He scanned the entry. “Where is Lady Priscilla?”

  “She was with Miss Ayers last I saw her.”

  He saw the actress being comforted by two seamstresses and Morton. He did not see Priscilla.

  Hurrying to them, he tried to ignore the tightening in his gut.

  “I have not seen her for several minutes,” Miss Ayers said in answer to his question.

  “Did she tell you where she was going?” The ache in his middle was becoming a cramp.

  “She said she wanted to check something.”

  “Where?”

  “With the body.” Tears fell from the actress’s eyes. “My beloved, my beloved.”

  Neville thanked her, but he doubted Miss Ayers heard him. Pushing through the crowd once more, he rushed into the theater. He called Priscilla’s name, his voice resounding through the empty theater. He ran to the corpse.

  His foot struck something, and it bounced off Sitwell’s boot. Bending, he picked it up. The cramp deepened until it crunched his bones as he stared at the pearl.

  Just like the ones in the necklace Priscilla had been wearing.

  “Pris!” he shouted. “Pris, where are you?”

  All he heard was his desperate voice echoing a taunt back to him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Darkness surrounded Priscilla when she forced her eyes open. What had happened? She remembered going back to Lord Sitwell’s corpse to examine the blond hair by his hand. Something about it had bothered her. She had been bending over the man’s hand when she saw a shadow move.

  Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth as an arm around her waist hugged her so tightly to a hard body that she could not catch her breath. She had struggled, but could not escape. The arm pressed into her abdomen, and everything had disappeared into ebony.

  Now it was dark, too. How much time had passed between then and now? She had no idea. Her head throbbed, and thinking was difficult.

  She tried to move, then realized her arms were bound. She inched her fingers outward. Slowly she realized that she was lying on a soft carpet. It whispered beneath her questing fingers. At least she was not lying in a coffin.

  She saw a hint of light coming from her right. Silencing the groan that rang through her skull like a sword on a shield, she turned her head to discover it was a sliver of light slipping beneath a door.

  She was alive, but what should she do now? Trussed

  up like a Christmas goose, she could not move much other than her fingers and her head. She considered screaming, but guessed whoever had brought her here would have made certain it was a place where her screams would reach no other ears.

  Trying to shift as her arms ached more, she banged her head against something wooden. “Deuce take it!” she moaned.

  “Are you awake, Lady Priscilla?” came a voice out of the darkness.

  “Mr. Birdwell!” she gasped. Had their suspicions been right all along? Was the actor deeply involved in these murders? “Where are you?”

  “Here.” He put his hand on her arm. When she tried to flinch away, he said, “Do not worry. I will not hurt you.”

  “You already have.”

  She heard a metallic sound, and a small circle of light illuminated the floor. The actor must have a dark lantern.

  When he leaned toward her, she saw his face was lined with fear. “I did not mean to, but you struggled. I was afraid you would scream, and I did not want to alert him. I bound you to make it easier to carry you here.” He began to untie her hands. “I did not want to do anything to let him guess what I was doing.”

  “Neville?”

  “No, the murderer.”

  Her eyes widened as she shook her hands to get feeling back into them. “Who was wearing one of your wigs! That is why Lord Sitwell was able to pull out a tuft of hair. It was from a blond wig. I was checking that when you sneaked up behind me. But
why do you have a blond wig? You have blond hair.”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “It must be the one I used during a farce that Wiggsley wrote back when he was capable of great things.” He touched the middle of his upper arm. “It is of this length, because I was playing a man pretending to be a woman.”

  “But why a wig?”

  ‘To shift suspicion onto you and away from him. If it was cut shorter, the wig could make the killer look from a distance like you.”

  “Very good, my lady,” said a voice from behind her.

  In disbelief, she looked over her shoulder to see Reeve standing in the doorway. He held a gun in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. On two of his fingers were the gold rings stolen from Lord Sitwell. He kicked the door closed behind him.

  Mr. Birdwell squealed like a frightened child and jumped to his feet. “Reeve!”

  “Open the lantern wider,” Reeve said. “I do not want to trip over Lady Priscilla and cause this gun to fire prematurely.”

  The actor hastened to obey, and Priscilla realized they must be in Mr. Birdwell’s hallowed dressing room. A fine carpet was spread across the floor. Costumes hung on pegs nailed to the walls. On either side of a large mirror set over a table topped with goblets and several dusty bottles of unopened wine, shelves held cosmetics and wig boxes. One was open and empty.

  “Reeve—”

  “Shut up, Birdwell. This conversation is between Lady Priscilla and me.”

  Priscilla stood. “I would prefer to speak without a gun pointed at me. The last time you aimed at me, you fired.”

  “That incident in Bedford Square?” He laughed. “That was to persuade Hathaway to stop trying to uncover the truth.” He shoved the bottle into Mr. Birdwell’s hand. “Open it.”

  “Now see here,” the actor said, “I do not take orders from my own valet.”

  “No?” He pressed the gun against Priscilla’s side. “How many more deaths do you want on your hands?”

  “My hands?” choked Mr. Birdwell as he struggled to open the bottle.

  Priscilla saw the door open a crack, but quickly shifted her gaze back to Reeve. The door might be swinging ajar on its own, or there might be someone on the far side ready to come to their rescue. Either way, she could not alert the madman.

  “I asked you for the loan of money for my military career,” snarled Reeve.

  “I told you I did not have the money you wanted.”

  The bottle spewed liquid all over the actor and across Priscilla’s skirt.

  Motioning for the actor to pour some of the contents into goblets on his dressing table, Reeve said, “No? You recall quite well? The last time I asked was after Wiggsley’s last successful play. The one where you played the army officer who saved his beloved from the pirates. The one where you wore the wide gold ring Lady Lummis gave you.”

  “You asked me to lend you money to buy a lieutenancy. I did not think you were serious.”

  “I was!”

  “So you decided to get the money for a commission another way,” Priscilla said carefully. “First you started stealing from Mr. Birdwell at the house which Lady Lummis provided for him.”

  “Yes.” Reeve glowered at Mr. Birdwell before he spat, “But you were like a miser counting his coins, always taking inventory of the gifts your adoring ladies bestowed upon you.”

  “So you started robbing people around the theater?” From the corner of her eye, she saw the door push open wider. She did not dare to look at the mirror to see if the motion was reflected there.

  “A glass of champagne, Lady Priscilla?” asked Reeve, taking one from Mr. Birdwell.

  She kept an emotionless mask on her face. ‘To celebrate the purchase of your commission with dirty money?”

  “Why not? Soon I shall be the hero I have aspired to be. A real hero, not like this foolish fop who pretends to be one on the stage.” With a flourish, he handed her the bubbling liquid. He held out his goblet in a salute. To you, Lady Priscilla, and to me.”

  She held her glass to her lips and pretended to drink. Mayhap if he drank, he would become so foxed she would be able to slip away.

  Mr. Birdwell choked, “But you killed people! You did not just rob them.”

  The first lady’s death was a mistake. I did not mean to kill her, just to take the jewels I knew I could sell.” His mouth worked before he spat, “But she fought me! She impaled herself on the knife. I took the jewels and slipped away.”

  “Wearing Mr. Birdwell’s shortened wig,” Priscilla said. “And your work smock covered up any blood that might have splashed on you. Quite clever of you, Reeve.”

  “I thought so.”

  The door opened wide enough so she could see a hand pushing it aside. Someone was out there! She wanted to shout for help. She wanted to call out to whoever was on the other side of the door to take care so Reeve did not fire the gun still against her side.

  Reeve chuckled. “I could have been a great actor, too. You never saw that, Birdwell. I tried to convince Ella that I would be a great success, but she cared only for that whimpering young lord of hers.” His lips curled in satisfaction. “Killing him was very pleasing, as it will be killing you, Birdwell.” He pulled another pistol from under his coat and aimed it at the actor’s feet.

  “Go, and I will not say anything to anyone,” pleaded Mr. Birdwell. “Don’t kill me!”

  “How gallant!” he sneered. “Begging for your life, not for Lady Priscilla’s.”

  Quietly, Priscilla said, “Reeve, the theater is filled with the watch and men from Bow Street. You cannot escape now. Firing that gun will bring them running to stop you.”

  He jabbed the gun into her ribs and smiled when she moaned. ‘You will provide my way out of here, my lady, after you give me that ring on your left hand.”

  She clamped her left hand closed. “No.”

  “No?” He scowled.

  “Give him the ring, my lady,” urged Mr. Birdwell.

  “No,” she repeated. “Neville gave it to me as a betrothal gift, and I will not give it to you.”

  “Hathaway will get you another. Give it to me, and we will leave. Don’t worry, my lady. We will leave the theater without further trouble. Hathaway will never allow anything to happen to you.”

  You are right about that, Reeve!” Neville shoved the door open, knocking Reeve forward.

  Priscilla tried to leap aside, but became caught up in the costumes hanging on the wall. They fell atop her when she tumbled to the floor. Pushing them off her head, she saw Reeve on his knees. He was raising his gun and pointing it toward the door. With all the strength she had left, she kicked his elbow. The gun fired, the ball hitting the ceiling. Wood and plaster cascaded down on her.

  Then the room was filled beyond capacity with men, all shouting. She scrambled back under the remaining costumes on her hands and knees, so she was not trampled. She recoiled, horrified, when another gun fired. She closed her eyes, afraid of what she would see when something thudded on the floor.

  Something ... or someone?

  A hand cupped her chin. She opened her eyes to see adored ones looking at her with concern.

  “Neville!”

  “Reeve is dead,” Neville whispered. “He proved he was a coward to the end, shooting himself when he saw he would be captured. I am sorry we were so slow getting here, Pris.”

  “Thank you for coming when you did,” she whispered as she threw her arms around his shoulders. Her arms ached from being bound, but she did not think of that.

  “I hope this is the last time you have to tell me thank you for saving your life,” he said. “Or I have to say that to you.”

  “Somehow, I doubt you will get what you wish for.”

  “But I already have. You are my greatest wish come true, Pris.” He pulled her into his arms, and she forgot about everything else in the room.

  In Priscilla’s estimation, the kiss that sealed the vows she had spoken with Neville was too hurried. It was a pleasant kiss. All his
kisses were, but it had lasted no more than a pair of heartbeats.

  Cheers rose as Reverend Dr. Horwood of St. Julian’s Church closed his book and announced, “Congratulations and blessings on your union.”

  She took her bouquet from Daphne, who stood beside her. In the front pew, Leah and Isaac were clapping wildly. Aunt Cordelia sat beside them, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes. The tears might be of joy or despair, and Priscilla knew better than to ask.

  Looking up at Neville, who stood beside her, she smiled and whispered, “How much did you win in the wager that you would marry me?”

  “You have been my wife only a few seconds, and already you are asking me about my gambling.” Laughing, he drew her hand within his arm and led her back up the aisle. “I should have known you would be a bothersome wife, Pris.”

  “Yes, you should have known.”

  He paused as they reached the church door. Behind them, her children halted, startled. The other guests exchanged looks, clearly wondering why they had stopped.

  He took the flowers from her and handed them back to Daphne, who began to smile broadly.

  Framing Priscilla’s face with his broad, gentle hands, he tilted her face toward him. Too low even for the children to hear, he whispered, “I feared I had lost you in the theater, Pris. Reeve’s murderous capers nearly stole you from me. I promise you that all our capers from this point on will be of the sweetest sort.”

  “A promise I am sure will be broken quickly.”

  “Why do you say that?”