Death at the Emerald

by R. J. Koreto

  Mattins shuffled off quickly without saying anything else. Prescott said good-bye with another flourish. And Rusk—he seemed a little embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry your trip was for nothing, my lady. Let me show you out.”

  “That would be kind.” He walked her along the hallway. “I see you are making improvements to the theatre.”

  “New owners, my lady. Thought a fancier look would bring in a fancier crowd. Trying to upgrade our repertoire too—more modern plays mixed in with the old standards. Also expanding into those moving pictures.”

  “Really? That sounds enterprising of them. Who are they?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My family has a great many commercial interests,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. Then maybe he felt, at Frances’s dubious look, that he had told enough half-truths and outright lies for one day. He thought for a moment. “This is a very old company. We were founded right after the Restoration in the seventeenth century, when Charles II came to the throne.”

  “That’s when theatre companies started letting women on the stage,” said Frances.

  “You know your history, my lady. Yes, until then, boys and young men played women’s roles. Well, with Cromwell gone and a Stuart king back on the throne, new companies flourished, and Lord Beverly Greene, who had been a companion of the king in exile, was granted the right to form one of the first theatre companies. We were known as Lord Greene’s Players then, but over time, things changed. The Stuart kings were thrown out for good, and we simply became the Green Players, just like the color, and eventually built the Emerald Theatre to continue the theme.”

  They were in the theatre lobby now, and Rusk looked around. “I owned a piece of this. A handful of us owned all this, this piece of history. Then all of a sudden, this fancy solicitor shows up, saying he represented the interests of someone in the City who wanted to buy us up—the company, the theatre, everything. We named a price, and the man didn’t even negotiate. Agreed to it, right off, and said they’d keep me on as manager on salary, and we signed it all over two days later at the bank. Well, I’m a widower, my lady, my children are grown and settled, and I have a nice bit in the bank thanks to the purchase, so I’m all right. Who really owns it? I don’t know—a group of City gents. The solicitor handles it all. I want you to know, my lady—I’m not hiding anything. I really don’t know. And I’m sorry we can’t help you more.”

  He did seem genuinely regretful. But there was something else there too—he was telling Lady Frances that she may be from an old and distinguished family, but his “theatre family” was, in its way, also old and distinguished.

  “I understand, Mr. Rusk, and I thank you and your associates for your help. May I ask what show you’re performing next?”

  He cheered at the change of subject. “Romeo and Juliet, my lady. Very popular. We do it almost every season. Let me know a convenient date, my lady, and I’ll have a complimentary pair of tickets for you.”

  “Thank you; I certainly will,” she said. And Rusk handed her his business card.

  “May I see you into a hansom?”

  “Thank you, but I left my bicycle with your porter.” Rusk seemed startled that a lady of quality had a bicycle, which amused Frances, and she headed off.

  Her visit had not been successful—well, not directly successful. There was more going on there. They were lying to her, she would swear it, but it seemed like they hadn’t wanted to. Rusk seemed sad, and Mattins—he might still come around. Prescott was an actor, and there was no telling what he thought.

  CHAPTER 4

  Frances rode home in deep thought. She’d let the theatre men stew for a while. For now, she thought it might be helpful to find out who bought the Green Players and the Emerald Theatre so quickly, for so much money. Was someone really willing to buy it just to block Lady Torrence from her researches? Were the men hiding something too?

  She came back to Miss Plimsoll’s, had lunch, and organized herself for some afternoon calls. Back in time for dinner, she came to the table with paper and pen. In her early days at Miss Plimsoll’s, Frances’s habit of working while eating raised a lot of eyebrows and caused gossip, but now it was just another little quirk her fellow residents accepted.

  Who did she know in the City—the financial quarter of London? She assumed the lords of finances gossiped no less than the diplomats and generals in her family’s social circle—or the fish mongers, butchers, and bakers, for that matter. Hal would know some of those men. Her mind wandered briefly. For Frances, engagement wasn’t just a time to plan a wedding and gather a trousseau. It was time for real work . . .

  But later. And it wasn’t fair to Hal to use him to wheedle out some contacts. They would have their own separate careers, and she wouldn’t live through him any more than he would through her. Meanwhile she made a list of relations who might know someone. There were no prohibitions in her own mind against using an uncle or cousin.

  She was well along on her list when Mrs. Beasley entered the room, looking annoyed. Frances felt her heart sink as she approached her table. From greeting actresses in the guest lounge to entertaining visitors from the Metropolitan Police, it was usually Frances who tarnished the image of Miss Plimsoll’s. What did the manageress want to speak with her about now?

  “Lady Frances. There is a . . . messenger of sorts at the front desk. He says it is most urgent.” Disapproval was etched deeply in her face, even though Mrs. Beasley usually approved of messengers. This probably wasn’t a footman from a great house.

  Frances gathered her papers and followed Mrs. Beasley to the foyer. The messenger certainly wasn’t a footman, not in clothing like that. He was only about sixteen, wearing as lively an outfit of red and gold as had ever graced the hotel lobby. He was looking around with great curiosity at the room’s expensive and lovingly cared for fittings.

  “Excuse me?” said Frances.

  “Ah, Lady Frances. Johnny Bridger, at your service.” He bowed with a flourish. Oh, dear, another actor. “I’m in the chorus with Miss Studholme, and she put me in a hansom to fetch you most quickly. She said that you were interested in the Emerald Theatre and you’d want to know that, a little while ago, Tony Mattins was found dead in an alley behind the theatre.”

  Yes, she did want to know. Thank you, Marie! “This was very recent?”

  “Within the hour, my lady. News flew fast. Never met the man myself, but he was well-known in the West End. Must’ve been some chance thief, poor bloke.”

  A dozen thoughts raced through her mind. But no, she could think later. Now was time for action.

  “Did you keep the hansom?”

  “Yes, my lady. Miss Studholme said to.”

  Frances suspected that she might need Mallow. “Bless you. Run back out, and tell the driver that I’ll be out in a few seconds to head straight to the Emerald. I must fetch my maid.” She practically ran upstairs. The maids usually had an earlier dinner, along with the hotel staff, who had to be free to serve at the resident meal, so Mallow would be sewing in their room.

  “Mallow—there’s been a development. A person of interest, as they say, has been killed, and we need to follow up.”

  “Very good, my lady.” No fuss, no astonishment. She put down her sewing and said, “I will bring a wrap, my lady. It’s often cool in the evenings this time of year.”

  Johnny was chatting with the cabbie but turned when the women came down the stairs. His eyes landed on Mallow.

  “I’m sure we can all squeeze in,” said Frances. “Johnny Bridger, my maid, Miss Mallow. Now let’s go.” But Johnny took time to doff his hat to Mallow and then help Frances and Mallow into the cab, ensuring that he’d be sitting next to Mallow. He had a winning smile, and his handsome features, reflected Frances, should be of great help in his career.

  The door closed, and the driver pulled into the street.

  “So, Miss Mallow. I’m an actor and singer in the chorus of the new show at the St. James. You
like theatre?” Johnny asked. Mallow did like music hall entertainment and the new motion pictures, but that didn’t mean she approved of actors. Or of men she had just met trying to chat her up.

  “I go to respectable entertainments with my friends,” she said, a little stiffly.

  “We are most respectable too, Miss Mallow,” he said. “I can leave tickets for you and a friend, and me and one of my mates could buy you a pint afterward.”

  Imagine that! Trying to arrange an assignation—in front of her mistress, no less.

  “I am very busy serving her ladyship,” said Mallow. Undaunted, Johnny turned to Lady Frances. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if Miss Mallow took an evening off? Very high-quality entertainment, my lady. The best people attend.”

  “My maid’s social life is her affair,” said Frances. Like most actors, he was shameless.

  “There you go, Miss Mallow. Anyway, I can always be reached at the St. James Theatre if you change your mind.”

  They dropped him off at the St. James, and Frances told him to thank Miss Studholme. He tipped his hat again, and they continued on to the Emerald.

  “I was being polite, my lady. I don’t want you to think I would associate with actors.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mallow. I associate with actors.”

  “Well, yes, my lady, but not a man and a woman together.”

  “Mallow, your behavior has always been above reproach. Now there’s the Emerald and quite a crowd. Let’s see what’s happening.”

  It was dark, but even with just the streetlights, they could see a semicircle of the curious around the alley and the shields on the helmets of the bobbies holding them back.

  Frances paid the hansom driver, and then she gave some thought to how to get into the theatre. She didn’t think for a moment it was a coincidence that Mattins had been killed right after talking to her. There might be something among his effects that would help her.

  Most of the officers were keeping the crowd back, but one was standing by the theatre doors. Up close, Frances saw that they seemed to be just curiosity seekers; they were not dressed like actors. They must all be inside the theatre. She stepped over to the constable.

  “Excuse me, but I just heard about the tragedy. I am Lady Frances Ffolkes, and my family—my brother is the Marquess of Seaforth—are patrons of this theatre. It is necessary for me to speak with the company manager. May we—my maid and I—enter?”

  “Sorry, m’lady, the whole theatre company is waiting inside for the inspector to speak with them, and none may leave without his permission.”

  “But I don’t want to leave, Constable; I want to enter. Surely the inspector didn’t say no one could enter.”

  “Well . . . not in so many words, m’lady, but it doesn’t really matter. There was no performance today anyway. The theatre was closed to all except members of the company.”

  “And I’m practically a member of the company.” She reached into her bag and produced Mr. Rusk’s business card. “See? I even have the manager’s card. I was here earlier today. If I had stayed a little later, I’d be in there with them anyway. I just need a moment to consult with Mr. Rusk.”

  “I’ll have to check with the inspector—”

  “—who won’t thank you for interrupting him as he begins his investigations. I’ll be in and out shortly.”

  The constable sighed. She was obviously someone of quality and it didn’t do to thwart them, and it seemed silly to bother the inspector over something so trivial. And she was right—the important thing was that no one would leave, not that anyone would enter.

  “Very well, m’lady,” he said grudgingly, letting Frances and Mallow in. Frances quickly turned back to the bobby. “Can you tell me how Mr. Mattins was killed?”

  “Oh, it’ll be in the papers anyway. He was stabbed. That’s often the way of it here, I’m afraid.”

  There was no porter on duty. They must all be in the theatre itself. With Mallow right behind her, she opened one of the heavy doors and entered the theatre proper. All the lights were on, so Frances could clearly view the interior. She had been there before but had never bothered to look closely at the decor. It was all gilt and velvet in rococo style, but in the brightness of the full house lights, she could see that it was looking a little faded. The Emerald was firmly rooted in the past, in a repertoire of another generation. Along with the facade, would the new owners refurbish the interior? And bring in new playwrights, as Rusk had thought?

  The company was assembled in knots of people, some on the stage, done up to look like they were from medieval Verona. Or rather, what Englishmen might imagine medieval Verona should look like. Others in the company gathered in the seats. A few looked up at them curiously, but no one called out, perhaps assuming that she and Mallow were just extras hired to fill in a crowd scene.

  She looked around for Mr. Rusk and found him sitting a little apart from the rest of the others, talking to a couple of other men. One, judging from his dress, seemed to be some sort of clerk or accountant, and the other was dressed like Mattins—perhaps an assistant stage manager. Her eyes darted around, and she saw Prescott in conversation with some other actors in another corner.

  Rusk looked up at Frances with surprise. “Lady Frances? What are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

  “I just heard about Mr. Mattins and wanted to offer my condolences.”

  He blinked. That was an insufficient explanation, and they both knew it. Rusk turned to the other men. “We’ll talk more later, but for now, the schedule stands as is.” They glanced at Frances and shuffled off.

  “Lady Frances, I didn’t think you someone guilty of a gruesome level of curiosity. What are you really doing here? And who’s this?”

  “This is Miss Mallow, my personal maid.”

  “You travel with your maid, but—”

  “Never mind that,” said Frances, a little impatiently. “I am truly sorry about Mr. Mattins, but there will be time for mourning later. I am here because I am afraid that our conversation led to his murder.”

  Rusk started to speak, but nothing came out for a few moments. “My lady, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure it was just a chance robber—what else could it be? If anyone in a theatre company died after gossiping about the old days, this place would look like the end of Hamlet.”

  “Perhaps. But who besides you and Mr. Prescott knew I was seeking this information?”

  “Well, almost everyone here.” He waved his arm to encompass the theatre. “When you asked about the company thirty years ago, I thought of Mattins and Prescott right away, but I also made a general announcement to see if anyone else had been there back then. I mean, you don’t immediately remember if someone has been here for twenty or twenty-five or thirty years, but they were the only ones. At the least the only ones around now that I can remember. And I daresay both men discussed it later.” He sighed. “It’s not every day that a titled lady comes in asking about actresses of another generation.”

  “I see. But where did Mr. Mattins live? If he was killed for something he knew or had, there may be something in his rooms.” Frances knew she wouldn’t have any chance of convincing the local inspector of this, but she might get something out of Mr. Rusk.

  “Lived? He had a room here. There’s a gallery upstairs we use for some short-term storage, and there was a room carved out for Mattins, since he spent so much time here—a perk of the job. Lady Frances, I know you’re upset, but I’m sure the police can handle this.” He turned to Mallow. “Can you see your mistress safely home and give her something soothing?”

  Mallow bristled. She took orders only from her lady—certainly not from theatre folk. Lady Frances matched her indignation. She didn’t need “soothing.”

  “Mr. Rusk, I know you have lost an old friend and must continue to manage the company during this difficult time. I’ll leave you now, and thank you. Come, Mallow.”

  Not waiting for any reply, she headed back to the entrance. She turned, thou
gh, before she exited. Most people seemed to be part of the company, such as actors in costume or stagehands in working clothes. However, her eyes lit on an exceptionally beautiful young woman who seemed a little apart from the others, sitting near a group of plainly dressed women who may have been dressers or seamstresses but not participating in their whispered conversations. She was just looking around. She could have been an actress, but she wasn’t dressed as one.

  Oh, well. Frances could think on that later, including the possibility of wheedling a list of interviewees out of one of her Scotland Yard contacts. For now, she and Mallow had work to do.

  “Just follow me,” she told her maid. “The man may have been killed, but let’s make sure it wasn’t for nothing.” They went through the theatre doors, but instead of heading into the street, Frances took a quick turn down the hallway to where Mr. Rusk’s office was. She kept going past it until they were by the backstage dressing rooms. Frances knocked lightly on one and, hearing nothing, entered.

  It was a room for an actress. Clothes and cosmetics were strewn around. Frances heard Mallow give a little click of disapproval.

  “Not very shipshape, is it, Mallow?” asked Frances with a smile.

  “I’m sure actresses, being busy, do the best they can,” said Mallow. The implication was that their best wasn’t very good at all.

  “We’re just here to borrow a nail file,” Frances said, and it took her only a moment to find one under the clutter. “And now to Mr. Mattins’s room.” She didn’t know how to get to the upper gallery but saw a winding staircase at the end of the hall, along the back wall of the theatre. They walked up quickly and found themselves along another corridor. Most of the doors were open, revealing racks of clothes among baskets of props.

  “My brother, our cousins, and I used to dress up for parties in the country when we were children. Imagine all the fun we could’ve had here. I dressed up as Boudica, the English warrior queen who defeated Roman legions.”