The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries)

by Tasha Alexander

  “Do you have a record of who this is?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I kept track of everyone. This is plate 632. Let us see what we have.”

  Colin and I followed him out of the room and back into the bright studio, our eyes smarting. The photographer opened a thick notebook. For each numbered plate, he had entered the name of the person sitting, the role his costume was meant to represent, and whether the portrait had been taken in his studio or on site at Devonshire House.

  “Here we are.” He turned the book so we might see the entry.

  “Abel Magwitch.” My mouth hung open. “Is this meant to be a joke?”

  “I am afraid, Lady Emily, that I am not acquainted with Mr. Magwitch.” Mr. Lafayette bent over the book. “He was meant to be portraying the poet Homer.”

  “Homer would not have been wearing the mask of a tragic actor, but Mr. Magwitch’s inability to satisfy even the barest requirements of historical accuracy is the least of my concerns.” I sighed, frustrated. “I suppose it was foolish to think he would have used his real name.”

  “How do you know this is false?” Mr. Lafayette asked.

  “Abel Magwitch is a character in Mr. Dickens’s Great Expectations,” I said. “He secretly financed Pip’s advancement. I cannot imagine there is any true person in possession of the same name.”

  “It is not altogether meaningless, perhaps,” Colin said. “First, would it be possible for you to make us a print of the photograph, Mr. Lafayette, and have it sent straight over to our house in Park Lane?”

  “Of course, sir, it would be my pleasure.”

  My husband turned to me. “Now, Emily, think about the novel. Who is Magwitch? A criminal, yes? An escaped convict, but a man who is trying to do something good, at least once he meets Pip.”

  “Yes,” I said. “So our Mr. Magwitch, although he is perpetrating a fraud of some sort, means to suggest he is not all bad?”

  “I think we have our first glimpse of insight into his character,” Colin said.

  Mr. Lafayette scowled. “I am more sorry than I can say that the image is not clearer. I do remember the gentleman now. It was nearly as difficult to get him to stand still as it had been to convince him to lower his mask. I feel foolish for not recalling the incident sooner.”

  “There can be little doubt his movement was deliberate,” Colin said. “He did not want to leave a recognizable image of himself.”

  “I wonder that he had his picture taken at all,” I said. “Although, thinking about it, we all initially entered the garden near Mr. Lafayette’s marquee. Mr. Magwitch might have caught unwelcome attention if he had made a point of avoiding being photographed. Easier to have a picture made and make sure it’s blurry than to act in a way that might have seemed odd to one of his fellow guests.”

  Colin grunted. “No one commented when I refused to be photographed.”

  “Yes, my dear, but everyone in the vicinity is bound to have the incident carved vividly into his memory. You were rather insistent on the subject.”

  “Was that you, Mr. Hargreaves? Dressed as Beau Brummell?” Mr. Lafayette asked.

  “Indeed,” my husband said. “I do not like fancy dress and have no interest in recording myself in such a state for all posterity to see.”

  “Then, you, Lady Emily, were the divine Artemis,” Mr. Lafayette said. “Come back to me when you can, with your costume. Your husband need not be photographed, but it would be a crime for your ethereal loveliness not to be captured. The goddess herself would be pleased with your representation of her.”

  I admit to very much enjoying Mr. Lafayette’s flattery.

  Our visit to the studio having proven a success, we decided to now continue our search for further information about Mary Darby. Mrs. McDermott had mentioned a theater near St. Martin-in-the-Fields, so we made our way back to Piccadilly and followed it past Fortnum and Mason (where I was severely tempted to stop in for a cup of tea—investigation is of critical importance, but so too is keeping oneself well fueled and alert), past the Royal Academy, until we reached the Circus, where we turned into Regent Street. After cutting down Pall Mall and through Trafalgar Square in front of the National Gallery, we paused to determine the best course of action.

  “We could try Charing Cross Road to Shaftesbury,” Colin said, “but I wouldn’t describe that as being near St. Martin-in-the-Fields.”

  “No,” I said. “I remember now. It’s the New Adelpi Theater on the Strand that we want. I saw an advertisement in the Times. It included a rather horrifying drawing of Bottom fawning over Titania. Put me off the production entirely.” We followed the Strand several blocks until the theater came into view. “There it is. Have you ever seen a more unfortunate poster?”

  Bottom, portrayed as an extremely vile-looking long-haired donkey, had placed two hooved feet over the shoulders of a seated Titania, who was looking up at him as if she might swallow him whole. Artistically, it was a disaster, and as a means of enticing people passing by to part with any amount of their hard-earned money for a seat in the audience it could have been nothing short of an abject failure. This suspicion was confirmed when we approached the box office, where the clerk, who appeared to have drifted off to sleep leaning on his hand, startled awake when Colin tapped his walking stick on the glass in front of him.

  “Oh good heavens! Do forgive me,” the clerk said, pushing back into place the spectacles that had slid down his thin nose. He spoke with a breathtaking rapidity. “I was not expecting anyone. Foot traffic has been awfully slow of late, which is unfortunate as this is such a magnificent production of one of Shakespeare’s best-loved plays. You, though, you are in for a treat. Would you like tickets for this evening, or for tomorrow’s matinee?”

  I felt the need to draw breath when he finished.

  “I am afraid we are not here to buy tickets. Can you tell us if any of the cast or crew is here?” Colin asked. “I am on official business from Buckingham Palace.”

  This shook any remaining vestiges of sleep from the clerk. “The palace?” His eyes widened. “Of course. Let me see whom I can rustle up. The director was here earlier. Could you wait just a moment while I inquire?”

  “You should have told him we have not come to order the Royal Box prepared,” I said. “I do so hate to be an instrument of disappointment.”

  The clerk returned to the lobby from a door to the stalls accompanied by a tall, broad man with a ruddy complexion, who crossed to us and shook Colin’s hand with admirable vigor. “I am Nigel Seton-Williams, the director of this production, and I can assure you that whether it has caught the imagination of Her Majesty or the Prince of Wales, the royal party will find themselves delighted by our play.”

  “I’m afraid that is not why we are here, although my wife is quite desperate to see the show.” Colin knew better than to look at me as he said this. “I do a certain amount of work for Her Majesty, and have been asked to look into the matter of the death of a woman—Mary Darby—who was murdered in the early morning hours of 3 July. Are you familiar with the case?”

  “No,” Mr. Seton-Williams said. “Mary is dead?”

  “Yes. I am very sorry. You knew Mrs. Darby?” I asked. “We understand she had aspirations of being an actress.”

  “Plentiful aspirations, yes, but sadly not quite so much talent as one would hope. It strikes me to the core to think of her coming to such a tragic end.”

  “I understand she spent a great deal of time with your company at this theater,” Colin said.

  “That is true, but also misleading,” he said, mopping the beads of sweat that had appeared on his brow. “I had always liked Mary, you see. Mrs. Darby as you called her—not quite the right name. She never was married, but styled herself as a widow.”

  “Why did she do that?” I asked.

  “She felt it afforded her a measure of respectability that spinster did not.”

  “Quite right,” I said.

  “Mary came to me when I posted a call for a
uditions. She had always wanted to play Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and begged me for the chance. I saw no harm in letting her read, but did not think for a moment that she would be a good choice for the part. Imagine my surprise when she delivered what I can only describe as the performance of a lifetime.”

  “But you did not cast her?” I asked.

  “I wanted to, very much,” Mr. Seton-Williams said, “but in her callbacks she was never again able to read so well. I gave her chance after chance. Eventually, I had no choice but to offer the role to someone else. It was more appropriate, really. Mary is—was—quite a bit older than one wants Hippolyta to be.”

  “How did Mary react to losing the role?” I asked.

  “Very badly, I’m afraid. She turned up at our first read-through and caused a bit of a scene. I managed to calm her down and convinced her to return home that day, but she turned up at rehearsals over and over.”

  “Was she disruptive?” Colin asked.

  “No, not after that first time,” Mr. Seton-Williams said. “She sat in the back of the theater and watched in silence. After the cast had cleared out, she always made a point of complimenting me on the production.”

  “Was she continuing her pursuit of theatrical success?” I asked. “Did she mention other auditions?”

  “No,” he said. “She did, however, tell me that she had found a way to use her admittedly limited talents. A gentleman had hired her to take on the role of a lady of means, but not in a theatrical production. It was to be a bit of a lark, she said, great fun.”

  “Have you any idea who the gentleman was?” Colin asked.

  “None, I’m afraid. All I know about him was that he had a great deal of money. He fitted her up with a wardrobe from Paris. I confess this concerned me—I suspected he might be looking for a lark, but not the kind Mary thought she was to give him.”

  “Did she mention any impropriety in this man’s behavior?” I asked.

  “No, and I did ask her about that, especially when she told me about the clothes. I’m no expert when it comes to ladies’ dress, but bespoke clothing from one of those famous blokes in France doesn’t come cheap, and in my experience, when a gent is dressing a lady—please do excuse me for being crass, madam—he’s looking for a mistress.”

  “How did Mrs. Darby react when you suggested this to her?” Colin asked.

  “She laughed,” Mr. Seton-Williams said, “and told me that such a thought would never have crossed my mind had I ever read a single letter penned by her employer. I took that to mean that, well, I don’t like to say in front of your wife, sir, but I think you know.”

  “Did Mrs. Darby confirm your suspicions?” Colin asked.

  “I never broached the subject with her. Mary was a generally sensible woman, and I trusted her judgment.”

  “Did she tell you anything else about this role of hers?” I asked.

  “Only that she thought this was the sort of acting at which she could be successful,” he said. “She had come to accept that the stage was not for her, but that didn’t mean she had lost the desire to play a character. She was a bit lonely, I think, and sometimes that makes a person long to be someone else.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Seton-Williams?” I asked. “It is quite possible that this role of Mrs. Darby’s led directly to her death. Please think carefully. Did Mrs. Darby ever come to the theater during rehearsals with someone? Did you see her meet up with anyone outside?”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can add,” he said, “but please be assured that should that change, I shall inform you at once.”

  “Is there anyone else on the premises at the moment to whom we may speak?” Colin asked.

  “I don’t expect the cast until six. The crew arrives a tad earlier.”

  I crossed back to the box office where the sleepy-eyed clerk was nodding over a penny dreadful. “Were you working while the play was in rehearsals?” I asked.

  “Only the last two weeks before we opened, madam,” he said, snapping to attention.

  “There was a woman who slipped into the back of the theater quite often to watch the cast rehearse. Do you recall seeing her?”

  “Yes, of course. Mrs. Darby. She brought me soup on a particularly damp day after she had heard me coughing the previous afternoon. A very kind lady. She’s a midwife, you know, when she’s not working as an actress. If, that is, one could say she works as an actress.”

  “I am sorry to tell you that she has been murdered,” I said, “and if we are to find her killer, it is imperative that you tell us anything you can about her. Was she always alone?”

  He pulled his spectacles from his face. “I hardly know what to say. This is too dreadful. Yes, she was always on her own.”

  “Did she talk to you at all about her work?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone ever come to the theater looking for her?” I asked.

  “Only once, but that was just her brother, Mr. Magwitch.”

  “When was this?” Colin asked.

  “No more than two or three days ago. I don’t remember precisely. He asked if I knew where to find her. He’d been abroad, he said, and knew his sister was a member of the company here.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “There was very little to say. I had the impression that she had written to him that she was achieving some measure of success as an actress. It was rather awkward. I did not want to disabuse him of the notion, but I could not pretend she was in the play.”

  “Had he believed her to be?”

  “So far as I could tell. I said she was certainly connected to the company”—he glanced at Mr. Seton-Williams—“I do hope that is all right. She was around quite a bit. I may have let him think she was an understudy.” He cringed as he said this.

  “An understudy?” I asked.

  “There didn’t seem to be any harm in it, and she had been kind to me.”

  “What did Mr. Magwitch say?” Colin asked.

  “He thanked me and left.”

  “Did he seem surprised?” I asked.

  “More frustrated, I would say. I had the impression that he had been supporting her, and that she had perhaps overstated her success in the theater as a means of keeping him on board.”

  “Can you recall any details of his appearance?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Only that if I saw his sister would I please have her send word to the inn at which he was staying.”

  “How fortunate for us,” I said. “Which inn?”

  “The George in Southwark. I remember it on account of it being so near where Mr. Shakespeare’s own theater once stood.” The clerk perked up as he spoke and turned to Mr. Seton-Williams. “I am quite devoted to all things theatrical, sir. I do so hope you can find something for me outside of the box office in your next production.”

  “Yes, yes,” the director said, his lack of enthusiasm cutting.

  I looked at my husband. “Proximity to the site of the Globe aside, I remember the George having been mentioned in Mr. Dickens’s Little Dorrit.”

  “Depressing novel,” Colin said.

  “Hardly the point, my dear. Our Magwitch is leaving more clues about himself.” We thanked the clerk and Mr. Seton-Williams and exited the theater, but not before the director had implored us to come to his show as his guests. We could hardly refuse the gesture, and agreed to come as soon as we had solved the case at hand.

  “It might not be so bad,” Colin said, as he hailed a hansom cab to take us to Southwark. “Seton-Williams seems like a sensible enough man, and a bad poster alone ought not condemn a play.”

  “You are right,” I said. “Perhaps it will prove a production worthy of the Bard. At the moment, however, the thought of it is making me hope it takes ages to identify Mary’s murderer, and I feel quite awful about that.”

  “I am confident that even your dread of the play wi
ll not compromise your integrity, my love. I can think of no one better able to find justice for Mary Darby.”

  Estella

  vi

  Estella’s heart was pounding with such force that she was convinced she could hear it, and half believed the sound was echoing off the hard walls of the chamber in which she now found herself entombed. Tears came, and with them ragged sobs that ravaged the back of her throat until it felt raw. She screamed, over and over, begging someone to help her, but when she stopped, she heard nothing but what had been there before: the continued thumping of her own heart and the rush of blood in her ears. There was no sound from outside. Panic and desperation fueling her, she flung herself with all her weight against the hard walls of the chamber, but was unable to so much as budge the stone blocks, so she tried to move them another way, by digging at the mortar around them. Soon her fingers were bleeding and for no purpose. She had not managed to make any impact on the hard substance holding the blocks of the wall in place.

  The candle, which she had steadied upright on the slab by securing it in a pool of its own wax, was burning bright, so she knew air was entering the room from somewhere. She studied the ceiling and noticed one section of it looked different from the rest. The stone was a paler shade of gray, and there was no mortar around it. Instead it was surrounded by an open space, about an inch wide. Estella stood directly beneath it and was convinced she could feel movement in the air. She stretched her arms above her, as high as she could, but even on tiptoe was not tall enough to reach it, and as it was on the opposite side of the space from the elevated slab, there was no help to be found. She tried to climb up the wall, but her bloodied fingers could not hold her weight, so she crumpled to the ground, shaking and crying, desperate in a way she had not previously thought possible.