A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  Harkness concentrated on forcing his own path through the crowded street. That, and the fact that there’d been murder done practically on the station’s doorstep. Drury Lane was just one street over from the public offices which held the police station and the magistrate’s court.

  Mr. Townsend would not be pleased.

  Harkness stretched his long legs to catch up with Ned. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was headed back to the station, sir. All was quiet. Just passed the night watch. They’d no disturbances to report. All at once, the theater porter comes running out into the street shouting blue murder. I runs in, and they takes me to the room. There’s the man, right in the middle, stone dead and . . .” He swallowed and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Stabbed, sir. God bless us. Ain’t never seen such a thing away from the docks.”

  Harkness made no answer. He’d know what to say when he saw the man for himself.

  It was only a handful of minutes before Harkness and his hastily assembled patrol reached the broad, busy corner where the Theatre Royal sat like a great block. At night, the place was generally the focus of attention of one or two men from Bow Street. They’d be hired along with a cluster of special constables in an attempt to keep at least some of the sneak thieves, cutpurses, and dips from making off with the patrons’ belongings. Harkness himself had taken part of the watch last night. But he seldom had reason to consider the massive building itself. Now that he did, Harkness had two thoughts.

  This is going to be a damned nightmare, was the first. He became immediately and painfully aware he had a relative handful of men at his back. Curious passersby on foot and horse, even if carrying heavy baskets or pushing barrows, had already stopped to stare. Mumbling and calling to each other, they began to bunch together, forming a crowd that would only get bigger and more aggressively curious with each passing minute.

  “Spread out,” Harkness ordered his men. “Goutier, take charge of this. I want two men on each side of the theater, and four in the yard behind. Find the doors and keep watch on them. Do what you can to keep the crowd back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sampson Goutier was an imposing figure of a man, far taller than average, with midnight black skin. He was also one of the best and most levelheaded among the night patrol, and he at once began issuing orders in a voice that could have been heard upwind in a freshening gale. Harkness paused just long enough to make sure the men were indeed listening to his orders, before he followed Barstow into the theater.

  In the evening, the entrance hall of the Theatre Royal was a grand sight. This morning, it felt cold and cavernous. Harkness’s boots echoed as he and Barstow crossed the marble floor toward a little man with a large head and a shock of dark hair who stood at the foot of the right hand staircase. A spindly and nervous boy all but hopped from foot to foot beside him.

  “Dr. Arnold, sir,” Ned told Harkness. “The theater manager.”

  “Dr. Arnold, I am Adam Harkness, principal officer of—”

  Harkness got no further. “Thank God!” The manager clasped both his hands and shook them like he meant to wring them right of Harkness’s wrists. “Come in, sir, come in! My office, at once!”

  But Harkness resisted Dr. Arnold’s firm tug. “We’ll come to that, sir. Where is the dead man?”

  “The dead man? The dead man!” Arnold cried. “Great God, sir! It’s no man! It’s a disaster! It’s Fletcher Cavendish, sir! My principal actor, the heart’s blood of my theater!”

  “But where is he?” persisted Harkness. “Has he been moved yet?” Generally, so much time passed between the commission of violence and someone getting word to Bow Street, there was no chance to see the thing as it had actually been done. Harkness was determined not to let this one be wasted.

  “He’s in his dressing room,” said Arnold. “Never such a thing, not in all my days. Not even—”

  “Will you show me?” Harkness cut him off. “And if you have a man you trust absolutely, send for him to meet us there.”

  Thankfully, while Dr. Arnold might be voluble, he was a man used to a crisis. He nodded once, and grabbed the boy. “Michaels, fetch me Park, and tell him to get up to the main dressing room. Now! Now! Now!” He shoved the boy roughly on his way. The lad stumbled, but took off at such a speed, he might have been one of Harkness’s own runners.

  “Barstow, stay here,” said Harkness. “If anyone comes looking for me, tell them we’ve gone—”

  “To the main dressing room, yes, sir.”

  With that, Harkness plunged after Dr. Arnold into the theater’s depths.

  It quickly became clear to Harkness that the Theatre Royal was a place where it would be easy to quietly kill a man. There seemed to be a thousand staircases and private rooms. He’d been in rookeries that admitted more light than these hallways. Hammers, awls, and lengths of stout rope, not to mention bags of sand, sharp-edged trowels, and lead weights, had been stacked in every other corner.

  Harkness was in no way surprised to see a mob clogging the passage at the top of the narrow stairs. People exclaimed and craned their necks and tried to cram themselves into what must have been the dressing room’s doorway. Not that Adam could see it through the wall of backs and shoulders. “Here now! Clear out!” shouted Dr. Arnold, bouncing up and down on his toes. “Clear out! Martin! James! You! And you!” He jabbed his fingers at men in smocks and leather breeches. “Clear these people out of here!”

  “Allow me, Dr. Arnold. All right!” Harkness bellowed. “Bow Street’s here! Make way! Make way!”

  Harkness began grabbing shoulders and pushing the spectators toward the men Dr. Arnold had named. This raised a ruckus, of course, but Arnold’s men were a rough and ready bunch, and a path was cleared to the dressing room in fairly short order.

  Dr. Arnold dove forward through the open doorway, but in the next instant reeled back.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped, clutching at Harkness’s sleeve. “I’m sorry. I . . .”

  Harkness pushed past the man, and saw at once the reason for his distress. He was used to scenes of violence, and had caused more than one himself, but this was a grim sight. There was blood, in quantity. It fouled the walls as well as the floor. In the middle of this grim setting, a half-dressed man lay on his back. One hand was flung out, the other clutched at the dagger in his chest. It was so horrible and so dramatic that for a brief and unworthy moment, Harkness wondered if it had been staged.

  “Close the door behind me,” he said to Arnold. “Get your man Park to stand there. No one who is not a patrolman is to come in.”

  With that, Adam stepped into the dressing room. The smell was already bad, but Harkness ignored that. He crouched down beside the dead man, and gently closed his still, startled eyes.

  Cavendish had not been long dead. There was still some slight warmth to the corpse and Harkness was able to move his hand from the weapon that killed him. It seemed Mr. Cavendish had either been in the act of dressing or undressing. His collar and laces were loose, and his shirt opened almost to the waist. The linen strip of his cravat lay nearby. There was no sign that Harkness could see of any bruises on his face or his hands. It was difficult to tell, but it looked like it was a single blow that had dispatched him, straight to the heart.

  Harkness pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and freed the knife from the corpse’s chest.

  It was an incongruously pretty thing. A thin, double-edged blade. Not a kitchen knife, nor yet such a knife as a ruffian would carry for mischief or defense. It was more delicate than a Scotsman’s dirk. Almost flimsy. The handle was chased silver and enamel. This was a decoration, not a tool. But for all that, the tip and the edges were quite sharp.

  Expensive tastes or expensive friends? Harkness wrapped the knife carefully and stowed it in the interior pocket of his coat.

  Someone—possibly the murderer, but possibly the constable or someone else—had st
epped in some of the blood while it was wet. None of the streaks and splotches, unfortunately, was so clear as to be recognizable as a footprint. Harkness looked at these unhelpful smudges and muttered several equally unhelpful oaths.

  He straightened up then and surveyed the room. There were no immediate indications of robbery. The place was disordered, but it was only the natural disorder of a much-used room. The two mirrored dressing tables were notable for the sort of perfect organization usually found in the room of a woman with a very persnickety lady’s maid. The two wardrobes were closed up. No drawers hung open, no boxes or papers lay on the floor. The remainder of the furniture was upright and in its places.

  No struggle then. No fight for the knife. Cavendish had either known his murderer, or had been taken entirely by surprise.

  Or both.

  There was a knock at the door. “A Ned Barstow here, sir,” called a voice, presumably belonging to Arnold’s fellow Parks. “Says he’s one of yours.”

  “He is,” agreed Harkness. “Come in, Barstow. Carefully.”

  Barstow opened the door slowly. Harkness put himself between the constable and the dead man, but Barstow clearly had gotten hold of himself and was able to speak fairly steadily.

  “Word’s come from the coroner, sir. They want us to bring the body to the Brown Bear. Sir David Royce will meet it, us, there.”

  “All right.” It was the usual practice to hold both the examination and the inquest at a public house. “Tell Goutier to find us a cart and a sheet and another fellow with a stout stomach.”

  “Yessir.” Barstow retreated, and closed the door again.

  Unfortunately, a more thorough search of the room revealed nothing helpful. If anything had been removed, it was nothing that left a trace. There was a purse with several bank notes and some coins. There was a watch and chain, and Cavendish’s diamond ring still glimmered on his bloody hand.

  “Well, Mr. Cavendish, what is it you’ve done?” muttered Harkness. “Because it looks to me like someone came here with the sole aim of seeing you dead.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Consequences of Staying Out Late

  I would earnestly implore all who are anxious to form an impartial judgment not only to note minutely the precise time of every incident, but to consider its importance to him who is a villain of no ordinary stamp.

  —The Trial of Birch vs. Neal for Criminal Conversation

  “Miss Thorne.” Mrs. Seymore rose from her sofa, her hands alternately twisting together and smoothing her hair down. “I . . . Thank you so much for coming. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  Dawn was breaking over the rooftops as Rosalind and Mrs. Kendricks entered Mrs. Seymore’s parlor. Though elegantly appointed, the room was dark and cold. Only one lamp had been lit and the coals were still banked in the hearth. But that poor light was enough to show Rosalind that Mrs. Seymore’s strength and poise had both dissolved and left her trembling.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Seymore. You are not well.” Rosalind hurried to the other woman’s side. Mrs. Seymore was white as milk and her ringlets hung randomly about her ears and shoulders. She was still dressed in an evening gown of embroidered blue silk and Italian glass beads. That dress was ruined now, its hems splashed with mud and worse. Rosalind indulged in several unhelpful and impolite thoughts regarding the servants of the house who had left their mistress in such a state. Indeed, the only maid in evidence was a thin, pale girl with dark rings under her eyes and her cap perched crookedly on her disordered hair.

  Mrs. Kendricks, of course, took in the situation with a single glance. “You,” she said to the little maid. “Where is the housekeeper? Your mistress needs tea, and food. And another lamp, and someone must get that fire lit.”

  The orders startled the girl into life, or at least into a hurried curtsy. “Yes, ma’am,” she yelped. “And Mrs. Nott’s just come, miss, she don’t live in . . . an’ . . . I didn’t know . . .”

  “Take me to the kitchen.” Mrs. Kendricks put firm hands on the girl’s shoulder and steered her out the side door.

  There was a silk shawl discarded across the sofa’s back. Rosalind grabbed this up to wrap around Mrs. Seymore’s shoulders.

  “Thank you. I . . . thank you,” Margaretta murmured as she clutched at the shawl’s ends. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing to offer, there’s nothing to . . .” Her words broke off and she gazed instead at her hands. “I can’t stop shaking.”

  “You’ve had a shock.” Rosalind gently pressed Mrs. Seymore to sit back down. “We’ll have you warm in a minute. But you must tell me what’s happened.”

  Another spasm shook Margaretta, and for a moment Rosalind feared she might descend into active hysterics. Perhaps a simpler question.

  “Where is Captain Seymore?” she tried, but Mrs. Seymore shook her head violently.

  “I don’t know. I have not seen him since . . . since . . . Dear God.” She pressed her hand against her mouth. “Since after dinner.”

  “But how did you find out Mr. Cavendish had died?”

  Mrs. Seymore swallowed again. “I was . . . I went there. I saw him.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a flotilla of servants. A great, grim-faced housekeeper in impeccable black, her hair braided into a coronet around her head, carried in a huge silver tray, heavily loaded with rolls, cheeses, a cold pork pie, and most welcome of all, a pot of tea. While Mrs. Kendricks relieved her of this burden, the Seymores’ housekeeper at once sent her troops scurrying to fetch blankets and light the fire. Rosalind lit the lamps to drive back the darkness and then went to throw open the curtains.

  In short order, Mrs. Seymore was wrapped in stout wool with a hot cup of tea in her hands and seated in front of the fresh hearth. Rosalind nodded thanks to her own servant, and received in return only a look of resignation.

  Mrs. Seymore gulped the tea down and shuddered, but this time it was from the scalding heat. “Do you think . . . you think someone will be sent? The constables? B-bailiffs? I can’t, I won’t, I . . . the scandal . . .”

  “Until I have more information from you, I cannot say what will happen,” Rosalind told her firmly. “You must try to speak calmly of what you saw, or I can do nothing.”

  “Yes. Of course. Forgive me. I . . . just . . .” Margaretta shuddered again.

  Rosalind was relieved to see someone had put a bottle of brandy on the tray and she used it now to liberally dose Mrs. Seymore’s tea. That, and a roll thickly spread with butter and jam, seemed to be having some good effect. At least Margaretta’s color improved.

  “Start from the beginning,” said Rosalind. “What was the first thing that occurred this evening?”

  “The captain’s brother came to supper,” said Mrs. Seymore promptly.

  Rosalind nodded. “This would be Sir Bertram Seymore? The one you said might be writing the insinuating letters?”

  Mrs. Seymore nodded. “We ate. Turbot, roasted pheasant, and apple pie for dessert. The captain and his brother retired for port and cigars. I took my tea alone in the parlor, and then went up to dress. We had an invitation out.” Margaretta’s hands trembled, sloshing the remains of the tea in her cup. “When I came down to inquire if the captain was ready to go, I found his brother had departed, and the captain was beginning to get drunk. This was not a surprise. Neither was the way he spoke to me.” The weight of her domestic troubles leveled Mrs. Seymore’s voice, and returned some color to her faded cheeks. “He was lurching between protestations that he loved me and wanted all to be right between us, and complaints of my various faults and promising he would be revenged.

  “This, Miss Thorne, was his brother’s influence. I knew from experience the best thing to do was to simply pretend I heard and understood none of it. I asked Captain Seymore if he meant to come out with me. He laughed and said he’d surely meet me later. I left him in the company of his bottle and his bile.”r />
  Rosalind thought of how Captain Seymore had hammered on Fletcher Cavendish’s door and how clearly he’d expected his wife to be there. Who had told him where to look for her? Was it his brother? If Sir Bertram was a frequent guest, he could have easily bribed a servant to gain information about Mrs. Seymore’s movements.

  “So you went alone to . . .”

  “A card party and late supper at the Ralph Hoffmans’. I was there for some little while. Then . . .”

  Hoffmans. Cavendish had mentioned that name during their dinner. “Then what? Then where?”

  Mrs. Seymore set her cup and plate aside on the table at her elbow. Those hands were steady now, Rosalind noted. “I admit, it had been arranged I should meet Fletcher, but not at the theater,” she said. “He was supposed to come to the Hoffmans’ after his own supper, to tell me his impressions of you.” She glanced sideways, but Rosalind kept her face impassive.

  “But Fletcher, Mr. Cavendish that is, did not arrive at the Hoffmans’,” Mrs. Seymore went on. “And as it was nearly two in the morning, I confess, I was concerned. So I decided I would go to his hotel and find out what delayed him.”

  Alone at night, you went to the hotel of a man who was not a relation, but whom you swear was not your paramour. That portion of Rosalind which still regarded propriety to be as necessary as breathing shuddered.

  “I waited in the ladies’ parlor at the hotel while one of the staff took up a note,” Mrs. Seymore went on. “But although he knocked and called at Mr. Cavendish’s door, there had been no answer. Ordinarily, I would have simply gone home, but the manager knows me and he told me he had seen Fletcher go back to the theater.”