by Darcie Wilde
Devon patted his horse’s side, trying to keep her calm, and distract her from the culinary possibilities represented by Rosalind’s best straw bonnet. “I do,” he said. “I saw her as well.”
Rosalind felt her shoulders curl in on themselves, felt herself huddling, shrinking. “I knew it,” she murmured. “I didn’t want to really, but . . . It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her recently.”
Devon frowned. “Where else?”
“You must promise not to ask how I got there.”
“I promise.”
“It was in Graham’s Club.”
Devon looked at her for a long time, but he honored his promise and asked no questions. He also did not fail to understand what finding her sister in such a place might mean. “In that case,” he said, “it might be better for you both if you simply let her remain lost.”
“Could you let your sister remain lost?”
“I’m ashamed to say I probably could.”
“I don’t believe you,” Rosalind said.
Devon smiled at this, but it was quite unlike his usual expression. This smile was bitter and tight. Rosalind felt cold disquiet stir inside her. But then the smile was gone, and it was only the familiar and comfortable Devon beside her.
Familiar, comfortable, and kind. “I could make some inquiries if you wanted,” he said.
She did want inquiries. But Rosalind found she didn’t want Devon to be the one to make them. She wanted to hide the shame that would surely come with the discovery of Charlotte’s location. But Devon had already guessed that her sister must have fallen into some sort of disgrace, so any desire for concealment was pointless. And who else could she trust as much as she trusted Devon? Who else, indeed, would know Charlotte on sight, like she did?
“I think she’s using the name ‘Cynthia.’”
Devon nodded once more. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thank you.”
They had reached the park gates by now. The church bells began their ragged tolling. Dinnertime, they said. Evening is approaching, time for all to lay aside their sensible daytime selves and prepare for the gay, giddy, and fashionable night.
“Rosalind?”
“Yes?”
“I’m planning on taking Louisa for a drive to see the new Waterloo Bridge on Sunday. It has nothing to do with the theater and actors so she might just find it bearable. Will you join us?”
Rosalind allowed herself a moment’s hesitation. There were so many reasons not to do this, and at least a dozen of them referenced the emotions that stirred in her each time she came near Adam Harkness. And yet here was Devon, and he was familiar and close and trying so hard to come back while she was trying so very hard to run away. And to what exactly?
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
CHAPTER 25
The Events Backstage
Her wit electrified all the fashionable world, and her dancing and acting made the fortune of the entrepreneur.
—Captain Rees Howell Gronow,
Anecdotes of the Camp, the Court, and the Clubs
The crowd around the Theatre Royal had not thinned at all in the hours since Mr. Cavendish’s death had become known, but its nature had changed. Now, instead of the honest laboring classes and other passersby who had been there at the spur of the moment, it was composed of prosperously dressed girls and youths. Many wore black and clutched white lilies or red roses in their hands. These blossoms were laid reverently in front of the theater door. Those inclined to less dramatic display simply lingered on the cobbles, exclaiming over the murder and the mourners and the probable outcome of tomorrow’s inquest.
Of course, there were the inevitable broadsheet and play book peddlers rubbing shoulders with the sellers of commemorative miniatures, penny portraits, and engravings. The print shops must have had their people awake all night to create the supply.
But for all this assorted activity, the gathering was entirely peaceable. The mourners might weep, and one girl collapsed into the arms of her friends, but no one approached the constables stationed at the theater doors, or made any untoward disturbance in the lane, or in the alley or the yard.
Having satisfied himself that the peace was being adequately kept, Adam made his way inside to Dr. Arnold’s office.
“Ah, Mr. Harkness.” The theater manager shook his hand. “Thank you for coming. We’ve gotten the notice from the coroner.” He held up the letter. “Tomorrow then?”
“Yes. The coroner’s decided it’s more important to get the verdict in than it is to grant us an extra day to gather some last bits of information,” Harkness told him, leaving out mention of the long meeting with Mr. Townsend that had preceded this decision. “I gather from your letter that you’ve determined no money’s gone missing from the strong room?”
“None, and all the drafts were likewise accounted for. Is it ridiculous I should be feeling disappointed at that?”
“No,” said Harkness. “I’d be glad of such a simple motive as burglary. But as it is, there’s nothing for it but to keep looking. I appreciate you arranging for Mr. Kean and Mrs. West to speak with me.”
Dr. Arnold waved this away. “They are actors, sir. They will not deny themselves an audience, however small. We should have them with us momentarily. In fact!” Arnold paused and held up his hand. “I hear their delicate tread in the passage even now.”
Proving he also did not mind the occasional dramatic gesture, Dr. Arnold got to his feet and flung open the door. Edmund Kean, who had discarded his borrowed cloak and doublet in favor of a precisely tailored pea green coat and buff breeches, laughed in surprise. He bowed deeply to the woman who stood beside him and gestured that she should enter the office first.
As she did, the woman lifted her lace veil to reveal an oval face of pure and clean lines, but what riveted Harkness were her eyes. Large, shining, and a brilliant green, they slanted catlike above her cheekbones. She wore no cosmetics, which surprised Harkness a little. She also saw he was staring, and she smiled as if she and Mr. Harkness were sharing an entirely private joke.
“Mr. Adam Harkness,” said Dr. Arnold. “May I present Mrs. Frederic West. Mrs. West, Adam Harkness, principal officer of Bow Street.”
Harkness bowed, and tried to remember how to speak without stammering.
“It is very good to meet you, Mr. Harkness,” she said. Her voice was light and clear, not dulcet, not sultry, but entirely matter-of-fact, which made it comfortable to listen to her. “You will forgive the drama of the veil. I thought with the crowds still about, it might be better to proceed incognito.” She smiled, again giving the impression of the two having shared a joke. “You are surprised an actress would not seek publicity?”
“I’d expect a true actress to know how to time her entrance,” replied Harkness.
Kean threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, very good, Harkness.” He settled himself into one of the chairs set out. Dr. Arnold pushed one forward for Mrs. West, who accepted with thanks.
“Well, Mr. Harkness, I daresay you know your business, and don’t need my interference,” said Dr. Arnold as he turned to set a tray with a brandy bottle and three glasses on his desk. “I must go speak with my director about the remainder of our season. Yes, yes, Mr. Kean,” Arnold added soothingly as the other man seemed prepared to interrupt. “The moment Mr. Harkness releases you, we will want you to join us so we may hear your thoughts on this important matter.”
Mrs. West turned just a little toward Harkness, and winked. Harkness could not keep from grinning. If Mr. Kean noticed, he gave no sign. He did, however, pull out a very large handkerchief and press it against his nose.
“Forgive me, my dear Mrs. West, but that is an unusually persistent scent you have applied.”
Mrs. West lifted her chin. “I shall be more careful next time,” she said.
&nbs
p; Harkness coughed and settled into the remaining chair. Kean also coughed, but he did put the kerchief away. “Now, sir, you see we are entirely at your disposal. How may we be of assistance to the legendary Bow Street runners in unmasking the villain who robbed us of so great a talent as Fletcher Cavendish?”
Mrs. West laughed. Like her face, the sound was pleasant and open. “I see the eulogy is progressing nicely, Edmund. Forgive him, Mr. Harkness. He is one of us who is never truly offstage. How can we help?”
“Mrs. West, I understand you were delayed at the theater the night Mr. Cavendish died.”
“I was. There was a problem with my carriage, and so I had to wait an extra hour before I could return home.”
“Did you see Mr. Cavendish during that time? Or hear, quite accidentally, any sounds from his dressing room?”
“Mr. Harkness, I have been on the stage for ten years now. If you wish me to be insulted, you will have to accuse me of something far worse than eavesdropping. Yes, as a matter of fact, I did hear voices. Loud ones, coming from Fletcher’s dressing room.”
“Man’s or woman’s?”
“I recognized Fletcher’s, of course. He bellowed at me onstage on a nightly basis. The other . . . I believe it was a woman.” She turned to Mr. Kean. “But you were there, Edmund. Did you know who it was?”
Mr. Kean went dead white. “But I was not there.”
“Edmund, don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. West, but all levity had vanished from her tone. “I saw you leaving, just before I went down for my carriage.”
“I was not there!” cried Mr. Kean. “What on earth would I be doing there? It was not even my night to perform.”
“I saw you,” insisted Mrs. West. “Do not ask me to lie for you.”
Kean leapt to his feet, rattling the tray of glasses. “I say you did not see me! How dare you, woman that you are . . .”
Slowly, Mr. Harkness climbed to his feet. “Mr. Kean, I’ll thank you to sit down,” he said. The actor opened his mouth to draw breath, but then took a second look at the man in front of him, and the way he held himself. Kean sat down.
Harkness turned to the actress. “Mrs. West, are you sure it was Mr. Kean? Could it have been someone wearing his clothes?”
She stopped. “Someone in costume? Oh, good heavens! I had not thought of it.” She paused for a long moment, her bewitching eyes flickering back and forth as she attempted to recall the scene. “I . . . I do not think I saw his . . . their face. I cannot be sure.”
Adam nodded. “Mr. Kean,” he said. “Do you keep a change of clothing in your dressing room?”
“Several. I . . . Great God!” he cried. “I assumed my man had taken them away for cleaning.”
Harkness let out a long breath. There. That was how the murderer had left the theater without the blood on his (or her) clothes being seen. Simple. Neat. Practical.
It was becoming increasingly likely that Fletcher Cavendish’s murderer had planned out his crime well ahead of time. And that he, or she, was familiar with the ways of the theater, as well as the contents of the dressing room.
“Thank you,” Harkness said. “That is very helpful.”
“It is terrible!” cried Mr. Kean. “Impersonating me! The coward! The filth! That suit cost me fifty pounds!”
“Edmund, if you don’t behave, I shall tell Dr. Arnold to send you to bed without supper,” said Mrs. West wearily. “What else, Mr. Harkness?”
Harkness suppressed a smile. “The voices you heard arguing in Mr. Cavendish’s dressing room. You said you heard some of what they said?”
“It wasn’t much, I’m afraid. I heard the word ‘money’ repeated several times, and I assumed one of Cavendish’s creditors had caught up with him.”
“You said you thought it was a woman, though.”
Mrs. West leveled her eyes at him, and her formerly warm gaze was very direct and very cold. “A woman may not be a creditor, Mr. Harkness? She may not keep a shop, wash laundry, or sew a coat?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Adam at once. “It has come to light, however, that Mrs. Seymore may have been asking Mr. Cavendish for money.”
Again the two actors looked at each other, and this time they both burst out laughing.
Adam waited until their mutual merriment faded. “I take it Mr. Cavendish had none?”
“Money ran through that man’s hands like water,” said Kean. “We are all profligates, but Cavendish was positively childlike. The man had no thought at all for the future.” Kean sobered abruptly. “As if he believed he did not have one.”
“There’s no need to be morbid, Edmund,” said Mrs. West. “Fletcher simply lived in the moment, which is fine while one’s looks hold. Eventually, it would have got him into trouble. But as it stood, he was as bad as any schoolgirl. A diamond this, a ruby that, and then give it all away to some friend, or at the gaming table.”
“Oh yes, that. He loved that.”
“I don’t understand,” said Harkness.
“Cavendish enjoyed gambling, Mr. Harkness,” said Kean. “Along with the drink and the ladies. But nothing was more enjoyable to him than to take some jewel from his finger or his breast and toss it into the middle of the highest stakes table that would have him and exclaim, ‘There! That should suffice!’”
Harkness thought about the jewel box he’d found in Caven-dish’s rooms. He also looked at Mrs. West for confirmation of this story, and she nodded. “I saw him do it more than once.”
“I have a feeling he did not tend to win these items back?”
“Oh no, that was never the point,” said Mrs. West. “The point was to make the grand gesture, in front of the audience. He loved the looks on their faces.”
“But anyone who knew him even a little knew he lived on credit,” said Kean. “He even tried to borrow from me.”
“Poor naive lamb,” murmured Mrs. West.
“Then why would Mrs. Seymore come to him for money?”
“Perhaps it was the other way around,” suggested Mrs. West. “Perhaps he was asking her for money?”
Harkness shook his head but did not elaborate. “Is there anything else you can say about that night? We know that Mrs. Seymore was at the theater, not once but twice.”
“Ah!” sighed Mr. Kean. “The divine Mrs. Seymore. Now there’s a woman who was meant to be on the stage.”
“No,” said Mrs. West. “It would not suit her at all.”
“Jealous, my dear?” asked Mr. Kean.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. West again. “But I’ve met the divine Margaretta. She’s very good at flirting with her gentlemen friends, and she is a wonder with a sentimental ballad, but she’s brittle. Her character was flawed in the firing somehow. I think she knows this, but she doesn’t want anyone else to. That means she spends all her time trying to cover up something no one is looking for, and she gets very afraid when someone might just be examining her too closely.”
“Did Cavendish love her?” Harkness asked. “Is it possible he had been hectoring her into leaving her husband for him?”
Mrs. West gave a small bark of laughter and at once pressed her hand against her mouth. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mr. Harkness, but that is simply unimaginable. Cavendish was not a predator, much less a tragic hero. He did not chase women nor fall begging at their feet. He was a serpent. He stood still and fascinated the pretty birds until they came to him.”
“Did he fascinate you?”
As soon as the question was out of his mouth, Harkness expected Mrs. West to take offense. But she did not. “No. He never took up with his lead lady while the play was running. It was bad for the show, he said. But he did inform me that he fully intended to let me come to him as soon as our run was finished.” She glanced owlishly at Adam. “Now you intend to ask if I agreed to it.”
“No,” said Harkness. He kept hi
s attention on Mrs. West, because he had a feeling if he had a clear look at that grin Mr. Kean was leveling at him, he’d be tempted to wipe it off the man’s face.
“I will tell you anyway,” said Mrs. West mildly. “I did consider it, briefly. But I decided it was probably not worth the trouble.”
“What would that trouble have been for you?”
“When a man lives as Cavendish lived, he is apt to leave some broken hearts and other such complications behind him. When choosing my particular friends, I prefer to select from among those less encumbered.”
Do not stare, Adam, Harkness instructed himself. That thoughtful look is not for you. Except perhaps it was. It certainly was not for Mr. Kean, who was grinning again, damn his insolence.
“What of the criminal conversation suit?” Harkness asked. “Did that worry him at all?”
Kean and Mrs. West looked at each other, questioning. At the same time, they shook their heads.
“He never even mentioned it. Usually he did not mention them unless he found the gentleman particularly amusing or annoying.”
“And there was no one else who came regularly to his dressing room? No one he owed a particularly large sum to? No woman with whom he was particularly entangled?”
They both denied this, then each mentioned a name for the other’s consideration, only to have it promptly voted down.
Damn, thought Harkness. “Thank you. There is just one other thing. I am going to show you both something, and I need to ask if you recognize it.”
He unwrapped the knife and held it up for them to inspect.
“‘Is this a dagger which I see before me?’” murmured Kean.
“Not now, Edmund,” said Mrs. West. “It is in very poor taste. To answer your question, Mr. Harkness, no, I have never seen that thing before in my life. Mr. Kean?”
But Mr. Kean just shook his head. “I’m sorry to say it, but no.”
“Then it did not belong to Mr. Cavendish?”
Kean shrugged. “That I could not swear to. I do know he didn’t keep it about the dressing room. I would say, however, it doesn’t look like his style.”