Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  "Tell me what?"

  "I'm going to The Alhambra Theater. Hear me out," I said before he could order me to stay at home. "I know you don't think Lord Harcourt's meetings with Lady Harcourt are of importance to the investigation, but it seems to me you've come up empty handed so far. It can't hurt to at least cross it off as a possible reason for Buchanan's disappearance."

  He considered me in silence for a moment then inclined his head in a nod. "I'll drive you. Be sure to take the walking stick and hire a hackney for the journey home." He fished some coins out of his pocket and handed them to me. "And take an umbrella. Dark clouds are approaching."

  I accepted the coins in silence, too dumbfounded by how easily he'd acquiesced. Gus fetched an umbrella from the hallstand and I decided to use it instead of a walking stick. Taking both was too cumbersome.

  We took the brougham. Gus kept me company in the cabin while Lincoln and Seth occupied the driver's box seat. He grumbled much of the way to Leicester Square, complaining how he was "no toff" and shouldn't be sitting inside like a lady.

  "At least it's warmer in here," I reassured him.

  He slouched into the seat. Honestly, there was no pleasing some people.

  I waved them off from the pavement outside The Alhambra. The theater was Moorish in design, as befitted its name, with arches and columns in abundance, and domes topping the crenelated roof. The main doors were locked, and I was about to knock when someone strode up to the smaller door at the side and pushed it open.

  "Excuse me." I hurried over to him as fast as my hobbling gait allowed. "Do you work here?"

  "The theater is closed," he tossed back at me. "There is no matinee today."

  "My name is Miss Charlotte Holloway."

  "Holloway?" The gentleman finally looked at me. He took in my umbrella and cloak then removed his bowler and bowed. "Pleased to meet you. Mr. Jonathon Golightly, at your service."

  "I wish to speak to someone who works at this establishment. Preferably someone who has been employed here for some years."

  "I work here." The smile he gave me as he straightened was rather dashing, particularly coupled with his pencil-thin moustache and sharp beard. I pegged him to be about fifty or so, but he was unlike any man of that age that I'd met. For one thing, his waistcoat was the brightest fuchsia and he wore a cravat, not a tie. "I'm the stage manager at The Alhambra and have been so for some eight years. Prior to that, I was an actor, also here. Would you like to come inside?"

  "Thank you. You're very kind."

  He opened the door for me and I found myself in the promenade, an area that encircled the entire theater. It was eerily quiet. While I'd never been inside The Alhambra before, I'd often peeked through the windows as I lay in wait for a drunkard to stumble out. The handsomely dressed gentlemen, mingling alongside pretty barmaids and leggy dancers, had dazzled me as much as the richly colored carpet and the gilt-edged arches. But daylight and emptiness revealed the stains, the gaudiness, and the cobwebs hugging the corners.

  "Come through to my office, Miss Holloway." He led the way along the promenade, past the bar and through a door. "Mind your step down this short flight." His voice was light, his steps short and quick. He had to stop frequently to wait for me.

  Mr. Golightly led me through to a small office. A series of colorful posters were laid out on the desk, advertising a variety performance for the spring. Someone had written corrections across them in a large, looping hand.

  "Please be seated, Miss Holloway." A piano struck up a tune deep inside the building and a clear female voice instructed, "Higher, higher!"

  "Rehearsals for tonight's ballet," Mr. Golightly told me. "Miss Redding!"

  A moment later, a tall, slender woman with a severe part through the center of her blonde curls glided into the office with a grace that reminded me of Lady Harcourt. She seemed to move without so much as a flutter of her skirt hem. Unlike Lady H, however, she wore a simple woolen dress striped in two shades of brown and a matching jacket in a style that showed off her tiny waist. She wore color on her lips and cheeks, perhaps hoping to detract from her pockmarked complexion. Unfortunately, it did not.

  "Yes, Mr. Golightly?" It was difficult to tell how old she was. Her golden hair and slender figure suggested twenties, while the lines around her mouth and eyes made her seem at least mid-thirties.

  "Tea, please, Miss Redding. I have a guest." He beamed at me and once again took in my rich velvet cloak with its intricate embroidery. "This is Miss Holloway."

  Miss Redding wasn't quite so interested in my clothing. Her gaze remained on my face as she smiled a tentative greeting. "Right away, Mr. Golightly. The water has just boiled."

  "Miss Redding is my assistant," he told me as she disappeared. "A most valuable asset to the theater."

  "Has she been your assistant long?"

  "Only a year or two, but she's been at The Alhambra for considerably longer. She used to dance here."

  I made a mental note of the fact. "I have a rather strange series of questions to ask you, sir. At least, they may seem strange to you."

  He leaned back in his chair behind the desk and rested his elbows on the chair arms. "How intriguing."

  "Do you know anyone by the name of Estelle Mary Pearson?"

  He shook his head. "The name is not familiar to me."

  I didn't think there was a link, since the name hadn't been mentioned on the same pages as the theater, but asking couldn't hurt. "What about someone with the initials D.D?"

  "That could refer to anyone."

  "Only to someone with the initials D.D."

  "Quite right," he said with a laugh. A nervous laugh, if I wasn't mistaken.

  "This D.D. is a woman, and she would have worked here a few years ago."

  He clasped his fingers together and pressed them to his lips as he thought. "No, I'm afraid I don't know any Miss D.Ds."

  I had not said she was unmarried. "Not a single one?"

  Another shake of his head. "I'm afraid not. Ah, here's Miss Redding with the tea."

  Miss Redding backed into the room then turned gracefully and placed the tray on top of one of the posters. She poured and handed me a cup with a smile.

  "I hope you'll stay a few moments more," Mr. Golightly said. "Perhaps I can give you a tour of the auditorium. We might even catch a few moments of the rehearsal." The piano player completed the tune with a flourish, but no applause followed, only a shouted direction to begin again.

  "That's very kind of you," I said. "But I do have more questions, as it happens."

  His face tightened, ever so slightly, but the friendly smile remained in place as if it were painted on. "Indeed. May I inquire something of you first, Miss Holloway?"

  "Of course."

  "What relation are you to Mr. Holloway of Belgravia? Cousin? Sister?"

  "I'm afraid I don't know a Mr. Holloway from Belgravia."

  His smile slipped off. He dropped his cup in the saucer with a loud clank, causing Miss Redding to pause on her way out. She narrowed her gaze first at her employer, then me.

  "You are not here to discuss investing in The Alhambra at Mr. Icarus Holloway's request?"

  "No, I'm here to make inquiries about Miss D.D. and a certain woman once known as Julia Templeton, before her marriage to Lord Harcourt."

  Miss Redding's gasp was almost drowned out by the piano. She tried to cover it with a cough. And then she did the most extraordinary thing. She screwed up her face as if she'd tasted something sour, huffed out a miffed sound through her nose, and exited the office.

  "I am sorry, Miss Holloway," said Mr. Golightly, rising. "I know no one by the name of Templeton, Harcourt or D.D. Allow me to assist you up the stairs." He extended his hand toward the door, his forced smile once more in place.

  It would seem I wouldn't even be allowed a single sip of my tea. I followed him out of the office and up the stairs to the public part of the theater. This time he did not offer me a hand or friendly smile, and left me there alone, in the g
audily decorated promenade, to find my own way out. It was the most fortunate turn of events that I could have hoped for.

  Once he was out of sight, I reopened the door and headed back the way we'd come, my ears alert for any sounds beyond those of the piano. Mr. Golightly's office door was closed, thank goodness, so I continued further into the bowels of the theater. The corridor was narrow and airless, its musty smell not at all pleasant. The housemaid in me saw dust and cobwebs at every turn, but not even a thorough clean could hide the peeling paint, scratched skirting and patches of mold.

  I found Miss Redding in a small kitchenette near the end of the corridor. She just stood there, her fingertips pressed to the scratched surface of the small table, her head bowed as if she were praying or thinking. I cleared my throat, and she jerked in surprise.

  "Miss Holloway!" She smiled and peered past me. "Is Mr. Golightly with you?"

  "He was called away." I hoped he didn't suddenly appear behind me and order me off the premises. "Forgive me, but I couldn't help noticing your reaction when I mentioned Lady Harcourt. Did you know her?" There was no time for subtlety or veiled questions. I would have to be blunt if I wanted answers before Mr. Golightly discovered I had not immediately vacated the premises.

  "I…" She shot a glance to the doorway and bit her lip.

  "Perhaps a little privacy for such a delicate matter is required." I shut the door and gave her my sweetest smile.

  "May I ask what this is about?"

  "Of course you may, but I must press upon you the need for discretion. You see, there are rumors circulating that connect Lady Harcourt to The Alhambra, and her husband's family would like to have them confirmed or denied."

  "His family?"

  "Yes. He's dead, you see."

  "I know that."

  "The family hopes the rumors will prove false, which I'm sure they are. They're quite scandalous in nature." And you, Charlie, are quite the liar. I blamed my misspent youth and an insatiable curiosity regarding Lady Harcourt. It had become more and more obvious to me that she must be associated with The Alhambra. I also hoped that I'd read Miss Redding's reaction correctly. She did not like Lady H.

  "Of course." Miss Redding tilted her chin and her eyes brightened with an unkind gleam. I wondered if she'd been waiting to impart gossip about Lady Harcourt for some time. "I'm not one to spread rumors, you understand," she began.

  "I understand completely. A woman in your position must be the soul of discretion."

  "Indeed. I detest gossips, and Lord knows this place is filled with loose lips. But I must make an exception in this case if, as you say, the gentleman's family wishes to know."

  "They do. Most sincerely. You can be assured that your name will not be associated with any information I pass on. Anything you tell me will only be kept within the family too."

  "Oh." She seemed quite put out by that. Was she hoping the gossip would reach the newspapers? If so, she could have skipped this interview and gone directly to the editors of the more low-brow weeklies. They would have fallen over themselves to print something scandalous about the late Baron of Harcourt's second wife. "You're right, Miss Holloway," she said, rallying. "That good family doesn't deserve to be duped any longer, do they?"

  "Duped, Miss Redding?"

  She stepped closer and dipped her head. Being quite a lot taller than me, she had to dip it further to whisper in my ear. "Lady Harcourt has a…a past." She said it as if the very word tasted foul.

  To London's elite, a lady harboring any scandal in her background was indeed shameful and would ordinarily be scorned, ridiculed and ultimately drummed out of the best circles. She could not hope to marry well and would never be asked to so much as drink tea alongside a respectable lady. A lady with a past had no hope of dragging her good name out of the mud—ever. A past clung to her forever, like a stain on her very soul.

  It was why I could never be more than a housemaid. As a vicar's daughter, I might have married above my station and been admitted to polite society. But as a waif who'd lived on the street for five years, marriage to a pig farmer was more than I could aspire to. It was fortunate, then, that I had no intentions of marrying anyone, since Lincoln had declared himself unavailable.

  "Did she work here?" I asked the stage manager's assistant. "Do you remember her when she was known as Julia Templeton?"

  "I do. We were dancers together on that very stage."

  "You were a dancer? How marvelous. I could see from your bearing and grace that you were a cut above the average." My shameless flattery earned me a smile from Miss Redding, albeit a wary one. I'd best not lay it on too thick, or she might detect my insincerity. "Thank you for confirming my suspicion about Lady Harcourt. How did she come to dance here? Her father was a schoolmaster, wasn't he? Weren't her family appalled at her decision to dance at The Alhambra?"

  "How should I know? Anyway, beggars can't be choosers, so I always say. She's not the first girl from a respectable family who had to put her dainty little toes on those boards out there, and she won't be the last."

  "She needed the money?"

  "So we all assumed. Her father died and her mother was ill, so she said, and she squirreled away every penny, half starving herself to hoard her wages."

  My sympathies for Lady Harcourt rose, and I felt awful for thinking ill of her. Of course she must have been poor to accept work as a dancer. No respectable girl would dream of doing so unless she were desperate. "Why not work as a governess?" I said, more to myself.

  Miss Redding sniffed. "She made sure to tell us that her dancing career would be a temporary one, and that she would be leaving as soon as she could secure an appropriate position in a respectable household. Indeed, she reminded us of this frequently."

  "Did she catch the eye of Lord Harcourt from the stage?"

  "Blimey, no. She wasn't a very good dancer, but she had the sort of figure men notice."

  Unlike Miss Redding and myself. She was tall and slender while I was short and still rather skinny. Neither of us could claim a bosom to rival Lady Harcourt's.

  "He noticed her in the promenade at interval," she went on. "When she found out who he was, she latched onto him pretty quick." The more she spoke, the more her accent changed from the crisp tones of an efficient assistant, to the flat vowels of a working class girl. "He weren't the first gentleman to notice her, mind, but he were the richest and had a title and all. He was also in need of a wife. When Miss D.D. learned that, she wouldn't let the other girls near him."

  "Was Miss D.D her stage name?"

  Miss Redding nodded. "We all had stage names what we gave out to the gentlemen at interval. Mr. Golightly didn't want us using our real ones. He said it kept us safe."

  "Mr. Golightly is probably correct. So Miss D.D. captured Lord Harcourt's attention and the rest, as they say, is history."

  "That's right. But…" She leaned down close again. "He weren't her first…admirer. Not by a long shot."

  "A woman like that would have many admirers, I'm sure. She's quite beautiful."

  Miss Redding lifted her hand and seemed to be about to touch her scarred face in a self-conscious move, but at the last moment patted her bouncy curls. "She knew it, too. At first she were shy, out there on the promenade, but after one or two bucks showed some interest, she learned mighty quick how to attract 'em. After less than a week here, she was batting her lashes at the gentlemen, and lowering her costume at her chest and hitching it high up her leg. Shameless, she was. Course, the gentleman fell over themselves to buy her drinks or give her gifts."

  "Gifts?"

  "Fans, combs, baubles. She kept some and sold others."

  "This is very interesting, Miss Redding, and thank you for the information. But what I don't understand is, how could she go from that life to her current one and not a whiff of it reach society?"

  She shrugged. "Toffs only see what they want to see. Miss D.D. wore a blonde wig and painted her lips. She also put on a hat when she were out on the promenade, something
with feathers or veils to cover her face. No one knew her real name, not even us, but I learned it after I saw her likeness in the papers when she married Lord Harcourt."

  That did explain the anonymity. It would be inconceivable to the society matrons that a dancer could elevate herself to a baron's wife, so they'd never suspect. "It was good of you not to reveal her secret."

  She humphed. "Mr. Golightly pretended the new Lady Harcourt in the papers weren't our Miss D.D. but a lookalike. Then he threatened to dismiss anyone who breathed a word, which only told us she were Miss D.D." She laughed a brittle cackle that made me feel even more sorry for Lady Harcourt. Her secret hung by a tenuous thread that was in very real danger of snapping one day. "I suspect he got paid handsomely, and still does, to keep mum. Now, Miss Holloway, if you will answer something for me."

  I backed a little toward the door. "If I can."

  "Who really wants to know about Lady Harcourt's past? The newspapers?"

  "I told you, Lord Harcourt's family."

  "I doubt that." Her eyes flashed as she stepped toward me. "You're too young and the wrong sex to be a private inquiry agent, and I happen to know that Lord Harcourt's family are already aware of his widow's past."

  I halted my retreat. "They are?"

  She nodded. "At least one member, anyway."

  "Her stepson," I said on a breath. "Andrew Buchanan."

  She seemed surprised that I'd guessed. "You know how he knows about her then?"

  "Not quite."

  "What I'm about to tell you will come as quite a shock. You must prepare yourself, Miss Holloway, as your fiancé has a past as colorful as his stepmother's."

  My eyes almost popped out of my head. "My what?"

  "You're hoping to marry him, aren't you?"

  "Uh, yes. How did you know?"

  "I see you're from good family." She fingered my velvet cloak. It almost completely hid my maid's uniform except for the bottom half of the skirt. "You're young and pretty, just the sort he likes." Her finger brushed the underside of my jaw. "And all these questions can only mean you're trying to solve a puzzle about your intended's family. Perhaps your own parents have voiced concerns about Lady Harcourt's origins, so you took it upon yourself to learn more. Did Mr. Buchanan hint about The Alhambra so you decided to start here?"