Truth and Beauty (His Majesty's Theatre Book 3)

by Christina Britton Conroy

  Sir William blustered. “Good Lord! Don’t they know it’s Christmas? What do they want?”

  “Something to do with a young man, sir. They asked to see Your Lord and Ladyship.”

  “What young man? Oh, for God’s sake. Tell them to come back tomorrow.”

  Sitting up, Isabelle noticed the butler’s soaking jacket and trousers. “Smythe, please ask the gentlemen to come in. After that, you’d best find yourself some dry clothes.”

  “Very good, madam. And thank you.” He hurried away, shivering.

  As Isabelle crammed her feet back into her shoes, Sir William stood up. “How dare they? This is frightful, absolutely frightful. Can’t a man enjoy a moment’s…”

  A tall, grey-haired man with a large moustache strolled purposefully into the room. Even holding a soaking bowler hat and wearing a shapeless raincoat, the man had a commanding presence. A younger, shorter man, similarly dressed, followed close behind. The elder man held out a warrant card.

  “Sorry to disturb you, M’ Lord, M’ Lady. Dreadful weather, especially for Christmas. I’d rather be home, myself, by a warm fire, but unpleasant business doesn’t wait. I’m Chief Inspector Hayes, from Scotland Yard. This is Sergeant Taylor.”

  “What do you want?” Refusing to look at him, Sir William huffed, plopping into an armchair.

  Used to being snubbed by the upper classes, the Chief Inspector took his time. After folding his warrant card into his vest pocket, he comfortably placed his hands behind his back, rocking on thick soles of large, sturdy boots. The young sergeant tucked his soaking bowler hat under his arm. He reached clumsily into his coat pocket and found a rumpled notepad and a pencil stub. Nervously licking the dull carbon tip, he opened the notepad, dropped his hat on the floor, bent over, dropped the notepad, retrieved both the hat and notepad, and slid the hat back under his arm, all the while trying not to stare at the beauteous lady-of-the-house.

  Appearing bored, Isabelle gracefully spread her satin skirt, folded her hands in her lap, and gazed blankly at the floor. When Sir William finally looked up, the Chief Inspector stopped his rocking. Reaching carefully into his coat pocket, he drew out a piece of heavy note paper. “Do you recognize this, M’ Lord?” He handed it to Sir William.

  “Of course I recognize it. It’s an invitation to our Christmas Eve ball. We sent out two-hundred of these.” He angrily passed it to Isabelle.

  She read the name on the card. “Ronald Batson. He’s the nephew of Lydia, The Duchess of Monmouth.”

  The young Sergeant gasped. “Bli’ me! You were right, sir, ‘e was a gentleman, like…”

  The Chief Inspector cut him off. “Are you well acquainted with the young gentleman, Lady Richfield?”

  “No, we never met. His aunt is a friend of mine. She told me that her seventeen-year-old nephew was visiting from India, and asked that he be allowed to escort her here, Christmas Eve. Next week he’s to be interviewed for Oxford. Since my invitations had already been sent, I wrote this one myself, purely as a courtesy. Last evening, the Duchess arrived alone. She pretended not to be cross, but I could tell that she was. She said her nephew had found new friends and was off ‘sowing wild oats'.”

  Sir William forced a laugh. “Clever lad! At seventeen, a good pint and a good wench are highly preferable to the company of one’s stuffy old Aunt.”

  Isabelle stiffened slightly.

  The Sergeant made scratchy sounds, writing with his pencil.

  The Chief Inspector took back the invitation. “Thank you, M’ Lady. Your butler told me there are young people visiting the house. Perhaps they are acquainted with the young man.”

  Isabelle chuckled softly. “I think not. The Duchess’s nephew and our young guests travel in very different circles.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to speak with them.”

  Sir William stood up, blustering, “Well, you may not speak with them. I…” He started toward the men, but stumbled to a halt as his wife silently stood and pulled the bell cord. Huffing angrily, he turned away and pretended to look out a window. They were all silent for the moment it took a footman to answer. After asking him to fetch Rory and Elly, Isabelle stared icily at her husband, and sat back down. Accustomed to waiting, the Chief Inspector calmly returned to his rocking posture. The young sergeant tried to assume the same pose, but realized he would drop everything, all over again.

  The footman found Rory hiding in the library. Sure he would be banished from the house as soon as the festivities were over, he had buried himself in a book. Obeying the footman’s summons, he soberly walked downstairs to the drawing room. Startled to see official looking, plainly clothed men, he wondered if he was being arrested for shagging Sir William's wife. He nodded soberly. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “Yes, m’ boy. These gentlemen from Scotland Yard think they have some business with you.”

  Rory thought he would pass out.

  Sir William turned to Chief Inspector Hayes. “Miss Fielding is with my little daughters, in the nursery. Surely we can we get this over, without her.”

  The Chief Inspector smiled politely. “It’s best to wait until both are present, My Lord. It saves repeating information and possibly missing something important, a second time 'round.”

  Annoyed, Sir William plopped back into his armchair. A moment later, Elly and Lucy appeared together. Sir William waved his daughter away. “Lucy dear, be a good girl and go back upstairs.”

  “Please, Papa, I want to…?”

  Isabelle softly commanded, “Do it, Lucy.”

  The girl clenched her jaw, turned about-face, and marched away.

  Isabelle patted the sofa cushion next to her. “Elly.”

  Fighting the urge to bolt, Elly looked at the two threatening men. Had her father sent them? Had they come to take her home? Was Isabelle going to lie, and say Elly was her cousin? Hoping for protection, she sat very close to Isabelle.

  The Chief Inspector looked from Rory to Elly. “I apologize for any inconvenience, but I need to know if either of you are acquainted with a young man named Ronald Baston?”

  They glanced at each other, then shook their heads.

  Sir William forced a smile. “Well, then - that’s that!” He stood to usher the men out the door.

  “Not quite, sir.” The Chief Inspector waved the paper invitation. “The young man met with foul play last evening.” The room fell still. He smiled condescendingly at Isabelle. “The details are very unpleasant, M’ Lady, so it might be best if you and the young lady…”

  Isabelle glared. “I’m sure the details will be equally unpleasant for the gentlemen. Please continue.”

  Startled by her bold words, the sergeant dropped his pencil, then picked it up again.

  “As you wish, M’ Lady.” The Chief Inspector’s face remained placid. Only a glimmer of admiration shone behind his eyes. “The young man’s body was discovered, stuffed in a bag of wool, outside a brothel.” He allowed a moment of silence, before continuing. “Most of his clothing was missing. This invitation was in the pocket of his coat, which had been wrapped around the body. Other than this, we have no idea of the young man’s identity. Since none of you ever laid eyes on Ronald Baston, I shall have to approach the Duchess’s household, in the hopes of a positive identification.”

  Isabelle closed her eyes. “Poor Lydia.”

  Sir William fumed. “Well, whoever he was, he was a damned fool. There are enough respectable houses in…” Isabelle turned her head, making him pause, then bluster more. “At seventeen, a lad needs a bit of…”

  The Chief Inspector cut him off. “This particular brothel was frequented solely by men.”

  The room fell silent again.

  “We have a search underway for the brothel owner…” The Chief Inspector checked the name from a paper in his pocket. “…one Thomas Quinn, and a female accomplice, Marguerite Lamoor.”

  The blood drained from Rory’s face. “Oh, dear God.”

  Elly turned to him. “That’s Peg.”<
br />
  The Chief Inspector looked at Rory then Elly. Deciding the young man looked more frightened than the young woman, he questioned Rory first. “Are you acquainted with Thomas Quinn, sir?”

  Rory shrugged. “I know who he is. Tommy Quinn used to be an actor. I’ve seen him, but we’ve never spoken. I’m an actor.” He gestured to Elly. “We’re both apprentices at His Majesty’s Theatre. I had heard that Mr. Quinn was running a pub.”

  “He was, in a way. At least the lower level seemed an ordinary sort of pub. The upper rooms were quite extra - ordinary.”

  Rory shook his head. “But, what was Peg doing with Tommy Quinn?”

  “Do Marguerite’s friends call her Peg?”

  Rory shook his head with disgust. “Her name is Peg McCarthy. She made up the name Marguerite Lamoor. No one calls her that.” He paused, struck with a new idea. “At least no one I know of. If she’s involved with Tommy Quinn she may have a secret life I know nothing about.”

  “You seem to be well acquainted with the young lady.”

  Rory coloured. “I am.”

  “Chief Inspector!” The sergeant excitedly flipped back pages in his note pad.

  “I’m ahead of you, Taylor.”

  Disappointed, the sergeant’s smile faded. Shuffling his feet, he turned back to his current page.

  The Chief Inspector turned to Elly. “Miss…” He read her name from his note,

  "…Fielding. Are you acquainted with Thomas Quinn?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never heard of him. But, I’ve only been in London a few days. I know Peg, though.” She took a deep breath. “Monday night, she lit a torch in my face.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “I wasn’t hurt -- just frightened. Some of my hair was singed. It needed to be cut off.”

  The Chief Inspector was sceptical. “Why wasn’t this reported?”

  Rory looked puzzled. “I’m sure it was, sir. Eric Bates, the theatre manager, he said he’d take care of…” A cold chill went up his spine. Bates couldn’t turn Peg in. She knew too much. She could ruin him.

  “‘He’d take care of’ what, Mr. Cook?”

  Breathing heavily, Rory stared at the floor. “With all due respect, Chief Inspector, Mr. Bates is my employer. It is not my place to make assumptions about his actions. It would be best if you approached him on the matter.”

  He nodded. “As you wish. It happens that we are currently seeking the whereabouts of a Peg McCarthy, who burned down a boardinghouse, last evening.”

  Elly stared up. “What boardinghouse?”

  “Not, Charles II Street?” Rory’s eyes were like saucers.

  “Number 5 Charles II Street, to be exact. Are you familiar with it?”

  Elly’s voice was almost a cry. “We live there, with the other apprentices. Was anyone hurt?”

  Looking at Elly’s expensive frock and beautifully dressed hair, the Chief Inspector shook his head. “I think you are mistaken, Miss. You must be confusing it with another boardinghouse.”

  Rory gave a half laugh. “Don’t let these borrowed clothes deceive you, Chief Inspector. We live there. Now please, was anyone hurt?”

  Surprised, he checked his notes again. “The Proprietress, Mrs. Samantha Potter. She jumped from a window and died hitting the pavement.”

  Elly gasped. “That’s horrible. Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Two old women escaped out the back. There was no one else in the house, at the time.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Her hand flew over her lips.

  Rory moved next to her, leaning on the sofa’s arm rest. “That’s right. Everyone was going to be away for Christmas.”

  “Can you give me the names of the other residents?”

  “Gladly.” Beads of perspiration formed on Rory’s brow. “They’re actors, mostly. Two young chaps, Lester Reid and Todd Sinclair. Lester’s father’s a vicar, somewhere near Penzance. Both lads were going there for Christmas. An old man, Peter Stirling, and his lady friend, Mrs. Lynn, were going to her daughter. Another girl, Meg O'Malley, was off with some bloke. The old women are mother and daughter, Mrs. and Miss Roche. How bad was the fire? Is the place still livable? Not that it was ever livable.”

  “With the fire and water damage, it’s been condemned. The first two floors are still standing. The old women refuse to leave.”

  Elly whispered, “What will happen to them?”

  “If they don’t move of their own accord, they’ll be forcibly removed. They must have some income, to be paying for their keep. If they can’t pay for lodgings, they’ll be taken to a poorhouse.”

  Elly let out an involuntary gasp.

  Rory’s heart pounded. His face had turned chalk white.

  The Chief Inspector folded his notes. “Should I need to question you two further, where will you be residing?”

  Rory shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Eric Bates will have to find us new digs. You can always find us at the theatre. We start rehearsing a new play this week, so we’ll be there twenty-hours-a-day.”

  “Very well.” He looked over his shoulder. “Taylor!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “See to the car.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant tried to cram his mangled notebook into his coat pocket, then dropped his pencil. As he bent to fetch the pencil, his bowler hat slipped from under his arm, falling to the floor. After securing his notepad, pencil and hat, he nodded to everyone and hurried out, leaving a trail of water.

  Almost imperceptibly, the Chief Inspector shook his head. He looked back into the room. No one had moved. “Again, I apologize for disturbing your Christmas.”

  Isabelle smiled sadly. “I’m sure this is not the way your family envisioned their Christmas, either.”

  He sighed. “Actually, Lady Richfield, they’ve become used to it, over the years.” He watched Sir William walk to the liquor cart. “Good night, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Good night.” Without looking up, Sir William poured himself a brandy.

  The Chief drew a card from his pocket and handed it to Isabelle. “If you ever need my assistance, madam. For anything at all.”

  She took the card, smiled slightly, then raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. I hope we never shall.”

  “Good night, M’ Lady.” Pausing longer than necessary, he smiled back, turned and walked out of the magnificent mansion, into the storm.

  Chapter Six

  Sir William handed Rory a balloon of brandy. “Here, m’ boy.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Rory downed it in one gulp and Sir William was surprised.

  “Another?”

  “Umm… No, sir. Thanks.”

  Sir William offered one to his wife. “Izzy?”

  “No, thank you, Bill.” She looked at the rain puddles left by the policemen and rang for the servants. “Rory, is there anything you need to do?”

  Some colour came back into his cheeks. “I don’t know. I…I really can’t believe this.” He stood up and set the glass on an end table. “I need to go and see it, for myself.”

  “Is there anything you two left at the house? Anything you need?”

  Elly twisted her mouth. “I had a school frock, hidden in the attic. But there isn’t any attic, now.” She touched her blue skirt. “This frock is ever so much nicer. You’ve been very kind.”

  She looked so sweet and vulnerable, Sir William felt compelled to protect her. He smiled back. “Not to worry, my dear. Frocks are easy enough to come by.” He turned to Rory. “And you, my boy?”

  Rory’s body was stiff, his breathing shallow. “No, sir. At least, there’s nothing of monetary value, but there is something.” He looked very embarrassed. “No, it’s… It’s nothing.”

  Sir William downed his brandy. “Come along, we can take my car.” He started toward the door.

  “There’s no need for you to bother, sir, really.”

  “It’s no bother. I want to see this place, or what’s left of it.” He turned back. “Izzy, we won’t
be long.”

  She nodded. Elly started to stand, and Isabelle pulled her back down. “You’re going nowhere, my girl.”

  Elly called, “Rory! What will happen to Peg?”

  He stopped in the doorway. “She’ll hang -- if they catch her.” His face tensed, as he

  hurried from the room.

  *

  The windshield wipers were of little use, as Sir William’s chauffeur strained to see through heavy rain, pelting against the glass. When the car finally pulled in front of number 5 Charles II Street, Rory hesitated, taking a moment to stare at the place he had called home for a-year-and-a-half. Even through the heavy downpour, he could see that the top floors were crumbled cinders. The bottom floors looked like the same dilapidated ruin they had always been. Glancing at the sidewalk, he was grateful the rain had washed away any evidence of a broken body.

  He braced himself, hurried out of the car, and scrambled up the broken steps, only to be met by a police CONDEMNED sign, nailed to the door. Below it was another notice instructing residents to vacate the premises or be forcibly evicted. Under that, a rain smeared note told employees of His Majesty’s Theatre to report to the bursar’s office for relocation information. Rory pushed the door open. Sir William followed him inside, took a cursory look around and wrinkled his nose. “How long did you live here?”

  Rory laughed disparagingly. “Far too long, sir.”

  “You were slated to move out, anyway. You’re going on salary, aren’t you?”

  “Mr. O’Connell said that I was. I haven’t heard word one from Eric Bates, and his wife holds the purse strings. This disaster doesn’t bode well for me. Mr. Bates will never find another boardinghouse as cheap. He’ll have to pay more to keep us, and may decide he hasn’t the extra, to pay me wages.”

  “That would be very unfair.”

  “Yes, sir. I hope I’m wrong.”

  Rory walked through the dark narrow entranceway and followed the light from two single candles, into the dismal drawing room. Miss and Mrs. Roches sat wrapped in coats and scarves, next to an ice cold stove. The ancient Mrs. Roche shivered, staring vapidly into space. The elderly Miss Roche hugged herself, rocking back and forth. When she saw Rory, she keened softly and continued to rock. His previous loathing for the woman melted into pity. Suddenly remembering Sir William, he turned back.