Shadow of Murder

by Joan Smith

  “Have you any acting experience?” he asked.

  “Only with a touring company in the provinces. I’ve played Juliet, and also Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew. We got excellent reviews in Bath, but it doesn’t seem to count for much in London.”

  Reg made his decision on the spot. Here was the perfect Lady Lorraine. “Tragedy and comedy! Very good. And are you employed at the moment, Miss Chalmers?”

  “I’m giving the wardrobe mistress a hand, sewing spangles on gowns for a new play.”

  “I might be able to put an interesting role at your disposal. Not professionally, you understand.”

  She looked at him, her expression caught between interest and disapproval. Then she pokered up and said, “I’m not interested in any role but acting, thank you. Perhaps you misunderstood as I was at the Green Room. I never go there in the ordinary way. I just wanted to meet you, to get your autograph. I’m not looking for a — a patron.” She spat out the last word as though it were poison.

  Coffen understood her meaning before she said it. “That ain’t what he’s after,” he assured her. “It is acting, it just ain’t in a theatre. Tell her, Reg.”

  Reg told her, in great detail, and as he spoke, her eyes grew wide and her soft, shy smile beamed. “It sounds marvelous,” she breathed.

  “I wouldn’t want to give the idea you will automatically step into the role when it goes to Drury Lane,” Prance said. “They will very likely want an experienced actress, a name, for the part. Producers will see you perform, however, and something might come of it. Are you game?”

  “Oh I should love to do it,” she cried. “I — I’ll have to tell — that is, discuss it with my fiancé. I’m sure he will be as thrilled as I am. Sean knows how hard it is to get work.”

  The gents who had made their selection from the actresses began leaving the Green Room, jostling them as they stood talking. “We can’t discuss it properly here,” Reg said. “Come to my house tomorrow morning.” Again that doubtful little frown flitted across her lovely face. “Bring Sean with you,” he said, to quiet her fears that he might molest her.

  “Oh thank you, Sir Reginald! Sean will be so excited. What time should we come?”

  “Say, tennish?” He gave her the address and they parted.

  Reg was thrilled with his find. “Lovely, is she not?” he said in wonder. “I could hardly believe my eyes when she walked in, and then when she said she was an actress ...”

  “Very pretty girl. Even ladylike.”

  “And innocent. Exactly what I was hoping for, and she wasn’t even trying for the part. Luck is like love, Coffen. You find it when you aren’t looking.”

  “You were looking. That’s why we were there.”

  “I’m speaking of Miss Chalmers!’

  “So am I, but I don’t think she loves you, Reg. She mentioned a fiancé.”

  “I don’t love her. That’s not what I meant at all. My meaning is simply that Miss Chalmers found a role when she wasn’t looking. Why must you always confuse things? Let us go. I still have to find a hero and a villain.”

  He didn’t find either at Covent Garden, but he wasn’t long in finding his hero. Chloe’s fiancé, Sean Everett, might have been created for the role. Tall, dark haired, broad-shouldered, fairly well-spoken, and with some acting experience. His face, perhaps, did not bear close inspection. A hero ought to have a finely chiseled face, like Luten. Sean’s face was rather a common face with a roundish, blunt nose. But such details were permissible when he had the all-important air of rectitude of the stage actor down to a tee. In real life he also had a kindly way of looking after his Chloe.

  Chloe told him she and Sean had met during that Romeo and Juliet tour. He had played not Romeo but Mercutio. When the tour was over, they had both decided to try their luck in London. Chloe managed to make clear that while they lived in the same building, they were not sharing living quarters.

  “It’s a rough sort of place,” Sean explained. “I worried about Chloe being there alone. There’s noise, drinking and so on, especially on a Saturday night. She has only to tap on the wall if anyone bothers her and I’ll be there.”

  The financial terms were accepted so eagerly that Reg felt he might have offered less, but then he liked his actors, and that was important. They knew of a fellow they thought would do for the villain and would speak to him.

  Prance was impatient to get on with the rehearsals and went that afternoon to put his request to a friend at Drury Lane who had just the fellow for the job.

  “Vance Corbett,” he said. “He’s not working at the moment and could use the blunt. I’d like to keep him around, which I won’t do if he don’t get some work soon. A dashed good actor. He’ll go far. He was born to play the villain. You’d swear he was one of Lucifer’s tribe, a fallen angel. A menacing face, yet handsome along with it. I’ll send him around for you to have a look at.”

  Vance came to Berkeley Square later that same day, just before dinner, and was exactly as described. Tall and well built, dark hair, rather dark complexion. It was the slight beetle brow that gave him that menacing air. Along with the aquiline nose, the square jaw and deep voice, he was the very epitome of the stage villain. He agreed to present himself the next morning at ten. Notes were sent off to Chloe and Sean, and it was arranged that they would all meet at Prance’s at that time, then go next door and be introduced to Lady Luten before beginning rehearsals.

  Reg’s valet, Villier, was busy all that day writing up four copies of the scenes they would be rehearsing. It was not a valet’s job to act as amanuensis, of course, but Villier was more than a valet. He and Reg might have been brothers, so close was the relationship. They even looked alike.

  Both were thrilled with the notion of Prance having his novel dramatized. In fact, it was a foregone conclusion that Villier would attend as many of the rehearsals as his valeting duties allowed. He was on thorns to get a look at the actors.

  “I’ll get into the attics tonight and see if I can find some costumes,” he said. “Costumes will give the proper air to the rehearsals, don’t you think?”

  “Excellent idea, Villier. Something white and floaty for Lorraine, I think. Romantic, innocent. And for Maldive, the villain, that dark cape we had made up when I was writing my spy novel. I never wear it.”

  “Perfect. I adored the dashing way you used to flip it over your shoulder. I’ll show Vance how to do it. Such fun! I can hardly wait.”

  “Fun, and a deal of hard work, Villier. But then we’re used to that.”

  “Don’t you think we’ve earned a glass of your excellent sherry, milord?” Villier said roguishly. He was allowed to call Reg milord when they were alone.

  “No, Villier,” Prance said severely. Before Villier had formed his pout, Prance said, “We have earned champagne!”

  “Oh you,” Villier said, and gave his master’s elbow a light tap.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Corinne greeted Prance and his group and he made the introductions. She led them to the gold salon, where she explained the house rules while the actors gazed all around. The rugs and any small, valuable trinkets had been removed. Covers had been placed over the upholstered sofas and chairs, leaving the art on the walls and the window hangings to give some indication of the room’s usual grandeur. They were also impressed by its dimensions, by the twin Adam fireplaces along one wall, the wheat silk wall covering, the plasterwork and the elegance of the furnishings that could be seen.

  She told them politely but firmly that the furniture was valuable, and they must treat it with care. No cups or glasses placed on the side tables without a saucer beneath, no wet or muddied shoes on the parquet floor and please to be extra careful of the tapestry on the north wall as it was old and extremely valuable.

  Prance assured her they would all behave like civilized people and she left them, closing the door behind her. Prance distributed the scenes Villier had written out for them. Villier was not present for this first re
hearsal as he was busy in the attic finding costumes, then airing them out and pressing them.

  The first job of the morning was to read through the lines for the scene in which Lorraine first met the hero, who bore the name James Sinclair until the climax, when he was revealed as the true lord. This first scene occurred in the drawing room at St. Justin’s Abbey, which was based on Newstead Abbey, where the gothic novel was first conceived during a Christmas visit to Lord Byron.

  The initial read through went without incident. Chloe’s voice would require some work to strengthen it but Sean’s was acceptable and Vance performed like the professional he was. Prance realized from that first morning that he was made for the part. The scenes came alive when he was speaking. After the read through, Prance arose and paced about the room, explaining where the proscenium was to be imagined, and placing a chair and few small side tables to indicate where Lorraine would be sitting, and where Sinclair would enter. He made notes of all his ideas in a new notebook bound in blue leather, which he had purchased for the purpose.

  Prance had hoped to foster a sense of camaraderie between his actors, but he sensed that the others did not care for Vance. Worse, Vance had a sad tendency to sneer at not only the amateurs, but even at Sir Reginald’s direction. His “Sir Reginald” soon deteriorated to Reg as he made various suggestions.

  “As Lorraine is supposed to be poor, don’t you think it would be better if she were — say — doing some sewing when Sinclair enters, rather than reading a novel like a lady of leisure?”

  “Good point, Corbett. I’ll make note of that.” Out came the blue notebook. “In the novel she’s reading an uplifting book, Pilgrim’s Progress, but the audience won’t be able to see that.”

  As the morning progressed, Vance made other suggestions. “In professional theatre,” he said with a grating air of condescension, “Sinclair’s role as hero wouldn’t be established so quickly. There should be a little something to give Lorraine a doubt as to his bona fides. To increase tension, don’t you think, Reg? I would suggest she catch him searching through a desk, or some such thing. Perfectly innocent, of course, but the audience needn’t know that at the time.”

  Reg knew he was right. He bit back his annoyance and replied, “This is just one scene, Corbett. There is plenty of suspicion cast on Sinclair as the play progresses. Have you not read the book?”

  “I never read gothics,” he replied.

  “Then you must just take my word for it, n’est-ce pas? I did write the book after all.”

  “Sorry, Reg. I didn’t mean to step on your toes. Just offering my professional opinion.”

  “Too kind,” Reg said with a withering stare.

  Vance didn’t make any more suggestions that morning. They were all relieved when Evans arrived at the door with tea. He was accompanied by Miss Lipman, who rushed up to Reggie.

  “I have been dying to see you at work, Sir Reginald,” she gushed, “but Lady Luten has positively ordered me not to interrupt. I do adore the theatre.” She asked if she might be introduced to his cast. As she gushed, her roving eye suggested her real love was for the actors. Her first attention was for the handsome young Sean Everett, but when she learned he was engaged to Chloe, her interest turned to Vance.

  “And what role do you play, Mr. Corbett?” she asked.

  “Oh I am the villain, dyed deep in evil.” As he replied, he made a particularly menacing face and raised his hands as if to attack her.

  She squealed, jumped back, then laughed and said, “You mustn’t frighten me so. I shall positively have nightmares. What other roles have you played, Mr. Corbett?”

  He gave a short, undistinguished list.

  “What — always the villain?” she asked with a teasing smile. “I see you as more the heroic type.”

  “With this ugly phiz?” he asked, laughing but pleased.

  “Ugly?” she said, using it as an excuse to get a good, hard look at him. “I would call it the face of a man of strong character.”

  When Prance called the actors back to work, she sighed and said, “Poor me. Back to work. I wish I could stay and watch you perform. So thrilling! But the donations for the auction are arriving thick and fast — a lovely silver tea service just came in. I must keep track or Lady Luten will scold.”

  “That’s the donations for the Orphans’ Ball, I take it?” Vance asked. “I read about it in the journals. Lady Luten is on the committee, I believe?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The donations are kept here for safekeeping as some of them are quite valuable.”

  Prance took her by the elbow and led her firmly to the door. “Lady Luten didn’t want the actors to know about the donations being here,” he said sharply.

  Her hand flew to her lips. “Oh dear! Foolish of me. But it can’t matter. The library is kept locked.”

  “Is Lady Luten involved in the Orphans’ Ball?” Chloe asked, when Prance returned. “How exciting. I would love to go. I mean — you know just to be there as a worker in some capacity, serving drinks or refreshment. I’m sure it must be thrilling to see all the lords and ladies in their finery.”

  “Catering to the nobs, you mean,” Vance sneered.

  “The ball is for charity,” Reg said. “The nobs, as you call us, are going to a deal of work and expense to raise money for the orphans.”

  “The work of going to a fancy ball, drinking champagne,” Vance said with a laugh. “Don’t I wish I could find work like that.”

  “I think it’s wonderfully generous of you, doing all that work for the poor orphans, Sir Reginald,” Chloe said. She never dropped the “Sir”.

  “Those who have are morally obliged to give to the less fortunate,” said Reg.

  “Noblesse oblige,” Corbett murmured, in a sarcastic tone just loud enough to be heard.

  As Prance couldn’t think of a smart retort he decided to ignore it. “Lady Luten doesn’t want it known that the donations are here,” he said, casting a stern eye around at his cast. “She has generously put her home at our disposal, and we must oblige her in this matter. Miss Lipman shouldn’t have said anything. I hope I can depend on you all not to mention this to anyone.”

  “Of course, Sir Reginald,” Chloe and Sean said at once.

  Vance pokered up and said, “I certainly don’t associate with thieves. But I see your point, Reg. Mum’s the word. I shan’t mention it.”

  When the rehearsal was over, Prance went to have a word with Corinne. “I’m afraid your assistant has blown the gaff,” he said, to let her know it was not his fault. “I’m dreadfully sorry. She stopped by the rehearsal and announced the donations are being collected here.”

  “Oh dear. I told her she wasn’t to mention it outside this room. Did the actors hear her?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you think they’re reliable?”

  “I don’t think there’s a thief amongst them, if that is what you’re asking.”

  “You must warn them not to broadcast it.”

  “I did that, of course. I’ll feel wretched if anything happens. Can I do anything to help? I’ll gladly donate a footman or two to keep an eye on the library.”

  She thought a moment, then said, “Who can handle this better than anyone is Black. I’ll ask him and Coffen to come over and see if Coffen can spare him. At least he’ll have good advice. One can always depend on Black.”

  “Especially in a case like this,” Reg replied with a knowing look.

  Black’s background was uncertain, but certainly it was not spotless. It was not known just where or under what circumstances Corinne’s first husband, Lord deCoventry, had found him, but the old lord trusted Black implicitly. Black had served his master, and upon his death, had served the widow faithfully, even saving her life on one occasion.

  In fact, he was completely enamored of her. In his leisure moments he imagined himself not Black the butler, but Lord Blackwell, suitor for her hand. He was too intelligent to reveal any trace of his obsession, but when the o
ccasion permitted, he allowed himself an avuncular familiarity.

  Black had a suspiciously thorough knowledge of the criminal class, which made him of great value to the Berkeley Brigade, and of value to Corinne in her present trouble. She felt not the least doubt that Coffen would spare him, and that Black would do a thorough job of protecting the valuable donations.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  When Black worked for Lady deCoventry he had been in the habit of taking a surreptitious peek at messages delivered to her before passing them on. This was only partly due to curiosity. He truly did want to know what was afoot so that he might be prepared to help her in any contingency. This same practise was followed with his present employer. The only change was that he made no secret of it with Mr. Pattle. When the note from Lady Luten arrived, he naturally read it. His saturnine face softened in a smile to read: “Coffen – I need Black. Can you spare him to me? Both of you please come as soon as you read this. C.”

  “I need Black.” He would keep this note among his sentimental souvenirs, along with the curl of her hair he had rescued when that French coiffeur had shorn her locks three years ago, and the little statue of Cupid with the busted wing she had thrown at Luten during one of their spats before their marriage. Lady deCoventry had not always been the serene matron she had become as Lady Luten.

  He handed the note to Mr. Pattle, who sat in his office, tossing cards into his hat and allowing himself a sip of wine for every card that reached its target. As most of the cards were on the floor he was not inebriated.

  “This just come from her ladyship,” Black said, handing Mr. Pattle the note.

  Coffen read it, frowned and said, “I don’t like the sound of this. We’d best go have a word with her, Black, but I’ll tell you here and now, she ain’t getting you back. I need you worse than she does. My house would fall apart without you. You don’t suppose she’s turned off Evans?”