“Yes, but in a very odd way. Did you ever hear of pithing?”
They shook their heads.
“It’s a technique doctors and scientists use to kill laboratory animals painlessly and instantaneously. It’s done by destroying the spinal cord or the brain with a needle.”
Verna shuddered and lost her color.
“Are you saying that that’s how Meg Morrissey was killed?”
“Yes. She and the other two actresses.”
“And you think that the ones who died ten years ago were killed in the same way?” asked Sara.
“I think it’s possible. The weapon, a needle not much larger than a sailmaker’s needle, did not leave a wound that was obvious or easy to detect. It just so happened that the doctor who performed the recent autopsy is extremely good. He discovered the wounds and was able to tell us the cause of death. He also told us that there have been great strides made recently in forensic medicine—medicine used to detect crimes—and said that it was quite possible that similar wounds could have been overlooked by doctors ten years ago.”
“Am I right in thinking that not just anyone could have committed the murders?” asked Andrew. “I mean, it’s not like an ordinary knifing. Whoever did them must have been very skillful, known a good deal about medicine.”
“So it would seem.”
“And you’ve no idea who could have committed the murders or why?” asked Verna.
“Let’s say I have the beginning of an idea—a possible hypothesis.”
“Tell us.”
“All right. As I said, I’ve been doing some investigating and I found someone who told me some interesting things. Her name is Emmie Madden, and she was Nina Wallace’s dresser. She’s retired, but I was able to trace her to where she’s living with her daughter in Bethnal Green.”
“How old is she?” asked Verna.
“Oh, late sixties. But very alert, and her memory seemed very good. I told her why I was interested in Nina Wallace’s death—and before I could even get to any questions she said she’d always felt that there was something very strange about it.”
“Did she say why?” asked Sara.
“No, and I suspect it was just a way of indicating that she was upset. But when I asked her if there was anyone in the company who might have some reason for wanting to see Nina Wallace dead, she gave me an odd look and said, ‘That’s a rum one, your asking that. Because there was someone around I always felt a bit funny about.’ Her name,” he said looking at Verna, “was apparently Sally Siddons.”
“No, I don’t know her,” said Verna. “Not that that means anything. Any relation to Sarah Siddons?”
“I don’t think so. I’m quite sure it wasn’t her real name. But it’s significant that she named herself for one of our greatest actresses.”
“What did she do, this Sally Siddons?” asked Sara.
“Not very much,” said Wyatt. “She was quite pretty according to Emmie Madden, but not much of an actress. She played bit parts in Wallace’s pantomimes, but she did have aspirations, and as a result, she became involved with Ben Wallace himself.
“Involved how?” asked Andrew.
“The way a girl can become involved with a man when his wife is away. Because Nina Wallace was out of town for most of the summer. Well, Sally came around one day, and it was clear that she was going to have a baby and Emmie Madden had a feeling that Ben Wallace was the father—a suspicion that was fairly well confirmed when Sally hinted that she was going to play the lead in the Christmas pantomime, not Nina Wallace.”
“And did she?” asked Verna.
“No, she didn’t. But Nina Wallace didn’t either. Because shortly after the pantomime went into rehearsal, Nina Wallace died. Ben Wallace was on the continent at the time, and when he came back and learned what had happened, he died too—of a heart attack.”
“I think I know what you’re suggesting,” said Andrew. “But I’m not really sure.”
“I said it was only a hypothesis, but suppose that when young Sally discovered that she was going to have a baby, she went to Wallace and told him about it and also told him that she wanted to play the lead in the Christmas pantomime. He would have been shocked at that. He would probably have been glad to pay for the support of the child and help her get a job. But he couldn’t possibly give her the lead in the panto because that was the part his wife played. And even if Sally were as good as Nina—which of course she wasn’t—he wasn’t going to jeopardize his marriage by giving the part to her instead of his wife. Well, suppose Sally listened to him and said to herself in her naive way—for I gather she was a little simple—‘He won’t give me the part because of his wife. But suppose something happened to his wife? I’ll bet he’d give it to me then.’”
“Are you saying that she killed Nina Wallace in order to get the part?” asked Sara in a hushed voice.
“I said it was a supposition. I was wondering if it wasn’t possible.”
“Have you any facts at all to back up your supposition?” asked Verna.
“There is something. I don’t know if you can call it a fact, but … As I said, Ben Wallace was on the continent when his wife died. He came back terribly shaken. Emmie Madden remembers how broken up he was, because apparently he did love his wife very much. Then, two days later, he died of a heart attack. Now if his heart attack was related to his wife’s death, what could he have discovered that was even more of a shock to him than the fact of her death?”
“The realization of how and why she had died,” said Verna after a pause. “If Sally Siddons either told him—or said something that led him to guess—that she had killed his wife.”
“Exactly. I think the knowledge that he had been at least partly responsible for his wife’s death because of his involvement with Sally Siddons would have been enough to kill him.”
Again they were silent for a moment, as if trying to digest this.
“All right,” said Andrew finally. “Suppose you’re right about that murder. What about the other ones? Did Sally Siddons commit them, too?”
“I think it’s possible,” said Wyatt. “According to the notes on the case, Agnes Russell, the second actress who was found dead, was a friend of Nina Wallace’s and had been to see her earlier in the evening on the night that she was found dead.”
“You think that she might have seen Sally Siddons or whoever killed Nina Wallace, or knew that she was going to be coming there, and that she was killed to keep her from saying anything about it,” said Sara.
“Yes.”
“What about the third murder?” asked Andrew.
“I could find no logical connection between it and the other two. One thought occurred to me—a motive that would make it the most cold-blooded killing of all. That was that the murder was committed precisely because it had no connection with the others, a kind of red herring to draw attention away from the fact that the other two were connected.”
“You’re right,” said Andrew. “That is horrible, really horrible. But say that everything you’ve said is true, what possible connection can those murders that were committed ten years ago have with the ones that have just been committed now?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I’m very worried. Can’t you see how I would be?” he said to Verna. “It’s a very frightening situation at best. And when I think that you—you of all people—might be in danger…”
“I understand, Peter,” said Verna with unaccustomed meekness. “And I promise to be good. To keep off the stage until you discover who’s responsible for these horrible deaths and tell me it’s safe to go back on the boards again.”
5
Ill Met on Regent Street
Sara and Andrew were quiet as they got off a dark green City Atlas omnibus at Oxford Circus and walked down Regent Street. They had done very little talking since the startling events of the previous afternoon. They had avoided discussing the mysterious deaths; the subject was too frightening. The only aspect of it in which they took
any comfort was the fact that Verna had agreed to stay off the stage until the murderer had been caught and Wyatt was sure that she would not be in any danger if she appeared.
They were on their way now to meet Verna and Wyatt for, learning that they were going to the pantomime, Wyatt announced that he and Verna had something to do on Regent Street and suggested that they meet there and have lunch together.
They walked slowly, partly because they were early and partly because Regent Street was more crowded now, during this period before Christmas, than any other time of the year. This was not a street of large and important stores like Liberty’s, Swan and Edgar and Peter Robinson, but rather was where you found very special shops; Hamley’s, for instance, greatest of all toy stores, Negretti and Zambra, purveyors of optical equipment, whose name sounded like an incantation, and of course many jewelers and silversmiths.
They paused in front of Worthington’s, the old and established jeweler that was their objective.
“There they are,” said Sara.
“Where?” said Andrew, looking past the candlesticks and the elaborate silver tea sets in the window. Then, seeing his mother and Wyatt at a counter being waited on solicitously by a clerk in a frock coat, “Oh, yes. I see them. Shall we go in?”
“No,” said Sara, a little awkwardly. “Let’s wait.”
“Why? We were early, but we’re not now. We’re right on time.”
“I still think we should wait.”
“And I asked you why.”
“What do you think they’re doing?”
“I don’t know. Buying something, I suppose.”
“But what?”
“I don’t know.” He looked through the window again. Verna and Wyatt were bent over a tray, examining its contents. Then, as Verna picked something up, slipped it on her finger …“A ring?”
“Yes. What kind?”
“I suppose … an engagement ring.”
“Exactly. And I think they should be left alone, given a chance to select one by themselves.”
“Oh. Yes,” said Andrew, looking at her with respect. “I think you’re right. Shall we wait here or shall we go look in some other shop window?”
“No reason why we can’t wait here as long as we don’t go in.”
“All right,” said Andrew. Then, looking at a pair of magnificent, life-sized silver pheasants that were in the center of the window, “What do you suppose those are for?”
“Table decorations.”
“Probably. And what about these?” he asked, moving over to a pair of epergnes that flanked an elaborate, decorated silver bowl.
“I think they’re to hold fruit.”
“How do you know so much about these things?”
“I read about them in magazines. And while your mother doesn’t often give formal dinner parties, the parents of some of the girls at school do, and I’ve seen the tables being set.”
A man who had been walking up Regent Street glanced at them as he went by, hesitated, and then came back.
“Miss Wiggins?” he said, raising a rather battered bowler politely.
“Yes,” said Sara.
“I’m Edward Fulton of the Journal. You probably don’t remember me, but I met you, talked to you, when you were playing in Jane Eyre.”
“Yes, of course I remember. You came to interview Miss Tillett, but I was in her dressing room at the time, and she suggested that you talk to me also.”
“That’s right. And it made a very interesting piece—young actress, just beginning her career.”
His face was thin and his eyes were sharp, and they kept moving constantly, looking from Sara to Andrew and then back again.
“I’ve no idea whether I have a career in the theatre or not,” said Sara. “I got the part mostly because I knew Miss Tillett; but now I’m back at school again and I’m not sure I’ll even be in another play.”
“Of course you will. I thought you were very good, very talented,” said Fulton. He had looked from them into the shop and now his eyes widened slightly. “Isn’t that Inspector Wyatt in there?”
“Yes. We’re waiting for him.”
“That’s right. I’d heard you know him. What’s he doing in Worthington’s? Making sure the jewels are safe?”
“The jewels?”
“The Maharajah’s jewels. You mean you don’t know about them?”
“No.”
“I thought you were a friend of his. The Maharajah of Ghazipur came here about a week ago bringing a diamond as large as the Star of India and several other stones that he’s going to present to Her Majesty. He turned them over to Worthington’s to be polished and set, and he also gave them some of his own jewels. Scotland Yard has tried to keep the whole thing quiet, but the word is that it’s probably the largest and most valuable collection of jewels we’ve ever had in England—outside of the crown jewels in the Tower, of course.”
“And you think that the inspector’s in there making sure that everything’s secure?” said Andrew.
“Of course. Stands to reason that he would, doesn’t it? Oh-oh. He’s seen me, and I’m afraid I’m not in his good books right now. I’d better scarper. Toodle-oo!” and he hurried off up the street.
“Was that Fulton of the Journal?” asked Wyatt, coming out of the shop.
“Yes,” said Andrew.
“I thought so. Fulton!” he called. “Hoy! Hold up there! I want to talk to you!” But instead of stopping, Fulton increased his pace and disappeared into a crowd of shoppers.
“Well, I’ll catch up with him one of these days,” said Wyatt. “What did he want?”
“We don’t know,” said Sara. “He saw us and remembered me from Jane Eyre and stopped to talk. He said he wasn’t in your good books right now, but he didn’t say why.”
“You know why. It was he who wrote that piece about Meg Morrissey’s murder when we’d specifically asked the press to keep quiet about it.”
“Oh, Lord, of course,” said Andrew. “I thought his name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.”
“He told us about the Maharajah’s jewels,” said Sara, “wanted to know if you were in Worthington’s to make sure they were safe.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” said Andrew. “We didn’t know about them.”
“Did he say anything about your mother?”
“No. I don’t think he saw her when he looked in. He just saw you.”
“Well, I suppose we should be thankful for small blessings.”
“Oh, there you are,” said Verna as she was bowed out of Worthington’s by the man in the frock coat. “Have you been here long?”
“No, just a few minutes,” said Andrew.
“Why didn’t you come in?”
Andrew glanced at Sara. “We didn’t mind waiting outside,” he said.
“I think that what we’re faced with,” said Wyatt, “is an excess of discretion, which, while unnecessary, does have its charm. But that’s enough of that. Let’s go to lunch.”
He led them to the Burlington, on the corner of New Burlington Street, where he had booked a table to which they were conducted with a good deal of ceremony by the headwaiter, who stood by while they ordered.
“And now,” said Wyatt when the headwaiter and the other waiters had gone, “what do you think we were doing in Worthington’s?”
“It was Sara’s guess that you were buying a ring,” said Andrew.
“As usual,” said Wyatt, “Sara was right.”
“May we see it?” said Sara.
Verna hesitated a moment, then took a box from her purse and opened it, showing them a gold ring set with a small but exquisitely cut diamond.
“It’s beautiful!” said Sara. “But why aren’t you wearing it?”
“I don’t know,” said Verna. “I suppose because I feel a little awkward about it. After all, I’m not exactly a young and blushing bride-to-be.”
“Because you have a son?” said Wyatt. “That has nothing t
o do with it. As for the rest, knowing your talent, I’m sure you could blush if you thought it was necessary. So, as a favor to Sara as well as me, won’t you wear it?”
“Since you ask me so nicely, yes,” said Verna and, taking off her glove, put the ring on. “It really is lovely, darling,” she said, holding it up. “Thank you.”
“No,” said Wyatt. “Thank you.” And leaning over, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “All of which calls for a small celebration, which, with my usual foresight, I have of course provided for.”
He signaled to the headwaiter, who brought over a silver ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it, which he twirled dextrously to chill before opening.
“On an occasion like this,” Wyatt went on, “I think the young people should be permitted to join us, don’t you, my dear?”
“I certainly do,” said Verna, smiling at the two of them.
6
Aladdin’s Lamp
Fred took Sara and Andrew to the Drury Lane Theatre. He had been waiting with the brougham in the Burlington Mews and was happy to have a chance to warm the horses up a bit before he took Verna to finish her shopping. Wyatt had teased Sara and Andrew before they left, saying he was astonished that two young people, old enough to drink champagne, should be interested in anything as childish as pantomime. But Andrew had countered by quoting his housemaster at school, who was a great admirer of pantomime, claiming that it was a national institution that was typically and uniquely British.
“What’s typical about it?” Wyatt had asked. “And what’s unique.”
It was typically British, Andrew had said, because it was made up of so many different elements, each borrowed from a different country. Its name came from Greece by way of Rome, some of its most important characters came from the Italian commedia del arte and its plots from Continental folk tales or the Arabian Nights. And it was unique because it mixed together so many different kinds of theatre: drama, opera, ballet, music hall turns and musical comedy. On top of all this, it played fast and loose with genders in that that the juvenile lead—the principal boy—was always played by a woman while the female comic was played by a man.
The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7) Page 3