“They were give to me by a friend who don’t need them no more. So he says.”
“And what will you do with them?” asked Sara.
“Why, I don’t know. They’re good tools, and I like tools. I been taking care of them, oiling them and sharpening them. I’ll probably find a use for them someday.”
“Well, goodbye,” said Sara, opening the door. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Collins. And to see you, Jack.”
“It was prime to see you again,” said Happy Jack. “Thanks for the lardy cake. And I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for what you asked me about.”
“Good-o!” said Andrew.
They went out, along the alley and around the corner, and it was only when they were on Clerkenwell Road that they stopped and looked at one another.
“Well, what do you think?” said Andrew.
“You did that well,” said Sara, “falling over the bag that way. And it looks as if Nifty Bolan was telling the truth. I mean, he must be going straight if he gave old Mr. Collins his burglar tools.”
“Maybe. What about the rest?”
“Our asking Jack to let us know if he hears or sees anything that might help us find the killer? He said he would.”
“Yes, I know that that’s what he said.”
She looked at him sharply. “But you don’t think he will?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s certainly something strange about him—very strange. And now that you’ve brought it up, I’m not sure how much he’ll help us either.”
11
The Divine Sarah
Wyatt arrived at the house shortly after Sara and Andrew got home. They were in the sitting room with Verna when his hansom drew up outside. Even before Matson opened the door and they heard his voice, Verna seemed to know who it was. She had been sober, quiet. But now her face lit up and there was a glow about her, a warmth in her eyes, that Andrew had not often seen there before.
“My dear,” she said when he came in.
“How are you?” he said, going directly to her and taking her hands.
They remained that way for a moment, he standing in front of her and holding her hands and Verna staring up at him. At first both of them seemed content with that, merely looking at one another. Then Verna smiled.
“Is that all the greeting I get?” she asked.
“Would anything more be proper?”
“Quite proper.”
Bending down, Wyatt kissed her and again they looked long and searchingly at one another before he straightened up.
“Good evening, Sara. Good evening, Andrew,” he said with deliberately excessive formality. “I trust you are both well.”
“We are,” said Sara, smiling.
“You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you?” said Verna.
“I’d very much like to.”
“Good.” She rang for Matson, asked him to tell Mrs. Simmonds that, as they had hoped, Inspector Wyatt would be staying for dinner.
“Any news?” asked Sara when Matson had left.
“News about what?”
“You know very well about what!”
“Yes, I think so. And no, I can’t say that there is any news. There’s been a development that I think we should discuss. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I came here tonight. But we haven’t made any major discovery, turned up anything that changes the general situation. What about you?”
“I’m glad you asked that,” said Verna. “Our young friends here have been up to something. They were just starting to tell me about it when you arrived.”
“Oh?” said Wyatt. “Tell.”
Taking turns, Sara and Andrew reported on their visit to Happy Jack, telling what they had asked him and what they had asked him to do and then going on to Jack’s grandfather’s arrival and an account of what was in Nifty Bolan’s bag and what Mr. Collins had to say about it.
“Doesn’t that mean that what Bolan told you was the truth?” said Sara. “That he is going straight?”
“Not necessarily. There’s another possible explanation for it.”
“What’s that?” asked Andrew.
“We’ve more important things than that to discuss,” said Wyatt, and he told them about his meeting with the assistant commissioner and his talk with Barnett of the Home Office.
“The French wanted to send men over to help guard Madame Bernhardt?” said Andrew incredulously.
“Yes.”
“What did you say?” asked Sara.
“I said I thought we could manage without them.”
“Politely?” asked Verna, smiling.
“As politely as I could. Which I suppose was not very. And that brings us to the important question. As you know, the reception is the night after tomorrow at the Lyceum. Are you going to it?”
“Well, of course I’ve been invited. And I had planned to go. Do you think I shouldn’t?”
Wyatt looked at her—at her and beyond her at contingencies that none of them could begin to imagine. His face became strained, and Andrew knew that he was weighing the question as seriously as a surgeon does a sudden development during an operation.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I think you should go. But on one condition. That Andrew and Sara go, too.”
This was so unexpected that they stared at him. And Verna didn’t just stare, she laughed.
“What a strange condition to make! Not that I mind. I think it’s a very nice idea, and I’m sure it can be arranged. But why?”
“Because they’re bright, they have sharp eyes and there’s no one else in the world—besides me—who is as concerned about you and your safety as they are.”
“Then you think there might be some danger in my going?”
“The terrible part of all this is that there’s going to continue to be danger—and not just for you—until we catch whoever is responsible for these murders. Yes, you could be in danger at the reception. But you could also be in danger if you didn’t go and stayed home here. And since I have to be at the reception, I think that—on balance—you should go too—with the proviso I made.”
“That Sara and Andrew go, too.” She looked at them. “How do you feel about it? Would you mind?”
“Do you really mean that?” said Sara who had become pale with excitement. “That we can come with you and see, maybe even meet, Sarah Bernhardt?”
“Yes, Sara. I’ll send a note to Mr. Irving.” She glanced at Andrew, then said to Wyatt. “All right, Peter. I accept your proviso. We’ll all go.”
Andrew had been invited to have lunch with his school friend, Cortland, the next day, then go to a lecture at the Royal Archeological Society with Cortland and his grandfather, who was a member. As for Sara, she was very busy with her own affairs, for Verna took her to her own dressmaker on Albemarle Street to make sure she had exactly the right dress for the occasion.
The following day was cold but clear, and since Andrew and Sara had spent most of the previous day indoors, that afternoon they went skating on the pond in Regent’s Park, only getting home in time for tea.
The reception was at ten o’clock at night, after an early performance at the Lyceum, so that the chosen of the London theatre world could attend. That meant that, after a light supper Sara could only pretend to eat, she and Andrew were supposed to rest until it was time to get dressed and go.
When they all met downstairs, Andrew had to admit that, considering the short time she’d had, Verna’s Madam Viola had outdone herself. For the dress she had run up for Sara was of blue velvet with a lace collar and cuffs that made her look like the sister of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy. Verna was wearing a dress that Andrew had seen before, but which he had always loved; a black lace dress, cut low in front and with a huge bow in back, that the great Worth himself had designed for her.
Andrew and Matson helped Verna and Sara on with their wraps, then they went out to the brougham that was waiting under the porte cochere. Since it was a cold night, Fred had prepared the warmers—
heated bricks in the kitchen stove and put them in flannel sacks for them to put their feet on. Fred and Andrew covered the two ladies with a lap robe, Fred climbed up into the box and they were off.
Because of the lateness of the hour, there was very little traffic on the streets, and they made very good time.
The audience was just leaving the Savoy on the other side of the Strand when they drew up in front of the Lyceum, the theatre Henry Irving had made famous throughout the world.
Several constables stood under the marquee, scrutinizing each carriage as it drew up. Uniformed attendants helped them out of the brougham and ushered them into the lobby, which was even more brightly lit than it would have been before a performance. Another constable stood at the door with one of the theatre’s staff who was checking off the names of the guests on a list he had in his hand. He knew Verna, bowed to her and waved her through into the theatre without asking her name.
They went down the central aisle of the orchestra, mounted the steps that had been installed so that they could get on to the stage, then followed the red carpet that had been laid down to the greenroom, which, in this theatre, was known as the Beefsteak Room. This too was a blaze of light with silver candlesticks on the side tables and other candles in the mirrored sconces as well as the usual gaslight.
Wyatt, elegant and completely unpolicemanlike in his evening clothes, stood at the entrance to the Beefsteak Room. Sergeant Tucker, in a sober dark suit, stood somewhat behind Wyatt and winked at Sara and Andrew when he saw them.
“My dear,” said Wyatt, kissing the hand that Verna held out to him. “You look marvelous.”
“So do you.”
“I’m not supposed to. You are and you do. You know Mr. Irving?”
“Of course.”
“Say hello to him and Miss Terry, have some champagne and circulate. I’ll join you in a little while. As for you two,” he said to Sara and Andrew, “you know what you have to do, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Andrew, and Sara nodded wordlessly.
By now Henry Irving himself had seen Verna, and swept toward them.
“My dear Verna,” he said, “how delighted I am to see you. This, I take it, is your son, Andrew, and your protégée, Miss Wiggins.”
“Yes.”
“I’m very happy to meet you both,” he said, smiling at Sara who had dipped in a deep curtsey to him. “I know you know Miss Terry. Do take your son and Miss Wiggins over and introduce them to her.”
Verna led them over to Ellen Terry, Irving’s leading lady, who was of course as famous in her own right as he was. Andrew had seen her the previous season playing Portia in Irving’s production of The Merchant of Venice and had admired her performance. Now, actually meeting her, he fell completely in love with her, as much for her easy and relaxed manner as for her looks.
She took them over to one of the long tables against the wall where caterer’s men served food and drink and where she had them pour champagne for Verna and herself and ladle up cups of punch for Sara and Andrew. When she left them to greet a new arrival, Wyatt came toward them accompanied by a distinguished-looking man in his forties.
“My dear,” he said, “I’d like to present someone who has long admired you. Felix Barnett. Verna Tillett.”
Though Wyatt did not identify him further, Andrew and Sara knew at once that this must be the undersecretary of the Home Office. He bowed over Verna’s hand, told her how moved he had been by her performance in Jane Eyre, went on to compare that with other roles she had played, and though Andrew had heard this sort of thing often before, he had to admit that Mr. Barnett not only spoke well and knowledgeably, but was probably sincere in his admiration. Verna introduced him to Sara, whom he charmed by remembering that she had been in Jane Eyre too and asking if she were going to be in anything else in the near future. He shook hands with Andrew, then returned his attention to Verna, asking questions about her new play and again showing a surprising amount of knowledge about it.
Wyatt, standing next to Verna, seemed very relaxed, nodding and smiling at acquaintances, but Andrew was aware of the tension under his casualness, noticed that his eyes were never still and that he took careful note of everything that was going on in the crowded room.
Sergeant Tucker stuck his head in for a moment, exchanging a look with Wyatt then disappearing again, and Wyatt said, “I think the guest of honor is arriving.”
All those within earshot became silent and turned to face the door. Those who did not hear, sensing something, turned also, so that when the great actress appeared, everyone was waiting for her, looking at her, just as they would if she were making her entrance on stage.
She was tall and slender, and her pallor, as white and unblemished as an azalea, made her dark, deep-set eyes seem enormous. Her hair was dark brown with reddish lights in it. She wore a sea-green gown of watered silk that shimmered as she moved, so that she seemed not regal, but divine; some ancient goddess, translated there—to cold and foggy London—from the depths of a cobalt sea. She was followed by her own entourage: three men and two women, whom she completely ignored, never introduced.
She paused there in the doorway of the room. And seeing her, Irving and Ellen Terry hurried over to greet her as if she were royalty. And why shouldn’t they when royalty itself treated her that way?
Bernhardt greeted them both with Gallic enthusiasm, embracing them in turn and chattering with them in a mixture of French and rudimentary English. Then, with Irving on one side of her and Ellen Terry on the other, they began the obligatory circling of the room to introduce her to those who merited an introduction.
Verna, of course, was one of the first to be so honored.
“I believe you know Verna Tillett, do you not?” said Irving.
“But of course,” said Bernhardt in her throaty contralto. “We met when I was last here. My dear, you become younger and more beautiful every time I see you.”
“If that’s true,” said Verna, “and of course I don’t think it is—it’s because I have been trying to follow the example you have given us.”
“Do you hear her?” said Bernhardt, delighted. “As ready with la phrase gentille as if she had her own Shakespeare writing her lines! But who are these two?” she asked, looking at Sara and Andrew.
“This is my son, Andrew. And this is Sara Wiggins.”
“Aha! You, my child, are an actress too, are you not?”
“I … well, I hope that some day I may be,” said Sara. “But how did you know?”
“Because I have eyes, my dear. Besides, what would be the point of naming you after me if you were not to be an actress? What about you, Master Andrew? Are you interested in the theatre also?”
“Interested in it, but that’s all. I mean, I don’t think I could ever be an actor.”
“Ah, well. We cannot all be on the boards. We need someone on the other side of the footlights for whom we can act our hearts out, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And these gentlemen?” said Bernhardt, looking at Wyatt and Mr. Barnett. Verna introduced them and, after looking at them appraisingly and approvingly, the great actress moved on, continuing her progress.
“Well, well,” murmured Barnett. “No wonder they call her the divine Sarah.”
“No wonder at all,” said Wyatt, looking across the room. Something about the way he said it made Andrew turn and follow his gaze. Irving was introducing an attractive and sturdy-looking man to the guest of honor, and having only seen him once and then when he was dressed very casually, it took Andrew a moment to recognize Nicholas Norwood of the Golden Rule Society. He seemed to be as at home here with the great of the theatre world as he had been with the police and former criminals in The White Stag restaurant for he had a lengthy conversation with Madame Bernhardt, saying something to her that made her laugh delightedly and tap him on the arm in reproof.
Lawrence Harrison, the manager, and his wife came in now, and Verna introduced them to Mr. Barnett. While
they were talking, Wyatt moved over to the bar where one of the waiters was pouring out a glass of champagne for Henry Irving.
“A very impressive, very successful reception, Mr. Irving.”
“Why, thank you, Inspector. I think it’s been going quite well myself.” He paused, glancing around. “Is it all right to call you inspector? I know you’re supposed to be more or less incognito…”
“It’s quite all right. Anyone who knows me, knows who I am. As for strangers, if they should discover that I’m with the Yard, there’s no reason for them to think that my presence here is anything but social.”
“Quite true. And it doesn’t hurt that you have so many good friends in and around the theatre—Verna Tillett and Larry Harrison. I was of course delighted to hear that you were going to be here yourself. After what has been happening, I must confess that I was a little concerned about Madame Bernhardt’s safety.”
“I can understand how you would be—especially since you’re giving the reception for her. When did you first think of doing it?”
“About a month ago. I was having lunch with a friend, and when I said something about it—that I’d just learned that Bernhardt was going to be coming here—he suggested it.”
“That you give a reception for her?”
“Yes. He’s a great admirer of hers and was so taken with the idea of honoring her that he offered to foot the bill for it. But of course I told him that was unnecessary.”
“Of course. Well, as I indicated, I think it was a splendid idea. Who was the friend who suggested it? Obviously someone in the theatre.”
“Not really. Interested in it as any cultured Londoner is, but not actually in it. It was Nicholas Norwood. Do you know him?”
“Yes, of course. I couldn’t think more highly of his Golden Rule Society. You say he’s an old friend?”
“Yes. At least, I first met him quite a few years ago when he was still at Oxford. He was active in the Dramatic Society, and he got in touch with me and asked me whether I’d consider coming down and supervising their production of The Merchant of Venice.”
“Which you did?”
The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7) Page 9