Murder at the Piccadilly Playhouse

by C. J. Archer

  I fished out the paper on which she’d written her address from my purse. I wasn’t sure of the area so I caught a hansom. Some fifteen minutes later, the driver deposited me at the entrance to a court surrounded on three sides by indistinguishable tenements. Small children played a chasing game and a woman hung out washing, although I couldn’t see how it would dry in this weather.

  I nodded at her as I passed and felt her gaze on me as I approached Millie, sitting on a stoop. The little girl was humming to herself and staring straight ahead, her body rocking to the rhythm of her tune.

  “Good morning, Millie,” I said.

  She stopped humming and lifted her face, although she didn’t look directly at me.

  “Do you remember me? I’m Miss Fox. I met you at your aunt’s home.”

  She began humming again.

  “Is you mother inside?”

  “You won’t get no answers from her,” the woman said from the washing line. “She’s not deaf, she just don’t talk much. If it’s Mrs. Larsen you’re after, she’s inside.”

  “Thank you.” I knocked and, as I waited, thought of a question for the neighbor. “Did you ever see Mrs. Larsen’s sister here?”

  “The actress? Aye, I saw her at Christmas. She only ever came Christmastime.”

  “How did she seem?”

  The woman shrugged. “Fine to me, but I only caught a glimpse. She was real pretty, and so fancy looking with her fur coat and matching hat.”

  The door opened and Mrs. Larsen smiled in greeting. “This is a surprise.”

  “I want to ask you some questions about Pearl.”

  “Come in.” She clicked her tongue at Millie, blocking the way. “Let Miss Fox past.”

  Millie continued to hum and didn’t move.

  “Millicent! Move!” She rapped Millie’s shoulder with the back of her hand and Millie shifted to the side.

  I squeezed past her.

  “Forgive me, but I’ll have to receive you in the kitchen. We’re having some work done in the parlor.” She led me along the corridor, past closed doors and the staircase, until we reached the warm kitchen. A pie baking in the oven filled the entire house with its delicious smell. “You remember my husband from the funeral?”

  Mr. Larsen stood. He nodded at me before gathering up the boot he’d been fixing along with his tools, and left.

  “He’s a man of few words,” Mrs. Larsen said, somewhat self-consciously. “Tea?”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  I sat and watched her fill teacups from the teapot warming on the stove. The kitchen was a sizable one with a large central table that Mrs. Larsen had been using as a place to knead dough. A large pie had been set aside, ready to be baked in the oven when the other one finished. It was too much food for the family of three. Perhaps Mrs. Larsen baked them for neighbors or sold them.

  On the wall above the table was a shelf full of neatly labeled jars and above them hung a wooden cross. A pink glass vase stood empty by the window, as if waiting for the first signs of spring to fill it with flowers. It was a very pretty vase and looked out of place in the drab kitchen. It was more to Pearl’s taste than her sister’s.

  Mrs. Larsen must have taken it from the flat that day I’d met her there. I wondered what else she’d removed, and how much of it she’d already sold.

  She handed me a cup and saucer. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have cake today.”

  “It’s very good of you to receive me. I do apologize for calling on you without notice.”

  “How may I help you?”

  “What can you tell me about Pearl’s—Nellie’s—prior relationships? The ones before Lord Rumford came on the scene. And the ones during.”

  Her lips pinched. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have. “I know very little. As I told you, my sister and I weren’t close. She rarely confided in me.”

  “What do you know?”

  “She was with another lord before Rumford. I can’t recall his name. She didn’t like him much, and when I asked her why she would ruin her reputation over someone she didn’t like, she got angry with me. She told me she needed him if she was to get anywhere in life.” She stared down at the teacup, held in both her hands. “Nellie wasn’t satisfied with the life she had. She wanted more glamor, more amusement. She hated being bored so she’d make trouble, just to entertain herself.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “All kinds. Like seeing one man when she already had another.”

  “For example…?”

  She regarded me over the teacup. “You said it yourself. You wanted to know about the man or men she saw while she was seeing Rumford.”

  “Can you give me their names?”

  She contemplated her tea. “I don’t like naming names. I’m not a gossip. But you should ask that theater manager. They were close.”

  “Close enough to be jealous of her seeing other men?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  I let her mull that over for a few moments, but when she didn’t elaborate, I decided to change tack. “Did Nellie ever mention the wives of her benefactors?”

  She snorted. “If Nellie cared about them, she never showed it.”

  “You don’t think she considered their feelings?”

  “No. It’s not all her fault, mind. The lords have to take some of the blame. Most of it, I suppose.” She sighed and put down the teacup. “Nellie just did what came naturally to her. She flirted and smiled her way through life, taking all she could while she could. I suppose one of her lovers ended her life out of jealousy.” She shook her head sadly. “So very, very selfish.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was referring to Pearl or the murderer.

  Silence weighed heavily on us, each of us lost in our thoughts. It was only broken by Millie’s humming.

  The girl approached along the corridor, her hand running along the wall. She stopped when she reached the kitchen. “I’m hungry.”

  “Not now, Millie, we have a guest.”

  Millie seemed to consider this. “Will I eat at school?”

  Mrs. Larsen clicked her tongue. “Enough! I’m tired of hearing about that place.” She took her daughter’s shoulders and turned her around to face the corridor. “Go back outside.” When Millie didn’t move, she gave her a little shove. “Go!”

  Humming to herself, Millie headed off.

  “She seems a content child,” I said.

  “She’s simple.” Mrs. Larsen sat down again. “Simple children are often content.”

  “Is that why she’s going to school at a young age? I hear that can be good for children who have difficulty learning, to give them the best start. How old is she?”

  “Four this March.”

  She didn’t answer my other question, and I wondered if she was sensitive about Millie being slower to develop compared to other children her age. But that wasn’t what intrigued me about the girl.

  I put down my teacup and watched Mrs. Larsen very carefully. I wanted to see every flicker of her lashes, every flinch, when I said what was on my mind. “She looks like her mother.”

  Mrs. Larsen’s gaze sharpened and a muscle in her cheek twitched. “We have the same shaped face, and I was blonde too, at her age.”

  The twitch gave me enough of a hint that I was onto something with my line of questioning. I pushed forward, even though it was one of the most uncomfortable questions I’d ever asked anyone. “She’s Nellie’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  She almost dropped the teacup. It clattered in the saucer. “She’s my child. If she weren’t, do you think I’d keep her? I’d give her back to her mother, even if that mother was my own fool of a sister.”

  Her harsh words did not sound like a mother’s. Or, rather, they didn’t sound like a loving mother’s words. There was a ring of truth to them, however. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Larsen taking in a simple child that was not her own. She didn’t seem to have a kind enough heart for it. That destroyed the theory brewing ever
since seeing Millie walk down the corridor—that Pearl had asked for her daughter back and Mrs. Larsen had killed her to stop her taking Millie.

  “I’m sorry for asking,” I said. “I must look at all possibilities.”

  Mrs. Larsen’s lips pursed. “More tea, Miss Fox?”

  “No. I must go.” I rose and saw myself out.

  Mr. Larsen stood by a cart with Millie sitting on the back of it. He was teaching her a clapping game which required her to copy him then add something to the sequence, which he then repeated. He had a lot of patience and Millie quickly picked up the rhythm. A moment later, she’d changed it to something equally rhythmic yet different.

  He smiled at her then caught sight of me. He nodded. I nodded back and left the court behind.

  A few minutes ago, I’d had two potential candidates for Millie’s father, based on her age—Lord Wrexham and Mr. Culpepper. After watching Mr. Larsen with her, I now had a third.

  Despite Mrs. Larsen’s protests, I was absolutely convinced that she didn’t give birth to Millie. Her sister had. But for some reason, Pearl—Nellie—couldn’t, or wouldn’t, raise her.

  Chapter 11

  Mr. Culpepper wasn’t in his office at the Piccadilly Playhouse. I followed the corridor towards the dressing rooms and quickly realized mid-afternoon was a busy time of day in the theater. Actors and actresses were beginning to arrive, squeezing past me in the narrow corridor to reach their dressing rooms. A man’s voice filled the cramped space as he performed vocal exercises, and a group of women talked loudly to be heard over him—and each other. Backstage staff hurried past me carrying props, costumes and stage pieces. None seemed to care that an extra person was in their midst, and I wasn’t stopped.

  I knocked on Dotty Clare’s dressing room door. When she didn’t respond, I continued my search and found her in the main women’s dressing room. The door stood open even though one of the actresses wore only her corset and wide-leg bloomers.

  “Miss Fox?” came the familiar voice of Mr. Alcott from behind me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Culpepper.”

  “I haven’t seen him. Did you try his office?”

  Dotty joined us, wearing a silk dressing gown and slippers. She leaned against the doorframe and languidly lifted an arm and pointed towards the door that led to the stage. “He’s out there with my understudy. That girl requires work. Honestly, I think he should get someone else.”

  “It’s too late to get another,” Mr. Alcott said. “There’s no time for a new girl to learn the lines. What if you got ill tomorrow? Or you had an accident?”

  “Going to push me off a balcony too, Perry?”

  He gasped.

  Dotty turned to me, a satisfied smile on her lips. “Have you seen my show yet, Miss Fox?”

  “Your show?” Mr. Alcott scoffed.

  “Find Miss Fox some tickets, will you, Perry?” She patted his cheek. “Good man.” She walked off, her hips swaying seductively and the silk gown fluttering around her ankles.

  Mr. Alcott shook his head. “She’s getting more unbearable every day. She’d best be careful or someone might push her off the balcony. Her understudy perhaps.”

  I made a small sound of shock and he gave me an arched look.

  “You seem disturbed by our little spats, Miss Fox. Clearly you haven’t spent much time around actors.”

  “It’s always this nasty?”

  “That’s not nasty. Not that Dotty and I are friends, either. I have made great friends in the theater though. Pearl, for example.” He released a shuddery breath and blinked back tears. “It’s beginning to sink in that she’s never going to walk out on that stage again.”

  Mr. Culpepper emerged through the stage door then stopped upon seeing me. “I don’t have time for your questions.” He strode past me.

  I raced after him. “This won’t take long.”

  “Not now, Miss Fox.” He paused outside his office door. “I’m too busy. Good day.”

  There was only one thing to do—tell him here and now in the corridor. “Pearl had a child.”

  His jaw slackened.

  “The child was adopted by her sister and brother-in-law, the Larsens. They’re bringing her up as their own.”

  His gaze shifted away and he frowned in thought. After a moment, as if he’d been wound up, he invited me inside. He closed the door behind me, but I remained near it while he rested his hands on the desk.

  He lowered his head. “I’ve never seen the girl. I don’t even know her name.”

  “It’s Millie. She’ll be four in March.”

  He sat heavily on the desk chair and rubbed his chin. The fingers of his other hand lightly tapped the desk. He was calculating Millie’s birth year and perhaps when she must have been conceived. His fingers stopped tapping and he swallowed heavily.

  “Pearl stopped working for a few months over the winter of ninety-six. She told me she was ill and went to convalesce at her sister’s home.”

  So I’d been right. Millie was Pearl’s child. A niggling doubt had lingered after Mrs. Larsen denied it. “You never saw Pearl during that time?”

  “She didn’t want to see me. She wrote saying she was too ill and illness made her look ugly.” He almost smiled, but it didn’t quite eventuate. “She was always worried about how she looked, even with me.” He passed both hands over his face. When they drew away, he glanced up at me. “My God. You’ve shocked me, Miss Fox. I—I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell me!”

  I couldn’t quite believe it either. But if Mr. Culpepper was lying, he was a very good actor.

  “Is the girl mine?” he asked.

  “I hoped you could tell me.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “The timing fits. We were certainly together then, but…” He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “But she was also with Lord Wrexham,” I finished.

  He gave a small nod. “She would have told me if the child was mine. Wouldn’t she?” He seemed to be asking himself, or perhaps the ghost of Pearl. His gaze grew distant. “When she returned to work, she was as happy as she’d ever been. She and Wrexham went to a lot of parties then. She was always careful not to mention them around me, but I heard. It was almost as if she decided to make the most of what was on offer, and there was a banquet spread out before her.”

  That didn’t sound like someone who’d just given up her baby. Unless she hadn’t wanted that baby.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” he muttered.

  I bit the inside of my lip. The only reason she wouldn’t have told him was because she knew, or suspected, the child wasn’t his.

  I went to open the door at my back, but thought of one more question. “Did Pearl ever ask you for money?”

  He’d been rubbing his hand through his hair and when he stopped, his hair stuck out at odd angles from his head. “No.”

  “Not even quite recently?”

  He shook his head. “She knows I couldn’t give her anything. Besides, Rumford gave her everything she could have wanted. What did she need more for?”

  I thanked him and slipped out, leaving him staring vacantly after me. I was glad I’d spoken to him. His answers were a revelation. And yet some things didn’t ring true. How could he have not known that his lover had a baby? Surely he would have noticed the swell of her belly when they were together before her self-imposed confinement. And surely he wouldn’t simply have accepted her excuse that she was ill. If he loved her, he would have tried to see her during her illness.

  I also didn’t believe that he had no money. He was the manager of one of London’s premier theaters. Even if he didn’t have enough on hand for whatever Pearl needed, he could get a loan. If nothing else, Pearl would have gone to the man she loved first before going to Lord Wrexham.

  If she had asked Mr. Culpepper for money so she could take back her child, he must have become angry that she’d never told him about Millie. Perhaps they argued and he killed her during a confrontation. Perhaps the entir
e conversation I’d just had with him was a fabrication, an act. He might not be an actor himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t perform when necessary.

  The more I thought about it, the more I warmed to the idea. Ever since realizing Millie was Pearl’s daughter, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What other reason could there be for Pearl to want money? She was going to pay off her sister and raise Millie herself.

  Which pointed to Mrs. Larsen as the murderer. She could have killed Pearl out of fear that she was going to lose the girl she’d raised as a daughter for almost four years.

  “Miss Fox! Wait!”

  Mr. Alcott hurried along the corridor behind me, waving some strips of paper in the air. As he drew closer, I realized they were tickets. He handed them to me. “They’re for tonight’s performance. Best seats in the house.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “Dotty’s performance won’t be as good as Pearl’s.”

  The mention of Pearl reminded me just how close they’d been. “May I ask you a very personal question about Miss Westwood?”

  “This sounds serious. What is it?”

  “Did she ever mention that she’d had a child?”

  “Bloody hell,” he murmured. “No, never. When was this?”

  I didn’t like spreading gossip, but I needed answers and this man might be able to give them to me. “The child will be four in March. Pearl’s sister and brother-in-law have been raising her as their own.”

  He shook his head. “I’m flabbergasted. Not only did Pearl never mention her, but…” He shook his head.

  “Go on.”

  “But as I said, I never had an inkling. Even now that you’ve told me, I can’t think of a single time Pearl even hinted at that child being hers. There were no photographs of her in her dressing room, no children’s drawings. I don’t even know the girl’s name.”

  “Millie.”

  “She bought her a gift at Christmas, of that I’m sure. It was a teddy bear. She asked me if I thought it was a good gift for a toddler, but you’re saying the girl is almost four.” He shook his head over and over. “How could she not have told me?”