Murder at the Piccadilly Playhouse

by C. J. Archer

  “What’s this got to do with the case?” Peter asked.

  I tapped my finger on the counter, thinking. “If Lord Wrexham blames Pearl for the disease, then perhaps he killed her in anger or revenge. Could she possibly have had it but bore no sores or other outward signs?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know she didn’t give it to him. Not unless they were, er, together, in the last couple of months.” At my confused frown, he added, “The sores appear a few weeks after the disease is caught. If they ended their relationship years ago then she didn’t give it to him.”

  “What if they didn’t end it then?” Goliath asked. “Or what if they resumed their relationship recently?”

  It was a possibility. She had been to see Lord Wrexham after Christmas. Could she have been asking him for money to treat the disease she’d caught from him? Or he from her? “There were medical bills in her flat. They don’t say what she was being treated for, but it’s not the sort of thing you’d write on a bill, is it?”

  “Isn’t Wrexham’s visit to the doctor’s clinic his alibi for the time of the murder?” Peter asked.

  “We don’t know the exact time he was there.”

  Goliath clicked his fingers. “What about his wife? What if she also has the disease? If she blames Miss Westwood, she could have killed her out of anger.”

  According to Thomas Adams, Lady Wrexham was ill, yet I’d seen no signs of that illness. If she’d caught syphilis from her husband, the disease might not be as advanced in her as it had been in him. Her sores might come later, or perhaps she had them now in places where they could be covered up with clothes.

  If my husband had given me such a terrible disease as syphilis, I think I’d want to kill someone too. I’d certainly want to scream at the person who gave it to me. I’d probably scream at my husband, however, not his lover.

  But I wasn’t Lady Wrexham.

  “Thank you both.” I leaned across the counter and pecked Peter’s cheek. Even when I stood on my toes I was still too short to kiss Goliath’s cheek so I settled for patting his arm. “You’ve been a marvelous help.”

  Peter blushed and smiled.

  Goliath followed me to the door. “Where are you going now?”

  “I can’t confront Lord and Lady Wrexham with this information. They’ve told me very little so far and are hardly going to tell me anything more now. I’m going to call on Detective Inspector Hobart at Scotland Yard. It’s time for the police to take over.”

  He looked disappointed. “But it’s your case. You should get the glory of solving it.”

  “I’ve progressed as far as I can on my own.”

  “So you’re just going to waltz into Scotland Yard and hope he’ll see you?”

  I chewed my lip. It did sound somewhat silly to think he’d see me immediately. And what if he wasn’t there? I didn’t want to speak to a different detective. I wanted to talk to someone who knew me.

  “I’ll ask Mr. Armitage what to do,” I said as he held the door open for me. “After all, who knows his father better than him?”

  I found Mr. Armitage in his office, painting the wall. Dressed in overalls with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a dash of paint on his cheek, he somehow looked even more handsome, something I thought entirely impossible until now.

  “What was wrong with the previous color?” I asked.

  “It was too plain.”

  I looked around at the walls, nearly finished in the off-white color he’d chosen. “As opposed to this vibrant shade?”

  “There was an old water stain in the corner that needed touching up.”

  “I didn’t notice it.”

  “Then you’re not very observant. It was an eyesore.”

  “Or are you just bored?”

  “I’m very busy. I have inquiries coming in all the time from my newspaper ad.”

  I opened the appointment book on his desk while his back was turned. “You don’t have a single appointment listed.”

  “I don’t have a single appointment yet.” He rested the paint brush on top of the can and wiped his hands on a rag. “Have you come to criticize the way I spend my time or do you need my help?”

  “The latter. You can spend your time in any way you like. Although you should spend a little more time contemplating paint choices. You know, Flossy’s got a good eye for color. You should have asked her advice.”

  He laughed. “Next time I want to paint a wall, I’ll ask the daughter of my former employer who dismissed me. Thanks for the advice, Miss Fox.”

  I scowled. “She’d be happy to help you. She has a lot of respect for you.”

  He arched his brows in a challenge.

  In truth, I didn’t know what Flossy thought of Mr. Armitage. We’d never discussed him.

  “Do you have clothes on under those overalls?” I asked.

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation so early in our friendship.”

  “Very amusing. I’d like you to accompany me to call on your father at Scotland Yard. I want to tell him about my theory for Pearl’s murder. I think either Lord or Lady Wrexham killed her but neither will reveal their secrets to me. Your father will know how to get answers.”

  “Why do you need me?”

  “I thought your presence might be a persuasive influence.”

  “Why do you need a persuasive influence? Does your theory have holes?”

  “It’s a very good theory. Do you recall that Lord Wrexham has sores on his face? I believe they’re caused by syphilis which he may have caught from Pearl.”

  “I thought they ended their relationship years ago. If he has the sores now, he caught it more recently.”

  “Perhaps they resumed their relationship.”

  “Perhaps? Do you know for certain?”

  “Well, no.”

  “And do you know if Pearl had syphilis?”

  “No. But there are doctor’s bills in her flat.”

  “For doctors specializing in syphilis?”

  “I didn’t know, but—"

  “So you have no evidence, only speculation.” He unbuttoned the front of his overalls, revealing a shirt underneath. “Jumping to conclusions again, Miss Fox?”

  It wasn’t fair of him to dredge up the time I’d accused him of murder and thereby inadvertently cost him his job at the hotel. I tried to look defiant, but I suspected I failed. Indeed, I must have because he gave me a sympathetic look.

  He stepped out of the overalls and folded them up. He wore only trousers, suspenders and a shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His tie and waistcoat were hanging on the stand by the door.

  “Miss Fox? Are you listening?”

  I realized I’d been staring at his forearms, admiring the way the muscles moved beneath the smooth skin on the underside of his arms. “Of course I am.” I cleared my throat. “Refresh my memory.”

  He smirked. “I was saying that you need evidence if you want my father’s help. For one thing, Pearl Westwood’s death was deemed suicide, and you don’t have enough evidence to suggest otherwise. For another, my father didn’t oversee the investigation. If you want him to overturn a ruling made by one of his colleagues, you’ll need something solid.”

  I sighed. “Which I don’t have.”

  He gave me a flat smile. “Sorry.”

  “And I’m also unlikely to get it. Lord and Lady Wrexham are a closed book and I have no authority over them.”

  He sat on the edge of the desk near me. “Sit down.”

  I sat, curious as to why he was looking rather serious.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret.”

  “You have my attention.”

  “I’m going to give you the secret as to how I earned the respect of the staff at the hotel, even though I didn’t have the seniority of my uncle nor the status of Sir Ronald.”

  “If you tell me it’s arrogance, I already know that from observing you.” When he gave me a withering glare, I muttered an apology
then pressed my lips together.

  “To command respect, you don’t actually need to have any authority at all. You have to pretend to.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have to talk and act like you’re above them. You even have to think you are, at times. When you’re intimidated, don’t show it. When they talk down to you, stand above them, metaphorically speaking. I think you’d be rather good at it. You have a certain confidence about you already. You just need a little more composure.”

  “If you’re talking about keeping a lid on my temper, I’m afraid that might be impossible. I got quite angry with Lady Wrexham yesterday.”

  He rolled down the sleeve on his left arm. “It’s something to practice, anyway.”

  I stood. “Thank you for the advice, but I don’t think it will work on the Wrexhams. No matter how much pretending I do, I’m not at their level, and they know it.”

  “Nonsense. You’re Sir Ronald Bainbridge’s niece. If that doesn’t open doors here in London, little else will.” He stopped unrolling the sleeve and looked at me, a crease connecting his brows. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  I gave a small shrug of my shoulder, but wasn’t really listening. I couldn’t see how mentioning my uncle’s name was going to encourage Lord Wrexham to talk to me about his illness. I’d barely got him to talk about his relationship with Pearl. Syphilis was a subject too far.

  I left Mr. Armitage’s office feeling less assured of myself than when I’d arrived. He was right. I had no proof. Even worse, I didn’t know how to get it.

  The investigation was at a dead end. It was time to tell Lord Rumford that I was giving up, that I couldn’t say definitively whether Pearl killed herself or not. I wasn’t looking forward to letting him down.

  But what I really wasn’t looking forward to was telling him that his lover not only had a child by another man, but she quite possibly had syphilis too, and may have given it to him.

  Chapter 13

  Mr. Hobart suggested I use his office to speak to Lord Rumford. He then discreetly left us alone and promised we wouldn’t be disturbed. I sat in Mr. Hobart’s chair and regarded Lord Rumford across the desk. I think he knew from my face that I didn’t have good news.

  “You’re giving up, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid I have no choice. The people I need to speak to won’t talk to me.”

  “And who are these people?”

  I clasped my hands on the desk and sat forward. “Before I tell you that, I want you to know that I agree with your assessment of Pearl’s death. By all accounts, she was happy, so it’s unlikely she killed herself.”

  “I hope you learned more than that, Miss Fox.”

  I clasped my hands tighter and drew in a fortifying breath. “I learned that Pearl had a baby, four years ago this March.”

  His lips parted. He hadn’t known.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Larsen are raising the child as their own,” I went on. “Did Pearl ever mention that her niece might be her own daughter?”

  “She never mentioned the niece at all, except once, in passing.”

  “From what I can gather, Pearl didn’t want the child. However, it’s possible she changed her mind recently.”

  He shook his head. “She would have mentioned it to me if that were the case.”

  I doubted that, but didn’t say. “It’s possible she asked Lord Wrexham for money to support Millie.”

  There was no surprise on his face at the mention of Pearl’s former benefactor. He’d already quickly calculated Millie’s age and realized who’d fathered her. “You forget that Pearl did ask me for money too.”

  “After Wrexham refused her. But I don’t think that’s why Pearl was killed. I think it has to do with a disease she either caught from Wrexham or gave to him.”

  This time his expression left nothing to guesswork. Disgust was written all over it. “Pearl wasn’t diseased, Miss Fox, and your insinuation is abhorrent.”

  “Lord Wrexham has syphilis—”

  He shot to his feet. “I’ve heard enough. Wrexham’s medical situation is no business of mine. If he is ill, it’s not Pearl’s fault. She hasn’t been near him for years.”

  “You can’t know—”

  “I can,” he ground out between gritted teeth. “Pearl wasn’t with anyone else when she was with me.”

  “That’s not true. While I cannot be certain if she was with Wrexham, I do know she had another lover, one she’s had for years. He knew about you, and Wrexham.”

  His mouth and jaw worked, as if he couldn’t decide what to say next. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind. Jealousy? Anger? Was he picturing Pearl taking her other lover to the flat he’d paid for?

  Finally he found his voice. “She was not with Wrexham. Nor did she have any diseases. Believe me, Miss Fox, I would know. The thing about Wrexham is that he likes to show off his lovers. He’s not discreet. It’s a well-known fact in some circles that Wrexham’s most recent lover is a dancer. It’s also well-known that she disappeared from the stage some months ago, and speculation is that she is ill. If anyone gave Wrexham syphilis, it’s her.”

  I capitulated on the point. I’d been given no reason to believe Pearl and Wrexham had resumed their relationship. She’d not been seen with him, except for that one time, after Christmas, and there were no letters from him among her things. By all accounts, she was content with Lord Rumford and she’d be a fool to jeopardize that by taking up with Wrexham again. If they hadn’t been together lately, she could not have given him syphilis. Wrexham would have known that, which meant there was no reason for him to kill her.

  There was still Lady Wrexham, however. She might not be aware her husband had caught the disease from another woman.

  Lord Rumford strode to the door, but before opening it, turned back to me. The gaze he settled on me was as cold as ice. “Mr. Hobart recommended you, and against my better judgement, I hired you. I should have gone with my instinct and sent you on your way. I knew this would be too difficult for a woman. Female private detectives are better left to trapping philandering husbands than murderers.”

  I watched him storm out of the office, biting on my tongue until it hurt. Despite the fact he kept a mistress, I had liked Lord Rumford. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true. It’s safer to say I didn’t dislike him. Until now.

  With a sigh, I left Mr. Hobart’s office and returned to the foyer where Peter was busy with new guests checking in. Goliath stood by, waiting for instructions on which room to take up a trolley full of luggage, and gave me a discreet nod as I passed. Mr. Hobart was in deep conversation with two guests, and didn’t notice me as I headed for the stairs.

  “Miss Fox,” said Frank from behind me. “There’s a lad who wants to speak to you. He says he’s Peter’s brother.”

  I followed him outside where he directed me to the boy standing a few feet away, a pack slung over his shoulder and a stool in one hand.

  “I know you,” he said. “I saw you go into the house.”

  “My name is Cleo Fox.” I put out my hand and he shook it, introducing himself as William. “Have you come to tell me you’re giving up?”

  “No, miss! I want to report in about the mistress of the house. She went out this morning and I followed her.”

  I stood a little straighter. “Go on.”

  “She went to a shop in Shoreditch. Real small place, tucked away in a court behind a pub. She was in there for a few minutes and came out with something in a paper bag. She went straight home again.”

  “What does the shop sell?”

  “Potions, as near as I can tell. I reckon the shopkeeper’s a witch.” He pulled a face. “She sure looked like one.”

  He gave me the address on Sclater Street and I paid him for his trouble.

  He squirreled the money away in his pocket. “Any time you need a house watched, I’m your man.”

  “I can see that. Thank you.”

  “Working in an of
fice or a fancy hotel ain’t for the likes of men like me. I’ll leave that to Peter and folks like him.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant. I didn’t think William even knew what he meant. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He winked at me and went on his way, whistling.

  Smiling, I returned to the hotel to fetch my coat and an umbrella. Ten minutes later, I caught a hansom to Sclater Street, Shoreditch. The shop William had seen Lady Wrexham enter was difficult to find. Accessed through an arched walkway beside the pub that opened to a small court, it had a single, grimy window with the word HERBALIST painted across the top.

  I could smell burning incense before I even opened the door. There were so many scents mingled together, it was difficult to discern individual ones. The shop looked like a Medieval apothecary’s laboratory. Bunches of drying herbs, flowers and berries hung from the rafters, some so low they skimmed my hat as I passed beneath them. Behind the counter was a large cabinet with small drawers, while the counter itself was covered with small pots of lotions, as well as soaps and sachets. A set of brass scales stood at one end beside a basket filled with dried rabbit’s feet.

  I bent to inspect the contents of a collection of glass jars on a table only to reel back when a pair of dead eyes stared back at me. The jars were filled with severed animal heads and entire bodies of small creatures suspended in fluid to preserve them.

  “They’re not for sale,” came a crackling voice from behind me.

  The elderly woman must have come from the adjoining room, accessed through the door near the counter. She’d not made a sound. It was no wonder William referred to her as a witch. She had the classic storybook profile with the hooked nose, sharp chin, and beady eyes. All that was missing was a broomstick and pointed black hat.

  “You don’t have an appointment,” she said.

  “You take appointments?” I asked. “What for?”

  She went behind the counter and pulled out a ledger from a lower shelf. “Private consultations. You tell me what ails you, and I tailor a treatment to your specific needs. The consultation is free and there’s no obligation to purchase anything.”