A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Murder in Grosvenor Square
Author’s Note
About the Author
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Excerpt from Murder in Grosvenor Square Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Ashley / Ashley Gardner
Cover design by Kim Killion
Books in the
Captain Lacey
Regency Mysteries
Series
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair
A Body in Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
The Gentleman's Walking Stick
(short stories)
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 1
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Vol 2
Chapter One
Late December 1817
Marianne Simmons came to me on a cold December day when I was packing away my old life in order to begin my new.
Tomorrow, I would journey through sparkling frosts and possible snow to Oxfordshire. I would travel via warm, private coach, but no amount of luxury could keep away the winter winds that were decidedly blowing now.
“I need your help, Lacey,” Marianne said without preliminary as she entered my front room.
I did not lift my head from my task. “On the moment? I am rushing off to be married, as you can see.”
“I thought you did not leave until the morrow.”
“I do not, but Bartholomew and I must clear everything from these rooms and have my baggage ready for Lady Breckenridge’s coach in the morning. Her coachman is not the most patient of beings.”
“Good. Then you have this evening to help me.”
I straightened up from where I packed the contents of the drawers of my chest-on-frame. When I’d moved into these rooms three and more years ago, I’d had little in the way of possessions. Things tend to accumulate, however, especially in drawers.
I’d thought to discard or sell some of the objects, but each one I lifted out to transfer to an open crate told its own story. Many, like the snuffboxes from Grenville, had been gifts. Others, such as the small stack of letters written to me by Lady Breckenridge, were dearer still. Memories accumulated as thickly as the objects, and I could not remove the one from the other. Hence, they all went into boxes to be moved to my new abode.
“This evening I must pack,” I said to Marianne. “You would not wish me to be late to the happiest day of my life, would you?”
Marianne plunked herself onto my wing chair. “Well, if it will be the happiest day of your life, then all the others can only be less happy, can’t they? Perhaps you ought to miss it altogether.”
Marianne herself had changed over the few years I’d known her. Tonight she was resplendent in a gray frock topped with a black and silver long-sleeved bodice, a silver-gray spencer, gray leather gloves, and a bonnet trimmed with feathers and gray ruched ribbon. A far cry from the tawdrily dressed, rather desperate young woman who’d let the rooms above mine. Rare was the day Marianne had not come down the stairs to filch my candles, my coal, or my snuff, and anything else she could carry off.
She was now the mistress of Lucius Grenville, one of England’s wealthiest and most fashionable gentlemen, and he believed in turning his ladies out well. The muff she slapped to her lap attested to the cost of Marianne’s ensemble, as did the well-made boots that peeked from under the hem of the gown.
“I fear my good lady would not see it in that light,” I said, returning to my task. “Besides, her mother is going to much trouble for this wedding.”
“To which I am not invited.”
I ended up simply dumping the entire contents of the drawer into the box to sort through later. “No one is invited to the wedding but members of Lady Breckenridge’s family. Her family, that is. Pembrokes, all. The only Breckenridge attending is Donata’s son, Peter, and he with his nanny.”
“Grenville will be there.”
And now we came to the heart of her sour mood. “Grenville is standing up with me,” I said. “I assure you, the rest of the party will be elderly matrons along with gentlemen related to Lady Breckenridge’s mother and father. My family will be represented by my daughter.”
And my heart sang.
I had not seen Gabriella since the summer, when she’d come for a too-brief visit to the country house of Lady Aline Carrington. We’d spent two weeks together, but Gabriella had been shy with me, preferring the company of her chaperones—her stepfather’s brother and wife who’d traveled with her from France. Just as Gabriella had begun to grow more confident with me, her visit had come to an end, and she’d returned home. Her mother, my former wife, had not wanted Gabriella away for long.
This time, however, my friends, abetted by Gabriella’s French uncle and aunt, had convinced the former Mrs. Lacey to allow Gabriella to spend the entire Season in England with me. She’d live with us, after my marriage, in Lady Breckenridge’s Mayfair home. Gabriella had arrived at Dover a few days ago with her chaperones, and Earl Pembroke had dispatched his personal carriage to take them from there straight to Oxfordshire.
Marrying Donata Breckenridge was one reason I hurried to leave dank and cold London, but the thought of seeing my daughter again put wings on my feet.
“The matter is a simple one,” Marianne said, breaking my thoughts. “I am certain you can clear it up in a trice. You generally do.”
Not quite. The last problem I’d cleared up had taken two weeks, and I’d ridden miles, had seen gruesome sights, and been battered and beaten for my pains. I’d also done things, and looked the other way at things done by others, that still made me uncomfortable in the night.
But I knew trying to put Marianne off would never work—she could be persistent to the point of madness. “What matter?” I asked.
“A friend has gone missing,” Marianne said. She stroked the fur of her muff, the short, jerky movements telling me she was more worried than she cared to reveal. “An actress from the company at Drury Lane. I thought you might look into it for me, since you excel at finding the missing.”
I hated that word—missing. I’d looked for missing women in London before, to tragic end.
Unfortunately, people went missing all the time. Young men were impressed onto the large merchant ships that gathered on the
London docks and Isle of Dogs, young women were lured by procuresses into houses of ruin. The elderly wandered away from home and were never found again.
Compassion stirred beneath my haste. “How long has she been gone?”
“Going on for a six-month now.”
I set the drawer down with a thump, some of the anxiety leaving me. “A six-month? And you expect me to find her in the afternoon before I leave for my wedding?”
“Of course not. But I hoped you could make a start. One of her pals told me that Abigail went off in early summer, saying she’d return for the theatre’s season, as per usual. But she’s not been back, and her pal is getting worried. Abigail’s not written, though she was never one for writing letters.”
“A moment. Are you speaking of Mrs. Abigail Collins?”
“That’s the one.”
Abigail Collins was one of the most famous tragic actresses of the stage these days, the next Sarah Siddons, everyone called her. I’d watched, enthralled, as Mrs. Collins transformed herself into her characters, from those in great Shakespearean plays to ones from lesser-known modern melodramas. She blossomed as soon as she walked onstage and held the audience in her power until she left it. She and Mr. Kean, a great tragedian in his own right, between them filled every seat in Drury Lane theatre.
“You know Mrs. Collins well?” I asked.
“Abby?” Marianne studied her muff. “Yes, we’re acquainted. You know everyone when you’re in a theatre company. Better than you wish to, sometimes.”
I sensed something more in the reply than Marianne wanted to say. However, I was familiar with Marianne’s stubbornness and decided not to try to pull the information from her at the moment.
“Perhaps she decided to do more traveling,” I said. “Or is engaged in a series of performances elsewhere.”
Marianne shook her head. “Abby would never leave it so late. The new plays open the day after New Year’s.”
“Perhaps she is with someone then. A lover.”
“Abby? Run off to see a man? Not likely. When she has an affair, known or discreet, she never lets it interfere with her performances. She’d never risk missing an opening night for a lover. Abby’s life is the stage. She’s devoted to it and nothing more.” In Marianne’s tone I heard resignation and exasperation at the same time.
Marianne herself had once had the habit of disappearing from London and returning when she pleased, refusing to answer questions as to where she’d been. Grenville at first had assumed she’d gone off to a lover—spending all the money Grenville gave her on him—and I admit, I had thought the same. The solution to the mystery of Marianne’s disappearances had turned out to be something quite different, however. Perhaps Mrs. Collins kept similar secrets.
“Can you come round and talk to Abby’s pal at the theatre?” Marianne asked me.
I opened another drawer. “Let me go to Oxfordshire for my very important appointment. When we return to London, I will begin some inquiries.”
“Oh, do not bestir yourself. My friend might be in danger, but it is quite all right for you to hurry off to bask in comfort with your friends. Tell him I’ll be busy spending his money on clothing and snuff and who knows what else? I will be sure to find comfort on my own.”
“Marianne,” I said, trying to hold on to my patience. “I am getting married, not puttering about at a garden party. Grenville has been kind enough to agree to be my groomsman. This is not a slight on you. Have I ever mentioned that you are a bit selfish?”
She did not look contrite. “If you’d had to fend for yourself against the world all your life—not easy for a woman, believe me—you would become a bit selfish too, would you not?”
She had a point. When I’d first met Marianne, she’d had nothing and no one, which was why I’d leave my door unlocked so she could eat my leftover food. She’d never told me where she came from or who her family was. In spite of her working-class idioms, she spoke with a timbre that sounded of the genteel, not one originating in the slums of London.
“Please, Lacey,” she said.
I looked past her prickly demeanor and into her eyes, which held true worry. She was trying to make lighter of this than her fears wanted to.
“Very well,” I said. “We will go.”
Marianne jumped up from the chair. “Excellent. Shall you hire a hackney?”
“It isn’t far. We can walk.”
“You’re rich enough now to never let your boots touch London’s cobbles again, you know.”
I put my boxes aside and limped across the room for my greatcoat, hat, and walking stick. “I enjoy a good tramp. Nothing like being told you’ll never walk well again to give you a passion for it. Besides, the theatre is only steps around the corner.”
“You’ll change your tune once you are married, I vow. It isn’t fashionable to walk anywhere. You never catch him doing it.”
“I catch Grenville walking all the time. Don’t exaggerate.”
Marianne made face at me, but at last she stopped her needling, and we went.
We departed down the stairs and out to Grimpen Lane. The bakeshop beneath my rooms, run by Mrs. Beltan, my landlady, was doing a brisk business as usual. The day was bone cold, which rendered the warm, yeasty smell of the shop enticing.
Grimpen Lane, a narrow cul-de-sac off Russel Street near Covent Garden, was lined with houses in which the respectable but meager dwelled. Our cobbles were always swept, indigents encouraged to move along. Few of us had more than two coins to rub together, but the women who lived here made certain the world knew we were not of the working classes. So few trudged down this street that it was a hollow victory, but the spinsters, housewives, and widows of Grimpen Lane were adamant.
The two ladies who lived in the house across the lane, leaders of the army for respectability, were just departing the bakeshop. The pair of them, Mrs. Carfax and her companion, Miss Winston, glanced askance at Marianne in her finery. They had never approved of Mrs. Beltan letting an actress live above her shop. As for me, Mrs. Carfax was still shy with me, though painfully courteous. She was terrified of all men—though I knew there had at one time been a Mr. Carfax.
“Good evening,” I said to them, tipping my hat. They curtseyed politely, tightly arm in arm, gave Marianne a frosty nod, and walked on.
“Cows,” Marianne said as we moved on to Russel Street. “As though it’s a virtue to be cold and hungry. Let us hold our heads high while we quietly starve to death. Ridiculous way to live.”
I did not bother to answer; it was an old argument. We turned left to Russel Street and walked a short distance to Drury Lane. The doors of the Theatre Royal at Drury Lane opened onto Russel Street, but Marianne led me down a narrow passage beside the building, dark now as the walls shut out the weak winter light, and around the theatre to its back.
A notice had been pinned on the dark gray brick next to an unmarked door, announcing that Next Saturday after the New Year, Mr. Kean will perform the Tragedy of Othello, with a melodrama, The Innkeeper’s Daughter. Coming later this spring would be The Bride of Abydos, a tragedy in three acts based on Lord Byron’s poem, promising Choruses of Soldiers, Warriors of an Ancient Tribe, Slaves of the Seraglio, and splendid new scenery prepared for this play, which would include, apparently, a pirate galley and gardens of the harem.
Drury Lane had the patent to produce what was known as “true” plays, meaning spoken drama, anything from Shakespeare to Sheridan. No opera or musicales, but plenty of dramatics, lavish stage sets, and effects. I’d once watched a play here in which a rainstorm had been created on the stage with real water. The rain had thoroughly drenched the actors as well as members of the audience in the first few rows. In another play, a lighter-than-air balloon had taken an actor aloft.
Marianne knocked on the door beside the notice. I was surprised she thought anyone would be inside the theatre in this week between Boxing Day and New Year’s, but she did not seem worried. She knocked again—three short raps—and waited.
His face was not ugly, but a bit flat, his nose smaller than such a man should have. His eyes, set proportionally in his large face, were a pale hazel, discernible even in this dim light. His clothes were well made, sewn for him, at a guess—I could not imagine he’d have an easy time of it finding secondhand clothes to fit him. He gave me a look of grave suspicion but softened when he took in Marianne.
“Miss Simmons,” he said, sounding relieved. “We was expecting you.”
He opened the door wider, almost deferentially, to let Marianne inside. When he looked at me again, all his suspicions returned.
“Where is she, Mr. Coleman?” Marianne asked.
Coleman moved his bulk around Marianne and into the darkened hall. “Doing the mending. I’ll take you in, so she knows it’s you.”
Marianne saw nothing odd in his phrasing, but I was curious. She followed Coleman down a narrow hall, and I came behind, my walking stick quietly tapping the floor.
While the entity that was the Drury Lane theatre had stood on this spot for a very long time, the building we walked through was itself not very old. The previous manifestation of the theatre had burned down in 1809 then risen again in 1812. The new building was modern and fairly comfortable—that is, if you were fortunate enough to afford its luxurious boxes. Behind the stage, the actors had to make do with narrow corridors and small dressing rooms. But it was relatively warm back here, with stoves rather than the old hearths that had put out very little heat.
Coleman stopped in front of a door, knocked firmly, and pushed it open. We entered a large room filled with open wardrobes, trunks, shelves, and tables. All the furniture overflowed with pieces of clothing, but everything was folded neatly, stacked into manageable piles. Someone had made order of the chaos.