After the interval, when they came back into the auditorium, Susan made a point of taking Clarkson’s seat and sitting in between Billings and her husband.
After the performance, Clarkson shook Billings’ hand and patted him on his shoulder, thanking him heartily for the fabulous evening. Billings knew that his gratitude was heartfelt, even though it was obvious that Clarkson hadn’t enjoyed the evening at all, as he had slept through most of the play. Susan, who did appear to have enjoyed the play, was less grateful. She didn’t shake his hand, but merely nodded and smiled at him. A cold, suspicious smile.
Mr and Mrs Clarkson claimed their coats from the cloakroom, and Billings watched them head out of the Adelphi, arm in arm, into the cold, damp Soho night and disappear among the throng of people, horses and blurry gaslights. Billings sighed, then went back into the foyer to meet up with Mr Hardy, the tour manager. Back to work, he thought to himself.
“Did you enjoy the play, Detective Sergeant Billings?” Hardy asked as he led Billings through a maze of backstage passages towards Carola LeFevre’s dressing room.
“Yes. It was very entertaining.” Billings had never really seen a play before and didn’t know how to judge this particular performance. But this seemed like an appropriate answer.
“I felt Miss LeFevre was a little subdued tonight,” Hardy continued.
“I can’t say I noticed.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, but I’ve seen her other performances, and she’s usually much more fiery. I can only assume that the death threat has affected her somewhat. Even though she’s adamant that it’s nothing to worry about.”
A uniformed constable was standing outside one of the dressing rooms as Billings and Hardy approached.
“This is Police Constable Grant,” Hardy pointed at the constable. “He’s from A division.”
Billings and the police constable nodded at each other.
Hardy went to the dressing room door and knocked on it. “Ma’am? Are you decent? There’s Detective Sergeant Billings from Scotland Yard here to see you.”
A loud voice responded from behind the door. “Who?”
“Detective Sergeant Billings from Scotland Yard.”
Billings could hear LeFevre mutter, ’Jesus Christ!’ to herself before shouting: “Well, come in, then!”
A tall, thin lady with thick, flaming red hair was sitting at her dressing table as Billings and Hardy entered. She was looking into the mirror, wiping the makeup off her face with a flannel.
“Another wonderful performance, Miss LeFevre,” Hardy said, closing the door behind him and Billings.
“Oh, do be quiet, Mr Hardy. I was off tonight and you know it.” She raised her head and, still facing the mirror, turned her attention towards Billings. “This is the detective then, is it?”
“Yes,” Hardy answered. “This is Detective Sergeant John Billings from Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard!”
The voice came from the other end of the room. Billings turned around to see a good-looking gentleman sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.
“This is Mr Westbrook,” Hardy explained. “He is Miss LeFevre’s…um…” He was struggling to find the right word. “Companion,” he said eventually.
“We’ll have Sherlock Holmes in here next!” Westbrook laughed.
LeFevre was not amused by this joke and frowned. “Oh, this is preposterous! All this fuss over a silly letter."
“Oh, you don’t fool me, cherie. I know you like it really,” Westbrook looked Billings up and down with an amused glint in his eye. “To be fussed over by all these dapper policemen.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Hal!” LeFevre threw the flannel on her table, then turned around in her chair to face Billings directly. “What did you think of the play, Mr… um…”
“Billings,” Hardy prompted her.
“It was very good,” Billings responded. “Although I wonder about its historical accuracy. There really was a Lord Macbeth once in Scotland, but…”
Everyone in the room gasped when Billings said ‘Macbeth’.
“What is it?” Billings asked, confused.
“One doesn’t mention that name inside a theatre,” Hardy explained. “It brings bad luck. We usually refer to it as ‘The Scottish Play’.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Now Carola will have to leave the dressing room,” Westbrook added, “turn around three times and knock on the door before re-entering to break the curse.”
“Superstitious nonsense!” LeFevre said, frowning. “Now, what exactly will you be doing, Mr Billings?”
“Keeping an eye out.”
“On what?”
“On people entering and exiting the building.”
“You mean the theatre?”
“Yes. And the hotel.”
“The hotel? Will you be staying at our hotel too?”
“Yes.”
LeFevre frowned, then turned back to face the mirror. "And what about the police constable outside?” She picked up the flannel and resumed wiping her face. “What will he be doing?”
“He’s the day watch. I’m the night watch,” Billings responded.
“Twenty-four-hour surveillance!” Westbrook laughed. “Aren’t you the lucky one!”
Again, LeFevre was not amused and frowned. “I should have thought the Metropolitan Police had more important things to do with their time than to play nanny to a humble actress.”
“Oh, you’re far from humble, Carola, and you know it,” Westbrook chipped in.
“You’re not concerned about the death threat then, Miss LeFevre?” Billings asked.
“Of course I’m not. It’s a silly prank, that’s all.”
“Have you any idea who may have written it?”
“An unsatisfied customer, perhaps? I have been rather off these last few performances in London. You should have seen me in Paris, Mr Billings. I was on fire then. But I haven’t quite recovered from the channel crossing and those choppy waters.”
“I think you’re being a little flippant, Miss LeFevre. The letter is serious. We believe the writer may well have some links to a counter-Fenian organisation."
“Oh, what nonsense! Do you really think there is a plot to murder me?”
“You have said some things that have upset a lot of people.”
“What did I say? All I said was that the Irish had the right to determine their own sovereignty. Was that so bad? I am an American, after all. We determined our own sovereignty, didn’t we? And we did it quite well.”
“Hear, hear!” Westbrook chipped in.
“There is no plot against me, Mr Billings. I think I know who wrote that letter, and I assure you there is nothing to worry about.”
“Who do you think wrote the letter?”
“I think it was my estranged husband in Virginia. He’s bitter and jealous and cross at me for taking something to Europe without his permission.”
“The letter had a London postmark,” Billings corrected her.
“Well, presumably he got somebody else to send it for him.”
“And what precisely did you take from him to incur such wrath?”
Miss LeFevre hesitated before answering. “Our daughter,” she said eventually. “I took our daughter.”
“Why did your husband object to that?”
Suddenly Miss LeFevre slammed the flannel against the top of her dressing table and turned to look Billings in the face. “Have I committed a crime? Am I under arrest?”
Billings was taken aback by the sudden change in Miss LeFevre’s mood. “I’m sorry?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m not. I merely want to get to the bottom of who sent…”
“This is preposterous!” LeFevre was now addressing Hardy, the tour manager. “I’ve just done a two-hour performance in which I gave my all! I am tired, Mr Hardy! I come in here to rest and get changed! Please will you refrain from letting any Tom, Dick or Harry enter my dressing ro
om in the future!”
“I do apologise, Miss LeFevre.” Flustered, Hardy opened the door, put his hand on Billings’ lower back and ushered him out of the dressing room.
2. Limehouse
It was raining when Billings stepped out of the theatre. It was foggy and dark and not at all the kind of night one would want to go out in. But LeFevre had become restless since her short interview with Billings, and she insisted they go out. She and Westbrook sheltered under the Adelphi’s front door overhang while Billings stood in the rain, by the side of the road, waiting for a cab to pass. It was nearly twelve o’clock, and it was a Tuesday, so there weren’t many cabs about, but after ten minutes, a hansom cab finally did appear and stopped before him.
“I’ve got one.” Billings summoned the other two from the doorway.
“That’s a two-person cab,” LeFevre said, approaching the road. She was frowning and still looking sour. “We won’t fit.”
“There are no other cabs at this time of night,” Billings answered. “I was lucky to get this one.”
“Well, you’ll have to sit up with the driver, then.” LeFevre began stepping into the cab.
“There’s no room for ’im up ’ere, ma’am,” the driver said.
“Well, then he’ll have to run after us. Like a dog.” She settled herself down on the bench and closed the hatch.
Westbrook laughed uneasily. “Now, now, Carola,” he said, trying to make light of LeFevre’s rudeness. “I’m sure we can all fit inside the cab if we squeeze in tightly.” He looked up at the driver. “You will take three, won’t you, if we fit?”
“That depends on where you’re going.”
“Limehouse.”
The cab driver raised his eyebrows, puffed up his cheeks and blew out some air. “It’ll be a long and uncomfortable journey for you.”
“We’ll make it worth your while. Come on, Billings.” Westbrook stepped into the cab and held his hand out for Billings to follow him. “You sit down first,” he instructed.
Billings sat down on the seat beside LeFevre, and Westbrook plunged himself between the two of them. “Well, this is cosy.” He laughed. “Off you go then, driver.” He tapped the roof of the cab with his cane. When the cab started moving, he suddenly swung forward then jolted back again. He burst out laughing. “This is going to be fun!” He put his arm around Billings to steady himself.
Billings’ body stiffened the moment Westbrook put his arm around him, and he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn’t used to such intimacy and he didn’t know where to look. From the corner of his eye, he observed Westbrook’s face. He had pale skin, like Clarkson, and the same azure blue eyes. His hair was reddish brown, thick and well-trimmed. He had a bushy moustache, which suited him well. Without it he would have looked very boyish indeed. The sweet odour of his cologne lingered around him. Westbrook certainly was handsome, he concluded.
“What’s in Limehouse?” he asked, hoping that conversation would ease his discomfort.
Westbrook hesitated before answering. “Miss LeFevre can get rather tense sometimes.” He looked at the actress when he said this, as if to ask for permission to divulge any more information, but LeFevre ignored him. “There’s a place in Limehouse, apparently, which can help ease the strain.”
“What kind of place?”
“You’ll see.” Westbrook smiled enigmatically, then turned his face away to signal that the conversation had ended.
It didn’t take long for Billings to figure out where they were going. As soon as the cab drove onto the West India Dock Road and he spotted the first of the Chinese grocery stores, he knew they were heading towards Chinatown. And there was only one reason for white Anglo-Saxon gentlefolk to head into Chinatown.
The cab came to a stop in the corner of Pennyfields and Ming Street, before a large building with red paper lanterns hanging outside it. As he stepped out of the cab, Billings could smell the opium fumes that wafted from within the building. A large Chinese man in Western clothing approached the cab.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Do you have a private room?” Westbrook asked the Chinese man.
“For how many people?”
“Well…” Westbrook turned towards Billings. “Will you be joining us?”
“No, he won’t!” LeFevre said, stepping out of the cab and heading straight for the building. “He will be staying outside and keeping an eye out for assassins!” Without looking back at her companions, she entered the establishment.
Westbrook looked at Billings and smiled apologetically. “She’ll be all right once she’s had a few drags.”
“You go in after her,” Billings instructed him. “I’ll have a quick look inside to make sure everything is all right, then I’ll come outside again. I’ll be out here if you need me.”
“Good man,” Westbrook smiled and patted him on his back. He followed LeFevre into the building.
Dawn was nearly breaking over London by the time Billings, LeFevre and Westbrook came back to the hotel. LeFevre was more affected by the opium than Westbrook. She was still in a daze, and Westbrook had to lift her out of the cab and drag her up the stairs to their floor.
Westbrook was in high spirits and kept laughing while they scuffled ungallantly down the corridor. The commotion drew one of the guests out of her room. A young woman with dishevelled black hair and sleepy eyes popped her head out of the door and peered at the fumbling trio.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Westbrook turned to look at her. “Oh, Mary, help me with her, will you?”
“What’s wrong with Carola?”
“She’s a little dazed. Will you open the door for us?” He took the keys out of his pocket and dangled them before her.
The woman frowned. Begrudgingly she stepped out into the corridor in her nightdress, grabbed the key off Westbrook and opened the hotel door.
“Where have you been all night?” she asked while Westbrook and Billings dragged LeFevre into the room and laid her on the bed. “To one of those Chinese hell holes, I assume!”
“It’s none of your business where we’ve been.”
“It is my business! If she isn’t fit to go on stage tonight, then…”
“Of course she’ll be fit.”
Having laid the actress down, the two men returned to the corridor and closed the hotel room door.
“And as for you…” The woman was now looking at Billings. “Isn’t it your job to prevent her from visiting such vile places?”
“I’m her bodyguard, not her nanny,” Billings replied. “Opium dens are legal, and Miss LeFevre is free to do whatever she pleases.”
“Well, I see she’s got you under her spell as well! Miss LeFevre is a woman and a mother first, and like everyone else, she has certain duties and obligations that she shouldn’t be allowed to shirk!”
“What do you mean?”
“This is what I mean.” The woman walked towards her room and opened the door. “Come and have a look.”
Billings and Westbrook approached the room reluctantly and looked in. A little girl, wearing a nightdress, was standing by the window with her back towards the door.
“That’s Kitty,” the woman informed him. “That’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter.”
The girl turned to face the gentlemen in the doorway. There was a mysteriously vacant look in her eyes. She was looking straight at Billings. “Will you braid my hair, Lucille?” she asked him. “It’ll get all curly and tangled if I sleep like this.”
Billings looked confused.
“She’s asleep,” the woman explained. “She thinks you’re the negro nanny her father has working for him. Then she turned towards the girl. “Oh foot, Kitty! You still up?” she said in a thick Southern accent, which took Billings by surprise. She was trying to sound like the negro nanny. “You better go back to bed, girl, or I’magonna tell your papa!”
This had the desired effect, and the girl swiftly jumped back into her bed and pulled the blanke
ts over her.
“She goes back home in her sleep.” The woman was speaking in her normal voice again. “Isn’t that sad? She misses it so much. She’s completely traumatised.”
“Why is she traumatised?”
“Why? Because she knows she shouldn’t be here, that’s why. She should be in Virginia with her father. Miss LeFevre gets to spend one month a year with her in New York. But this time, when that month was up, instead of sending her back home, Miss LeFevre brought her with her to Europe. Without her father’s knowledge and against his wishes. And now here she is, being dragged from theatre to theatre, from hotel to hotel, completely ignored and neglected by her mother. She’s only nine.”
Westbrook rolled his eyes when he heard the woman speak badly of his friend.
“I’m sorry, Hal,” she said. “I know she’s a friend of yours and she’s a marvellous actress, but she’s a terrible mother. And what she’s doing to poor Kitty is unforgivable.”
“This is Mary Wesley, by the way,” Westbrook said, addressing the detective. “She is Miss LeFevre’s understudy. And she’s a little frustrated at the moment, because, despite all that Mary has said about her, Miss LeFevre has never missed a single performance.”
“I am not speaking out of spite, Hal,” the woman protested. “I am speaking out of concern for Kitty. She has nightmares, you know. That’s why she was up just now.”
While the two Americans were squabbling, Billings looked around the woman’s hotel room. He saw some letters scattered on the desk beside the door. The top letter read, “Dear Randolph, how it pains me to…” but before he was able to read any more of it, the woman pushed him and Westbrook out of the doorway and into the corridor.
“But it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a few more hours of sleep. So please be quiet!” She shut the door in their faces.
Westbrook looked at Billings and smiled. “Well, so now you’ve met Mary Wesley.” He laughed.
The Campbell Curse Page 2