“Yes. She had a habit of sleepwalking. Mary says it’s due to the stress of being away from home.”
“Mary?”
“Miss Wesley. One of the actresses. She came with Miss LeFevre from the U.S. to look after Kitty.”
“So you believe that Kitty sleepwalked out of the dressing room?”
“Yes. I don’t think she would have left the theatre in a state of consciousness. She would have been too scared to do so.”
“She sleepwalked out into the close, where you and Mr Billings were both standing – in awkward silence, I may add – and walked right past you onto the street in her nightgown without either of you seeing her? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well… um…” Now Westbrook was becoming flustered. “The close is L-shaped. From where we were standing, we could not see the stage door.”
“So you were standing where the bins are?”
“Um… yes. That’s where I found Mr Billings when I came out for a smoke.”
“Really?” He turned his gaze back to Billings. “Mr Billings chose to stand by the fecking bins to take a breath of fresh air?”
“I was taking a dose of morphine,” Billings finally admitted.
“You were what?”
“Morphine, Inspector. I inject morphine into my veins. I have been addicted to it ever since I injured my back a few years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before, but it is something that I’m embarrassed about, and I don’t want people to see me injecting. That’s why I went to that hidden spot in the close. When Mr Westbrook stepped out for a smoke, he found me there and caught me. We spent ten minutes talking about morphine, about how it makes me feel and why I became addicted to it. It was only after I heard the church bells chime that I remembered that Kitty was still in the dressing room and that the actresses were due to come off stage. So I went back to check up on her and found her missing. I then searched the whole theatre before walking out on the street and finding your officers in that close, standing over the corpse.”
“I see,” Thwaite said, making notes in his notepad. “So you were trying to deceive me when you said you wanted some fresh air.”
“I wouldn’t call it deception.”
“What would you call it?”
“My addiction to morphine is of no consequence in this matter.”
“Everything is of consequence in a murder investigation, Mr Billings. You’re a detective. You should know that. Now, is there anything else you are concealing from me? I noticed a slight unease in both your postures when I asked what you were doing out in the close while Kitty was sleeping.”
Billings noticed a trace of a smile on Thwaite’s face as he asked this and wondered whether he suspected the truth.
“We were talking about morphine,” he replied, staring defiantly at the inspector. “That’s all we were doing.”
“Very well, then.” Thwaite closed his notebook and put his pencil in his coat pocket. “Now, as for Kitty’s father.” He looked at Westbrook. “Any idea who he might be and how he can be contacted?”
“His name is Randolph LeFevre,” Westbrook answered. “He lives in Virginia. Mary Wesley should know how to contact him.”
“And where is Mary Wesley now?”
“Actually, she left the theatre after the first scene.” Billings took over. “She said she had a migraine and went back to the hotel. There is actually some history between her and Miss LeFevre. She tried to abduct Kitty back in London and take her back to her father in Virginia.”
“Did she, indeed? Well, I shall certainly be speaking to her then. Perhaps, Detective Sergeant, you can introduce us?”
“I will.”
“Well, goodbye then, gentlemen. That’ll be it for now. I assume the play will be cancelled now, but I advise you both to remain in Edinburgh for the next few days. At least until after the inquest.” Putting on his hat, he nodded at the two men on the sofa and walked out of the dressing room.
Billings and Westbrook remained sitting in silence for a few seconds, reeling from the interview and the shock of finding themselves the main suspects.
“Well,” Westbrook said, slapping his thigh and smiling at Billings.
Billings didn’t look back. “I’d better go and check up on Miss LeFevre,” he said and jumped up from the sofa, unwilling to listen to another one of Westbrook’s flippant remarks.
He could hear LeFevre wailing in her dressing room as he walked out into the corridor. Suddenly her door swung open and the actress appeared in the doorway.
“Where’s Hal?” she asked, her eyes red and wet with tears.
“Hal?” Billings looked around him.
At that point, Westbrook came out of the dressing room. “I’m here,” he said.
LeFevre rushed towards her companion and flung her arms around him. “Oh Hal, make it stop!”
“What is it, my dear?” Westbrook asked, kissing her on the head.
“Make it go away, Hal! I can’t bear it anymore! This feeling! This horrible feeling! Make it go away, I beg you!”
“I will, dear,” Westbrook replied, looking at Billings with an expression of concern on his face. “I’ll make the feeling go away.”
“Miss Wesley.” Thwaite was standing in the hotel corridor, knocking on Mary’s door. Billings was standing beside him. “Miss Wesley, we need to talk to you.”
A quiet, frail voice called back from within the room. “Who is it?”
“This is Inspector Thwaite from the Edinburgh Police.”
“Who?”
“Inspector Thwaite. Open the door.”
“I’m ill. Can you come back later?”
“No, I fecking can’t! Open the door!”
“It is open.”
Thwaite opened the door and found Mary lying in bed with a moist flannel draped over her eyes.
“What is it you want?” she asked, still with that soft, frail voice. She did not sit up or take the flannel off her eyes.
“Are you Mary Wesley?” Thwaite asked.
“Yes.”
“Actress and companion of Miss Carola LeFevre? The nanny of her daughter?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Kitty LeFevre was found dead tonight. She was strangled and beaten to death in a close just around the corner from the theatre.”
Thwaite watched the actress’ face closely as he said this, looking for a reaction, but apart from some tightening around her mouth, there wasn’t any response.
“What are you talking about?” Mary asked, still with the flannel draped over her eyes.
“Kitty was murdered,” Thwaite replied.
“I’m sorry, Mr… um…”
“Thwaite. Inspector Thwaite.”
“I’m suffering from a furious headache at the moment. I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying.”
“She’s dead, Miss Wesley. Kitty is dead!”
Finally, Mary pushed herself up to a sitting position and took the flannel off her eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Her face was pale, and her small eyes were squinting against the harsh light.
“Kitty was attacked in a dark alleyway not far from the theatre. Her lifeless body was found by one of our beat constables.”
Mary still didn’t seem to register what had happened, and her eyes kept darting from Thwaite to Billings. “But how can that be? Mr Billings was looking after her.”
Billings was unable to meet Mary’s glance and cast his eyes to the ground.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Miss Wesley,” Thwaite said. “Now, I believe you missed today’s performance?”
“I did the first scene, but I couldn’t continue with the rest. My head was pounding. It still is.” She closed her eyes, put her hand to her face and shook her head. “But I don’t understand. What was Kitty doing out on the street? Are you sure you have the right person?”
“I believe you have a correspondence with the girl’s father,” Thwaite continued, ignoring her last question. �
�Could you tell me his address? We need to send him a telegram.”
“The letters are in the drawer. I’ll get one for you.” She swung her legs out of the bed and was about to get up, but Thwaite stopped her.
“Don’t trouble yourself.” He opened the drawer of the desk and took out a pile of letters. Mary crept back under her sheets.
“When was the last time you had contact with Mr LeFevre?” Thwaite asked, looking through the envelopes in his hand.
“I don’t know precisely.” Mary rested her head on the pillow and replaced the flannel on her eyes. “It was before we came to Edinburgh.”
“There’s a letter here from the twentieth of February.” Thwaite took one of the letters out of the pile and waved it in the air. “This letter was sent from Virginia on the twentieth of February. You must have received it while you were here in Edinburgh.”
“Oh yes, of course. I thought you asked me when I last wrote to him.”
“What I asked you was when you last had contact with him. Mr LeFevre sent you a letter on the twentieth of February; you must have received it at the beginning of March. The envelope has been opened, from which I conclude that you have read the letter. Ergo, your last contact with Mr LeFevre was only a few days ago. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Mary replied absent-mindedly. She was still in pain, and the interview was tiring her.
“What was the letter about?” Thwaite took the letter out of the envelope and scanned through it.
“I really can’t remember, Inspector. I’m feeling terrible at the moment. Could we possibly postpone this conversation until I am better?”
“Did he renew his request for you to abduct the girl and take her back with you to America?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Then why did he send you two passages for the RMS Auriana departing from Liverpool on Friday?”
Mary sat up, took the flannel off her eyes again and stared at the tickets, which Thwaite was waving in the air.
“Randolph still wants me to take Kitty back home,” she said, “but I won’t do it.”
“So he did renew his request for you to abduct Kitty and escort her back to Virginia?”
“Yes.”
“You said, ’absolutely not’.”
“I thought you asked me whether I intended to take Kitty back to America with me.”
“No, that’s not what I asked you, Miss Wesley. You really must try and pay more attention to my questions.”
“I’m ill, Inspector! Can’t you see that? My brain is pounding in my skull. I can’t concentrate on your questions.”
Thwaite ignored her and continued scanning through the letter. “I see that Mr LeFevre is offering you a handsome reward if you bring his daughter back to him.”
“I already told you, Inspector. I have no intention of taking Kitty back.”
“Well, you can’t anyway, because she’s dead.”
Again, Thwaite looked at the actress’ face, checking for a reaction. There seemed to be a look of pain or regret in her eyes, but this may have been due to her migraine.
“What time did you say you left the theatre this evening?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.” Mary sighed heavily. She rested her head back on the pillow and replaced the flannel on her eyes. “It was after the first scene. Must have been at around half past eight.”
“Did anyone see you enter the hotel?”
“I don’t know. I had a blinding headache. I didn’t pay attention.”
“I see.” Thwaite replaced the letters in the drawer and pushed it back into the desk. “Well, I won’t bother you any longer, Miss Wesley. I’ll let you rest in peace now.” And with that, the two detectives left the room.
“You don’t really think she has anything to do with this?” Billings asked Thwaite as they walked down the corridor.
“Why not? She had ample opportunity of slipping into the dressing room and luring the girl away while you and Mr Westbrook were outside doing lord-knows-what.”
Billings winced at the insinuation. “But why would she kill the girl? She loved Kitty.”
“There wasn’t much evidence of that. She barely batted an eyelid when I told her Kitty had died.”
“That’s because of the migraine. I don’t think the scope of the tragedy has fully sunk in.”
“I’m not saying she killed the girl deliberately. Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps the girl struggled while Miss Wesley tried dragging her to the railway station to catch the boat in Liverpool. Perhaps Miss Wesley lost her temper and bashed the girl’s head against the wall. Who knows?”
“It sounds a bit far-fetched, though, doesn’t it, Inspector?”
“Yes, it does. Far-fetched and illogical. But then, I can’t think of any logical reason why anyone would want to kill a nine-year-old lass. Can you?”
It was a little past one in the morning when the sound of laughter woke Billings up. He got up, opened the door to his hotel room and peeped out into the corridor. He saw Westbrook, LeFevre and P.C. Scott – the new bodyguard from the Edinburgh Police – stumbling down the corridor. They had been to the opium den in Leith. LeFevre was the worse for wear, while Westbrook himself was in high spirits, laughing at the actress’ clumsiness. Billings frowned. Westbrook had promised the actress that he would take away that horrible feeling, and this is how he had gone about doing so.
Westbrook spotted him as he passed by the detective’s door. “Oh, hello, Billings. We didn’t wake you, did we?”
Billings mumbled back a greeting, then shut the door and returned to bed.
He was woken up again at around four o’clock when he heard somebody running up and down the corridor. Confused, Billings got up and returned to the door. He saw LeFevre shuffling down the corridor in her nightgown. Her hair hung lose and dishevelled around her head; her eyes looked bewildered. Billings glanced towards her room and saw P.C. Scott outside her door, sleeping in his chair.
“Miss LeFevre?” Billings whispered.
The actress turned to look at him. There was a desperate and confused look on her face.
“Are you all right?”
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Kitty. My daughter. Have you seen her? She was in my room a short while ago and now she’s disappeared again.”
Billings was dumbfounded for a few beats. “Kitty is dead, Miss LeFevre,” he replied.
“No, she’s not dead!” LeFevre looked irritated. “You keep telling me she’s dead. You and Hal and Hardy and that horrible Scottish detective. But she’s not dead. She was in my room a few seconds ago and now I can’t find her.”
“Perhaps you were dreaming,” Billings suggested.
“I was not dreaming, Mr Billings! She was standing by my bed. Looking at me. I sat up and reached my arms out to her and then she ran out the door. It was only a few seconds ago. She must be here somewhere.” She moved away from the detective and knocked on the door of one of the hotel rooms. “Kitty? Are you in there, Kitty!”
Billings frowned and rushed towards the actress. “Don’t do that, Miss LeFevre,” he put his hand on the actress’ back. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
This was the effect of the opium, he concluded. Mixed in with her feelings of grief and guilt, the opium had clouded her mind and caused her current state of confusion.
“You need to get some more sleep, Miss LeFevre.” He gently guided her back to her room. He glanced at P.C. Scott as they approached the actress’ room. He was still sleeping in his chair. Suddenly LeFevre broke away from Billings and started running down the corridor, banging on all the doors and calling for her daughter.
This finally woke P.C. Scott, and he nearly fell off his chair. “What’s going on?”
“You fell asleep!” Billings chided him.
One by one, the guests started popping their sleepy heads out of their rooms to see what all the commotion was about.
“You must stop this,” Billings said to Scott. “I’m no
longer on duty!”
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Scott tentatively approached the actress. “Come on, Miss LeFevre.” He grabbed the actress’ arm and pulled her back towards her room. “Let’s go back to sleep now.”
The actress, however, would not be placated that easily. “Get off me!” she cried, slapping the Scottish constable’s arm away. “How dare you lay your hands on me, you impertinent upstart!”
While P.C. Scott was still trying to calm down the actress, Billings could hear the guests whispering to each other.
“That’s Carola LeFevre!” they said. “Is she drunk?”
He frowned and shook his head. “Her daughter was found dead last night,” he explained. “Murdered and abandoned in a dark alleyway. Obviously, she’s upset and exhausted. Please be understanding. It is a very difficult time for her.”
The guests were both shocked and fascinated by this account. Billings could even see one of them pick up a pencil and notepad and make some notes.
“Why are you writing that down?” Billings asked him.
“I’m a reporter with the Edinburgh Post.”
“You can’t print this.”
“Why not?”
“You need permission from the Edinburgh Police.”
“I’ve learned that it’s best never to ask for permission. What if they say no?”
“Then you don’t print it.”
“But I have to print it. It is in the public’s interest.”
“Printing the story might jeopardise the investigation.”
“I think it might help the investigation. Witnesses might come forward.”
“You need to get permission from Detective Inspector Thwaite.”
While this conversation was taking place, P.C. Scott was still trying to calm down LeFevre.
“Miss LeFevre, you’re confused.” He was holding the actress’ arm firmly and whispering into her ear. “You are stressed, you are tired, and you need to get some sleep. You are causing a spectacle now and you are disturbing the other guests.”
“But I saw her!”
The Campbell Curse Page 7