Elly looked surprised. “But, I don’t need anything.”
“Perhaps not, but if you don’t receive a gift, everyone will know you’re the anonymous patron.”
“Oh, I see.” She quickly chose a robe and slippers for herself. “This can be delivered with the others, then I’ll give them to the new apprentice, Jane Baker. That’s perfect.”
They finished and walked toward the lift. “Thank you so much, Sir William.” She squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek.
Chuckling, he put a hand over hers. “Don’t know when I’ve had more fun.”
Elly squeezed his arm. “I know that’s not true, but how very dear of you to say so.”
“It is true. You’re a delightful companion. Maybe next week we could—”
Their path was blocked by a stout man with a day’s growth of beard. A soiled raincoat was over one arm and a small notebook in his hand. “Miss Fielding? Or do you prefer, Miss Roundtree?” He eagerly licked the end of his pencil.
Suddenly furious, Sir William tightened his hold on Elly. “Out of my way, man, or I’ll call the guard.” He plowed past the reporter, onto the lift. The lift operator saw what was happening and slid the gate closed. The reporter stopped it with his foot, and pushed himself inside. The gate and the door closed. The lift lurched downward.
“Why did your uncle shoot the vicar?”
Elly was startled. “He didn’t want—”
“Elly, not a word.” Sir William stepped in front of her.
“Are you Sir William Richfield?”
The lift landed with a thud.
“I am, and I’ll sue your bloody paper as soon as—”
The lift door opened and Sir William practically dragged Elly out.
The delighted reporter ran after them. “Miss Fielding, what was it he didn’t want?”
Sir William shouted, “Guard!” A uniformed guard hurried over. “Since when do you allow your clientele to be harassed by scum from the press?”
The reporter ran away and the guard chased after him.
Sir William took Elly to his waiting car. Minutes later, they were back in his study at Hamilton Place. Elly perched nervously as Sir William telephoned his solicitor Roger Foxhall. “Yes, Foxhall, at Harrods of all places … Really? … As you wish.” He lowered the telephone mouthpiece and spoke to Elly. “Foxhall says we should find Rory Cook. He seems to think the lad can help us.”
Elly swallowed. “I think Rory’s at the theatre, rehearsing with a scene partner. I’m supposed to rehearse with him later. Maybe—”
“Well, your play-acting will have to be put on hold.” He spoke into the telephone. “I think I can locate Rory Cook … Very well. Soon as you can.” He hung up.
An hour later, Roger Foxhall and Rory Cook joined Sir William and Elly. The solicitor spoke with authority. “There’s no cause for alarm at this time. Anthony Roundtree will be tried for murdering the Reverend Laurence Folen. With luck, Sir John Garingham’s death by misadventure will be disregarded. We may be worrying needlessly.” The others visibly relaxed. He turned to Elly. “For now, you need to go about your business as usual. The press will be watching for any change in your routine. You will certainly be called as a witness.”
“But why?”
He glared at her. “You were in the room. You saw the shooting.”
“Forgive me sir, but I did not see it. I only heard it.”
Sir William rubbed his neck. “How soon before Roundtree goes to trial, do you think?”
Foxhall rolled the end of his moustache. “His barrister has been briefed, so it could be as soon as next month.”
Rory asked, “Do you know who it is?”
“Douglas Thompson, KC.”
Rory’s face lit up. “Sir Douglas was a professor of mine at Oxford. He’s brilliant, and semi-retired. He only takes one case a year. He must love the celebrity attached to this one.” Rory tapped his fist against his thigh. “Since Roundtree and Garingham were conspiring to get Elly’s money, the evidence discovered at this trial could affect Elly later on.” He thought for a moment. “Mr Foxhall, if I was able to discover how Sir Douglas plans to present the relationship between Roundtree and Garingham …”
Foxhall grinned and pointed to Sir William. “I told you Mr Cook could be useful.”
Rory nodded, deep in thought. “Sir Douglas uses students for research assistants. I was rather an outstanding scholar. It’s possible he’d remember me …”
****
Rory left Sir William’s study and stopped in front of a large mirror. His suit was borrowed from wardrobe. It was clean and fit well. His boots were badly worn, but camouflaged with heavy blacking. His shirt, collar and tie were presentable. Jeremy O’Connell insisted his actors wear wigs or kept their own hair long. Rory’s hair fell messily over his ears. The back was over his collar.
He raced to the theatre and bounded up the spiral staircase to the peacock’s nest. “Eugene!” He could hear the nasal tinny twang of a gramophone cylinder:
On a tree by a river a little tom-tit
Sang, ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow!’
And I said to him, ‘Dicky-bird, why do you sit
Singing, “Willow, titwillow, titwillow”?’
The elfin wig-master sat at a small table, combing Lady Macbeth’s long red wig. He sang along with the cylinder, and pretended not to notice Rory.
‘Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?’ I cried,
‘Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?’
With a shake of his poor little head, he replied,
‘Oh, willow …’
“Please, Eugene, I need you. Now!”
“Do you?” Eugene sat back and threw his hands in the air. “That’s a first, I must say.” He batted his thick eyelashes.
Rory rolled his eyes. “I need my haircut. Nothing more.”
Eugene posed coquettishly, giggling behind his hand. “Pity.”
Rory shook his head. “Turn that bloody thing off.” He forced a smile. “Please.”
Eugene tripped lightly to the gramophone and delicately lifted the needle. “Rory darling, you know I’d do anything for you, but you heard the master. ‘No haircuts’.” He pursed his lips and folded his hands in his lap.
“I know, and I don’t want to vex him, but I’ve got to look like a gentleman, and right now, I don’t. Please.” Rory pleaded with huge blue eyes.
Eugene melted. “Oh, very well. Sit down.” He tossed a cloth over Rory’s shoulders, took shears and a comb, and deftly snipped the golden hair around his face, leaving the back long and even. “There. How’s that?” He affectionately fluffed Rory’s hair. Just comb the front forward, when you go on stage. No one will know the difference.”
Rory looked in the mirror, combed his hair back, and smiled. “You’re a bloody genius.” He started to give Eugene a hug, then thought better of the idea. “Thanks, you’re a toff.” He tapped his shoulder and scurried away.
Minutes later, Rory was in front of 3 Limeburner Lane, a few minutes’ walk from the Old Bailey courthouse. He stopped at an imposing door with a brass knocker in the shape of a fist. Inside, the brilliant barrister Sir Douglas Thompson was attempting to keep Anthony Roundtree from the gallows. Jeremy O’Connell taught his actors how to release tension. Remembering, Rory jumped up and down, shook his hands, and bent his neck from side to side. Taking a deep breath, he raised the brass doorknocker and let it fall.
When the door opened, Rory lurched back. His former classmate and arch-rival Theodore Gamesworthy squinted behind wire-rimmed spectacles. A quiff of brown hair sprouted from his temple. Huge front teeth made him look like a giant hare.
“Cookingham? I thought you were d-dead.” He spread his wiry arms, glared down and blocked the door.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Gamie. Is Sir Douglas at home?”
Gamesworthy cringed at the sound of his schoolboy nickname. “Why? What do you w-want?”
“Who’s that, Gamesworthy?” Sir Douglas’s v
oice boomed from the next room. Rory elbowed past.
Sir Douglas did a double-take as Rory walked into a drawing room. Three long tables were covered with papers. “Good God, Cookingham! Where the devil did you come from?” Before Rory could tell his prepared lie, Sir Douglas continued, “Were you off on a grand tour or something?”
Rory stuttered. “S-something like that, sir.”
Lowering his pencil and flattening the papers in front of him, Sir Douglas smiled to himself. “You know, we were ready to give you the dean’s medal when you disappeared.” He scowled. “Had to give it to Gamesworthy, here.” Gamie’s mouth fell opened and Sir Douglas ignored him. “So, Cookingham, are you back, finally?”
“Yes, sir,” Rory lied, “next term.”
“Good. You’ve one of the best minds I’ve come across. Don’t waste it.”
Rory swallowed. “No, sir.”
The barrister scratched a bushy sideburn, then sat back, looking over the top of his thick glasses. “So what’s your business here?”
A stout, middle-aged man, with smudged spectacles and crooked suspenders plodded in, carrying a large book. “Good Lord! It’s Cookingham.”
Rory’s smile was genuine. “How are you, Mr Brown?” He hurried over.
“Capital, Cookingham, seeing you again.” Brown put down his book and took Rory’s hand in both of his. “I was Cookingham’s tutor, Sir Douglas. One of my very favorite students. Kept me on my toes.” He looked Rory up and down. “Were you ill? We all wondered …”
Sir Douglas pointed his finger. “Mr Gamesworthy. What is it I always say? ‘Great … barristers … must … emulate …’” He waited for the young man to finish the sentence.
Gamie hated to speak in public. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stuttered, “ … A-actors, sir. Great actors. C-c-classical actors.”
“That is correct, Mr Gamesworthy. We have been in London for almost a month. How many times have you availed yourself of the theatre?”
Gamie’s upper lip twitched nervously, revealing huge front teeth. “I’ve b-been to th-the music hall, sir.”
Sir Douglas scoffed, “The music hall.” He turned to his colleague. “Mr Brown?”
Ready with a half-smile, Brown apologised. “The Royal Albert Hall and Covent Garden are my London havens, Sir Douglas. While I admire the theatre, great music is the food my soul craves. You know I am a pure academician. I have no ambition as an orator.”
Sir Douglas chuckled and turned to Rory. “Mr Cookingham’s ambitions are very different. Not only has he taken the opportunity of studying great actors, he has studied to become one himself. I wish I’d have had the courage at your age, Cookingham. A couple of seasons on the stage must be worth a dozen years in front of juries.” He smiled broadly.
Both relieved and startled, Rory looked at Sir Douglas’s wide face and piercing eyes. Wisps of overlong grey hair were messily swept behind his ears and over his collar. His sagging skin was heavily lined. Although he was not handsome, Sir Douglas’s magnetism made him a powerful force in the courtroom and the lecture hall.
Rory swallowed. “How long have you known, sir?”
“I have seen both Macbeth and The Tempest.”
“Then … Why didn’t you say?”
“I was enjoying your charade. Your play-acting, as it were. You cut a striking figure on stage, by the way. Not surprised you shortened you name to ‘Cook’. Well done.”
Rory nervously licked his lips. “Thank you, sir. I’m … so pleased you approve.”
Brown peppered Rory with questions until Sir Douglas barked, “Enough of this reunion. There’s work to be done. Cookingham?”
“Sir?”
“Is this a social call?”
“No, sir.”
“Then state your business.” He scowled at the others. “Brown, Gamesworthy, is this a tea-break?”
Both men scurried into hard chairs and buried their faces in documents.
Sir Douglas looked at Rory and crooked one finger. They walked into the adjoining dining room, also filled with boxes of papers. Sir Douglas closed the door between the two rooms, then settled himself in a soft-backed chair.
“Take a seat, m’ boy and tell me why you have come.” His head bent forward, listening for Rory’s reply.
Rory took a deep breath. “Well, sir, I was rather ashamed of the way I left …”
“So you should be. Left the place in a muddle. Getting ready to dredge the river. When your father wired that you’d not be returning, we were very relieved you weren’t dead.”
Rory swallowed. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’d no idea. Actually, I’m rather flattered. I didn’t think I’d be missed.” He laughed nervously. “I didn’t think you’d even remember me.” He was surprised to see genuine concern in on Sir Douglas’s face.
“You were well remembered … and missed.” He sat back. “So, my young prodigal, have you come to collect the fatted calf?”
“No, sir, not at all.” He sat to attention. “I was simply hoping to undo some of the trouble I caused.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Well sir, I’d read about this case in the Daily Mail—”
“Your usual site for research?”
“No, sir. I also read about it in the Times. It just happened—”
“I already have a research assistant.”
“Yes, sir. Gameworthy’s an excellent choice.”
“A bright lad. With about as much charm as my mother’s stuffed cat.” Rory stifled a laugh and Sir Douglas raised an eyebrow. “But, I can’t afford two. My client’s not a rich man.”
“I wouldn’t need wages, sir, and I’d like to help.”
“Ready to work for the experience, are you? A labour of love?” He smiled broadly. “I saw you and the girl smile at each other, during the bows. Pretty thing, half-naked on the stage.”
Rory colored red. “Oh, I—”
“We’re putting in long hours, last night till almost midnight. What time do you need to leave for the theatre?”
“Seven, at the latest. Then there are matinee days, I—”
“I don’t expect long hours from someone working for … love.” Sir Douglas stood up and gazed out a window.
Rory sprung to his feet. “Whatever time I have—”
“I’d be grateful for. You want to come aboard, then?”
“Please, sir. More than anything.” He spoke with more feeling than he intended, and stood back, swallowing hard.
“Good. I can use an extra mind, and someone with a sense of humor.” Opening the door, he barked, “Brown!”
“Yes, sir?” He looked up from his papers.
“Cookingham’s joining the team.”
“Capital!”
Gamie sneered in disgust.
“Fill him in and start him on that box of letters.”
Rory thought he would burst with joy as Brown laid out papers. Sir Douglas went back to work as if nothing unusual had happened. Gamie sat over his pile of papers, scribbling notes and gritting his teeth.
Chapter Four
“So, gentlemen, it seems our client is a monster. Two weeks’ worth of research has turned up nothing to redeem the fellow at all.” Sir Douglas laughed as he poured himself a third glass of sherry. His assistant, Senior Lecturer Frederick Brown, and students Theodore Gamesworhy and Rory Cookingham were still sipping their first.
Gamesworthy removed his spectacles and rubbed a red spot on the bridge of his nose. “Are you g-going to interview him ag-gain, sir? P-perhaps there’s something …”
“No.” Sir Douglas shook his head. “Anthony Roundtree is a singularly unpleasant individual. I dislike him as it is.” He scratched a bushy sideburn. “In cases like this, I do better allowing my imagination to create a chap I care to defend, rather than forcing my conscience to go against any slight morality it might still possess.” He smiled at his joke.
Rory sadly shook
his head.
“You disapprove, Cookingham?”
“Certainly not, sir. It seems a necessary course of action, just an unfortunate one.”
Brown stood stiffly and helped himself to the sherry. “Justice is blind, m’ boy. Must never forget that.”
“I’m sure I never shall.” Rory’s stomach was in a knot. “Sir Douglas?”
The old man looked up as he filled his pipe.
“Have you ever turned down a case, because you were sure the prisoner was guilty?”
“No.” He lit his pipe and took a few satisfying puffs. “My job is to uphold laws made by men, not God.”
Rory sat back. He felt ill from the sweet smoke and the process of law.
Sir Douglas leaned back and stretched his legs. “Let’s review, gentlemen. Correct me if I miss anything.” The other three collected their notes and sat across from him. Sir Douglas closed his eyes, sucked on his pipe and began.
“Twenty years ago, our client Anthony Roundtree, gambled away his elder brother’s Yorkshire estate. At the time, brother Charles was amassing a small fortune working on the Suez Canal. His pregnant wife Bertha was sent to Yorkshire for her confinement. Our client, with the aid of his friend Sir John Garingham, arranged to murder his brother.
“Assuming Charles was already dead, our client blackmailed Reverend Laurence Folen, an Anglican priest fond of young boys, to perform a marriage between him and Bertha while she was in labour birthing Charles’s child. The ceremony was completed, she died minutes later, and her daughter Elisa Roundtree was cut from her belly. Charles’s actual murder was two days later.”
He re-lit his pipe and looked to his staff. “Right so far?” They grimly nodded. He continued:
“Clearly, Charles Roundtree did not trust his brother Anthony to inherit. His will stipulated that the entire estate was his wife’s sole property, even if she married a second time.
“Upon her death, the estate was to go to her heir. Since the heir was a girl, she was to inherit when she turned twenty-one. If she married sooner, the estate would be considered a dowry, and the property of her husband.”
He waved the smoke away from his face. “How old is the girl, now?”
Beauty's Doom: The final instalment of the romantic Victorian mystery (His Majesty's Theatre Book 4) Page 4