A Disappearance in Drury Lane

by Jennifer Ashley

  “True, but I do not believe she would build a box to blast gunpowder into a person’s face. Whoever made this knew what it would do, and yet crafted it anyway.”

  “And I have a few in mind who would do it. I will cull the list and send word when I have found him.”

  “Or I could help in the search.” I felt a great desire to put my hands on this person as quickly as possible.

  Denis gave me a small shake of his head. “This is a task I must do myself. These are extremely dangerous people who would kill you before you reached them. You have come to me for my expertise in this matter; now you must rely upon it.”

  I had to concede his point. I told him what I’d discovered at the delivery office, which I did not think much, but he nodded as though making a note of it.

  When I mentioned Spendlove and his crusade against Denis, Denis revealed he already knew all about him, which did not surprise me.

  “He is another problem to leave to my expertise,” Denis said. “Mr. Spendlove will not trouble me for long.”

  Alarm touched me. “I hope you are not thinking of having him killed. The magistrates will not look the other way if you murder a Runner.”

  “Your thoughts stray to violence so quickly, Captain. There are other ways of controlling a man.”

  “Such as giving him something he needs and could never obtain for himself,” I said. “And asking him to run unsavory errands for you in return.”

  Denis met my mild expression with one of his own. “I believe you and I have gone beyond simple debt and repayment. Far beyond.”

  I did not like the assertion, but again I had to concede the point. In Norfolk I’d become caught up in the drama of his life, and I’d openly helped him commit crimes. My fate and his were tied, and Mr. Spendlove knew that.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “More than perhaps.” Denis sat back in his chair, making the small gesture that meant he was finished with me for now. “I will send word when I have found the maker of the device. If you gain more information that might help, by all means, pass it on to me.” He did not rise when I did, only regarded me across his empty desk, his narrow-fingered hands flat on it. “But do not look for these men yourself. It would be the end of you.”

  “I would think you relieved to be rid of me,” I said.

  His gaze met mine for a moment, whatever emotion in it unreadable. “You would be mistaken. Good day, Captain.”

  I gave him a polite nod, moved to the door, which one of the pugilists opened for me, and went out.

  I mused over what Denis had said as I descended and went out into the cold again. I wondered if his last declaration contained any sentiment, or if that again was my romantic view of the world. I was cynical enough to tell myself that Denis meant the words exactly as he’d said them, no more. I was useful to him. He’d dared form a bond of friendship with one other man in his life, and that bond had cost him dearly.

  I decided to walk to Clarges Street, which was not far. I did not want to wait any longer to ask Marianne more about Mrs. Collins; I still had very little information about the woman. If Marianne was not yet awake, I’d rest in her luxurious downstairs drawing room and wait. The day had truly turned cold, but any house Grenville paid for would be warm and comfortable.

  Marianne’s footman opened the door to my knock and told me, to my surprise, that Marianne was both at home and out of bed. A maid led me upstairs to her private sitting room, but when I entered the room, I found Marianne in dishabille and Grenville with her. I was interrupting a tête-à-tête.

  Grenville lounged in a chair of the Louis XV style, which was all gilt and embroidered cloth. He wore a dressing gown over a loose shirt and ankle-hugging pantaloons, his feet encased in slippers rather than shoes. He sipped from a glass of claret and had one lock of hair out of place.

  Marianne, in a peignoir, her hair caught in a simple knot, greeted me without an ounce of embarrassment. Grenville’s face was a bit flushed as he nodded at my “good morning,” but he strove to maintain his sangfroid as always. I wondered why the devil Marianne had agreed to let me upstairs, but I behaved as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

  “How goes married life?” Grenville asked, languidly lifting his claret again. The maid brought me a glass of the blood-red wine and retreated, leaving the three of us alone.

  “I have no complaints about my married life,” I said, sitting down and sipping the claret. Smooth, rich, excellent. “The other bits of my life are more complex.” I told them both about my visit to the theatre and the delivery company, Kean’s advice for me to talk to Abigail Collins’ rivals, and my encounter with Spendlove.

  “Have a care,” Grenville said. “You get away with much, because you have won the respect of Runners and magistrates. I should not like to see this Spendlove make things difficult for you.”

  Before I could answer, Marianne said, “Lacey makes life difficult for himself, all on his own.”

  “That I cannot debate,” I said, savoring another sip of claret. “But I’ve come to ask you more about Mrs. Collins. If you can cease mocking my character and tell me about her and anyone who might wish to see her hurt, it would help.”

  Marianne shrugged, unworried about my irritation. “There is not much to tell. I have not seen much of Abby lately, very little since we started at Drury Lane six years ago, in fact, though we used to be great friends. But she’s a principal, and I, never more than chorus. There is a chasm between the two, you know. When one of the chorus crosses to the lofty pinnacle of principal, her life changes, and she has no more time for her old friends.”

  Marianne spoke nonchalantly, as though none of it mattered, but I saw a sadness in her eyes.

  “Is that what happened with Mrs. Collins?” I asked. “She used to be chorus, and left others behind?”

  Marianne nodded. “Abby was chorus in the old days, when we were in a company of strolling players together. When we came to London to try our luck, she became an understudy after a year or so, which can be death, or it can blossom. For Abby, it blossomed. One day she’s playing a maid in the great hall, the next, she’s walking onstage as Gertrude. Main actress broke her leg. End of her career, beginning of Abby’s.”

  Grenville broke in. “Which must have led to resentment?” He’d left behind his embarrassment and listened with his usual curiosity.

  “Well, of course. The trouble with the theatre, gentlemen, is that there are many aspiring actresses and few roles, especially for women. Shakespeare is the favorite in all dramatic theatres, but he only wrote a few great roles for women, didn’t he?—Lady Mac, Cleopatra, Viola, maybe Cordelia, though she’s such a milksop. Her evil sisters are more fun to play. The moderns have a bit more for women, but audiences love Shakespeare. When I started, companies would let us buy our way into roles. Lady Mackers was the most expensive, though I managed to scrape enough together to buy Ophelia once. But if the audience doesn’t like you, the company manager won’t let you buy in again.”

  “Did Mrs. Collins buy her way in?” I asked.

  “Of course she did. She was a few years older than me, so Gertrude and Lady Mac were her roles of choice. Abby was well liked right off. Got in a lot of practice. But when we joined the professional strolling players, the lead actresses didn’t want anyone taking their plum roles. So Abby was chorus, with me. After a few years, we decided there was nothing for it but we should come to London, where we’d be famous.” Marianne laughed, a sincere laugh. “Every actress’ dream, isn’t it? I discovered fairly quickly I’d never move higher than the chorus. It didn’t matter. Acting was a job to me, a way to make a few coins, not what I wanted to do forever. But for Abby, acting was in her blood. The theatre was her life. She worked hard. And she got what she deserved.” Marianne spoke without rancor, nothing but admiration in her voice.

  “What about other actresses at Drury Lane when Mrs. Collins was elevated?” I asked. “Were they angry?”

  “I’d say so. Quite a few mutters that
she grew so popular only through a stroke of luck, or that she took the right lovers to get herself to the top of the company. But the truth was, Abby was that good. The committee didn’t have to think hard about giving her lead roles.”

  “Would any of these ladies have been angry enough to send Mrs. Collins the incendiary device?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so.” Marianne let out a sigh. “But I admit I have no idea. Only an understudy can be certain of taking over an actress’ role if the actress is hurt or ill, as Abby did, but that understudy might only be able to continue for that play. The theatre’s committee would decide who to hire to take over all Abby’s parts, and they might entice someone away from another company. There’s no guarantee someone from the Drury Lane chorus would get the roles in the end. Anyway, Abby didn’t receive the letters or package until the very end of the season. Why would the understudy wait that long? Mrs. Wolff told me an understudy hasn’t been appointed yet for this season, so no one stands to gain by keeping her away at the moment.” She let out another sigh. “Besides, if I’d thought any of the actresses at Drury Lane responsible, I’d have confronted them with it outright. I’m at my wits’ end, which is why I asked you for help. Now that you are safely married, will you go out and find Abby? Please?”

  The please was delivered with an edge to her voice, but I saw in Marianne’s eyes that the plea was real.

  “I am trying to gather information before I rush about England,” I said. I took another sip of the fine claret and thought about what would help me. “Tell me about her husband, Mr. Collins.”

  Marianne started. “Collins? What the devil for? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  But jealousy and a need for vengeance could last a long time. I shrugged. “Indulge me.”

  Marianne continued to glare at me as though she had no intention of answering. Then she snatched up the teapot on the table beside her and poured herself a cup of tea. The tea smelled exotic, probably the best the markets had to offer. Marianne took a sip, making no reaction to it, and scowled as she set down the cup.

  “Very well, if you must know the story—Frederick Collins was an actor in the traveling company we joined. Abby fell for him pretty quickly, and they married after only three months of courtship. He was younger than Abby by several years. Well, they were lovebirds for a time, until Abby wanted to go to London with me. Collins wanted to stay in the poky country, settle down, and have a family. But as I say, Abigail had the theatre in her blood. She didn’t want to settle. She wanted to play at Drury Lane or Covent Garden. They quarreled over it constantly. Finally Collins agreed to come with Abby and me.” Marianne lifted her teacup again, her fingers unsteady. “It was the end of him, poor man. Not two weeks after we arrived in London he caught cold in the awful boardinghouse we lodged in, and died. Abby grieved—she’d truly loved him—but then she threw herself into acting heart and soul. And the rest is as I’ve told you.”

  Grenville listened to all this with interest, and I knew he, like me, had never heard these tales of her past.

  “What made you decide to become an actress?” I asked her. “If theatre isn’t in your blood as it is for Mrs. Collins?”

  Marianna dropped her frown and beamed a smile at me, one of her coy, maddening smiles. “Now that question has nothing to do with Abby or her going missing. It’s pure sordid curiosity.”

  Grenville said, “It might have some bearing on why Mrs. Collins went missing. Else Lacey wouldn’t ask.”

  “Well, Lacey can take my word for it. You are not investigating me, gentlemen.”

  The affable Grenville was growing impatient. I forestalled his next remark by asking, “What about other principal actresses at Drury Lane? Would they be likely to want to frighten Mrs. Collins? I met another of the actresses once. Mrs. Carter.”

  When Grenville and I had traveled to Kent to investigate murders that had happened in an army regiment, the gentlemen there had played an appalling came, dealing out cards that represented the ladies among us gentlemen. Mrs. Carter had been one of the ladies so dealt.

  The game was how I’d met Lady Breckenridge. I’d drawn the card that indicated I should escort her about, among other things. She’d assumed me a boor, like her husband, and I hadn’t thought much of her.

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Marianne said. “Mrs. Carter is famous enough in her own right and doesn’t need to consider Mrs. Collins her rival. But you never know with actors. Rivalries can be vicious, and the tricks actors play on each other mean. Coal dust mixed into face powder, costumes loosened or made uncomfortably tight, crucial props going missing at the last minute, the way to the actor’s entrance mysteriously barred. A rival might do anything to make an actor look incompetent to an audience, or a manager.”

  “Including sending devices that could kill?”

  “I promise you, no one I know would go that far,” Marianne said. “Although, perhaps the person only thought the device would mar Abby’s looks, give her scars. Abby is pretty—not a stunning beauty, but you’d never know it when she throws herself into the parts. But with a face too scarred even for makeup to cover, she’d be done, wouldn’t she? It would break her. I’m frightened for her, Lacey. Abby’s been a good friend to me.”

  “I promise I will do all I can,” I said. “Now, what about this man, Perry? Do you know why he is married to Hannah Wolff?”

  Marianne shook her head. “As to that, I never learned. Puzzling, isn’t it? I thought perhaps Mrs. Wolff needed his money, now that her career is over, but her sister’s husband, Mr. Holt, is a cit, and makes decent coin. They’re happy to look after her. Perry must have had some sort of hold on her. It’s the only explanation.”

  “Coleman seems to watch over her.”

  “Coleman’s potty about Mrs. Wolff.” Marianne smiled. “He worships her, always has. After she lost her sight, he became her watchdog. Doesn’t let her stir a step without him. She doesn’t mind. He’ll take care of her, don’t you worry. But I can try to find out what Perry has on her.”

  Grenville reached over and clasped Marianne’s hand where it lay in her lap. “Not you. I want you to stay as far from Mr. Perry as you can. If he’s not above having gentlemen beaten and abducted, I don’t want you near him. Or even near the theatre.”

  Marianne looked annoyed but didn’t jerk from Grenville’s grasp. “What did your other mistresses do when you locked them away all day?” she asked him. “Embroider?”

  “I am not locking you away. I told you—come and go as you please. I only want you to stay far from harm.”

  “I’ve faced gentlemen and situations far more frightening than John Perry in my life, I’ll have you know,” Marianne said. “Believe in my resilience.”

  “You are resilient,” Grenville said. “That doesn’t mean I want you to have to face such things ever again. What is my wealth and position for if I can’t use them to protect what I care about?”

  I saw Marianne’s expression soften. Not for long, but the tightness at the corners of her eyes went away. I pretended to focus my attention elsewhere while they watched each other.

  I took a discreet leave after that, and the two of them didn’t seem to mind me going.

  *** *** ***

  I walked the relatively short distance to South Audley Street, noticing that Brewster, whom I’d spotted resting against a bollard near Marianne’s house, followed me all the way.

  When I entered Lady Breckenridge’s townhouse, I found it a hive of activity. Luncheon had come and gone, the afternoon advancing, and I was hungry.

  Me missing the meal seemed not to be a cause for consternation. Barnstable merely asked if I’d dined when Bartholomew pushed past him to take my coat, and when I replied in the negative, said he’d send a repast up to my rooms, or her ladyship’s, as I preferred. Her ladyship was awake now, and taking coffee in her boudoir.

  The Auberges and Gabriella were up and had eaten, and now were preparing to go shopping.

  “Hello,” Gabriella greeted me d
istractedly as she and her aunt and uncle bundled up against the cold. “We are going on a quest. We’re to visit Egyptian House and then book shops. I want to buy English books, though Mrs. Lacey says I must have more clothes.” She made a face, telling me that the wonders of Egyptian tombs and the contents of books were more important to her than the latest fashions. “Will you join us, Father?”

  The manner in which she asked suggested Gabriella had debated a long time whether to include me and had decided it would be polite to do so. Her invitation was given with clear words and a smile, but because she’d told herself it was the right thing to do.

  With reluctance, I shook my head. “I have been on too many errands this morning, and must plan many more. I will take you to Grenville’s tomorrow and show you his Egyptian collection. I believe it trumps most museums, except that they have larger pieces. You will like his house—one of the most interesting places in London.”

  Gabriella looked relieved, though she tried to mask it. I kissed her cheek, letting a surge of tenderness erase my current frustrations and worry. She kissed me back on both cheeks, French fashion, and followed her uncle and aunt out to the waiting landau.

  I saw them off, Gabriella waving to me through the carriage’s window.

  Brewster lingered near the railings that separated the scullery stairs from the street. I beckoned him over and asked him to follow the carriage. He tried to argue that Denis had paid him to watch me, but I told him that if Perry or anyone else harmed my daughter or the Auberges, I’d hold him responsible. Brewster gave me a sharp look, but finally he nodded, turned away, and jogged after the slow-moving landau.

  I went upstairs to Donata’s private sitting room. My wife lounged full-length on a Roman couch, a bandeau woven through her dark hair, her peignoir flowing over her legs. She read correspondence that was scattered on her lap, a thin black cigarillo clasped loosely between her fingers.