“Well, that’s a mercy. Has he been arrested?”
“Not quite.” I wasn’t certain how to explain his interrogation by Denis, so I merely said, “He is being detained. He is reluctant to name who hired him, however.”
“Oh.” Her brows drew down in worry. “I heard you had a bit of bother over the death of Mr. Perry.”
“I did. But luckily, a magistrate believed me when I said I had nothing to do with it.” I leaned forward, resting my hands on my stick. “Why did you marry him, Mrs. Wolff? He was a dangerous man.”
Hannah shook her head and smiled a little. “Because I owed him money, dear. Much money. My late husband and I both did. We tried to pay, but we never had enough. When Mr. Wolff passed, Mr. Perry thought it would be a fine thing to take a famous actress as his wife. He’d forgive the debt, he said, if I did so. I knew I faced debtor’s prison and complete ruin, so I married him. He was never violent to me, though never respectful to me either. When I had my accident and lost my sight, he was no longer interested in me. Lately he’d begun to threaten me again, wanting his money. I am too old and feeble to be a good wife, which was what he’d paid for, wasn’t it?” Hannah shook her head, but she kept her wry smile. “So I left him. I took up lodgings with my sister and her husband, and Mr. Coleman collected me from their house and brought me here every day. Perry never went to the magistrates—he dared not. I could tell the magistrates an earful about him.” She sighed, her bravado deflating. “But I cannot lie to you. Mr. Perry’s death is a release, and nothing more.”
“Mr. Coleman is devoted to you. Do you think he is devoted enough to rid you of Mr. Perry?”
“Coleman?” Her tone turned incredulous. “Dear heavens. Coleman is not the violent sort. Very strong, yes, but gentle as a lamb. Besides, he was in here with me all the day they say Mr. Perry died. We were very busy, and he spent the day assisting me. He took me home in the evening and then stayed and supped with us. My sister will confirm that. I will vow Coleman went nowhere near Mr. Perry that day.”
“I dislike to be rude, Mrs. Wolff, but you are blind. Would you know if Coleman slipped out of the theatre that afternoon, made the short walk to Grimpen Lane, and came back again? He would not have been gone long.”
Hannah’s look turned pitying. “Well, of course I would have known. I can’t see him, dear, but I can hear him. Coleman is not a silent mouse, you must know. And people have a presence, Captain. As you do sitting there now.” She pointed straight at me. “A room is different with another person in it—people make noise when they breathe or fidget, and everyone has their own odor, you might have noticed. Coleman never left my side that day. I had a mountain of work making last-minute repairs, and he had to help me or I’d never have gotten it done. I will swear this to the magistrates if necessary. And others will swear it too. There were many people in and out, Coleman next to me all the time.”
She spoke calmly, confidently, with no fear. She either believed in Coleman absolutely, or she was lying herself blue for him. I had learned from experience that in the case of crime a person could speak quite convincingly and not say a word of truth.
But in this case, she was right that Coleman would have other witnesses—the actors and actresses going in and out of this room, her sister who’d served Coleman dinner.
“Where is Coleman today?” I asked. “He is not minding the door, and Mr. Kean was most put out he could not find him.”
“Mr. Kean is put out about many things.” Again Hannah gave me her smile. “Coleman is helping repair the sets. Horses are fine beasts, but when someone has the grand idea of bringing them on the stage, they forget what havoc they can wreak. More than one of the sets must be rebuilt, and quickly.”
Her calm and sparkle of humor told me this was not the only or the largest disaster she’d witnessed in the theatre. I wished I could while away the winter’s day sitting here with the glass of hock Kean had asked for, and listen to her tell stories of the stage. She had been an amazing actress, charming the young Gabriel Lacey and most of the audience with me. I would have liked to remain here and hang on every word delivered in her low, melodious voice.
As it was, I had errands to run, and she had her own work. Her fingers twitched, anxious to return to it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wolff.” I rose and restored the chair to its position. “I will let you know as soon as I have word of Mrs. Collins.”
Hannah gave me a grateful look. “Do. If my husband had been threatening poor Abby, she will be safe now.”
“I hope so,” I said, and took my leave.
*** *** ***
I looked for Coleman and saw him where Hannah said he’d be, standing on a ladder, pounding what looked like a giant trellis with a hammer. He was surrounded by other men who were also pounding things, the area behind the stage resembling a village after a severe windstorm or some other disaster.
I saw that I’d never get near Coleman today, and so I went out.
I met Grenville at the Rearing Pony, the tavern on Maiden Lane I frequented. Grenville was there before me, and the landlord’s wife, Mrs. Tolliver, who always had a warm, rather seductive smile for me, brought me a tankard of ale.
Grenville wanted to hear of my interviews at Drury Lane first. I recounted everything, from meeting Mr. Kean and his information that Mrs. Collins wanted to invest in the theatre, to Hannah’s revelation about her marriage.
“Interesting,” Grenville said when I’d finished. “She is adamant about Mr. Coleman. But he looks after her, and she is fond of him, and naturally she would wish to protect him.”
“If Mrs. Carfax did see a tall man going into my rooms that night, she might have mistaken Coleman for me.” I took a sip of ale, enjoying its thick flavor.
“I wager Mrs. Carfax saw nothing at all,” Grenville said. “I will tell you what I learned from Miss Winston, whom I managed to charm into speaking with me inside Mrs. Beltan’s bakeshop. She is most unhappy with Mrs. Carfax, but she says Spendlove has Mrs. Carfax very frightened, and Mrs. Carfax will obey him without question. Something to do with Mr. Carfax, but Miss Winston does not know what. Dear Henny, she says, refuses to tell her.”
“Mr. Carfax is dead and gone,” I said. “Ten years now, I think.”
“Perhaps, but who knows what scandals he got up to before he went? Perhaps he owed his tailor, and Mrs. Carfax is terrified of that getting out.” His lips twitched as he lifted his ale.
Most aristocrats owed large debts to tailors, bakers, and candlestick makers, and many never paid them. Grenville might find this worry amusing, but to Mrs. Carfax, a respectable widow of the middle class, such a thing might be anathema. Spendlove might have threatened her with debtor’s prison, the same thing Hannah Wolff had faced, or simply have threatened to shame Mrs. Carfax to her respectable friends. Being shunned was a lonely thing.
Grenville went on. “Miss Winston is inclined to agree with us that Mrs. Carfax’s claim to have seen you was not well-done. Miss Winston refuses to cow to Mr. Spendlove and promises to do her best to talk Mrs. Carfax out of it.”
“Well, that is something,” I said.
We finished our ale, continuing our speculations. I noticed we carefully avoided the topic of Ridgley and what Mr. Denis might discover.
Grenville drained the last from his tankard and dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief. “I believe grub is in order. Anton told me at breakfast that my abrupt comings and goings have thrown him into disarray. He cannot possibly create any dishes for me until next week—and only then on condition that I cease running about the country. I don’t much fancy sawing through the beefsteak here, so shall we adjourn to one of my clubs to dine?”
Anton was Grenville’s prized chef. If Grenville indulged the man a bit too much, I could not blame him. Anton was an artist with food.
However, the idea of a good meal cheered me, and I agreed we should go. Grenville chose Watier’s, and we enjoyed a dinner prepared by a chef of nearly Anton’s calibre.
Our me
al, unfortunately, was ruined by the arrival of Lord Andrew Kenton Stubbins, otherwise known as Stubby.
When Stubbins spied me upon entering in the dining room, he turned a fine shade of red. His suit was immaculate this evening, though the tight style of it and his leg-hugging pantaloons only enhanced his spindly build.
Stubbins glared at me for a time before he drew himself up and marched over. He was flanked by three men in suits of the first stare of fashion, the shoulders of their jackets padded out ridiculously wide, their collars so high I wondered that they could turn their heads. Their nearly identical costumes might have been comical if Stubbins’ rage had not been so vicious.
Grenville gave the foursome one of his cool, disdainful looks as they stopped before our table. The three gentlemen behind Stubby looked uncomfortable—if Grenville cut them or was seen rebuking them, they stood to lose all respect in their circles.
Stubbins was enraged beyond fear. “Damn you, sir,” he said to me, letting his voice grow loud. Heads lifted, conversations ceased. “How dare you sit here and eat among us? Did you think I would forget?” He had the full attention of the room now. He squared his already artificially squared shoulders and said, “Sir, name your seconds.”
So, Stubby Stubbins’ answer to me humiliating him was not to take me to court or to have me arrested. It was to challenge me to a duel.
Chapter Twenty
Instead of answering, I swallowed my food and took a sip of smooth claret. Grenville calmly laid down his fork and cleared his throat. “His second would be me,” he said, bathing Stubbins in a chill look. “Yours?”
“Chetterly and Danielson.” Stubbins jerked his thumb at two of the gentlemen behind him.
Grenville made a show of extracting a card and carefully handing it to one of the seconds, who stretched out a stiff hand for it. “Call on me tomorrow at three o’clock, Mr. Danielson. We will arrange matters.”
The gentleman who took the card nodded once. Grenville lifted his fork and knife again, cutting into his roast, giving it his full attention. I kept my gaze levelly on Stubbins until he gave me a final hostile stare and turned away with his friends.
“Let us find a better place,” Stubbins said in a loud voice as they exited the dining room. “This one is too odorous.”
“Interesting,” Grenville said once Stubbins had gone and conversations began again. “He has come up with a way to punish you without his deeds coming to light in public. I will do my best for you, my friend.”
The role of the second was not only to stand by a duelist and make sure the other party attended and obeyed the rules. Seconds met with each other to set up the place and time and to try to convince the two duelists to reconcile their differences in a less dangerous way.
“Thank you.” I gave him a nod. “But do not worry about me. I have fought duels before and have emerged unscathed.”
Grenville gave me a wry look. “I know. That is what concerns me.”
*** *** ***
I swore Grenville to silence on the coming duel, preferring not to tell Donata until everything was set. If Stubbins fled to avoid the appointment, I might not have to tell her at all.
Keeping secrets from my wife was not the way in which I’d planned to begin the marriage, but some things I would have to be careful about revealing. I was not very worried about the duel, as I was a dead shot, though Stubbins might find a way to cheat. But me planning to stand in the way of a bullet might upset Donata.
Donata, however, was busy with her own concerns for the next few days, the chief of which was readying Gabriella for her come-out. Donata took Gabriella to a modiste to fit her out with an entirely new wardrobe. Considering some of the fantastic ensembles Donata could appear in, I was not easy about this, but Donata laughed at me and assured me she knew how to dress a modest debutante.
Gabriella’s clothes were only a small worry. Far greater was the thought that I’d have to watch young men dance with her, flirt with her, and even propose to her. It bothered me greatly. I’d only just found Gabriella—was I to lose her so soon?
I kept my thoughts from these troubling directions by turning over the problems at hand. I decided to pay a visit to Hannah Wolff’s residence, having pried the direction from Pomeroy. I wanted to speak to her sister, and perhaps gain an impression of Perry and who might have killed him.
Hannah’s sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Holt, lived in what once had been a grand old house near the Strand, now cut in half and let to the middle classes. The remodeling had created a staid, if more practical, dwelling. The door was plain and unadorned, and so was the maid who answered my knock.
Hannah’s sister and brother-in-law went with the house and the maid. They were a plain, quiet couple, both of them small in stature and tending toward stoutness. I had a thought that perhaps Mr. Holt had murdered Perry in order to protect Hannah, but upon meeting him, I was not so certain. He’d never be mistaken for me, if Mrs. Carfax had seen anyone at all. Additionally, I could not imagine this gentleman with the stooped shoulders and soft belly easily beating Perry to death. Perry had been on the short side but strong. I remembered him kicking my ribs with great force. The ribs had healed, but the stiffness remained.
Hannah’s sister had hair turning from gold to gray, which she wore bundled under an old-fashioned mobcap, a few wisps of hair floating loose. Mrs. Holt offered me tea, which was served by another maid, this one half bent with rheumatism. The maid, the sister, and the brother-in-law looked surprised when I helped the maid with the heavy tray.
The two were devoted to Hannah, her sister said when the maid had gone. Such a tragedy about her sight. She’d been the best actress in the world—even Sarah Siddons was a rough-voiced upstart compared to Hannah. Of course Mrs. Holt and her husband took care of Hannah now, and at least Hannah could continue her work in the theatre, which she loved. John Perry had been a horrible, sneering man, and she was well rid of him.
They did confirm that on the night Perry met his death, Coleman had brought Hannah home at half past seven, and they’d all taken supper. Coleman hadn’t departed until almost eleven, after which Hannah had gone to bed.
Mr. and Mrs. Holt were kind people, if somewhat dull and fixed on their favorite topic, Hannah Wolff. I politely drank the tea, though I preferred coffee, and ate some overly sweet cakes. They remembered courtesy and asked me about myself and my life in the army, though it was clear they had little interest.
I took my leave fuller of tea and cake and with few ideas about Perry and his role in all this.
Grenville invited me to his house that evening, having had his meeting with Stubbins’ seconds about the duel. Stubbins had requested that we postpone our appointment until Lady Day, saying he had business to take care of at his estate. Grenville’s tone when he relayed the information to me told me what he thought of Stubbins’ courage.
“He stated that not meeting until March would give you time to put your affairs in order.” We were ensconced in Grenville’s sitting room, supplied by Gautier with brandy and cheroots. “And he is aware that you are newly married and is generously allowing you to say good-bye to your wife.” Grenville took a pull of the cheroot he was smoking then drank a mouthful of brandy. He exhaled the smoke. “He is rather confident of his chances of potting you.”
I raised my own lit cheroot and sucked smoke into my mouth. The cheroot, blended with the trickle of fine brandy, produced a heady, smoky, rich taste. “He might be. But I will shoot him in the shoulder, and honor will be satisfied.”
“I rather think he’s asking for the extra month or so to practice. Have a care, Lacey.”
“I will simply have to get my shot off first.”
Grenville laughed, but I saw the worry in his eyes. Truth to tell, I did not want Stubbins to shoot me, not now when my life was starting to be good for me. If I killed him, I’d be arrested for murder, and I did not want that either. But the upcoming battle did not frighten me—I would deal with it when I saw the ground, the
weapons, and how shaky Stubbins was or was not.
Matthias entered at that moment and handed me a piece of paper. It was a note, not sealed and had no direction. Hand delivered, Matthias said, and the messenger was waiting.
The letter bore one line on the entire sheet of expensive paper—typical of Denis. I have news. Bring Grenville.
I passed the note to Grenville and nodded at Matthias. “Tell the messenger we’re on our way.”
“Not so much a messenger as an entire carriage,” Matthias said. “Do I tell the coachman to wait?”
“Yes.” I tamped out the cheroot with regret. I’d been enjoying the indulgence. “We will be down directly.”
*** *** ***
Denis had sent his luxurious coach, empty, no doubt to ensure we came to him at once. One of his pugilist footmen helped me in, then Grenville, and we pulled off through a rather sharp rain south toward Curzon Street.
As we halted in front of number 45, the rain increased, bringing with it a chill mist. This was a good afternoon to be inside with a fire and more brandy, not rolling about London, no matter how comfortable the conveyance.
The interior of Denis’s house was warm, even in the halls and stairwell. Denis had told me not long ago how he’d grown up on the streets of London, sleeping in dung carts for warmth. Now that he could, he chose to live in extreme comfort.
We were ushered into his study. Most of the room was still intact, though the wall near the fireplace had burned completely. Dust cloths covered the floor, and new paneling leaned against the blackened bricks, waiting for workmen to install it.
There was no sign of any workmen now, nor of Ridgley. Denis met us alone with only Brewster as a bodyguard.
A Disappearance in Drury Lane Page 21