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AT HALF PAST TEN THE following morning, I rapped at Lady Montford’s sitting room door. Once again, I found her seated before a blazing fire, a warm rug wrapped about her lower body. Beside her was an empty chair with a lap robe draped over the back. When she motioned for me to sit, I did so, and was glad for the warm blanket to tuck about my limbs.
“I declare it feels colder this morning than it did yesterday,” Lady Montford said by way of greeting. “I do hope you and your maid slept warm, my dear.” On a sigh, she added. “I do believe my husband has the coldest feet of any man in the kingdom. When his bare foot touches me during the night, I very nearly jump out of my skin.”
A small grin lifted the corners of my mouth. “Were I home in London, I expect I would allow my black and white kitten to crawl beneath the bedcovers with me. Little Georgie is quite a cozy bedfellow.” After a pause, I said, “Perhaps there might be a kitten in the stables you could have a footman bring indoors to warm your husband’s feet at night. ”
Lady Montford appeared somewhat taken aback by my unusual suggestion. Then, she laughed. “That sounds exactly like something your mother would say. Minette was as devoid of artifice as you are, Juliette. You are, indeed, her daughter.” Her hazel eyes danced.
Looking away, I realized afresh that I really knew nothing at all about my mother. And, worse still, I never would.
“I wonder what my husband would say if I suggested that he ask a footman to bring in a cat from the stable so that it could sleep with us?”
My smile widened. “Well, you must agree, a kitten would stay warm far longer than does a hot brick beneath the bedcovers.”
“You are absolutely right again, my dear. Perhaps I should offer kittens as bed-warmers to all my house guests.” She reached to a small table at her elbow to retrieve a tablet and several lead pencils and handed them off to me.
“These are for you. If you require additional paper, or pencils, you’ve only to ask. Interviewing our guests for a Playbill was quite a clever notion of yours. I would have never thought of it.” After smoothing the lap rug over her knees, she glanced up in readiness for me to ask questions of her. “I have sent my maid for a fresh pot of tea for us. In the meantime, shall we begin?”
“Very well.” Opening the tablet to the first page, I inhaled a fresh breath. “Firstly, I have decided that not only will I attempt to uncover what your houseguests know of your beloved sister’s disappearance, but to also learn whatever I can in regard to the death of Lady Westcott’s maid.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “The woman’s death was indeed a terrible tragedy. I feel simply wretched about it. However, I cannot think what you hope to learn from any of my guests regarding who could have committed the crime. You and Mr. Lyttleton and, of course, Emma and Carlotta, know far more than the rest of us do. You were there. The rest of us merely learned of it a good deal later, after the fact, as it were.”
“That is true, ma’am, but it occurred to me that perhaps the maid’s death was not a random killing committed by a highwayman or a gypsy, but by someone who actually intended to inflict harm upon Lady Westcott. Someone who did not know that she was already present here at Montford Hall, and was lying in wait specifically for her to arrive. Upon spotting the Westcott crest on the side door of the small coach in which, unbeknownst to the killer, only her maid traveled, he leapt at the opportunity to . . .” I paused. “Might you know of anyone who harboured a grudge, or sought revenge upon Lady Westcott, for any reason?”
Once again, Lady Montford blinked. “W-well I, n-no. I know of no one who might wish Ardeth ill. Of course, I am not, nor was I ever, well acquainted with her. When I left the theatre Ardeth Myers was merely on the cusp of becoming a sensation. Before that, she was only a contract player. She and I never appeared on the stage at the same time. As I told you yesterday, I was consistently cast in breeches parts, meaning I dressed as a young man and rarely spoke no more than a single line of dialogue. At one point when Ardeth was also a contract player, we did share a dressing room. But, I doubt she ever noticed me. To say truth, I would be surprised if any one of my houseguests even so much as recall my presence upon the stage, ever, at all.”
“But, you and Mr. Lyttleton seem quite well-acquainted.”
Lady Montford’s head tilted. “My husband and Lyttleton have been friends this age.” She smiled. “When John, my husband, first noticed me, it was Lyttleton from whom he sought an introduction; my name, whether or not I was spoken for, etcetera. To say truth, I was so firmly fixed on the veriest fringe of theatrical circles that even Lyttleton had to make inquiries as to who I was.” Remembering, she looking down.
“I see.” I made a notation in my tablet, then looked up in time to catch Lady Montford gazing at me in a rather queer fashion.
“Do I understand correctly that you intend making inquiries regarding both the disappearance of my sister and the death of Lady Westcott’s maid?”
Nodding, I said, “Indeed, although, to say truth, I have not yet sorted out exactly how I might broach both topics and learn something of import from only a single interview, but, yes, that is my hope. To gather information for the Playbill does rather provide me with the perfect opportunity to . . . to speak with everyone, do you not agree?”
“Well.” She sighed. “You have set yourself a daunting task, to be sure, but . . ..” She paused. “Is there anything in particular you would like to . . . ask of me, for the Playbill . . . or . . . regarding my sister? Although I did relay a good deal to you yesterday about Theodora.”
“Indeed, you did, ma’am. But, you neglected to tell me the name of the final production in which your sister performed? And the date of the performance, which I assume, is also the last occasion that she appeared upon the stage. Or, that you, or any of her friends, saw her.”
“Indeed, she disappeared that very night. And, sadly, I do recall the occasion as if it were yesterday. It was . . . an icy cold night in January; London had been beset with weather very like what we are experiencing today. I do recall that it was also a rainy night.” She shuddered. “But that has nothing to say to anything. At any rate, the play in which Theodora last appeared was a farce called Scandals Folly. Theodora played the second lead, a dancer who wished above all things to be taken seriously as an actress. Instead, all manner of comical situations kept her . . . that is, her character from achieving her dream and instead forced her to continue to dance.” Her tone seemed to both sadden and soften. “As I told you yesterday, on the final night, when Theo left the Drury Lane Theatre, she was never seen, or heard from, again.”
“I see.” After scribbling a few additional remarks in my notebook, I looked up. “I-I mean no disrespect, ma’am, but did your sister have a . . . a protector? Was she, as were you, keeping company with a high-born gentleman, a gentleman with a title, perhaps, or . . .?”
Already Lady Montford was shaking her head. “No, indeed, not. Theodora was quite adept at turning away the attentions of . . . any gentleman, of any rank, who . . . sought to befriend her. In all ways, my Theodora was an angel of propriety. She kept company with . . . no one,” she paused, “that is, beyond her dresser, a spinster woman with whom she shared a flat; and myself, of course; although Theo and I did not share living quarters. I roomed with several other aspiring actresses.”
After thinking a moment, I asked. “Can you tell me exactly where in London your sister’s flat was located?”
Lady Montford’s brows knit together. “I hardly see where the location of my sister’s home is of any consequence.”
“Well, if I am to learn anything at all regarding your sister’s disappearance, it appears to me that everything about her is of consequence. For instance, if she lived a great distance from the theatre and the weather that night was rainy, then she and her dresser would have had a greater distance to travel than if she lived, say, only a few streets away. The greater distance to be traveled would provide increased opportunities for trouble to befall either of the ladies.”
“Yes, of course; indeed, you are right.”
I went on. “I would expect on a cold wintry night such as you describe, your sister and her dresser would have hired a private coach in which to take them, say, across town. If the ladies set out to walk on such a bitter, wet night, it is also possible that someone might have spotted the pair and offered to carry them home. To refuse the offer, and insist upon walking would increase the chances that both of them, if her dresser were indeed with her that night, could have been abducted and taken anywhere within the vast City of London where harm might have befallen them.”
Lady Montford huffed. “Well. You do seem to . . . it is almost as if you have had experience conducting . . .” She shifted in her chair. “As I said before, Miss Abbott, Theodora was an angel of propriety. I have no doubt that she would have refused to accept the offer of a lift from . . . from very nearly everyone.”
“But, surely she had friends in the theatre who would have been concerned for her welfare. How did you find your way home from the Drury Lane Theatre that night?”
“I was not at Drury Lane that night.”
My brow furrowed. “But, I . . . I thought you said . . .”
“Theo and I were not employed by the same theatre. She was a contract player with Drury Lane, whereas I was merely a bit player at Covent Garden. They are rivals theaters. As it happened, I-I was not at the theatre that night and did not see Theo’s final performance. I cannot tell you how she got home that night. Or, even if she did. And, therein lies the mystery. I do not know what happened to Theodora. That is what I am trying to uncover. I did not mean for you to conduct an . . . exhaustive investigation, Miss Abbott; I merely meant for you to . . . to . . .”
I was growing confused. “I-I beg your pardon, ma’am, I assumed that you wished to learn all that you could in regard to your sister’s disappearance. Did you report her disappearance to Bow Street? And, did they not assign a detective to thoroughly investigate the matter? If so . . .” I thought back to the night a Bow Street Runner had dragged me before the magistrate in Mayfair and interrogated me as if I were a killer. “As I am sure you know, Bow Street detectives can be quite thorough when they are assigned a case and set out in search of answers.”
“Well, you are not a Bow Street detective are you, Miss Abbott,” she replied, her lips pursing. “It is clear to me now that I should have said nothing to you regarding my troubles.” She sniffed.
I could not help noticing that when she wished to put distance between us, she referred to me as Miss Abbott and when she wished us to be on more familiar footing, I was ‘Juliette’ or ‘my dear’ to her. Yesterday, it seemed that she had asked me to uncover whatever I could regarding her sister’s disappearance, so why did my questions now seem intrusive?
“If I am to uncover what truly happened to your sister, Lady Montford, it appears to me that I have no choice but to ask . . . pertinent questions. A constable, or his deputy, would wish to track your sister’s footsteps from the time she left the theatre that night to . . . wherever she went . . . and they would also wish to know with whom she went.”
Once again Lady Montford squirmed. “I am sure you are correct, Miss Abbott, but I . . . I have no wish to see my sister’s life, her private life, drawn into the open. I merely thought that someone in the theatre might have seen, or heard, something that could shed light on . . . what befell her.” She gazed full at me. “Theatre people are quite a gossipy lot. They have a way of making everyone’s business their own. On the whole, they are egotistical and jealous of one another’s success. Why, even if one of them, an actress most like, did manage to snag a title and her life thereafter was elevated to a . . . a greater degree, why, every one of her friends would become quite green with envy.”
Although I could make no connection between an actress snagging a title and her life being elevated . . . to that of a young lady’s life being snuffed out, I did not venture a reply, instead I said, “So, are you saying that you believe an actress or perhaps, another dancer, might have wished some sort of harm to befall your sister? Is that the sort of information you wish me to uncover? You did indicate to me yesterday that you had been trying for years to learn exactly what happened to . . .”
“Indeed,” she replied. “I have been searching for answers for many years, Miss Abbott, but in a discrete fashion. I have not been conducting an extensive investigation as would Bow Street.” Her hazel eyes became especially hard. “I simply cannot allow my sister’s private life to be dragged into the open where others might sneer at her. I will not allow Theodora to become fodder for . . . lewd tittle-tattle! I will not allow it!”
When once again she looked away, I saw that moisture had begun to well in her eyes and my heart went out to her. She clearly loved her sister as much as I loved my beautiful mother and both were now gone from us forever. I reached to touch her arm. “I am so sorry, ma’am. I meant no harm. Evidently, I misinterpreted your instructions. I sincerely apologize for overstepping the bounds.”
Lady Montford’s head dropped and her chin commenced to tremble. “It is my fault. I-I really should give up my longing to . . . I-I merely approached you because I knew that your mother kept a journal . . . and that she and Theodora had been friends. Your mother would never judge anyone, for any reason.” She paused. “I-I expect I should leave the past behind me. My sister is gone and there is nothing for it now but to forget her. It all happened a long time ago. Her death truly is of no consequence to anyone . . . save me.”
Abruptly, she rose and tossed the lap rug onto the chair behind her. I hurriedly gathered up the tablet and pencils and also cast aside the lap robe I had tucked about my knees. In my haste, the rug fell to the floor and puddled at our feet. When I reached to retrieve it, Lady Montford said, a trifle irritably, “Leave it be. My maid will see to it. I am feeling a bit fatigued now, Miss Abbott. If you will excuse me.”
“Of course, my lady.” I took a step toward the door.
“Miss Abbott.”
I turned. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I must insist that you do not mention my sister to anyone. You have leave to ask all the questions you wish in regard to the death of Lady Westcott’s maid. I expect the bulk of my guests will be occupied with the little play they intend to stage for us. I suppose you also need something to think about whilst we are confined indoors. But, you are not to mention, nor ask, anyone about Theodora Kingston. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear, ma’am.” I nodded. “From this moment forward, I will not so much as speak your sister’s name. To anyone.”
“See that you do not,” she concluded quite coldly now, her chin elevated.
On my way down the equally cold corridor towards the tower staircase, I passed a housemaid hastening in the opposite direction whilst balancing a silver tray containing a steaming pot of tea and plate of muffins. No doubt, it was the tea Lady Montford had ordered up for us, and which she would now partake of alone. I feared I had truly fallen out of favor with the gracious lady.
Did she, or did she not, wish me to learn what happened to her beloved sister?
And, if not, why not?