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ONCE BACK ACROSS THE room, I found the conversation amongst the others had taken another turn. However, before settling down to listen, I noticed also that Tilda had disappeared from the room. Slipping onto the empty chair where my little maid had been seated beside Helen, she leaned over to whisper that Tilda had gone up to our suite to use the necessary.
“When she rose to leave,” Helen added, “Mr. Torbitt announced that he’d left a copy of the play he wished to perform a scene from in his room and wished to go up and get it, so he and Tilda set out together.” She grinned. “I do not know who was accompanying whom, but, at any rate, the pair of them went off together, very nearly, arm in arm.”
“Oh, my,” I murmured, hoping Tilda would be all right, then telling myself that, no doubt, she would be. Old Mr. Torbitt was now hobbling about on a cane; therefore I did not expect he would attempt anything dodgy with her. Without trying, she could easily outrun the old man, or if it came to that, even fight him off, no doubt, with his own cane. Consequently, I turned my attention to the anecdote Mr. Lyttleton was telling, and . . . hoped this one was not so coarse it would sting my ears.
“Very nearly the same thing happened to that Irish actor, McDougal. You recall him, do you not, Nordstrom? Tall fellow, red hair.”
“I recall he very nearly got himself killed the night the production opened. And all because he had garnered the leading role in that new writer’s play. What was his name?” His puffy face scrunched up as he tried to jog his memory.
“The playwright was James Borden,” Lyttleton supplied. “But that’s neither here nor there. I clean forgot the name of the play but what I’m speaking of is the dastardly thing George Hunter did to McDougal.”
“In For A Lark!” Nordstrom pointed his unlit pipe at Lyttleton.
“Excuse me? Ah, yes, the name of the play. Well, at any rate . . .”
“What exactly did Mr. Hunter do to Mr. McDougal?” Helen asked, evidently impatient for Lyttleton to continue with the remainder of his tale. “I recall my mother once shared the stage with Mr. Hunter. She thought him a likeable chap. And, also quite talented. Actually, I think it possible my mother might have appeared in that very play.”
“I expect your mother also knew of the freakish, so-called accident, I am speaking of,” Lyttleton went on. “As it happens, that rascal Hunter rigged a stage prop so that the minute McDougal stepped from the wings onto stage, on opening night, no less, the gall of the man defies belief,” his head shook, “at any rate, at that very instant, the entire Tower of London collapsed down onto McDougal’s head!”
“Brought the entire house down!” Nordstrom exclaimed. “Audience thought it was part of the play and laughed uproariously.”
“McDougal didn’t think it was so funny. Bloke suffered a ferocious headache. Then, when McDougal couldn’t carry on, Hunter happily stepped into his role for the duration of the play, and thereafter for the entire run of it. Next day, McDougal scurried back to the Irish stage where he’d come from. Rotten luck, that.”
“I recall hearing about that accident,” Ardeth said, having abandoned the pages of the script she’d been studying.
“I daresay you also heard about what happened to Lord Mannerly one night at Drury Lane Theatre, did you not, Adreth, Lyttleton?” Mr. Nordstrom asked the pair of them, not with a glance, but with his pipe.
Lyttleton turned a solemn gaze on Ardeth, then to Mr. Nordstrom, said, “Indeed, I knew of it, but I recall the matter was quickly hushed up. Rather bad publicity for the theatre, don’t you know?”
“Quite.” spoke up Mr. Egerton, who had said little to nothing thus far but seemed to take an interest in this particular anecdote. “That sordid business with Mannerly was quite shocking, indeed. Far more shocking than a prop smacking an actor on the head during a performance. I can scarcely recall, if ever, when a patron, especially one of Mannerly’s stamp, was stabbed to death in the middle of the third act.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Helen and I proclaimed in unison; both of us now listening raptly.
Emma and Carlotta’s eyes also widened as Mr. Egerton went on. “Authorities were called in to investigate, of course, and after a bit of digging, determined that the killer must have approached his victim, Lord Mannerly, from the corridor, and then silently slid through the curtain at the rear of his box. After choosing the precise moment, the killer leaned in, murder weapon in hand, in this case, a knife, and plunged it deep into his lordship’s back with enough force to instantly kill the man. Then just as quickly and quietly, the killer escaped from the theater unnoticed. Hmm. Now that I think on it; that particular method of murder would make quite a good plot for a play. I wonder I hadn’t thought of it before.”
“You are quite right, Henry,” Ardeth spoke up. “As it happens, I was performing on stage at Drury Lane that night. I was not on stage at that exact moment, but I was in the wings. I clearly recall the incident . . .”
“Incident!” Helen exclaimed. “I doubt Lord Manner would view his death as a mere incident!”
Everyone, except Ardeth, laughed.
“As I was saying,” she went on, “the unfortunate murder took place in one of the boxes on the mezzanine, along the upper tier, which is actually not in plain sight to the rest of the theatre, but it would have been visible from the opposite tier if one happened to be looking that direction at the precise moment. However, unless the observer was looking through an eyeglass, he still might not have clearly seen what happened. The murder took place in the shadows; therefore an observer would likely not have seen the villain. As you know, very few candles are suspended above the top row of chairs in the boxes; therefore, it is quite dim there, very nearly impossible for anyone to determine the face of a killer, or anyone, moving about in the far corners of a box.”
“True.” Egerton nodded. “Trouble was, no one who attended the theatre that night, ever owned up to having seen anything out of the ordinary. Even if the killer were well-known to someone who was attending the theatre that night, it appeared the fellow had a good many friends who were more than willing to keep his identity a secret. Not a single suspect ever surfaced, therefore to my knowledge the case was never solved. To this day, Mannerly’s death remains a mystery.”
“Perhaps no one actually saw who committed the crime, or if they did, no one cared,” noted Lyttleton flatly. “I know I did not. If you recall Lord Mannerly was not particularly well-liked, so perhaps no one cared a fig who did him in.”
“On the other hand, Ardeth,” Egerton directed a slightly accusing look at her, “it was well known that Lord Mannerly, was once your . . . protector. Am I not right, my dear?”
Ardeth’s nostrils flared and her rouged lips became a severe line. “In the first place, I am not, nor have I ever been, your dear, sir. In the second place, mind your own business.” She turned back to her script. Clearly irate, she also appeared to squirm in her chair.
“So, Ardeth,” said Mr. Nordstrom, once again pointing his unlit pipe her way, “why don’t you tell us exactly what you were up to during the third act of the play that night? As Egerton said, the mystery was never solved. Yet, everyone knows that your ardent admirer, and soon-to-be husband, Lord Westcott, attended every last one of your performances and he had no use for Mannerly either. Perhaps we have the killer, or, at least, the killer’s accomplice, right here! I can see the headline in the Times now. Decades old murder solved! It has recently come to light that the late Lord Westcott, assisted by his lady wife, the former Ardeth Myers, plunged a knife into the back of Lord Mannerly on the night of . . . I cannot recall when the murder took place, although I do recall it was a rainy night, quite chilly, especially foggy and so forth; I recall we were all reduced to hailing a cab in order to find our way home from the theatre that night.”
“Cut line, Robert. There is no truth to a single word of that. In the first place, it was not in my husband’s character to take anyone’s life, and no one believes that I could ever kill anyone. True, Westcott did hate the man, but so did everyone in Town. Mannerly had enemies in every quarter. He was likely killed over an unpaid gambling debt, or some such nonsense. Perhaps the betting pages at White’s should be consulted for suspects.”
With a huff, she again turned away. I noted that she appeared to summarily dismiss the matter, once more snatching up the script in her lap and fixing her attention upon it, or forwarding the pretense of such.
However, before she, or one of the others, could say anything more, I interjected a remark. “Do you suppose anyone actually performing on the stage at the precise moment the murder took place might have chanced to look up and in the doing, lock gazes with the killer?”
Both Ardeth and Lyttleton’s heads jerked up.
Mr. Nordstrom nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I suppose that is quite likely, Miss Abbott. I am unsure whether or not the Bow Street detective assigned to the case questioned every single one of us who appeared on stage that night in the days following the murder.” He paused. “No one questioned me. What about you, Ardeth? Egerton? You were both at the theatre that night.”
Once again, Ardeth’s lips pursed irritably. “Nor do I recall being questioned. But I expect Bow Street assumed that all of us behind stage, or even on stage at the moment the crime was committed, were too keenly occupied with our performances to bother noticing, and certainly not identifying, someone committing a murder in a box on the mezzanine.” She pinned me with another of her haughty stares. “Therefore, your notion regarding the crime is pure rubbish, Miss Abbott. As is very nearly everything that passes your lips,” she grumbled dismissively.
I stared at her. The more I thought on it, the more I thought my notion was a likely scenario. For instance, if Lady Montford’s sister, Theodora, happened to be on stage that night, in the midst of performing a dance at the exact moment the murder took place, she might have actually witnessed the crime as it was being committed. If the killer happened to cast a quick glance towards the stage and he and Theodora gazed squarely into one another’s eyes, for the short span of even a second, the killer, fearing discovery, could have managed later that evening to snatch both Theodora and her dresser, the woman Lady Montford maintained accompanied her sister everywhere . . . and could have very well committed two more murders on the selfsame night.
It is also possible in the midst of the rain and thick fog that the carriage the kidnapper and the ladies were traveling in could have also plunged headlong into the River Thames. And, not a one of the three, or the driver, were ever heard from again. Bloated bodies of young girls and women are often pulled from the Thames, or they eventually wash up on shore, although by then, it is virtually impossible to identify a waterlogged corpse. If it were, indeed, a foggy night, it is also possible that a coach and those within it, might never surface, especially if no remains of the carriage are ever pulled from the water. Consequently, both the killer and his victims would seemingly vanish into thin air.
I continued to mull over my new and fresh theory. To prove it, of course, would be difficult. To start with, I would need to know the name of the play Theodora had appeared in on the night she disappeared. A fact that I might have jotted down in my notebook during my interview with Lady Montford; although my notebook was now above stairs in our bedchamber. But, I expect Ardeth would also know the name of the play since she was on stage that same night performing in it.
I decided to waste no time in commencing with my own inquiry into this unsolved murder.
“Ardeth, do you recall the name of the play you were appearing in on the night Lord Mannerly was stabbed to death?”
Ardeth shot me yet another of her arrogant looks, this one also a mite inquisitive. “What difference could that make to you, young lady? Why would you wish to know that? Not a bit of this concerns you.”
I should have known Ardeth would not answer a question posed by me. But, it didn’t matter, for Carlotta quickly spoke up.
“I remember the name of the play. It was As the Crows Fly. It was a musical with the company of dancers all dressed in black feathers, like crows.” To demonstrate, she flapped her arms. “You recall, don’t you, Ardeth? Scandal’s Folly was the main attraction on the bill; As The Crows Fly was the afterpiece. I recall, it was quite a popular little farce, although for some reason, it was never staged again. No one ever knew why. Does anyone know why As The Crows Fly was never staged again?”
Ardeth merely shrugged. Thereafter, the miffed actress did not so much as deign to look up, or offer a word in reply to any inquiry put to her.
I decided then and there to go up to our suite and consult my notes and if the name of the play were not amongst them, I would once more approach Lady Montford to ask the name of the play her sister was performing in on the night she disappeared. And, if it were indeed a cold, rainy night, might her sister and her dresser have taken a cab when they left the theatre? If Lady Montford recalled it as also being the night in which Lord Mannerly was killed, then I think it very possible that the gentleman’s murder and Theodora’s disappearance might indeed be linked. If the dancer locked gazes, even for a second, with the killer . . . then my theory might very well prove to be far more than idle musing.
When I abruptly rose to leave the drawing room, I happened to lock gazes with Mr. Lyttleton, who was watching me with intense interest. To my surprise, he also rose and caught up to me just as I exited the drawing room and entered the freezing, cold corridor beyond.
“Something tells me our hostess, Lady Montford, has confided in you regarding a . . . personal matter, Miss Abbott. Is that not the case?”
I paused. “I have, indeed, spoken with Lady Montford, sir.”
“In private?” For a gentleman whose countenance was usually warm and inviting, his gaze now seemed unusually cool and guarded.
“I interviewed Lady Montford for our Playbill, sir.” I wondered why it mattered to him whether or not I had spoken with our hostess, privately or otherwise. I held his gaze, both of us unwavering.
Said he, “I think it wise that in future, young lady, you keep your theories regarding . . . certain matters of a personal concern to our hostess . . . to yourself. Nothing good can come of shedding light on long forgotten deeds that, as Ardeth pointed out, have nothing to do with you. If I may be permitted to paraphrase Chaucer, Miss Abbott, I am also of the belief that it is wise to let sleeping dogs lie. I trust I may count upon your silence in the matter?”
I lifted my chin. “I am not certain I take your meaning, sir.”
“On the contrary. I believe you know exactly to what I am alluding.” His tone was now as cold as the corridor where we stood.
I looked down, then back up. “Lady Montford specifically asked me to . . . to make discrete inquiries, sir.”
“Yes, well.” He inhaled a breath. “The lady persists to put forth the notion that she wishes to uncover exactly what caused her sister’s death, when the real truth is she already knows a good deal more than she is willing to acknowledge, namely why the girl, and her constant companion, her sister’s dresser, both lost their lives on the same night.”
I tilted up my chin. “She did not mention that her sister’s dresser had also lost her life on the selfsame night.”
“No, I expect she did not. That our hostess is attempting to uncover only the how of her sister’s death makes far more sense to her.” Placing a hand on my arm, Mr. Lyttleton drew me to a small, secluded alcove across the hallway, and once there, lowered his voice. “I realize you are quite young, Miss Abbott, and I expect you are also . . . innocent to . . . certain ways of the world. I wonder if you are acquainted with a . . . shall we say, a style of living amongst females known as Sapphism?”
Because I did not reply at once, I assume he took my silence to mean I had no clue to what he referred. But, I admit to having read of it.
“No, I thought not. Whilst I consider Clara, Lady Montford, to be my dear friend, the bald truth is, she simply refuses to acknowledge that her lovely sister, Theodora, could have indulged in such a repugnant and distasteful liaison . . . with her dresser.” He paused. “Unfortunately, there are those in the world who believe it to be their duty to rid the civilized world of such . . . aberrant beings. Which explains why, Miss Abbott, the beautiful dancer Theodora Kingston’s life was snuffed out. Who performed the deed,” he shrugged, “does not signify.”
I said nothing. What could I say? However, it struck me that Lady Montford had declared that Theo and my mother were friends, but . . . my mother was a married woman! She had a husband. Surely there was no . . .
“Unfortunately,” Lyttleton went on “Clara continues to cause herself undue heartache by searching for a killer, or set of circumstances, that can never be uncovered. The matter is best left buried. The killer’s identity does not signify,” he said again, his head shaking. “Take my advice, Miss Abbott, do not concern yourself about that particular mystery a moment longer. I only hope that one day Clara will abandon the issue.”
“Very well, sir,” I murmured. Turning, I quickened my step, Mr. Lyttleton’s well-meant advice would not deter me from completing my errand of discovering the name of the play in which Lady Montford’s sister had danced her last.
However, once I ascended the tower staircase and began to hurry down the corridor on my way to the bedchamber I shared with the other ladies, I came to an abrupt standstill when I spotted . . .