Back in her rooms, Frances thought over the exchange while she and Mallow sat over cups of tea. Whatever the late Sir Arnold had done, it must’ve been something pretty scandalous if it inspired Lord Freemantle to buy the theatre. He wouldn’t tell Frances what it was, but she had a clue: It was something to do with the theatre, since that was where his mother-in-law had been looking. That was where she might find something. No—Frances corrected herself—Lady Torrence probably had an idea of what her husband was like, but did some horrible piece of proof exist among the records of the Green Players? Lord Freemantle had looked through them himself.
“Mallow, I think it’s time we visited the Emerald Theatre again,” said Frances.
“Very good, my lady.”
“I’d like you to come too. There are a lot of people who work in the theatre, and I thought you might like to talk with some of them, collect gossip and so forth. Mention Sir Arnold Torrence, Lady Torrence’s late husband. I want to know if his name is familiar to any of the older theatre folks. I’ll tell them that, as a talented seamstress, you’d like to see where they create the costumes.”
“I am glad to help in any way I can, my lady. It is my understanding that theatre people tend to be a little free with their gossip.” Mallow’s voice was full of disapproval. But then she thought of the upside of this assignment. “I suppose, my lady, I’ll be seeing the suits and dresses the actors and actresses wear. I wonder, though . . .” She paused while she was trying to decide what to say. “It’s just that actors aren’t really lords. They just pretend onstage. I wonder if their clothes aren’t really a lord’s clothes either.”
“A wise observation, Mallow. I don’t think anything in the theatre is real. We must remember that. And we should also remember that a man was killed and we are not the only ones seeking what he hid in his room.”
They went downstairs, and Frances nodded to Mrs. Beasley at the front desk.
“Lady Frances—”
Inwardly, Frances groaned. What had she done now?
“Yes, Mrs. Beasley?”
“One of the maids noticed a man loitering outside, looking a little unsavory and dressed in remnants of an old army uniform. He keeps looking at our front door. I was wondering if he was one of your . . . acquaintances? If so, may I suggest you meet him somewhere appropriate? I was about to send one of the waiters to fetch a constable.”
Frances met with a wide variety of people, so the accusation wasn’t entirely unfair.
“I am not expecting any such visitors, but I will see for myself. And Mallow and I will take care of seeing him on his way, if necessary, with a reference to the Soldier and Sailor’s Club.”
She headed toward the front entrance, then stopped and turned.
“Mallow, we’re going to outflank our spy, if that’s what he is.” She turned and headed instead toward the back stairs that led to the servants’ hall. She imagined, rather than saw, Mrs. Beasley shaking her head.
The few hotel servants shot quick looks at Frances and Mallow as they strode out the service entrance in the side alley. The general consensus downstairs was that her ladyship was more than a little odd and that she was very fortunate that the excellent Mallow remained in her employ.
From the alley, Frances and Mallow walked around to the front of the building. A shabby-looking soldier was in fact loitering in front of Miss Plimsoll’s. His collar was up, and between that and a slouch hat, it was hard to see his face. He kept glancing at the front door, though, as if waiting for someone to come out.
“Excuse me,” said Frances. “Are you looking for me? I’m Lady Frances Ffolkes, and I may be able to help.”
The soldier didn’t expect the approach from the side and turned sharply, still hiding his face under the wide brim of the hat. Then he rapidly spun and practically ran along the street, disappearing around a corner.
“My goodness,” said Mallow. “That was hardly gracious of him.”
“Gracious is the least of it,” said Frances. “Waiting for me because he didn’t dare enter Miss Plimsoll’s is one thing, but he likely wanted to follow us. That’s why he bolted so quickly.”
“Do you think he was the man who searched Mr. Mattins’s room while we were in the closet, my lady?”
“Quite possibly. We will be on our guard. We’ve upset someone. And we’re going to do it again.”
They took a hansom to the Emerald Theatre, and the same porter was on duty.
“Good day, my lady. Can I help you . . . ?”
“We’re just here to see Mr. Rusk. Don’t bother; we know the way,” said Frances, and without waiting for any response, they breezed right by him, down the hall to Mr. Rusk’s office. Frances rapped sharply.
“Come in!”
When they entered, Mr. Rusk didn’t seem pleased to see them. “Lady Frances . . . why are you here?”
“I’m still following up on my research, and I believe that you will find my task is connected with the tragic death of Mr. Mattins.” Rusk started to speak, but Frances rolled right over him. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, I think you full well know who I was talking about when I visited you last.” She pulled the folder out of her bag and slapped the photograph down in front of him. “This is the woman who called herself Helen, isn’t it? She’s the woman I am looking for. Oh, don’t bother answering, the look on your face is proof enough.”
Rusk was staring at the photograph as if he was looking at a ghost. No one said anything for a few moments, and then he looked up with a face full of exquisite melancholy. Frances knew that her last talk with Rusk and his colleagues was just a show, a pretense at helping her so she would leave and not come again.
“Where did you get this?” he asked when he trusted himself to speak again. “Who had this portrait?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. But I am looking for Helen. And I think it’s time you shared the truth with me.”
He nodded automatically. He clearly was back in the past, some thirty years ago.
There was a knock on the door, but Rusk didn’t seem to hear, and Quentin Prescott entered. He was dressed in rich robes of red and gold, clothes from another time period. Of course, they were presenting Romeo and Juliet, and from his clothes and age, Frances guessed this former Mercutio was now playing Lord Capulet, Juliet’s father.
“Ah, the porter was saying how some lady came marching in, and I assumed it was you, Lady Frances,” said Prescott. “Still researching . . . I’m afraid I haven’t thought of who it might be—Gil, are you quite all right?” He finally noticed Rusk’s stricken look.
“She knows,” he said. “Helen. Look, she has a photograph.” He held it up, and Prescott looked like he had been hit by a bolt of lightning. He snatched the photograph and just stared at it.
“This is not a photograph of Helen. I mean—it is her, definitely, but it’s a portrait. Who painted this, and when?” Frances noted that they didn’t know or suspect that Helen came from a background where expensive portraits were traditional.
“I cannot tell you that yet,” Frances replied, “but I can tell you that, although I am annoyed you were not completely honest with me when I first visited, I forgive you, because I am assuming the Oath of Tyndareus prevented you from revealing it to me.”
She felt another shiver of delight as she further astonished the men. Mallow barely hid a smile, Frances noticed. Her maid always enjoyed it when Frances left men speechless.
Rusk spoke first, his voice a mix of anger and surprise. “How do you know about that? No one outside the Green Players knew, and only the signatories knew the full details. Who told you? This happened before you were even born, my lady.”
Frances just arched an eyebrow and let them stew for a moment before answering. “I won’t tell you that either. I have no wish to reveal your secret; I just want to know about Helen. If you’re honest with me, I see no reason to embarrass you by making this information public.”
“And if we don’t want to tell you?” asked Prescott with a thin smile.
Frances turned on him. “I have influential friends, Mr. Prescott. Powerful and wealthy people want to find Helen, and they also have influential friends. A suspicious death on your door just makes it all the easier. I have the ear of Sir Edward Henry, the commissioner of Scotland Yard, and I can have this place and every record here in the hands of a score of police detectives. And I know who your owners are—they wouldn’t thank you for that.”
But Rusk was already motioning with his hands for everyone to calm down. He was a manager, and he knew how to pour oil on the water. “There is no need for this. Lady Frances; we will assume you are a woman of honor and that your mission is not one of vulgar curiosity. I don’t know how you found out about the oath, but”—he looked at Prescott, who seemed resigned—“we will tell you what we know.”
“That sounds acceptable and reasonable. But there’s no reason for my maid, Mallow, to be part of this. She is an excellent seamstress and perhaps can assist your costume mistress and her staff while we speak. The recent tragedy must have set you back, and she can help.”
“Oh . . . yes, thank you. Miss Mallow, continue down the hall and ask for Mrs. Mancini. Tell her Mr. Rusk sent you.”
“Very good, sir. My lady . . .” She gave her mistress a meaningful look and departed. Frances and Prescott took seats, and by a silent understanding, Rusk began to talk.
“This is going to seem very silly and romantic to a modern young lady like you. Helen just appeared here one day. She didn’t say where she had come from and never spoke about her past, and we never asked.” He smiled. “She begged to join the company. She had a way with a nice upper-class accent but could also sound like a Cockney wife. I remember so well what she said—‘I’m a good hard worker, Mr. Rusk; I’ll remember my lines, follow all direction, and never give you a moment to regret engaging me.’ So earnest. I bet she had written down and rehearsed those lines.”
He lost himself in the memory. “That was all well and good, but in fact, none of us had ever seen such a beauty. It was more than that . . . she had a presence.” He smiled shyly. “I was bewitched by her—we all were—but we weren’t idiots. She was only an adequate actress, no more, but with her beauty and unapologetic boldness, she commanded the stage, and for many roles, that was enough. It was more than enough.”
“And you all wanted her? That’s where the oath came in?”
Rusk looked a little embarrassed. “Yes. I know we look like fools, but we were young, my lady, and those were different times. There were six of us. Myself, Prescott here, Mattins, and three actors no longer with the company: Nicholas Garfeld, Dennis Oppington, and Alexander Braceley. We swore we would support whoever she chose to marry with no hard feelings and that her happiness would always be foremost with us.”
Braceley’s name was familiar—he had played Romeo opposite Helen’s Juliet according to the program Frances had uncovered. “Which one did she choose?” she asked.
Prescott laughed at her question. “That’s the thing, my lady. It never occurred to us she would take anyone but a man of the theatre, but full of surprises was Helen. We had a man of business here who kept our books, working while he studied for his accountancy exams. His name was Douglas MacKenzie, a pleasant enough fellow for a Scot, who seemed likely to make his way in the world, but you never would’ve thought he’d capture the heart of a woman like Helen.”
“Women are romantic but also practical,” said Frances. “You men thought of her beauty, but for a life partner, she thought about more than a handsome face and glamorous figure.”
Prescott burst out laughing at that, and Rusk forgot his melancholy long enough to smile. “Oh, Lady Frances, you are too right,” said Prescott. “I bow to you.” And he did just that, like a Stuart-era cavalier. “He wasn’t even one of the signatories.”
“So she married him?” asked Frances.
“Yes,” said Rusk. “He passed his exams and landed a government position in Jamaica. They were going to take a brief visit to his people in Edinburgh before sailing. She had only been with us for about year. We kissed her good-bye, shook MacKenzie’s hand, and we never saw them again.” He buried his face in his hands.
“No letters? You never heard from her?” asked Frances. Rusk looked up and shook his head.
“There was no point. She was starting another life, halfway around the world. Our part was done. Helen left us with memories, and for us, that was enough. We continued with our lives.”
Frances nodded. Unless they were lying beautifully, they had no idea that there was a grave with Helen’s name on it in Maidstone, MacKenzie was apparently murdered, and a vicar in Wimbledon knew at least some of the story.
“Thank you for being frank. I know about the two of you and Mr. Mattins. What happened to the other three signatories?”
“Oh, that was a long time ago,” said Rusk. “Let’s see, Nick Garfeld was tall and gangly and completely tongue-tied around Helen. Did well in comic roles. He left a few years later, didn’t he?”
“Yes, met an innkeeper’s daughter while on tour in Rye and took over the business. He had a couple of sons, but the last time we were there, three or four years ago, we heard he had died.”
“And Dennis Oppington—” continued Rusk.
“Big man. Always bought flowers for Helen,” said Prescott. “Might’ve made a good Falstaff someday if he could’ve lost that accent of his. His family were gamekeepers or something in Yorkshire, and eventually he went home to do whatever gamekeepers do. He sent a letter every year at Christmas until he went to his final reward.”
“And then there’s Braceley, Alexander Braceley,” said Rusk, grinning at the memory. “My God, there was never a more ardent suitor.”
“Pressed his attentions hard?” asked Frances.
“The poor girl was flattered at first. He was handsome and could be amusing, but he became tiresome very quickly. She once doused him with a pitcher of wine.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Frances. “What happened to Mr. Braceley?”
Rusk grimaced and Prescott shook his head. “That was a tragedy, my lady,” said Rusk. “He always thought Helen would come around. He was already making a name for himself, receiving good reviews. He was going to be celebrated. I thought he might actually win her. But he was always a little high-strung, and when she announced her marriage, he broke down. He hoped she would change her mind, but sometime after she married, he left the company and joined the army.”
“He was the best actor this company ever had, and you can imagine, I don’t like to admit anyone was better than I, so you can believe it,” said Prescott.
“Better than you—he must truly have been great,” said Frances with a wry smile.
“He was young, scarcely older than Helen, but we knew he’d be a great leading man. It broke my heart to see him give up like that. Just the kind of grand gesture he’d make. He thought he’d come back with a row of medals, covered in glory, and win her back in some manner. She’d leave her husband. What a waste,” said Rusk.
Prescott even relaxed his mocking features long enough to look sad. “I, and a few of the other lads, saw him off on the train. So cheerful he was, still pledging undying love for Helen. And that was that.”
“He died?” asked Frances.
Rusk shrugged. “He was sent to the Sudan with the Suffolk Rifles. I don’t think I need to tell you, my lady, what happened there.”
No, he didn’t. No one had come home from the Sudan campaign.
“That leaves just me and Prescott here,” said Rusk. “I married a few years later, raised children, eventually became manager, and am now a widower. Prescott here remains a confirmed bachelor and an adaptable mainstay of the company.” Prescott gave another bow. “And so now you know all, my lady. I wish we could help you with your task, but if Helen and Douglas remained in Jamaica, or came back to England, or went to another colony—we have no idea.”
“We still have to account for Mr. Mattins’s murder,” said Frances, drumming a finger on Rusk’s desk for emphasis. But he just rolled his eyes, and Prescott chuckled.
“You are thinking like a playwright, my lady. In a play, the death of Mr. Mattins would dovetail with the disappearance of the divine Helen. But this is real life, and in real life, scenes don’t work themselves out so neatly,” said Prescott.
“Perhaps,” said Frances, not wanting to give up her idea. She looked to both men and smiled slyly. “Mr. Prescott, I’ve heard of the others. But how did the rest of you love Helen?”
“Oh, my dear, what a question!” said Prescott. “I’m in danger of forgetting that you are of the aristocracy. I loved Helen most poetically. The late Mr. Mattins was older. He loved her protectively. And you, Gil.” He looked at the manager. “There was no dissembling there. You were the only one of us, I think, who wasn’t just entranced by her. You really loved her, completely.”
Frances looked closely at Rusk’s face and realized that Prescott might well be right.