Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (15 page)

“How do ya figure that?” Smythe asked softly, his words echoing what the rest of them were thinking. “Couldn’t Hinchley ’ave sent it?”

“No. He didn’t have time,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Besides, why would he? According to what Hinchley’s maid told Betsy, he was very routine in his behaviour. Nothing we’ve heard about what he did that night leads me to believe he’d changed his plans. I think the murderer sent that note to the brothel. As a matter of fact, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“But how would the killer know what Hinchley had planned for his evening?” Betsy asked.

“Simple.” The housekeeper clasped her hands together. “According to what Smythe said he’d learned from, the, er, young woman at the brothel, Hinchley was a regular customer who always behaved precisely in the same manner. Add that to the information that Betsy got from Hinchley’s maid, that his routine never varied and was well known to everyone, and I think we may have found the way our killer managed to commit the crime. The killer knew that Hinchley had gone to the house on Lisle Street because that’s what he always did. The killer also knew that the side door would be unlocked and the servants in bed. Therefore, all he had to do was send a note to the brothel telling them that Hinchley had changed his mind and his field was clear. No servants, no locked doors and a bathtub full of water.”

Smythe nodded. “So if we can find that boy, ’e’ll be able to tell us who gave ’im the note.”

“Precisely.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled confidently. She hoped she was right. Her interpretation of the facts seemed to be correct, but one part of her was quite worried. What if she was wrong? She straightened her spine, refusing to give in to self-doubt. “So I think your first task,” she continued, looking at Wiggins and Smythe, “is to find the lad who brought that note.”

“What are the rest of us going to do, then?” Betsy demanded.

“You must forgive me, Inspector,” Theodora Vaughan gave Witherspoon a wan smile. “But I was entirely too distraught to see you yesterday. This dreadful business has put a terrible strain on my nerves.”

“Of course, Miss Vaughan,” the inspector replied. “I
quite understand. Do you feel up to answering a few questions today?”

She sighed and clasped one hand to her bosom. In the soft morning sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains of the sitting room, she looked frail and vulnerable. Dressed in a pale blue-and-mauve day dress, she sat on one end of the settee, a lacy hankerchief clutched in her hand. “One must do one’s duty,” she said.

Barnes, who thought she had a fair amount of color in her cheeks for someone whose nerves were strained, asked, “Why did you leave the theatre so soon after your performance on Saturday evening?”

She gave him a quick, sharp look. “Who told you that?”

“A number of people mentioned it,” the constable replied. “Why? Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“Of course not, Constable,” she snapped, then caught herself and gave him a gracious smile. “But I don’t like knowing that I’m being gossiped about behind my back.”

“It was hardly gossip, Miss Vaughan,” the inspector interjected. “We were asking questions, you know. Please don’t be angry with any of the stage workers. They were merely doing
their
duty.”

“We know you left in a hansom not five minutes after your last curtain call,” Barnes continued. “Wasn’t that a bit odd, ma’am?”

“Not at all,” Theodora replied smoothly. “I was very tired. Opening night is always a bit of a strain. I wanted to get right home.”

“Did you take your stage makeup off?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn’t sure where this was leading, but the constable’s query was well taken.

“No.” She smiled brightly. “I should have, of course. But I was so dreadfully tired and frankly, I was afraid if
I stayed too long, I’d get caught by someone.”

“Caught by someone?” Witherspoon echoed. Whatever did she mean?

She laughed. “I was afraid Trevor or Albert would get their hooks into me. Oh, Inspector, you’ve no idea how theatre people love discussing the performance. I knew if I went to my dressing room, one of them would come barging in insisting on going over every little detail of the night. Frankly, I just wasn’t up to it so I nipped right out as soon as I could.”

“I see,” Witherspoon said. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual as you left?”

“Unusual?”

“Did you see Mr. Hinchley hanging about backstage?” Barnes asked.

“No. In any case, I wasn’t paying much attention. All I wanted to do was go home.”

“Did your maid see you come in?” Witherspoon asked.

Theodora smiled benignly. “I’m not a slave driver, Inspector. I don’t expect my maid to wait up for me. I imagine she was sound asleep. But do feel free to ask her yourself. Shall I ring for her?”

Witherspoon nodded. Theodora gracefully got up, went to the bell pull by the door and tugged it gently. The maid, who was probably just outside, immediately appeared. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, looking at her mistress.

“Rose, these gentlemen would like to ask you a few questions.” Theodora gestured at the two policemen.

“The police?” Rose asked, shaking her head in their direction.

“Yes, Rose, and you must answer all their questions.” Theodora smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I really must go and deal with my correspondence.” With
another beautiful smile, she swept out of the room.

Witherspoon gestured toward the settee. “Do sit down, Miss Rose. We’ll not take up too much of your time, I promise.”

The maid sat. She didn’t look in the least nervous. “Go ahead, then, ask your questions.”

“Er, uh, did you happen to notice what time Miss Vaughan came home from the theatre on Saturday evening?”

Rose shook her head. “No, sir. I was dead asleep, I was. Miss Vaughan don’t like me to wait up for her.”

“Then who helps her…uh…with her toilette?”

Rose frowned. “Toilette? You mean who helps her get undressed?”

“Yes.” The inspector hoped he wasn’t blushing. “That’s what I mean.”

Rose shrugged. “Not me, that’s for certain. Miss Vaughan never did like me fussin’ over her when she’s gettin’ dressed. She’s right self-sufficient; she can hook up her own buttons and everything. I reckon it comes from back in the days when she was just startin’ out. Actresses in the theatre have got to be able to change and undo themselves quickly. Mind you, she’s got a proper dresser at the theatre now, but she didn’t always have.”

Witherspoon was no expert on female articles of clothing, but he did know that undoing a fancy evening dress—or for that matter, most day dresses—was a time-consuming and complicated matter. Gracious, that’s one of the main reasons ladies of a certain station had maids. “So, you’re not in the habit of waiting up and helping her…er…disrobe.”

“Sometimes I do.” Rose shrugged. “But mostly, considering the late hours she keeps, I go on to bed. Now I do her hair for her.” She smiled proudly. “That’s why
she hired me on; I’ve a deft hand with hair. And I take care of her clothes and all, see that they’re laundered proper and hung just so in the cupboards.”

“I see,” the inspector tried to think of something else to ask. If the girl couldn’t help confirm the time Theodora Vaughan had arrived back from the theatre, there wasn’t any point in questioning her further. The maid wasn’t likely to be acquainted with Ogden Hinchley. But perhaps he ought to ask anyway. “Were you acquainted with Mr. Hinchley?”

Rose nodded eagerly. “Not really acquainted, sir. But I knew who he was. Everybody in the theatre did. Most hated him too.”

“Was Miss Vaughan closely acquainted with him?” Barnes asked softly.

“She knew him. Actually”—Rose glanced at the closed door—“I think she was relieved when he went off to America. They all like to pretend he wasn’t worth fretting over, but the truth is, he had ever so much power.”

Witherspoon looked at her sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said,” Rose replied stubbornly. “They was all scared of him. Mr. Remington, Mr. Parks and even that toff of a theatre owner. They was all round here a few days before Hinchlely left for America. I was bringin’ in the tea and I couldn’t help overhearin’ what they was saying. Mr. Parks was going on and on about how he hoped one of them gunslingers blew Mr. Hinchley’s brains out—”

“Excuse me,” Witherspoon interrupted. “I thought Hinchley had gone to New York?”

“He did.” Rose grinned. “I forgot to mention that they’d had several bottles of wine before I brought in the
tea. Mr. Parks was drunk. But he was dead serious. He hated Hinchley.”

“And the others who were there that day, what were they saying?” the inspector pressed. He wasn’t certain this conversation had any connection whatsoever to this case, but one never knew. The girl seemed to be quite bright and obviously had a good memory.

Warming to her tale, Rose plunged straight ahead. “Well, Mr. Delaney was trying to be casual like and pretend it didn’t matter to him, but he was so excited that Hinchley would be gone when his play opened he all but danced. Mr. Remington”—Rose smiled broadly—“didn’t make any bones about it, said Hinchley had single-handedly tried to ruin his career and he hoped the blighter never came back.”

“Why were they here?” Witherspoon asked. “This must have been several months ago. Hinchley left for New York the first week in June.”

Rose looked surprised by the question. “They was here about Mr. Delaney’s play.”

“Oh.” Witherspoon nodded wisely. “Yes, yes, I see. Doing the casting and that sort of thing.”

“No, sir,” Rose contradicted. “They didn’t do that till the middle of July. They was drawing up the agreements, sir.”

Puzzled, the inspector stared at her. “Agreements?”

“Yes, sir. Agreements. The royalties and such off the house take on receipts.”

“I would have thought that would have been between Mr. Delaney and Mr. Swinton,” Witherspoon said slowly.

“Mr. Swinton was here that night too,” Rose agreed. “But they was all involved in the money end of it, sir. I mean, the business side of things.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean,” Witherspoon said.

“What don’t you understand, sir? Mr. Parks has a share in the play and Mr. Remington’s got a bit, but their shares aren’t very big. Of course, Mr. Swinton’ll get a share of the receipts because it’s his theatre.”

Witherspoon scratched his chin. “Are you saying they all put their own money into this play?”

“Yes, sir.” Rose smiled broadly.

“Is that a usual practise?” Barnes asked.

“I wouldn’t rightly know, sir.” Rose flicked a piece of lint off the arm of the chair. “But I do know one thing for certain. If Miss Vaughan and the others hadn’t ponied up the cash, Mr. Delaney wouldn’t ever have had that play of his produced.”

Trevor Remington had taken rooms in a three-story townhouse on Farley Street, not far from the theatre. The house was quite well kept; one could almost say it was opulent. The front walkway was lined by flowering shrubs, the stairs were freshly painted white and the brass lamp and door knocker glittered brightly in the sunlight.

“Do you think the maid knew what she was talking about?” Barnes asked the inspector as they reached the front door.

Witherspoon thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think she was lying. She’d have no reason to. But I do think it might be possible she was mistaken, confused perhaps, about what she’d really heard that day. It was over three months ago.” He banged the knocker against the wood. “On the other hand, she seemed quite certain.”

“I thought so too,” Barnes said quickly as the door opened.

“Yes? May I help you?” A round, dark-haired woman wearing a brown bombazine dress stared at them.

“Good morning.” He smiled brightly. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. We’d like to see Mr. Remington if we may.”

She held the door open wider and stepped back. “Of course; please come in. I’m not sure that Mr. Remington is awake yet, so if you’ll go into the drawing room, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

She nodded toward an open door down the hall and then started for the flight of stairs.

“Excuse me.” Witherspoon stopped her. “But are you the landlady?”