Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (18 page)

“I’ll have you know, madam,” Hatchet said pom-pously, “I’ve found out a great deal more than you have about this murder.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah…I mean yes,” he snapped. “However, I’m waiting until our meeting tonight at Upper Edmonton Gardens before I share any of it. Now, if you’ll stop making a spectacle of yourself and go wait in the carriage, I’ll ask Mr. Stampton to step outside.”

Luty weighed her choices. She could either try charging the St. James and get tossed out on her ear or she could send Hatchet in to fetch the man. The third choice was to wait out here till the old buzzard stumbled out himself. That wasn’t much good either. If someone else was buying the drinks, Stampton might be in there till the cows come home. And she had to see him. Blast it! Much as she hated to, she’d just have to rely on Hatchet. In any other situation, she’d trust Hatchet with her life. She had
trusted him with it on more than one occasion. But when it came to digging up clues and investigating murders, Hatchet was as sneaky as a polecat creeping up to the chicken coop. Especially when he wasn’t getting anywhere with his own sources. Still, she really didn’t have much choice here.

“Okay, Hatchet,” she said reluctantly, “you go get him. I’ll be in the carriage. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming in.”

“You do realize what this means,” Witherspoon said to Barnes. He grabbed the door of the hansom as the cab hit a particularly large pothole and almost jolted him off his seat.

“Well, sir, I reckon it means that all of them had a reason for wishing Hinchley had stayed in New York,” Barnes replied. “From what Remington said, they all had put up money in the production, and if Hinchley closed it, they’d get worse than just a bad review. They’d be ruined financially. At least Remington, Parks and Swinton would.”

“Precisely, Barnes.” Witherspoon nodded. He wasn’t sure himself what to think about the information they’d received. It was reassuring to hear that the constable had come to the same conclusion. “But what worries me is whether or not one review from a critic could have such a devastating effect.”

“I don’t reckon the truth of that matters all that much, sir. They believed it could,” Barnes pointed out. “That’s what’s important, and one of them believed it enough to kill him.” He cleared his throat. It wasn’t his place to be telling Inspector Witherspoon what to do, but in light of what they’d gotten out of Trevor Remington, he thought he ought to point something out. “Inspector, I think we
ought to have another look at everyone’s alibis, sir. We know that Mr. Remington didn’t go straight home like he said before. It seems to me the others might be lying as well.”

Witherspoon nodded. “I’ve had the same thought. Really, Barnes, I don’t know what’s come over me. I ought to have checked the alibis more thoroughly right away.”

But the inspector did know what was wrong. It was that wretched last case. The one he’d solved by listening to his instincts and his “inner voice.” He’d been waiting for his “inner voice” to start talking to him on this case too. But so far, the wretched thing had been stubbornly mute. He sighed inwardly and resolved to talk to Mrs. Jeffries more frequently. There was something about his chats with her that helped clarify his thoughts. He wished now he’d taken the time to have a longer conversation with her at breakfast. But he hadn’t and now he felt totally lost and at sea. Drat. Perhaps he’d go home early today for tea. “Why don’t we start with the cabbies at the Hayden? We know that one of them took Miss Vaughan home right after the performance, so let’s find out if Parks, Swinton or Delaney got one as well.”

“Delaney claimed he’d gone for a walk by the river and Swinton was supposed to have been in counting the receipts until after one in the morning,” Barnes mused. “But they might be lyin’.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Witherspoon said slowly. “But if one of them is lying, we’ll find out. Whoever killed Hinchley would have had to have left the theatre district sometime that night. Hopefully, in a hansom.”

“Unless they walked there, sir,” Barnes pointed out. “It’s not quite three miles.”

“I hadn’t realized it was quite that far.” Witherspoon stared out at the heavy traffic on the Strand. Drat, that
was another point he should have checked immediately. Gracious, he must get a hold of himself; he was forgetting to take care of even the most elementary aspects of good policing. Perhaps it would be best if he retired his ‘inner voice’ altogether. It certainly wasn’t doing him any good on this case. “However the killer got to Hinchley’s house, I think we can safely assume that he probably went there quite soon after the performance ended.”

“He might have gone home first,” Barnes said.

“True. We don’t know exactly when Hinchley was murdered. But I’m betting that whoever killed him did it as quickly as possible and then hurried home himself. After all, you’re far more likely to be noticed by a policeman or a night watchman or even someone who can’t sleep and is looking out their window if you’re wandering the streets or catching hansoms at three in the morning rather than at midnight.”

Barnes nodded. “That’s true, sir. Back when I was on the streets, I always took care to notice them that was out in the middle of the night. So you’re pretty sure Hinchley was murdered, say, before two in the morning?”

Witherspoon pursed his lips. “Not absolutely, Constable. It’s just, you see, these people strike me as being so…excitable, so dramatic. I’ve a feeling that if one of them did it, they did it quickly and without thinking. I could be wrong, of course, but somehow, I don’t think I am.”

Barnes scratched his nose. “And all of them probably knew about Hinchley’s private…er…habits.”

“You mean about the door being unlocked”—the inspector hesitated, then reminded himself this was a murder case—“and a male prostitute being expected?” He looked away, sure he was beet red.

“Everyone knew about Hinchley and his habits, and
according to Remington, it wasn’t a secret. The way he tells it, everyone in the theatre district laughed at the man behind his back.”

“We’ve only Remington’s word for that,” Witherspoon reminded the constable. “But it’s certainly something we can easily check.”

“Let’s say Remington was tellin’ the truth and everyone did know about Hinchley’s little habit on the nights he reviewed a play,” Barnes continued. “Wouldn’t the killer have expected Hinchley to have company?”

“That’s why I think he acted quickly. Remington also said that Hinchley wrote his review before the person arrived. He was most strict about that”—again Witherspoon could feel his cheeks flaming—“so I’m quite sure that the murderer got there right after Hinchley got into his bath. As a matter of fact, that would explain why we didn’t find a copy of the review when we searched the victim’s house. The killer took it.”

“Then why didn’t the prostitute”—Barnes didn’t even stumble over the word—“raise the alarm when he arrived and found the place empty?”

“Come now, Constable, someone in that profession must be discreet,” Witherspoon explained. “I expect when this person got there and found the place empty, he turned and left, assuming that the customer had changed his mind.” He coughed. “After we finish at the Hayden, we’ll have to go to Lisle Street.”

“I know the place, sir.” Barnes’s mouth curved in dis-taste. “High-class brothel. Caters to men with lots of money and some with unusual habits.”

Witherspoon sighed. “Let’s hope we can get them to talk with us, Barnes. I don’t think places of that sort are all that keen on the police.”

“I’d say not, sir.” Barnes turned his head so Witherspoon
wouldn’t see his smile. Sometimes he forgot that for all the inspector’s brillance at solving homicides, he’d spent most of his years at the Yard working in the records room. For a copper, he was amazingly innocent about some aspects of life.

“Let’s hope we can make some progress on this case, Barnes.”

“You’ll suss it out in the end, sir,” Barnes said cheerfully.

The hansom pulled to a stop and they got out. Barnes paid the driver and then followed Witherspoon to the front door of the Hayden Theatre.

Inside the theatre, Witherspoon stopped a limelighter and asked, “Is Mr. Swinton here?”

“The guv’s in the office,” the man replied, yanking his head toward the auditorium. “You want me to show the way?”

“We know our way, thank you,” the inspector replied. They went into the darkened theatre and down the aisle.

Two men were on the empty stage and from the sound of their raised voices, Edmund Delaney and Willard Swinton were having a heated argument.

Barnes and Witherspoon stopped. They were far enough back that neither man had seen them.

“I tell you, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods,” Swinton snarled. “He wasn’t the only critic in town. If you don’t change that first scene in the second act and put a bit more life in it, we’ll be shut down by the end of the month.”

“I’m not changing a bloody thing.” Delaney threw out his arms. “I didn’t write a music hall review…”

“More’s the pity,” Swinton cried. “If you had, we might actually be making some money.”

“You told us we were sold out for the next three
weeks,” Delaney charged. “Or was that just a lie you told for the convenience of the police?”

Swinton’s hands rolled into fists, but he didn’t raise them. “It wasn’t a lie, you idiot. We are sold out. But that’s only because of Theodora. She’s a star. People come to see her, not your play. But even her drawing power won’t keep them coming in if the play gets panned by every critic in England.”

“The critic from the
Gazette
loved it,” Delaney cried passionately.

“He was the only one,” Swinton yelled. “And if you don’t make some changes in this ruddy bunch of rubbish I got hoodwinked into producing, we’re going to all be stone broke in two months. And that, my friend, includes our illustrious star and your patron.” Swinton stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. “I think you’ll find that Theodora won’t be quite as amenable to your charms once she’s bankrupt.”

“You despicable cur.” Delaney took a step closer, his face contorting with rage. “How dare you imply…”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Witherspoon called. He would have liked to have heard more, but he couldn’t in good conscience let a situation become violent. From the look on Edmund Delaney’s face, the inspector was sure he was only seconds away from throttling Swinton.

Startled, both men reacted. Delaney’s whole body jerked. Swinton stumbled backwards. The playwright recovered first. “Who’s there?” he called, squinting into the darkened auditorium.

“Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes.” They moved closer to the stage. “And if you don’t mind, we’d like to have a word with both of you.”

Smythe desperately wanted to talk to Betsy alone. Things hadn’t been right between them since they’d rowed about her mysterious errand to the East End a few days ago. Matters hadn’t improved any when he’d gone to the house on Lisle Street, either. But he wasn’t one to let a wound fester. Better to have a frank talk with the lass and get everything cleared up and out in the open.

He stopped at the head of the back stairs and listened to the hubbub from the kitchen. Mrs. Goodge, Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries were below, getting things ready for an early tea. Everyone was due back for a quick meeting, and after that he’d probably be back out at the pubs doing more digging.

But if Betsy did what she often did, she’d pop up to her room to tidy her hair before tea. He’d have a chance to talk to her in private. He waited a few more minutes and then his patience was rewarded as he heard Betsy say, “I’ll be right back. I just want to tidy myself up a bit.”

Smythe turned and raced for the back stairs. By the time Betsy got to the third floor, he was leaning against her door. “I’d like to have a word with ya.”

“Now?” She stared at him like he’d gone daft. “But the others will be here any minute. Can’t it wait?”

“No,” he said patiently. He was always patient when something important was at stake. “It can’t. And Luty and Hatchet aren’t due for another fifteen minutes. Besides, this won’t take long.”

“Oh, all right,” she said peevishly. “But I don’t see what’s so important it can’t wait until after supper.” She crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn’t going to invite him into her room. The inspector and Mrs. Jeffries ran a very liberal household, but even they would look askance at her entertaining men in her bedroom. “What is it?”