Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (16 page)

She turned and nodded. “Mrs. McGraw. I own this house.”

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Is it about Hinchley’s murder?” she asked eagerly.

Taken aback, Witherspoon could only nod. Gracious, the woman seemed keen to talk to the police. How very refreshing. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. Did you know Mr. Hinchley?”

She laughed. “I know everyone, Inspector. I’ve been renting rooms to theatre people for forty years. Some of the best in the business have stayed in this house. Pinero, Irving, Ellen Terry—they’ve all been my guests at one time or another.”

Witherspoon was rather embarrassed that the names meant nothing to him. Mrs. McGraw did seem rather proud of them. “Yes, of course. Uh, have you ever met Mr. Hinchley?”

“He’s never stayed here.” She grinned. “He wouldn’t have to. He’s rich as sin, that one.”

“Yes, so I understand.” Witherspoon racked his brain
to come up with another question. “Mr. Remington, uh…he says you were asleep when he came home on Saturday evening…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. McGraw replied. “Of course I wasn’t asleep. I’d gone to the Hayden to see the play.”

“You did?”

“Naturally. I always go and see every new play,” Mrs. McGraw explained. “These people make my living for me; it’s the least I can do. Besides, I adore the theatre. That’s the main reason I decided to let rooms to actors. Such an interesting lot, aren’t they?”

“Er, yes,” Witherspoon replied.

“What time did you get home that night, Mrs. McGraw?” Barnes asked.

“Well…” She thought about it for a moment. “Let’s see. I stopped outside the theatre and had a bit of a chat with Maisie Duncan, but we didn’t talk for more than five minutes. So, by the time I flagged a hansom and got here, it must have been close to eleven-thirty.”

“Did you hear Mr. Remington come in later that evening?”

“No,” Mrs. McGraw’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “I didn’t and I was bit annoyed. My tenants know I like to be in bed by a reasonable hour. I’m quite tolerant, but there are limits. When he wasn’t here by half past twelve, I woke the tweeny and told her to listen for him.”

“You hadn’t given Mr. Remington his own key?” Witherspoon asked.

“Certainly not,” she replied. “I don’t give any of them a key, Inspector.”

Barnes and Witherspoon exchanged glances. Then the Inspector asked, “May we speak to the tweeny?”

Mrs. McGraw stared at them in a surprise for a moment,
then turned on her heel and marched down the hall toward the back of the house. “Just a moment. I’ll get her.” She gestured toward an open door as she went. “Go on into the drawing room and make yourselves comfortable.”

“Remington lied to us,” Barnes said softly as they went into the drawing room.

“Indeed he did.” Witherspoon stopped just inside, took one look at the elegant furniture and furnishings and understood why Mrs. McGraw didn’t hand out keys to her tenants. “And I’m wondering why. Remington doesn’t strike me as a stupid man. Surely he realized we’d check.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Witherspoon whirled around to see a young blonde girl wearing a maid’s uniform standing in the open doorway. He introduced himself and the constable.

“I’m Elsa Chambers,” the maid said. “Mrs. McGraw said you needed to ask me some questions.”

“I understand you waited up on Saturday evening to let Mr. Remington in?” Witherspoon said.

“Yes, sir.” Elsa replied. “I mean I let him in, but I was dozing off a bit in the chair in the hall.”

“Did you notice what time it was that he came in?”

“Oh, I did, sir,” Elsa said eagerly. “I mean, I didn’t see the time so much as hear it.” She pointed to a huge grandfather clock by the drawing room door. “The clock had just chimed three when he come home.”

“How did he look?”

Elsa stared at them blankly. “Look, sir?”

Witherspoon smiled at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t phrase that correctly. I meant to ask was there anything unusual about him when he came home?”

Her thin face creased in concentration. “Well, I was
sleepy sir, but Mr. Remington seemed the same as usual to me.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Witherspoon asked.

“Just said hello and apologized for keeping me up so late.”

“He didn’t mention where he’d been?” Barnes pressed.

She shook her head. “Not to me. Just gave me his coat and hat and went on upstairs to his rooms.”

Witherspoon tried to think of another pertinent question but couldn’t. “Thank you, Elsa. We appreciate your help.”

She dropped a quick curtsy, smiled and turned to leave. “Oh, excuse me, sir, I didn’t see you come in,” she gushed, stumbling backwards to keep from ploughing into Trevor Remington.

“It’s quite all right, Elsa,” Remington said, but he wasn’t looking at the maid. His attention was on the policemen. She bobbed another curtsy and dashed out.

Remington said nothing for a moment. Then he sighed loudly, ran his hands through his hair and dropped onto a large ottoman at the foot of the settee. “I know what you must be thinking. But I assure you, Inspector, though I may have lied about coming straight home, I had nothing to do with Ogden Hinchley’s murder.”

“Where were you on Saturday evening?” Witherspoon asked. “You didn’t come home right after the performance. Both Mrs. McGraw and Elsa have told us that.”

Remington dropped his head into his hands. Finally, he looked up. “Would you believe me if I told you I went for a walk?”

“You went for a walk? Where?” Barnes asked.

“I walked along the embankment for a good while, then I went over to Theodora’s. But I didn’t go inside.”

“The embankment?” Barnes repeated. “You mean you walked along the river?”

Remington nodded.

“Till three in the morning?” the constable persisted. As Delaney claimed he’d been walking along the river that night too, Barnes was beginning to think it must have been getting blooming crowded.

“No, of course not,” Remington said. “I’m not a fool, Constable. With that awful murder over in Whitechapel, I realized it would be foolish to stay out there too long. But there were a few people about, and I saw a policeman or two.”

“Did they see you, sir?” Barnes interrupted. That would be easy to check, and Remington, with his actor’s looks and graceful carriage, would be easy to remember.

He shrugged. “I assume so. I wasn’t trying to hide. But as I was saying, I walked along the embankment for a while, until it began to get quite late, and then I went over to Theodora’s. But her lights were all out and I thought she’d probably gone to bed so I didn’t knock or anything. I was still quite upset. Despite what the others may have told you, I don’t think the play’s going to be much of a success.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Add that to my seeing Hinchley in the audience and I knew I couldn’t possibly get to sleep.”

“So what did you do?” the inspector asked.

“By this time it was fairly late and I realized that it was foolish to be wandering around alone that time of night. I tried to find a hansom but I couldn’t. I finally walked back towards the Strand and caught one close to the theatre.”

“What time was this, sir?” Barnes persisted.

“About two forty-five or so.” Remington flung out his
hands. “I don’t know. I was upset and to be perfectly honest, very alarmed. The play wasn’t perfect, but if we got lucky and had a decent review or two, we might be able to keep the house filled and turn a profit.”

“And that was important, wasn’t it?” Witherspoon said softly. “Your own money’s invested in the play.”

Remington’s eyes widened. “So you know that, do you? Well, it was bound to come out.”

“How much did you invest, sir?” the inspector had no idea whether it was important or not, but he thought it might be.

“Invest?” Remington laughed. “It wasn’t exactly an investment. I put a thousand pounds of my own money into this play. It was the only way they’d give me the lead.”

Witherspoon stared at him. “I see.”

“Do you?” Remington sighed deeply. “I doubt it, Inspector. But suffice to say, I wanted to play that part. Wanted it badly enough to be hoodwinked into putting up a good portion of the production costs myself.”

“Why did you lie to us?” Witherspoon asked. “Surely you must have realized we’d try to verify your statement.”

“Because I was frightened you’d think I killed Hinchley if I told you the truth. I had no alibi and I hated him. Everyone knew I hated him. I’m sorry, Inspector, I wasn’t trying to do anything but give myself some time.”

“You knew Hinchley was in the audience that night, didn’t you?” Barnes said.

Remington nodded. “Yes. I’d peeked out the side curtain and saw him take his seat. It was quite a shock. Here I’d thought I was safe from him and that wicked pen of his. When I looked out and saw him there, I almost
fainted. I was so rattled I almost forgot my lines in the first act.”

“Why did you hate him so much, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Hate isn’t exactly the right word,” Remington mused. “Actually, I feared him more than anything else.”

“But why?” Witherspoon pressed. “Surely as an actor you’re used to coping with critics.”

“Ah, but he wasn’t just a critic.” Remington laughed harshly. “He was a monster. One bad performance and you were marked for life.”

Witherspoon frowned slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Hinchley, odious as he was, was very influential with other critics, Inspector.” Remington shrugged. “I don’t know why, but he was. If you got a bad review from him, you could be bloody sure that the other critics, mindless sheep that they are, wouldn’t give you a decent one either. Hinchley never forgot a performance or an actor. I had the misfortune of playing in a rather shoddy production out in the provinces a while back. It was right after I’d come back from a tour of America.” He laughed derisively. “I only took the role to do a favor for a friend. But Hinchley came to one of our performances. I wasn’t feeling well that night, but I did the best I could. Hinchley pilloried me the next day in the local newspaper. I didn’t mind that; I knew I hadn’t done my best. What I hated was the fact that no matter what I did after that, he never saw it.”

“Was he like that with everyone?” Witherspoon asked.

Remington shrugged. “More or less. Ogden Hinchley was a very strange man. I admit I hated him, but I didn’t kill him.”

Witherspoon thought Remington’s voice had the unmistakable
ring of truth to it, but then he reminded himself that this man was an actor. Maybe a much better actor than Ogden Hinchley had ever thought. “Would you say that a bad review from Hinchley would have the power to close a production?”

“Perhaps.” Remington got up and walked toward the fireplace. “Perhaps not. I do know that he had enough power to almost ruin my career, Inspector. Why do you think I was so desperate for a lead part that I was willing to put up my own money for the chance at it? My career had virtually come to a stop since Hinchley pilloried me.”

“Could you give us a guess on that question, sir?” Barnes pressed. “Not that I’m doubtin’ you, sir. But it’s one thing to ruin an actor, and quite another to close down a play.”

Remington hesitated. “Well, all right, I suppose he could. As I said a moment ago, he’d a lot of influence.”

“I think I understand,” Witherspoon said slowly. “So if Hinchley was in the theatre on Saturday evening, you were fairly certain he was there for the sole purpose of reviewing the play?”

“Why else would he have come?” Remington asked. “He certainly wasn’t there to provide moral support for his old protégé.”

“Protégé?” Barnes said. “And who would that be?”

Remington’s mouth curved into a mirthless smile. “Edmund Delaney. He and Ogden were once good friends. Very good friends.”

Witherspoon wasn’t sure he completely understood what Remington was getting at. But he was the second person to mention animosity between Delaney and Hinchley. “So you don’t think Hinchley might have come to the theatre just to see his old friend’s play?”

“Hardly.” Remington laughed nastily. “Ogden Hinchley
hated Edmund. What’s more, he hated everyone else involved in that production. Why do you think I was so depressed when I realized he was back in London? Hinchley was there for one purpose and one purpose only: to ruin us.”

“Mr. Remington,” Witherspoon said quietly, “you said you invested a thousand pounds. That’s quite a bit of money.”

A strangled, high-pitched hysterical sound that might have been a laugh came out of the actor’s mouth. “I know how much it is, Inspector. It’s virtually every pennny I had in the world.”

“It’s so good to see you, Mollie,” Mrs. Goodge said. She forced herself to smile at the prune-faced woman sitting like the Queen of Sheba at the head of the table. Mollie Dubay wasn’t really a friend. But Mrs. Goodge thought she might be useful. The tall, gray haired woman was the housekeeper to Lord Fremont and she never for one blooming moment let you forget it.

Mrs. Goodge wouldn’t even have bothered contacting the stuck-up old thing, but she was worried about making a mistake in this investigation. She’d put her pride to one side and sent Mollie an invitation to tea. Mollie might be a housekeeper for a peer of the realm now, but Mrs. Goodge could remember the days when she was scrub-bing out stalls at the Lyceum Theatre.