Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (22 page)

Puzzled, Smythe stared at him. He didn’t remember doing Blimpey Groggins any favors. “You owe me one?”

“Forget I said that,” he said quickly, slamming his glass on the counter. “I’d best get crackin’.” Blimpey was obviously flustered; he hadn’t even finished his beer. “I’ll get back to you in a day or two.” He turned and started for the door. Smythe grabbed his arm. “Come on, Blimp, what’d ya mean?”

Blimpey blushed.

Smythe gaped at him as a red flush climbed Blimpey’s cheeks and spread all the way up to his dirty forehead. “I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it,” he protested. “Now leave off and let me git to work.”

But Smythe had to have his curiosity satisfied. “Oh, no, ya don’t. Tell me what ya meant.”

Blimpey glared at the hand on his sleeve for a moment
and the shrugged. “Oh, well, if you must know. There was a woman…a friend of mine, like.”

“Yeah?” Smythe encouraged. For a talker, Blimpey had sure got tongue-tied quick enough.

“Ya ’elped ’er, that’s all.”

“What woman?” Smythe asked. He couldn’t remember helping any friends of Blimpey’s. “What’s ’er name?”

“Abby,” Blimpey replied.

“Abby?” Smythe looked at him blankly.

“Sometimes she uses ‘Abigail.’”

Then he remembered. It had been back at the beginning of the case in which the inspector had been a suspect in those businessmen’s murders. Oh, yes, he remembered all right.

“Ya ’elped ’er out a few months back,” Blimpey continued. “She wouldn’t come to me.”

“Why?” Smythe asked. “Why wouldn’t she come to ya?” As he recalled, his helping sweet Abigail had caused a few problems between him and Betsy. It didn’t do to let a woman see another woman throw her arms about your neck. Even when it didn’t mean anything but a bit of gratitude. Betsy’s nose had really been out of joint when she’d seen Abigail’s hug of thanks.

“’Cause we’d ’ad words over some triflin’ matter,” Blimpey said irritably. He wished he’d never brought the bloomin’ subject up, but he owed Smythe. “And she weren’t speakin’ to me. Silly woman, rather go ’ungry than give in to ’er pride. She come to you at the stables and you lent ’er a few quid. It were enough to keep her off the streets. I’m grateful for that. She means somethin’ to me. Now leave off and let me go. I’ve got work to do.”

Amazed, Smythe watched as Blimpey stalked off. He couldn’t believe it! Blimpey Groggins was in love.

“Did we have any luck on the brothel?” Witherspoon asked as he and Constable Barnes waited at the pedestrian island for a dray to pass. He felt a flash of guilt when he thought of the house on Lisle Street. He really should have gone there himself, but he simply hadn’t had time.

Barnes brightened. “We did, sir. It seems that Hinchley had been there that night, before he went to the theatre. He’d made arrangements for later in the evening. But then he cancelled and the…er…person never went.”

“Cancelled?” Witherspoon queried. “How’d he do that?”

“He sent a lad round with a note.” Barnes checked the traffic and started across the road. “The message said that he’d changed his mind and no one was to come to his house that night.”

“Was the police constable sure they were telling him the truth?” Realizing how awkward that sounded, the inspector quickly amended his words, “I mean, is he sure
the people at the brothel aren’t lying to protect a member of their establishment?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Constable Giffith questioned everyone at the brothel himself. He’s sure no one’s lying. The maid and half a dozen other people swear that Rupert Bowker never left the premises that night.” Barnes chuckled. “Bowker was the one scheduled to go to Hinchley’s. Seems this Bowker was quite put out about the whole thing. I gather the madam kept the money and as he’d not gone to the client, she wouldn’t pay him.”

“I don’t suppose the message was in writing?” Witherspoon turned the corner.

“Yes, but the madam burned it.”

“Burned it?”

“She tossed it in the stove with the rest of the waste-paper the next morning.”

“Drat.” Witherspoon would have liked to have had a look at that note. “What time did the messenger get there?”

“About eleven forty-five, sir,” Barnes replied. “Just a few minutes before Bowker was set to leave.”

“Eleven forty-five, huh?” Witherspoon mused. “Barnes, remind me to have another chat with Rather.”

“The Hinchley butler? Why?”

Witherspoon really didn’t know. But he had to say something. “Well, the note had to be written somewhere,” he said. Aware of the constable’s quizzical gaze, he hastily asked, “Did we get a description of the lad who brought the message around?”

Barnes grimaced. “Not much. But the madam told Griffith he was small, dressed well, had black hair and wore a cap pulled low over his face.”

“So it wasn’t a street arab?”

“The madam thought it was Hinchley’s footman.”

Witherspoon sighed. Drat. Now they’d have to try and track down this footman. “But all Hinchley’s staff had been let go, so it couldn’t have been one of his footmen.”

“It could have been someone from the theatre district,” Barnes ventured. “An actor or someone like that. Hinchley could have hired someone to take the message round for him.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what must have happened. Have you had any reports back on the hansoms?” Witherspoon asked Barnes as they stopped in front of Theodora Vaughan’s town house.

Barnes held open the wrought iron gate for the inspector. “According to the reports, the only two of the suspects they can determine actually took a cab that night were Miss Vaughan and the victim.”

“Let’s keep at it, Barnes,” Witherspoon said bracingly. He might still be a tad confused about a few aspects of this case, but all in all, he felt ever so much better. It had been a most enlightening morning.

First, he’d gone to the Yard and sent out the word to the constables on patrol. Then he and Barnes had gone to pay a visit to Mr. Hinchley’s solicitor. That conversation had been quite enlightening.

“Excuse me, sir,” Barnes said as they reached the front door, “but why are we comin’ here to see Edmund Delaney? Won’t he be at his own home?”

Witherspoon banged the brass door knocker. “I believe”—the inspector dropped his voice to a whisper—“he spends rather more time with Miss Vaughan than he does in his rooms. If you’ll remember, his landlady said he’s rarely ever there.”

The door opened, and a few minutes later Witherspoon and Barnes were ensconced in Theodora Vaughan’s delightfully feminine drawing room.

The walls were a pale ivory and the carpet a deep, rich red. A crystal chandelier hung from an intricately patterned ceiling. Delicate rose velvet settees and wing chairs were scattered artfully around the room. But it was the painting hanging over the mantel that caught one’s eye.

Drawn to the picture, Witherspoon wandered toward the fireplace, his gaze fixed on the portrait of Theodora Vaughan.

Her hair was loose and flowed like a deep auburn cloak over her shoulders, spilling over a deep blue gown. Her hands were clasped demurely together, and her head angled slightly to one side.

“Beautiful,” Witherspoon murmured.

“Juliet,” Edmund Delaney said from behind them.

“Juliet?” the inspector repeated. “Oh, you mean the play. Shakespeare.
Romeo and Juliet.
”

Delaney smiled and crossed the room to join them. “She was twenty-six when she played that part. This portrait was done at that time. She was superb. All of London was at her feet. She went from being a poor, struggling actress stealing apples for supper and sneaking lifts off the backs of cabs to being the toast of the town.”

“She is a remarkable actress,” Witherspoon agreed. “I’m privileged to have met her.”

“Goodness, Inspector, you make it sound as though I’m retiring,” Theodora said from the doorway. She was dressed in a pale yellow day gown, her hair was elegantly arranged in a mass of brillant curls and her face wreathed in a charming smile as she advanced into the room.

“Forgive me, dear Miss Vaughan.” Witherspoon felt like he ought to kiss her hand or bow, but wasn’t quite certain how one did that sort of thing. “It will be a great tragedy for the stage when that dreadful moment comes.”

“How very kind you are, Inspector.” She gestured
gracefully toward the settee. “Please sit down. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No, thank you.” Witherspoon sat down. Barnes took one of the wing chairs and Delaney, all the friendliness gone from his face, sat down on the love seat next to Theodora.

“Why have you come, Inspector?” Delaney asked bluntly.

Witherspoon silently debated the wisdom of asking his questions with both of them present, then he decided it really didn’t matter. No matter how delicate or diplomatic he was, the next few moments were going to be rather painful and embarrassing for both of them. “I’ve a few more questions to ask,” he said.

“But we’ve answered all your questions.” Delaney got up and began to pace. “Really, sir, this is beginning to be annoying.”

“It’s all right, Edmund,” Theodora said soothingly. “The inspector is only doing his duty. Please, ask me anything you like.”

Witherspoon took a deep breath. He was surprised at how difficult it was to form the words properly. “How well did you know Ogden Hinchley?”

“He was a critic,” she said, looking surprised. “I’ve known him for years, but I didn’t really
know
him, if you understand my meaning. Not socially.”

“So you would say you have merely a professional relationship with him?” Barnes asked.

Theodora glanced at Delaney. “For the most part,” she replied.

Witherspoon watched her carefully, reminding himself that this woman was an actress. “Are you aware that Hinchley had threatened to ruin you?”

“Yes,” she replied, her expresssion hardening just a
bit. “I am.” She kept her gaze on the inspector, not on Delaney, who had stopped by the mantel. “I didn’t take it seriously.”

“But he had the power to do it,” Barnes put in. “Weren’t you worried?”

“Not at all,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “He’s only one person, Constable. Admittedly, Ogden Hinchley was the most powerful critic in London, but his word was hardly law.”

“I see.” The inspector thought her attitude most sensible. He waited a moment, hoping that Barnes would carry on and ask the next question. But the constable was busy scribbling in his notebook.

So Witherspoon cleared his throat and tried and failed to make himself look at Theodora Vaughan. “Were you aware of why Ogden Hinchley wanted to ruin you?” he asked gently as he stared at the carpet. His head jerked up when he heard Delaney’s exclamation of disgust.

“For God’s sake, Inspector,” Delaney snapped.

“It’s all right, Edmund.” She smiled slightly, as though she were amused by the inspector’s obvious discomfort. “Of course I knew why Hinchley wanted to ruin me. Half of London knew. He was ridiculously jealous of my relationship with Edmund,” she said calmly, “but I naturally assumed he’d get over it.”

Witherspoon looked at Delaney. This one wasn’t an actor. His face was showing strain. He’d gone pale around the mouth. “Mr. Delaney, forgive me for bringing up such a delicate matter, but…er…would you mind telling us what your relationship with Hinchley was? I mean, before the two of you quarreled.”

Delaney’s lips tightened. “We were once good friends. At least, it was friendship on my part.”

“You weren’t”—Barnes coughed—“more intimately involved?”

“No,” Delaney said fiercely. “I’d heard the rumors about Ogden, of course. But he never approached me in that way.” He began to pace back and forth across the room. “Try and understand. I was a poor, struggling playwright when we first met. I was flattered that he took an interest in me, that he wanted to be my friend.”

“When did he start paying your rent on the house in Chelsea?” Barnes asked bluntly. He didn’t much like this kind of questioning, but he figured he’d do better than the inspector at getting at the truth.

Delaney sighed. “You make it sound so ugly, Constable. It wasn’t like that at all. I paid Hinchley rent on the Chelsea house.”

“That’s not what we’ve heard, sir.”

“I know what all the rumor mongers said,” Delaney replied wearily, “but it simply isn’t true. I’ve got rent receipts. You can see them if you like.”

Barnes glanced at Witherspoon, who nodded encour-agingly. “I would like to see them, sir,” the constable said. “You can bring them by the station.”

“Fine,” Delaney agreed grudgingly. “I will. Ogden didn’t charge me very much, but nonetheless, I did pay rent. He knew I didn’t have much money, just a small income that had been left to me by my father, and that I was trying to write. So he lowered the rent because we were friends. It was only later, when he invited me to Italy, that I realized his feelings for me were much deeper than mine for him. By that time, I’d met Miss Vaughan and we’d…we’d…”

“Fallen in love,” Theodora finished. “As a matter of fact, Inspector, congratulations are in order.”

“Really, Theodora,” Edmund said quickly. “I don’t believe this is the time…”

“Oh, nonsense.” She laughed gaily. “I’m too happy to keep this all to myself. Edmund and I are going to be married.”