Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (6 page)

“Never said you didn’t,” the cabbie said quickly. “Anyway, I took him to the Hayden and dropped him off. That’s all there was to it. He were just a regular fare.”

“Did you see if he talked to anyone when he got out?”

“Didn’t ’ang about to notice,” the cabbie replied. He began to stroke the horse’s nose. “As soon as we pulled up, another fare got in.”

Witherspoon and Barnes walked slowly down the center aisle of the Hayden Theatre. The auditorium was horseshoe shaped. Boxes, stalls and galleries, each of them catering to a different class and different price level, layered themselves toward the large stage.

“What’s that?” Barnes asked, pointing to the gilt-framed moulding flush with the front of the stage. “It looks like a giant picture frame.”

“I think it’s called a proscenium,” Witherspoon replied. “I believe it’s used to help stage the play. I say, do you think there’s anyone about?”

He peered down toward the stage, but saw nothing in the poor light. However, he could see that the backing on the seats in this part of the theatre was aged and fading. On the boxes to his left, he noticed the paint was chipping.

“Can I help you gents?” someone called. Just then a head popped up from one of the front rows.

Witherspoon was so startled by the man’s sudden appearance he didn’t answer for a moment. “Uh, could we see someone in charge, please?”

“You coppers?”

“Yes, I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

“I’ll get Mr. Swinton for you,” the man said. “He’s the guv.”

“Odd sort of place, isn’t it, sir?” Barnes commented as they waited. “For some reason, it makes you want to whisper. Like church.”

A bald man with a huge mustache appeared at the front of the stage. He squinted at the two policemen. “I’m Willard Swinton. You want to see me?”

“If we could have a word, please,” Witherspoon shouted. Swinton nodded and disappeared behind the proscenium.
Witherspoon, alarmed that he’d lost his prey, hurried toward the stage. Constable Barnes was right on his heels.

By the time they reached the front, Willard Swinton had reappeared in front of a door tucked neatly to the left of the stage.

“This way, gentlemen,” he called, waving them over. “We’d be more comfortable in my office.” He led them through the door, down a long corridor and into a small room at the very end. Gaudy playbills decorated the walls. There was a huge rolltop desk in the center, a gas fire in the hearth and several overstuffed chairs. “Have a seat,” Swinton invited, sitting down behind his desk. “Now, what can I do for her Majesty’s boys in blue?”

It took a moment for Witherspoon to understand he meant the police. “Ah, we’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. About Saturday evening.”

“Great night it was, sir.” Swinton beamed proudly.
Belvedere’s Burden
was an absolute smash! We’re sold out for the next three weeks.”

“I take it that’s the name of the current production?” Witherspoon asked.

“That’s right. Saturday night was our opening. The house was sold out.” Impossibly enough, Swinton’s smile broadened even further.

Witherspoon asked, “Do you know a gentleman named Ogden Hinchley?”

Swinton’s smile evaporated. “I know him,” he sneered. “He was here Saturday night, sitting right in the third row.”

“Did you speak to him?” Barnes asked.

“Not bloody likely,” Swinton snapped. “I haven’t spoken to that man for two years. The only reason I didn’t throw him out when I spotted him was because I didn’t
want to create a fuss in front of the audience.”

“I take it you didn’t like Mr. Hinchley?” Witherspoon said.

Swinton’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s this all about, then?”

Witherspoon realized he didn’t have to break the news gently to the man. “Mr. Hinchley’s dead. His body was found in the Regents Canal. We’ve reason to believe the death wasn’t an accident.”

Swinton’s jaw gaped. “Dead? Hinchley? That explains it then. We wondered why his review wasn’t in the paper.”

The door flew open and a tall, fair-haired man came charging in. “For God’s sake, Willard,” he cried, “you promised you’d take care of those wretchedly old limelights…” He broke off as he saw the two men, his deep-set eyes widening when he noticed Constable Barnes’s uniform. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize anyone else was here. Do forgive me for intruding.” He started backing toward the door.

“Don’t go, Edmund,” Swinton said. “These gentlemen are police. They’ve just given me the most shocking news. Ogden Hinchley’s been murdered.”

He stopped. “Murdered? My God, you are joking?”

Swinton shook his head.

Witherspoon quickly introduced himself and Barnes. “And who are you, sir?”

“Sorry, Inspector.” Swinton belatedly remembered his manners and introduced the newcomer. “This is Edmund Delaney, the author of the play.”

“Did you know Mr. Hinchley, sir?” Barnes asked quickly.

Delaney didn’t speak for a moment. “Yes,” he finally replied so softly that Witherspoon had to strain to catch
what he was saying. “I knew him. Everybody in the theatre knew him.”

“Why don’t you sit down, sir?” Witherspoon invited. He usually liked to interview people alone, but it might be interesting to try it a bit differently this time.

Delany sat down in a chair next to Swinton’s desk. He clasped his hands together. “How was he killed?”

“He was drowned,” Witherspoon said. It wouldn’t do to give too much information away. From the reactions of both these men, it was obvious they had strong feelings about the victim. “And he was last seen alive right here at this theatre on Saturday night.”

“What do you mean by that?” Swinton blustered. “Are you trying to imply this theatre had something to do with Hinchley’s death?”

“I’m implying nothing, Mr. Swinton,” Witherspoon replied calmly. He directed his attention to Delaney, noticing that the man’s face had gone pale. “Did you know Mr. Hinchley well?”

“He was a professional acquaintance,” Delaney muttered.

“Did you like him?” Barnes asked.

Delaney appeared surprised by the question, but he recovered quickly. “No one in the theatre liked him. He was a critic. Quite a nasty one too. Hinchley ruined a number of careers both here and in America.” He laughed harshly. “I understand Americans are quite a violent people. Perhaps Hinchley’s vitriolic pen didn’t sit well with the New York theatre crowd. Maybe one of them followed him back and killed him.”

Surprised by such a silly statement, Witherspoon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you suggesting he was murdered by an American?” he asked incredulously.

“Not really.” Delaney smiled apologetically. “This is
a bit of a shock, Inspector. I’m just babbling nonsense.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Hinchley wasn’t loved by any of us here in England, but he had been gone for rather a long time. None of us even knew he was back.”

“Mr. Swinton did,” Barnes said.

“Here now, what are you saying?” Swinton snapped. “I wasn’t the only one who knew he was back. Half of London saw him sitting big as a ruddy toad. And I wasn’t the only one in the theatre who’d seen him either. Remington and Parks were both peeking out at the audience that night. They could’ve seen him too.”

“Please, Mr. Swinton, don’t excite yourself.” Gracious, the man’s face had gone so red, Witherspoon was afraid he might burst something. “We’re merely trying to ascertain Mr. Hinchley’s movements on Saturday evening.”

Swinton seemed to calm down. “His movements have nothing to do with us. As far as I know, he watched the play and then left.”

“I see,” the inspector replied. “And what time did the play end?”

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“It’s three hours long?” Barnes exclaimed. Blimey, he thought, that would flatten your backside.

“Of course not,” Delaney said. “But it was late starting and we had quite a long intermission.” He tossed a quick frown at Swinton. “We had a bit of trouble with some of the limelights and that delayed us a good fifteen minutes.”

“So the play ended at approximately eleven,” Witherspoon said.

“Closer to ten-fifty than eleven,” Swinton interrupted.

“All right,” the inspector said patiently, “ten-fifty.
What did you gentlemen do after the play was over?”

Both men appeared surprised by the question. Delaney answered first. “I went for a walk, Inspector. By the Thames.”

“How long did you walk?”

“I’m not sure,” Delaney replied. “An hour, maybe more. Try and understand, Inspector, I was quite excited. This is my first play. I guess I was in a bit of a state. I knew I wouldn’t sleep so I went down to the river and walked. Then I went home.”

“And you, Mr. Swinton?” Barnes asked.

“I came in and counted the receipts,” Swinton replied. “Good take that night.”

“What time did you leave your office?” Witherspoon glanced over to make sure the constable was getting this down in his notebook.

Swinton stroked his mustache. “I wasn’t watching the clock. It took a couple of hours to count out and do the books. By then it was late, so I went home.”

“Did anyone see you leave?” Witherspoon asked.

“No. The place was empty when I locked up.”

The inspector turned to Delaney. “Did anyone see you by the river?”

“Lots of people saw me, Inspector,” Delaney replied sarcastically. “But unfortunately, I doubt any of them knew who I was.”

Mrs. Jeffries spotted Dr. Bosworth the moment he left St. Thomas’s Hospital through the side door. She darted forward and planted herself directly in front of his path. “Good day, Dr. Bosworth,” she said brightly.

Bosworth stopped and cocked his head to one side. “Why am I not surprised to see you?”

“Because you’re most intelligent.” she smiled confidently.
“And you know I’d want to hear every little detail of the postmortem on Ogden Hinchley.” As one of her “secret sources,” Dr. Bosworth had been most helpful on several of the other of the inspector’s cases.

“Of course.” He offered her his arm. “Let’s stroll while we talk, Mrs. Jeffries. To be perfectly frank, I’m very tired. But I think I can manage to stay awake long enough to give you the essentials. Has the inspector got this one, then?”

“It seems so,” she said as they walked toward the bridge. “I understand you don’t think this is a case of accidental drowning.”

“Absolutely not,” Bosworth replied. He repeated everything he had already told Witherspoon. “And when I opened the fellow up, there wasn’t any debris in the lungs.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you.”

Bosworth yawned. “If he’d drowned in the canal, there would have been dirt and filth from the canal in his lungs. Now, there was debris in his mouth, but not in the lungs, if you follow.”

“So if he drowned in his bathtub, then someone would have had to move his body and take it to the canal,” she said thoughtfully. “How big a man was he?”

“Quite small, really,” Bosworth replied. “Very slender, with very poorly developed muscle. But even a small man would be quite difficult to move. Dead weight and all.”

“Was there anything else, Doctor?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Poor Dr. Bosworth did look very tired. She really mustn’t keep him too long. “Anything else that might be useful to us?”

Bosworth thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so, but honestly, I’m so tired I’m not thinking all that clearly.
Tell you what—if I remember anything else, I’ll send you a note.”

“What about the time of death?”

Bosworth hesitated. “It’s only an educated guess, but my estimate is late Saturday night or the very early hours of Sunday morning.”

“But someone tried to make it look like he was murdered Saturday night as he walked along the canal?”

“That’s how it appears to me,” Bosworth yawned again. “But I’m only a doctor, Mrs. Jeffries. I leave the real detecting to you.”