Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (8 page)

“Dag blast it,” Luty exclaimed. “That means anyone could’ve killed him.”

Smythe slumped back in his chair. “It’ll be like lookin’ for a needle in a ’aystack.”

“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Before we jump to any conclusions, I think Smythe ought to talk to that cabbie again.”

“I’m thinkin’ the same thing,” the coachman muttered. “I think I’d best ask the bloke what time they got to the theatre. I never asked the cabbie if they stopped anywhere along the way.”

“You mean you didn’t ask him that when you had the chance?” Betsy said.

Smythe kept a tight leash on his temper. The lass was just trying to rile him because he was still annoyed with her. He’d ignored her bright smiles and her overtures to make up because he was hurt. He gave her a cocky grin, the one he knew infuriated her. “I know it’s hard to believe, girl,” he said slowly, relishing the way her eyes narrowed angrily, “but even I can make a mistake. But not to worry, I’ll hunt ’im up again tomorrow. This time, I’ll make sure I ask the right questions.”

“Do sit down, Inspector.” Theodora Vaughan, the star of
Belvedere’s Burden
and the loveliest woman Witherspoon had ever seen, gestured gracefully at the overstuffed settee.

Witherspoon, staring like a schoolboy, tripped over his own feet, caught his balance before making a complete fool of himself and stumbled toward the settee. Constable Barnes, following at a more leisurely pace, couldn’t quite hide his smile of amusement. “Thank you,” the inspector gushed. “This is quite comfortable. Your dressing room is lovely, Miss Vaughan, absolutely lovely.”

Barnes gave the inspector a puzzled glance. The room was nice. Freshly painted cream walls, a colorful oriental dressing screen in one corner, long-stemmed roses on the vanity table and decent rugs on the floor, but it was hardly Buckingham Palace.

“That’s very kind of you, Inspector,” she replied. “Willard wanted me to be comfortable. He insisted on redoing this room before we opened. Not that I cared one way or the other. But it is quite nice.”

“I’m awfully sorry to trouble you…” he began.

“It’s no trouble at all, Inspector,” she interrupted, tilting her head to one side and giving him another dazzling smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait while I took off my makeup, but if I don’t get it off right away, it does horrid things to one’s complexion.”

Witherspoon didn’t see anything horrid about her complexion. In the soft light of the dressing room, her skin was creamy white and utterly flawless, as was the rest of her. Her hair was a deep auburn, reminding him of a blazing sunset on a summer’s day. Her eyes were a dark sapphire color, set deep in a sculpted face beneath perfectly formed brows.

Awed by her beauty, Witherspoon gaped at her. Barnes cleared his throat. The inspector, still gawking, didn’t seem to hear him. Barnes did it again, loudly this time.

“Oh.” Witherspoon shook himself slightly. “Yes, yes, indeed. Now, where was I?”

“Apologizing for troubling me,” she said with a laugh. “But as I said, it’s really no trouble at all. Though I’m afraid I won’t be of much help to you. I haven’t seen or spoken to Ogden Hinchley in months. I didn’t realize he was back in London until I heard of his death.”

Witherspoon nodded. His mind seemed to have gone blank because he couldn’t think of one single, solitary question to ask this lovely creature.

Barnes glanced at his superior, but the inspector was still staring at the actress with a rather glazed look on his face. “You didn’t know that Mr. Hinchley was in the audience that night?” Barnes asked.

“No. I thought he was still in New York.”

Witherspoon started. Really, he must concentrate on his duty. But gracious, it was difficult. Every time she looked his way his thoughts tended to muddle. “Er, I take it that
neither Mr. Swinton nor any of the other cast members mentioned to you that they’d seen Hinchley in the audience?”

“Absolutely not,” she said fervently. “It was opening night, you see.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“I’m an artist, Inspector.” She emphasized the words with a graceful sweep of her arms. “I don’t see or speak to anyone before a performance until the first curtain call. Naturally, I had to concentrate on my role before I went on. I’m afraid my dressing room is completely out of bounds for everyone. The entire cast knows that. I don’t see anyone, not even the stage manager or the director. So even if someone had wanted to tell me that Hinchley was out front, they wouldn’t have been able to.”

“What about after the play?” Barnes asked.

“I left right after the performance,” she said. “I was exhausted. I’m on stage for virtually every scene. As soon as the curtain went down, I had one of the crew call me a hansom and I went home.”

“Hearing about Hinchley’s death must have been a dreadful shock to you,” Witherspoon said sympathetically.

She clasped her hands to her chest. “It was a terrible shock. Absolutely terrible.”

“It’s a wonder you were able to go on tonight,” the inspector said earnestly. “You’re obviously most sensitive. Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a wonderful actress.”

Barnes glanced at Witherspoon sharply. What was the inspector up to now? Was he trying to lull this woman into talking? He knew for a fact the inspector had never seen the woman perform.

“How very kind of you to say so, Inspector,” Theodora
said, giving him another blazing smile. “I am sensitive. All great performers must be. But then you probably know that. From what I hear you’re quite an artist in your own right. Scotland Yard’s most successful detective.”

Flattered, Witherspoon blushed. “Really, Miss Vaughan, there’s nothing artistic about solving murders.”

“Don’t be so modest, Inspector.” She leaned toward him and laid her hand on his arm. “I’ve heard about some of your cases. You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. In your own way, you have to be as creative as I am. And much braver.”

“You’re far too kind, Miss Vaughan,” Witherspoon replied.

Again, Barnes waited for Witherspoon to ask a question. But the inspector only smiled at the woman like a smitten schoolboy. “Were you and Mr. Hinchley good friends?” Barnes finally asked.

“Friends? No, not really.” She gave the constable the benefit of her smile.

But he, being older and a bit cranky at having to be out this late, wasn’t in the least moved. Stone-faced, he stared back at her. “Then why was his death such a shock to you, ma’am?” he asked.

Theodora Vaughan’s brilliant smile faded and was replaced by a look of offended dignity. “The London theatre world is a rather small community, Constable. Even though Mr. Hinchley and I weren’t well acquainted, his death was still a terrible blow. One doesn’t normally hear that one’s acquaintance has been murdered. I was quite shocked when I heard the news.”

“But of course you were, dear lady,” Witherspoon said quickly. He flicked a disappointed look at his constable. “No doubt having to carry on and perform tonight has made you dreadfully tired.”

“It has, Inspector. You must indeed be the most perceptive of men, for I pride myself on hiding my feelings well.” She gazed at Witherspoon in admiration.

Barnes thought he just might be sick. He hoped Theodora Vaughan was a better actress on stage than she was tonight. This performance wouldn’t fool a deaf mute. He glanced at his superior again, hoping to see a knowing gleam in the inspector’s eyes. But instead, Witherspoon was getting to his feet.

“Then we shan’t keep you, madam,” Witherspoon said briskly. “You must have your rest. I’ll call round tomorrow to ask the rest of my questions. Will that be all right?”

“Thank you, Inspector.” She clasped her hands to her bosom again. “Rose, my maid, is right outside. She’ll give you my address and I do thank you for being so astute. A performance exhausts me. It’ll be far better for me to answer your questions tomorrow afternoon than tonight.”

Barnes couldn’t believe his ears. They’d come here at this god-awful hour of the night to question the rest of the cast and now the inspector was getting snookered by a pair of blue eyes and a few flashy smiles. Surely not? Barnes refused to believe the man he so admired for his detecting genius could be such a fool for a woman. The inspector must have a reason for what he was doing.

Witherspoon bowed formally. “Until tomorrow afternoon, madam. Good evening.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.

As soon as the door of Theodora Vaughan’s dressing room had closed behind them, Barnes said. “You think you’ll get more out of her at her home, sir?”

“Oh, no, Barnes,” Witherspoon said. “I just thought the poor lady looked tired. She’s magnificient, isn’t she?”

Barnes’s jaw dropped in shock. But the inspector didn’t notice as he charged for the dressing room down the hall.

“Let’s go see what Mr. Remington has to say for himself. I believe his dressing room is here.” He rapped sharply on the door.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice shouted irritably.

“The police,” Witherspoon yelled. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Remington.”

“Just a moment, please.”

They waited in the hall for quite a few moments. Barnes had just raised his fist to knock again when the door opened. A tall man, his hair mussed and his face shining with some greasy substance, stuck his head out. “Police? What do you want?” he asked rudely.

Witherspoon straightened his spine. “We would like to speak with you about the murder of Ogden Hinchley.”

The man stared at them, then reluctantly opened the door. “Swinton told me you’d been here. But I honestly don’t see why you’re bothering me with this matter. I’ve nothing to do with it.”

“Nevertheless, we’d like to ask you some questions,” Witherspoon said.

Remington sighed dramatically, like a king condescending to speak to a stupid peasant. “Come in, then. But I don’t know why you need to see me. I haven’t talked to Hinchley in months. I didn’t even know he was back from New York.”

The room was identical in size to the one they’d just left. But size was the only thing the two rooms had in common. Remington’s dressing room was dark and dingy, with bad lighting, ugly green walls, a bare floor and a scraggly hanging curtain on one end instead of a dressing screen. In place of a nice overstuffed settee, Remington had two disreputable balloon-backed chairs.

He sat down in front of his vanity table and gestured toward the other seats. “Sit down, please.” He turned to his mirror, picked up a cotton cloth and began wiping his face.

Witherspoon took a moment to study the actor as he and Barnes sat down. The man’s hair was dark but there were a few strands of gray sprouting at his temples. His nose was aquiline, his jawline firm and manly and his bone structure excellent. But there were more than a few age lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes, and the brackets around his mouth marked his years as numbering closer to forty than thirty.

“Mr. Remington,” Witherspoon began, but the actor interrupted him.

“Is this going to take long?” he asked. “I’ve a supper engagement soon and I don’t want to be late.”

“We’ll be as quick as possible,” the inspector replied. “You were acquainted with Ogden Hinchley?”

“Everyone in the theatre knew Hinchley.” Remington tossed the cloth down and turned to look at them. “What of it?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Three months ago at the Drury Lane Theatre.”

“Did you know that he was in the Hayden last night?” Barnes asked.

Remington shrugged. “I didn’t know it at the time. Only after the play was over. Albert Parks told me he’d spotted him sitting down front.”

“Albert Parks is the director of your play?” Witherspoon asked.

“That’s right. Albert took a peek out the curtains before the lights went down and spotted Hinchley. But he didn’t tell me until after the play was over.”

“Was Hinchley here to review your play?” Barnes
asked. He didn’t have a clue what the inspector was up to, so he decided to put his oar in the water as well. He could always shut up if need be.

Remington’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Probably. Not that I cared one way or the other. No one took Hinchley’s reviews all that seriously anymore.”

“Had he reviewed any of your earlier performances?” the inspector asked. “I mean, had he ever reviewed you in another play?” He’d no idea why he was asking the question, but it seemed to him that perhaps the victim’s being a critic might have been important to his murder.

Remington lifted his chin. “I am rather well known, Inspector,” he said stiffly. “Hinchley had reviewed me a number of times.”

“Good reviews, sir?” Barnes asked.

Remington lifted his chin a notch higher. “Some were quite good, others weren’t. He was a failed actor himself, you know. When he couldn’t make it on the boards, he turned to writing reviews. And not writing them very well, I might add. Just read a few of his reviews and you’ll see why there won’t be many tears at his funeral.”

“So you didn’t know he was out in front until after the play was over,” Witherspoon mused. He tried to remember exactly what it was that Swinton had told him. Surely the man had said that Remington and Parks had peeked out the curtain before the play. “What time did Mr. Parks tell you about seeing Mr. Hinchley in the audience?”