The Wedding Caper Page 4

  screams.

  “Stay here,” he said to Daphne, who nodded as she sank slowly to a chair.

  He did not linger to hear if Daphne asked him a question. Pushing his way out into the crowd, growing ever thicker in the constricted passage, he saw to his left lamplight glittering on gold. That must be Priscilla. Her hair refused to remain decorously beneath her turban.

  Elbowing aside two men who seemed sewn to the carpet and apologizing to a woman who glowered at him as he pushed past her, he did not pause as he tossed his apologies back over his shoulder. He edged around a dowager. There was no one in front of her, he realized. Then he looked down and saw Priscilla on her knees by a woman who had swooned.

  “Does anyone have sal volatile,?” she asked. When nobody responded, she pointed to the dowager. “Lady Topplington, will you sacrifice the feathers in your hair to bring Miss Sawyer back to her senses?”

  Neville did not hear the woman’s answer, because his arm was seized. He started to yank it away, but halted when he heard a frantic whisper.

  “Hathaway, praise heaven it is you! I have been trying to keep everyone away.” Rimley, a dark-haired baron, who had recently inherited his tide from his spendthrift father, was babbling like a young miss.

  “What is it?”

  The man, who was as thin as a jackstraw, motioned to the drapery behind him. “In there, Hathaway.”

  “What is in there?”

  “It is ... it is horrible.” His mouth worked as if he were trying to keep his stomach from humiliating him. “You know more about how to handle these things than I do.”

  Neville translated these things into some sort of crime. Rimley might be a presumptuous pup at times,

  but he was clearly alarmed by what awaited in the box behind him. The words, “She is dead!” rang in his ears.

  “Stay here,” he said, as he had to Daphne.

  Rimley nodded, gratitude blossoming in his eyes.

  “I will go with you,” Priscilla said as Neville reached for the drapery.

  “What of Miss Sawyer?”

  “She is coming around.”

  Her glance led his eyes to where the prone woman was being helped to sit by two men under the dowager’s close watch.

  Knowing it was futile to try to keep Priscilla from investigating what had distressed Rimley and caused a man—Rimley, he collected—to shout, he did not bother to suggest she might wish to remain outside the box to comfort the women who were not made of the same stern stuff she was. He did put his arm around her waist as the drapery was drawn back to allow them entrance into the box.

  He heard her breath’s sharp intake over the curse he muttered. On the floor by an upset chair, Harmony Lummis was sprawled in a most inappropriate manner. Blood from the slash in her chest was turning the carpet a deeper red. Someone had driven a knife deeply into her.

  “Oh, Harmony,” Priscilla moaned.

  He drew her to him and held her. As she shivered with shock and sorrow, he could say only, “I am sorry, Pris.”

  “Harmony ...” She shuddered so hard he was surprised the floor beneath their feet did not quake. Pushing herself away from him, she walked to where her friend was lying. “Who could she possibly have vexed enough to cause this?”

  He was not surprised her thoughts mirrored his

  own. Only someone with a deep grudge would plunge a knife fiercely into the woman’s breast. Or, he had to own, someone who had been startled by her resistance to whatever the murderer had planned.

  The former suggested the person who had killed her knew her well. The latter could mean she had been slain by a stranger. That the lady’s death might have resulted from either scenario did not help to pinpoint any possible suspects.

  “I don’t know,” he said, having nothing else to say.

  “I have known Harmony for so long. I cannot imagine any enemies she had who would do this. Can you?” Priscilla asked, again too quietly for anyone beyond the drapery to hear. As nobody had followed them into the box, she did not need to worry about her words being repeated.

  “No.” He squatted beside the dead woman and twisted his neck to examine the haft of the knife. He did not touch it or Lady Lummis. There was no reason to check to see if her heart beat when the tip of the blade must have pierced it. Her skin was already growing gray with death. “If you asked me that about her son, I could give you a long list, but the lady herself seemed to be in good pax with everyone. Her only crimes were a blind eye to her son’s behavior and a tongue that seldom was kept behind her teeth.”

  “Mayhap we should consider that her son’s enemies might have wished her ill in order to inflict a wound on him.”

  “Possible, but it would be simpler at this point to assume this has nothing to do with anyone save the lady herself and the person who wished her harm.” He shook his head as he stood. “You and Daphne may have been the last to see her alive. Did she act oddly?”

  “No more so than usual.” Priscilla arched her brows. “It is unseemly to speak so of a woman who has been murdered, but Harmony was often a figure of fun among the Polite World. She seemed not to care that others believed her to have a bee in her bonnet. Do you see anything unusual about the knife? Does it offer any clue to the murderer?” Her voice caught on the word, and she quickly added, “Tell me there is something that will point to the one who did this.”

  “I wish I could, but it is a simple blade. There must be hundreds, mayhap thousands, of similar knives in London.” He looked toward the stage. “Even the corpse on stage was stabbed by a knife with a handle that resembles this one.”

  “On stage?” She put her fingers to her mouth as she stared out at the theater. “Do you think someone saw the body there and decided to ... oh, sweet heavens, it is too appalling even to speak of.”

  He put his arm around her and drew her to him again. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. Longing to tell her everything would be all right, he did not. She would not want to be fed lies, and he would be a fool to try.

  “Daphne?” she whispered.

  “I told her to remain in our box. With the tempest in the corridor, I thought her safest there.”

  ‘Thank you for watching over her.” She tilted her head back, giving him a view of her lustrous eyes.

  Their dark blue depths dared only the bravest man to discover what thoughts were hidden there. He wondered how many lifetimes it would take for him to tire of gazing into them. He stroked her cheek and curled his fingers around her nape.

  “Neville, we must do something about Harmony,” Priscilla said, shattering his thoughts.

  Reluctantly, he released her. He was amazed he could forget, even for a moment, the dead woman on the floor. But he should not have been astounded, because Priscilla could weave a spell around him that he did not want to break. “Yes. We—”

  He was shoved aside rather roughly. Stepping forward so the man rushing into the box did not run over Priscilla, he grasped the man’s arm.

  “Stay back,” Neville ordered.

  “I wish to see what has happened. It is—Hathaway! ”

  Neville was unsure whether to curse or to be relieved Birdwell was here. That the play had obviously come to an end meant the rest of the audience did not need to continue to be tormented by scenes that made no sense. Birdwell was not, however, the best man to have present in a crisis. He often spouted off comments more nonsensical than what he had been saying on the stage tonight.

  The actor’s face lengthened as he yanked off his mustache. His skin might have grown pale, but it was impossible to tell beneath his theatrical cosmetics. He made a pitiful sound, then whispered, “Is she all right?”

  “Does she look all right to you?” Neville asked.

  Priscilla put her hand on his arm, and he knew his voice had been too sharp. It was not easy to suffer fools when a woman was dead with a knife in her chest.

  The actor dropped to his knees and pressed his hands over his mouth. “I never imagined anything like this co
uld happen here. I thought the Prince of Wales Theater was safe. How could something like this happen to her?” His shoulders stiffened, and he scrambled to his feet as if he had just recalled they were watching.

  “Mr. Birdwell,” Priscilla asked, “do you know Lady Lummis?”

  “We have met,” he said, staring at the corpse. “She often attends—attended—performances here. I can-

  not believe someone would kill her.” He glanced at her quickly before looking back at the dead woman. “Who could have killed her?”

  ‘That is something we must find out. Mr. Birdwell, would you please send for the beadle and the watch?” There is no beadle in the parish.”

  “Still? There was nobody in that job when we were in Town last year.”

  Birdwell shuffled his feet. “There was a new one, but he died a few months ago.”

  “Then send for the watch!”

  “What good will they do? A patron was robbed last week during the closing night of our last play, and they did nothing to recover the man’s money. And that was not the first robbery. There have been several near the theater recently.”

  Priscilla drew in a quick breath as she looked back at the corpse.

  “Send for the watch!” Neville wondered how any person could be such a block. “And tell Robertson I want to see him.”

  “He may not even know anything is amiss,” Birdwell choked out. “He stays in his office once the tickets are all turned in.”

  “He is the manager of this theater! He needs to know. Now!”

  As Birdwell turned to leave, Neville seized his arm. The actor froze.

  “Where have you been since the intermission began?” Neville asked.

  ‘With Wiggsley. Trying to get him to relent on the stupid ending he wrote to that accursed play. ”

  “Did anyone see you with him?”

  Birdwell shuddered, but yanked his arm out of Neville’s grip. “You know well how all the actors stand around dissecting the first act while waiting for the

  curtain to rise for the second. Besides, I am not the only one appalled at the reaction from the audience. So many have never walked out on a Reginald Bird- well performance before.”

  Neville could have argued that point, but this was not the time.

  “Get Robertson,” he ordered.

  Birdwell rushed out, shouting for his valet.

  Neville let a grim smile loosen his taut lips. For once, Birdwell was showing good sense. His valet could go to alert the watch while the actor brought Robertson to the box. Whether either the Charleys or the theater manager would be of much use was debatable, but he could not stand here and do nothing. Not for the first time did he wish that the stalwart constables who upheld the law in the country also oversaw the law in Town.

  His frown returned. Robertson usually being in his office once a performance began offered an excellent alibi for the theater manager. But what reason would Robertson have for killing Lady Lummis? Murder at the theater would keep patrons away, and Robertson needed to bring more in if he hoped to keep the theater open.

  “Pris,” he began as he turned back toward her. The rest of what he intended to say fled from his mind when he saw how pale she was. Her cheeks had as little color as Lady Lummis’s corpse. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Birdwell spoke of a robbery last week.” Her voice had become steady. Steadier than his own, he must own.

  “Yes.”

  “Harmony was robbed.”

  He frowned. “How do you know that?”

  She pointed at the dead woman. “Her brooch is gone, Neville. It was a large brooch of gold with sapphire stones. It was quite out of style, which suggests it was a family heirloom.”

  He knelt and looked beneath the chairs. He saw something glitter. Even though it was too small for a brooch, he picked it up. Slowly he stood and held out his hand.

  “A clasp,” Priscilla said as she picked it up from his palm.

  “It must have broken off her brooch.”

  “When it was ripped from her.” She sat on a chair and stared at her hand. “She must have tried to fight off her murderer, and her brooch was broken then.” He shook his head. “No, Pris, don’t assume that. It was just as likely he ripped it off her when she was dead. If he was in a hurry to escape before someone chanced upon this box, the clasp would have slid under the chair without him noticing.”

  “So you believe she was not killed while someone was trying to rob her?”

  “I would like to believe that, and it is possible, but there are no signs of a struggle here.”

  “Harmony could have been surprised by her attacker before she surprised him by fighting back. It could have been very quick.”

  “That is true.” He appreciated Priscilla’s clear thinking. “We should not dismiss any possibilities out of hand.”

  Priscilla pointed to a bag beside another chair. “But why didn’t the murderer take that as well? It does not look as if it has been touched.”

  He picked up the bag and opened it onto the chair. A lacy handkerchief fell out. He turned the bag inside out, and a single coin bounced across the chair. He caught it before it hit the floor.

  “A shilling,” he said.

  “She would have had more than a shilling in her bag.”

  “I agree. The coin must have caught in the lining, so it did not come out when any others she was carrying did.”

  “Mayhap you should send for someone from Bow Street,” Priscilla said as she came to her feet. She set the chair against the wall of the box and glanced out at the theater. “One of their men might have some insight into the circumstances.”

  “An inspired idea, Pris.” He pushed aside the drapery again and signaled to Rimley. The baron had shown at the card table that he had a calm head upon his shoulders. “Rimley, did you see anyone other than Lady Lummis in this box?”

  “No.” He swallowed so hard that Neville knew he was still trying to keep the contents of his stomach down. “I thought this was where Miss Sawyer was sitting. I looked in and saw—I saw—” He gulped and turned a vivid shade of green. “I came back out. When Miss Sawyer emerged from her box next to this one, I realized she was not the victim. I looked in to be certain I had seen that unspeakable sight, and she must have peered around me. We both saw Lady Lummis lying there bleeding. Miss Sawyer fainted, and I—I—”

  “Wisely called for help.”

  The baron nodded, again appearing pleased that Neville was giving him a chance to escape humiliation. With Neville’s words, he could pretend with the rest of the ton that his shout had been to bring assistance rather than giving in to panic.

  “And I need you to be wise again,” Neville said. “Send someone to Bow Street.”

  Rimley nodded and pushed his way through the still thickening crowd. Had anyone remained in the

  seats below? Clearly even those who had been scurrying away at the first screams had decided to return, anxious not to miss a moment of the dreadful excitement.

  Neville looked in both directions. Where was the blasted theater manager? Counting the evening’s receipts from tickets was far less important than persuading this crowd to disperse. He frowned when he looked toward the stairs leading to the manager’s office and saw a tall man. Light glistened on his blond hair, so Birdwell had divested himself of his black wig. His valet was shadowing him. The actor must not have sent Reeve to get the watch.

  He signaled to another man he recognized and asked him to go to inform the watch. Birdwell was right. The watch was useless, but at least the Charleys might get this gawking crowd to disperse. Glad that the second man did not ask any questions, he went back into the box.

  Priscilla was coming to her feet after draping Lady Lummis’s cloak over the lady’s corpse. Tears glistened in Priscilla’s eyes, and he was tempted to enfold her to him again and hold her until her grief went away. Not grief, he realized when she turned to face him, but fury. She was furious someone had killed her friend and escaped without leaving a clue to his i
dentity or why he had done such a horrible crime.

  “I sent Rimley to get someone from Bow Street,” he said, knowing his words sounded lame. Or mayhap it was that he wanted to be able to offer her an answer to the puzzle presented by a dead woman who had been robbed of her brooch but nothing else.

  ‘That is good.” She rubbed her hands together, and he could think only of Lady Macbeth trying to erase the spots of the king’s blood from her palms.

  But Priscilla was not the guilty one, and he should not be thinking of the stage. The play was most definitely not the thing. As the Bard would say, however, the game was afoot. It could take awhile for this investigation to unwind and the answers to become clear.

  Quietly, he said, “Pris, why don’t you take the carriage back to your house? I will stop by after I have spoken with Robertson.”

  ‘That might be a good idea. Daphne needs to get away from here.” She sighed. “I had not guessed her first excursion into the Polite World would end like this.”

  “Think of the stories she shall tell her grandchildren.” He curved his hand along her face. “Be careful, Pris.”

  “I realize the murderer may still be within the theater.”

  He flinched. He had not given that idea any thought, for he had assumed the murderer would have made good an escape while everyone milled about in distress. If the killer were among the ton, the whole of the situation would be far more complicated. He did not fool himself into believing no member of the Polite World would stoop to murder. Both he and Priscilla had learned that lesson very quickly, both here in Town and in the countryside.

  Drawing aside the drapery, Neville was pleased to see the hallway was nearly empty. Either the audience members had come to their senses, or—more likely, he had to own—they had perceived that there would be no more excitement to gawk at. His smile broadened when he saw a familiar face.