Chapter 20 #2
Her friend Edwina Cecil might remember the name of the Bow Street Runner, for Edwina’s brother had befriended the fellow and assisted him with the case.
She would write to Edwina and perhaps Edwina could even travel to London and meet her there.
Polly would make an excellent companion for the road, but it would be prudent to have a friend at hand as well.
Especially if the verdict went against Ralph. Especially if the worst should happen.
The King’s Theatre was a gaudy auditorium of private boxes, carved molding, and red velvet curtains, but behind the theater was a rabbit’s warren of rooms where the actors and other members of the troupe ate and dressed and slept and sometimes lived.
Pevensey knew his way around from previous investigations and strode straight through the maze as if he had a right to be there.
He found the dressing room he wanted without any trouble, although the large flower on the front of it had been recently painted over.
The rose of the world had lost its bloom—murder tended to do that to a person.
Inside, Pevensey looked about the dressing room.
It was even messier than the last time he had been here.
The wardrobe had been opened and scavenged, with nearly all the larger pieces of clothing gone and only stray ribbons and flounces littering the floor.
Miss Clifford’s fellow actresses must have been busy soon after the death.
Either that or the actress’ dresser had decided to commandeer her due rewards for devoted service.
With Tibbs at his elbow, he had investigated the room the night of the murder, less than hour after the murder had been reported and before heading to Ralph Aldine’s flat to see if he was in residence.
Miss Clifford’s body had been slumped over the vanity table amidst a litter of pots of paint and paste.
If there was ever a better illustration of the ills of vanity, he had not seen it.
Pevensey’s chief concern at that point had been identifying the cause of death.
He had noted the strange odor wafting through the room, and he had drawn a detailed sketch of the body and surrounding items. Later, he had shared that drawing with the coroner.
Tibbs had spotted Ralph Aldine’s card amongst the bottles of perfume.
“Oho!” he had said. “Perhaps our killer dropped this.” Pevensey had given a tepid grunt.
He already suspected, from prior conversation, that Mr. Aldine had been to Miss Clifford’s dressing room before.
And the card did not look dropped but tucked between two bottles as if Miss Clifford had been saving it.
Tibbs was not to be dissuaded, however. “Let’s call on the fellow and inform him there’s to be an inquest. If we’re lucky, he’ll still have blood on his hands, and we’ll sweat a confession out of him.
” Unable to find more clues with Tibbs champing at the bit, Pevensey had agreed to call on Ralph Aldine.
They had woken a weary and surprised solicitor who disavowed all knowledge of the murder.
Pevensey tended to believe him, but the information that had come out at the inquest had all but convicted him of the crime.
Tonight was the investigator’s first time back to the King’s Theatre—alone, this time.
He was determined to make up for lost time and find some other clues to the case.
Mr. Aldine’s card was ambiguous evidence at best—the solicitor had never denied being there earlier in the day, and he had admitted to giving Miss Clifford his calling card.
Could there be traces of other visitors and other calling cards less obvious?
Pevensey stared at the detritus littering the floor and followed it back to the open wardrobe.
Inside was a rat’s nest of leftovers—false hair, frayed ribbon, a coffee-stained dressing gown, two pairs of old-fashioned shoes whose buckles had been pried off.
Was there a clue in all of this? He saw a piece of white muslin with strips of boning sewn into it.
What could this be? Pevensey was not overly familiar with ladies’ undergarments, but it appeared to be a set of stays or a corset.
But if so, it was the largest set of stays he had ever seen.
It would encompass twice of Miss Clifford.
No wonder none of the other actresses had absconded with this inelegant piece.
Pevensey pulled out his notebook and made a sketch of the item. He had just finished when the door opened and a woman bustled into the room. “Hello, Dolly,” said Pevensey without hesitation.
She gave a sharp scream. “Lud! You frightened me. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“Danvers asked me to clean this place up. He wants to put the new girl in here tonight.”
“Ah, you resume performances soon?”
“Aye. There’s nothing like a murder on the premises to sell tickets.
” Her voice was bitter. Pevensey wondered how close the bond had been between her and Libby.
She looked like she had been older than the actress by ten years at least. “Well, I shall leave you to it,” said Pevensey. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“Find anything?” she repeated suspiciously. “What sort of things?”
“Money. Jewelry. Letters.”
He kept a good watch on her face as he said it and watched her eyes skitter over to the mirror on the wall.
It was an expensive piece for an actress to have, but no doubt Libby Clifford had enjoyed looking herself over before she went out on stage.
Pevensey strode over to the mirror and began to feel around the edges.
Aha! There were some sheets of paper slipped behind the beveled corner on the right side.
Carefully, he pried them out while Dolly watched open-mouthed.
“Any idea what these letters might contain?” he asked cheerfully.
Her open mouth shut, and her eyes sparkled with defiance.
Pevensey tucked them into the breast of his coat. “I’ll read them at my leisure over a cup of tea.” He stepped toward the door, fairly certain that he would get nothing further out of Libby’s dresser today. “Do let me know if you find anything else important as you are cleaning the room.”
Then, lifting his hat to Dolly, he departed to wind his way out of the labyrinth, without even the benefit of following a string.