Chapter 8
The Bowden Theater was a four-story, buff-colored, neoclassical building within walking distance of Munroe’s anatomy school.
The Covent Garden area was an eclectic mix of bustling businesses and shops and street hawkers selling everything from fruit to flowers.
Twilight lengthened the shadows, sending lamplighters up their wooden ladders to trim wicks and light the candles beneath the lamps’ glass domes.
Traffic was still heavy with wagons, hackneys, and horseback riders.
Soon the commercial vehicles would fade, though, replaced by private carriages as the Ton began to emerge for their evening’s entertainment.
The colder-than-normal temperatures wouldn’t stop the social whirl.
Coachman Benjamin deposited them at the front entrance of the Bowden Theater.
They entered into a long, rectangular lobby decorated with a preponderance of gold.
Enormous, gilt-framed mirrors were spaced between the windows to make the room appear even larger.
Lining the walls were chairs and gold-painted Grecian sculptures.
Kendra imagined the foyer would look spectacular in the evening, when the chandeliers and wall sconces were lit.
But in the gray beams of late afternoon light, the lobby’s décor appeared tawdry.
There were three sets of closed double doors positioned on the south wall. Muffled shouts, curses, laughing, singing, hammering, and sawing drifted through the wood panels. The cacophony rose several notches when they entered the auditorium.
Kendra had not yet set foot in a theater in this era.
The design was similar to theaters in her own timeline, with seating facing the stage and orchestra pit below and divided into three sections.
The biggest difference was a small horseshoe-shaped area in front of the stage that held half a dozen benches, and a spiked, wrought-iron fence separating the stage and orchestra from the audience.
The vaulted ceiling soared to accommodate four balcony tiers flanking the stage.
The balustrades on each level were baroque in style and painted gold (of course).
Crimson velvet swag curtains with gold fringe carved out a space of privacy for each balcony box.
Kendra shifted her gaze to the stage, which was the source of the noise.
She suspected that auditorium’s acoustics amplified the sound, which was being generated by more than three dozen people scurrying across the floorboards.
A handful of men and boys in rough garb were wheeling giant wooden scenery cutouts around actors that were rehearsing their lines, as well as clowns and harlequins that juggled and flipped and cartwheeled across the stage.
For just an instant, Kendra’s head swam with a memory.
More than a year ago, she’d snuck into Aldridge Castle—in her own era—by posing as an actor hired to be a servant for a Regency-themed fancy dress party.
At the time, she’d considered the frenetic energy among the cast members to be controlled chaos.
Two hundred years separated the productions, but the energy was very much the same.
A man’s voice boomed above the din as he shouted at the men moving the scenery: “No, no, no! Blast you! I told you that the forest scene is in the opening act! I want trees! Trees! I don’t want a goddamn castle! We’ve got less than two hours, so move your bloody arses!”
“‘So are they all, all honorable men,’” another man’s deep, beautiful baritone said, floating to the rafters. He swept his arm in a wide arc, reciting, “‘Come, I speak to Caesar’s funeral—’”
“Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral!” a striking woman, with red hair piled into a towering beehive, boldly painted red lips, heavy rouge, and kohl eye-liner, corrected him loudly. “Zounds, if you can’t speak the Bard’s words properly, you have no business on stage, you saddle-goose—”
“Strumpet!” the man thundered back. His insult brought guffaws from the scenery workers and a shriek from the actress.
“I wanted to bring you to the theater, but I didn’t envision this,” Alec said with a rueful smile.
Kendra gave them a quick sideways glance as they descended the auditorium steps. “Clowns? And harlequins?”
“They provide an amusing interlude between acts,” the Duke told her.
“How many acts are there?”
“It depends, but an evening at the theater may last five hours or more,” the Duke replied.
“Five hours? Seriously?”
“No one stays for the entire evening’s performances. Patrons tend to come and go throughout the evening, and the Ton is always fashionably late,” Alec assured her. “When we go, we’ll arrive for the final performances—most of which are not on stage.”
“Yes, after an evening at the theater, I’ve often wondered how we can claim to be the most intelligent species,” the Duke commented dryly. “’Tis why I prefer my telescope, contemplating the stars. One has to hope there is more enlightened life than us in the universe.”
They skirted the iron spikes. Kendra had to laugh when Alec explained the barrier was to keep the boisterous crowds away from the musicians, or from jumping on stage or pelting the actors with fruit if they didn’t like the performance. Intelligent life, indeed.
“Who the devil are you?” demanded the man who’d been yelling at the stage crew. He strode toward them as they mounted the steps to the stage, gesturing wildly with his hands. “We’re not open yet. You can’t be here!”
Alec lifted a haughty eyebrow. “And you are . . . ?”
The man drew himself up to his full five-feet-ten-inch height. A shock of salt-and-pepper hair framed a wide, mobile face that changed from agitation to pride in an instant. “I am Mr. Antonio Myott. I am the director and manager of the Bowden Theater.”
The deep, melodious voice coupled with his expressive face made Kendra almost certain that he’d been an actor himself at one time.
“I am Sutcliffe,” Alec replied. “This is the Duke of Aldridge and my wife, Lady Sutcliffe.”
Mr. Myott blinked. “We are honored by your patronage, of course, my lord, but we do not open for another two hours.”
“We’re not here for your performances,” Alec replied.
“Then, pray, what business do you have here, sir?”
“Lady Westford,” Kendra said simply.
The theater director’s expression cleared. “Ah. I see. Well, unfortunately, you’re too late, my lady. We are no longer selling tickets—she was removed yesterday.”
Kendra stared at him. She knew that in this era, the general public was allowed to stroll through crime scenes, but selling tickets? “You charged people to view Lady Westford’s body?”
Mr. Myott waved his hand. “It was Mr. Harvey’s idea. He owns the theater. But the authorities were quick to remove her, so we hardly made any money. I suppose I can’t complain, as it was distracting for my troupe to have folks traipsing through the auditorium during rehearsal.”
“I see.” Kendra had to swallow her outrage. “Can you tell me where she was found?”
A cagey look crossed Myott’s face. “Mr. Harvey wouldn’t want me to satisfy the public’s curiosity without compensation.”
Alec produced a coin, which disappeared quickly into Mr. Myott’s pocket. Kendra doubted that Mr. Harvey would ever see it.
The theater director grinned and pointed to the row of seats on the edge of the pit. “That’s where she was found. Bloody mess, it was. Looked like she broke her neck, the way her head was twisted.”
Kendra eyed the seats Myott was pointing at. “There was blood?”
“Yes. We had a devil of a time getting it off the back of the seat.”
Kendra asked, “Who found her?”
“Prudence and Edward.” He gestured toward the two actors who had been arguing earlier, but who were now observing them, unashamedly eavesdropping. “They came in early to rehearse yesterday morning—”
“Gave me a terrible start, it did,” Prudence interjected. She grabbed her companion’s elbow, dragging him across the stage. “Thought it was a prop, or someone playing a trick on us. But then we went over to her, didn’t we, Ed?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “We realized instantly that the poor dear had shuffled off her mortal coil.”
“Did you see anyone else around?” Kendra asked.
Edward shook his head. “Nay, no one was here save Prue and I. I ran out to fetch the constable and to send a message to Mr. Harvey and Mr. Myott.”
Prudence said, “Edwina is usually somewhere about, but—”
“Do not mention that creature’s name,” Myott snapped. “I am surrounded by ungrateful wretches.”
“‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,’” Edward quoted with gusto.
Myott glared at the actor. “You need to remember the lines of the play you’re currently in, you lout. Now, both of you, get back to work!”
Kendra held up a finger. “One moment. I have a few more questions.”
“We don’t have time for your questions, madam,” Myott said.
“Maybe Prudence can escort us around,” Kendra suggested. “That way, you can continue your business. We promise not to take much of her time.”
“I’ll do it,” Prudence said before Myott could object. “I’m not working until the fourth performance, and I know my lines.” That was said with a smug sideways glance at Edward.
Myott’s jaw worked. “The doors open in less than two hours. That may seem like a lot of time, but—”
“We only need fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops,” Kendra promised.
Myott didn’t look happy, but he seemed to realize that he was wasting time by standing there arguing. He huffed out an exasperated breath and flapped an impatient hand at Prudence. “Fifteen minutes, no more! This ain’t a bloody party. We’ve got a schedule to keep!”