Chapter Eleven
Frederick
“What am I doing at this play?” Frederick looked around the Cogburn Theatre.
It was filled with a hodgepodge of London, from working class men and women to tradesmen and professionals with maybe the occasional toff or two thrown in for good measure.
It was the sort of place he would attend, if he liked theatrical productions, but not the sort of theatre an unattended woman of Lady Mary’s stature should.
“And do you not have an abigail to accompany you?”
The woman in question gave the man seated on the other side of her a solid jab with her elbow when he tried to take over the armrest. She turned back to Frederick.
“Three things. First, this is a burletta, not a play. This is a non-patent theatre and isn’t licensed for performing plays.
Second, my maid Jane doesn’t like going out after dark.
She’s not overly fond of daytime excursions, either.
Her bones ache.” She gave him a withering look.
“And I’m too old to care about keeping up appearances. ”
Frederick could hardly argue with that. With everything he’d learned about Lady Mary, her reputation would hardly be affected from attending a burletta alone. “And the third thing?”
“Hmm?” She frowned at the man seated in front of her.
He was being abominably rude keeping his top hat on inside.
“Oh, yes. Third, I already told you why we’re here.
According to Miss Abbott, Lady Richford had plans to come here the night she died.
” Lady Mary picked up her walking stick, a sleek black one tonight, that had what looked like a small, curving tusk at the top instead of a knob.
With the precision of an expert billiards player, she took aim and poked the hat in front of her.
It flew off the man’s head and spiraled down several rows.
“Oh, how clumsy of me,” she said when the man turned, eyes bulging.
“I do hope you’ll be able to retrieve it after the show. ”
When the man looked like he might cross words with Lady Mary, Frederick leaned forward and clapped his hand on his shoulder. “It’s not worth it.” He squeezed his fingers, feeling the collarbone shift slightly, hoping to convey just how little Frederick wished for any further engagement.
The man took the hint, nodded quickly, and turned back to face front, jerking his shoulder from Frederick’s grasp.
Frederick sat back. “I don’t see the relevance. Even if Lady Richford had attended, I can just as easily account for her movements with lead and paper. I don’t need to follow in her footsteps.”
Lady Mary peered at him over her spectacles. “There was something in Miss Abbott’s voice when she mentioned it. Something significant. And I am sharing what information I get with you.”
Did he detect a note of censure in her voice?
Sighing, he faced front. Lady Mary had provided the ticket.
He was out nothing but several hours from his evening.
He eyed the pamphlet an usher had shoved into his hand as they’d made their way to their seats.
The Country Wife – a modern retelling. Scenes would be interspersed with comedic skits from some bloke named Gervis, with a special aria performed by Lucia Amato.
Perhaps the performance would be entertaining.
When the curtain rose, however, his hopes were dashed.
The acting was overly melodramatic, the modern twists trite and reductive.
The comedy fell flat and Lucia was sorely off-key.
The play wasn’t even acted out in whole.
Only about half the scenes were portrayed, and not even in chronological order.
He flipped open the lid of his pocket watch and wondered how soon he could make his escape.
Lady Mary applied her pointy elbow to his side. “Pay attention,” she whispered.
“Why? Is there going to be an examination later?”
The glare she gave him was probably well earned. “No, but I think I understand why Miss Abbott was smirking. Look at Alithea.” She handed him a pair of opera glasses from her reticule and pointed.
He directed the glasses to the left side of the stage. Alithea was in the middle of a deep swoon, her acting as overwrought as everyone else’s. He lowered the glasses and shrugged.
“That is the reason Lady Richford was to attend.” Lady Mary pursed her lips. “She wanted to see her son perform.”
Her son? Frederick examined the stage once more but didn’t see Edgar Bannister. “Where?”
She pointed again, back at Alithea.
“What?” His raised voice earned a disapproving look from the woman in front of him. “That woman there?” he asked in a lower tone.
“He is quite skilled, at least in appearing as a woman.” Lady Mary tapped her thumb against her lips. “His acting still needs improving.”
Frederick looked through the glasses once more, this time noticing the shoulders were a bit broader than the typical woman’s, the hands and feet too large.
He lowered the glasses, tipping his head to the side.
It was quite common for men to perform female parts, but he’d never seen it so skillfully done. Mr. Bannister had a talent for it.
Like mother, like son, he supposed.
Lady Mary stood. “Let’s go.”
Frederick was happy to acquiesce. When they reached her carriage, he held the door for her. “It would be easier for a man to roam your club if he were disguised as a woman.”
“My thought exactly.” Lady Mary took his proffered hand and climbed into the carriage. “Will you return to the club with me? I believe we have more to discuss.”
As he had no other plans for the evening, he joined her in the coach.
He checked his watch again. Eight thirty-four.
“The performance ends around ten in the evening.” At least according to that pamphlet.
“Lady Richford wasn’t killed until after midnight.
There would have been plenty of time for Bannister to get to The Minerva Club to do it. ”
Lady Mary sat back, her chin dropping onto her clasped hands. “Yes.”
“You don’t like that theory?”
She stared out the carriage window. “A murder is awful regardless, but a child killing his parent? It’s unnatural.”
Frederick had been with the Runners too long to feel surprise over any act. “Many things are unnatural, yet they happen just the same.”
She didn’t respond to that. They drove to her club in silence, each pondering their own thoughts. The doorman took their overcoats, greeting Lady Mary cheerfully.
“Good evening, Bernard.” Lady Mary shook out her skirts. “You were on the door the night Lady Richford died until we closed, is that right?”
The man nodded, his jowls jiggling. “I left twenty minutes to midnight, milady.”
She nodded. “I know neither you nor the other workers saw any men in the club, but did you notice anything at all strange? An unusually tall woman, perhaps?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, milady. Nothing that caught my attention.” He hesitated. “But I think you would want to know that you’re not the only one asking questions tonight. Miss Lynton has been here several hours talking to the other members about that night.”
Frederick ground his jaw. What was that woman up to? “Do you know where she is now?”
Bernard blinked at his gruff tone. “The Tea Room, I believe.”
Frederick nodded, then turned on his heel to find Miss Lynton. At the very least she was interfering with his investigation. At worst, she was attempting to muddle it for her own nefarious purposes.
Lady Mary maintained a surprisingly brisk pace in order to keep up with him. “She has been concerned about her mother.”
“Yes.” They reached the open double doors of the room. Miss Lynton was indeed within, seated with two matrons, each nursing a glass of amber-colored liquid.
She wore a lavender gown fitted at the bosom, and it irritated Frederick that he noticed just how fine a bosom it was.
But even murderers could have fine figures, he thought dourly.
He circled until he was behind her seat.
She didn’t notice his approach, so engrossed in her conversation, and that only increased his irritation.
A woman needed to be more aware of her surroundings.
Unless she was accustomed to being the predator and not the prey. Unless she knew she had nothing to fear from the person who’d committed murder in this club.
Frederick cleared his throat. The women who sat across from Miss Lynton looked at him, curiosity flickering across their faces.
Miss Lynton flicked her fingers at him, not turning. “We don’t need new drinks yet.”
“That’s good,” he said, planting his hands on his hips, “because you’re not getting one.”
The start she gave was gratifying, and went a little way to improving his mood. “Mr. Rollins. Lady Mary.” She nodded to the woman at his side. “How nice to see you.”
She wasn’t a good liar, a fact that should speak to her character. She looked anything but pleased to see them.
He turned his professional smile on the other women. He remembered their faces from their interviews with him, but not their names. “If you will excuse us, ladies. Miss Lynton and I have some business to discuss.”
That only stoked their interest higher. They gave Miss Lynton a new, inspecting look. “Of course,” one of them said. “Anything to help a Bow Street Runner.”
Frederick didn’t bother to correct them about his title. He stepped to the side of the chair, grasped Miss Lynton’s elbow, and helped her rise. “May we use your office?” he asked Lady Mary.
“Of course.” She turned and started walking. Over her shoulder, she said, “I was just heading there myself.”
Stifling a sigh, he and Miss Lynton followed. Miss Lynton gave gentle, discreet tugs to her elbow, but he didn’t relinquish it. The woman seemed like just the type to pull a scarper, and he didn’t relish the idea of chasing her through The Minerva Club.
“What is it you wished to speak to me about?” she asked as soon as the door to Lady Mary’s office had shut, enclosing the three inside.