Chapter 3 #2
The woman was in her early thirties with light brown hair and a heart-shaped face.
She was otherwise unremarkable, as was the plain woolen coat she wore over a black dress.
The little girl holding her hand had the same shaped face as her mother.
A red bow in her blonde hair provided a pretty dash of color to an otherwise bland outfit of ill-fitting gray coat.
She must have been about four years old.
In her other hand, the woman held a carpet bag.
“I’m sorry, I thought this was the home of the late Pearl Westwood,” I said.
The woman drew in a shuddery breath. “It is. I’m her sister, Mrs. Larsen.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave you in peace and come back later.” I turned to go.
“Why do you have a key to my sister’s home?”
“It was given to me by her…” I glanced down at the girl. She didn’t seem to notice me. She stared straight through me, humming quietly to herself. “By a gentleman by the name of Lord Rumford.”
Mrs. Larsen’s lips pressed together in disapproval.
“My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m investigating the death of Miss Westwood on his lordship’s behalf.”
She glanced down at the little girl then back up at me. “Why?”
“He doesn’t believe she ended it herself.” I didn’t want to use the words kill or murder in front of the girl. Such talk was too grim for tender ears. “He thinks someone else…” There was no need to finish the sentence. I could see from Mrs. Larsen’s shocked face that she understood my meaning.
“He thinks that, does he? Good lord.” She swallowed heavily. “And he hired you to…” She looked down at the little girl and led her back inside. “Will you stay for tea, Miss Fox?”
“Thank you, that’s most kind, but only if you can spare the time. I know how much there is to do when you lose a loved one.”
I followed her into a parlor decorated with dusky rose pink wallpaper and a darker pink, blue and cream Oriental carpet.
Although not large, the parlor managed to fit an upright piano, sofa, two pink velvet armchairs with matching footstools, and three tables.
Ash swirled in the grate as a gust of wind blew down the chimney, chilling the cold room even further.
Mrs. Larsen stood the girl in front of an armchair and set down the bag. “Now sit here and be good. Don’t make a fuss. I have to talk to this lady.”
The girl continued humming.
“Do you hear me?”
The girl nodded and put her arms up to be lifted onto the chair.
Mrs. Larsen deposited her on the armchair and indicated I should sit on the sofa. She disappeared into the adjoining kitchen.
It gave me a few moments to study the framed photographs on the table nearest me.
The same woman appeared in all of them, accompanied by different people in each.
In many, they wore costumes—Egyptian pharaohs, medieval peasants, bathing and dancing outfits which showed off Pearl’s shapely legs.
The only photograph where she was not in costume was one of her standing beside Lord Rumford, seated on an armchair, her hand on his shoulder.
They wore formal evening clothes, as if they were just about to head off to the opera.
The woman sported a tiara in her hair and a pearl choker at her throat.
She must be Pearl Westwood, although I did think it a little odd she was in all of the photographs and there wasn’t a single one of her sister or niece.
Pearl was also the subject of a large painted portrait in a gilded frame hanging above the fireplace.
She wore a pink chiffon dress that left her shoulders bare and a diamond pendant nestled in the deep V of her bosom.
Her dreamy expression was so different to the smiling photographs on the table, yet she was no less beautiful.
While I could see the family resemblance to her sister, Pearl’s features were arranged in a way that captured the onlooker’s attention and held it.
It was as if two sculptors had taken two identically shaped molds, yet the amateur had sculpted Mrs. Larsen’s features and the experienced artist had used his superior skill to sculpt Pearl.
“That’s her,” Mrs. Larsen said as she returned carrying a tray of tea things.
“She was so beautiful, but as I always told her, beauty doesn’t last and she shouldn’t rely on it.
Not that it matters now,” she added quietly.
She poured the tea and handed me a cup and saucer.
“I’m afraid there isn’t any cake. My sister wasn’t one for keeping sweet things in the kitchen.
Too tempting, she used to say. She had a tiny waist but was terrified of getting fat.
Silly, silly girl.” Her face crumpled and she had to put her cup and saucer down when her shaking hand made them rattle.
She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “It must have been a shock.”
“It was. We didn’t see eye to eye on many things, but she was still my little sister. To think I’ll never see her again… It hasn’t really sunk in.”
I gave her a moment to compose herself and watched the girl swinging her legs back and forth on the chair. She seemed quite content to sit there and wait for us to finish.
“You must want some things to remember her by,” I said to Mrs. Larsen.
She followed my gaze to the carpet bag. “I took a dress and pair of shoes as well as some personal items as keepsakes. The funeral director asked me to find her something to wear and my sister had a pretty blue dress that will look lovely.”
“When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow morning at ten. That man is doing something, at least, and paying for the service and burial at Kensal Green cemetery.”
“That man?” I asked.
Her lips pursed. “Rumford. He wrote to me and said he’ll arrange it.”
“That’s very generous of him. He must have loved her very much.”
She picked up her teacup and took a long sip.
“As I said when I arrived, Lord Rumford asked me to look into your sister’s death as he doesn’t believe it was suicide.” I whispered the word so that the girl couldn’t hear. “But I’d like your opinion.”
Mrs. Larsen sipped again then, frowning, placed the teacup back in the saucer. “To be honest, I didn’t know Nellie very well.”
“Her real name is Nellie?”
She nodded. “There was already a famous Nellie on stage—Melba—so she was advised to change it. Westwood is also made up. It’s been six years since she began calling herself Pearl Westwood. The change of name also coincided with a change of character.”
“Oh?”
“She was always an outgoing girl, and very confident. Excessive beauty can do that to a woman. People told her she was beautiful her entire life and some put her on a pedestal because of it. Not just men, either, although they were the worst. It was only natural she became too confident. I don’t blame her for it.
” She stared down at her cup. “As her star rose, her life changed. She went to parties, drank to excess and became one of those women you read about in the papers in the company of scoundrels.” Her mouth turned down in distaste.
“We grew apart. Her world was very different to mine, and neither of us wanted much to do with the other. She saw me as dull, and I saw her as someone of loose moral character. Being apart was better for us both—fewer arguments, you see.” She nodded at the girl.
“I also didn’t want her to be a bad influence on Millie.
Do you understand why I can’t really answer your question, Miss Fox? ”
“I do. What about Christmas? Did you see her then?”
“Christmas Day was the only time we really saw each other in the last few years. She dined with us at our home.”
“How did she seem?”
She shrugged. “The same as always. She talked about her shows, the parties, and the latest gift that man had given her. She mentioned that he wanted to take her on a holiday to Switzerland next autumn. She was very excited about it.”
That didn’t sound like someone who would commit suicide. “Did she seem troubled?”
“No.”
“Did she mention she needed money?”
Mrs. Larsen seemed surprised. “Money? No, she didn’t.” She indicated the room with its gilded frames, the marble statue of a Greek goddess reclining on a rock, and ostrich feathers shooting from a black marble vase. “My sister wasn’t poor.”
“All of this would have been paid for by Lord Rumford. If she lived a fast life, she could have spent quite a sum of her own to keep up. Perhaps she had debts.”
“If she needed money, she could have sold some of the jewels he gave her. Or she could have just asked him for it.”
“She did. He never got around to giving it to her before she died.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “I see. Do you think the reason she needed money is linked to her murder?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “The last time I saw her was Christmas Day, but I can tell you she seemed quite her usual self. If she had financial problems, she didn’t confide in me or my husband.”
“Do you know anyone she might have confided in? A close friend, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “Nellie didn’t keep her childhood friends. She shed them along with her real name. And I’m afraid I didn’t see her enough lately to know her new friends.”
“You never met any when you visited her at the theater?”
“I never went to the theater. Not the Playhouse, anyway. I did see her after a show once, early in her career at a different theater. After seeing the constant stream of admirers coming into her dressing room that evening, I learned I didn’t want to repeat the experience.
She didn’t care that they saw her half-dressed and they didn’t care that her older sister was present.
If you want to know who her friends are now, you’ll have to ask around at the Playhouse.
She performed there for most of her career. ”
“I will, thank you.”
She glanced at the clock on the mantel and apologized. “I’m afraid I must leave. Do you have any more questions?”