Chapter 4 #3
I gave him an arched look. “Your disappointment is written all over your face, Mr. Hobart. I can read it as clearly as a book.”
He sighed. “I’m not disappointed in you, as such, just disappointed for Harry. If it does turn out to be murder, and he could prove it, his name would get into the papers. It would have led to more clients.”
I sighed too. “I know. I really do want to share the case with him, at the very least.”
“His pride won’t allow it. He thinks you’re offering out of charity.”
“How can I get him to change his mind?”
Frank opened the front door and cleared his throat. “Your cab is waiting, Miss Fox.”
“Just a moment.” I turned back to Mr. Hobart. “What shall I do?”
“You’ll think of something when the time comes.” He frowned at Frank. “You ought to be riding in a hotel carriage, not a cab. Frank, next time, have a conveyance brought around for Miss Fox.”
Frank stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“There’s no need for a fuss,” I told them both as I slipped on my gloves. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a funeral to get to.”
It had been raining steadily since I awoke and it hadn’t eased by the time the burial began.
The small crowd huddled under umbrellas at the plot as cemetery staff lowered Pearl’s coffin into the ground.
Her sister wept. Beside Mrs. Larsen stood a man, most likely her husband. They hadn’t brought Millie.
When Lord Rumford took up a position beside the plot, Mrs. Larsen had moved to the other end, her husband following. If he’d noticed, Lord Rumford gave no sign. He seemed lost in his own thoughts as he stared down at the coffin.
I took note of the other faces in the small gathering.
Some wept, but most didn’t. The majority of the thirty-five mourners were men.
The funeral had not been announced in the newspapers, however this morning’s editions reported there would be an informal public memorial held at the Piccadilly Playhouse this afternoon.
The show would resume tomorrow night with Pearl’s understudy in the lead role.
I’d already added her to my list of suspects.
A movement at the edge of my vision caught my eye. A man stood a little distance away, almost hidden by the trunk of a chestnut tree. He had no umbrella and hunched into his great coat, but I could just make out his face and the wart-like rash at the corners of his mouth.
The service came to an end and the crowd dispersed.
I hurried off in the direction of the man, but he’d already disappeared.
I followed the path to the cemetery’s entrance just in time to see a brougham drive off.
Instead of the ubiquitous black, its doors were painted dark green and the curtain fabric matched.
I waited as the other mourners left and nodded at Lord Rumford. I had assumed he wouldn’t want to acknowledge me, but he approached.
“May I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Miss Fox?”
“No, thank you. My lord, do you know a man with warts on the sides of his mouth?”
“No.”
He did not ask me why I asked. He touched the brim of his hat and headed for the waiting carriage emblazoned with the Mayfair’s insignia on the door. The exchange had been all rather mechanical, as if he were an automaton going through the motions after someone wound him up.
Mrs. Larsen and her husband arrived next. She introduced me to him and after exchanging the obligatory niceties about the service, I asked, “Did you see the man standing behind the tree watching the burial? He had some warts or lesions on his face.”
“I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Larsen looked to her husband but he also shook his head.
“Did you recognize any of the other people attending the funeral?”
They both shook their heads. “As I said, I didn’t know any of Nellie’s new friends or people she worked with,” Mrs. Larsen said. “No one from her old life showed up, but that’s understandable given she never tried to keep up the connections.”
“Are you going to the memorial at the theater?”
Her lips pinched. “No.”
“It’s not really our sort of thing,” Mr. Larsen added. “We’ll go home and mourn Nellie in our own way.”
“Quietly,” his wife added with a pointed glance at the last of the cabs driving off with the theater set.
I caught my own cab back to the hotel for a light luncheon and a change of clothes, since my dress was wet from the knees down. By the time I set off again, the rain had stopped, and I was able to walk to the Piccadilly Playhouse without putting up my umbrella.
All of the Playhouse’s lights were blazing, despite it being mid-afternoon.
Several bouquets of pink flowers had been placed on the pavement beside the theater’s doors, as well as cards and messages that had run in the earlier rain.
A burly doorman stood beside a portable blackboard.
MEMORIAL FOR MISS PEARL WESTWOOD: ENTRY 1/- it read.
A shilling was a lot to ask for the public to pay their respects, and it explained why many turned away without going in. I paid the doorman and entered just as two people left.
Inside, those who’d paid the entry fee wandered up and down the foyer, admiring the many posters, costumes and props from various shows that had starred Pearl.
Interspersed between the items were photographs of Pearl with her co-stars or other theater staff.
They looked similar to the ones I’d seen in her flat.
The refreshment counter was open, and drinks could be purchased, although few did.
A string quartet at one end of the foyer played somber music.
Some patrons cried while others caressed or kissed the framed photographs of Pearl.
I wondered how many of these people actually knew her or were merely theater-goers who’d adored the star but never known the real person wearing the costumes.
It didn’t take long before I recognized a man from the funeral. He stood in the middle of the foyer and accepted the sympathies of passersby with a grave air. I stopped a busboy collecting empty glasses and asked him the man’s name.
“That’s Mr. Culpepper,” the busboy said. “The Playhouse’s manager.”
He was younger than I expected, about mid-thirties, with a thin mustache and slicked-back hair. I waited for him to finish speaking to a couple who appeared to be giving their condolences and approached before anyone else could.
“Mr. Culpepper? I’m Cleo Fox.”
His smile was polite but sad. “Welcome to the Playhouse, Miss Fox. Thank you for coming. Have you had a chance to look around at all the things our precious Pearl touched?”
“I’m an acquaintance of a friend of hers. I’ve been tasked with making discreet inquiries into her death.”
The muscles in his cheek twitched. “I don’t understand.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“I must be out here.” He looked over my head, perhaps searching for someone to rescue him, but the mourners were occupied with quiet chatter amongst themselves, or admiring the photographs and props as if they were items in a museum.
“Do you think Miss Westwood killed herself?”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Pardon?”
“Is she the type to kill herself?”
He stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Ordinarily I’d say no, but…”
“Go on.”
“But she seemed troubled these last few weeks. Ever since we resumed performances after our mid-winter break, she was different.”
“Different how?”
He gave a small shrug. “Worried.”
“Enough to kill herself?”
He gave a small wince. “I…I can’t say for certain.” He looked away and swallowed heavily.
“The person I’m working for doesn’t think she killed herself, so I’m asking some questions of those who knew her. I’m afraid some of my questions might be painful to answer, and I am deeply sorry about that. But it’s important we get to the truth.”
“I understand. And if she didn’t kill herself, then I’d like answers too, of course. Pearl deserves that.” He finally met my gaze. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes. “Do you work for Rumford?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Mr. Culpepper, do you know someone who’d want to kill her?”
“Kill her? Miss Fox, I thought you were implying she met with an accident and merely fell over the balcony.”
“Is that easy to do? Fall over the balcony?”
He swallowed again. “I suppose not. Good lord,” he murmured. “Someone murdered her. We must notify the police.”
“The police aren’t interested in classifying this as anything other than suicide, unless I present them with firm evidence. So if you could answer my questions, Mr. Culpepper.”
“Very well. No, I don’t know anyone who’d want to kill her.
Everyone adored her.” He indicated the mourners.
“Pearl was the life of the party. She lit up the room with her presence. On stage, she was the brightest star in the sky.” His smile was wistful.
“She was a little forgetful of her lines, but it didn’t matter. The audience adored her.”
“Such adoration can invoke jealousy in others. Do you know anyone who might have been jealous of her?”
He hesitated before saying, “No.”
“Other actresses, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
“What about the understudy who will be taking over Pearl’s role in Cat and Mouse?”
“No! Absolutely not. Dorothea Clare was a friend of Pearl’s.” He nodded at a young blonde woman chatting to two men. I’d seen her and both men at the funeral earlier. Miss Clare had not cried, but I’d noticed one of the gentlemen wiping away tears.
“What about former lovers?” I asked.
His gaze sharpened. The lips beneath the mustache thinned. “I beg your pardon?”
I steeled myself for his anger and forged on. No matter how awkward the subject was for her friends to hear, it had to be discussed. “Did she have other lovers?”
“I believe there was only Rumford.”
“And before him?”
“That was two years ago. I can’t remember.”
“Please try. Could there have been a gentleman who had warts on his face?” I indicated the area near my mouth.
Mr. Culpepper looked appalled. “No! Pearl would never be with anyone with a disfigurement.”
“They could be sores or lesions, not permanent.”
The disgusted face he’d pulled did not change. “I don’t remember who she was with before Rumford.”
“But there was someone?”
He merely lifted a shoulder and looked over my head again.
“You introduced her to Lord Rumford, didn’t you?”
He snorted. “Introduced? He demanded to see her after a show. I couldn’t refuse him, could I? Not a bloody lord.” He suddenly straightened. “Do you know, Miss Fox, I think she might have killed herself, after all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I think she killed herself and he was the reason. Rumford. I’m sure he was giving her up, or had at least threatened to. That’s probably what was troubling her these last few weeks. He was threatening to give her up because he knew she didn’t love him.”
“I don’t understand. If she didn’t love him, why would she kill herself if he was going to give her up? Wouldn’t she be pleased, or at the very least, relieved?”
“Relieved to give up the trinkets and flat? Not Pearl. She might not have loved him, but she loved his gifts.” His jaw hardened and his eyes turned cold.
“I’m sure it was suicide, and he drove her to it by threatening to withdraw his generosity.
You ought to confront Rumford about it. He deserves to feel guilt.
He deserves to rot in self-loathing and pity for sending her to her death. ”
It hardly seemed like a reason to throw oneself off a balcony.
Pearl was still young and beautiful; she could find another benefactor.
Not only that, but Mrs. Larsen had mentioned her sister was excited about going on a holiday with Lord Rumford in the autumn.
That didn’t sound like he was going to give her up soon.
I was beginning to think Mr. Culpepper was jealous of Lord Rumford and was trying to place the blame onto him for Pearl’s death. That was the action of a guilty man.