The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) (22 page)

‘You may be right,’ she said, warily. She had a strong suspicion what he would say next and braced herself.

‘Yes, you will need to remarry. You need a husband.’

She opened her mouth to mention that she was still grieving for Antonio but his next statement took her breath away.

‘And I’m in need of wife.’

Not even three years of practising deceit at the Spanish court had prepared Magdalena for that. She hardly knew the man. Her composure slipped and she choked on her coffee.

‘Is this a proposal, Don Felipe?’ she asked lightly, once she had dabbed her coffee-spattered cloak with her handkerchief. She desperately tried to think of something she may have done or said in the past, which had led him think that she might welcome such an outrageous offer.

He shrugged. ‘It is something to consider, to think about,’ he said, casually.

‘But I’m older than you Don Felipe!’ she exclaimed.

He shrugged again. ‘There are only a few years between us. You may no longer be a young girl, Doña Magdalena, but you’re still an attractive woman. I assume you’re still fertile? You and Antonio only had the one child. Why was that?’

She sat in stony silence; every fibre of her body was screaming in outrage at his rudeness and arrogance. When she didn’t reply another lascivious smile spread across his face. ‘Well, no matter. We’re both well endowed – with land.’ His meaning was clear.

‘I thank you again for your interest in my welfare, Don Felipe,’ Magdalena replied. ‘You’re too kind to this poor,
old
widow. However, I’m still too wracked with grief for Antonio to even think about remarriage. I need more time to mourn for him.’

Felipe shrugged. ‘There is time,’ he said, ‘plenty of time. I doubt that the war will be over this year. I suspect that you may be living in penury for some time longer, Doña Magdalena. The constraints of your situation may become intolerable.’ He narrowed his eyes and watched her reaction to his next words carefully. ‘And I assume that Don Antonio made no provision for Sebastián’s school fees for next year?’

‘I’m sorry that you feel that the war may drag on longer,’ she said, desperate to change the subject.

‘Yes, Viscount Wellington is a fool,’ he said. ‘The English have lost their advantage and retreated into Portugal for the winter. Our own resistance is in disarray.’

‘That is disappointing.’

The padded shoulders of his cape rose again in another dismissive shrug. ‘The Cádiz Cortes were foolish to put their trust in the British.’ Suddenly he stood up and fastened his greatcoat. ‘Take up my sister Juana’s invitation, Doña Magdalena,’ he said. ‘Stay with us for a while at our home in Bedford Square and we shall get to know each other better.’ He flashed a looked of distaste at the shabbiness of the room. ‘Leave this miserable place and enjoy our hospitality, our comfort.’

‘I will . . . consider it,’ she replied, relieved that he was departing. She held out her hand. He ignored it, leant down and cupped her chin in a firm grip. Before she could protest he had forced his mouth down onto hers. Her body recoiled at his touch. The hard insistence of his emotionless kiss sent a shiver of distaste down her spine. She gasped as his slimy tongue probed into the secret recesses of her mouth like the antennae of a fat snail.

She pushed him off. ‘I must protest, Don Antonio,’ she said angrily as she forced herself to her feet. ‘You presume too much!’

The sardonic smile returned to his lips. ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ he said. ‘This Detective Lavender, he’s your lover, yes?’

She bristled with indignation. ‘Really, Don Felipe! Of course not!’

‘If he isn’t, then he wants to be. But it is no matter.’ Felipe gave that annoying shrug again and Magdalena had to clench her fists to stop herself slapping his face. ‘You’re a widow, not a virgin. You should foster your acquaintance with Lavender,’ he said vaguely. ‘He may be useful. He has access to many people and places with information which could be useful to us.’

His sudden change of tack threw her for a moment. ‘Who is
us
?’ she asked.

He smiled, his eyes veiled once more behind his lowered lids. ‘Us – or we – are those in Spain who want to see this blessed war ended once and for all,’ he said quietly.

Don Felipe took her hand, raised it halfway to his mouth then paused and stepped closer, intimidating her with his masculine presence and strength. Once again she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen. ‘And that includes you, Doña Magdalena,’ he whispered. ‘Doesn’t it? Don’t try to pretend that you’re resigned to this miserable existence in London. You want to go back home – and the sooner the better. Listen carefully to what this Lavender fellow has to say and report it back to me.’ Before she could reply he kissed her hand, gave a short bow and strode out of the room.

Her mind in turmoil, Magdalena sank back into her seat, her heart pounding. She stared bleakly ahead. For the second time today a man had sought to enlist her into his services as a spy. Had this really happened? And what on earth had led Menendez to think that she would consider a marriage proposal from him? Had someone taken a quill and etched ‘desperate
señora
’ across her forehead as she slept?

Teresa returned to her side after closing the door behind Menendez. ‘Humph! More kisses!’ she said in English. ‘Him? Him I don’t like. You marry Señor the Detective.’

Chapter Twenty-five

Friday 23rd February, 1810

Lavender and Magdalena attended the short service in the Willoughbys’ local church. It was a sad and dismal affair. The lesson was read by a vicar with the quietest and most monotonous voice Lavender had ever had the misfortune to endure. Then they stood around for half an hour in the mud, drizzle and blustery wind of the graveyard while the vicar intoned some more.

The congregation shuffled from one foot to another as their boots sank into the sodden ground. The hems of the women’s cloaks and gowns quickly became darkened with damp. Everything around them was muted into differing shades and hues of grey: the crumbling walls and ancient slate tiles of the church and the darkening clouds in the sky above. A line of carriages waited for the mourners on the lane beside the church. Occasionally the jangle of harnesses would reach their ears as a horse stamped on the cobbles.

Magdalena stood in dignified silence beside Lavender, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. Her dark, modest clothing did nothing to hide her regal poise or the alluring sway of her hips when she walked. Even the veil over her gleaming black hair only added to her mystery. A gust of wind swirled around her skirts.

He pulled her closer to him to shelter her from its blast. She smiled at him from beneath the veil.

While the vicar droned on, Lavender’s eyes scanned the crowd of mourners and the road beyond the low, church wall. The occasional wagon and carriage rumbled past the line of waiting vehicles at the churchyard gate. There were only a couple of family friends at the funeral and an officer from the Admiralty to represent Captain Willoughby. It had crossed Lavender’s mind that one, or more, of the kidnappers may turn up at the service to see the truth for themselves. The morning newspapers had told a dramatic story to the world and this was the first time in a week that April Clare had left the house in Wandsworth.

Would the kidnappers be able to resist this opportunity to confirm the truth of those sensational headlines? Jane Scott had played her part well; the vivid and melodramatic story of April Clare’s resurrection had appeared in nearly every morning newspaper. He imagined that quite a few Londoners must have choked on their kippers or dropped their porridge spoon on their waistcoats if they had attempted to eat their breakfast and read at the same time.

The kidnappers must now be aware that they had taken the wrong woman. Their trap was set.

Magdalena squeezed his arm to attract his attention. She regarded him quizzically. ‘Who are you looking for?’ she whispered.

Lavender smiled and shook his head; she missed nothing.

‘Ashes to ashes,’ the vicar intoned, and the relieved congregation stepped forward to throw dirt into the grave. ‘Dust to dust.’

The service now over, Solomon Rothschild moved forward to engage Magdalena in conversation and Lavender took the opportunity to have a quiet word with April Clare whom he was relieved to see was quite dry-eyed.

‘I saw the papers this morning,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, everything is ready – and Constable Woods has joined the theatre. Jane Scott was delighted with the whole idea and tomorrow night she will welcome you back to the Sans Pareil with open arms. Your part is simple but if you have any problems, Constable Woods will be on hand to assist you – and protect you.’

She breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled. ‘Thank you, Detective. You can’t imagine my gratitude at the speedy way you have resolved my problems.’

‘It is not over yet,’ he said, more sharply than he intended. ‘You still have a part to play tomorrow night.’

‘Don’t worry – I shall not let you down. I want justice for poor Harriet as much as you do.’ Another gust of wind now whipped round the skirts of the women and threatened to blow off the men’s hats. April Clare pulled her cloak tighter around her throat. ‘We should get back to the house,’ she said.

When Lavender returned to Magdalena’s side, Lady Caroline and Duddles had joined her and Rothschild.

‘I’m disappointed, Lavender,’ Lady Caroline said. ‘Doña Magdalena tells me that you now have another appointment and will be unable to return to Lincoln’s Inn Fields for luncheon with us.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.

‘Well, in that case I insist that you both join me one evening when I hold one of my soirées. We have buried poor Harriet now and must pick up the pieces of our lives as best as we can.’

A quick glance at Magdalena’s smiling face assured him that he should accept the invitation on behalf of both of them. ‘It would be our pleasure to come to one of your gatherings, Lady Caroline,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid that we must leave you now.’ He was conscious that the funeral had overrun. There was just enough time to take Magdalena and Teresa to see his surprise before her afternoon Spanish lesson. ‘Please accept our condolences once more, Lady Caroline.’

Both men bowed politely in Magdalena’s direction as they left. It seemed to him that Solomon Rothschild’s black velvet yarmulke remained down a little longer than necessary. His hand lingered in Magdalena’s as he raised it to his lips and his gaze followed her as she turned to walk with Teresa to their carriage. He smiled. First, young Barrington at the language school; now Rothschild. Magdalena made conquests of men wherever she went.

As Lavender helped Magdalena up the steps into their vehicle, another carriage slowly trundled past on the other side of the road. A pinched, white face stared out of the window towards them: it was Sir Lawrence Forsyth. His close-set eyes widened beneath their bushy brows at the sight of Magdalena and Lavender together once more. Then a deep frown set on his face.
Not him again
, Lavender thought irritably.
The bloody man is stalking us
.

Magdalena disappeared into the swaying vehicle, oblivious to their glowering observer. Teresa waited patiently at his side for his assistance. She had also seen Forsyth. ‘It is that small
hombre
,’ she said. ‘We saw him in Bow Street with you, Señor the Detective.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I remember.’

‘Him? Him I don’t like.’

He paused, both surprised and amused. Teresa so rarely spoke English, he felt he must appreciate the moment and encourage her. ‘Why don’t you like him, Teresa?’

She shrugged. ‘Me know not – and him – he speak
española
.’

He frowned. ‘He speaks Spanish?’

‘
Si, castellano, español – mi lengua
.’ She nodded her head vigorously.

Knowing that she would be more explicit in Spanish, he switched quickly into her native tongue. ‘How do you know that, Teresa? What makes you think he speaks Spanish?’

She tutted and raised her dark eyes to the sky. ‘It’s easy if you look and listen,’ she said. ‘You should know this.’

‘Quite,’ he said, a little taken aback. ‘What have I missed, Teresa?’

‘Doña Magdalena hurt her knee in the theatre when she tripped up that bad man, that thief. But she only complained about it in Spanish. The next day we met him—’ She jerked her thumb down the road at the receding carriage. ‘We met him in Bow Street on the stairs. He asked about Doña Magdalena’s knee. But how would he know her knee was injured unless he had understood her Spanish curses?’

Lavender’s eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. His mind flitted back to that meeting with Forsyth in Bow Street and he realised that Teresa was right. Forsyth had given himself away; he had understood Magdalena when she was cursing in Spanish. He had no idea what this latest discovery meant to his investigation but he sensed it was significant. He gave Teresa his most brilliant smile. ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘That is helpful, thank you, Teresa. Why – I could kiss you!’

‘No!’ shrieked the maid in horror. She hitched up her skirts and leapt up the steps into the carriage with the nimbleness of a Pyrenean mountain goat. She turned round dramatically in the doorway, her little face flushed with alarm. ‘No more kisses!’ she yelled.

Constable Woods leant against the filthy wall of the theatre corridor, gave a hacking cough and rubbed the itchy stubble on his chin. Bored, he poked his mop at a nasty stain on the floorboards and wrinkled his broad nose at the whiff of the fish wharf that emanated from his old jacket. When he had told Betsy about Magistrate Read’s warning about the loose morals of the actresses at the Sans Pareil, her grey eyes had hardened. The next thing he knew, she had retrieved his old fishing jacket from the lean-to in the back yard, a filthy shirt from the unwashed laundry and had hidden his razor. She had also tried to persuade him to blacken out his teeth with paper but he had drawn the line at that. He had never looked or smelt more unattractive; which, he suspected, was exactly what Betsy intended.

Jane Scott had let it be known that she had taken pity on this poor, mute, old man and given him a job cleaning the backstage of the theatre. So far no one had questioned the philanthropic generosity of Miss Scott or seemed to care a fig for the wheezy old geezer lurking in the corridors. Not that he expected anyone in the cast or crew of the Sans Pareil to recognise him, but he knew from experience of undercover work that the more he slunk in the shadows, faded into the background and kept himself to himself the better.

Woods soon familiarised himself with the maze of dressing rooms and dark, narrow corridors backstage and eavesdropped on conversations in order to identify the different actors and actresses. As he loitered with his mop beside the door of the green room, he heard male voices approaching behind him. He lowered his head, let his jaw go slack and a bit of spittle run down his chin.

He recognised the deep tone of William Broadhurst, the company’s leading man, who struck him as a pleasant, jovial fellow. Broadhurst was with another actor, John Isaacs. Isaacs had a higher-pitched, more affected voice. Head bowed, Woods shuffled to the side of the corridor to let them pass. But when they came up behind him, that princock, Isaacs, pinched him hard on the backside.

Woods spluttered, lost his balance and fell. He landed with a clatter in a pool of dirty water beside his upset bucket. He spun around to protect his rear from further assault. He also clenched his fists in anger but managed to bite back the curses that sprang to the tip of his tongue. They came out as a strangled gargle. The two actors clutched their sides with laughter. Fighting back an urge to jump up and punch Isaacs on the nose, Woods spluttered some more and grinned up at them like a lunatic from Bedlam.

Broadhurst was bent double, the shoulders of his green velvet coat shaking with laughter. ‘For God’s sake, John! Leave the poor fellow alone – can’t you see he’s a bit simple?’

‘I just wanted to know if he preferred the back passage.’ Isaacs grinned.

‘The poor fellow can’t talk, so how can he tell anyone which way he navigates?’ Broadhurst asked. Still grinning, he held out a friendly hand to haul Woods back to his feet and continued to talk about him to Isaacs. ‘He’s clearly not interested in navigating the windward passage – or not yours anyway. All right there, fellah?’

Woods grinned again and nodded his head furiously. He wasn’t really; his trousers were soaked. The two actors turned away and entered the green room. For the first time, Woods noticed the extreme tightness of Isaac’s breeches and his mincing gait. ‘Well, at least a mute won’t run telling tales of sodomy to the Bow Street Runners,’ the young actor said.

As the door to the green room closed behind them, Woods allowed himself a smile at the irony of the situation. Magistrate Read and Betsy had been so busy worrying about the immoral women in the theatre, they had forgotten to warn him about the men. Sighing, he squeezed out his mop and cleared up the pool of water around him. He had an uncomfortable few hours in sodden trousers ahead.

Woods realised, as the day progressed, that the dramatic news of April Clare’s resurrection from the dead and planned return to the theatre was the main topic of conversation amongst the cast, especially amongst the women.

‘Damn her!’ one young actress said as he hovered near the open door of a female dressing room. ‘I enjoyed playing her part in
The
Necromancer
– no doubt she’ll want it back now.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, darling,’ said another. ‘It’ll be too small for her now. After this little performance, April will have her sights set on the lead roles. The public will be clamouring for her. Even our darling Janey had better watch out! Only a spot in the limelight will be good enough for Miss April Divine after this.’

‘Never mind our darling Janey,’ purred another. ‘The great Sarah Siddons will quake in her boots when she hears about this. Even she never managed to rise from the dead! What a stunt!’

Woods wrinkled his nose at the strong aroma of body odour that emanated from the dressing room and moved on. There was something else mixed with the smell: spite. Actresses, he decided, were a catty bunch of women.

And he had never known a group of men to fuss so much about their appearance as the actors. He doubted if Beau Brummell himself took so much time brushing his sideburns, plucking hairs from his nostrils and smoothing out every wrinkle and crease from his cravat. The friendly William Broadhurst seemed to be the only normal man in the troupe.

Another thing that bothered Woods was the heavy door to the green room. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that this was going to be a problem. There was nowhere to hide in the cramped green room but he needed a good view of the cluttered table beneath the window. His only other option was to prop the door open and camp outside at the end of the corridor. He wedged it open for a while but it wasn’t long before one of the cast members had shut it, complaining about the draught.

In the end, Woods decided that there was only one thing to do: he would have to remove the door. He waited until late afternoon when the theatre was almost deserted then he took a turnscrew from the carpenters’ toolbag and loosened the hinges. The damned door was heavier than he expected and he was relieved that no one was around to watch him struggle and curse as he lowered it to the floor and dragged it to the back of the stage. He swiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead then hid the door beneath a pile of old curtains, rope and pulleys in the void below the stage. He didn’t want any interfering fool replacing it before tomorrow night.