The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

As he rose to his own feet she saw the amusement in his eyes. ‘I’m sure it will be appropriate for Teresa – although, I suspect she won’t understand half of it, anyway.’ He glanced back at the murky panes of the tall window behind them. ‘I think that you will find the theatre an exciting new window through which you can view the world; in fact, it will probably be a window to the world
without comparison
.’

Chapter Five

Lavender was well aware that Magdalena had beguiled him into taking her to the theatre. But he didn’t care. It had been easy to dismiss Woods’ suggestion earlier in the day but when confronted with the same idea from the attractive and confident ebony-haired beauty herself, the small voice of reason inside his head could barely squeak. The women clambered into his cab with a waft of delicious perfume, and when they were seated Magdalena’s thighs pressed against his through their layers of clothing, causing his mind to fill with ungentlemanly thoughts.

When their cab slowed to a crawl in the heavy evening traffic of the Strand, Lavender attempted to distract himself from the close proximity of Magdalena’s curvaceous body by pointing out the sights. The Strand was one of the better lit of London’s thoroughfares and its mile of shops, houses, low taverns, theatres and coffee houses transected a part of the capital that had been occupied since Roman times. A popular high-class shopping area by day, some of the seedier nature of Covent Garden spilled over onto the Strand at night. The cab passed the royal mews with its long line of stables and approached the Sans Pareil from the east.

‘Oh! Look at that funny little church marooned in an island in the middle of the street!’ Magdalena laughed with delight.

‘That is St Clement Danes,’ Lavender explained. ‘The road has been forced to go around it on both sides as the city expanded. There is the Dog and Duck tavern.’ He pointed to an inn whose well-lit interior cast pools of golden light onto the crowded pavement below. ‘The infamous Gunpowder Plot conspirators who tried to blow up King James the first and his Parliament met there.’

‘It looks a lively place,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. His tone left no doubt that there were other adjectives he probably would have applied to the Dog and Duck tavern. She glanced at him curiously. ‘The Dog and Duck is notable for its song-and-supper evenings.’ He hesitated for a moment before he continued, unsure how she would react to his next revelation. ‘It also provides several tableaux of scantily clad women in lewd poses and other ribald shows.’

Magdalena laughed out loud. ‘Then Teresa and I must make sure we don’t inadvertently wander into those premises.’

Lavender smiled to himself in the darkness of the cab. Their carriage came to a sudden halt, this time in front of the neoclassical arches and colonnaded upper storeys of the magnificent Somerset House. Magdalena groaned in frustration. They were nose to tail with half a dozen hansom cabs.

‘I think we may as well walk from here,’ he said and rapped on the roof of the vehicle to attract the attention of their driver. Despite the boisterous and drunken behaviour of many in the crowd, their short walk to the Sans Pareil went without incident. Lavender kept his eyes open for pickpockets and steered the women away from the dirty gutter water sprayed up by the wheels of the traffic.

He felt a surge of pride in the beautiful and majestic woman who swept along beside him, her gloved hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm. She had begun to wear her hair in the English style, he noted. The sombre mantilla and tortoiseshell
peineta
she had favoured when they first met were gone. Long, black curls now trailed over her shoulders beneath her bonnet and short ringlets framed her oval face in the Grecian fashion. Beneath her velvet cloak she wore the black dress he had bought her at Christmas. Magdalena was becoming anglicised. Her olive skin and striking dark eyes singled her out as a beauty rather than an Iberian; only her Spanish accent still marked her out as a foreigner.

He smiled to himself with amusement when he saw the four stone columns that supported the portico above the entrance to the Sans Pareil. They mirrored the four stone columns at the front of St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden, also known as ‘the actors’ church’. When John Scott, the wealthy merchant, had converted these buildings into the Sans Pareil Theatre for his stage-struck daughter, he had clearly put some thought into the impression he wanted the architecture to create. Above their heads, the portico had been planted with trailing bushes and sweet-smelling jasmine that wound its way down the stonework towards their heads. A nice feminine touch, Lavender decided, and in keeping with the only theatre in London operated by a woman.

They were early and the foyer was empty. Lavender was able to purchase a box for himself, Magdalena and Teresa for four shillings each and he was thankful for that. Despite her obvious sympathy towards the poor and the semi-literate, Lavender suspected that Magdalena’s tolerance might wear thin if she was forced to spend several hours bumping shoulders in the stalls with the smelly, London underclass, whom at this time of night would be befuddled with gin and ale.

Magdalena requested that they waited a while in the foyer before climbing the red-carpeted stairwell to their box. She wanted to watch the theatregoers arrive – especially Prince William, the Duke of Clarence. While they waited, Lavender explained some of the brief history of the theatre.

‘A woman?’ she asked. Her dark eyes widened. ‘A woman runs this theatre and writes the plays?’

‘Yes, Miss Scott’s father is a successful businessman who created this empire for his daughter. For years she ran a troupe of amateur actors at the back of one of her father’s warehouses but three years ago he invested ten thousand pounds in these buildings and had them converted into a theatre for her to expand her ambition. His timing was impeccable. Two years ago there was a bad fire at Covent Garden Theatre and last year Drury Lane burnt to the ground. Although both companies have found smaller, alternative premises, many of the actors and actresses have found a new home here, which has added to the prestige and popularity of the Sans Pareil.’

‘Fire?’ Magdalena’s eyes flicked warily towards the blazing chandeliers above their heads and the fat candles in their sconces, scattered amongst the framed playbills along the walls.

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘It appears to be a regular hazard for theatre proprietors in London at the moment.’

‘Not arson, I trust?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s been nothing to indicate that an arsonist with a vendetta against theatres is roaming the streets of the capital.’

‘And if there was, then Mr John Scott would have probably been at the top of your list of suspects,’ Magdalena said. ‘He seems to have been the main beneficiary of the misfortune of others.’

Lavender smiled. ‘Meanwhile, Miss Scott has been described as “great artiste” by the theatre critics. Her plays have a tendency towards the melodramatic and the Gothic but there are several excellent singers in her cast so we shall not want for entertainment. If we’re lucky we may see her perform tonight.’

‘Is she beautiful?’ Magdalena demanded.

‘Er, no.’

The audience had now begun to arrive, so Lavender, Magdalena and Teresa were forced back against the wall. The foyer became a noisy gathering of men in smart topcoats and hats. Women in brightly coloured muslin dresses and bonnets hung on to their arms. Occasionally, there was a flash of scarlet as officers arrived and swept their regimental hats beneath their arms. Many people paused in the foyer to greet friends or, like Magdalena, to see the arrival of the prince. The air buzzed with excitement, hailed greetings and gossip; candlelight reflected from the brass buttons and glistening jewellery of the clientele.

As the temperature rose, Magdalena unbuttoned her cloak. Lavender was distracted from his admiration of the creamy skin of her throat and bosom by a crowd of drunken ruffians who pushed their way through the crowd towards the auditorium. They swung glass bottles by their side. ‘Keep a firm grasp on your purse,’ he advised. ‘The theatre attracts every kind of person and pickpockets and opportunist thieves often circulate amongst the crowds.’

But the leader of the gang was interested in something else Magdalena possessed. He whistled when he laid eyes on her and bowed low in an elaborate gesture. His companions followed his courtly example.

‘You’re a beautiful gal,’ the man said, before moving on.

Pink spots appeared on Magdalena’s cheeks and she bowed her head regally to her new admirers.

Lavender scowled.

Suddenly, a fan rapped smartly on his arm. ‘Good evening, Detective. I sincerely hope that you’re here tonight for pleasure rather than business.’

He turned and found the sharp, grey eyes of the tall and willowy Lady Caroline Clare scrutinising him. A strikingly attractive redhead in her early forties, she had been injured in an accident in her youth and relied on a silver-topped walking cane for support. ‘Good evening, your ladyship.’ He bowed. ‘I’m here to see the play.’

‘Thank goodness for that!’ Her pearl-studded turban topped with yellow ostrich feathers bobbed up and down as she nodded her head in satisfaction. ‘We don’t want the taint of criminal activity to spoil tonight’s performance. You’d better introduce to me to that pretty girl, Lavender.’

‘Lady Caroline, may I present Doña Magdalena Morales, widow of Don Antonio Garcia de Aviles, who fell at the Battle of Talavera. Magdalena, this is Lady Caroline Clare.’

Magdalena dropped a deep and regal curtsey, the grace of which momentarily caught him off guard. The candlelight caught the sheen of the glossy black curls on the top of her bowed head.

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Caroline,’ Magdalena said as she rose back to her full height.

‘My condolences, my dear.’ Lady Caroline’s eyes were firmly fixed on Magdalena’s face. ‘I have buried two husbands and I know that your loss is recent. The Battle of Talavera was last summer, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Thank you for your kindness, your ladyship.’

‘Oh, this damned, interminable war.’ Her ladyship shook her head sadly. ‘You’re not the first woman to be widowed by it – and unfortunately you won’t be the last. Your accent suggests to me that you’re from northern Spain, am I correct?’

Lavender smiled. Caroline Clare was as sharp and intelligent as ever.

‘Yes, I’m from Oviedo, although I have lived a while in Madrid.’

‘A beautiful region, with a spectacular landscape and excellent light for artists,’ Lady Caroline declared. ‘I travelled the countryside of the Asturias with my first husband twenty years ago and he had to tear me away from your mountains. In fact, a painting of the Cantabrian Mountains still hangs in my drawing room. Would you like to see it sometime? It’s very amateurish of course, but I understand homesickness. It might give you some pleasure.’

Magdalena’s neck and face flushed. ‘You’re most kind.’

‘Call on me one afternoon, preferably a Wednesday. I tend to have commissions on most other days.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Lady Caroline is often commissioned to paint portraits,’ Lavender explained. ‘I have seen your work, Lady Caroline, and you’re a talented artist. You do not do yourself justice.’

She waved an elegant hand dismissively in the air. Her rings flashed in the light and he saw tiny flecks of oil paint on her fingers.

‘You’re charming as always, Lavender. Painting landscapes is my favourite occupation of course, but one has to go where the money is – and the money is definitely in portraits. Every wealthy man wants his dog, his horse or his children captured on canvas for prosperity. Besides which, I have a little trouble climbing the mountains these days.’ She tapped her left leg with her walking cane. ‘Lavender, I trust I can rely on you to give Doña Magdalena my address?’

He bowed his head again. ‘Of course.’

‘Then I shall leave you now, my dear. I’m a little slow and it may take some time for me to get into my damned seat. Henry? Come here! Give me your arm.’

A lanky young man stepped forward. He had hovered, unintroduced, behind Lady Caroline for the last few minutes. ‘Henry, this is the famous Detective Lavender from Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. I have told you about him before. This is his charming companion Doña Magdalena Morales. Lavender, meet Henry Duddles, nephew of Baron Lannister and my escort for tonight.’

Both men bowed and a huge shock of blond curls fell forward over Duddles’s face. He hurriedly pushed them back into place and glanced sheepishly at Magdalena. Lavender smiled to himself. The lad was barely shaving. Caroline Clare always preferred them young.

Once Lady Caroline and her companion had departed, Magdalena couldn’t contain her excitement. ‘What a charming woman! So kind! And she has visited my country! Do tell me more about her.’

They were jostled by the crowd and Teresa yelped when someone stood on her foot. He motioned to the women to step further back.

He leant closer to Magdalena closer and lowered his voice.

‘Lady Caroline was the younger daughter of the Earl of Kirkleven.’

‘An earl!’

‘Yes – an impoverished earl. The Kirklevens are an old Lancashire Catholic family who lost much of their fortune and influence after supporting the Jacobite cause.’

‘Catholics!’

He smiled. That was an unexpected benefit for her, he realised – a commonality. ‘She was motherless from a young age—’

‘Like me. I barely remember my mother.’

‘I believe she was a wild young thing.’

Magdalena’s eyebrow rose and she smiled.

‘Anyway, when she was eighteen she eloped with Victor Meyer Rothschild, a younger member of the great European banking family.’

‘The Rothschilds? They’re the Jewish bankers, yes?’ Her smile fell. ‘Such a marriage, across the religions, would not have suited their families, no?’

Lavender hesitated while he considered what more to tell Magdalena and what to leave out. She was so excited about her new friend that he didn’t want to take the edge off her happiness. He wasn’t completely convinced that Lady Caroline was a suitable companion for Magdalena, but he couldn’t deny they had plenty in common. Nor would he deny the mutual attraction that seemed to have sprung up between the two women. He shrugged and made his decision. Magdalena was an intelligent woman who would make up her own mind. ‘Both families disowned the couple and cut them off without a penny,’ he said. ‘They eloped to the continent, where I believe she made a living from her art. I suspect they supported themselves through Lady Caroline’s painting.’