Ruddy Gore (23 page)

But Phryne was stopped short of her destination by Jack Robinson’s sergeant.

‘Miss, the D. I. sent me, he wants you right away in Mr Copland’s old room. And the doctor, too, and Mr Evans.’

‘Is it serious?’ Phryne suppressed her anxiety for getting at a solution and laying it bare immediately.

‘Boss seems to think so. This way.’

Dr Fielding, Phryne and a partly dressed Gwilym Evans crowded into the dressing room, where Jack Robinson occupied the dresser’s stool.

There was a small man lying back in the actor’s chair. He was gasping for breath and blue; Mark knelt by him and laid a warm hand to his pulse.

‘He’s taken something pretty rapid,’ he said. ‘If you want to talk to him, be quick.’

‘Tell the sister and his mother that I’m sorry, and make sure Herbert gets the money,’ whispered Hans, the dresser. ‘I never meant to kill . . . never meant to kill.’

Phryne knelt down on the other side and the sad, 228

watery eyes fixed on her face. ‘You’ll understand.

He was getting old, said he was going to retire, retire so that we could live together like he always promised. So I thought I’d spike his brandy, make him sleepier and more clumsy, he was too old for those roles, too old, when there were such good young men. I put laudanum in the brandy, but I forgot how nervous he was, how scared he was.

He drank it all at once, it must have affected his heart. I just wanted him to retire!’

‘And he had also declared that he was going to marry Miss Esperance,’ suggested Phryne softly. The dying man heaved in his chair, his face distorted with emotion. ‘Foolish! What good would he have been to her, or any woman?

He was mine – I was a boy when he found me . . . ’

‘When you fell in love with him,’ said Phryne in a low gentle tone. James Hansen nodded. ‘We used to talk about sitting either side of the fire in his house in the country. ‘‘We two shall sing like birds i’ th’ cage,’’ he would say. But he never lived to play Lear. He wasn’t good enough for Lear. We were going to be so happy, but he wouldn’t leave the stage – couldn’t leave it. I sat beside him in that hospital and watched him die. He didn’t tell anyone about his heart. They might have taken the roles away – the dancing and the applause, he couldn’t live without it. I didn’t mean to kill him, but he died. Poor Robbie Craven nearly died, too.

And I was going to let you suffer for it, like you made Walter suffer,’ he said to Gwilym, the 229

enfeebled hand closing on the actor’s wrist. ‘But I saw you play Sir Ruthven. You put your heart into him, you played him right. Better I should die than you. The show . . . must . . . ’ he convulsed and groaned. Then the head fell forward, the hands relaxed.

‘He’s dead,’ said Mark Fielding, getting to his feet.

‘And he went before he could complete the aphorism, which comes as something of a relief. Poor little man!’ said Phryne. ‘Well, that’s one of your murders solved, Jack – one murder and an attempted murder. We are proceeding.’

Jack Robinson removed the sheet of paper from under the dead man’s cheek.

‘This is a full confession to causing the death of Walter Copland, and if the press gets hold of this my chief’ll make a dog’s dinner out of me. In relation to motive, of course. We aren’t going to mention this to anyone, are we?’ he asked the room, his unremarkable face set with purpose. Sir Bernard agreed and Mark Fielding nodded. Jack Robinson looked at Phryne.

‘Depends. Are we still prosecuting Mr Evans for giving the bottle to Robbie Craven?’ asked Phryne.

‘No, it was an honest mistake. He’s free to go,’

said Jack Robinson. Phryne was impressed. She had not known that it was possible to deliver such a long speech entirely through the teeth.

‘Good, but you can leave Mr Evans to me, Jack dear,’ she promised in turn. ‘He may not be the 230

dog’s dinner, but he can still be the cat’s breakfast.

Come along, Gwilym,’ she said, leading him out of the room by the sleeve, ‘I have something of yours which I would like to return.’

She led the bemused actor back into his dressing room and leaned on the door.

‘He said I played well, and that’s the reason he didn’t leave me with a murder charge,’ said Gwilym, sinking into his chair and mopping his face on a towel. ‘I could have spent the rest of my life in jail, or even . . . ’

‘Danced on the end of a line,’ agreed Phryne.

‘Yes, but you are reprieved and Jack will not take any action against you.’ She came a little closer and the actor stared adoringly up into her eyes.

‘But I might. Do you recognise this?’

‘It’s a letter, it’s mine,’ he snatched it out of her hand, the loving look quenched like a spark. ‘And I can’t imagine why you stole it,’ he said angrily.

‘You can’t read it.’

‘No, but there are those who can. What about Mari and a boy seven years old? How can you go around offering to marry actresses when you have a wife and child in Wales?’

‘She’s not my wife. She was my landlady’s daughter in Aberystwyth,’ he said disgustedly. ‘She did the housework and made the beds.’

‘And then she lay in one?’ asked Phryne acidly.

‘Yes, it’s my child – I suppose it’s my child. I send her money when I can. But I’m not going back. You heard that old man. I’m good – I know I’m good. I’m going to be great. Well, that’s my 231

dirty little secret, Miss Fisher, and I hope it amuses you.’

‘Not particularly. Got any others?’

He was caught on the edge of laughing or raging, and Phryne saw the mood tip over. He laughed and seized her in his arms. He kissed her hard, and she returned the kiss. Sensual, tasting of coffee, but not a patch on Lin Chung.

‘I already know that secret,’ she said, freeing herself. ‘Now I have another person to talk to.

Keep well, Mr Evans, and try to send some money home.’ And Gwilym Evans, whose celebrated charm had never failed before, threw a boot at her as his dressing room door closed behind the slim figure.

Phryne surprised Miss Leila Esperance in her robe, listening to her dresser Mrs Black describe Hans’

death.

‘Then he called in the policeman and that Miss Fisher and Mr Evans and the doctor, and he told them that because Mr Copland had deserted him and proposed to you, he had to kill him!’

Leila purred. Phryne said, ‘He did not mean to kill, you know. Now, Miss Esperance, I am asking for information and it has to be the truth. Tell me your real name.’

‘Leila Esperance.’ She picked up an eyelash brush and began to apply it, staining the hairs deep black.

‘What name were you born with?’

232

‘None of your business.’

‘Miss Esperance, I think you ought to answer my questions.’

‘You may think so, but I don’t.’

Phryne stared into the twisted, peevish face and laughed. ‘I wish your admirers could see you now!’

The beautiful face immediately blanked of expression.

‘It would be to your advantage,’ offered Phryne.

‘It may have a great bearing on your future in the theatre.’

‘My future in the theatre is secure,’ snapped Miss Esperance. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m upset about poor Hans and I want to get on with my make-up.’

‘Where were you born and when?’ persisted Phryne. Miss Esperance said wearily ‘London.’

‘When’s your birthday?’

‘The twelfth of June, if you want to buy me a present.’ The voice was dripping with engraving acid. Phryne went on.

‘What year?’ The actress did not answer. Phryne went to the door and called, ‘Bernie, can you come in here a moment?’ She waited until the large rubi-cund form of Sir Bernard had joined them and asked again, ‘What year?’

‘Eighteen ninety-seven, if you must know. I was an orphan and my family was called Pearson and they came out here when I was a baby.’

‘Look at this photo.’ Phryne thrust it into Bernard’s hand. ‘That is a picture of Dorothea Curtis’s child, the one she bore while she was away 233

from you in the hot months of 1897 – June and July. Didn’t you know she was pregnant, Bernie?

Didn’t you notice?’

‘I teased her about getting stout,’ he stammered.

‘What with clothes being what they were, and corsets and all . . . I didn’t know, I never suspected . . . but do you really mean that, Miss Esperance . . . ’

Phryne ripped the gown away from Leila Esperance’s creamy shoulders and it fell to her waist. Around her neck, between sculptured porcelain breasts, was a golden locket the exact twin of the one Phryne had seen in Miss Mobbs’

house.

Phryne took the locket in her hand and Miss Esperance wriggled. Suppressing the actress, she pressed the button and the locket popped open, revealing a pretty, pouting face. ‘Dorothea Curtis,’ said Phryne.

‘I never knew it opened!’ exclaimed Leila Esperance, and was pushed away as Phryne exhibited her beautiful back to Sir Bernard’s astonished gaze.

Just where the slim waist curved in was a strawberry coloured birthmark.

‘This is your daughter, Bernard.’ Phryne perched on the stool as Miss Esperance stared open mouthed at Management. ‘Dorothea never told you. She gave the baby to her cousin and dresser Miss Mobbs, who gave her to a couple called Pearson who were emigrating to Australia. Dorothea put the locket around the baby’s neck – it was 234

all she had to give it.’ Phryne amended the story as she spoke. There was no sense in defying the melodrama conventions and it might hurt Bernie’s feelings to know that Dorothea had ordered the baby killed. ‘What happened to your parents, the Pearsons I mean, Leila?’

‘They died. Five years ago.’ The actress’s voice was mechanical with shock. ‘There was something Mother was trying to tell me when she died, but she couldn’t get the words out. Something about London and the locket. So she came to find me,’

said Leila softly. ‘My true mother came to find me.’

‘ ‘‘By the powers,’’ ’ said Sir Bernard softly, holding out his hand, ‘ ‘‘I do believe this lady to be my daughter.’’ ’ Phryne tracked down the quotation –
A Winter’s Tale
. Another hidden daughter. Jack Robinson was right; there was always a word for any situation in Shakespeare.

Mrs Black bustled forward and pulled Miss Esperance’s gown up, covering her with a costume cloak.

‘Now, we’d all be better for some tea,’ she observed. Phryne vacated the stool and Sir Bernard sat down on it. He was holding Leila’s hand as if it was a day-old chick and his cigar had gone out.

Phryne decided that a little time would be neces-sary for everyone to adjust to their changing fortunes and left the room.

‘Phryne, what is going on?’ demanded Mark Fielding, rumpling his curly hair. ‘The chorus want to 235

know. They’ve had enough shocks lately.’

‘Tell them that Hans is dead and that he killed Walter Copland because he was trying to get him to retire. That’s close enough to the truth without being too scandalous. They’ll guess the rest if I know choruses.’

Phryne saw Mollie Webb shoot out of her dressing room and run straight into Mark Fielding’s arms. He bent his head to whisper to her and Phryne felt a sting of jealousy, suppressed it firmly and walked away. Herbert caught her at the manager’s door.

‘Something else has happened,’ he said accus-ingly. ‘Listen to Miss Esperance!’

Phryne heard a murmur of soothing conversation, and someone sobbing.

‘She’s crying. That’s not unusual, Tinker.’

‘It’s not the way she usually cries,’ he said stubbornly. He was right. It was probably the first unaffected emotion which Miss Esperance had exhibited since she cried for her bottle at the age of eight weeks, thought Phryne. She mentally slapped herself on the wrist and led Herbert into the office. In a last toast to poor dead Hans, Phryne poured herself a drink of uncoloured whisky.

‘There’s an end of our investigation, Tinker,’ she said. ‘You’re provided for, we’ve solved the murder and found the missing daughter – it’s about time for the curtain.’

‘No, Boss, you’ve forgotten the ghost.’ The boy’s eyes were indecently bright for someone who had 236

been beaten to a pulp by a drunken man that morning.

‘So I have,’ said Phryne. ‘Thanks, Tinker! Of course. The ghost.’

Mark Fielding had made several phone calls and had found a family to board Herbert. He took the boy off to obtain his father’s signature, farewell his mother, and see him safely installed. Phryne handed over a five pound note with instructions to purchase some gallons of liquid parent-persuader on the way.

Then she wrote down, from her invaluable assistant’s chart, every sighting of Dorothea and every other strange thing that had happened.

She pored over this for an hour and gave it up.

It was impossible and even Sir Bernard’s whisky would not make the times fit. No one could have played Dorothea more than once. Either there was a theatre-wide conspiracy or she was a real ghost.

However, she went back to Leila Esperance’s dressing room to ask a few more questions.

She found Sir Bernard beaming and Leila leaning on his shoulder, her black curls flowing down his back. Even his cigar was glowing with pride.

‘Phryne, my dear girl,’ he greeted her jovially.

‘Knew I did the right thing, asking you to investigate. Best decision I ever made.’

‘Good. I’m glad you’re happy, Bernie. Can I have a word with your daughter?’ The mere use of the term made the cigar glow brighter. Bernie bent and kissed the rosy cheek, said, ‘Back soon,’

and went out.

237

‘Leila, I need to know about the gloves and the bag,’ said Phryne. She had never seen anyone as beautiful as this young woman elevated with joy.

She was almost angelic. The voice, however, was cold and sharp, like a whisky-sour.

‘All right, since you know. It was me – the gloves. Well, two of the gloves. I didn’t take all of them. And I didn’t take the bag. I tore up the telegram. I don’t know why.’

‘Why gloves ? Are you sure you didn’t know you were Dorothea’s daughter?’

‘No, no, I didn’t know – really I didn’t. Oh, poor mother! She scared me – I was frightened when she came – I shouldn’t have been, it was my mother, my beautiful mother, and I ran away, I screamed and ran away.’ Her eyes brimmed, then tears ran down the soft cheek. Phryne wondered which part she was presently playing.