Truth and Beauty (His Majesty's Theatre Book 3) Read online

  “Yeah, Oi care. We only been paid ‘alf. If y’ ain’t fit, we dan get the rest. ‘ere!” She threw down a small roll of newspaper, and laughed as Elly frantically tore it open. A greasy meat pie was smeared with printer’s ink, and Elly devoured it in a few bites. It tasted terrible, but she wished she had another. Peg held a bottle of water just out of Elly’s reach. Her eyes filled with desperate tears, and Peg laughed. “Say please, Princess.” Furious, Elly lunged at Peg, grabbed the bottle with both hands, and drank it down, all at once. Peg nodded in approval. “Yer all right. I wish Rory could see y’ now. Y’ look like a filfy beggar.” Peg grabbed back the bottle and tossed it into a basket.

  Elly felt totally helpless. Peg’s insult cut to the core. She did look like a beggar. She was filthy and sick and no one cared. Did anyone even know she was gone? The day was half over. Someone must have noticed.

  The others ate their lunch of greasy pies and water.

  Tommy handed Peg some money, but she waved it away. “Keep it, Tommy. Oi’ll get the rest tonight, from Roundtree. Y’ just get yerself to Hull. Y’ know Scotland Yard’s lookin’ fer the blokes what killed that Duchess’s nephew. You ain’t done the deed, but you was there, so they’ll ‘ang you along wi’ the rest. They dan care about me. Those coppers in Hull only gave y’ ‘til tonight t’ pay ‘em off, an’ book passage fer us. Oi’ll find y’ t’morrow, on the boat.”

  Tommy grabbed her arm. “Come with me, Peg. It’s not worth the risk. Roundtree could be lying. If he’s got the police waiting…”

  “Then I’ll ‘ang. What of it?” Barely taller than a child, she was brave as a warrior.

  Tommy shook his head. “You’re talking about your life.”

  “My life? My life’s been nothin’ but ‘ell.” She moved closer to him. “This is the first chance Oi’ve ever ‘ad at real money, an’ Oi ain’t goin’ a give it up. If Oi ‘ang, Oi’ll ‘ang poor, but if Oi live, Oi’ll live like a lydy, fer the first time, ever.”

  Clutching his lapels, she gazed into his gray eyes. “What ever folks say about y’, Tommy Quinn, yer the only bloke wh’ ever treated me decent. If you stay in England, y’ll ‘ang fer sure, so get the ‘ell gone. Oi’m gettin’ this money fer us. If Oi dan get t’ the boat, go without me. Oi’d rather ‘ang poor, than live poor, one day longer. Besides…”

  She gritted her teeth and nodded toward Elly. “Oi’ll just ‘old a knife t’ ‘er throat till ‘er old man pays. Mick’ll back me up. Since ‘e dan know where the drop off plyce is, ‘e go’ to do what Oi say. If the coppers do get us, Oi’ll get ‘er, first.”

  Tommy clutched her arms. They were thin as sticks. “Just promise you’ll be careful.”

  Not used to kindness, her voice caught in a sob. “Oh, yeah. Oi’ll be careful.” She switched to her theatrical upper-class accent. “I shall be extremely careful, darling. You may be sure, I am not ready to die.”

  Amazed by her courage, he grabbed her, kissing her hard.

  Pleased, but afraid to show it, she pushed him away. The train slowed. “Get goin’, Tommy. Yer train will be here in a few minutes. Oi’ll see y’ tomorrow.”

  This time the train slowed, but did not stop. Tommy opened the door just enough to squeeze through. He jumped down, rolling into tall grass beside the tracks. Within seconds the train picked up speed, leaving Tommy far behind.

  Peg closed the door and turned back, sneering, “So, Princess. Yer daddy’s waitin’.”

  “Wait, please!” Elly’s words flew out all at once. “I know my father’s paying you, but I can pay you too, not right now, but I’ll have money soon. It’s all my money actually, if you’ll just wait, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll pay you more… Double.” Peg’s flaming eyes reminded Elly of the torch she lit at Mrs. Potter’s boardinghouse. “Please, Peg… Marguerite, please don’t do…”

  Peg’s cackling laugh made her stop. “So, y’ was surprised to see me, Princess. Y’ fell right into m’ lap, you did. A bleedin’ treasure chest, right there in Potter’s boardin’ ‘ouse.” She carefully slid down to the floor, across from her. Mick stretched out with his head in Peg’s lap. She stroked his grimy hair and whispered in her witch’s voice. “Wiv’ the money yer farver’s payin’, Tommy and me can get clean out a England, and live nice, fer a long time. Can y’ believe it Mick? This stupid cow ran away from money.” Mick reached a huge hand and squeezed Peg’s breast. She slapped his hand and he laughed.

  Elly sighed wearily. “How did you find out about me?”

  “I din’ know nothin’ at first. Then, there was this bloke snoopin’ around, down by the docks, askin’ about some rich girl, run away, supposed t’ ‘ave crossed the channel. Said she were tall, thin, wiv red ‘air, funny name: somthin’ Round - Tree. This bloke said he were a private investigator workin’ fer the girl’s farver. ‘alf the girl’s in England’s tall, thin, wiv red ‘air. Din’t give it a second thought. Then one day I was doin’ Bates, an’ ‘e…”

  Elly’s mouth dropped open. “You were still with Eric Bates after he…”

  “‘e paid me good money, y’ stupid cow. Oi’d do things. Things he couldn’t ask ‘is lydy wife t’ do. Not really bad things, mind. Not like other blokes Oi done, but bad enough ‘is wife would a divorced ‘im.” She hissed a laugh, making Elly shudder. “One day, after Oi done ‘im, ‘e was talking sloppy, the way men does after…” She snickered. “He was mad at O’Connell fer keepin’ y’. You was a runaway. ‘e din’ remember yer first name, but he remembered Round - Tree, ‘cause ‘e an’ O’Connell ‘ad a laugh over it.”

  Elly pulled up her knees and lowered her head.

  “Oi went back to this investigator bloke an’ made me a deal. First Oi ‘ad t’ make sure you was the right girl. Oi wasn’t gonna grab some cow off the street, drag ‘er ‘alf way across the country and not get paid. There was no picture of you, nowhere. ‘ow come?”

  Elly shook her head.

  “Rich people always ‘ave pictures a’ their brats.”

  “My father never liked me.”

  “Bli’me! You must ‘a’ been a rotter. The only picture anyone knew about, was a paintin’ yer teacher done at school. Yer farver learned about i’ when ‘e went there lookin’ fer y’. The picture was in London already, so Oi made Tommy take a job in the gallery.” She mussed Mick’s hair. “First regular day’s work Tommy ever done, Oi wager.”

  Mick laughed, “And ‘e ‘ope’s it’s ‘is last.”

  Peg hissed, “‘e din’t have to work that stinkin’ job two days. Yer picture got ‘ung on the wall and you walked through the door.”

  Mick chortled, “Like a lamb to the slaughter.” They laughed raucously. Mick wrestled Peg to the floor and lay on top of her.

  The train bounced and he rolled off Peg, over to Elly. He put his hand on her ankle and slid his fingers up her leg. She kicked out, catching him in the chest. His huge hand swung back, savagely struck her face, and knocked her to the floor.

  Peg leapt on top of Mick and held a knife to his throat. The train jerked and the knife drew blood. Terrified, Elly wished Peg would drive the blade deeper. Peg kept the knife where it was and spoke through clenched teeth. “We need that money, Mick. If she’s damaged, we dan get it. If you bugger this, Oi’ll kill you. Get it?”

  Mick put a hand on his throat. Blood ran over his fingers. “Yeah,” he sulked. “Oi get it.”

  Peg moved off him, sat back, but kept the knife ready.

  Elly lay on the floor, a welt rising on her throbbing temple.

  Chapter Eleven

  London the same day

  “I need to see Chief-Inspector Hayes immediately.” It was 2:30 when Lady Richfield stormed past a middle-aged sergeant and a young duty officer at the front desk of Scotland Yard. Her solicitor, Roger Foxhall, followed with short quick steps.

  The startled officer chased after them. “I’m sorry, madam.” The hard soles of his boots banged loudly. “…but the Chief-Inspector’s gone to Whitechapel, there’s been a double murder.
”

  “Well, young man,” she spun around, boring into him with fierce blue eyes. “I’m trying to prevent a third murder. If he’s not back yet, show me to his junior. Somebody – anybody-- who can escort me to Yorkshire. Now!”

  The officer trembled. “May I ask who’s requiring assistance?”

  “Lady Richfield.”

  “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am, sorry for the inconvenience.” He ran down the hall.

  Isabelle turned to Foxhall. “Damn these delays. Hayes was supposed to be back long before now.”

  Foxhall anxiously twisted the brim of his hat. “For my part, I am so terribly sorry. The papers should have taken half-the-time to copy. That new clerk of mine, the one who spilled the ink, he’ll be discharged, I promise you.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She waved her hand. “The poor boy was frightened out of his wits. He won’t do it again.” She paced the floor. “As it turns out, we could have taken our time.” She stared down the hall. “Damn! What’s keeping the man?”

  “Lady Richfield.” The young officer raced back. “Inspector Doddington will see you now.” He made a lopsided bow and returned to the front desk.

  A middle-aged man in a well tailored suit followed the officer down the hall. He politely inclined his head. “Lady Richfield?” He shook her hand.

  “Good afternoon Inspector, thank you for seeing us. This is my solicitor, Roger Foxhall.”

  He shook Foxhall’s hand. “How-do-you-do, sir. I’m Inspector Doddington. Please be so kind as to follow me.” He led them down the hall, toward his office. “Will you take tea, Lady Richfield?”

  She clenched her jaw. “No - thank - you. This is not a social call.”

  “Quite so.” Opening the door of his small, plain office, the Inspector allowed Isabelle and Foxhall to enter first. They passed two rows of filing cabinets and sat down on hardwood chairs. The Inspector squeezed past them and sat behind his desk. “So, how may I help you?”

  Isabelle started to speak and Foxhall politely interrupted, “If you will allow me, M’ Lady.” Clearly and precisely, Foxhall told the history of the Roundtree family, emphasizing the roles of the men, producing documents, and winning the inspector’s interest. At first, Isabelle was annoyed Foxhall had taken charge. Quickly understanding his slant on the story and watching the inspector’s interest grow, she kept silent. As always, a young man’s misfortune was of great concern. A young woman’s misfortune was merely coincidental.

  When Foxhall finished, the Inspector paused, drumming his fingers on the desktop. “Mr. Foxhall, how do you know that the young lady was abducted?”

  Isabelle’s mouth dropped open. “He just told you…”

  “I beg your pardon, Madam, but the gentleman has given me a good deal of background. He has given me no proof that Miss Roundtree has not simply run off. Since she has a history of running away, how can you be sure she hasn’t done it again?”

  Isabelle was stunned. “I just know that she hasn’t. She has just started working at the theatre. Her young man came to town, only yesterday. All of her friends…”

  The Inspector stood up. “I’m sorry Lady Richfield, but we have a good many officers out on cases, just now. When the Chief-Inspector returns, he will decide how we can best assist you. If you’ll follow me, we have a rather comfortable waiting area. It’s just this way.” Before Isabelle could object, the Inspector was out the door, leading the way down a different corridor.

  It was another hour before Chief-Inspector Hayes and his sergeant arrived back at Scotland Yard. Tired and out of sorts, they dragged themselves into the station. Dying for a meal and a rest, Hayes was livid when the duty officer told him a lady and her solicitor were waiting for him. Keeping his temper, he strode to the waiting room door. When he saw Isabelle through the glass, his eyes opened wide. He hurried inside. “Lady Richfield?”

  Isabelle skipped polite preliminaries. “Chief-Inspector, you may remember a young lady you met at my house, Christmas Eve. Her name is Elly Fielding, and she’s in terrible danger. I fear for her life.”

  It was 4:00 p.m. when Isabelle, the Chief-Inspector, and his Sergeant boarded the train at St. Pancras Station on their way to Bradford, to change for Skipton, to change for Settle. Arrival time was 9:06 p.m. The local constable had been wired orders to escort them from the station, to the Roundtree Estate.

  *

  At 4:30, rehearsal finished. Jeremy, Katherine, Evan, and Michael Burns were on their way to Gildstein Gallery. Rory came out of the stage door and Jeremy called, “Mr. Cook, why don’t you join us? We are going to view Robert Dennison’s exhibition.”

  Rory gritted his teeth, whispering, “Why in hell would I want to do that?”

  Jeremy whispered back, “Because you cannot fight a competitor you do not know.”

  “Why should I even bother? Elly might be married and on her way out of the country by now.” He was close to tears.

  “And she may have escaped and be making her way back to us.”

  “And if she does come back, what then? She’s already given herself to Dennison.”

  Jeremy burst out laughing. “‘Given herself’? Good Lord, Rory, you sound like an old spinster lady at a church supper. Are you still in love with the first woman you ever -- gave yourself to?”

  Rory rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m not. How absurd. But a woman’s sensibilities are not the same as a man’s. Everyone knows that.”

  “Really?” He moved closer. “And what of Isabelle’s ‘sensibilities’? Is she ready to leave her husband because of a pleasant tumble with you?”

  Nearly falling over with shock, Rory mumbled, “Lady Richfield is a mature woman. She knows her own mind.”

  “And Elly does not know her own mind. I quite agree with you. She is barely more than a child. She may stay in love with her art-master, or she may not. She may tire of him and look for other companionship, and there you will be, ready and waiting. I suggest you meet this fellow and see what he is all about. At the very least, you should see this portrait she has spoken of.”

  They all climbed into a cab and rode to South Kensington, Exhibition Road, and the gallery entrance. A placard read:

  Premier Exhibition:

  ROBERT DENNISON

  Oils and Pastels

  January 5th - 10th

  Just past a small reception area, they stopped and stared at a sumptuous vision: Autumn Lady. Katherine caught her breath. Rory gasped. His shoulders tensed to his ears. Evan tilted his head like a dog hearing a strange sound. “Daddy, is that Elly?”

  Jeremy cleared his throat, “Well - um, yes - Evan. That is an artist’s interpretation of Elly, the way she might look in a few years’ time. Not quite the girl we know, eh? Do you like the way he has painted the red of her hair, so it blends with the red and yellow of the leaves?”

  Evan moved his head from side to side. “Is she standing up or lying down?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I believe that is for the viewer to decide. What is your opinion?”

  Even walked close to the painting. “I think she’s lying down.”

  Rory moved close to Jeremy, gritting his teeth and whispering, “Did she model for him in bed?”

  Jeremy whispered back, “I’m sure he would have wished it. Since they were at a very proper school, and our girl is incapable of projecting that sort of sensuality, we must assume the artist has a powerful imagination.”

  Rory nodded. “I see what you mean -- know thine enemy.”

  Jeremy laughed quietly.

  Their reverie broke when women laughed in the main gallery. Jeremy, Katherine, and Michael followed the voices and walked inside. An elderly man hurried past, followed by a harried labourer.

  Robert Dennison stood conversing with a group of elegant ladies. Several men studied the paintings, scribbled notes, and made sketches on wide pads. Robert saw Michael, excused himself, and hurried over. Michael made the introductions, and Robert shook hands all around. “I’m so pleased to meet you all. Is ther
e any news from Lady Richfield?”

  Katherine shook her head. “It’s too soon. Mr. Dennison. She will not have reached Yorkshire, yet.”

  Robert looked very worried. “Yes, of course. I’ve lost all concept of time.”

  Jeremy called to Rory and Evan, still staring at Autumn Lady. “Evan, Mr. Cook, come and meet Mr. Dennison.” Jeremy smiled to himself. Robert Dennison was tall and slim, with soft brown eyes and long brown hair. He must have his pick of women, not just schoolgirls.

  Rory clenched his jaw, forced a civil expression, and trudged over. He tried appearing taller, by looking Robert in the eye without raising his chin. Robert extended his hand, smiling warmly. “So you’re Rory Cook. Elly is terribly fond of you. She’s told me what an excellent friend you have been. Thank you so much.” Rory accepted Robert’s hand, nodded, but said nothing.

  Evan jabbed his small hand into Robert’s. “I like the picture of Elly, even though it doesn’t look like her.”

  Jeremy felt embarrassed, but Robert laughed as he shook Evan’s small hand. “Thanks Evan. I don’t think it looks very like her, either. I prefer the real girl, don’t you?”

  Evan smiled back. “Yes, I do.”

  The elderly man called, “Mr. Dennison!” Robert excused himself, hurried out of sight.

  The actors viewed Robert’s other paintings and pastels. There were picturesque landscapes, voluptuous nudes, and a series of small field animals. Rory lingered by three paintings of beautiful old stone buildings.

  Jeremy joined him and read a title: “Heathhead School, Yorkshire. So, this is where they met. Dennison must have been happy there to make it look so inviting.”

  Rory scowled. “Of course it’s lovely. That’s where he found Elly.”

  Evan pulled Jeremy to a small canvas with a delightfully fuzzy squirrel holding an acorn. “Daddy, can I have this one?”

  Jeremy studied the painting. It made him smile. “Yes, I think this would be very nice in your upstairs room. Katie, what do you think?”