The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 17

  “Were you involved with her?”

  Fitzgerald gave a mirthless laugh. “As much as I was with any of them. I no longer aspire to the lifestyle, though I am obliged to have dealings with the tribe.”

  “The tribe?”

  A cynical smile increased the piratical look. “A law unto themselves are players. Like gypsies. They are not dissimilar. The life lends itself to loose morality and unprecedented intimacies.”

  An image of Cecile’s countenance leapt into George’s head. Youthful, lovely, yet marked by suffering, her innocence eroded, scarred by the harsh realities of vagabond living. He dismissed it, along with the pang it cost him. He must concentrate on the matter at hand.

  “Be plain with me, Fitzgerald. How much had you to do with these players?”

  “Very little, apart from Ferdinand and his wife. Janey has a shrewd head on her shoulders. It is she, rather than Arthur, who holds the purse-strings.”

  “But you must know them all fairly well?” George persisted. “The company has been coming here for years, as I understand it.”

  Fitzgerald pursed his lips. “I have known the Ferdinands for many years, but latterly we see them more often. They were used to tour the continent.”

  “Until the troubles in France made such excursions untenable,” supplied George. “So I gather. They picked up Cecile Benoit there.”

  He was subjected to a sharp glance. “An odd acquisition, yes. She earns her keep assisting Hildegard with the company’s wardrobe.”

  George set his teeth. The notion of Cecile slaving at sewing was no more welcome than the thought of her caught in this unsuitable trap.

  “Mademoiselle Benoit is not in question. Beyond Dulcibella —” He noted a twitch of the fellow’s eyebrow and added swiftly, “to whom we will return shortly, what can you tell me of the actors? Are you aware of any liaison with the dead girl?”

  Fitzgerald’s gaze travelled to the ceiling and there stayed as he evidently pondered. George found it oddly suspect. Was it as much of a pose as the impresario’s ingrained flourishing manner? He waited, regarding Fitzgerald with growing scepticism.

  After a moment, the man’s gaze dropped down again and he met George’s eyes. “I think not.”

  “It took you an inordinate amount of time to work that out.”

  Fitzgerald’s brow lifted. “A swift review of a number of memories, Colonel. I did stop at one of young Jasper briefly, but though the boy is a notorious womaniser I cannot see him troubling to make such a performance of the business. Had he killed Dulcie, one would expect him to do it in a fit of temper or a drunken brawl. I doubt he would even try to conceal the deed, unless to claim he remembered nothing of it.”

  This rang with what George knew of the young actor, but argued a more intimate acquaintance with the players than Fitzgerald claimed.

  “What about Robert Collins?”

  The brows snapped together. “Is he suspected?”

  “Why do you ask?” George countered, his senses alert.

  “My dear Tretower, is it not obvious? However, one should not fall into the error of supposing the man to be a true villain merely because he is cast in that role more often than any other.”

  “Is he?”

  Fitzgerald spread his hands. “What would you? He looks the part. He is also a fine actor, though one would not have supposed any female might warm to him. A morose type. He is said to be ruled by a shrewish wife, but on that point I am going by hearsay. I have never met her, though I believe she resides in Dorchester with their two children.”

  So much George already knew. More than Fitzgerald probably, since he had sent Sullivan to verify the fact when they rode to Dorchester the other day. Mrs Collins had proved as sullen a creature as her husband, disinclined to answer questions. The only noticeable interest, to Sullivan’s disgust, was in the intelligence that Dulcie had met her end.

  “Dead, is she? Good riddance.”

  Her attitude so much shocked his lieutenant that Sullivan came away without asking anything more. George followed an inclination arising from this memory.

  “If his home life is uncomfortable, he might well console himself elsewhere perhaps?”

  “Since he rarely goes home,” said the other on a cynical note, “one doubts he is much disturbed by it.”

  “Yet such a pretty armful as Dulcibella Ash might be a temptation.”

  The man’s face thinned as his lips pursed. “But not, I surmise, in reverse. A liaison with Robert Collins would indicate poor taste on Dulcibella’s part.”

  “Ah, but there is no accounting for the whims of women, wouldn’t you say?”

  A bark of laughter greeted this. “Very true, sir. Even Kate, of whom one would expect a deal more common sense, has a marked penchant for Jasper.”

  Was there an edge to the words? George took an oblique path. “You’ve noticed it?”

  “It is common knowledge in the company and my friend Ferdinand is apt to bemoan her preoccupation in that direction. He thinks it mars her performance when she is paired with him, as she will be more now. Unless he can find another Dulcibella, which is debatable.”

  George took due note of an odd look in the fellow’s eye as he spoke of the girl. Was it regret? He probed a little.

  “Was she truly irreplaceable? I admit she looked a beauty, even in death, but there must be others personable enough.”

  A tell-tale quiver of the lip attacked Fitzgerald, for the first time showing unease. His fingers were peculiarly rigid where they lay on the desk and his voice sounded forced. “Beauty is not everything. Talent, real talent…” He faded out and looked up. “Dulcibella had something more than beauty, a quality more unusual, unfortunately, than talent.”

  George recalled what Charlton had said. “Innocence?”

  “Not that, though that too. She had a glow about her. It came from within. One can’t explain it, but for such a quality to shine through on the stage is rare.” Was it regret in the man’s eyes? “Ferdinand is unlikely to find such another. She was a magnet and her presence has done the company proud. They have prospered these two years.”

  Was that all he cared about? Or did it go deeper with him? How to phrase it without setting the fellow on his guard?

  “I gather her acting did not match her looks,” he said lightly. Fitzgerald made no immediate response beyond a flick of an eyebrow. George persisted. “I confess I scarcely noticed her when I attended a performance upon their last visit to the town.”

  The man’s gaze sharpened. “Did not notice her? Singular, Colonel. Most men had eyes for no other.”

  “You include yourself in that category, sir?”

  A dismissive laugh. “Hardly. As old a hand as I am, I have seen too many performances to be riveted by any one individual.”

  “Even one with this glow you speak of?”

  Fitzgerald blew out a sighing breath and this time George was sure he detected regret. “It is strange, is it not, how memory can play one false? I see her in my mind’s eye, animate and warm, yet it is not an image upon the stage that haunts me.”

  “What then?” George regarded him with close attention. Was this genuine grief, if muted?

  Fitzgerald’s fingers moved in a restless fashion, caressing the leather-backed blotter on his desk and then shifting to the ink stand to lift a quill from its place. He brushed the end across his hand. When he spoke again, his voice was low.

  “I saw her leave the lodging.”

  The implication zinged in George’s head. “That night?”

  A nod came. “She entered a coach.”

  Questions tumbled through George’s mind and he rapped them out. “What time was this? How did you come to be there to see it? Why did you not come forward? Do you not realise how vital this may be?”

  Fitzgerald dropped the quill and raised both hands palm up in a placatory gesture. “Your pardon, Colonel. I confess myself at fault, but not with deliberation. I believe the image has been sitting at the back of my mi
nd. Until you began to harp upon the business, I did not realise I had it there.”

  “You began by saying it haunted you.” Furious, George thought he had never heard anything so disingenuous in his life. For two pins, he would arrest the man on the instant.

  But Fitzgerald appeared unmoved by the snapped reminder. He shifted his shoulders and spread his hands. “What would you? One is not always master of these things. Had I been asked if I had seen her, no doubt it would have jumped to the forefront of my mind long since.”

  “How was it you came to be there at that exact moment?”

  “I was walking home from the tavern. Near midnight, I think, but I cannot be certain. It may have been earlier. My way takes me past the players’ lodging. Oftentimes I accompany Arthur, but he had left earlier.”

  George controlled his temper with an effort. “Very well, and what exactly did you see?”

  Fitzgerald peered into the middle distance as if he conjured the picture. “A coach was waiting in the lane. I paid no heed to it at first. But then a girl came out of the lodging. She was cloaked but her glorious gold hair cascaded over her shoulders. One could not mistake. Before I could think or do anything, she had stepped up into the coach.”

  “Did you see a man with her? Did not someone help her up the steps?”

  Fitzgerald frowned. “Not that I recall. But I was on the other side of the street. Perhaps the fellow was inside and leaned out?”

  George regarded the man with a mixture of exasperation and sheer disbelief. “You do realise you are at least a witness in this business?”

  The piratical look became pronounced as the fellow’s brows snapped together.

  “Damnation! Yes, I suppose I must be, to that extent.”

  “Moreover,” pursued George, driving it home, “you have no apparent means of proving your story.”

  The brows shot up. “Good God, that is so too! You mean I may have made it up for the purpose of swinging suspicion away from myself?” He frowned again. “Singularly stupid of me, had I done the deed. Or merely careless. Why draw attention to the matter at all?”

  George could not deny the truth of this. Unless the fellow was being doubly clever. He began to feel pressured and to wish for Ottilia’s peculiar ability to sift fact from fiction. But he could make use of the introduction in other ways.

  “Which of the players did you leave behind you at The Black Dog?”

  Fitzgerald pondered again, setting his gaze upon the playbills plastered to the wall. George could willingly have planted the fellow a flush hit to the jaw. He felt as if he had lost control of the interview. Was he being played for a puppet?

  The man’s eyes returned to give George a concentrated look. “Jasper, certainly. Lewis, I think. I cannot be sure of Rob, but I think Wat and Aisling had gone. Like me, they were late to the tavern after setting things to rights at the theatre. I waited to lock up after them.”

  So he meant to foist the blame off on to Robert Collins, did he? He would catch cold at that, for Rob had already stated he remained to look out for young Jasper. George reviewed the man’s words.

  “Have you any reason to think either Wat or Aisling might have gained Dulcie’s affections?”

  A spluttered laugh greeted this suggestion. “My dear Colonel, do pray keep a steady head. Can you honestly suppose either one a suitable prospect? In any event, you must realise the two are mere jobbing actors, pressed into service where needed. They are stagehands, sir.”

  “Too lowly for Dulcibella?”

  A patronising shrug. “One would say so, though perhaps it is a little unkind. Good men, both, but scarcely of a type to appeal to a girl of Dulcibella’s multiple attractions. You have only to look at them.”

  George had come to much the same conclusion, and he had Cecile’s notion to support it. But he had no mind to trust anything Fitzgerald said at this point.

  “What about Lewis Payne?”

  Fitzgerald’s eye gleamed. “Now you are clutching at straws, Colonel. No, no, Lewis is no candidate. I have known him long and, if I must stoop to tale bearer in this cause, gossip has it he and Hilde have an established and comfortable arrangement.”

  This was news to George. Nor had he seen any evidence to support it, though he was bound to admit it was not unlikely. The two had been members of the company for many years and neither was married. Leaving Lewis, he took up the last option.

  “I dare say you will dismiss this out of hand, but I must ask you.”

  He was treated to an enquiring look and an air of willingness. “I will try to satisfy any query of yours, sir. It is the least I can do.”

  Was it indeed? For which particular reason? Or was it spurious?

  “Ferdinand himself.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Arthur? Arthur kill his golden goose? You must have windmills in your head, sir.”

  “Every man of the company must be considered, sir. Not one can prove his having remained all night in the lodgings, including Ferdinand.”

  Fitzgerald waved his hands, his lip curling. “Oh no, nonsense, Colonel, this cannot be. What possible motive could he have? The reverse, as I have stated. Besides, he is devoted to Janey. Unutterably and irrevocably devoted to her, I assure you.”

  “Indeed? Even though she is apt to rule him?”

  “Yes, yes, but he enjoys that,” said Fitzgerald on an impatient note. “He has said to me I don’t know how many times that he relies upon Janey to keep him from taking the stage too much into ordinary life.”

  George played his ace. “But the fact is, Fitzgerald, there is a cogent motive for any married man.”

  The manager’s figure stilled. His gaze narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  George kept his eyes glued to the man’s face, determined not to miss his reaction.

  “Dulcibella Ash was with child.”

  Shock, disappointment, rage? The emotions flitted so rapidly across Fitzgerald’s face that George had difficulty interpreting them. And then the oddity akin to regret was back, just as he’d looked when he spoke of feeling haunted. His words were unexpected.

  “Poor little Dulcibella. How tragic. How horribly cruel is fate.” A frown came. “It is not generally known, I take it? Arthur never said a word of this. You have not told him?”

  George shook his head. “And I will be glad of your word that you will not mention the matter outside this room, Fitzgerald.”

  The fellow’s shock appeared genuine, though how could one judge? He gave a poignant sigh. “You may rely upon me. I should not care to be the one who carries such tidings to either Arthur or Janey. Good God, Janey! She will be distressed beyond measure. She is a mother hen to those young girls, for all her strictness. And to think the child managed to conceal it from them all.”

  “Not quite all,” George said drily, and received a sharp look.

  “You mean the man who killed her for it. An unpleasant thought, sir, to say the least. A hideous thought in fact.”

  “Quite so.” He did not mention Cecile’s knowledge of the pregnancy. It was of no value to this interview. The niggling thought he would have shielded Cecile even if it was germane snagged at his mind. He put it aside and stood up.

  “I thank you for your frankness, sir. You have been most helpful. Keep your observation of Dulcie that night to yourself also for the present.”

  “Certainly, if that is your wish.”

  “I thank you. And you may expect to be called to stand witness in due course. The more details you can dig up from your wayward memory, Fitzgerald, the better.”

  The other’s brow lifted. “I dare say you are bound to retain an open mind on that score, Colonel. I can only hope further discovery will eliminate the need for me to fear the rope.”

  Upon which note, George took his leave, feeling that if Fitzgerald was the murderer, he was a very cool villain indeed.

  Ottilia listened with close attention to George’s tirade, delivered as he strode up and down the parlour, his tall person in the mi
litary rig dwarfing the place.

  “I’ve been played, I’m convinced of it, Ottilia. First the wretch points the finger at Collins, having done his best to pretend otherwise. Then he introduces this spurious memory, which he claims evaded him previously, of seeing Dulcie get into a coach. For my money, Fitzgerald was, if anything, in the coach. From there to the cemetery is a mere couple of miles.”

  At this, Ottilia entered a caveat. “Would he take her there directly? He has first to render her into a suitable state for the killing, do you not think?”

  George halted by the mantel, setting a hand on it as he looked frowningly down at her.

  She had been watching the tumbling waves out of the window when he arrived, hot from his interview with the theatre manager and bursting with spleen. Her curiosity aroused, Ottilia had taken Sybilla’s seat by the fire, which Tyler had coaxed into life at her request. Her mother-in-law was still in her room and Francis had slipped out to warn the dowager’s cronies not to expect her since she had the headache, no doubt brought on by yesterday’s reminder of her quarrel with her elder son.

  Seeing George’s temper sadly frayed as well, Ottilia had invited him to unburden himself, which he did with a vengeance, clearly by no means pleased by her interrupting question.

  “What are you getting at, Ottilia?”

  She spoke in a soothing tone. “You may have better information from the doctor who performed the autopsy, George, but it seems probable to me the murderer must have administered a drug to Dulcie to render her insensible.”

  George’s frown did not abate. “Before killing her, you mean?”

  “Just so. She looked beautiful, you said, which argues against any sort of struggle. Nor do I think it likely he would have stabbed her in the coach. Only think of the mess.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing George break into a grin. “Ottilia, you wretch, how can you?”

  She smiled. “Well, it is a consideration, do you not think? What did your doctor say?”

  “Roffey? He thinks she was killed in situ, but he can’t be sure.”

  “Well, if the blood was contained within the coffin, it seems probable. Imagine trying to lay a body already covered with blood into it. Then too, he clearly had his intentions already set and Dulcie was hardly going to get into the coffin herself.”