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

  Stunned faces only answered her. In a bang, Cecile came to herself, shock and grief churning in her breast. Overcome, she dropped back into her chair and threw her hands over her face, tears seeping as she struggled to hold back the sobs.

  Around her the whispering began.

  Hilde’s voice. “Poor child, she’s overwrought.”

  Then Lewis. “Fetch the brandy, Jasper. You must know where it is.”

  “Oh, the deuce, why me?” Inaudible hissing. “All right, all right.”

  Hilde again. “She’s right, you know. We are behaving abominably.”

  “It’s my fault.” A shrill whisper. “I shouldn’t have attacked Jasper.”

  “Not you, Kate.” Lewis again. “It’s Jasper who spoke out of turn.”

  “Will you all be quiet, if you please?”

  Jane’s authoritative tones cut into the hubbub. Cecile heard the swish of skirts and then an arm came about her shoulders, and a gentle murmur in French she recognised from the early days.

  “Du calme, mon pauvre. You have suffered with stoic courage, my child. And this hits you harder than most.”

  Cecile raised her head to look at the woman who had done her utmost to replace the mother she had lost. She managed a wan smile.

  “Forgive me,” she returned in her own tongue. “I should not have spoken so.”

  “Yes, you should. Someone had to call this crew to order.”

  “That is for you, madame.”

  “I am out of curl, my child. This dreadful news has overset me so that I know not if I am on my head or my heels.” She switched to English. “Ah, here is Jasper with the brandy. Drink this, child.”

  A glass was thrust into Cecile’s hand. She eyed the liquid at the bottom with distaste.

  “I like it not.”

  “A sip or two will revive you. Drink.”

  Obedient to the pressure of the hand that took hold of hers, she brought the glass to her lips and drank. Fire blasted her throat and she coughed. But a second sip was pressed upon her and she found it warming. The ice in her veins began to dissipate.

  “Hand over the bottle, Jasper,” said Hilde. “I dare say we can all do with a drop. I know I need one.”

  “Lace Janey’s coffee with it, Jasper.”

  The murmur of voices washed over Cecile as the bottle was passed around, along with the chink of cups and glasses. Ashamed of her outburst, she kept her eyes on the glass still in her hands, sipping at intervals. But the seeping chill of suspicion could not be long dismissed. If Dulcie lay dead, Cecile alone knew why she had been killed. She would not betray her friend’s secret, especially now. Despite the lack of confirmation, Cecile began to eye the males of the company askance.

  Chapter Three

  Confronted with the corpse laid out upon Dr Roffey’s long table, the tumble of golden curls incongruous against the lovely face waxen in death, The Grand Ferdinando stood frozen for a space, riveted.

  George could scarcely blame him. The atmosphere in the surgery was gloomy with its sideboard and shelved walls loaded with ominous-looking instruments, banks of medicine bottles, large leather-backed tomes and a plethora of jumbled items to which the layman could put no name. Eerily, the upper windows let in a shaft of light that illuminated the golden head of the sheet-shrouded corpse, creating as macabre a picture as she must have been in the lonely candlelit vigil of the night hours in the graveyard.

  Roffey had lifted the corner of the sheet down only enough to reveal the face, which was as well, since Ferdinand’s reaction was bad enough. If he were to see the horribly stained stomach with its gaping wound and the blood-spattered clothes, Lord knew what he might do. But the question had to be asked.

  “Is this indeed Miss Dulcie, Mr Ferdinand?”

  He did not take his eyes from the girl. “Dulcibella… Dulcibella, no. No, no, no, no, no.”

  George exchanged a glance with Roffey, standing on the other side, who grimaced his confusion.

  “You mean it is not Dulcibella?”

  Ferdinand’s gaze rose and the shock in his eyes was a contradiction. “Who did this?”

  “That I don’t yet know, sir, but I must ask you again. Is this or is this not your actress?”

  At that, the impresario wafted a hand across the corpse. “This? This cold creature? No, this is not my little Dulcie.” His voice took on power. “My little Dulcie is alive, vibrant, warm. You will not make me take in her stead this … this thing.”

  Exasperation seized George, but Roffey cut in before he could speak, his tone one of cool reprimand.

  “Sir, you are not now upon the stage. You are in the presence of the dead. I must beg you to assume a proper deference.”

  “Quite so, Roffey,” George agreed on a snap. “Mr Ferdinand, I brought you here for the purpose of making a formal identification. Can you do so? And pray don’t treat me to any more nonsensical flights, which, I may add, give me a poor notion of your true sentiments.”

  Ferdinand shook his head with a gesture more dismissive than theatrical and his tone dropped. “You are very right, both of you. It is ingrained, I fear, quite ingrained.”

  “Well?”

  “You wish me to say this shell is in truth our dear girl, and it pains me so to do.” He thrust his shoulders back but his voice shook. “It must be faced. Yes, Colonel, if you must have it in plain words. These are the remains of Dulcibella Ash.” Upon which, the impresario broke down into unmanly sobs, his demeanour far more natural than hitherto.

  George signalled the doctor to the far end of the room, dropping his voice to a murmur. “What do you make of him, Roffey? Is he acting now, do you suppose?”

  The doctor, a man some years in advance of George’s two and thirty, who had already acquired the air of superiority common to medical men, adjusted his spectacles and tutted. “Oh, a consummate play-actor, my dear fellow. I know him of old, for I have had occasion to serve one or other of the players in the past. I believe he cannot help it. These theatrical men appear to me to live in some make-believe world of their own which has very little to do with the one the rest of us inhabit.”

  “Yes, I rather got that impression. But do you suppose him sincere in his grief, for all that?”

  Dr Roffey peered over the spectacles, a little twinkle appearing. “That, my dear fellow, is for you to interpret. My part, I thank God, ends when I have conducted the post-mortem.”

  “The coroner requires it? Even though we can see well enough how she was stabbed?”

  “But with what, Colonel? And there may be other factors to be taken into account. I know Pollicott all too well. Leave no stone unturned is my advice. The meticulous sort, I fear. He will nose out every little detail.”

  George groaned. “Wonderful. That’s all I need.” He glanced towards Ferdinand, who was now wiping his eyes with a large spotted handkerchief. “I’d best get back to the lodging-house and find out where all these infernal players were last night. Have you any notion of the time of the murder?”

  “Well after midnight. She is cool, but rigor is not yet complete. The cornea has clouded, however, so we must assume a good six hours or more. I should say anywhere between one and three.”

  George sighed. “I foresee a pleasing time.”

  It took some moments to extract the impresario and usher him towards the boarding house. George found it difficult to judge how deeply he felt the loss, especially because it had occurred to the fellow that his productions were now in jeopardy. Ferdinand regained a little of his customary manner as he began to bemoan the shoals ahead.

  “How shall we manage without the jewel of our company? Alas! Our Kate is comely enough, I grant you, but I fear she will never draw them in as Dulcie does — oh, must I say did?” An eloquent shudder. “It is not to be borne, yet bear it I must.” A hand clapped to his brow. “Tomorrow’s performance! Oh, disaster, disaster!”

  “I doubt you’ll be performing anything tomorrow, Mr Ferdinand,” George cut in on a prosaic note.

&nbs
p; He was treated to a shocked stare. “Not perform? But my dear sir, there is no question of such a thing. The Company of The Grand Ferdinando never, but never fails! Tradition, Colonel. We cannot break with tradition.”

  “In this extremity, tradition may go hang,” said George with acerbity. “Chances are I’ll have one of your wretched players under lock and key by tonight.”

  A gasp of horror greeted this. “You cannot suppose one of our own has done this thing? No, no, Colonel, you are mistaken, I assure you with every power of my soul, you are mistaken. Impossible!”

  “Unfortunately, Mr Ferdinand, it is all too possible. What is more, I intend to question every one of them directly.”

  Ferdinand appeared momentarily bereft of speech. Throwing him a glance, George spied a look of chagrin on his face and his senses came acutely alert. He could not avoid the reflection that the flamboyant nature of the murder, with its open coffin and candles, was perfectly in accord with what he had so far seen of The Grand Ferdinando’s manner.

  He entered the lodging-house in the wake of a silent and unusually thoughtful host and followed him upstairs with an inward sigh at the task awaiting him.

  Nothing was to be done at once, however. Ferdinand chose to make his announcement in a fashion George found both callous and ill-considered.

  “Have you told them, Jane?”

  When his wife nodded, he glared around the sea of anticipatory faces, which appeared to George to have been augmented since he was last in the room. It looked crowded.

  “It is all too true,” pursued Ferdinand. “Our Dulcie has been cruelly cut off. She is dead. Murdered.” Into the stunned silence, he thundered, “Who has done this thing?”

  Watching closely, George saw flickers of fear and dismay pass along the crowd of whitened features turned towards their leader. Except for the fellow’s wife, in whom he recognised exasperation. Thankfully, she at once came forward.

  “For heaven’s sake, be quiet, Arthur! Do you want to cause a riot? Sit down, my dear, and think what you are saying.”

  She urged him towards one of the chairs by the fire, murmuring indistinctly into the fellow’s ear, while the rest began to shift, discomfort and dismay appearing in one or two faces, together with a raft of murmurs.

  George found his gaze seeking out the little French émigré. She was seated still at the table, obscured to some degree by the standing figures of two men George did not remember to have seen before. Cecile Benoit had her hands over her face and her shaking shoulders told him she at least had succumbed to grief.

  He caught the gaze of a large woman, also seated, who was staring at him, white-faced, with tears slipping down her cheeks though she neither sniffed nor sobbed. George had time only to take in the other female, standing near the young fellow he remembered as the player Jasper. She was biting at one hand, the other clutching the boy’s arm. And then Mrs Ferdinand was before him, remarkably cool, if a trifle pale.

  “You will wish to know the names of our people, Colonel. They are all here, apart from the fellows who care for our vehicles and the horses. Allow me to introduce you.”

  “Thank you. That would help enormously, ma’am.”

  She gave a brief nod and turned at once to two newcomers, a wiry man of small stature, whom she introduced as Wat, and an ape-like giant by the name of Aisling.

  “These are our invaluable stage hands, who also take on whatever roles are needed. They have an inexhaustible repertoire.”

  She was about to turn, when George interposed. “Give me leave, ma’am.” He addressed them impartially. “Can you both tell me at once where you were last night?”

  The fellow Wat grimaced and shrugged. “We’d a performance. We were at the theatre.”

  “And after?”

  He glanced up at his companion. “Went to The Black Dog with Ais once we finished putting all away.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “Dunno. Ten, eleven? Ais?”

  The big man was frowning. He rubbed his nose. “Couldn’t say.” His voice was deep, in keeping with his size. “Mebbe eleven. I didn’t bide long. I was in bed come midnight, I’d say.”

  George looked his question at the other, noticing from the corner of his eyes how a man of middle age standing close by shifted, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  Wat cast a glance towards him. “I stayed drinking with Lewis here.”

  “Until what time?”

  “What time did we get back, Lew? D’you remember?”

  “Lewis Payne,” said Mrs Ferdinand with a wafted hand. “Lewis has been with us for years. A stalwart of the company.”

  The fellow Payne managed a bleak smile. “My thanks, Janey, but I doubt that fact alone will save my neck.” And to George. “You’re wanting to find out where we all were, I don’t doubt.”

  Choosing a mild approach, George nodded. “Just so, Mr Payne. Can you assist Mr Wat here to establish your return to the house?”

  “We were back before Jasper at all events. Rob too, now I think of it.”

  He nodded towards a dark man seated next to Cecile. Thin-featured with a hawk-like nose, he was grimly frowning. “I was minding Jasper until the young fool disappeared upstairs, as he usually does, with an accommodating barmaid.”

  The remark, delivered in a sarcastic tone, provoked a flurry of comment.

  “Don’t be disgusting, Rob!”

  “I’ll thank you to leave my personal habits out of this.”

  “Typical! You are the limit, Jasper!”

  “What are you, my damned nursemaid?”

  Then topping them all, in a commanding voice, Mrs Ferdinand. “That will do! Rob, that was uncalled for. Especially in present company.” She turned once again to George. “Robert Collins, Colonel, another long-serving actor.”

  But no stalwart? There was time for no more as the fellow rose, showing a figure both tall and athletically lean.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you what time I got home. I don’t customarily maintain a journal of my daily movements.”

  Eyeing him with the sort of look ordinarily reserved for an insubordinate trooper, George responded on a curt note. “An approximation will serve, Mr Collins.”

  The other shrugged, curling his lip. “Then let us approximate it at one, two, or perhaps three. Unlike Jasper here, I did not spend the night outside these walls.”

  With a snarl, Jasper leapt at the man, but the fellow Payne intervened, catching him back before he could use one of his raised fists.

  “No, you don’t! Behave, you young hound! We don’t need a brawl on top of everything else.”

  “Jasper.”

  The warning note in Mrs Ferdinand’s voice had an immediate effect. The boy paused, turned his head, his eyes seeking those of the elderly woman.

  “Enough,” she said, quiet command in her tone. “Sit down.”

  Sulkily, the boy tugged out a chair from the table and slumped into it, dropping his head on his hand and effectively hiding his face.

  George took in the clear implication that it was Mrs Ferdinand rather than her husband who had the mastery of these players. He recalled the landlady saying she was different from her husband, and he’d had ample evidence to support this notion. She exhibited none of the rodomontade he favoured and George began to wonder if he would do best to consult her before conducting separate interviews with his collection of suspects. It occurred to him belatedly that even if they were able to state the time they returned to the house, he would be obliged to seek corroboration, which might be difficult to come by. He made up his mind.

  “Mrs Ferdinand, perhaps you would be kind enough to grant me an interview in private?”

  At this, an array of consternation mingled with question entered into almost every face. Even Cecile looked up, her face streaked with woe. The Grand Ferdinando, who had been lying back in his chair with his eyes closed, apparently divorced from these proceedings, bestirred himself.

  “My wife? What do you want w
ith my wife, sir? You can’t suppose she is guilty of doing away with our little Dulcie?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Arthur,” said his helpmeet on a scornful note. “I dare say the colonel is wishful to find out a little more about the company. Or about Dulcie perhaps. Is that it?”

  She turned back to George as she spoke, brows raised. He preserved a non-committal silence. The pause was like a stage wait. George could almost hear the suspension of breath, aware every eye was upon him.

  Mrs Ferdinand broke the atmosphere, moving towards the door. “Follow me, if you please, Colonel.”

  George glanced around the company. “I will be obliged if none of you will leave the house.”

  “But I must dress,” protested the large woman, rising. She threw a hand to encompass the rest. “As several others no doubt need to do as well.”

  “I have no objection to anyone leaving the room, as long as you all remain within call.”

  Mrs Ferdinand was already in the corridor outside and George made to follow. He was forestalled by the man Rob.

  “For how long must we kick our heels at your pleasure?”

  “Oh, do stop it, Rob,” came in an admonishing murmur from the younger girl. “Have you no feelings? Dulcie is dead.” At which she burst into tears and was at once enveloped into the large bosom of the woman Hilde.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” complained Payne, throwing a disgusted look at his colleague.

  A roar came from the hearth as The Grand Ferdinando rose up in wrath. “I will not have this! Desist, all of you! It is not fitting to the moment to be so quarrelsome and obstructive. The colonel has a sacred duty —” with a bow towards George — “and I for one have every sympathy with his mission. The perpetrator of this terrible act must be found. I trust and pray that he is not among you all, but my heart misgives me. I cannot deny it, my heart misgives me.”