Let’s get round to the stage door.”
Frost glittered on the pavement outside the theatre, shining under the stuttering gaslights, as they made their way round to the side of the building.
Rose presented her card to the stage-door keeper. “Follow me,” he said, and winked at her. Oh dear, thought Rose. He thinks I’m the female equivalent of a stage-door Johnny.
They followed the stage-door keeper up narrow stairs and along a passage. “That’s him,” he said, jerking his hand at a door. He turned and left them.
“Here we go,” said Daisy. She rapped at the door and a voice called, “Come in.”
They entered a small dressing-room which smelled strongly of dog. The Singing Blacksmith was sitting in front of a mirror.
He stared in the mirror at them. “Who are you?”
Rose stepped forward. “I am Lady Rose Summer and this is Mrs. Levine. Are you really Roger Dallow?”
“So what’s it to you?”
“I was briefly a friend of Miss Dolly Tremaine. I am trying to find out what happened to her.”
He swung round. “I remember your name now. It was in the newspapers.”
“Was Miss Tremaine going to join you?”
“Yes. I stood outside the house and she dropped a note out of the window. She said she would join me. She said she couldn’t bear it any longer because they were forcing her to marry some old man. She said I was to meet her the following day at the Shaftsbury Monument in Piccadilly at four in the afternoon. The following day, I waited and waited, but she didn’t come. Then I heard the newsboys calling out about some murder. I bought a paper. I can’t read very well but enough to know she had been murdered.”
“Did she ever tell you she was frightened of anyone?” asked Rose.
“I wasn’t allowed to go near her in the village after someone reported we’d been seen together. I got a whipping from my dad. I wouldn’t have run away but then I heard Dolly had been taken off to London. I don’t earn much here but it would have been enough for us to live simply.” He buried his head in his hands. “I loved her.”
“The police have been looking for you,” said Rose. “May I tell them we found you?”
“No!” he cried. “I’d nothing to do with it, but if the police come round here and take me away for questioning, innocent or not, I won’t have a job when I get back.”
“What’s the awful smell in here?” asked Daisy, wrinkling her nose.
“I’ve got to share with the dog act. He’s taken them out for a walk.”
“So you have no idea at all who might have killed her?” asked Rose.
“Who would want to kill Dolly except that Lord Berrow? Maybe he got mad when she told him she wouldn’t marry him.”
“I do not think she would be allowed to do anything other than accept his proposal,” said Rose.
“Someone tried to kill you, didn’t they?” asked Roger.
“Yes, the police now think it was some hired assassin. I will not tell the police about you.”
The dressing-room door opened and a pretty chorus girl came in. “Nearly time for the curtain call, darling.” She perched on Roger’s knee and gave him a hearty kiss. Roger threw a sheepish look at Rose.
“Who’re they?” asked the chorus girl.
“Nobody, really,” said Roger.
Rose and Daisy left.
“So much for undying love,” said Rose. “He seems to have found someone new pretty quickly.”
“It’s been months since the murder,” said the ever-pragmatic Daisy. “Life goes on.”
Rose brooded on Harry on the journey back. She had never thought until that moment that Harry might fall in love and get married. The idea depressed her.
Daisy broke into her thoughts. “Going to tell the captain about Roger?”
“No.”
“He might have done it.”
“He hasn’t enough money to pay an assassin. Don’t tell Becket anything.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
¦
Harry had been visiting a house a few doors away from the earl’s town house to report that he had managed to quash a scandal.
As he left, he suddenly stopped on the front stairs. Two men were looking up at the earl’s house. When they saw Harry, they moved away.
Berrow and Banks, thought Harry. Why are they spying on Rose? I don’t like this at all.
They were walking away quickly, but he caught up with them. “Stop!” he shouted. “What were you doing watching Hadfield’s house?”
Cyril stared at him insolently. “We stopped to have a cigar.”
“You were not smoking.”
“See here,” said Berrow, shoving his fat and florid face at Harry, “you’re a cheeky upstart. You’ve betrayed your class. How dare you question me!”
“I’m warning you,” said Harry, “if I catch you here again, I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, and if either of you had anything to do with the murder of Dolly Tremaine, I’ll find out.”
They backed away from him, turned, and walked rapidly out of the square.
“Needs to be taught a lesson,” growled Berrow. “Have you seen that motor of his? He’s making a fortune out of his grubby business. I’d like to punish him. Are you sure Lady Rose really fancies you? I mean, she got engaged to Petrey.”
“And we all know what Petrey is. I tell you, Lady Rose was all over me. Think of her fortune. Think of getting the Ice Queen into bed. But I’ve got to get rid of Petrey and I’ve thought of a way.”
¦
Sir Peter Petrey was leaving The Club two days later. London was in the grip of a particularly nasty thick yellow fog. It was one of those lung-searing fogs of winter blanketing London, blotting out landmarks. He knew if he could even get a hansom, it would take him ages to get home.
It was late afternoon and he realized he would need to walk home if he was to manage to change into his evening clothes and escort Rose to a dinner party.
He bumped into someone in the fog. “I say, I am sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right. Beastly weather,” said a young voice. “Do you know the way to Charles Street?”
“I’m going there myself. Come along.”
They walked on together. As they passed a lighted shop front, the fog swirled for a moment and thinned. Peter looked at his companion and caught his breath. He was looking at the face of an angel. Golden hair like guineas glinted under a silk hat, large deep eyes, a perfect skin, and a mouth like Cupid’s bow.
“Are you visiting London?” he asked.
“No, I live here. I’m going to visit friends. This is awfully good of you, sir.”
“My name is Peter Petrey. And you are…?”
“Jonathan Wilks.”
“I am glad of the company on such a filthy night, Mr. Wilks.”
“Do call me Jonathan, everyone does.”
They talked about plays they had seen and poetry they had read. Peter began not to notice the fog. He felt he was enclosed in a golden bubble with this dazzling youth.
Just before they reached Peter’s house, the young man stopped. “This is where I leave you.”
“Here is my card,” said Peter. “Do call. I’ll wait to see you get in safely.”
Jonathan knocked at the door. Then he came back down the front steps. “They don’t seem to be at home. I must have forgotten the day. This is Friday, is it not?”
“No, it’s Thursday.”
“Oh dear.”
“Look, come in with me and have a sherry while I dress.”
When Peter arrived slightly late and out of breath, Rose noticed he seemed to shine with an inner glow. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I haven’t made a mistake about him. He looks like a man in love.
