someone nobody recognized at first glance, or about whom the general public doesn’t particularly care. But that is only a partial answer. How could she have money? And who was she? He reads on.
“Auburn hair … medium height … age twenty-two.”
He wants more than that and turns the page, ignoring the gurgling sound from J.S. Mill’s gut. There in front of him is a large woodcut drawing of … Lillie Irving.
“Lillie,” he says out loud. At last. She is beautiful indeed. And almost the spitting image of his mother in her younger years. The boy swallows and keeps reading.
“Miss Irving had appeared in numerous plays and pantomimes over the four or five years since she first entered the profession. Though a young woman of remarkable physical charms, she never ascended to any significant roles. She is dearly missed by fellow thespians, who say she came from humble parentage, that she lived alone in London, had no siblings, that her mother and father were recently deceased.”
Sherlock has never heard of her. Whatever is on at The Lyceum, The Theatre Royal Drury Lane, anywhere in the West End or elsewhere, he likes to take note. That whole world of wonder fascinates him. But Lillie Irving? She doesn’t even ring a distant bell.
How could an unknown like this, playing small roles given to her solely for her beauty, have been decked out in jewels that night, or on any night? She came from “humble parentage.” Something doesn’t make sense.
He reads farther down in the article.
“She was playing in
The Haymarket. He knows exactly where it is: not more than a costermonger’s shout from Trafalgar; an area frequented by pleasure seekers of a questionable sort. Plays begin at 8:00 in London and finish past 10:00. He needs to know more about Lillie Irving.
He’ll spend the rest of the day writing a script in his head – what he needs to do and say at the Haymarket. Then it will be time for a night at the theater.
He won’t take Irene. He doesn’t want her near a place where suspicions might touch her and directly involve her in this dangerous game.
He’ll go alone.
LILLIE AND MR. LEAR
He doesn’t need to change his disguise. The filthy clothes he has on will work perfectly. Crossing busy Leicester Square, he goes over his lines. He mumbles them aloud, less afraid of detection here, as he moves through the big crowd. This is one of the rowdiest spots in London. You can hide an elephant here. All around him are dandies and ladies, beggars and blokes, gypsies dancing, sounds coming out of the open doors of music halls, a steady buzz of talk in the air, drowning out the hiss of the gas lamps that dimly light the colorful scene.
After he turns down narrow Whitcomb Street he has to be more careful. The crowds thin. The theater is still in session. He tucks his head down and watches for anyone surveying pedestrians. He’ll approach the building from the rear. He knows a spot.
He cuts through an opening between shops and in seconds sees the tall white back of the Theatre Royal Haymarket against the dark sky. Clouds are gathering in the night’s ceiling, threatening rain again. He checks the fading moon – it must be nearing 10:00. The stage door is straight ahead. The shadows here will give him protection. He drops down between two dustbins. A big rat scurries away.
Laughter, then silence, then faint declamations of actors come through the stone walls. The reactions of the crowd make him smile. Sleep begins to descend on him. Applause. Sleep.
Suddenly the door opens. Feet are moving quickly.
Sherlock leaps up. His cap falls from his head and he nearly knocks over the bins. Straightening them, he tries to remember his lines. His mouth feels dry.
Luckily, the first person out the door isn’t the sort he is seeking. It is a man. Sherlock recognizes his face. Not a big star – the famous ones leave through the front door in hansom cabs. Shrinking back, he lets the actor pass. Silence. The door opens again. Another man appears with a woman on his arm. They are wrapped up together, her lips are painted scarlet red, the top of her dress reveals part of her bare chest, his hand slides down her back and pinches her somewhere lower. She giggles. The door slams. There is silence for seconds. Then a woman appears alone. He’s seen this lady’s picture in the theater reviews – she wouldn’t have associated with Miss Irving.
The door opens again. Out comes a beautiful young woman, nearly as pretty as Lillie, certainly as young. Sherlock has never seen her face before. He steps in front of her.
It is nearly a fatal mistake and he is only saved by the woman’s pluck. She gasps, but doesn’t scream. She pulls back her purse like a cricket bowler ready to fire, her target the boy’s face.
“No,” he protests, trying not to raise his voice. “I’m not a thief!”
“Then stand aside,” she commands. She isn’t delicate when frightened. Her face has colored.
Sherlock has stage fright. What is his first line?
“I … I am an acquaintance of Lillie Irving.”
“You?” she lowers her purse.
That will do for an answer. She is on script.
“Miss Irving was a wonderful lady,” Sherlock begins.
“She was,” says the actress, her voice softening.
“I used to beg from her.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
That is off script and she seems suspicious.
“Uh … not here … in Leicester Square…. She always gave me something.”
“Well, she had extra, she did.”
Sherlock doesn’t speak. Best to see if the woman will say more.
“Her fancy man,” she explains.
The boy remains mute.
“A mystery, he was.” The woman seems to want to talk. “I was her best friend and knew naught. Usually we gossiped about our beaus. But that was how they wanted it, she and him. That’s what she said, anyway. His footman sent his card up to her room in Aldgate one evening when I was there. Asked to be on my way, I was…. She was raised just east of there, poor thing.” The woman smiles, “Yes, her
The door opens again. An older actress enters the night, big and fat, makeup heavy on her face, her bosom nearly spilling out of her dress. She eyes the street urchin confronting her young friend.
“What’s this?” she inquires loudly. “What’s he want?”
“Just asking after Lillie, Maude. It seems he used to –”
“Lillie!” The big woman advances toward the boy, glaring at him. “Why would you be asking …”
Sherlock doesn’t wait for more. He darts away, back down the opening between the buildings toward the streets. Behind him, he hears the fat woman chiding the younger one, telling her she is a “yapper … a young lamb with a big mouth.” He sprints away like a derby horse, until he plunges into the crowds of Leicester Square.
He’d learned something else. “She was raised just east of there, poor thing …” the young actress had said. Now he knows why the villain had been able to draw her there. She lived in Aldgate and grew up to the east … in Whitechapel. Lillie Irving had known those streets.
