“Aunt Vespasia, but it is not a great deal, really.”
“Never mind! What can we do to help?”
“Learn more about them, the people involved, in case there is some other crime, or personal secret, as you suspected, which someone feared Judge Stafford might uncover.”
“Oh, excellent,” Caroline said quickly. “Where shall we begin?”
“Perhaps with Devlin O’Neil,” Charlotte suggested.
“But what about Mrs. Stafford, and Mr. Pryce?” Caroline’s face was pinched with concern, and a certain guilt because she was wishing them into such tragedy.
“We don’t know them,” Charlotte pointed out reasonably. “Let us begin where we can. At least Miss Macaulay or Mr. Fielding may help us there.”
“Yes—yes, of course.” Caroline looked Charlotte up and down. “You are dressed very becomingly. Are you ready to leave now?”
“If you think we may go without first obtaining an invitation?”
“Oh yes, I am sure Miss Macaulay would receive us if we go this morning. They rehearse in the afternoons, and that would be inconvenient.”
“Do they?” Charlotte said with surprise and a touch of sarcasm. She had not realized Caroline was so well acquainted with the daily habits of actors and actresses. With difficulty she refrained from remarking on it.
Caroline looked away and began to make arrangements, calling to the footman to send for the carriage again, and informing the staff that she would be out for luncheon.
Several of the cast of the theater company rented a large house in Pimlico, sharing it among them. The manager, Mr. Inigo Passmore, was an elderly gentleman who had been a “star” in his day, but now preferred to take only character parts. His wife also had been an actress, but she seldom appeared on the stage these days, enjoying a place of honor and considerable power, directing the wardrobe, properties and, when it was required, music. They had the ground floor of the house, and thus the garden.
Joshua Fielding had the rooms at the front of the next floor, and a young actress of great promise, Clio Farber, the rooms at the back. The third floor was occupied by Tamar Macaulay and her daughter.
“I didn’t know she had a child,” Charlotte said in surprise as Caroline was remarking on the arrangements to her during their carriage ride from Cater Street to Pimlico. “I didn’t know she was married. Is her husband in the theater?”
“Don’t be naive,” Caroline said crisply, staring straight ahead of her.
“I beg your pardon? Oh.” Charlotte was embarrassed. “You mean she is not married? I’m sorry. I did not realize.”
“It would be tactful not to mention it,” Caroline said dryly.
“Of course. Who else lives there?”
“I don’t know. A couple of ingenues in the attic.”
“A couple of what?”
“Very young actresses who take the part of innocent girls.”
“Oh.”
They said no more until they arrived at Claverton Street in Pimlico, and alighted.
The door was opened to them by a girl of about sixteen, who was pretty in a fashion far more colorful than that of any parlormaid Charlotte had encountered before. Added to which she did not wear the usual dark stuff dress and white cap and apron, but a rather flattering dress of pink, and an apron that looked as if it had been put on hastily. There was no cap on her thick, dark hair.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Ellison,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll be to see Mr. Fielding, I daresay. Or is it Miss Macaulay? I think they’re both at home.” She held the door wide for them.
“Thank you, Miranda,” Caroline said, going up the steps and into the hallway. Charlotte followed immediately behind her, startled by the familiarity with which the girl greeted Caroline.
“This is my daughter, Charlotte Pitt,” Caroline introduced her. “Miranda Passmore. Mr. Passmore is the manager of the company.”
“How do you do, Miranda,” Charlotte replied, hastily collecting her wits and hoping it was the correct thing to say to someone in such an extraordinary position. Nowhere else had she met a haphazard parlormaid who was the daughter of a manager of anything at all.
Miranda smiled broadly. Perhaps she had met the situation many times before.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt. Please go on up. Just knock on the door when you get there.”
Charlotte and Caroline obeyed, crossing the hall in which Charlotte at least would have liked to have remained for several minutes. Like the room in the theater where she had been too busy to look, it was entirely decorated with old theater posters, and she saw wonderful names that conjured images of limelight and drama, ringing voices and the thrill of passion and drama: George Conquest, Beerbohm Tree, Ellen Terry, Mrs. Patrick Campbell, a marvelous, towering figure of Sir Henry Irving as Hamlet, and another of Sarah Bernhardt in magnificently dramatic pose. There were others she had no time to see, and she followed Caroline reluctantly.
On the first landing were more posters, these for the Gilbert and Sullivan operas
She knocked on the door, and after a few moments it was opened by Tamar Macaulay herself. Charlotte had
