The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) (20 page)

‘There are two final things I need to insist upon before I show you the list. Firstly, this conversation needs to remain confidential. Nobody must know that you’re helping us in this way,’ he continued, ‘Especially Stephen Lavender.’

For a moment, he thought he saw doubt flash across her face. But then she nodded. Read wasn’t entirely sure how Lavender would react to Magdalena’s involvement in espionage, but he suspected that he wouldn’t be pleased. Read had been surprised by the stubbornness his usually genial detective had shown concerning this woman and by the icy-cold glint that had set in Lavender’s eyes when Read had dared to criticise their liaison.

‘And the other thing is that I think you should tell Detective Lavender the truth about your escape from Spain. He deserves your honesty.’ Magdalena’s beautiful eyes narrowed and clouded with alarm. ‘If you don’t tell him, then I’m afraid I must.’ She swallowed, and nodded again.

That might bring the man back to his senses and dampen his ardour
, Read thought with a small glow of satisfaction.

Satisfied that Magdalena would comply with his terms, Read turned over the paper. A large smile illuminated her face as she read the names spread out before her.

‘Oh, I think I will be able to help you, Magistrate Read,’ she said slowly. ‘Now, how much did you say that you intended to pay me for this service?’

Chapter Twenty-three

The Sans Pareil Theatre was different in the daylight, Lavender realised – it was less magical. The porter had told him that the cast were in rehearsal but had allowed him to enter anyway. He walked unobserved into the back of the stalls. The company used fewer candles to light the auditorium for a rehearsal and as a result the upper circle, the boxes and the far corners of the vast chamber were shrouded in shadow, the gilded, ornamental carvings dulled. As the actors and actresses strutted across the stage, they seemed smaller and more insignificant without their elaborate costumes and garish make-up. With no soft-bodied audience to absorb the noise, Lavender was now conscious of the thud of each booted footstep across the hallowed boards and the actors’ booming voices echoing around the empty stalls and boxes of the auditorium.

Jane Scott had seated herself in the third row of the stalls. A dark blue turban held back her wiry hair; a flowered overdress covered her dark gown. She had kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged, peeling an orange while directing her actors at the same time. ‘Good heavens, Bill! Do you have a memory in that head of yours?’ she demanded as one of the actors forgot his lines again.

‘Sorry, Miss Scott!’ Bill called down off the stage cheerfully.

‘Oh, do us all a favour and shake out some of the sawdust that’s between your ears then,’ she replied acidly. The rest of the cast laughed.

Jane Scott clapped her hands to get their attention again. ‘Now, now,’ she said sternly. ‘Let’s try to finish this act and work together, shall we?’

The actors redid the scene, word-perfect. Lavender smiled. Jane Scott ran a tight ship. He stood and watched for a while as the act jerked awkwardly towards its finale.

‘I suppose that this will have to do for now.’ Jane Scott sighed. ‘Let’s break for some refreshment and I hope that you return more alert than you have been this morning.’

Lavender saw his opportunity and assuming a cold professional attitude, he walked towards her.

‘Detective!’ She rose to her feet and wiped her orange-juice-soaked hands on her gown. ‘What a surprise. Have you more news about poor April?’

‘Yes,’ he said, not returning her smile. ‘May we talk in private?’

She led him back to the same office where they had talked on his last visit. The smell was as cloying as it had been last time he visited the dark, narrow, backstage corridors. Lavender’s ears caught the hum of conversation and laughter from the actors in the green room. It was directly in front of him at the end of the corridor. The door was open and he could see the table against the far wall where April Clare had put down her play script. Good. This would make Woods’ role easier.

Once in the privacy of the office, Jane Scott removed a dusty pile of folded velvet curtains, and a jester’s hat complete with jingling bells, from the only chair in the room. She sat down gracefully, smoothed her gown and folded her hands primly in her lap. ‘How can I help you, Detective Lavender?’

‘I have some good news – and two pieces of bad news for you, Miss Scott.’

Her hand fluttered to her bosom and her face whitened and emphasised the outline of the smallpox scars beneath her powder. She blinked up at him. ‘Oh dear. Perhaps I should hear the good news first to cushion the blow?’

‘Very well. The good news is that your actress, Miss April Divine, is not dead.’ He paused to let the full impact of his words sink into the startled brain of the shocked woman. She gasped, gave a short laugh, shook her head in disbelief and asked him to repeat himself.

‘Miss Divine is not dead. But alas, her identical twin sister, Mrs Willoughby, is. That is the first piece of bad news. Where you aware that Miss Divine had a twin sister?’ he asked.

Speechless, she shook her head.

‘It was a natural mistake to make when the surgeon examined Mrs Willoughby,’ he continued. ‘He didn’t know that Miss Divine had a twin either, and he assumed that he was examining the body of the famous actress.’

‘Quite,’ Jane Scott spluttered. She took a deep breath and blurted out her next few sentences. ‘This is wonderful news. I’m so pleased that dear April is still alive – but it’s distressing to hear about her sister. Where is poor April now?’

‘Miss Divine is very upset. She has been staying with her stepmother, Lady Caroline. The funeral takes place tomorrow morning but she hopes to return to work for Saturday night’s performance of
The Necromancer
.’

‘Of course, of course,’ she said. Frown lines suddenly appeared above her thin eyebrows. ‘Poor April,’ she said, thoughtfully.

‘My second piece of bad news concerns this,’ he said. He pulled the crumpled news-sheet out of his pocket and placed it face down on the table between them. He smoothed it out until the headline,
Actress Brutally Slain
, was visible. ‘As it turns out, poor Mrs Willoughby died from natural causes and – of course – she’s not an actress. Somebody was ill-informed when they spoke to the newspaper.’

‘Ah.’ Guilt flashed across her features.

‘Yes,’ he said sternly. ‘The paper will need to print a retraction. The story you gave them was incorrect.’

She flushed with embarrassment and gathered up the offending news-sheet. ‘Of course, Detective, of course. I will contact the reporter today. I will make sure that the newspaper prints an amendment in tomorrow’s edition.’

A tiny paragraph at the bottom of the page, no doubt
, Lavender thought.

‘That would be one approach to take,’ he said, slowly. ‘However, there is another way to undo the damage of that premature article and further the interests of the theatre at the same time.’

‘There is?’

‘You have been most fortunate.’

‘I have?’

He paused for a moment to let her dangle on his hook for a bit longer. ‘Yes, Miss Divine has come up with an idea which may help the Sans Pareil and alleviate any problems caused by your mistake.’ Her eyes were alert, attentive and fixed on his. ‘Miss Divine has suggested that you allow the news-sheet to make a big story about her miraculous resurrection. She feels that it would only enhance her career – and increase attendance at her performances in the theatre – if they reported the full story about how she was assumed to be dead.’

Jane Scott’s eyes lit up and she clapped her hands together in glee. ‘Of course! What a clever girl April is! The news-sheet will sell out in a matter of hours with a story like that on the front page – and so shall we! The actress who rose from the grave will become the talk of London. They will flock to see her performances!’

Lavender hid his smile and let her enjoy her moment. The queen of the lurid melodrama stood up and paced the floor of the office, her mind bursting with ideas. ‘We will have to give April a part in
Mary, the Maid of the Inn
,’ she said. ‘I shall organise a reception to be held in the green room for her return on Saturday night.’

‘There is one last thing, Miss Scott,’ he said. ‘Although Mrs Willoughby died from natural causes, we’re still not happy about the other circumstances of her death.’

‘No? Oh yes – that dreadful place where she was found. Yes, I can understand that, Detective.’

‘As a result, we have decided to provide Miss Divine with some discreet protection for a short while. I would appreciate it if you would allow one of my constables into the theatre under the pretence that he’s a labourer, in order that he can watch out for Miss Divine’s safety.’

‘Certainly, Detective. I’m more than happy to help in any way I can.’

‘No one must know that he’s a policeman.’

‘Of course not, you have my word. I shall be discreet.’

Lavender stared at her smiling face and was tempted to say something cutting, but he held back. If their plan was to succeed he needed the cooperation of Jane Scott. He needed her to weave her influence with the news-sheet reporter, whom he hoped would maximise the sensation about April Clare’s return to the theatre and inflame the public’s imagination. It was important to his scheme that by Saturday most of London was talking about the actress, April Divine. He needed the whole city to know and marvel about the fact that she had risen from the dead and was returning to the Sans Pareil for Saturday evening’s performance. Despite any nagging doubts he still harboured about this female theatre owner, he recognised that he needed Jane Scott’s skills and her flair for publicity.

Lavender decided to call at the language school and see Magdalena before he returned to Bow Street.

No one received him as he entered the deserted hallway of the dilapidated non-descript building on Hart Street. He heard the low murmur of voices from one of the rooms; the unmistakable chant of students declining French plural and singular nouns. But apart from this and the muffled noise of the traffic outside, the place was eerily quiet.

He knew from his own lessons that the Spanish classrooms were on the second floor and he ascended the narrow, wooden staircase. When he turned the corner on the first-floor landing, his face broke out in a grin. Above him, he heard the unmistakable sound of Magdalena berating her students.

‘No, no, no!’ she shouted. She accompanied each syllable by rapping a wooden stick across the top of a table with a sharp thwack. ‘Pay attention! The
ser
and
estar
verbs are different. Both are the same as the English verb: “to be.” Both
soy
or
estoy
mean “I am” – but you use them in different circumstances. Try again.
Estoy viajando a Madrid
– I am journeying to Madrid.’

He heard a deep chorus of male voices repeat: ‘
Estoy viajando Madrid
.’

‘
Tu estas viajando a Madrid
,’ she said. ‘You are going to Madrid.’

‘
Tu estas viajando a Madrid
,’ echoed her students.

The door to the classroom was ajar. Lavender paused outside and watched Magdalena. She stood in front of a blackboard mounted on a portable wooden frame. Teresa sat on a stool, needlework in hand, beside a cheerful fire burning in the grate on the opposite wall. There were no drapes at the tall, rectangular windows, no carpet on the bare floorboards and the walls were plain and dirty. But at least the room was warm. Magdalena had taken off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her dress for the lesson, revealing the smooth golden skin of her arms. In front of her, four men sat bolt upright around an ink-stained table, their parchment, quills and slate tablets scattered across the surface. Several of the men had also removed their coats and slung them over the back of their chairs. Magdalena had a pointed stick in one elegant hand, which she waved in time to the rhythm of her carefully articulated Castellano.

No one noticed Lavender’s arrival. Everyone was focused on Magdalena; the men hung on every word that fell from her soft lips. He smiled when he realised that after the ponderous teaching of Professor Quincy, Magdalena’s arrival must have been like a breath of fragrant air to these men – or possibly, quite a shock. He recognised two of the older operatives: Williams and MacDonald. Williams seemed less keen to join in with the verb chanting than MacDonald, who was concentrating hard. Lavender had only had a brief acquaintance with both of them. These men had spent their lives in the shadows of Europe, flitting quietly in and out of one country or another at the bidding of the government. They were shadows themselves: glimpsed today, invisible tomorrow.

But at the moment, they were ordinary men struggling to keep up with the quick brain, quick tongue and even quicker stick-brandishing right wrist of the feisty Magdalena Morales.

One of the men stumbled over his pronunciation and received a sharp rap across his knuckles for his mistake. Startled, he yelped and drew back his hand. But he didn’t make the same mistake twice; the next time his pronunciation was flawless. Lavender had to stop himself from laughing out loud as MacDonald earned himself a swipe across the back of his hand. At this rate, Magdalena would to earn herself the reputation as the best whip-hand in Covent Garden, which would be a considerable achievement in an area dominated by at least four notorious and exotic ‘ladies’ who charged a fortune for flogging their customers.

‘
Estoy viajando a Madrid
!
’ she said. ‘I am journeying to Madrid.
Tu estas viajando
– you are journeying to Madrid. Remember: it’s a journey, not a permanent situation.’

‘I never realised that
soy
and
estoy
are so different,’ moaned one of her younger students.

Magdalena nodded. ‘“
Yo soy Doña Magdalena
” means “I am Doña Magdalena” – forever. It is my permanent state. This is why we use
estar
and not
ser
to ask after someone’s health or whereabouts. “
Como est
á
” means “how is he?” or “
donde est
á
” means “where is he?” – at this
precise
moment. Now, Mr Williams, shall we try again?’

The man named Williams shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat. ‘
Yo soy Señor Williams y soy viajando a Madrid
.’

‘No!’ The stick crashed down on the table again. ‘
Estoy viajando a Madrid
!
’

‘But I
am
Señor Williams – and I am the person travelling to Madrid,’ the man protested, frowning. ‘I won’t change on the way like Saul on the road to Damascus.’ The other men guffawed. ‘At least, I don’t expect to.’

Magdalena sighed. ‘I think you have missed the point, Señor Williams. You are not going to be travelling to Madrid forever and ever – it is not a permanent situation.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps we should leave it there for today, and try again tomorrow.’

There was an audible sigh of relief and the tension lifted. The men pushed back their chairs and reached for their coats. Magdalena stood back and waited for them to leave. Meanwhile, Teresa also rose to her feet and packed up Magdalena’s papers.

‘My! How parched is my throat?’ said one of the younger men loudly. ‘Is your throat parched, Doña Magdalena? I think I shall retire to the coffee house on Garrick Street for a beverage. Would you care to accompany me?’