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“By the time we arrived at Vauxhall, the visitors had already left. It appears the crime occurred while one of the entertainersperformed her act. All eyes were on the tightrope. Most areas were busy with customers. Dinner boxes were full. The orchestra played for a large audience on the opposite side of the rotunda. The other main acts were already finished for the night and the employees had returned to the large tent or gone home.” Fredrickson paused in the retelling, visibly uncomfortable with whatever he would say next. “Lord Fremont was found on a darkened path behind the grandstand. It is a remote and deserted area sometimes used for amorous assignations. We’ve spoken to Mr. Morland, the man in charge. Due to the loud music and typical goings-on, no one reported hearing anything untoward, mainly because a stabbing is silent in comparison to a gunshot. Considering the seclusion of the private paths, no one witnessed anything unusual. We have a plan to return tomorrow morning at nine o’clock to interview whoever was working at the time. Morland will arrange for all employees to be there.”
“I will accompany you.” Theodore stared at the officers. His heart had calmed enough now to ache with the pain of loss.
“With all due respect, Lord Essex, we came here tonight to inform you of Viscount Fremont’s passing and ask about your relationship. Nothing more,” Johns said. “Any further involvement is not necessary. We’ll?—”
“I said, I will accompany you.” It could have been the note of finality in his voice or the dead seriousness of his stare, but both officers gave their agreement before Theodore promptly led them out.
2
Almost everyone was already seated on the wooden benches inside the Turkish tent when Lola entered the next morning. Marco was quick to motion to the empty place beside him. She walked over slowly, skimming a glance over the makeshift family who’d adopted her since she’d found her way to Vauxhall two years ago. She greeted them with a slight smile.
Pockets of murmured conversation continued though concern was etched into everyone’s expression, a stark contrast to the lively colors of the tent panels. Here with these talented people, opera singers, acrobats, dancers, and jugglers, she’d found acceptance. No one cared about the color of one’s skin, manner of speech, level of education, or purse size. It was a cruel contradiction that by being born on the right side of the blanket, the upper ten thousand possessed all the betterments of society and yet rapaciously sought out the rare gifts of the people they regarded as beneath them. However, she was one of the guilty. Willing to exchange the risk of falling to her death from an unimaginable height for the thrill of walking the rope in front of a crowd.
The world she lived in rarely made sense.
“Morland just entered,” Marco said as she approached. “When I didn’t see you here, I thought you forgot.”
How could she forget?
She’d hardly slept last night.
“I wasn’t in a hurry,” she answered, settling on the bench and making a process of smoothing her skirt where the hem brushed against her calves. She looked across the tent to where Morland waited. Word had spread that a few Runners would question everyone this morning.
“I almost came to get you. I wasn’t sure.”
“You needn’t worry about me, Marco. We’re no longer together.” She stared straight ahead, watching Morland as he ushered three men into the tent.
“But we’re still friends.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She watched the first two men as they spoke with the Vauxhall manager, but the third stranger stood apart from the conversation. His attention remained on the benches where the performers had assembled.
By comparison to the other officers, he was taller. Broader. His hair was dark as pitch, while the other two men were less intimidating somehow. But not this man. He wore a long black greatcoat in kind to the attacker. Seeing it unnerved her, no matter that type of coat was likely the preferred uniform of better society. Still, something unexpected alerted her to this man’s presence and she didn’t like the feeling.
She watched as he slowly assessed everyone seated across the back of the tent, waiting for his focus to move to her section. Her pulse raced as if by merely glancing in her direction he would be able to tell she’d witnessed the killing. Shaking her head to dismiss the idea, she dropped her gaze to her slippers.
“The Runners are here now,” Marco muttered, seemingly just as uncomfortable as she. He indicated the men with a slight wag of his chin.
She didn’t answer, not wanting to look in that direction again. Instead, she concentrated on Marco’s profile outlined by the early light stealing through the gaps in the canvas panels. He hadn’t shaved this morning. He looked tired. Perhaps he was more affected by the murder than he’d let on. Marco was a good man who, by being of mixed heritage, knew only injustice in his life. Dismissed by better society, he possessed finer qualities than many of the nobs who visited Vauxhall in search of drunkenness and debauchery. The current situation couldn’t sit well with him either.
A prickle of awareness skittered up her spine and she bit into her lower lip, willing herself not to turn toward the Runners. When they were ready, they would address the crowd. There was no need to create unnecessary eye contact and yet her pulse ramped up another notch and her breathing grew stilted. Unable to stay focused, she shifted her attention to the right where her gaze collided with the dark-haired stranger. Their eyes held. The moment became unbearable.
“Listen, everyone.”
Morland approached, clapping his hands to gain the performers’ attention, not unlike a schoolmaster demanding his students take notice. A bittersweet memory from her childhood resurrected the image and she pushed it away as she brought her attention to the manager.
“As you’re already aware, a tragedy occurred here last night. A man was killed.”
A ripple of hushed conversation chased Morland’s words across the tent until everyone quieted again.
“Bow Street has sent two of their finest Runners to speak with all of you in case anyone has seen or heard somethingunusual. Please give the officers your full cooperation. Remember, gossip about crime and heinous activity will keep visitors away. It’s bad for business. I expect everyone to continue on as if nothing happened. Later tonight, things will proceed as always, but for now do your best to tell the officers everything you can recall from last night.”
Without further comment, Morland stepped aside and the two men Lola had already assumed were Runners walked to the forefront. The other man, the one with the disturbing presence, lingered in the background, his eyes examining all of them as if specimens under glass. Marco must have noticed as well. He reached out and placed his hand over hers where it rested on the bench, but she was too agitated to accept his comfort. She slipped her hand free and leaned down to adjust her slippers, keeping her fingers busy.
When she glanced up again, the dark-haired gentleman had moved to the area directly across from the bench where she was seated. His penetrating gaze caused her heart to pound, yet unwilling to appear skittish, she didn’t immediately look away.
He had sharp, chiseled features, similar to the marble statues near the garden’s entry gate. By Morland’s description, this man was not a Runner. Who was he then? She took in his expensive clothing, polished leather boots and arrogant stance. Was he a superior sent to oversee the investigation? Belatedly she noticed the black mourning band wrapped around his sleeve where it blended into the wool. So, he was a relation to the man who was killed. Since when did Runners involve family members in their work? Bloody nobs with their superior entitlement always got their way.