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Chapter Fourteen

A Performance

“You are mistaken, madam.” Felicity—or, rather, Caroline—batted her lashes.

But Beatrice wasn’t falling for it. She’d have known Caroline Wynn anywhere.

The young woman had last been seen posing as an innocent heiress in Swampshire.

After Beatrice uncovered the truth—that she was a con artist, stealing money from men and then leaving them high and dry—Caroline vanished without a trace.

It seemed that she, like Beatrice, had decided to relocate to London.

“This woman is a thief!” Beatrice said, looking to Miss Bolton for backup. Caroline had taken jewels, money, and dignity from countless men. No doubt she was still up to her same tricks here in the city—and Beatrice wasn’t going to let her get away with it this time.

“Beatrice, be respectful,” Miss Bolton scolded. “We are meeting a professional actress! I am so sorry, Miss Lore.”

“Not to worry,” Caroline said. She spoke with an Irish lilt, which Beatrice was certain concealed her actual, disgustingly French accent. “Many are overcome when they meet a star of the stage.”

“How do you not recognize her? She’s Verity Swan! Caroline Wynn! Emmeline Clément!” Beatrice said frantically, shouting out some of Caroline’s many aliases. But everyone simply looked at her blankly.

“Miss Felicity is several inches taller than Caroline Wynn,” Inspector Drake informed her. “They couldn’t possibly be the same woman.”

“She’s wearing heels!” Beatrice pointed out.

“Verity Swan had a beauty mark,” Sir Huxley added.

“Haven’t you heard of makeup ?” she insisted.

“I’m confused,” Huxley replied, looking from “Felicity” to Beatrice. “Do you two know each other?”

“I will explain, sir,” Felicity assured him.

“As an actress, it is my job to resemble any person you might encounter on the street. Or the most beautiful woman you ever met, once upon a time.” Beatrice sputtered, but Caroline began to pull her away from Drake, Sir Huxley, and Miss Bolton.

“Come, my dear, and I shall show you the costume room. You will witness the magic of the theater, and then it will all make sense to you.”

Before Beatrice could protest, “Felicity” led her past a group of chorus members singing scales and through another door.

It opened into a chamber filled with gowns, suits, and hats, all in different styles and colors.

They hung on long racks, their fabrics glistening with golden trim and sparkling beading.

“Felicity” closed the door behind them and then whirled around.

“ Bonsoir, Beatrice,” she said with a grin. Her French accent was now disgustingly prominent. She tore off her wig and wiped her hand across her cheek to reveal a beauty mark in the shape of a tiny heart.

Just as Beatrice had professed, Felicity Lore was none other than Caroline Wynn.

“ Bienvenue à Londres, ” Caroline said conversationally. The last time they had spoken, Caroline was escaping a crumbling mansion with her lover, naval captain Philip Pena. Beatrice had thought she would never see the woman again—but now here she was, in all her irritatingly beautiful glory.

“It was you who sold the squirrel statue to the pawnshop,” Beatrice said immediately.

“Is that where you came up with this ridiculous accent? You stole it from Mr. O’Dowde like you steal everything?

” She wasn’t going to waste any time. Caroline Wynn was an ephemeral woman; it was necessary to pry information from her as fast as possible, before she vanished like smoke.

“ Excusez-moi? ” Caroline looked genuinely confused.

“The bloodstained marble squirrel statue in the pawnshop,” Beatrice said sharply. “The owner, Mr. O’Dowde, told me that you sold it to him. You were blackmailing Walter Shrewsbury and Cecil Nightingale,” she said, now gaining momentum—and confidence.

“I am très confus, Beatrice,” Caroline said.

To Beatrice’s annoyance, she saw that the woman looked genuinely perplexed, her irritatingly beautiful face showing no trace of her usual duplicity.

“I did sell a squirrel statue to a pawnshop,” Caroline went on, “but I have never heard of these men of whom you speak. The statue was a gift from an admirer.”

“What admirer?” Beatrice asked quickly.

“I have so many, Beatrice,” Caroline said, flipping her curls over one shoulder.

“It could have been any of them. It was left by my dressing room with a note. Let me see….” She pulled a wad of paper from her ample bosom and began to leaf through dozens of notes.

“This is called fan mail,” she explained to Beatrice.

“Ah, voici .” She finally produced a small paper and passed it to Beatrice. Beatrice opened it eagerly.

I hope you treasure this as I treasure your performances.

“It’s unsigned,” Beatrice said, disappointed—until she looked closer.

Very faintly, at the edge of the paper, she could see a dark brown mark. It appeared in the shape of a fingerprint, as if someone had held the paper…with bloodstained fingers.

“Some admirers wish to remain anonymous. I’m sure you have noticed that artists are not exactly accepted into high society here in Sweetbriar,” Caroline was saying. “People may not want to be so publicly outspoken in their appreciation of a transcendent performance.”

“So you’re saying someone anonymously gifted you a statue covered in blood, and you pawned it for cash…without even considering that it could have been a murder weapon . And this,” Beatrice said, waving the note, “also has traces of blood, which I would wager is from the same corpse.”

“ You may wager, but I never gamble,” Caroline said, batting her lashes.

“And Mr. O’Dowde wasn’t very concerned with where it came from.

He merely appreciated that I was gracing his shop with my presence.

His taste is impeccable, no?” She pressed a hand to her heart.

“That collection of antique beveled mirrors… très jolie, at least when I stand in front of them. And his parties—of course you could never secure an invitation to one. He only associates with true artistes . But you are missing out on such grand fêtes—”

“If what you say is true,” Beatrice interrupted, “and unfortunately, I believe your innocence in only this case —I think that your ‘secret admirer’ is actually a killer, who likely means to frame you for the crime.”

“ La vache! ” Caroline swore. “I am aware that the NAGS dislike artists in Sweetbriar…but I am universally adored!”

Caroline had an (annoying) point; she was universally adored. Was one of the NAGS trying to frame Caroline in order to topple her from the pedestal onto which she had been raised, and thus poison public opinion of all performers?

Or, Beatrice thought, had someone framed her in order to clear his own name?

Someone like Percival Nash?

But no, that made little sense. Why would he target another artist when the community was so vulnerable? Even if Nash were guilty—which Beatrice did not believe—he would not turn suspicion onto one of his own.

Caroline was still talking. “Even Mr. Vane’s paper praised me, despite the rest of its scathing review. I never expected this would affect moi !”

“Wait . His paper?” Beatrice asked sharply. “Do you mean that—”

“Mr. Vane owns The London Babbler, oui, ” Caroline confirmed.

“A little-known fact, but of course, I have my ways of finding out such things. His wife is a devoted patron of the opera, but clearly he must not be. Otherwise, he would not allow them to publish such terrible reviews. It affects ticket sales, after all.”

Horace Vane owned The London Babbler. It explained so much, Beatrice thought.

Sir Huxley’s column, “Restoring Order,” was printed in the Babbler .

She had recognized that they were friendly—Mr. Vane had invited Huxley to go hunting, and they went to the opera together—but this went beyond casual companionship.

Mr. Vane was, in a way, Huxley’s employer.

Whether or not Huxley believed Percival Nash to be guilty, he had great incentive to pursue Mr. Vane’s preferred suspect.

“It might be time to take my leave of this city,” Caroline murmured to herself. “I do love to bask in attention, but this light might be too hot, even for me.”

Caroline grabbed Beatrice’s hand, and Beatrice was surprised to find that the actress’s palm was clammy.

She really was afraid.

“Perhaps you should leave too, ma chère . London is not like Swampshire. There are dangerous people here,” Caroline said in a rush.

“Multiple people tried to murder me in Swampshire,” Beatrice said dryly.

“Exactly. London is a much bigger city—think of how many more people probably want to murder you here!” Caroline exclaimed.

“If you insist on solving murders—which seems a much messier way to enact justice than my line of work—you really should stick to solving the agreeable ones. Go back home. All this—London, the NAGS, art critics around every corner—it is a terribly nasty business.” Her sickeningly beautiful face was twisted into a mask of concern.

“At least promise me that you will be careful. I could not bear to lose my best friend.”

“I promise,” Beatrice sighed.

Caroline pulled her into an embrace, and Beatrice was flooded with the overpowering scent of her familiar floral perfume. But before Beatrice could press her any further, Caroline whisked away, and Beatrice was forced to follow her back to where Miss Bolton, Drake, and Sir Huxley waited.

“We have cleared everything up,” Caroline said grandly, returning to her fake Irish brogue. “Miss Steele now finds herself as big a fan as any! She has requested a signed portrait of me after the show, which of course I shall oblige.”

She winked at Beatrice, who scowled back.