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Chapter Seventeen

An Interruption

Avoiding Bibble Bridge made for a long journey out of town, but Beatrice didn’t even notice, as the events of the evening swirled in her mind: Diana’s past love.

The NAGS and their vendetta against local art.

Sir Huxley’s insistence that Percival Nash was guilty—and Horace Vane, the accuser, now dead. How to arrange such pieces?

The puzzle’s image took shape, Beatrice had to admit, when she considered Percival’s involvement.

Sir Huxley was right; his motive made sense.

And he had fled the scene. Was this an admission of guilt or the culmination of his fear that he would be blamed for a crime he had not committed?

She had now promised both Percival and Diana that she would prove the actor’s innocence, yet the current lack of suspects—and answers—made the feat feel impossible.

As the carriage pulled to a halt outside the narrow alley down which Mr. O’Dowde’s shop was located, Beatrice felt more uncertain than ever before.

In her first case with Inspector Drake, she had known most of the suspects involved for all her life.

It had made it easier to question them and find her way to the truth.

But here in London, the stories of those around her extended much further back in history, before her time.

She had only just met them, only uncovered the topmost layer of their secrets and lies.

Would she ever make sense of it all, or had her first case merely been solved with beginner’s luck?

Had she been in the right place at the right time, but lacked any real skill?

The footman opened the carriage door, and Beatrice stepped onto the dark street, self-doubt sitting heavy on her shoulders. But when she strode toward the pawnshop’s entrance, she could hear the sound of voices from within. And one of them, clear and charming, she recognized.

Percival Nash.

“I shall be back shortly,” Beatrice told the footman. She tried to pull open the door to the shop, but it was locked.

“Shall we take our leave?” the footman asked, watching as Beatrice struggled with the knob.

“I said, I shall be back shortly,” Beatrice told him. She withdrew one of her earrings, slid it into the lock, and moved it up and down. Something inside clicked, and the doorknob turned.

“As you wish, miss,” the footman said. He looked both impressed and disturbed.

Beatrice was accustomed to such looks from men. She nodded her farewell to the footman, and then slipped into the shop.

It was dark, dust sparkling in the moonlight, but the voices she had overheard were louder now. She could pick out Mr. O’Dowde’s Irish brogue and Percival Nash’s expressive tones. And there were other voices, too, she realized—as well as music.

How many people were in here?

She carefully avoided stacks of footstools and lamps, finding her way to the bump where she had tripped before—the hidden trapdoor. She dropped to her knees and felt along the wood floor until her fingers located an indentation.

She slid her nails underneath and lifted, expecting to see a staircase.

Instead, she stared down at a brightly colored cushion. Evidently it was to be a sheer drop from the floor of Mr. O’Dowde’s shop into its depths.

Well. She had never resisted entering a concealed secret room, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now. She gathered her skirts and lowered herself through the trapdoor, tumbling down with only a tiny oof when she landed on the cushion below.

She righted herself quickly, expecting the inhabitants of the chamber to have noticed her entrance. But Beatrice saw, to her surprise, that there were even more people than she had guessed—and the little room she had anticipated was actually an expansive suite.

It was cluttered with heirlooms, like the shop above, but everything seemed touched by a creative muse: The walls were covered in portraits, directly painted onto black wallpaper.

Their eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight of antique sconces.

There were empty wine bottles, champagne crates, silk pillows, and old tapestries strewn about.

And there were artists everywhere.

It was like being backstage at the Sweet Majestic, except the mood was not frantic but somber.

Clusters of actors in their opera costumes crowded around, speaking in low, serious voices as they sipped from chipped crystal glasses.

Painters with acrylic-smudged smocks mingled among them, brushes tucked behind their ears and bobbing as they nodded seriously.

Musicians wove through the crowd, playing snippets of mournful music.

Something crunched under Beatrice’s feet as she stepped off the cushion, and she looked down to see that the floor was papered with notices. She stooped to pick oneup.

PERMIT DENIED, it read. YOU MUST HERETOFORE CEASE AND DESIST YOUR “ART,” IF ONE CAN EVEN CALL IT THAT.

She dropped it and looked up, her eyes searching the crowd. She was certain that she had heard Percival Nash’s voice.

Where washe?

“The lady searches for a myst’ry man,” a voice said. Beatrice jumped, and turned to see a woman holding a skull.

“Please,” Beatrice sighed, “no more sonnets—”

“Yet will she find him here amidst this crowd?” The woman continued, now addressing the skull. “This lady is no artist, yet she stands—with those of us who gather at O’Dowde’s.”

“You are correct,” said a familiar voice. “This lady is no artist. She is a detective.”

Percival Nash had appeared in front of Beatrice, his glossy auburn hair the only part of him that did not seem wilted in defeat.

“I am glad you are here,” he said, taking Beatrice’s hands and pulling her into a corner. He collapsed onto a cushion, and Beatrice lowered herself next to him. “Things are dire, Inspector Steele,” Percival told her tearfully. “I escaped here with a few close friends—”

“A few?” Beatrice asked incredulously, glancing at the huge crowd of drunk artists assembled before them.

Percival nodded. “Unfortunately I had to leave many colleagues and admirers behind, but there was nothing to be done. Sir Huxley is convinced of my guilt. If he finds me, I am done for. Please tell me you have determined the true culprit.”

“I am…close,” Beatrice lied. Relief flashed across Percival’s face, and Beatrice went on. “Still, I must ask once more—where were you on the night of Mr. Shrewsbury’s murder? We all know that you were present for the deaths of Mr. Nightingale and Mr. Vane—”

“Which is how you know I am being set up,” Percival interrupted.

“I was invited to perform at the Rose the night of Mr. Nightingale’s death.

And of course I was present when Mr. Vane was killed; it occurred at the Sweet Majestic.

An actor’s home is the theater,” he cried, pressing a hand to his chest.

“But what of the night of Mr. Shrewsbury’s death ?” Beatrice said again.

“I did not do it,” Percival insisted.

“You have motive, Mr. Nash,” Beatrice told him.

He gasped at this pronouncement, but she continued.

“You had opportunity. And you had means. The murder weapon was a knife with your ‘home’ engraved upon it. I have tried to clear your name, but each piece of evidence only leads me closer to you. Unless, of course, you can give me your alibi.”

She let the words hang in the air.

“I did not do it,” Percival Nash repeated. His cheeks were growing ruddy, and beads of sweat appeared along his brow.

His hair, however, remained perfectly coiffed. It showed no trace of sweat, not dampened in the least by the humidity of the room or Percival’s stress.

“Percival,” Beatrice said slowly, “where were you the night of Mr. Shrewsbury’s death?”

“I cannot say,” he insisted.

“This is a matter of life in prison or life onstage,” Beatrice told him. “So I will ask you one more time: Where were you the night of Mr. Shrewsbury’s death? ”

“ I was at the wigmaker’s, ” Percival Nash cried, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

“What?” Beatrice drew back, floored by this sudden confession.

Percival looked around to ensure that no one had heard and then leaned forward. He slipped a finger under the front of his hair and lifted it up ever so slightly.

Below the auburn hairline, Beatrice could see the truth.

He was bald.

“Are you satisfied?” he hissed. “It is true. I wear hairpieces. My wigmaker, Anastasia, can vouch for my presence in her shop on the night of Mr. Shrewsbury’s death.

She has a back entrance at her shop just for me and has been sworn to secrecy.

Naturally when I fell under suspicion, she vowed to tell everyone of my innocence—but I made her swear not to.

How could I maintain my reputation, or my status as a star, with this…

this cue ball ?” He motioned to his head, distressed.

“Surely your hair has nothing to do with your stardom,” Beatrice began.

“You silly girl,” Percival interrupted. “Of course it does. An actor’s hair is everything. Without it, he cannot appear center stage and must be relegated to the shadows. He might as well be a writer, ” he spat.

“So you have an alibi for the evening of Mr. Shrewsbury’s death,” Beatrice said, trying to get back on track, “and for the others—”

“When Mr. Nightingale died, I was concealed in the powder room, fixing a piece of my wig which had come unglued from my scalp. And when Mr. Vane died, I was offstage, changing my first hairpiece out for a fresh one. I perspire under the light of the stage,” Percival sniffed.

“If that is a crime, then lock me up. But if I gave my alibis, I would be the laughingstock of Sweetbriar, likely banned from the stage because of my lies.”

“As an actor, it’s sort of your job to lie, though, isn’t it?” Beatrice attempted to console him, but Percival shook his head.

“People want me to maintain an illusion. That is the whole point, Miss Steele. But if I do not tell, I shall be arrested and hanged for these murders.”