“An’ there’s no other way out of the theatre,” Cobb continued, “except through the tavern, an’ that door was locked with a slidin’ bolt by Frank before he went to bed, as usual.”
They were now heading down the only stairs towards the stage and the tavern just behind it.
“All right, all right,” Marc said testily. “It’s a long shot, I confess. Certainly we’ve got to focus on the actors first, though I’m not going to rule out Ogden Frank or his wife, or even Thea Clarkson: any one of them could have left their quarters, slipped through the barroom, unbolted the door behind the bar on this side of the stage, sneaked up the stairs, and been a party to murder.”
“An’ sneaked back before Beasley got out into the hall, I suppose,” Cobb said. “An’ drippin’ blood all the way?” They had spotted no bloodstains on the hall carpet, but only a thorough examination in daylight would settle the question.
“They could have been in it together! The lot of them!”
Withers pushed open the door to the tavern. “Might I suggest that we begin by looking at the obvious evidence first, then move on to the fanciful speculation?”
They emerged into a well-lit room and peered over the bar at a most arresting tableau: two rather shortish men of a middle age, each uniformed, were wrestling over possession of a set of leg irons.
“You are not gonna put this man in chains unless I say so!”
“I bear the authority of the governor, and this man is now my official prisoner! I order you to release these shackles so that I may secure the felon.”
Wilfrid Sturges, erstwhile sergeant-major in Wellington’s peninsular army and chief constable of the five-man municipal police force, gave a sharp pull on his half of the shackles and almost succeeded in wresting the whole from Barclay Spooner’s grip. Without outside intervention, there was no doubt as to which combatant would eventually triumph. Although both men were of slight build, Lieutenant Spooner, aide-de-camp to Sir Francis Bond Head, was a man whose aggressive movements and gestures could only be described as rigidly crisp but otherwise ineffectual, while Chief Constable Sturges was slimly muscular and deceptively quick, a tough little beagle of a man. Behind them, slumped in a captain’s chair with his chin in his hands, was Rick Hilliard. He looked like the sole survivor of a sanguinary battle.
“Gentlemen, would you please drop those shackles,” Marc barked at the belligerents. “No one is going to put Ensign Hilliard in chains. I’m in charge of this investigation, and I’ll determine who’s to be labelled a prisoner and a felon.”
Marc’s outburst distracted Spooner long enough for Sturges to recover the leg irons and stuff them into his overcoat pocket. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I was just attemptin’ to persuade Mr. Spooner ’ere on that very point.”
“You are interfering with the Queen’s business,” Spooner spluttered, whether at Marc or Sturges was not clear, as his moustache, ruthlessly trimmed, twitched at one end and then the other.
“Are you suggesting that I am not in charge of this investigation?” Marc demanded.
“Not in the least, sir. You deliberately misapprehend my intentions. I made the not unreasonable assumption that a man brandishing a murder-weapon smeared with the victim’s blood-and his roger hanging out-was, in the least, a prime suspect. Further, as the officer designated to contain the political consequences from this catastrophe, I was endeavouring to put this upstart policeman in his place.”
“We’ll see who’s the upstart,” Sturges said, his face reddening. “As far as I can see, we have a civilian murdered, possibly by an army officer, in a buildin’ clearly under my jurisdiction.”
“And this civilian, as you so quaintly put it, just happens to be a foreign national, making this potentially an international incident. In any event, the governor has seen fit to put Lieutenant Edwards and me exclusively in control of matters here. Mr. Frank had no authority to invite you to interfere. Do you wish me to report your insolent insubordination to my superior when I return to Government House?”
Sturges glared at him.
Marc decided to take full control. “I’ll be the one to decide who I might require to assist me. Right now I wish to speak to Mr. Hilliard, without further comment from either of you. Where are the others?”
“Mr. Frank’s put them over there in the dining-room,” Sturges said to Marc. “I ’aven’t been able to get a single, sensible sentence from any of ’em,” he added with an accusatory glance at Spooner.
Marc walked to the open archway between the taproom and dining area, and peered ahead. Ogden Frank was seated at a large table, around which the remaining members of the Bowery Touring Company were arrayed. An open bottle of port and half a dozen glasses, kindly supplied by Frank, sat untouched. Marc made a quick survey of the actors, one of whom he believed had ruthlessly slaughtered another of his or her fellows. After the initial tears and incredulity, it appeared as if deep shock had taken over. Thea Clarkson, in a pink robe thrown carelessly over her shoulders, looked seriously ill. Her skin was rippled with cold sweat and she was trembling uncontrollably. Annemarie Thedford’s reaction was registered in the sudden appearance of lines and wrinkles that one did not notice when she was smiling and in command of her surroundings. Her eyes, bloodshot with weeping, were kindled by more than one kind of pain; after all, she was enduring the knowledge of her ward’s violation and the simultaneous loss of a professional partner in her life’s work. The financial and personal loss would be both acute and irreparable.
Clarence Beasley was staring straight ahead with a glazed expression that was unreadable, but exhaustion was telegraphed in every aspect of his collapsed posture. Leaning on his shoulder, unremarked, was Dawson Armstrong, who, having sobered up enough to have realized the severity of what had happened, had then promptly fallen asleep. Lastly, Jeremiah Jefferson lay with his head on the table, holding his left cheek and moaning softly. His bloated countenance was not likely due to any remorse or particular sorrow over Merriwether’s demise.
Unfortunately, Armstrong seemed to have the most obvious motive for doing away with his rival while having the least capacity for doing the deed. Thea Clarkson appeared too ill to have wielded that bloody sword, even if Marc were able to discover a motive for her. While he could envision Mrs. Thedford defending her ward against attack from any quarter, she would have to have been mad or bent on self-destruction to have plunged a sword through the heart of her own enterprise. His best bet seemed to be Beasley, although if he had smouldering depths, they were ingeniously disguised. The mute was a possibility, but a slim one. Marc wanted to sit them down one by one right then and thrash the necessary truths out of them, but he realized he would get nothing coherent from any of them until morning.
Poor Frank looked worse than any of the actors. His eyes, very far apart in his moon-face, seemed to be searching for each other without much success, and his hand-wringing was pathetic to behold. Though he was a known Orangeman who might conceivably hate Americans, it was not plausible that he had built a theatre worthy of attracting professional troupes from abroad, only to murder the first bona fide star to step onto his stage.
“What do you want us to do now?” Frank asked. “Miss Guildersleeve’s asleep in our spare room and my missus is beside herself with worry.”
“I’ll decide what to do with everybody in a few minutes. Try to keep from despairing, sir.” Other than this vacuous advice, Marc could think of nothing to say that might be remotely consoling.
“Lieutenant, it is now nearly three o’clock in the morning. The governor will be frantic-”
“Please leave me alone with Hilliard,” Marc said curtly to Spooner.
“I think we should do as the lieutenant suggests,” Withers said with a barely suppressed yawn.
“Five minutes, that’s all!” Spooner said to Marc with a lopsided twitch of his moustache, which simultaneously activated a similar twitch of the left eyebrow. “And I’ll be standing beside the bar, where I can keep an eye on you.”