“Yes. I see.” She shivered. “I suppose it would be remiss not to act. I had no idea when you married a policeman of some of the extraordinary things we should find ourselves doing.”
“Nor I,” Charlotte said frankly. “But some of them have been wonderful, some terrifying, some tragic, and many most deepening of experience, and I hope of wisdom and understanding. I pity those women who have nothing to do but stitch embroidery, flirt, gossip and try to think of something to do which could be called charitable and yet not impair their reputations or get their fingers dirty!”
Caroline pulled a slight face, but did not voice the argument in her mind. She knew Charlotte well enough to appreciate the pointlessness of it, and a small part of her had a sneaking desire to dabble in such adventures herself, not that she would have admitted it.
A few moments later the door opened and Pitt stood in the entrance, his face grave. His eyes went first to Caroline.
“I’m sorry, Mama-in-law,” he apologized. “But it seems as if it may be a case for the police, and since no one else is here now, I should go and see two of the actors. Stafford visited both of them earlier in the day. They may have some connection—or at least know something that explains what happened.”
Charlotte rose to her feet quickly, absentmindedly straightening her skirt.
“We’ll come with you. I don’t want to wait here, do you, Mama?”
“No.” Caroline stood up beside her. “No. I’d far rather come with you. We can wait somewhere where we shall not intrude.”
Pitt stepped back and held the door open for them. Hastily they passed through, then walked along the corridor with him to the stage door, which apparently he had found. The manager was waiting for them, shifting from foot to foot, his face creased with anxiety.
“What has happened, Mr. Pitt?” he said as soon as Pitt was close enough he did not need to raise his voice. “I know the judge is dead, but why do you need to see Miss Macaulay and Mr. Fielding? What can they possibly do to help?” He put his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again. “I don’t understand, really I don’t! I want to be of assistance, naturally—but this is beyond comprehension.”
“Mr. Stafford visited with them earlier in the day,” Pitt replied, his hand on the door to the stage.
“Visited with them?” The manager looked appalled. “Not here, Inspector! Certainly not here!”
“No,” Pitt agreed as they walked in single file along the narrower passageway towards the room where Fielding and Tamar Macaulay had been asked to wait. “Miss Macaulay called upon the judge in his home. That at least we know.”
“Do we! Do we?” the manager demanded. “I know nothing about it at all!” He stopped and flung open the door. “There you are! I wash my hands of the whole affair! Upon my soul, as if this wasn’t bad enough! A judge dying in his box during the performance—and now the police! Anyone would think we were doing the Scottish play! Well go on, go on! You’d better do whatever it is you have to!”
“Thank you.” Pitt accepted with only the slightest twist of irony. He held the door just long enough for Charlotte and Caroline to pass through, then closed it with a very slight bow, just as the manager came to it.
Inside the room was calm and comfortable. Half a dozen easy chairs were scattered about over a carpeted floor. There was a small stove in one corner and a kettle on it. The walls were almost covered with past playbills and posters. Some were lists of actors, others quite elaborate and beautiful evocations of glamour. Looking at them one could almost hear the music begin, see the lights dim. Pitt recognized the faces of Henry Irving, Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry, Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the young Italian actress Eleanora Duse and Mrs. Patrick Campbell.
But the room was unimportant. The figures that dominated everyone’s attention were standing side by side with a grace which was in all probability so practiced as now to be quite unconscious. Joshua Fielding was exactly as he had appeared through the lens of the opera glasses, except there was more humor in his face. Tiny lines around his mouth were less exaggerated than the gestures he had used to convey the same sense of wit and rueful amusement. He was perhaps less handsome. At a few yards’ distance his nose was not quite straight, his eyes uneven, one brow different from the other. Yet the very imperfection of it was more immediate, and thus more lastingly attractive than the flawless stage appearance, which lacked a certain humanity.
Tamar Macaulay, on the other hand, was surprisingly different from her stage presence. Or perhaps neither Caroline nor Charlotte had looked at her so closely. She was smaller and leaner. The extreme femininity she had projected was part of her art, not a natural quality; and the intense vitality, almost lightness of character she played had been set aside with her costume. In repose she was motionless, all her strength inward. Yet her face was one of the most compelling Charlotte had ever seen. There was power of the mind in it and startling intelligence. She was extremely dark, her skin was sallow and her hair black, and yet she had the extraordinary gift of being able to portray anything from ugliness to dazzling beauty. She could never have been lush, warm or voluptuous; but in Charlotte’s mind at least, she could have been anyone from Medusa, the Gorgon, to Helen of Troy, and been utterly convincing as either. With the power of personality behind her dark face, Charlotte could have looked at it and believed that men fought an eleven-year war and ruined an empire over her.
Pitt betrayed nothing so fanciful in his manner. He began with an apology.
“I am sorry to have had to ask you to remain,” he said with a tight smile. “You must be tired at the end of so long a day. However, I daresay you have been informed that Mr. Justice Stafford died in his box during the performance this evening.” He looked at Joshua, then at Tamar.
“I knew he was ill,” Joshua replied, looking away from Caroline and at Pitt.
Pitt realized his omission. “I am sorry. May I present Mrs. Caroline Ellison, and my wife, Mrs. Pitt. I preferred not to leave them standing outside.”
“Of course.” Joshua bowed very slightly, first to Caroline, who blushed self-consciously, then to Charlotte. “I regret the circumstances of our meeting. I can offer you little comfort or refreshment.”
“I knew he had been taken ill,” Tamar said, returning them to the matter in hand. Her voice was low and of unusual timbre. “I did not know he had died.” Her face pinched with sadness. “I am very sorry. I have no idea how we can be of help.”
“You called upon him at his home earlier in the day?”
“Yes.” She added nothing, no explanation. She had an extraordinary repose, even delivering such a bald reply.
“And I saw him later, in my lodgings,” Joshua added. “He seemed perfectly well then. But is that really what you wished to ask?” He looked very relaxed, hands in his pockets. “Surely Mrs. Stafford is the one to tell you anything you need to know. Doesn’t his own physician know his condition?”
Pitt corrected the misapprehension. “I am not a physician, Mr. Fielding. I am an inspector with the police.”
Joshua’s eyebrows rose and he straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. “With the police? I’m sorry—I thought he was taken ill. Was it an injury? Good heavens—in the theater?”
“No, it looks as if it may have been poison,” Pitt said carefully.
“Poison?” Joshua was incredulous and Tamar stiffened. “How do you know?” Joshua asked.
“I don’t,” Pitt replied, looking from one to the other of them, “But the symptoms were alarmingly like those of opium poisoning. I should be irresponsible were I not to allow the possibility, and learn what I can, tonight, while memories are sharp and recent, before I hand the matter over to whoever will handle it when the medical report comes in.”