“Clarice. The actress who left?”
Prudence’s towering beehive bobbled as she gave an excited nod. “Yes. And when I told her that Clarice was gone, the lady looked like she was gonna cast up her accounts. Quite distressed, she was. Then she asked who Clarice was keeping company with, what she talked about.”
Kendra frowned. “Did she get her answers?”
“Not really.” The actress’s painted lips curved into a sly smile. “Before she left, Clarice was boasting about having made an arrangement that could be lucrative for her.”
“An arrangement . . . with Lady Westford’s husband?” Alec guessed.
“Makes sense, don’t it? The lady wouldn’t have come the next day to pop herself off otherwise.”
“You believe Lady Westford killed herself because her husband was having an affair with Clarice.” Kendra thought of Lord Westford. What woman would kill herself over him?
“Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it? Her ladyship realized that her husband had betrayed her, and in an act of pure desolation, she returned on Sunday to fling herself off the balcony in the very theater where her husband’s lover once trod the boards!” Prudence exclaimed, pressing her a hand against her bosom. “Lud! It’s a tragedy worthy of the Bard himself.”
“It’s worthy of something, all right,” Kendra muttered dryly.
“Your fifteen minutes are up!” Myott hollered from the stage below. “Prue, I want you down herenow!”
Prudence darted over to railing, and bellowed, “Hang on!” In a softer voice, she added, “You bloody twit.” Turning back, she grinned at them. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“When you spoke to Lady Westford, how did she seem?” Kendra asked. “Angry? Upset?”
Prudence looked confused. “I told you. She was upset when she found out that Clarice had taken off and we didn’t know where she’d gone. Worried, I expect, that she couldn’t confront the creature.”
“Prue!” shouted the theater director.
“What exactly did she say when she asked you about Clarice? Her exact words? You’re an actress; you have an excellent memory.”
The compliment did the trick. Prudence beamed, then closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. “She asked to speak to Miss Clarice Chapman. Mr. Myott told her that Clarice had taken herself off like a thief in the night, and we didn’t have time to talk about the bloody tart because we still had a performance to put on. She then wanted to know what Clarice had been up to, who she’d been seen with—”
“Prue! Get. Down. Here.Now!” Mr. Myott yelled again.
“Zounds! I’d better go before Mr. Myott has a fit.” She pushed herself away from the balustrade, crossing the small space.
“If I need to talk to you again, how can I reach you?” Kendra asked before the actress left the private box.
Prudence paused. “I’m here from two ’til closing, every day except for Sunday. Might have to reconsider that, though,” she added with a boisterous laugh. “Most of the action appears to be happening on Sundays.”
***
While they’d been in the theater, a misty, purple-tinted twilight had fallen. The streetlamps now cast a demonic orange-red glow over the faces of the pedestrians and costermongers as they moved up and down the lane. The sweet, nutty scent of roasting chestnuts from a nearby street vendor made Kendra’s stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.Her wedding breakfast. Jesus, had it only been that morning she and Alec had exchanged vows?
She pushed aside that thought.Focus. “Alec was right earlier, about the balustrade being designed to prevent accidents from happening. Lady Westford was a petite woman, several inches shorter than me, and the railing was above my waist. The only way she could have gotten over it was to climb over.”
“Maybe she did . . . in a moment of madness,” the Duke said softly. “Maybe she climbed over, held on to the railing, and let herself fall backward. That would explain the position of the body.”
“Why? Because she assumed her husband was having an affair with Clarice?” Kendra scoffed. As far as she was concerned, Lord Westford wouldn’t inspire a woman to shave her legs, much less become so hysterical that she’d throw herself to her death.
“It’s not unheard of.” The Duke’s gaze was troubled, as they returned to the carriage. “Lady Caroline Lamb slashed her wrists in the middle of a ball honoring the Duke of Wellington when Lord Byron spurned her.”
Kendra shook her head. “The trajectory is still wrong for what you’re suggesting, Your Grace. The seat she landed on wasn’t under the balcony, but closer to the aisle. She’d need strength and momentum to achieve that kind of distance.”
She noticed a boy standing next to Coachman Benjamin by the carriage.
“Lady Westford didn’t kill herself,” she added firmly. “Someone picked her up and threw her over the balcony.”
“Dear God,” the Duke said beneath his breath.
