Louis Williams’s face falls. He’d been hoping to ensnare me in a policy in the here and now, without the “oversight” of my husband. Goodness knows to what I’d be agreeing if I truly was in the market for an insurance policy. He quickly reassembles his facade of congeniality and says, “Of course.”
“We are seeingCavalcade.Are you familiar with it?”
“I was meant to see it in late summer, but my plans were derailed. And sad to say, I haven’t gotten around to seeing it since.”
I feel goose bumps on my arms. Did Louis just admit that he was scheduled to seeCavalcadein August, the same time May went to the performance? I cannot wait to tell the Queens that we have another piece of evidence supporting the theory that he’s the secret beau.
“I’m sorry to hear that. The theater and the show are unknown to me, so I was hoping for a primer,” I say, allowing disappointment to overtake my posture and expression instead of the excitement I actually feel. In this moment, Louis Williams wants to please me, so perhaps that desire will unseal his lips. After all, I’m simply a harmless matron.
“I’m quite familiar with the theater; I’ve seen several shows there. It’s quite breathtaking since its remodel in 1922.”
“Ah, a theater aficionado!” I exclaim. “I am in luck.”
He chuckles. “Less an aficionado than one fortunate to have a family friend in the theater. Tickets always seem to come my way.”
I clap my hands. “How terribly exciting! Is your family friend an actor? I confess to being quite the fan of Basil Rathbone. His Shakespearean performances are masterly.”
“Nothing so glamorous. Sir Alfred Chapman is a producer and runs several West End theaters.”
Here we have the name again. First mentioned by Basil Dean and now by Louis Williams, our primary suspect. Might Sir Alfred lead us to the evidence we need about May and Louis? I certainly cannot make my inquiries of Louis outright, lest I tip my hand. Agatha and I will find out tonight.
I am quiet, and Louis seems uncomfortable with the stillness. Fixing his clear blue eyes on me, he offers that overconfident smile again. “That said, the family connection to Sir Alfred has yielded invitations to a few glitzy theater premieres. Walking the red carpet with a beautiful woman on my arm is an otherworldly experience.”
I notice that he doesn’t reference his wife in his statement. Perhaps he’s had any number of attractive young women on his arm. May was likely just one of many. Staring at this man, I feel my eyes narrow and my jaw harden. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Louis Williams corrupted poor May Daniels and had some sort of hand in her death. Exactly how I do not yet know. We need proof. Detective work can be excruciating.
I practically quiver with anger, and it takes all my strength to hold back from launching myself at him. If I stay in this office a moment longer, that impulse will be difficult to control. I push myself to standing so abruptly that the chair nearly topples over. Louis also rises, an expression of surprise on his face.
“I’ll do my research, Mr. Williams, so when I see you next, I’ll have information enough to render a verdict.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
APRIL 2, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
The curtain closes, and the chandeliers illuminate the vast space slowly. Bit by bit, the four levels of the Theatre Royal reveal themselves. Like a gold-and-crimson layer cake, the tiers appear, topped by the icing of the gilt ceiling. In our prized seats—courtesy of Mr. Dean—Agatha and I are at the cake’s center.
Agatha leans toward me and whispers, “Not my favorite show.”
“Mine, either,” I whisper back. “I much prefer a play to a musical. And the music, well…”
“Felt a bit slapdash, didn’t it?”
“Exactly. As if Mr. Coward raced through the writing of this show on his way to another.”
“Borrowing snippets of popular songs to represent different eras?”
“It didn’t quite work for me, either, but the audience seemed to enjoy it.” I reach into my handbag for the tin of pastilles I keep inside. “Care for a black-currant Allenburys while we wait for the theater to clear?”
Selecting one from the golden box, she says, “What is it about the theater that makes one crave a sweet?”
“For me, that craving isn’t limited to the theater. I always long for a sweet,” I remark.
We laugh companionably, keeping our eye on the diminishing crowds. Before the performance began, we quietly showed theticket takers and concession-stand employees the picture of May and Celia I’d borrowed from May’s sisters. But no one remembered the young women. Much depends on what we might learn from Sir Alfred Chapman.
After a few minutes, Agatha asks, “Shall we?”
We step into the vestibule and head back. Toward the end of a long corridor, we encounter a guard. “Sorry, ladies. No access here for audience members,” he advises us.
