Pearl Westwood’sflat was on the ground floor of a modern complex a mere ten minute walk from the Piccadilly Playhouse, which meant it was also within walking distance of the hotel. Not that I could imagine Lord Rumford ever walking to his mistress’s place. He was quite portly and very rich. He would be driven.
One of the keys Lord Rumford had given me fitted into the iron gate positioned within the archway that led from the street into the building’s hallway. The gate creaked as it swung closed then relocked itself.
I headed along the hallway to the twin doors at the end and was about to insert the other key into the lock of the one marked 1B when the door suddenly opened. The woman standing there emitted a small squeal then let out a breath.
“Goodness,” she said. “You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
The woman was in her early thirties with light brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She was otherwise unremarkable, as was the plain woolen coat she wore over a black dress. The little girl holding her hand had the same shaped face as her mother. A red bow in her blonde hair provided a pretty dash of color to an otherwise bland outfit of ill-fitting gray coat. She must have been about four years old. In her other hand, the woman held a carpet bag.
“I’m sorry, I thought this was the home of the late Pearl Westwood,” I said.
The woman drew in a shuddery breath. “It is. I’m her sister, Mrs. Larsen.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave you in peace and come back later.” I turned to go.
“Why do you have a key to my sister’s home?”
“It was given to me by her…” I glanced down at the girl. She didn’t seem to notice me. She stared straight through me, humming quietly to herself. “By a gentleman by the name of Lord Rumford.”
Mrs. Larsen’s lips pressed together in disapproval.
“My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m investigating the death of Miss Westwood on his lordship’s behalf.”
She glanced down at the little girl then back up at me. “Why?”
“He doesn’t believe she ended it herself.” I didn’t want to use the words kill or murder in front of the girl. Such talk was too grim for tender ears. “He thinks someone else…” There was no need to finish the sentence. I could see from Mrs. Larsen’s shocked face that she understood my meaning.
“He thinks that, does he? Good lord.” She swallowed heavily. “And he hired you to…” She looked down at the little girl and led her back inside. “Will you stay for tea, Miss Fox?”
“Thank you, that’s most kind, but only if you can spare the time. I know how much there is to do when you lose a loved one.”
I followed her into a parlor decorated with dusky rose pink wallpaper and a darker pink, blue and cream Oriental carpet. Although not large, the parlor managed to fit an upright piano, sofa, two pink velvet armchairs with matching footstools, and three tables. Ash swirled in the grate as a gust of wind blew down the chimney, chilling the cold room even further.
Mrs. Larsen stood the girl in front of an armchair and set down the bag. “Now sit here and be good. Don’t make a fuss. I have to talk to this lady.”
The girl continued humming.
“Do you hear me?”
The girl nodded and put her arms up to be lifted onto the chair.
Mrs. Larsen deposited her on the armchair and indicated I should sit on the sofa. She disappeared into the adjoining kitchen.
It gave me a few moments to study the framed photographs on the table nearest me. The same woman appeared in all of them, accompanied by different people in each. In many, they wore costumes—Egyptianpharaohs, medieval peasants, bathing and dancing outfits which showed off Pearl’s shapely legs. The only photograph where she was not in costume was one of her standing beside Lord Rumford, seated on an armchair, her hand on his shoulder. They wore formal evening clothes, as if they were just about to head off to the opera. The woman sported a tiara in her hair and a pearl choker at her throat.
She must be Pearl Westwood, although I did think it a little odd she was in all of the photographs and there wasn’t a single one of her sister or niece.
Pearl was also the subject of a large painted portrait in a gilded frame hanging above the fireplace. She wore a pink chiffon dress that left her shoulders bare and a diamond pendant nestled in the deep V of her bosom. Her dreamy expression was so different to the smiling photographs on the table, yet she was no less beautiful. While I could see the family resemblance to her sister, Pearl’s features were arranged in a way that captured the onlooker’s attention and held it. It was as if two sculptors had taken two identically shaped molds, yet the amateur had sculpted Mrs. Larsen’s features and the experienced artist had used his superior skill to sculpt Pearl.
“That’s her,” Mrs. Larsen said as she returned carrying a tray of tea things. “She was so beautiful, but as I always told her, beauty doesn’t last and she shouldn’t rely on it. Not that it matters now,” she added quietly. She poured the tea and handed me a cup and saucer. “I’m afraid there isn’t any cake. My sister wasn’t one for keeping sweet things in the kitchen. Too tempting, she used to say. She had a tiny waist but was terrified of getting fat. Silly, silly girl.” Her face crumpled and she had to put her cup and saucer down when her shaking hand made them rattle. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “It must have been a shock.”
“It was. We didn’t see eye to eye on many things, but she was still my little sister. To think I’ll never see her again… It hasn’t really sunk in.”
I gave her a moment to compose herself and watched thegirl swinging her legs back and forth on the chair. She seemed quite content to sit there and wait for us to finish.
“You must want some things to remember her by,” I said to Mrs. Larsen.
