“May I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Miss Fox?”
“No, thank you. My lord, do you know a man with warts on the sides of his mouth?”
“No.”
He did not ask me why I asked. He touched the brim of his hat and headed for the waiting carriage emblazoned with the Mayfair’s insignia on the door. The exchange had been all rather mechanical, as if he were an automaton going through the motions after someone wound him up.
Mrs. Larsen and her husband arrived next. She introduced me to him and after exchanging the obligatory niceties about the service, I asked, “Did you see the man standing behind the tree watching the burial? He had some warts or lesions on his face.”
“I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Larsen looked to her husband but he also shook his head.
“Did you recognize any of the other people attending the funeral?”
They both shook their heads. “As I said, I didn’t know any of Nellie’s new friends or people she worked with,” Mrs. Larsen said. “No one from her old life showed up, but that’s understandable given she never tried to keep up the connections.”
“Are you going to the memorial at the theater?”
Her lips pinched. “No.”
“It’s not really our sort of thing,” Mr. Larsen added. “We’ll go home and mourn Nellie in our own way.”
“Quietly,” his wife added with a pointed glance at the last of the cabs driving off with the theater set.
I caught my own cab back to the hotel for a light luncheon and a change of clothes, since my dress was wet from the knees down. By the time I set off again, the rain had stopped, and I was able to walk to the Piccadilly Playhouse without putting up my umbrella.
All of the Playhouse’s lights were blazing, despite it being mid-afternoon. Several bouquets of pink flowers had been placed on the pavement beside the theater’s doors, as well as cards and messages that had run in the earlier rain. A burly doorman stood beside a portable blackboard. MEMORIAL FOR MISS PEARL WESTWOOD: ENTRY 1/- it read.
A shilling was a lot to ask for the public to pay their respects, and it explained why many turned awaywithout going in. I paid the doorman and entered just as two people left.
Inside, those who’d paid the entry fee wandered up and down the foyer, admiring the many posters, costumes and props from various shows that had starred Pearl. Interspersed between the items were photographs of Pearl with her co-stars or other theater staff. They looked similar to the ones I’d seen in her flat. The refreshment counter was open, and drinks could be purchased, although few did. A string quartet at one end of the foyer played somber music. Some patrons cried while others caressed or kissed the framed photographs of Pearl. I wondered how many of these people actually knew her or were merely theater-goers who’d adored the star but never known the real person wearing the costumes.
It didn’t take long before I recognized a man from the funeral. He stood in the middle of the foyer and accepted the sympathies of passersby with a grave air. I stopped a busboy collecting empty glasses and asked him the man’s name.
“That’s Mr. Culpepper,” the busboy said. “The Playhouse’s manager.”
He was younger than I expected, about mid-thirties, with a thin mustache and slicked-back hair. I waited for him to finish speaking to a couple who appeared to be giving their condolences and approached before anyone else could.
“Mr. Culpepper? I’m Cleo Fox.”
His smile was polite but sad. “Welcome to the Playhouse, Miss Fox. Thank you for coming. Have you had a chance to look around at all the things our precious Pearl touched?”
“I’m an acquaintance of a friend of hers. I’ve been tasked with making discreet inquiries into her death.”
The muscles in his cheek twitched. “I don’t understand.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“I must be out here.” He looked over my head, perhaps searching for someone to rescue him, but the mourners were occupied with quiet chatter amongst themselves, or admiring the photographs and props as if they were items in a museum.
“Do you think Miss Westwood killed herself?”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Pardon?”
“Is she the type to kill herself?”
He stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Ordinarily I’d say no, but…”
“Go on.”
