“I can’t recall.”
“I’m sure you can. It was only four days ago.”
“Nope. Don’tremember.”
Mr. Armitage set down some coins on the bench in Mr. Bull’s line of sight. “Do you remember now?”
Mr. Bull put the pot back on a shelf above the bench and picked up the coins. He held them out to Mr. Armitage. “Lord Wrexham’s a good master and the pay’s reasonable. It’s hard to find work like this in the city nowadays, so I won’t do anything to jeopardize my position.” He dropped the coins in Mr. Armitage’s palm. “There’s no point asking the lad, either. He doesn’t know anything.” He turned away. “See yourselves out.”
I led the way back to the street. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think he’s hiding something.”
“So do I. If Lord Wrexham did not leave the house that afternoon, Mr. Bull would have simply said as much.”
Mr. Armitage glanced at the opposite side of the street. The doors on that side belonged to the rear entrances to the townhouses on Wilton Crescent. It allowed the indoor servants to quickly pass on instructions to the coach house if a vehicle was needed around the front. “Perhaps we’ll have better luck with the maids.”
I felt a little irritated for not getting anywhere with the coachman and wanted to redeem myself by questioning the maids. I decided to leave it to Mr. Armitage as agreed, however.
The maid who answered his knock had the reddened, chapped hands of someone who has them plunged into hot water for a considerable amount of time. She took one look at Mr. Armitage, smiling on the doorstep, and buried them in her apron. She blinked up at him with wide eyes and seemed to have stopped breathing.
“My name is Harry Armitage, and this is Miss Cleopatra Fox.” He smiled. “And you are?”
“Betty Proud, sir. Pleased to meet you.” She didn’t even look past him at me. Her eyes were firmly fixed on his face. At least she was breathing again and the blinking had stopped.
“Miss Fox and I are from the Piccadilly Playhouse.”
Her eyes widened even further. So did mine. What was he up to? This was not planned.
“Are you actors?” Betty asked.
“No, nothing like that.” Mr. Armitage chuckled. “The actors are still asleep, getting their rest for tonight’s performance. They’re resumingCat and Mouse, but without its star, Miss Westwood.”
Betty gave him a sympathetic look. “I read about her death. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Armitage. You must all be devastated.”
“We are. Losing her at such a young age is a tragedy.”
I eyed him sideways. He looked quite distressed. He was good at this.
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Mr. Armitage went on. “I have a message for Lord Wrexham about Miss Westwood.”
For the first time, Betty looked at me. She was confused by this turn of events. “Why would there be a message for him about her? He didn’t know her.”
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Eleven months. What’s your message, sir? I’ll see the master gets it.”
“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” Mr. Armitage said. “Someone at the theater thought they saw Lord Wrexham there on the afternoon of Pearl’s death.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I doubt it.”
“Betty? Betty, who’re you talking to?” A woman with gray hair pinned into a bun muscled the maid aside and fixed a glare on Mr. Armitage. “Who’re you?”
“Mr. Armitage, and this is Miss Fox. We work at the Piccadilly Playhouse.” He smiled and gave a shallow bow. “Am I speaking to the housekeeper?”
“You are. I’m Mrs. Gardiner. What do folk from the Playhouse want with my scullery maid?”
“They’ve got a message for his lordship,” Betty said. “It’s about Miss Westwood, that actress who died.”
