Mr. Alcott hurried along the corridor behind me, waving some strips of paper in the air. As he drew closer, I realized they were tickets. He handed them to me. “They’re for tonight’s performance. Best seats in the house.”
“Thank you. I look forward to it.”
He leaned forward and whispered, “Dotty’s performance won’t be as good as Pearl’s.”
The mention of Pearl reminded me just how close they’d been. “May I ask you a very personal question about Miss Westwood?”
“This sounds serious. What is it?”
“Did she ever mention that she’d had a child?”
“Bloody hell,” he murmured. “No, never. When was this?”
I didn’t like spreading gossip, but I needed answers and this man might be able to give them to me. “The child will be four in March. Pearl’s sister and brother-in-law have been raising her as their own.”
He shook his head. “I’m flabbergasted. Not only did Pearl never mention her, but…” He shook his head.
“Go on.”
“But as I said, I never had an inkling. Even now that you’ve told me, I can’t think of a single time Pearl even hinted at that child being hers. There were no photographs of her in her dressing room, no children’s drawings. I don’t even know the girl’s name.”
“Millie.”
“She bought her a gift at Christmas, of that I’m sure. It was a teddy bear. She asked me if I thought it was a good gift for a toddler, but you’re saying the girl is almost four.” He shook his head over and over. “How could she not have told me?”
The more he spoke, the more he threw cold water over my theory. “So there were no times you thought she seemed sad? As if she regretted giving the child away?”
“Pearl was never sad. She was always happy. She had everything she could ever want, as far as I knew—men who adored her, a generous benefactor who lavished her with gifts. If she regretted anything, she never showed that side to me, and I was her best friend.”
A best friend who hadn’t known about Pearl’s relationshipwith Mr. Culpepper. So perhaps he hadn’t known Pearl’s true feelings about the baby, either.
But everything in the picture he painted of her was the same that others painted. Pearl was happy. She enjoyed her life. She didn’t act like a woman who missed her child and wanted her back. Surely if she had, her lover and friend would have known, or at least seen some small sign.
But Pearl seemed to have no regrets, no sorrows. She had not showered her little girl with gifts, and when she did buy her a Christmas gift, it wasn’t what a girl her age would want. Indeed, according to the Larsens’ neighbor, Pearl only visited once a year, at Christmastime. That wasn’t a woman who missed her child and wanted her back. If Millie was Pearl’s daughter, Pearl’s heart was cold indeed.
Perhaps Mrs. Larsen was telling the truth and Millie was indeed her child, not Pearl’s. If so, my theory that she’d killed Pearl to stop her taking Millie lay in tatters.
I headed back to the hotel with a heavy heart. It seemed like the more I learned, the further away from the truth I got.
The Piccadilly Playhouselooked different at night. With all lights blazing in the foyer and audience members dressed in their evening finery, it became a glamorous wonderland, much like the Mayfair Hotel. Mr. Alcott had given me five tickets, one for each of the Bainbridges and myself. Uncle Ronald had initially declined, but after discovering the seats were in the box on the second tier, he changed his mind. Mr. Alcott was right when he said they were the best seats, and my uncle wasn’t going to give up an opportunity to be seen.
The show was a little dull, the story lacking something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The performances were excellent, however, although Floyd didn’t think so.
“Pearl Westwood was better.” Seated between Flossy and me, thought he’d been enjoying the show, until he yawned.
Flossy nudged him with her elbow. “You’re only saying that because she was more beautiful than Dotty Clare.”
Aunt Lilian rapped Flossy on the shoulder. “If you’re going to talk, be more subtle. People arewatching.”
Flossy pouted. “He started it.”
“That’s enough, Florence. You’re a lady; act like one.”
Floyd snorted, earning himself another jab from Flossy’s elbow.
Uncle Ronald leaned forward. “I expect better from you, Floyd.”
“I know,” Floyd muttered in hushed tones so his parents couldn’t hear. “I’m never good enough.”
