Murder at the Piccadilly Playhouse Read online

  Murder at the Piccadilly Playhouse

  A Cleopatra Fox Mystery, Book 2

  C.J. Archer

  www.cjarcher.com

  Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  A Message From The Author

  Also by C.J. Archer

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2021 by C.J. Archer

  Visit C.J. at www.cjarcher.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About This Book

  She was admired by women and desired by men, until jealousy and past secrets took center stage. Help Cleo and her friends solve the murder of one of London’s leading actresses.

  When a hotel guest’s mistress is found dead in the stalls of the Piccadilly Playhouse, a verdict of suicide is given. Convinced his lover didn’t kill herself, Lord Rumford wants the truth uncovered. Against his better judgement, he hires Cleo Fox to find the murderer. Cleo needs to solve this case if she wants to make a living from being a private detective.

  But she quickly learns that the truth is buried beneath years of secrets; secrets that powerful people want desperately to keep. With the help of her friends from the Mayfair Hotel, Cleo exposes the bitter rivalry and jealousy of London’s West End.

  But can she find the killer before the final curtain closes on the Playhouse?

  Chapter 1

  London, January 1900

  “That was marvelous!” Flossy applauded loudly as the lights in the Hippodrome’s auditorium came on. “I don’t know which act I enjoyed more.”

  Floyd blinked into the sudden brightness. “I liked the acrobats.”

  “Of course you did. The girls wore little more than their underthings.” Flossy suddenly clasped her mother’s elbow and thrust her chin in the direction of two women trying to get their attention. “Oh look, there’s Susannah and her mother.”

  Aunt Lilian had already spotted their friends and begun to move off. “We ought to speak to them. Come along. Everybody follow me, now. Try not to get crushed.”

  Flossy lost her grip on her mother’s arm. “You’re going against the crowd,” she whined. “We’ll never reach them.”

  “Fiddlesticks. We can make it.”

  Flossy appealed to her father. Uncle Ronald seemed to agree with his daughter’s opinion that it was hopeless. The audience was simply too thick and they were all heading in one direction—out.

  “We’ll see them in the foyer, my dear,” he said to his wife.

  Aunt Lilian waved him off and plunged into the stream of people, moving up the aisle. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said as she battled her way to her friends, three rows down.

  “I’m not going that way,” Floyd said. “See you all in the foyer.”

  Flossy and I followed him, but Uncle Ronald waited in our row for the tide to deposit his wife back up the aisle to him.

  If my hand hadn’t been held tightly by Flossy, I might have lost her, but we made it safely to the foyer with Floyd. He ordered us not to move while he fetched our coats from the cloakroom, and we kept an eye out for their parents. While some of the audience left straight away, many remained behind to talk with friends, and the foyer quickly became crowded.

  Now that we had a moment to catch our breaths, Flossy wanted to discuss the show again. “I think my favorite part was the polar bears sliding from the stage into the water. What was your favorite, Cleo?”

  It was difficult to choose just one item from the evening’s program—printed on silk, no less. I’d never seen anything like tonight’s performance. Flossy might be one of the most excitable people I knew, but tonight I felt just as giddy after watching London’s newest venue’s opening night show. Indeed, to call it a show wasn’t doing it justice. It was a spectacle. A large area in front of the stage had been left bare with no audience seating. Performers had used both this arena and the stage to full advantage. As with any circus, there were contortionists, acrobats, and high-wire acts, as well as trained dogs, ponies and lions.

  But the second half of the show was even more thrilling. The arena floor sank and was flooded with water, streaming from brass nozzles. A theater show was performed on the lake with more circus animals, singing, dancing, comedic routines, and swimmers in figure-hugging costumes. Brightly lit fountains spouted water in time with the music. Boatmen rowed actors from one side to the other, and even deliberately pushed them in, much to the delight of the audience.

  The entire production was wonderful, and the brand new venue itself was just as spectacular. I’d grown used to seeing luxury at every turn at the Mayfair Hotel, but the opulence of the Hippodrome’s auditorium was more vivid. The gilded trimmings and red, blue and gold ceiling wouldn’t have looked out of place in a palace.

  “I can’t choose,” I told Flossy. “I enjoyed it all. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Why wouldn’t you come along? You’re family. We were terribly fortunate to secure five tickets. It’s a shame they weren’t for the dress circle, but Floyd said Mr. Hobart did his best.”

  If the Mayfair Hotel’s manager couldn’t obtain dress circle tickets then I doubted anyone could. According to the staff, Mr. Hobart could get guests and the Bainbridges whatever they desired.

  Aunt Lilian and Uncle Ronald found us, dragging a group of friends in their wake liked salvaged flotsam. We ladies waited while the gentlemen fetched coats, chatting about the grand evening we’d had. I recognized some of the group from the New Year’s Eve ball, and they claimed they remembered me. Thankfully none knew what I’d got up to that night and the danger I’d faced when a murderer revealed himself as the clock struck midnight. If they ever found out, they would probably never look at me the same way again. It was better this way, with them not knowing, and Aunt Lilian was also being kept in the dark.

  I was glad my aunt didn’t know. She’d be horrified to learn that I’d been in danger, and even more horrified to learn that I was getting my hands dirty by investigating a murder. Bainbridge women were not supposed to do anything more than look pretty and socialize with the guests.

  I’d frequently protested that I was not a Bainbridge woman, I was a Fox, but it had fallen on deaf ears. In truth, I didn’t want to push the point and test the boundaries of my aunt and uncle’s goodwill. They had set aside old family wounds and given me a home after my grandmother died, when I had no one else in the world. I would always be grateful.

  Aunt Lilian was in one of her energetic moods tonight. She was as excitable as Flossy and just as talkative. Her moods seemed to oscillate between highs and terrible lows. During the lows, she remained in her room and did not accept visitors. She also suffered from dreadful headaches. The only thing that helped was her doctor’s new medicine.

  The men returned and handed out cloaks and other winter accoutrements to the ladies. The audience had thinned, and there was a little more breathing room in the foyer, but we only stayed long enough for Uncle Ronald to invite their friends back to the hotel for a drink.

  I eyed Aunt Lilian carefully, worried she might be growing tired, but she seemed enthusiastic to play hostes
s to a late evening party. Dressed in navy velvet, with cream lace trimmings, she was at her most elegant. When she was happy and well, she reminded me of my mother. My memories of her were some thirteen years old, so it was bittersweet to see her likeness in the form of her sister. Some people mistook me for her daughter, not Flossy, as I’d taken after my mother in appearance and, according to some, her character too.

  Even though I only knew my mother while I was a young girl, and I’d only recently met Aunt Lilian, at times like this, when Aunt Lilian held court, I knew she must have been the more vivacious of the two. My mother had a more subdued character. Not serious but not someone who liked to be the center of attention, although she had a witty sense of humor.

  We headed into the cold night air and spotted the Mayfair Hotel carriage in the long line of conveyances waiting to collect their masters and mistresses. We five piled inside and headed home. Flossy and Aunt Lilian talked about the show, while Uncle Ronald, Floyd and I found it unnecessary to interject. Uncle Ronald and Floyd stared out of different windows, seemingly distracted by the lights.

  Indeed, there were so many lights, it was as bright as day. All the street lamps were on, of course, but light also streamed from the windows of the theaters and concert halls. Powerful lights illuminated advertising signs, and a river of carriage lamps stretched as far as I could see. It made the darkness shrouding the Piccadilly Playhouse seem out of place; a missing tooth ruining a bright smile.

  “Was there no show tonight at the Playhouse?” I asked.

  Floyd seemed grateful for something to talk about while his sister and mother continued their lively chatter, unaware I’d spoken. “Cat and Mouse was supposed to be on.” He peered past me to the darkened theater. “How odd that it’s not playing. I believe it’s been very popular.” He sat back as the theater passed out of view. “I’ll ask Rumford. He’ll know.”

  “Lord Rumford? Is he a lover of the theater?” His lordship was a guest staying at the hotel. While I didn’t know all of the guests by name, I made a point of learning the important ones and making myself known to them.

  Floyd’s smile looked wicked in the dimness of the cabin. “You could say that.”

  “Floyd,” his father barked, proving he was listening to us, after all.

  The sharp tone silenced Aunt Lilian and Flossy and nobody spoke for the remainder of the short journey.

  The carriage deposited us at the hotel’s front door. The night porter greeted us in order of importance, beginning with Uncle Ronald and ending with me. The chandeliers in the foyer blazed, and a small number of guests passed through on their way to the lift or stairs after an evening out at one of London’s theaters.

  The new assistant manager said something to the man he was talking to and approached us. Mr. Hirst wasn’t nearly as handsome or as young as Harry Armitage, the man he’d replaced, but he was just as charming. He was a quick learner, according to the manager, Mr. Hobart, and had already settled into the Mayfair’s way of doing things after ten days. Having worked as assistant manager at another of London’s luxury hotels, he was familiar with the role and expectations. No doubt Mr. Hobart and Uncle Ronald had chosen him for that very reason, to ensure the transition was as smooth as possible. With the hotel being only half full, now was the best time to hire new staff and train them, so Floyd told me. That way there would be no hiccups when spring saw society flock to the city for the opening of parliament and the many entertainments the social season brought.

  “Good evening, Sir Ronald, Lady Bainbridge,” Mr. Hirst said.

  “Who is that fellow you were talking to?” Uncle Ronald asked, squinting at the other man. He had his back to us now as he walked quickly to the staircase, but I’d caught a glimpse of his beak-nosed profile before he turned.

  “A guest,” Mr. Hirst said as the man disappeared up the stairs.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Clitheroe.”

  Uncle Ronald’s frown cleared. “Didn’t look like him.”

  Aunt Lilian patted her husband’s arm. “Your eyesight’s not what it used to be, Dear.”

  Mr. Hirst signaled to the night porter to help us with our coats. “How was the show?” Mr. Hirst asked as we handed them over.

  “Marvelous,” Aunt Lilian said on a breath. “Simply wonderful.”

  “Were the seats in the stalls adequate?”

  “Adequate, yes.” Uncle Ronald all but grunted. “The dress circle would have been better.”

  Mr. Hirst looked pained. “I’m sure Mr. Hobart did his best and would be deeply upset to hear you were disappointed.”

  I frowned. He was twisting Uncle Ronald’s words. Not that Uncle Ronald leapt to Mr. Hobart’s defense. He must still harbor some anger towards the hotel manager and what he saw as a betrayal for hiring his nephew, Mr. Armitage, years ago, despite knowing Mr. Armitage had been a thief in his childhood. It had been my fault my uncle discovered the truth, and it was my fault that Mr. Armitage subsequently lost his job. My heart still pinched every time I thought about it.

  “We weren’t disappointed at all,” I felt compelled to say. “The seats were perfect. We were very close to the arena, but not too close.”

  Mr. Hirst bowed his head in acknowledgement. Uncle Ronald and the others didn’t seem to have heard me. They were welcoming their friends to the hotel.

  Once coats were taken away and evening finery was again on display, Uncle Ronald suggested the gentlemen disperse to the billiards room, while the women enjoy the comfort of the small sitting room. While both sitting rooms were located in the left wing of the hotel, the larger one was reserved for afternoon tea, whereas the smaller one offered intimacy for more private functions.

  “Once we’re settled, you may retire,” Uncle Ronald said to Mr. Hirst.

  Mr. Hirst bowed. “Thank you, sir. And goodnight.”

  Mr. Hirst lived in the hotel, as did the other unmarried senior staff. The only married one among them was Mr. Hobart and he lived off-premises with his wife. The rest of the staff lived in a nearby residence hall. While the night porter and a skeleton staff remained on duty overnight, including in the kitchen, most would start before dawn.

  The gentlemen headed to the smoking and billiards rooms in a raucous humor, while Aunt Lilian led the women to the small sitting room, flapping her program to usher us along.

  “My program!” I said, stopping. “I left it in my coat pocket.”

  “It’ll be there in the morning, Cleo,” Flossy said.

  “I want to read through it again.”

  She smiled. “You are so provincial.”

  I refrained from reminding her that I was from Cambridge, not the country. It wouldn’t matter to Flossy. Anything outside of London was “provincial” to her and therefore dreadfully dull. Only London and it’s endless amusements could satisfy her zest for life.

  Aunt Lilian joined us and asked Flossy to fetch her bottle of tonic from her dressing table. Flossy hesitated.

  “Now,” Aunt Lilian snapped.

  Flossy bowed her head and hurried off.

  I returned to the luggage room, which also acted as a cloakroom, and rifled through the pockets of my coat until I found the program. I was crossing the foyer again when the beak-nosed man who’d been talking to Mr. Hirst emerged from the stairwell beside the lift.

  He scanned the area, spotted me, and hesitated. I smiled and he touched the brim of his bowler hat in greeting before heading for the front door.

  On a whim, I said, “Mr. Clitheroe.”

  He kept walking.

  He exchanged glances with the night porter. The night porter did not open the door for Mr. Clitheroe as he ought to do for a departing guest.

  I joined my aunt, cousin and their guests in the small sitting room, but didn’t feel like joining in the conversation. Mr. Clitheroe had got me thinking. It wasn’t just that he didn’t respond when I said his name, or his furtive demeanor, it was also his clothes. He wore a well-made suit that wasn’t out of place during the day, b
ut didn’t belong in a luxury hotel in the evening. All the gentlemen guests were dressed in tailcoats, bow ties, stiff white shirts with winged collars, and low-cut waistcoats with silk top hats, but Mr. Clitheroe wore a single-breasted coat and high-cut waistcoat with a simple necktie. A guest of the sort the Mayfair attracted wouldn’t leave the hotel in the evening wearing his daytime suit.

  Which meant the beak-nosed man was not a guest at all.

  “Have you seen the papers this morning?” Harmony stood in the doorway connecting my bedroom to the sitting room, a folded newspaper in hand.

  I sat up, blinking away sleep. “What time is it?”

  “Eight.”

  “I asked you to wake me at nine today.”

  “Did you? I don’t remember.”

  I lay down again and pulled the bed covers up to my chin. “Come back later. It was a late night, and I’m tired.”

  “Your breakfast will get cold.”

  My stomach rumbled. I pushed off the covers and picked up the dressing gown folded over the back of the chair. “I suppose you want to know all about the show.”

  “Oh yes, how was it?” Harmony led the way into the sitting room and deposited the newspaper on top of the tray’s flat lid where I couldn’t fail to see it. She proceeded to plump the sofa cushions until I invited her to join me for a cup of coffee.

  She gave up the pretense of tidying and sat on the other chair at the small breakfast table. It was a little charade we went through every morning. She came to wake me, usually at eight, and sat with me while I ate breakfast, enjoying a cup of coffee. She should have been tidying my suite, and as far as the housekeeper was aware, that’s precisely what she was doing, but I kept the rooms tidy myself. After breakfast, Harmony often stayed to do my hair. The morning routine had given us time to become friends, as much as a woman and her maid could be friends. More often than not, we spoke to one another as equals. Harmony had quickly learned that I didn’t put on airs and wasn’t used to an idle, luxurious life like my aunt and cousin, and I’d realized she was clever and had a thirst for knowledge. I’d taken to borrowing books from the hotel library and giving them to her to read on her time off. Not that she had much spare time.