Page 50 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Mr. Marsden peered over her shoulder and then further up the alley. He removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair.
With her pulse tripping a beat, her breath turning shallow, she said, “You didn’t send him.”
He met her eyes, his jaw tight. “No.”
Someone else was watching her, a man Hugh Marsden knew nothing about. He’d accused her of being too bold, of making herself a target. Until right then, she hadn’t quite believed him.
“Come along,” he said, his eyes searching the alleyway again before continuing toward the theatre’s side entrance.
Audrey fought to remember more about the man she’d seen twice now. Both times, she hadn’t gleaned more than a general outline of his figure. With an uneven pulse, she compared it to the blurred vision she’d had of the murderer while holding Miss Lovejoy’s earbob. Whether or not it was the same man eluded her.
Inside the theatre, the stale odor of cigars, perfume, and lamp oil wafted under her nose, a welcome change from the alley’s smell. It was dark, and she became disoriented as they turned down a corridor. The spongy carpet beneath her feet was familiar though—they had come this way the last time they’d visited.
It was in this very corridor that she’d accidentally touched Mr. Marsden and been hammered with a vision. Not his latest experience, but a persistent, clutching memory. A woman, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders. With a shudder, Audrey wondered if this memory was of Miss Neatham. With a lurch of her stomach, she realized Mr. Marsden might have involuntarily, unknowingly, shown Audrey the memory that haunted him.
“What is wrong?”
With a start, she realized she had fallen behind. Audrey shook her head and hurried to catch up.
“Nothing,” she lied. Keeping company with someone like Mr. Marsden should have repulsed her. And yet, as they came to the end of the corridor and entered the familiar halls backstage, Audrey felt only curiosity.
She didn’t know if she could trust him; his true motives for arranging this meeting might still be hidden.Trust Mr. Marsden?It was absurd. Whyever should she? Even Philip was keeping important information from her, and the two of them had been each other’s closest confidants.
The theatre manager’s office door was just ahead, and thankfully this time, there wasn’t another actor or actress in sight. The last time, the actor named Porter had unsettled her. He’d been furious about Belladora Lovejoy’s death and had been adamant that she hadn’t been a kept mistress. Of course, he’d been proven wrong—she’d been ensconced in Wimbly’s property on Yarrow Street. Though, she had not been exclusive to him, he’d claimed. Had she and Porter been involved? Had he been jealous?
Hugh stopped at the manager’s closed door and rapped on the painted wood. When no answer came, he knocked again.
“Mr. Bernadetto? Are you in?”
He glanced at Audrey with a silent“I told you so”written on his expression. Still sleeping, as he’d warned. She stepped forward and knocked a third time. She didn’t have time to stand around waiting. Philip’s case was being presented to the grand jury the following day, and she needed information to give Potridge; information that might help sway the jury to throw out her husband’s case.
A shuffling noise came from within the office, then the sound of something heavy falling onto the floor.
“Mr. Bernadetto, we apologize for the early hour,” Audrey said, her voice raised. “We have some new questions about Miss Lovejoy, and it’s imperative we speak to you.”
The pair of them stood staring at the door another few moments, Audrey’s impatience mounting. Her restless limbs felt the intense need to move. With an agitated sigh, she threw up her hand.
“This is ridiculous. He is in there, we heard him.”
Mr. Marsden’s irritation wasn’t much more controlled. He drummed his knuckles harder against the wood. “Bernadetto, you left the inquest without answering any of the coroner’s questions. I insist you allow us in.”
Utter silence followed. No more shuffling noises. Fed up, Audrey reached for the doorknob. It was locked. Mr. Marsden grumbled, then shouted, “I’m giving you until the count of three, Bernadetto, then I’m kicking down this door.”
Audrey stared at him. “Is that truly necessary? I do have my hat pins—I can pick the lock.”
“Yes, but kicking down the door is more assertive and much more threatening,” he replied. She rolled her eyes.
“One!” he bellowed. “Two!” He stood back and motioned for Audrey to move aside. Thinking it unnecessary, but a little thrilling, she scuttled out of his way. “Three!”
Mr. Marsden raised his foot and stomped it hard against the door. In the second before his boot connected with the wood, Audrey wondered if she would be able to suppress her laughter should he fail to force the door open. A ready smile was still leaping to her lips when the door did bash open—and a grisly scene met them.
The theatre manager’s office was in a state of total disarray. His desk had been swiped clear, the contents strewn all over the floor, the chairs overturned; the cabinets stood open, drawers pulled free and emptied upon the floor, leaving a mess of papers and trinkets; and lying on the floor next to the bedstead, was Mr. Bernadetto himself. Blood splattered his face and neck, soaking into his collar and onto the carpet beneath him. Audrey clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling her scream.
“The window,” Mr. Marsden said, and then rushed toward it. The sash had been thrown open. With a sickening roll of her stomach, Audrey realized the muffled sound they’d heard from the behind the door must have been the intruder. Which meant he hadn’t gotten far.
“Stay here!” Mr. Marsden shouted to her before leaping up onto the open sill and maneuvering himself out through the window.
“No! Mr. Marsden, stop!” she cried as he dropped from view. Audrey dashed on clumsy legs to the window, reaching for the sill—and drawing back when she saw red stains smeared there. Mr. Bernadetto’s blood.
