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  “I care little for parties,” Lizzie had said during our first meeting at the theatre reception. “I would rather be at home practising my lines.”

  “Which part are you playing next?”

  “Ophelia in Hamlet.”

  “One of my favourite plays!”

  “Then you must come and see it.”

  “I would love to. I’m reading Othello at the moment.”

  “You read Shakespeare for your own entertainment?” Lizzie’s painted eyebrows knotted slightly.

  “It’s something my father used to do. I remember him reading the plays to me when I was young. When he is away I like to read them, as they remind me of him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In South America.”

  “What is he doing all the way over there?” Lizzie’s eyes lit up with interest.

  “He is collecting plants for Kew Gardens and the British Museum. He has done so for many years. His expedition is due to end within the next month and then he will return home.”

  “How fascinating. What is his name?”

  “Frederick Brinsley Green.”

  “I should like to meet him and hear of his travels when he returns. I would love to travel myself. Your father must have many interesting stories to tell.”

  “Yes, and he is writing them down with the hope of putting them all into a book some day.”

  “There you are!”

  The booming voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed Joseph Taylor walking up towards us. He was a large man with ginger whiskers and a thick moustache, which had been waxed into upturned curls at either end. He wore a black silk top hat, a deep red tailcoat, and red-and-green chequered trousers with a matching waistcoat. He appeared drunk as he grabbed Lizzie by the waist and kissed her cheek.

  Her mouth smiled, but I noticed that her eyes did not.

  “Joseph, meet Miss Penny Green. She is the reporter who wrote the review for the Morning Express.”

  “Did she now?” His eyes turned on me accusingly and a sneer formed beneath his large moustache.

  “There is no need to be cross, darling. I like honesty in a person. I cannot listen all the time to people telling me how wonderful I am, can I? Sebastian!”

  She waved over to a tall, thin man with dark whiskers. He was by her side in one swift stride.

  “Yes, Lizzie?” He wore a top hat, a dark frock coat, a cravat and a waistcoat. He had a long, angular face and his whiskers were arranged in the mutton chop style. A white carnation adorned his buttonhole.

  “Please ensure that Miss Green receives a ticket for the opening night of Hamlet.”

  Sebastian nodded in reply.

  “Are you sure?” asked Mr Taylor. “This ink slinger wrote a shabby review last time. She doesn’t deserve to see any more of your plays!”

  “Is that so?” asked Sebastian, eying me suspiciously.

  “Miss Green will love Hamlet, I know it,” said Lizzie.

  “Have you met Mr Harrington yet?” Mr Taylor asked his wife.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “He is standing just over there.”

  “I must go, Miss Green. It was delightful meeting you.” Lizzie smiled and then she was gone.

  Lizzie had been right. I had indeed loved her performance in Hamlet. It was cheering to witness her growing skill as an actress and the reviews were complimentary across the board. The role of Ophelia had confirmed her as one of the most talented actresses of the age.

  Later that same month my father’s expedition returned to Britain without him. He had vanished with his guide while collecting orchids in Amazonia. The search parties had given up all hope of finding them alive.

  I remember little of my day-to-day life at that time. I know that I tried to comfort my mother and sister, but it felt as though we were each locked in our own prisons of grief. Thick walls seemed to separate me from the life taking place around me. Tiger had remained seated on my lap whenever possible, purring as if she were trying to push the grief away.

  One day a parcel had arrived for me at the Morning Express offices. I opened it to find a three-volume collection of The Complete Works of Shakespeare bound in red and gilt. Inscribed on the front flyleaf of the first volume was the following message:

  I am so very sorry to hear the sad news about your father. Kindest regards, Lizzie Dixie

  The volumes Lizzie had given me were now well-thumbed, and the gilt had lost some of its shine. I gazed up at the light-filled dome of the reading room and prayed that Inspector Blakely would not team up with Edgar Fish to work on Lizzie’s case. Neither man had known her as I had, and I felt an irrational need to be included in the investigation.

  Once again, I considered Inspector Blakely’s offer, but I knew the arrangement would be of little benefit to me. The work would not cover my rent or pay for a new pair of boots. I needed decent paid work, and that was why I had to finish my article on Madame de Staël, so that I could search for my next commission.

  Even so, I decided it would do no harm to visit an acquaintance of Lizzie’s that day. I wanted to speak to Sebastian Colehill, the proprietor of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. He had worked with Lizzie throughout her career and I had met him a number of times. I felt sure he could help me find out what had happened to her.

  Chapter 4

  The auditorium at the Theatre Royal was dimly lit by gas jets in round, glass shades. I sat in a red velvet seat in the stalls and waited for Sebastian Colehill.

  Above me hung an enormous chandelier, which I imagined blazing with light as the audience took their seats for the performance. I could almost hear the chatter and hum of their voices and smell their perfume. Enormous scarlet and gold curtains hung in folds across the stage and, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I could make out the detail of the gilded trellis and foliage moulding on each balcony.

  I had watched Lizzie perform here on the opening night of Lady Audley’s Secret and it was hard to believe that the empty seats around me had been filled with the most fashionable people in London society that night. The empty theatre appeared somewhat bereft. I felt lonely sitting here, and yet the seats and walls around me seemed to harbour every moment of laughter and sadness expressed on the stage through the years.

  I felt lonely, but I didn’t feel alone.

  I shivered and thought of the Grey Man, who was reported to roam the corridors and auditorium, and could even be found sitting in one of the theatre seats on occasion, according to rumour. He was thought to be the ghost of the actor Charles Macklin, who had murdered a fellow actor backstage. Lizzie had told me that the presence of Joey Grimaldi was also felt here. Actors claimed to have been nudged in the back or kicked by an unseen presence, and Lizzie said she once felt as though she had been pushed out of the way by invisible hands before a section of scenery fell and almost hit her.

  I had no belief in ghosts, but the back of my neck prickled as these stories came to mind. As much as I liked to dismiss tales of the supernatural, the sensation that I wasn’t alone made me fearful that the figure of the Grey Man might suddenly appear out of the gloom around me. As I shivered, I felt the wedge of blotting paper under my toes in the damaged right boot.

  The slam of a door to the left of the stage jolted me a few inches out of my seat. Out into the auditorium strode a tall, lean man wearing a top hat and black frock coat. As he walked towards the row where I was seated, I could see that his dark whiskers were flecked with grey. He still wore a white carnation in his buttonhole. Originally an actor, Sebastian had moved into theatre management at a young age. He had spotted the unknown Lizzie Dixie when she was just nineteen years old and performing in an amateur play. I guessed that he was somewhere around his mid-forties these days. He was as thin as I had remembered him to be, with lanky limbs and a long, pale face. He walked along the row of seats to join me.

  “Good morning, Miss Green. This is a surprise.” He sat down, leaving a couple of empty seats between us. “Are you still a journalist?�
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  “Yes, I am.”

  He looked at me warily, so I smiled slightly. I hoped he wouldn’t assume I was here to chase a story or there was a risk he might become angry.

  Sebastian removed his hat and smoothed his hair. He smelt pleasantly of violet water. “It must be a few years since we last met?”

  “It was when Lizzie was still alive.”

  He paused before replying. “Yes, I think it was.”

  “The first time, that is. You have heard?”

  “I have.” He ran his right hand through his hair. “Just a few hours ago, in fact. I saw it in The Times. Unfathomable.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “I honestly don’t know what to think. What to say. I can’t quite believe it. In fact, I don’t believe it at all. I take it this is the reason you have come to see me?” He fixed me with his pale blue eyes, which had dark rings beneath them.

  “Yes. I found out yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? Before the news was in the papers?”

  “I was visited by a detective from Scotland Yard.”

  “Are you here doing his work for him, then? Are you going to print what I say in the newspapers?” He glared at me as if he couldn’t trust what I might do.

  “No, not at all. I won’t be writing anything about this. Not yet. The detective asked me to help him.”

  “How?”

  “He wants to know who her friends and acquaintances were. Somehow her murderer knew that she was still alive.”

  “It is odd. Most odd.”

  Sebastian rested back in his seat and stared at the curtains hanging across the stage, dangling his hat absent-mindedly between his pointed knees. As I watched him, I recalled an incident when I had seen him in Lizzie’s dressing room several years earlier. Annie, her daughter, had been with us. She was about twelve years old at the time. She had been playing with the costumes and was trying on a red silk hat with a lace veil when Sebastian walked in with an enormous bunch of lilies.

  “Another bouquet for you, Lizzie,” he said. “The audience adored your performance this evening.”

  “Thank you. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  Lizzie wore a cream silk dressing gown and had just removed her stage make-up. Her face looked young and girlish for her years. She leant forward to smell the flowers. “I love the scent of lilies. Don’t you, Penny?”

  “I do, although I rarely have cut flowers in my lodgings. The lack of light kills off most things rather quickly.”

  “Including yourself?” Lizzie laughed. “I’ve invited Penny here to help me with Ophelia,” she explained to Sebastian. “She is an expert on Shakespeare.”

  “No, I’m not!” I added quickly. “I read his plays, but I am not an expert by any stretch of the imagination.”

  Sebastian smiled. “Any help Lizzie can obtain is more than welcome, I am sure. You will be a wonderful Ophelia, Lizzie.”

  “You say that about every part I play. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I wish you would be a little more honest with me, Sebastian.”

  “It’s what I believe!”

  “And how do you think this current run is going?” she probed.

  “Extremely well.”

  “There you go again. And I don’t agree with you. I think it is quite arduous.”

  “It is meant to be hard work. If you’re not finding it difficult, it means you’re not trying hard enough.”

  “Even so, I don’t believe this play is going as well as A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Each play is different, as is each performance. Sometimes everything runs perfectly with seemingly little effort, and at other times it feels so terribly difficult that it’s tempting to give up.”

  “That’s how I feel at this moment,” said Lizzie sadly, gazing at her reflection in the mirror.

  “Come now.” Sebastian stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It will feel better again soon. It’s important to remember that acting isn’t all beer and skittles.”

  “It most certainly is not.” She removed his hands from her shoulders and got up out of her chair.

  “Oh Annie, look at you!” A wide grin spread across Lizzie’s face. “You look beautiful in that hat!”

  Annie laughed and lifted up the veil so she could see her mother properly. She looked very like her with her dark, wavy hair and pretty, heart-shaped face.

  “When I decide I have had enough of this acting lark, you must employ Annie in my place, Sebastian!”

  “We must begin the acting lessons very soon, in that case!”

  Lizzie walked over to her daughter, lifted the hat and kissed her on the forehead. “I am proud of you, darling. I was only joking about you taking my place. If you ever think about becoming an actress you must think it over very hard, as it is not an easy profession. Promise me you won’t rush into it as I did.”

  “I promise, Mother.”

  “The detective wants to find out who Lizzie was acquainted with shortly before the sinking of the Princess Alice.”

  Sebastian stopped staring at the curtain and turned to look at me. “Well, he needs to ask her husband, doesn’t he? Hasn’t he spoken to Taylor?”

  “He has, but I can’t imagine he has spoken to him in great detail yet. Mr Taylor identified her only yesterday.”

  “Shot. In Highgate Cemetery.” Sebastian shook his head in disbelief. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”

  “And why did she pretend to have drowned five years ago?” I added.

  “Why indeed?” He continued to shake his head. “It’s a pretty kettle of fish, that’s for sure.” He checked his watch. “I must dash, I have a lunch appointment. I can imagine this has caused a sensational stir in the newspaper offices. You must have a lot of reporting to do for the Morning Express.”

  “I no longer work for the Morning Express.”

  “You don’t? I assumed you were visiting me as part of your journalistic inquiries.”

  “No, I’m not working on the story. I just wanted to speak to someone else who knew her.”

  “Indeed.”

  There was a moment of silence and I noticed his face soften.

  “I wonder how Annie is,” I ventured.

  “Devastated, I should think. She has Taylor to look after her. I do hope they are some comfort to one another.”

  Annie had lived with her stepfather ever since he had married her mother. He had trained her as a performer and she was a talented trick rider in his shows. I estimated that she would be about twenty years old by now.

  Sebastian put on his hat and gave me an earnest look. “Please will you come and have dinner with my wife and me? You and I both thought a lot of Lizzie, and to speak to someone else who cared for her seems...” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I don’t know. It just seems appropriate. Is that the right word? I am sure you agree.”

  “Indeed, yes. That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  His offer took me by surprise. Perhaps he trusted me after all?

  “Good. Then please excuse me, Miss Green. I will send a note to you with a date and time. You are still at Milton Street?” He tucked his handkerchief away again.

  “I am.”

  “Good, good.” He stood up and raised his hat. “Until then.”

  Chapter 5

  With a fresh piece of blotting paper covering the hole in the sole of my boot, I travelled on the underground railway from Temple to Westminster Bridge station early that evening. I could only afford a third-class ticket for the train, so it was fortunate that my journey was short in the malodorous, overcrowded carriage. It was so filled with tobacco smoke that I wanted to open a window for ventilation, but I knew that doing so would only let in the smoke and soot from the engine.

  I had decided to go to Astley’s Amphitheatre, where Lizzie’s former husband, Joseph Taylor, had a show. Posters for his production of Sinbad the Sailor seemed to be pasted on every spare inch of wall across London. I had never been to one of his shows and, having
only ever found him cantankerous in the past, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  I hoped that Mr Taylor and Lizzie’s daughter, Annie, would remember me as a friend of Lizzie’s. I wanted to offer them my condolences and was hopeful that they might be able to tell me something which would help me understand what had happened to Lizzie.

  It still didn’t seem real.

  Mr Taylor wouldn’t think twice about being rude and dismissive, so I hoped he would be genial towards me. I reasoned that if I watched the show before speaking to him I would have a topic with which to open our conversation.

  It was dark as I emerged from Westminster Bridge station with a taste of sulphur in my mouth from the train journey. The gas lamps on Westminster Bridge lit my way over to Lambeth and I heard the puff of a steamer passing on the river beneath my feet. Lights glimmered out on the water and a couple walked arm-in-arm ahead of me. From behind, I heard the excited chatter of children.

  Sinbad the Sailor began at seven o’clock and the performance was attracting a steady stream of theatregoers.

  I bought a sixpence ticket from a stern woman with a heavily lined face at the box office and asked if I could speak to Mr Taylor after the show. She shook her head and looked past me in a bid to sell a ticket to the next person in the queue.

  “I would like to speak to him for just a few minutes,” I pleaded. In desperation, I rummaged around in my handbag in an attempt to find one of my old Morning Express calling cards. I located one with a bent corner among a bundle of papers and pushed it across the counter of the ticket booth.

  The woman picked it up and examined it closely.

  “Wait by the stage door at the end,” she said after a protracted pause.

  “You will tell Mr Taylor that I wish to speak to him?”

  She nodded in reply and asked the man waiting behind me how many tickets he wished to purchase.

  My seat was in the upper gallery, a position that afforded me a clear view of the arena. There were ramps either side of the stage leading down into a large circular ring. I recalled watching a performance at the same venue many years earlier with my father and sister.