Free Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage by Emily Brightwell

With that, he turned on his heel and left.
    As soon as the door of Theodora Vaughan’s dressing room had closed behind them, Barnes said. “You think you’ll get more out of her at her home, sir?”
    “Oh, no, Barnes,” Witherspoon said. “I just thought the poor lady looked tired. She’s magnificient, isn’t she?”
    Barnes’s jaw dropped in shock. But the inspector didn’t notice as he charged for the dressing room down the hall.
    “Let’s go see what Mr. Remington has to say for himself. I believe his dressing room is here.” He rapped sharply on the door.
    “Who is it?” a man’s voice shouted irritably.
    “The police,” Witherspoon yelled. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Remington.”
    “Just a moment, please.”
    They waited in the hall for quite a few moments. Barnes had just raised his fist to knock again when the door opened. A tall man, his hair mussed and his face shining with some greasy substance, stuck his head out. “Police? What do you want?” he asked rudely.
    Witherspoon straightened his spine. “We would like to speak with you about the murder of Ogden Hinchley.”
    The man stared at them, then reluctantly opened the door. “Swinton told me you’d been here. But I honestly don’t see why you’re bothering me with this matter. I’ve nothing to do with it.”
    “Nevertheless, we’d like to ask you some questions,” Witherspoon said.
    Remington sighed dramatically, like a king condescending to speak to a stupid peasant. “Come in, then. But I don’t know why you need to see me. I haven’t talked to Hinchley in months. I didn’t even know he was back from New York.”
    The room was identical in size to the one they’d just left. But size was the only thing the two rooms had in common. Remington’s dressing room was dark and dingy, with bad lighting, ugly green walls, a bare floor and a scraggly hanging curtain on one end instead of a dressing screen. In place of a nice overstuffed settee, Remington had two disreputable balloon-backed chairs.
    He sat down in front of his vanity table and gestured toward the other seats. “Sit down, please.” He turned to his mirror, picked up a cotton cloth and began wiping his face.
    Witherspoon took a moment to study the actor as he and Barnes sat down. The man’s hair was dark but there were a few strands of gray sprouting at his temples. His nose was aquiline, his jawline firm and manly and his bone structure excellent. But there were more than a few age lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes, and the brackets around his mouth marked his years as numbering closer to forty than thirty.
    “Mr. Remington,” Witherspoon began, but the actor interrupted him.
    “Is this going to take long?” he asked. “I’ve a supper engagement soon and I don’t want to be late.”
    “We’ll be as quick as possible,” the inspector replied. “You were acquainted with Ogden Hinchley?”
    “Everyone in the theatre knew Hinchley.” Remington tossed the cloth down and turned to look at them. “What of it?”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    “Three months ago at the Drury Lane Theatre.”
    “Did you know that he was in the Hayden last night?” Barnes asked.
    Remington shrugged. “I didn’t know it at the time. Only after the play was over. Albert Parks told me he’d spotted him sitting down front.”
    “Albert Parks is the director of your play?” Witherspoon asked.
    “That’s right. Albert took a peek out the curtains before the lights went down and spotted Hinchley. But he didn’t tell me until after the play was over.”
    “Was Hinchley here to review your play?” Barnesasked. He didn’t have a clue what the inspector was up to, so he decided to put his oar in the water as well. He could always shut up if need be.
    Remington’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Probably. Not that I cared one way or the other. No one took Hinchley’s reviews all that seriously anymore.”
    “Had he reviewed any of your earlier