Free Dead for a Spell by Raymond Buckland Page A

had retired.”
    â€œBut both these robes were made by her?”
    â€œI’d swear to it,” said Miss Connelly. “She did this fine fore-stitching on her hems. No one else would take the time, especially since it was for stage work. But she was proud of it. And so she should be. Beautiful work it was.”
    I reported the identification to Mr. Stoker. “Should I let the inspector know?” I asked.
    He did not even pause to consider. “No, Harry. Not right away, I don’t think. Plenty of time yet. We don’t want to interfere with Inspector Bellamy’s questioning of the staff. I think that perhaps we can first investigate a little further ourselves . . . just so that we will be able to present him with a more complete picture, of course.”
    â€œOf course, sir,” I said, a smile creeping across my face. “So you want me to follow up on this and track down Miss Penelope Proctor?”
    â€œYou are very good at mind reading, Harry. You should be on the stage.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Yes. Pop down to the Elephant and Castle and start there. You know the way, as I recall.”
    It was little more than a month ago that I had visited that theatre trying to trace an elderly actress who had thoughts of blackmailing the Guv’nor, so it was a strange sensation when I once again boarded the light green omnibus and paid my fourpence fare. Alighting at the Elephant and Castle Hostelry, I hurried around the corner, tugging my topcoat close about me as a cold gust of wind blew down the New Kent Road as though aiming directly for the old theatre.
    The theatre had been badly damaged in a fire some three years ago and still awaited repairs and renovations. I pushed past the unlocked stage door, sagging on its hinges, and found my way to the manager’s office.
    â€œHello! Ain’t I seen you afore?” The little figure, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, no jacket but sporting a bowler hat, looked up from where he sat behind a well-worn desk, covered with papers. His striped shirt looked clean but it was minus the collar. His sleeves, as the last time I encountered him, were pulled back with black armbands. Most of the papers on the desk, from where I stood, looked to be unpaid bills. He made no attempt to hide them. “Don’t tell me,” he continued, pausing to chew thoughtfully on his straggly mustache. “Ain’t you the gent from the Sadler’s Wells?”
    â€œThe Lyceum,” I said.
    â€œThat’s right. You was here after one of our young ladies.”
    â€œEnquiring,” I said. “And she was far from young!”
    â€œOh yes.” His face broke out in a grin. “Our Miss Daisy Middleton. I remember. Is that who you want this time?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œDon’t blame you. Anyway, she’s moved on. Given up treading the boards and is now treading the pavement full-time, if’n you take my meaning.”
    I decided to come straight to the point. “I have been led to believe that you have, or had, a wardrobe mistress named Miss Penelope Proctor?”
    â€œ
Mrs
. Proctor.” He stressed the title. “She never liked to be called Miss, though I came to find out that she’d never actually been married. Just thought it made her sound more distinguished or something, I think.”
    I nodded. “Is she still employed here?”
    â€œLor’ no! She retired a goodly time ago. Just afore the fire, I think it was. Good thing, too, if you ask me.”
    â€œWhy is that?” I asked.
    â€œWell, it was the wardrobe room where the fire started, wasn’t it?”
    I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea. “So do you know where she is now?” I asked.
    â€œShe was always talking about buying a nice little cottage down at Margate or Ramsgate or one of them seaside places. A lot of old actors and theatre folks do that, as I’m sure you know.