Free The Bargain by Jane Ashford Page A

very solemn suddenly. “My condolences, my dear. Awful thing.”
    â€œYes.” Ariel paused and swallowed. “This is Lord Alan Gresham,” she said then. “He is helping me look into Bess’s death. Lord Alan, this is Mr. Charles Padgett. But you will have heard of him, of course.”
    Padgett preened a bit.
    Refusing to be pushed, Alan said, “Will I?”
    The older man drew himself up into a magnificent huff.
    â€œWe came to talk to you about Bess,” Ariel added quickly.
    Neatly implying, Alan noticed, that they were consulting him first and foremost, without of course saying so.
    Padgett appeared to consider remaining offended, then gave it up for a more congenial role. “Come into my poor premises, and I will do what I can,” he replied, gesturing them grandly into the room behind him.
    It was a tiny, wildly cluttered chamber, the walls bulging with costumes hung on hooks, the floor crowded by an overstuffed armchair and a mirrored dressing table on which pots and vials and tubes vied for space with scraps of false hair, bits of putty, and a vast litter of personal objects. The disarray, and the closeness of the atmosphere, made Alan take a step back. When Ariel sat down in the armchair, he indicated with a gesture that he would stand. Padgett spread his hands, then took the stool before the vanity. There was barely an inch between his knees and Ariel’s, Alan saw. How did the man bear such disorder?
    â€œA sad, sad thing,” Padgett intoned. “Poor lovely Bess. We shall not see her like again.” He put a hand over his heart and bowed his head.
    After a moment, Ariel said, “Did you notice any difference in her? Had anything happened to make her… despondent?”
    The older man shook his head slowly. “Our lives outside the theater were quite separate, of course. But she seemed the same as ever. There may have been a bit of wrangling now and then.” He made an eloquent gesture. “But that is the nature of our profession.” He looked at Lord Alan. “We pour out our souls, you know, on the stage. It taxes the nerves and makes it difficult to tolerate the… quirks and foibles of others.”
    â€œHow difficult?” inquired Alan.
    Padgett smiled at him in a kindly way. “We murder one another only on the stage, my dear sir. Naturally, we have our jealousies and romantic mishaps and irritations.” He put his hand over his heart again. “We are but human, after all. However, our work gives us a splendid outlet for our humors.”
    â€œNot always, apparently,” Alan pointed out.
    There was a horrified silence.
    â€œThere has to be a reason she did it,” Ariel burst out.
    Padgett looked grave. “Dear child, I don’t think you will find it here. Bess was admired by most everyone, and even those who had… less cordial feelings knew she filled the seats.” He looked suddenly shrewd. “Actors don’t risk their livelihood.”
    This was the most honest thing he had said so far, Alan thought.
    Ariel was looking at the small patch of floor under her feet. “There must have been some sign,” she insisted.
    â€œBess was simply Bess,” Padgett said. “Well, except…”
    Ariel’s head came up. “What?”
    The actor shrugged. “This can’t have anything to do with her death. It is too long ago.”
    â€œPlease tell me.”
    â€œA year or so ago,” he began, then paused. “No, I suppose it’s more like two years; I noticed that Bess seemed… distracted—as if she had something important on her mind. Our work here at the theater had always been her life, you know. She thought of little else.” He frowned. “It’s hard to explain, really. It was an impression, a vague feeling. Before that time, one could feel Bess present in every fiber. Afterward, she wasn’t entirely here any longer. She still performed