Wouldn't It Be Deadly (27 page)

His expression turned grim. “Of course not.”

“I didn't think so.”

“The Maestro must have been pleased when you became his student, Miss Page,” Eliza said. “I know he had an eye for pretty women, and you're more beautiful than most. You've probably received plenty of attention all your life because of it.”

“Too much attention sometimes, but I'm not as beautiful as you imagine. It's the makeup, you see.” She picked up a smaller brush and swept powder across her high cheekbones. “Without it, you wouldn't recognize me at all.”

Eliza didn't believe that for a minute. “I recognized my favorite film actor on the Strand one day. But I was too afraid to ask for an autograph. That reminds me. I brought my copy of
Hamlet
. Would you sign my book, Miss Page?”

“With pleasure.”

After admiring the leather binding, Rosalind turned to the first blank page. She plucked a fountain pen from a tin cup, checked the ink, and then signed the photo with a charming flourish. While she did that, Eliza's attention was drawn to the wondrous contents heaped about her dressing room table: jars and pots of cold cream, rouge, fine powder, pencils and brushes of every size. She even spied cigarettes and a razor buried behind the array. The actress undoubtedly had a lover. Perhaps the handsome John Barrymore.

Eliza knew many actors and actresses led scandalous lives. Even the regal Miss Terry had borne children to a lover while married to another man. And anyone who looked like Rosalind Page must be pursued by hordes of admirers. A beautiful young actress could not be expected to behave like a maiden aunt.

Rosalind handed the book back to Eliza, who waved the open pages, hoping for the ink to dry faster.

Higgins cleared his throat. “Forgive us for interrupting your rehearsal, but Miss Doolittle and I have a serious purpose for our visit.”

The actress looked up at him with those wide innocent eyes.

“As you said, the papers have been insinuating that I had something to do with Nepommuck's murder,” he continued. “I am afraid Scotland Yard is taking these rumors seriously. We are trying to discover who else had a reason to want the Maestro dead.”

She sighed. “No doubt there are many, both here and in his native Hungary.”

“Can you explain why you took lessons from the Maestro?”

“I needed help to mask my flat Canadian speech. Ophelia at the Drury Lane does require a proper English accent and Nepommuck came highly recommended. But not as recommended as you, Professor.” She gave him a scolding look. “I did make inquiries into becoming your pupil, but was told you were in Spain.”

“My sincere apologies for not being at your service. I would have been happy to instruct you. I hope Nepommuck was of some assistance.”

“He was an irritating braggart, but I can't fault his teaching abilities. Now we will have to see if the critics agree.”

“We know the Maestro blackmailed some of his students,” Eliza said. “Were you aware of any of this?

She shook her head. “We spent four weeks doing little else but reciting lines from Shakespeare. I never spoke more than two words to his other pupils until the garden party. I wish I could help you, but the police have already visited me and asked questions about Maestro Nepommuck. I could not help them, either.”

“Did you by chance overhear any threatening exchanges with other students?” Higgins asked.

Her long, lithe fingers curled into tight fists. “I'm afraid not. Whenever I arrived for lessons, the Maestro was alone in his apartment.”

“And he never threatened you?”

“Why in the world would he threaten me?” Miss Page turned back to the mirror, and began to rearrange her makeup jars and pots. “If you two will excuse me, I must return to the rehearsal. And I haven't checked to make certain my costume is properly fitted. I'm sorry I cannot help you.”

“If you'll allow me one more question, Miss Page,” Higgins said, but she shook her head.

“Please, Professor. I cannot be late for my cue. Our interview is at an end.”

“Of course, and thank you, Miss Page. You've been so kind to speak with us.” Eliza dragged Higgins out to the hall and down the stairs. She didn't see any reason for bothering the poor woman any longer. Also, if Higgins became frustrated, his usual arrogance would make an appearance.

They dodged several actors hurrying to and from the dressing rooms. At the stage door, Higgins finally shook off her grip.

“Why the devil did you rush us out like that?” he said. “I didn't even have a chance to pinpoint where she grew up in Canada. Canadian dialects are tricky, almost as puzzling as regional American accents. For certain, she's not from Toronto. Somewhere in the western provinces, perhaps.”

“Miss Page was frightened by your question about being threatened,” Eliza said. “A blind man could see it. Badgering her right now would only make her clam up. I think she does have information. But we should wait until after the performance on Thursday to ask her more questions. After all, she's in the middle of rehearsal.”

“Perhaps we should tell that cousin of yours to do his job better so we don't have to keep questioning everyone.”

Eliza sighed. “You have a point.” She opened the stage door, only to slam it shut again. “Blimey. I forgot my copy of
Hamlet
that she was nice enough to autograph. I can't leave it behind. Stay here. I'll be right back.”

She went only a few steps before turning around. “While I'm gone, why don't you have a little conversation with that Barrymore fellow? The two of them looked a bit fond of each other when we found them in her dressing room. He may know if Miss Page was frightened of Nepommuck.”

Higgins grumbled aloud. She ignored him and headed upstairs. Miss Page had to be onstage by now since she had been in such a hurry for them to leave. Eliza marched toward the dressing room and twisted the handle without knocking.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh!”

Eliza and Rosalind gasped at the same time. She stared at the actress, who was indeed a wonder to behold stark naked. The cause of the real wonder, however, was the sight of her flat chest and the sprinkling of red hair that led down to shocking proof that Rosalind was not a woman at all. She was a man.

*   *   *

“Do you need another sip of water?”

Rosalind knelt before Eliza, who had collapsed on the dressing room table chair. Those violet eyes showed only kindness and sympathy. She held the glass to Eliza's lips.

Eliza gulped down the rest of the water. “Did I faint?”

“No, but your knees buckled.” With a rueful smile, Rosalind stood.

Eliza was grateful that she—or was it he?—had gotten dressed. The actress now wore Ophelia's blue velvet costume, her long red hair spilling down her back. She looked nothing like a man. Eliza could scarcely believe what she had just seen. However, the wide ribbon about Rosalind's neck caught her eye, and Eliza realized it must hide a slight Adam's apple.

Someone knocked on the door. “Five minutes, Miss Page.”

“Thank you,” she called back.

Eliza sat back, stunned.

“I suppose you have questions, Miss Doolittle.”

“About a hundred, actually.”

Rosalind took a deep breath. “As you saw, I was born male. That is my tragedy. I should have been my parents' first-born daughter, not their son.”

“I don't understand.”

“How can I explain?” Rosalind paused. “It was as if I had been dressed in the costume of another actor's character and pushed onstage without knowing my lines. Being a boy was the one role I could never play well. For one, I was much too pretty, and far too feminine. That made growing up in a small town difficult. I was the oddity.” She frowned. “And the recipient of much unkindness. My family was ashamed to call me their son.”

“How terrible,” Eliza murmured.

“Yes, it was. I was only thirteen when I left Alberta. It's farmland, for the most part, with nothing to offer someone like me. Since being a boy brought only misery, I decided to become the girl I was meant to be. I took the train to Vancouver and got a job in a dress shop. They thought I was pretty enough to model the clothes for customers. A year later, a traveling variety show came to town, and I caught the attention of several performers who visited the shop. And when the variety show left, I went with them.” Her voice became filled with wonder. “The first time I walked onstage, I knew I was home. In the theater my only purpose is to pretend to be something I am not. And few people are as good at it as I am.”

Eliza's confusion cleared, and she remembered what Rosalind had told Higgins and her earlier: “How thrilling to fool the audience by changing one's identity, voice, and appearance.”

“No one ever guessed the truth?”

“Why should they? People see only what they expect to see. And I was Rosalind Page, the actress. After years of misery and shame, I felt truly myself: authentic, honest, the woman I was destined to be.” She shrugged. “Of course, it helped to be attractive.”

“It can't all be based on how beautiful you are. Everyone says you are a wonderful actress.”

“Thank you,” Rosalind said quietly. “But my looks won me my first role in musical theater, and bigger roles after that. By the time I became a theater star in Toronto, I was as celebrated for my beauty as my thespian skills. I am proud of both.”

“But you must be afraid someone will discover your secret.”

“Always. It is why I take such great care. For example, I never employ a dresser. Everyone assumes I change my own costumes because I am shy about undressing in front of others. And I have spent years training my voice to speak in a higher register. Although if I want to, I can sound as masculine as Mr. Barrymore.”

Eliza wasn't sure she wanted a demonstration of that. It was unsettling enough dealing with the fact Rosalind was male. She didn't need further proof. “You said no one guessed the truth for a long time. Did someone learn your secret?”

“A businessman in Toronto almost did.” Rosalind's voice grew hard. “Porter Collings was as disagreeable as he was wealthy. He sent endless flowers and gifts, but I refused all his advances.” She shuddered. “How I dread the gentlemen callers. I live a life more celibate than a nun's, but it's a price I am willing to pay. This particular suitor refused to give up, and his attempts at seduction grew aggressive. Nothing I said would dissuade him.”

“What did you do?”

“I left Toronto. I had no choice. It was only a matter of time before he'd take me by force. When that happened, I knew he would expose me to the world. Fortunately my manager arranged this engagement at the Drury Lane. When I arrived here, I hired Nepommuck for help with my accent.” Her expression grew even more unhappy. “How I wish I had waited for your Professor Higgins to return from Spain.”

Eliza thought a moment. “Nepommuck had a talent for sniffing out other people's secrets. I suspect he discovered yours as well.”

“Yes. During our third lesson, that filthy Hungarian groped me most shamefully.” She wrapped her arms about herself. “After his shock at finding me not quite the woman he fancied, his greed replaced his desire. He wanted money, a lot of money. I paid him two hundred pounds, enough to buy a racehorse at Epsom.”

“I suppose he asked for more money after that.”

“Of course. I became desperate.”

“So you killed him,” Eliza said softly.

Rosalind looked at her in horror. “No! Certainly not.”

Eliza had trouble believing that, however. Being a man, Rosalind Page had enough brute strength to kill Nepommuck, along with a bloody good motive. If Rosalind's secret were exposed, it would spell the end of her life in the theater. And Eliza thought that might spell the end of her actual life as well.

“Where were you on the morning of the murder?”

“Sleeping until noon. I usually stay up late after performances and rehearsals.”

“Excuse me for asking, but was anyone with you?”

“No, I was alone. I'm always alone.” Rosalind met her gaze without flinching. “You must believe me, Miss Doolittle. I am not a violent person. When things become too difficult, I run away. I would never harm someone simply to protect myself. It is not in my nature.”

Eliza was moved by the emotion in her voice, and the unshed tears welling in Rosalind's eyes. Poor woman. And yes, Eliza still thought of her as a woman, not a man. Except for what lay hidden beneath her gown, everything about Rosalind Page was womanly in the extreme. It didn't seem possible this beautiful, sad lady could murder anyone. But a great actress could make an audience believe anything. Was Rosalind acting now?

Rosalind seemed to sense her doubt. “My life is ruined if anyone learns my secret now. I would be arrested as a suspect in Nepommuck's murder, and jailed. You must realize I'd never last a day in the men's prison.”

Eliza bit her lip, uncertain of what to do. “I have to tell Inspector Shaw and Higgins,” she said at last.

Rosalind gave a cry of dismay.

“I swear on my life, Higgins will tell no one. He's an honorable man. And Inspector Shaw is my cousin. I shall make certain that Jack—and only Jack—questions you.”

With a sinking heart, Eliza retrieved her autographed book and left the dressing room. Poor Miss Page, or whatever her real name was. A pity Nepommuck wasn't still alive. Eliza would love to beat that blighter silly.

She hurried downstairs to find Higgins, who paced outside the stage door in the fog.

“Good heavens, Eliza. Where have you been? Barrymore had nothing of interest to tell me, except for a few salacious tales of actresses he's known. And none of them was about Rosalind Page.”

“I didn't think so.”

In a low voice, she related the entire story as they walked up Catherine Street. Higgins said nothing the whole time, only shaking his head.