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After a heated debate with Inspector Symonds, where I struggled to keep his language civil, I set out on my own mission.
The inspector seemed convinced I had ulterior motives to obstruct justice, vowing to bring both Mr. Morley and me to account once he left my place. Since it seemed prudent to stick together, I decided to accompany Mr. Morley part of the way home after our talk.
The old man was visibly shaken. He regretted speaking to the inspector and wished he had said more, fearing the officer’s reprisal for his caution.
“Do you think, sir,” he asked anxiously as we parted, his voice shaky with age, “that Mr. Symonds will come after me as he hinted? I can’t bear the thought; my nerves can’t take it at my age, dealing with the police.”
I tried to reassure him. “Mr. Morley, don’t worry; you have control over what you say. No one can force you to speak if you choose not to.”
Although I had doubts about how much control he really had, my aim was to calm him.
We parted at his house on Arlington Street. I waited while he checked if his master had returned. The look on Mrs. Morley’s face said it all—he hadn’t, and there was trouble brewing.
My next stop was the photographer’s studio. As I left Philip Lawrence’s residence, every minute Philip remained absent added weight to the suspicion against him. Why stay away unless there was something to hide?
An assistant greeted me as I entered the renowned photography firm.
“I need to know who’s in this portrait.”
“We usually don’t disclose that without permission.”
“This is an exception. Who is she?”
I handed him the photograph from Edwin Lawrence’s place. He recognized it instantly.
“This is a rare exception indeed. I have no problem telling you who she is, unless you’re the only person in London who doesn’t already know.”
“What’s the story behind this portrait? Who’s the woman?”
“Not a fan of the theatre, are you?”
“Why do you say that? I go to the theatre as much as anyone else.”
“You haven’t seen Miss Bessie Moore perform at the Pandora recently.”
“Miss Bessie Moore!”
“This is her portrait, and a great likeness at that. She’s posed for us a few times, and this is one of our best results. Capturing her beauty isn’t easy.”
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Bessie Moore! If the assistant had given me a nudge at that moment, I might have stumbled. Of course! Her face had seemed familiar. Bessie Moore—an icon of beauty and talent, the talk of the town, drawing crowds to the Pandora Theatre with her performances. I’d been to my fair share of shows, despite what the assistant might think, but never had I seen acting like hers, nor such a stunning woman. And it was Bessie Moore who had appeared at my window in that plum-colored cloak. The mystery deepened.
The amusement on the assistant’s face was clear. He chuckled.
“Surprised, huh?”
“Even mature individuals can feel surprised, as you’ll find out someday.”
I tried to sound dignified, but I probably just looked befuddled. He kept grinning. I pressed on.
“Where can I find Miss Moore?”
“At the Pandora Theatre.”
“I know that. I’m asking for her personal address.”
“Sorry, we can’t give that out.”
I figured they dealt with nosy inquiries often, and he probably thought I was one of those pests. I handed him my card.
“There’s my name. The woman in that portrait is injured. I didn’t know she was Miss Moore until now, but I need to reach her friends urgently.”
“An accident? I am sorry to hear that Miss Moore has met with an accident. If you will wait a moment I will make inquiries.”
The assistant disappeared for a bit, then returned with an older man who glanced at my card as he approached.
“You’re Mr. Ferguson?”
“That’s correct.”
“You mentioned an accident involving Miss Moore?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t go into details. It’s crucial that I reach her friends as soon as possible.”
He studied me for a moment before providing the information I needed.
“Miss Moore lives with Miss Adair, who also performs at the Pandora Theatre. Their address is 22 Hailsham Road, The Boltons, Brompton.”
As I rushed to Brompton in a cab, I tried to process the news. It felt like trying to solve an unsolvable puzzle. How could the woman who had the whole city at her feet end up at my place in the dead of night, from who knows where? The mystery was baffling.
Hailsham Road turned out to be a charming, old-fashioned street, and No. 22 was a lovely, modest house. It wasn’t grand, but it had a welcoming vibe. Set back from the street with a small garden, it looked picturesque in the sunlight with flowers adorning the windowsills. A maid, fitting the house’s style with her neat appearance, answered my ring promptly.
“Can I speak with Miss Adair? I have news about Miss Moore.”
The maid led me into the hall, a charming space with delicate wallpaper, while she relayed my message upstairs.
Soon, a lady came rushing down the stairs, practically leaping into my arms.
“You’ve got news about Bessie? Thank goodness! I’ve been on edge; didn’t sleep a wink last night. I was seriously considering calling the cops. Please, come in here.”
I followed her into a cozy sitting room. As I entered, a life-sized portrait of my visitor in her plum-colored cloak caught my eye. Her gaze seemed to study me intensely, and I felt a bit uneasy under it. The room exuded her personality, filled with her little treasures. I imagined her moving about, touching things, silently questioning my presence with a hint of annoyance.
Miss Adair noticed my hesitation.
“Is everything okay with Bessie?”
I stumbled over my words, “I—I’m afraid not.”
“Is she... dead?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Then what’s happened? Tell me, quick! I’m on edge here!”
“Let me clarify first. You’re Miss Moore, right?”
I handed her the famous photograph.
“Of course! What are you getting at? Where is she? Who are you? What did you do to her? Don’t just stand there!”
“Miss Adair, I’m trying to find the right words. This is a delicate situation.”
It was indeed tricky, especially under her scrutinizing gaze, like I was some strange creature in need of explanation.