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“No, never.”
“Did he ever mention her to you?”
She looked offended. “A gentleman does not mention his mistress to his wife, or his wife to his mistress. The only time he spoke of her was to tell me she had no right to be upset about me. He says she had affairs, too.”
I couldn’t imagine the frail, standoffish woman taking a lover. “Are you sure?”
She shrugged. “He believed it. He saw regular entries in her appointment diary for someone named John C. Or John S? I can’t recall now.”
“When did he tell you this?”
“Two or three weeks ago.”
“Did he confront her?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. He didn’t care enough about her for it to matter to him. Besides, if he forbade her from taking a lover, she might do the same to him, and he wouldn’t want to give me up.”
Harry handed her a business card. “Thank you for your help, Miss Rivera. If you think of anything, let me know.”
She tucked the card and ribbons into her bag. “I hope you catch the person who did this. Vernon wasn’t a perfect man, but he was wonderful to me. I will miss him.”
Harry and I didn’t leave the Royal Albert Hall immediately. We went in search of the dressmaker to verify Rosa’s alibi. We found Mrs. Warden in a large dressing room that must be used by several women. The dressmaker was alone, kneeling on the floor with a large red cape spread out before her and a measuring tape in hand. The cape was smudged with dirt, which I supposed was the required effect for the costume.
Harry put out his hand to assist her. The gray-haired woman accepted it gratefully and pushed to her feet with a grunt.
“Thank you. My knees aren’t what they used to be.” She lowered the spectacles hanging on a leather strip around her neck and peered at him. “Are you the new tenor? I’m Mrs. Warden, but you’ll be wanting my husband. He’s around here somewhere.”
Harry handed her a business card. “We’re private detectives investigating the murder of Vernon Rigg-Lyon.”
She returned the spectacles to her face and inspected the card. “You must be here to see Rosa Rivera. I believe those two were…acquainted.”
“We’ve just come from her dressing room. She claims she was with you on Saturday afternoon.”
“That’s right. I was making adjustments to some of her outfits.” She frowned. “Do you think she did it? Lord, I hope not. I like her.”
“We’re just establishing where everyone was at the time of the murder. Do you remember what time you last saw her?”
“I left her dressing room at three thirty-five.”
“You seem very certain.”
“I’m particular about appointments, and she made me five minutes late to my next one.”
Rosa wouldn’t have reached the Elms Polo Club before ten past four—the latest time the murder could have occurred—if she left the Royal Albert Hall by three thirty-five.
Harry wasn’t convinced, however. “We need to test it,” he said as we descended the steps to the pavement. “A single horse and carriage wouldn’t make it at a regular pace, which rules out cabs. I think a private vehicle could do it with two horses if the coachman was willing to push them to their limit. I’ll ask Cobbit if it can be done.”
“What about an automobile? That would make it on time.” Automobiles were uncommon enough that we could probably identify all of them currently in the city. “Floyd will know who owns one.”
I resolved to speak to my cousin, while Harry’s task was to check with Cobbit.
We decided to walk to the hotel, taking Rotten Row through Hyde Park. The clouds had settled in, providing a light coverage from the sun and keeping the heat at bay. The fine weather brought out the riders, showing off their high-stepping horses and fashionable outfits. Sumptuous open landaus and barouches drove past slowly so that the ladies’ hats didn’t blow off, while smaller, lighter curricles and private hansoms tried to pass. Each vehicle was polished to a sheen, every buckle and button gleaming. The horses, liveried coachmen and footmen were presented as superbly as their passengers. It wouldn’t do for a society household to send out an equipage with a smudge or old nag.
We pedestrians kept to a sedate pace on the pavement to avoid being sprayed by dust flicked up by wheels and hooves on the gravel or stepping in horse deposits. Harry bought a newspaper from a boy at Hyde Park Corner before we crossed to Piccadilly. He told me there used to be a man with an ice cream cart stationed there on warm days with the most varied flavors of ice cream for sale, but he’d not returned since the banning of penny licks last year.
“You were taking your life in your hands eating ice cream from one of those cups,” I told him. “My parents used to tell me they carried disease years ago, before the general public became aware of the dangers.”
“Carlo’s chocolate ice cream was worth the risk.”
