Murder at the Mikado (A Drew Farthering Mystery Book #3)

by Julianna Deering

  “It’s not so much to ask,” Miss Winston said, herding them forward. “If it helps somehow, why not?”

  Landis took his wife’s arm. “She’s right, darling. If it helps, and since we know it couldn’t have been you, why not humor the chief inspector? We want to find out what’s going on, don’t we? I mean, after what happened to Peter?”

  Fleur’s sulky expression vanished. “Yes. All right.”

  “There’s a girl.” Landis urged her toward the storeroom. “Now go on and do as they ask, so we can get this all sorted quickly.”

  “That would be good,” Miss Winston said. “I’d like to get back to Peter as soon as possible. Sullivan always lets him go out without his gloves.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Ah, Mr. Benton,” the chief inspector drawled as the actor was escorted in, “so glad you could join us.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice in the matter, did you, sending your press gang round to fetch me?” He shook free of the policeman, who still had him by the arm, and then glared at Fleur. “What’s she doing here? You told me she couldn’t have had anything to do with the murders.”

  “Just a bit of an experiment,” Birdsong explained, “if you’ll be kind enough to bear with us.”

  Madeline came back into the corridor. “Mr. Benton. I didn’t know you would be here.”

  Benton sneered at her and at Nick and Drew and then at the chief inspector. “Letting amateurs do your job again, Inspector?”

  “Never you mind that, Mr. Benton. Just your cheerful cooperation, if you please.”

  “Fine.” Benton plastered on a smile. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “You claim you saw someone running away from Mr. Ravenswood’s dressing room the night he was killed,” Drew began, and Benton’s sneer returned.

  “I don’t claim to have seen her. I did see her.”

  “You said you were certain it was Mrs. Landis. Do you still think that?”

  Benton glared at Fleur and then huffed. “No, I don’t suppose I’m certain now. She couldn’t have done for Mr. Zuraw, that’s plain.”

  “Good of you,” Fleur said, lips tightly pursed.

  “And I don’t know why someone else would have killed him if she had killed Ravenswood and . . .” Benton pressed his quivering lips together, stilling them. “And Tess.”

  Drew looked at him coolly. “Were you in love with Miss Davidson?”

  Benton’s eyes filled with both fury and tears. “You know I was! I told you already.”

  “When did you and Miss Davidson meet?” Drew asked. “I don’t believe you ever said.”

  Benton blinked hard and took a deep breath. “When she came here in August. When she started work.”

  “You never saw her before that?”

  “No. Not to my knowledge.”

  Birdsong narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, Mr. Benton, is this your handwriting?” He showed Benton the paper Grady had found stuffed behind the drawer in the wardrobe room.

  The actor shrugged. “Suppose it is. What’s that matter?”

  “Do you recall writing this note, sir?”

  Benton nodded.

  “And when was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Benton looked at the note more closely. “Maybe two weeks ago? Three? I really can’t remember.”

  “Do you remember who it was to?” Drew asked, watching his eyes.

  Benton’s lip curled. “I should say. I addressed it to ‘my darling.’ ”

  “Just who did you mean by that, sir?” Birdsong asked.

  “I told you already.” Benton spoke very slowly and clearly. “I was in love with Tess Davidson. Who else would it be?”

  “You pretended to be in love with her.” Drew took a step closer to him. “So you could cover up the affair you were really having.”

  Benton glanced toward the three women still standing near the corridor wall. “You’re insane.”

  “ ‘At the same little inn we stayed at during Ascot,’ ” Drew read from the letter. “You said you hadn’t even declared yourself to Miss Davidson before she died.”

  “All right.” Benton’s face reddened. “Maybe our involvement was a little more than innocent. Is that a crime? I didn’t want to sully her reputation. She is dead after all. Isn’t that enough?”

  Drew shook his head. “That would be terribly noble of you, I can appreciate that, except it’s simply not the truth, is it? You didn’t meet her until August. How could you have gone with her to Ascot in June?”

  “Who said it was June?” Benton snapped. “The town’s there even when there isn’t a race.”

  “But you wrote during Ascot, not in Ascot. What could that mean except you had been there for the races during Ascot week in June? Who are you really in love with? And why did you help her kill all those people?”

  Benton’s eyes widened. “I don’t know what you mean. Surely you can’t think that I had anything to do with all of this. I tell you, Tess and I—”

  “She found out about you and this other woman. That’s why she hid this note, and that’s why you killed her.”

  “That’s an outrageous lie! I absolutely did not kill Tess Davidson!”

  “After Ravenswood used her and threw her over, she didn’t much like finding out she’d been used again, did she?” Drew said, his voice taut. “Did you kill her because she threatened to go to the police?”

  Madeline’s eyes were hard. “She was in love with you. Did you have to kill her?”

  “And Zuraw,” Drew added.

  “Look here,” Benton huffed. “I was in the middle of a performance. How was I to kill Zuraw and then be back onstage in time for my cue? The police don’t even think he was killed where he was found. I would have had to move the body, as well. All during Simone’s solo? It would be impossible.”

  “But he was killed before then,” Nick said affably. “Well before you telephoned us to come up to the theater. To be your alibi, I believe.”

  Drew nodded. “All you need to have done during the show was make a little racket in the storeroom, where you had stashed the body, and then nip across the hallway into the alley and back into the theater in time for your next cue.”

  Benton stared at him, wide-eyed. Then he shoved aside the police constable who stood at his elbow and bolted down the corridor that led to the stage.

  “My men have surrounded the theater, Mr. Benton,” the chief inspector called, his voice wearily patient as the constable dashed after the actor. “You can’t get away now.” He sighed and glanced back at Drew. “Might as well come on then. All of you.”

  They all scurried onto the stage. It had been cleared in preparation for changing between productions. The curtain was up and so were the backdrops, exposing the backstage and all its mysteries.

  The fugitive skidded to a stop, looking right and left and seeing several of Birdsong’s men whichever way he looked.

  “Come along now, sir,” the chief inspector said, still patient and unhurried. “It’s all over.”

  Benton shook his head, backing toward the center of the rear wall, policemen closing in on him from both sides and from the aisles of the house.

  Drew and Madeline and Nick were right behind the chief inspector, with Landis and the three ladies on their heels. Fleur clung to Landis’s arm, while Grady stood watching at the back.

  Miss Cullimore looked from them to Birdsong to Drew and then to Benton. “What have you done, Conor? What in the world have you done?”

  He only shook his head.

  Birdsong moved to stand in front of him and put his hand on the actor’s shoulder. “Edgar Benton Crowley, I arrest you for the murders of Henry Percival Sutherland, Theresa Rachel Davidson, Herschel Lew Zuraw, and the attempted murder of Peter William Landis.”

  “No!” Benton cried, backing away from him. “No . . .”

  Birdsong nodded at the two constables, who stepped closer to their prisoner until he was forced against the back wall, in between the pro
ps and ropes, against the pinrail that held the tackle and pulleys.

  “Come now, Mr. Benton,” Grady coaxed. “This won’t do you no good.”

  “There’s no way out there,” Birdsong said calmly. “Don’t give us any trouble, and we won’t have to give you any, eh?”

  Drew stared at Benton as the man shrank against the bricks. He was a good actor, there was no denying it, but there was fear and rage now in his dark eyes, deep and true and real.

  “Stay here, darling,” Landis told Fleur, and he moved to where Benton cowered, looking ready to stand between him and the door should the need arise. “Best go quietly, Benton. You can’t get away.”

  “You are a fool, aren’t you, Landis?” Benton sneered, though his lips trembled. “I never killed those people!”

  “No use lying,” Drew said. “There’s no way all this was done by one person. You and your lady friend have been switching back and forth, alibiing each other. It wasn’t Miss Winston. She loves . . .” He glanced at the blushing nursemaid and shook his head. “There’s no romantic connection between the two of you. After living with Ravenswood’s endless peccadilloes, I daresay Miss Cullimore is more interested in the theater than any intrigues of her own. And then there is our elusive Miss Tracy. Everyone thinks she’s one of the victims here, killed for what she knew, for what was in those papers she took away with her. But suppose she has merely been in hiding all this time, helping you commit murder, free to come and go as she pleases and never looked for. I suppose now that you’ve been found out, she’ll leave you to take all the blame. Your lover would never do that to you, would she, Benton? Leave you to hang for murders you didn’t do?”

  Benton stood there, gnawing his lip, and then he shook his head. “I tell you I never killed those people.” He looked coolly at Fleur. “We did. Together.”

  They all turned to where Fleur stood toward the back of the stage, her graceful white-gloved hands clasped in front of her open mouth.

  “I . . .” She gaped at her husband and then at the chief inspector. “I knew he hated me, but I didn’t think even he would stoop to this. Trying to ruin me for spite?”

  “Don’t lie, Fleur!” The color came up into Benton’s face. “For once in your miserable life, don’t lie.”

  “Your legal name is Edgar Benton Crowley,” Drew said when no one else spoke. “I see where you get the Benton portion of your stage name. Why did you choose Conor?”

  Benton looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “It’s an old Irish name. Means wolf. Why in the world does that matter?”

  Drew smiled. “So that’s why you signed your note ‘your wanton wolf,’ is it?”

  “So? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The note said ‘my flower.’ Florence. Fleur.” Drew turned to Fleur. “It has to be you, Mrs. Landis.”

  She shook her head slowly, dark eyes wide and bewildered. “I think you’re absolutely mad.”

  “No,” Drew said. “It’s the only way it makes sense. I’ve been thinking, ever since Peter was poisoned . . . Miss Winston, please tell us again about when Peter got into that candy.”

  The nursemaid looked rather flustered. “Well, as I said, I came into the room and found Peter popping a bit of it into his mouth. I scolded him for it and told him to give it to me at once.”

  “And when did Mrs. Landis come in?”

  “Practically at the same time,” Miss Winston replied. “She started screaming as soon as she saw what he had.”

  Drew nodded. “Precisely. Mrs. Landis went into hysterics the minute she saw he had gotten into the candy. She wasn’t angry; she was panicked. Why would she be so upset before Peter had a chance to show any sign of distress? The only explanation is that she knew the candy was poisoned. Because she had put the poison in it herself. I’m terribly sorry, Landis. I didn’t want it to be this way, but there it is.”

  Landis was ash pale and looked as if he had somehow sunken into himself. “Fleur?”

  She looked at him as if struggling to speak. Finally she blinked and said, “It’s not like they make it sound, Brent. Really, it isn’t. They both hate me because I wouldn’t have them. Now they’re trying to spoil things between you and me.”

  “You didn’t actually kill anyone, did you, Fleur? Not . . . Merciful God, you couldn’t have wanted to kill Peter. He’s no more than a baby. Your own child!”

  Tears filled her eyes. “That was an accident! He wasn’t meant to get into those chocolates. I put them up on the shelf so no one would get into them.”

  “You poisoned the candy for what reason, Mrs. Landis?”

  The chief inspector’s voice was devoid of emotion, and when Fleur turned her pleading eyes on him, his expression didn’t change.

  She looked away. “Well, I had to make it look as if someone were trying to kill me, didn’t I? I mean, if someone were trying to kill me, then it wouldn’t be likely that I was the killer, wouldn’t you think?”

  Birdsong gave her a nod. “Perhaps you had better start at the beginning, Mrs. Landis. With the first murder. Ravenswood.”

  She shrugged, looking petulant now. “Johnnie was being terribly difficult. I just wanted him to be reasonable, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He only laughed and said the truth must be told. I didn’t know why it should be, and I told him so. But he still laughed. I couldn’t bear it any longer.”

  “So you saw that champagne bottle there by his mirror and . . .” Landis glanced hopefully at the chief inspector. “It’s not as if you meant to, is it, Fleur? Of course you didn’t go there meaning to do anything like that.”

  Fleur shook her head. “It just . . . happened, and then, well, you know the rest. I just didn’t know how to get out of the mess I’d made.”

  “That’s not the truth, Mrs. Landis,” Drew said. “It wasn’t a crime of passion, a spur-of-the-moment thing. You planned this out. You and Benton. How else could he have been there when Ravenswood was murdered, with Grady specifically to alibi him? And why would you have so neatly slipped your sleeping draught into your husband’s drink so you could leave the house without his knowing? You knew what a light sleeper he is.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t wake up properly the morning after he was murdered. And the morning after the girl was, as well.” Landis closed his eyes. “I was so certain Fleur hadn’t stirred all night.”

  “Too bad you hadn’t noticed the pan under the car that second night, Mrs. Landis,” Nick put in. “You counted on your driver being hard of hearing but not on his noticing an oil leak.”

  Fleur scowled at him but said nothing.

  “And why Miss Davidson?” Birdsong asked.

  Fleur huffed. “She knew about Conor, you see. She found that note and realized I had been seeing him. Poor little mouse. In her place I’d have scratched my eyes out.” She smirked. “Of course I’m not likely to ever find myself thrown over as she was. Especially not for someone like her. She was angry enough, I suppose, but all she did was cry and tell me I ought to turn myself in or she would have to speak to the police about it. Well, I couldn’t have that, could I?”

  “You didn’t realize she had pulled that tassel off your cloak, did you?” Drew asked. “But planting one on Zuraw when you couldn’t possibly be the one who killed him would definitely make it seem someone else had done the other murders, too. The torn end of that tassel was cut off before you were arrested. Did you notice it on your way home?”

  Benton glared at her when she made no answer. “That’s exactly what she did. And I cut one off the second cloak and left it under Zuraw, so it would look as if someone were trying to frame her.”

  Birdsong’s expression was coolly professional. “What about Zuraw? He told Mr. Farthering he had information to give.”

  “Only he didn’t.” Drew shook his head. “Because when I got that telephone call, he was already dead.”

  “We had to have some way of proving I couldn’t have killed those people,” Fleur said, as if nothing else could be more ob
vious. “With that accent Mr. Zuraw had, dear Conor didn’t have to be much of an actor to imitate him.”

  “And the chocolates,” Birdsong said. “You say you poisoned those to make it look as if someone were trying to kill you?”

  “That’s not the only reason,” Benton said with a glance at Fleur. “Tell them.”

  Fleur shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Tell them!”

  “I think I know,” Drew said, turning back to Fleur. “Once Uncle’s inheritance was safely deposited, if someone sent you poisoned chocolates and your husband just happened to eat them, that would solve two problems at once, eh?”

  Landis stared dumbly at his wife, his face a picture of shock and disbelief.

  “And if Miss Winston and her syringe were to be blamed for it,” Drew added, “well, that would just be the whipped cream on the trifle.”

  Fleur looked Miss Winston up and down, painted lips curled. “As if she could possibly imagine any man of mine being interested in her. After being married to me? She would bore him to distraction.”

  The nursemaid only watched in stunned silence.

  “Fleur . . .” Landis said, his voice half choked. “You couldn’t have intended to—”

  “You won’t desert me now, will you, Brent?”

  Drew couldn’t help remembering a line from The Mikado, spoken by the vain, self-seeking Katisha. “And you won’t hate me because I’m just a little teeny weeny wee bit bloodthirsty, will you?”

  Landis shook his head. “Oh, Fleur.”

  “No one is going to take the blame for you now, Fleur,” Benton said, his words venomous. “You’ve got no one left who’ll cover for you. You’ll have to face the music this time, and it’s not a snappy little rumba they’re playing.”

  “Say what you like, Conor. You know how juries are. And judges. Men, mostly. I may spend a year or two behind bars, but I won’t hang.” She patted her sleek black hair. “I won’t hang.”

  Birdsong looked faintly disgusted and started toward her. “Florence Hargreaves Landis, I arrest you for the murders of—”