Murder at the Mikado

by Julianna Deering

  “Fleur!”

  Landis’s cry split the air as he lunged toward his wife, as Drew and Birdsong lunged toward them both. They got there only in time to save Landis. It was too late, too horribly late, for Fleur.

  “Don’t look,” Drew urged, pulling Landis back.

  Landis fought to go to her, but Birdsong turned him away from the grim sight, propelling him toward Drew. “See to him.”

  “Fleur?” Landis stopped struggling, and he looked at Drew, eyes pleading. “No. She isn’t . . . she can’t be . . .”

  Drew glanced over at Birdsong, who was kneeling down with his fingers pressed to Fleur’s limp wrist. The chief inspector shook his head.

  “Come now,” Drew urged Landis. “There’s nothing more to be done for her.”

  Landis squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming now in sobbing gasps. “Fleur. My beautiful Fleur . . .”

  He pushed himself away from Drew, catching hold of a ship’s wheel that was part of the set decoration, clinging to it as he tried to regain control of himself.

  Drew still held on to his arm, wishing there were something more he could do. Madeline and Miss Cullimore and Miss Winston merely stood there, for the moment paralyzed. Then Miss Winston hurried to Landis’s side. She draped his arm across her shoulders and helped him to a metal folding chair near the back wall.

  Drew glanced up and saw Benton watching them, as if he were the audience to their little drama. The two constables had him by the arms with his wrists handcuffed behind him. He gave Drew a pleased sneer.

  “He ought to thank me, you know,” Benton spat. “Landis ought. She’d have gotten rid of him next. Since he’s already come into that money.”

  Drew turned to the other side of the stage. Birdsong still stood near Fleur’s body, but he had laid a cloth of some sort over her head and shoulders. It made him a bit queasy to see it was the pirate flag from Penzance, the skull and crossbones.

  Landis was looking that way too, one fist pressed to his mouth. He moved toward Benton. “You’ll hang. Whatever else they can or can’t prove, you can’t get away from this one. Not in front of all these witnesses.”

  Again Benton smirked. “I might have hanged with her, but blast me if I was going to hang for her. And she was right. With her looks, they’d never have hanged her. Not in a million years.”

  “Get him out of here,” Birdsong ordered, and his men escorted Benton down the center aisle and through the lobby doors.

  Landis watched until the doors swung closed behind the prisoner. Then with a wrenching sob he pulled away from Miss Winston, stumbled to where Fleur lay, and sank to his knees. He didn’t say anything. Instead he held Fleur’s hand in its white lace glove, clutching it in his own two hands as tears coursed down his cheeks. Miss Winston stood behind him, steadying hands on his shoulders.

  “Best let me have her seen to now, sir,” Birdsong said, taking a step nearer. “Be grateful she couldn’t have felt a thing.”

  “I loved her, you know,” Landis said. “I mean, I wanted to love her. She would never quite let me close to her. I thought . . . I thought if I loved her enough, she would be content, she would change. I knew what she was, but I thought she wanted to be different. She told me she wanted to be. For Peter. For me . . .”

  He looked down at the hand he still held, soft and slim and perfect, and pressed a kiss to the palm.

  “I was a fool. A blind fool.” His laugh was almost soundless. “No, I was worse than blind. I chose not to see. I so much wanted her to be what I needed her to be, I couldn’t see what she was. But I loved her.” With one more kiss he laid her hand gracefully over her heart.

  Drew helped Landis to his feet while nodding at the chief inspector.

  “Take him home,” Birdsong told Miss Winston. “Take care of him. We’ll see to everything here.”

  Miss Winston took Landis’s arm.

  “Drive them, will you, Nick?” Drew said.

  “Right.”

  Nick led Miss Winston and Landis down the aisle and out of the theater.

  Drew looked at the form lying on the stage, at the skull on the flag draped over Fleur’s no-longer-beautiful face. The skull seemed to be grinning at him in triumph, and once again the words of The Mikado came to mind. “And let the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime.”

  He was suddenly aware of Madeline pressed against his side, her eyes also fixed on the tragic figure there before the footlights. He had to get her out of here. They both had to get out.

  “Madeline . . .” He shook his head, feeling helpless and weary, and she put her arm through his, saying nothing. “I would never have wished this on her, no matter what she’s done.”

  “No,” Madeline whispered. “No, of course not.” After a pause, she added, “I’m so sorry—sorry for him and for her, for all of them.”

  “Mr. Farthering?”

  Drew took a quick breath, steadying himself before he turned. It was Miss Cullimore. She surprised him by taking his hand in hers.

  “Her name was Marie Fabron. She worked at a milliner’s off the Rue de la Paix. But after so long, I can’t remember if the owner was Madame Thibault or Tolbert or Travere. Something like that. It was next to a jeweler’s. Marie rarely spoke of her family, but she said they were from Grenoble. She had a younger brother in Marseilles. She was so pretty, and I recall she was very kind, too. I can’t remember anything other than that.”

  He stood silent for a long moment, taking it all in, and then he opened his mouth.

  “That’s all I know,” she said before he could ask, regret plain on her face. “You’ve kept your part of the bargain. Thank you. I wish I could tell you more.” She squeezed his hand. “She had blue eyes.”

  “I’m sorry, Drew,” Madeline said when Miss Cullimore was gone. “I too wish she could have told you more.”

  “So do I,” he said, “but at least it’s something to go on. A place to start.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that’s all there is to it, then. The case, I mean. It’s all over.”

  “No. It’s not all over. There’s still Benton to be seen to, and exactly why Fleur wanted to kill Ravenswood in the first place, and whatever happened to that lady reporter. And I—”

  “We’ll see to all that in time,” Birdsong interrupted. “After we’ve looked after things here. Mr. Hibbert, once the coroner has seen to the body . . . ?”

  “Right you are, Chief Inspector,” said Grady, touching his forehead. “I’ll see to things here. Like I always have.”

  “Right.” Birdsong turned again to Drew. “You ought to take the young lady home now. The rest will wait.”

  Drew didn’t argue with him. He gave the chief inspector a grateful nod and escorted Madeline out to the Rolls, and together they headed back to Farthering Place.

  Dinner that evening was quiet and rather melancholy, and afterward everyone went early to bed. It wasn’t long after breakfast the next day that the chief inspector rang up and asked Drew and Madeline to come to his office to discuss the remainder of the Landis case.

  “Benton’s confessed his part in it all,” Birdsong told them. “As you suspected, Mrs. Landis killed Ravenswood and Tess Davidson. He killed Zuraw to alibi Mrs. Landis.”

  “Zuraw didn’t actually know anything about anything, did he?” Drew said.

  “No. He was merely convenient.”

  Madeline glanced at Drew, her expression troubled. “But why did she kill Ravenswood in the first place? Nobody knew about her and Benton, did they?”

  “Not as far as Benton knows,” Birdsong said. “Miss Cullimore claims it wasn’t common knowledge around the Tivoli. Evidently . . .” The telephone on his desk rang. Excusing himself, he picked up the receiver. “Birdsong here.” He paused, and then the annoyance in his expression turned into incredulity. “Oh, she is, is she? Well, certainly. Send her in.” He hung up, looking smug.

  “Good news, I see,” Drew observed.

  There was a knock at the door, and B
irdsong hurried to open it, admitting a constable and a petite blonde wearing tweeds and carrying a leather satchel. The chief inspector dismissed the officer and invited the woman in, shutting the door behind her.

  Drew immediately got to his feet, and Birdsong made the introduction.

  “This is Miss Madeline Parker and Mr. Drew Farthering. They’ve been looking into the Ravenswood case with us.”

  The woman nodded as Birdsong’s smile grew even more smug. “Mr. Farthering, Miss Parker, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Josephine Tracy, journalist.”

  Drew glanced at Madeline, one eyebrow lifted, and then he made a slight bow. “Miss Tracy, we’re very pleased to meet you.”

  Birdsong offered Miss Tracy a chair, and they all took their seats, with the chief inspector once more ensconcing himself behind his desk.

  “Now, Miss Tracy,” said Birdsong, “if you would, perhaps you could tell us where you’ve been for the past seventeen days.”

  “Aberystwyth,” she said with a smile.

  Madeline gave Drew a blank look. “Aber what?”

  “Aberystwyth is in Wales,” Birdsong replied.

  The journalist nodded. “When I heard Johnnie Ravenswood was murdered, I knew I had to make myself scarce. I knew he was going to stir up trouble, but I didn’t think it would get him killed.”

  “What do you mean, ‘stir up trouble’? How?” Drew asked.

  She slapped the satchel onto Birdsong’s desk and opened it. “This.”

  She pulled out a sheaf of unbound typewritten pages. Written on the first page were the words John Sullivan Ravenswood, A Life, by John Sullivan Ravenswood with Josephine Tracy.

  “A tell-all?” Madeline said.

  Miss Tracy chuckled. “And we certainly told all.”

  “Including your own escapades?” Drew asked.

  The journalist shrugged. “He and I didn’t last long as an item. I knew we wouldn’t. He never stayed interested in anyone very long. It wasn’t his way.” Her mouth turned up at one side. “At least not after he’d had his way. But that didn’t keep us from collaborating on the book. You know what my column is like. People eat it up, and the more lurid the better.”

  “But Fleur . . .”

  “Well, apparently, at least for a while, Fleur Hargreaves was an exception. The exception, if you exclude his actual wife. She and Johnnie couldn’t get enough of each other, even when there were others off and on. Even when they fought. They were no good together, of course. And when he threw her over—once she started to lose her figure when her baby was coming—everything she felt for him turned to hate. It was worse when he wouldn’t hate her in return. He only laughed her off, no matter what she did, but she finally hit him where it hurt.”

  “By marrying Mr. Landis?” Madeline asked, and Drew nodded.

  “He couldn’t imagine her claiming to be in love with anyone but himself, and that’s why he decided to pay her out with this book.”

  “Benton claims she killed him for daring to send her off,” Birdsong said.

  “That may be what she told him, but it was more than that.” Miss Tracy gave him a knowing glance. “Johnnie knew about that uncle of her husband’s and knew how much Fleur was counting on ending up with his money. The book would certainly have spoilt that for her. Obviously she didn’t want that, and when I heard Johnnie was dead, I didn’t want to be next on her list.”

  “This is what she threatened Ravenswood about in the pub a week before he was murdered,” Drew said.

  The reporter nodded.

  “Why didn’t you report this to the police, miss?” Birdsong asked.

  The reporter shook her head. “You wouldn’t have believed me. You didn’t believe Benton when he told you straight out that it was Fleur. That’s what they were counting on, I suppose. I didn’t dare come back until I read this morning’s paper and saw that she was dead.”

  Drew studied her for a moment. “Is there anything in your book about the child?”

  “Well, of course there is. It’s one of the juiciest bits.”

  “Did Ravenswood claim paternity? In the book, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes, and he was fairly certain of it,” Miss Tracy said. “I never saw Peter, of course. I don’t know if Johnnie ever did, either. But he knew Landis’s rich uncle wouldn’t have given them a penny once Johnnie staked his claim on the boy.”

  Drew glanced at Madeline and saw a touch of worry in her eyes. “I suppose you’re still set on publishing this book,” he said to the reporter.

  “I’ve spent five months on it,” Miss Tracy said. “And now that Johnnie’s dead, the book will sell ten times better than it ever would have before. Especially once I add the part about Fleur and Benton and the murders.”

  “And Peter?” Drew asked.

  “Oh, he’ll definitely be in it.”

  “Drew,” Madeline murmured, her eyes pleading.

  Drew gave her a nod and turned again to the reporter. “Could you perhaps leave that bit out? As a personal favor to all of us.”

  “About the boy being Johnnie’s? Why ever should I?”

  “Is it really necessary to burden the little chap with that his whole life? I’d think the story is lurid enough as it is.”

  Miss Tracy frowned. “It will no doubt come out whether or not I say anything.”

  “But that may not be for some time yet. Poor Landis has lost enough just now, don’t you think? Perhaps we can leave him just this little bit of consolation?”

  “Absolutely not,” Miss Tracy said.

  “But suppose,” Drew said, “we come to some agreement where you promise to leave any mention of Brent Landis and Peter Landis out of all your future publications, and I promise to make it worth your while.”

  Miss Tracy folded her hands in front of herself. “I’m listening.”

  “You’re very sweet,” Madeline said when they were more than halfway home.

  He glanced over at her and dredged up a smile. “Am I?”

  “You are. Taking care of Peter like that. And Mr. Landis.”

  “Well, it was small enough payment to spare them both.”

  “It might still come out one day, you know,” she said. “People do talk, and they do make assumptions.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do.” His smile was warmer now, and she realized how much she had missed it. “But that’s a worry for another time. I’ve heard that today’s evils are enough for today. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” She sat huddled on her side of the front seat, feeling more awkward beside him than she ever had. Finally she shook her head. “And I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I think maybe I understand a bit more than I did before. About her. About how you were taken in by her.”

  “How can I explain it?” he said. “You make my blood race just by coming into the room, and yet I’m never so comfortable as when I’m with you. It was never that way with Fleur. Yes, she fascinated me. Certainly I was infatuated with her. But I could never relax around her. I could never just be myself and know that would be good enough for her. I dared be nothing less than sparkling and witty every moment I was in her presence. And you remember how she was that night at dinner. She was always like that. Always onstage, always in character. Who was she really? I don’t know. I don’t expect many people do. Poor Landis certainly never seemed to.”

  She sighed a little. “It’s all kind of sad, isn’t it, Drew? He always seemed as if he was trying desperately to love her enough to fill that space between them.”

  “And that’s exactly what I felt when I thought I loved her, that if I tried hard enough, if I was stylish and witty and clever enough, if I could devote myself to her enough and be everything she wanted, that glorious, exotic creature would love me in return. Ah, well, one is eighteen only once, thank the Lord.”

  He gave her a rueful smile, and she quickly looked away. Eighteen. She had been eighteen when Jimmy had deceived her and when dazzling Dinah had taken him away forever. But she had recovered. She’d learned to be str
ong and confident and practical, to value her own intrinsic worth apart from what anyone else said or did. At least she had until . . .

  “I guess I’m not as secure as I thought I was,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  She turned back to him, gaze steady, chin lifted. “I was pretty sure of myself until Fleur showed up.”

  “Madeline, I don’t—”

  “You still don’t understand. I don’t know if I did till now. It wasn’t how you felt about her that bothered me. It was how I felt. She made me feel dull and plain and stupid and totally unworthy of being loved.” She blinked hard, trying not to cry. “Just like that woman who took Jimmy away from me.”

  “I never thought you were any of those things,” he said softly. “Seeing you next to Fleur only showed me how right you were for me and how very, very wrong she had been.”

  “It’s more than that.” She fished a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket. “You once asked my forgiveness for not being the paragon I was looking for. Well, what if I’m not what you think I am? What would you have done when you found out I’m petty and willful and jealous and everything else? I knew I was most of that already, but I didn’t think I would be jealous. I can’t stand jealous women. And I never really felt jealous about any of the girls who flirted with you. No one but Fleur. Oh, Drew, I hated her for hurting you the way she did, and because . . .” Her gaze faltered, and she looked down again. “Because you were hers first.”

  “Madeline,” he breathed.

  Her eyes stung with tears. “Pretty, huh? The charming Miss Parker in all her glory.”

  She didn’t really start to cry until he pulled the car over and took her into his arms, whispering her name, kissing her hair.

  “Madeline, darling, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that I expect you to be perfect. Heaven knows, you’ve put up with me, even with all my faults and foolishness. How could I do any less?”

  “But you don’t know . . .”

  He held her away from him, making his face comically fierce. “You haven’t swindled money from widows and orphans, have you?”