A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  “I won’t run,” India said. “I have nothing to hide. This is merely a grave misunderstanding.”

  He nodded but she suspected he didn’t believe a word of it. She couldn’t blame him. She supposed every person who was arrested, guilty or not, professed innocence. She glanced up at the imposing Gothic Revival jailhouse with its shuttered windows and enclosed yard and prayed she had seen the last of it.

  The wagon rattled along the street, which was just coming alive in the morning light. In the alleys, draymen loaded wagons for deliveries. A couple of older women in faded dresses carried baskets of freshly laundered linens to the fine houses on the squares. A group of neatly dressed Negro children headed off to school, their arms laden with books and lunch pails.

  The wagon halted before a large two-story building situated on a corner of Wright Square. White columns graced porticoes on two sides. Deep porches sheltered wide entry doors. In the yard stood a couple of handsome rigs pulled by sleek horses that stood patiently cropping grass.

  “Here we are,” the policeman said. “Chatham County Courthouse.”

  He escorted her across the yard and into a wood-paneled courtroom on the first floor. He motioned India to a chair, crossed the room, and knocked on a door. “Judge? I’ve got Miss Hartley out here.”

  India suddenly felt faint. She hadn’t done anything wrong. But could she convince the judge? And would she be permitted to speak to a lawyer? She was sick with nerves, fatigue, and terror. She licked her lips. “May I have some water?”

  “When His Honor gets in here. I can’t leave you unattended.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Is there any word on Mr. Sterling?”

  “I’m not allowed to say, miss.”

  The door opened and two men came in. The first, clad in a black robe, took his seat on the bench. He was thin and light haired and younger than India had expected. His pale eyes behind thick gold-rimmed spectacles blinked owlishly. “Miss Hartley.”

  “Yes.” She studied the other man, who was everything the judge was not. Tall and broad shouldered, he was impeccably dressed in a gray woolen suit, white shirt, and dark blue cravat. Thick curly hair the color of molasses framed a perfectly proportioned face. His tawny eyes held hers.

  “Miss Hartley,” said the bespectacled man, “I’m Judge Russell. Now, I know you must be frightened and I want to assure you, we are here only to get to the bottom of the tragic events of last evening. We aim to determine whether a crime has been committed. If so, there will be a trial later on to determine by whom.”

  “I understand.” She cast a pleading look at the policeman, who hurried from the room.

  “The gentleman to my left is Mr. Sinclair,” the judge continued. “He is a member of the Georgia Bar, and even though in my opinion it’s too soon for you to need his services, he is here at the insistence of Mrs. Sutton Mackay to see to your interests. I believe you know the lady.”

  “I have never met her, but I know of her.”

  The officer returned with a glass of water. She drank half of it before setting it down.

  “Very well.” The judge signaled to the policeman, who opened the door and ushered in a half-dozen men, most of them bleary-eyed but well dressed and wearing expressions as somber as the judge’s. The judge cleared his throat. “I’ve sworn these men as an inquest jury, Miss Hartley. Now.” He opened a leather binder and took out a sheaf of papers. “From what I understand, Mr. Arthur Sterling suffered a gunshot wound last night during a performance at the Southern Palace. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. What happened?”

  India took another sip of water and tried to marshal her wits. What if she said the wrong thing? She could not bear another moment inside the bedlam that was the Chatham County Jail. She had to make the judge see that what had happened was an accident not of her making. “The theater manager came to my dressing room before last evening’s performance and told me he wanted to make a change in the play. I didn’t want to do it because I knew the playwright, Mr. Morgan, would be upset, and I wanted at least one chance to rehearse it first. But Mr. Philbrick refused. He told me to do it his way or he would send the understudy onstage in my place.”

  Mr. Sinclair crossed the room and pulled up a chair next to India’s. Something about his solid presence and his kind expression calmed her. He motioned for her to continue.

  From his bench, Judge Russell peered down at her. “What kind of a change?”

  “Well, the script calls for my character, Viola, to throw a vase at Mr. Sterling’s character. But Mr. Philbrick thought it wasn’t sensational enough. He told me I was to pretend to shoot Mr. Sterling instead, but of course I would miss. Otherwise there could be no second act.”

  The judge’s thin lips formed a slight smile. “I suppose not. Go on.”

  “I told Mr. Philbrick I was uneasy about pretending to shoot a gun without a rehearsal, but he insisted.”

  “Surely you didn’t intend to fire an actual gun in a crowded theater.”

  “No, sir. Mr. Philbrick showed me the prop. He said the firing pin was missing and it was perfectly safe. During the argument between Mr. Sterling’s character and mine, I was to grab the gun and level it at Mr. Sterling. The prop man would simulate the sound of gunfire by clapping two pieces of wood together from behind the stage.”

  “Fascinating. So the play began. Then what?”

  “We got to the scene near the end of the first act where I was to fire at Mr. Sterling. I was working in the semidarkness, because despite the addition of extra mirrors to reflect more light, Mr. Sterling had once again usurped my place on the stage.”

  “And you were angry at him for doing so.”

  Mr. Sinclair touched India’s sleeve. “Don’t answer that.”

  Judge Russell frowned. “So, Miss Hartley. You were standing in the dark?”

  “Yes, sir. And I felt around for the gun Mr. Philbrick was supposed to have put there.”

  “And was it there?”

  “At first I couldn’t find it, and I was nervous because the timing of the scene depended on the sound of gunfire. When I finally located it, I picked it up, and the next thing I knew Mr. Sterling fell and—” India started to cry.

  “We need a break, Judge.” Mr. Sinclair handed India his handkerchief.

  “Almost finished, Mr. Sinclair.” Judge Russell paged through his report. “When did you realize the gun was not disabled after all?”

  “When Mr. Sterling collapsed and the house lights came on.” India shuddered at the recollection of what happened then: the audience in an uproar, police whistles blaring, two men carrying Mr. Sterling from the stage. The hem of her costume soaked in blood.

  The courtroom door opened. Another policeman entered, crossed the room, and whispered to the judge.

  “When the house lights came up, and you could see more clearly, Miss Hartley—then did you recognize the weapon?”

  Dizzy with terror, she whispered, “Yes.”

  “So even though it obviously was not the gun Mr. Philbrick had supplied for the scene, you had seen it before?”

  “
Yes.”

  “And how is that?”

  “The gun is mine.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MR. SINCLAIR BOLTED FROM HIS CHAIR. “YOUR HONOR, I insist on a break to consult with my client.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for that, sir.”

  The judge turned to the men seated in the jury box. “I have just been informed that Mr. Sterling has succumbed to his injury. Do you gentlemen wish to retire to consider an indictment?”

  The men murmured among themselves. One of them rose, thumbs hooked into his suspenders. “No need, Judge Russell. We are in agreement that enough evidence exists to hold a trial.” India swayed in her chair and barely heard the judge’s next words. “India Hartley, you are charged with the murder of Arthur Sterling and are hereby bound over for trial at a date to be determined.”

  She went numb. Yes, the gun was hers, but she had no idea how it had wound up on the stage. And hadn’t she just explained that what happened was an accident? Surely she would not be condemned to the gallows because of an unfortunate mistake. The officers were already moving toward her, preparing to take her back to the stench and racket of the county jail. With Christmas coming, who knew how long she would languish there before a trial could be arranged?

  “Your Honor.” Mr. Sinclair approached the judge’s bench. “I have not even been properly introduced to my client. I cannot possibly prepare her defense without time to uncover the facts and discuss them with her. You cannot remand her into custody.”

  The judge frowned. “Mr. Sinclair, I remand criminals into custody every day of the year. Other lawyers manage to mount a defense while their clients are behind bars. I don’t see why this case ought to be any different.”

  “Let’s speak privately and I’ll tell you why.”

  The judge pulled out his watch. “I’ve got a case starting in fifteen minutes.”

  “I won’t need that long.”

  India studied the lawyer’s face. Could she trust him? She had never laid eyes on him before today, and now her future, perhaps her very life, rested in his hands.

  The judge rose, and Mr. Sinclair followed him out of the courtroom. The two policemen flanked India, arms folded across their chests. The older of the two, the one who had brought her here from the jail, handed her the half-empty water glass. She drank the rest of it and then stood with her eyes cast down so they wouldn’t see her tears. She fumbled in her pocket for the handkerchief Mr. Sinclair had given her. If only Father were alive. If only her touring company had not been stolen from her. If only Mr. Philbrick hadn’t insisted on changing the script. How quickly a life could be destroyed.

  She pressed the heels of her hands to her burning eyes. Mr. Sterling was dead. How had her own gun found its way onto the stage?

  The door opened, and Mr. Sinclair came out alone. He flashed a paper at the two policemen and offered India his arm. “Come with me.”

  She blotted her tears. “I don’t want to go back to jail.”

  “You aren’t going to jail. You’re going to St. Simons. With me.”

  “St. Simons?”

  “It’s an island about a day’s journey by steamer from here. I’ve a plantation there. Or I did have, before the war. It’s mostly a ruin now.”

  She followed him out of the courthouse and into the bright December sunlight. He helped her into his rig and sent her a reassuring smile. “Indigo Point is slightly better than the Chatham County Jail. The house is still standing, and it’s quiet there. We’ll have time to prepare your defense away from the prying eyes of this city. I love Savannah, but I must admit folks here find it hard to ignore a juicy scandal.”

  He flicked the reins and turned the rig. “Did you leave anything at the jail?”

  “They wouldn’t let me bring anything. Not even a comb.”

  “We’ll go by the theater and collect your things.”

  “Most of my clothes are at the hotel.”

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I am beyond grateful for your help, but I confess I don’t understand why you are going to such lengths to assist a total stranger. Especially since I haven’t the means to pay you.”

  “As the judge said, Miss Hartley, you have an ardent patron. Mrs. Sutton Mackay happened to be in the theater last night. She was quite incensed by the way you were hauled off to the jailhouse like some common thief. She has some experience in dealing with scandal and wanted to spare you the same unhappiness.” He slowed the rig as they turned onto Bull Street. “She and her late father, Mr. Browning, were very protective of this city. She hasn’t said so, but I suspect she offered to help you in part to save Savannah’s face. It wouldn’t do to have such a distinguished guest treated so poorly.”

  “I would like to call on her, to thank her for her generosity.”

  “There isn’t time. Captain Mooreland’s boat leaves for the island in an hour. We’ve barely time to collect your belongings and get to the wharf.”

  India hesitated as another thought hit her. Was she to be alone on this remote island with a strange gentleman? Was there a Mrs. Sinclair in residence?

  He turned to her, and the look in his eyes told her that he understood her unspoken question. “My sister, Amelia, lives with me at the Point. As does our housekeeper, Mrs. Catchpole. Since the war, several of my former bondsmen have taken up sharecropping with me. And Fan Butler has just returned to St. Simon’s to check on her father’s holdings. My house is a big house. There’s plenty of room. Plenty of people about. We’ll be well chaperoned, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “I . . . I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Just tell me everything you can remember so we can win your case.” He sent her a rueful smile. “Now that my plantation is falling into ruin, all I have is my law practice.”

  “And winning my case would cement your reputation.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. “Perhaps. But that isn’t why I chose to defend you.” He halted the rig at the hotel then helped her down. “Let’s get your things.”

  “I need to speak to my dresser. And Mr. Philbrick,” she said as they made their way into the hotel’s spacious lobby.

  “No time, I’m afraid. I’ll go by the theater while you’re packing. You can leave a note for your dresser. The hotel manager will see that it’s delivered.”

  “But Fabienne is—”

  “Miss Hartley, I do sympathize. But you do not want to be here when the news of Mr. Sterling’s demise hits the streets. Please hurry and pack. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  He left her there. Aware of the curious stares of the hotel staff, India went up to her room and collapsed on her bed, dizzy with hunger and paralyzed with disbelief. Alone. Nearly broke. Accused of murder. How had her life come so unraveled?

  The little French mantel clock chimed, reminding her of Mr. Sinclair’s imminent return. She rose and began packing her things, folding petticoats and chemises, stockings and dressing gowns into one of her two large trunks. Day dresses and her one still-stylish evening dress went into the other, along with a fine woolen cloak, a pair of buff-colored half boots, and three pairs of kid gloves. She had brought along only t
hree hats for this Southern theater tour, and now she carefully packed two of them into pink-and-white-striped hatboxes.

  Opening her writing box, she took out paper and ink and sat at the small escritoire beneath the window to pen a note to Fabienne. She couldn’t simply disappear without a word, though surely Fabienne would learn soon enough what had happened.

  Pen in hand, India tried to express her affection and gratitude to her young dresser. But in the end all she could manage were a couple of sentences and a fervent wish for a speedy trial that would set everything to rights. Though she could hardly afford to do so, India tucked a ten-dollar note inside the letter, sealed the envelope, and addressed it to Fabienne in care of the Southern Palace.

  She poured water into the blue porcelain washbasin, bathed her face and hands, and tidied her hair. She brushed the skirt of her heavy costume clean, though traces of the blood were still visible along the hem. She wanted nothing more than to burn the dress, but travel by steamboat would be a long and dirty affair, and she needed to save her best clothes for the day when she must appear in court.

  She made one last sweep of the room, then pulled the little velvet cord beside the bed to summon the bellman. When he appeared, she followed him silently down to the lobby, where she avoided meeting the manager’s eyes as she quickly settled her bill.

  Moments later, Mr. Sinclair returned and saw to the loading of her trunks onto a hired carriage. He helped her enter, closed the curtains, and called to the driver.

  “Word has reached the street,” he said when the carriage turned toward the waterfront. “Crowds are forming outside the theater and in front of Mr. Sterling’s house. I thought it best to travel unobserved. An event like this can whip normally sedate folks into a frenzy.”