A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  “India!”

  Philip sprinted up the stairs, two uniformed officers at his heels. Laura clutched her satchel so tightly her knuckles turned white. “How did you know I was here?”

  “You were spotted boarding the steamer last night.” After assuring himself that India was unharmed, he turned his gaze on Laura, his fury barely contained. “How dare you come here, after everything you’ve done?”

  “I came to get my things.”

  “Paid for with my money. When I thought you were my wife.”

  “You can be angry with me about that too. I guess I deserve it. But I’m broke, Philip. I’m all alone in the world.” A single tear rolled down her face. “I don’t suppose you’d give me a loan. You loved me once, after all.”

  “I loved the woman you pretended to be. But the qualities I admired in you were all an act. Besides, you won’t be needing money for a long time.” He turned to India. “She is the one behind the plot to do you harm.”

  “You always were a good detective, Philip.” Laura looked at the officers as if seeing them for the first time. As if the crimes she had just described—bribery, arson, murder—had been committed by someone else. “But I’m not going anywhere. Except to any place as far away from here as I can get.”

  The older, heavier officer stepped forward. “Laura Sinclair, you are under arrest for the murder of Hannah June Washington. And for malicious intent in the murder of Arthur Sterling.”

  Laura’s eyes went wide. “Murder? That’s ridiculous. I’m not the one who pulled the trigger. And Hannah June was only a—”

  “Only a what?” Philip said. “Only a former slave whose life didn’t matter? Just an unimportant bit of humanity who could be sacrificed for your own selfish reasons? Binah and Almarene deserve justice for Hannah. I intend to see that they get it.”

  “You’re on their side?”

  Philip handed a paper to the officer. “She is no longer a Sinclair. Legally she never was. This document clears that up.”

  “Come along now,” the officer said to Laura, tucking the paper inside his jacket. “We don’t want to miss the steamer.” He reached out to place manacles on her wrists.

  “I can’t.” Laura shook him off, her eyes glassy and wild with terror. “I’ll go crazy in a cell.”

  “Maybe you shoulda thought of that before you burned that chapel to the ground. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you won’t come quietly.”

  Laura began to sob. “All right. But may I at least get my handkerchief?”

  “Be quick then.”

  Laura opened her satchel and whipped out a revolver. “Get back, all of you.”

  The younger officer calmly planted his feet and cocked his head. “Laura. You don’t want to do anything foolish. It’ll only make matters worse for you.” He held out his hand. “Why don’t you give me that weapon, and we can talk about things.”

  “I don’t want to talk. I only want out of here. So please. Step aside and let me go.”

  “Now you know we can’t do that,” he said, his voice low and reasonable. “We have to take you in.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.” Her hands shaking, Laura leveled the weapon at the officers.

  “Laura.” Philip’s voice was strained, urgent. “I forgive you for everything. Let me help in your defense. We’ll plead mental impairment or—”

  “Mental impairment?” Laura slowly shook her head. “I’d be locked up like old Catchpole. The same as if I were in prison.” She waved the weapon. “Get out of my way.”

  India’s mouth went dry. Laura had killed Hannah and plotted Mr. Sterling’s murder and hers too. She had nothing to lose by shooting someone else. “Anyone can see you are in distress,” India said softly. “Why don’t you do as Philip suggests? Perhaps one day, when you are better, you can be released. And think of Mr. Philbrick’s tender feelings for you. The sacrifice he’s made on your behalf.”

  A burst of sardonic laughter escaped Laura’s lips. “Cornelius Philbrick feels nothing for me and never did.”

  India frowned. “Then why would he confess to shooting Mr. Sterling?”

  “He had his reasons. If you can’t figure it out, you are not as smart as I thought you were.”

  Laura’s gaze hardened. She cocked the revolver.

  “No!” Philip yelled.

  He and the older officer lunged for it, but Laura stepped back, pressed the barrel to her temple, and fired.

  CHAPTER 31

  MARCH 3

  THE MOST INSIDIOUS THING ABOUT EVIL, INDIA MUSED, is that it lulls and seduces. It ensnares before a person realizes it’s even there. Evil lived at Indigo Point and had overtaken them all when it was least expected.

  Laura’s reappearance and her dramatic death galvanized the entire island. Once again, Indigo Point became a beehive of activity. Neighbors came to stare at the burned-out chapel, to assert that they had always known something bad had happened there.

  The papers in Savannah were quick to pick up on the story, naming Laura “The Wife Who Died Twice.” India found the stories and the neighbors’ gossip distasteful and distressing, not only for Philip but for Binah and Almarene.

  Late in the afternoon, she accompanied Philip down the narrow footpath to the small cabin where the two women had taken refuge against the tidal wave of sensationalism and gossip.

  At Philip’s knock, Binah peered through the drawn curtain, then slowly opened the door.

  “Binah,” Philip said softly. “May we come in?”

  Binah, her eyes swollen from crying, stood aside. India and Philip went in.

  The two-room cabin was neat and clean and sparsely furnished. Two arm chairs, the velvet upholstery shiny with wear, flanked a fireplace. A small wooden table and two chairs were tucked beneath the window. On the other side of the room were two cots covered with pink-and-white quilts. In one of them Almarene slept, her gnarled hands folded across her chest.

  “Mama’s nearly wore out from grief,” Binah said quietly. “I fixed her favorite, hog jowl and cabbage, but she won’t touch it. Hasn’t eat a thing all day.”

  “Binah, I’m so sorry about all of this,” India said. “I know it’s a terrible shock.”

  “Where did you get my sister’s necklace? People say you found it in the chapel.”

  “That’s right. When I first saw it, I knew it must belong to Hannah because it matched yours. I was afraid something terrible had happened to her, but I wasn’t sure until I found some other clues.”

  “Binah,” Philip said. “Miss Laura is the one responsible for Hannah’s death.”

  “I heard from Miz Garrison. But I don’t know why Miss Laura hated Hannah June. Hannah June never done nothin’ to her.”

  Almarene stirred and sat up, blinking against the late-afternoon sunlight. “What you doing down here, Mr. Philip?”

  “We wanted to say how sorry we are for this grave injustice.”

  “What’s done is done. If it’s true Miss Laura burned up my girl, and Miss Laura is dead now, too, then I’m satisfied. I don’t keep no hatred in my heart. ‘Vengeance is mine,�
� says the Lord. I reckon He’ll deal with Miss Laura in His own way.”

  “At least Hannah’s necklace is back where it belongs,” India said. “It’s worth a tidy sum, if you ever want to sell it. To pay for school or a new start somewhere else.”

  Binah frowned. “Somewhere else? I don’t reckon I know where I would go. Long as Mama and Mr. Philip is at Indigo Point, I don’t have no hankering to go runnin’ off. But I might take me a trip sometime, wear that fancy hat of mine.” She clasped Almarene’s hand. “Me and Mama might just take a notion to see Niagara Falls one of these days. People say it’s a sight to behold.”

  India clasped Binah’s hand. “I’m going back to the city in a couple of days. But I won’t ever forget you. Or Almarene.”

  “I’m sorry I pilfered your trunk. I never should have gone through your things. I was just curious.”

  “It’s all right. So long as you don’t make a habit of it.”

  Philip held the door for India, and they went out into the early evening. It was nearly twilight. Long shadows fell across the footpath as they retraced their steps.

  “Let’s walk awhile,” Philip said.

  They skirted the ravaged chapel and continued past the carriage house, the tool shed, the remains of the old slave hospital. What had once seemed so foreign now felt comforting and familiar. India slipped her hand into his.

  They reached the beach and followed the curving shoreline to the boat shed. Philip propped open the door and they went in.

  “I didn’t know you were working on a boat.”

  “I started on it last fall. But then I got busy.”

  “Because of me.”

  “Actually it’s because of you that it’s nearly finished. I came down here to work on it at night when I was thinking about your case and couldn’t sleep.” He inspected his handiwork. The varnish had dried, leaving behind only a faint smell.

  “Good as new,” he said, running his hands over the satiny wood. “Soon as I get some new rigging, she’ll be seaworthy again. I might decide to head out for a while. Clear my head. Once my current cases are finished. I . . .” He paused, blushing, and shrugged. “I’m babbling like a schoolboy, aren’t I?”

  India smiled. “You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

  He leaned against the boat and crossed his arms and ankles. “I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to explain to you about Laura.”

  “You don’t have to explain, if you’d rather not. It couldn’t have been easy for you, finding out she was still alive.” India paused. “She’s beautiful. I can see why men would be smitten with her.”

  “Smitten is too mild a word to explain the effect she had on people. Not just me. She had a way of drawing you in, making you believe nothing else mattered. When I first met her, she told me she was a widow who had lost her husband during the war. I was taken by her beauty, of course. But I felt sorry for her too. So young and pretty and so recently out of mourning. When I proposed, she accepted immediately.”

  India could hardly blame Laura for her eagerness. Who wouldn’t want to marry Philip Sinclair? “But she said she was not your wife.”

  “After our session in the judge’s chambers, Laura left a note for me at my office. Her story was that she found out her husband was alive and had been released from a prisoner of war camp just before our wedding, and she didn’t know how to tell me. Or how to stop the elaborate plans she’d made. So she went through with the wedding and hoped neither he nor I would find out.”

  He stared out at the gently rolling surf. “She hated everything about Indigo Point. She didn’t know how to work with the blacks. She hated the heat and the tedium of daily life here. She was terrified of water snakes and alligators. That was when she learned to use a gun. She couldn’t make friends with the other women on the island. I thought all she needed was time to adjust. I thought that because she cared for me, she would learn to love Indigo Point. But she never did.”

  “I’m sorry. I know that must have hurt you.”

  He shrugged. “She thought the other planters were vapid and cruel and ignorant. Some were, of course. But she never appreciated the beauty of this island. Or the courage some people showed during the war when the chips were down.

  “The irony is that I was the one who first invited Arthur Sterling to visit the Point. Laura enjoyed the theater, and I thought having him here might make her feel less isolated. She saw him as an escape from her life.”

  India thought of the final entry in the lost letter book. The PS didn’t stand for “post script.” It stood for Philip Sinclair. PS: I think he knows. But he hadn’t.

  She reached for his hand as he continued. “After the fire, I thought my life was over and that nothing would ever be right again. For months after the funeral I didn’t leave the plantation. I handed off my court cases to another lawyer and holed up with my grief. I hardly slept. I barely ate.”

  “But you survived.”

  “Yes. I finally made peace with what she had done, and with myself. I had my law practice, my plans for the Point. My workers were depending on me. So I went on with life. Then you found the necklace and the letter book. I should have given more credence to your theory earlier than I did, but I didn’t want to believe Laura felt nothing for me. That she was capable of such terrible things.”

  India saw that his words, so harsh and unsparing, cut straight to his own heart. Truth was the sharpest knife for such a procedure.

  “People believe what they need to believe,” she said quietly, “in order to keep going.”

  He tipped his head so that it rested against hers. They sat in silence listening to the calls of the seabirds and the gentle whoosh of the outgoing tide.

  “Anyway,” Philip said finally, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her. She went into his arms, and they clung together like survivors in an open sea, two people who had been torn from all they knew and loved.

  Something alive and gossamer as a moth’s wing hovered in the air between them. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the faint pulsing of his heart through the fabric of his shirt. She thought this might be the beginning of their future. Certainly he was capable of living alone, but he needed someone. He needed her. And she longed to make whole again what Laura’s shameful treatment of him had broken.

  The moment passed and he released her. “We ought to go. Amelia will wonder what became of us.”

  He closed the boat shed, and they retraced their steps along the beach.

  “I hope I haven’t burdened you with my sad tale,” Philip said as they reached the house.

  “Not at all. I’m glad you trusted me with it. But it’s in the past now. Over and done.”

  “Almost,” he said as Amelia stepped onto the porch to greet them. “There’s one more thing I have to do.”

  CHAPTER 32

  MARCH 12

  INDIA SMOOTHED THE SKIRT OF HER BEST DRESS AND watched from the corner of her eye as Celia Mackay settled into her family’s pew and opened her prayer book. The stillness of St. John’s settled around them, bringing a rare had it been since she sat in absolute quiet, her mind emptie
d of its myriad worries? She could not remember.

  Like India’s schooling, her religious training had fallen by the wayside after her aunt’s death, and now she was uncertain of the order of the service and of the responses. She could only follow Celia’s lead and hope not to embarrass herself by speaking or kneeling at the wrong time.

  The service began with the ringing of a bell that echoed throughout the opulent space. During the general confession, she heard a booming voice just behind her left shoulder. She turned around and saw a bear of a man with a red beard and a shiny bald pate looking right back at her, his bright blue eyes friendly and curious.

  India quickly faced the front again. Surely this was Mr. Kennedy, the co-owner of the theater. Celia had looked for him when she and India and Frannie entered the church, but the pew was half empty. Now that the introductions were forthcoming, India worried that despite everything, Mr. Kennedy might blame her for the tragedy that had taken Mr. Sterling’s life. He might think her too young for the responsibility of managing such an important theater. He might not think any woman capable of the task. And his partner in the enterprise would no doubt have ideas of his own.

  “Psst!”

  India looked to her right to see that Celia was kneeling and Frannie was motioning India to follow. India hastily knelt and winked at the little girl, who clapped one hand over her mouth to smother a giggle.

  At last the rector pronounced the benediction in a sonorous voice that seemed to beam straight from heaven itself. People filed from the pews and headed for the doors. Celia wasted no time in making the introductions. She tapped Mr. Kennedy’s sleeve.

  “Good morning.”

  “Mrs. Mackay. Good to see you.”

  “You, too, sir. It has been too long. How is Mrs. Kennedy?”

  “About the same, I’m afraid. She misses coming to church. She will be pleased to know you asked after her.”