by Dorothy Love
India paused for a moment, gathering her courage. Just the sight of this foreboding building set her heart to racing and jangled her nerves. The thought of stepping inside made her want to turn and run. But Mr. Shakleford and Mr. Kennedy were depending on her. She couldn’t let them down.
She crossed the street to the door and stepped into the noise and smells of the busy jailhouse, which on this day was crowded with the usual pickpockets, drunks, and other miscreants. India made her way to the desk at the end of the hallway, where a young officer sat writing out a report.
“Good morning, Officer.” India raised her voice to be heard above the noise of shouts and clanging metal. “I’m here to see one of your prisoners.”
“Visiting hour is five to six,” he said without looking up from his writing.
“But this is important.” She clutched her reticule to keep her hands from shaking. Unfortunately even her stage training couldn’t quell the nervous quaver in her voice.
He looked up at last and blinked. “Miss Hartley? Saints in a sock. I sure never expected to see you darken our door again.”
“Nor did I. But I have business with Mr. Philbrick concerning the theater.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure it’s legal for you to talk to him, seeing as how you are a part of his case.” He glanced past her shoulder. “You shoulda brought that lawyer of yours.”
“I would have, but he’s on St. Simons, looking after his business interests there. I’m not sure when he can return, and my business with Mr. Philbrick can’t wait.”
“Why the hurry? I hear he ain’t going anywhere till his fancy lawyer figures out a way for him to beat the charges.”
“This won’t take long,” India said. “Can’t you give me ten minutes?”
He blew out a long breath. “I’ll take you up to his cell, but if anybody asks me how you got up there, I am going to plead ignorance. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
He glanced around. “Come on then.”
He led her up the stairs and down the long corridor to a cell identical to the one where she had been held. She suppressed another shudder.
The officer banged the metal bars with his nightstick. “Visitor for you, Philbrick.”
Cornelius Philbrick looked up from the book he was reading, his brow furrowed. “It isn’t time for visitors, and besides, I have nothing to say.”
“Suit yourself.” The officer shot India a hard look. “Ten minutes, and I’ll be back to escort you out of here. Sooner, if the officer in charge finds out you’re breakin’ the rules.”
When the officer was out of earshot, India stepped closer to the cell. The smells of urine, onions, mold, and cooked cabbage wafted up. “Mr. Philbrick. As you just heard, I don’t have much time. I’ve been going through the records at the theater and preparing for our spring play, and I have a few questions for you.”
“I don’t have to answer any questions. You ought to be grateful I saved your hide and leave it at that.”
“I am grateful. Deeply so. But I’m managing the theater now, and in going through the books I find—”
“That the numbers don’t add up.”
“Correct. But I’m sure you can explain.”
He laughed. “Don’t try that ploy with me, Miss Hartley. You’re a good actress, but not that good.”
She stared at him through the cold metal bars. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Listen. I know you heard me arguing with Arthur Sterling at the opening-night party last December.”
India had forgotten about that row until now. Mr. Philbrick was the excitable type, unaccustomed to compromise and unafraid to browbeat anyone who opposed him. His argument with Mr. Sterling that night had been unusually loud but not all that rare. “Everyone heard. It would have been hard not to. Both of you were shouting.” She paused. “Each of you must have cared deeply for Laura Sinclair. At least in that moment.”
A piercing yell from another prisoner filled the air, and two uniformed officers pounded up the stairs.
Cornelius Philbrick shook his head. “I never had you pegged for such a hopeless romantic. You think Sterling and I were arguing over a woman?”
“Weren’t you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Good gravy. How naïve can you be?”
“Miss?” One of the officers approached and crooked his finger. “You don’t belong up here. You’ll have to come with me. You can come back this afternoon at five.”
“That won’t be necessary, Officer,” Mr. Philbrick said. “I have nothing more to say to this woman.” He retreated to the back of his cell and turned his back to her. Dismissed.
India left the jail and waved to her carriage driver.
“Where to, Miss Hartley?”
“Back to the theater, please.”
Back to the beginning.
CHAPTER 35
APRIL 17
“MISS BRYSON, WOULD YOU PLEASE COME IN FOR A moment?” India waved the actress into her office. In the days since her visit to Mr. Philbrick, India had turned his words over and over in her mind. If he and Mr. Sterling had not been arguing over Laura’s affections and Mr. Sterling’s callous treatment of her, then the only other possibility was money. According to the ledgers, Mr. Sterling had been paid handsomely for his services to the Southern Palace. But India had the strong feeling that she still didn’t know the whole story, and now that Laura was gone, the truth would prove even more elusive.
Victoria Bryson entered the office, a frown creasing her pale brow. “What is it, Miss Hartley? Not a problem with the play, I hope.”
“No.”
“If it’s about last Saturday’s rehearsal, I know I missed a cue, but I promise it won’t happen again.” Miss Bryson fluffed the feathers on her pale yellow hat. “I want to give a wonderful performance, and I just know I can. I need more practice, that’s all.”
“Sit down, Miss Bryson.” India closed her office door and leaned against it.
The young actress perched on the edge of her chair. “What is it?”
“I want to know why you were pilfering my office last week. What were you looking for?”
“I . . . I wasn’t. I don’t know what you mean.”
“When I came in, you were standing beside my desk with a small blue book in your hand. After you left, tripping on your own feet in your haste, I might add, I found a desk drawer standing open.”
“I’m sorry. The book was a gift from Mr. Philbrick. When he was taken to jail, I realized I had left it here. I wanted it back. I admit I looked in the desk, but it wasn’t there. I finally found it behind the bookcase.”
“You could have asked me about it.”
Miss Bryson shook her head. “It’s private.”
India folded her arms. “Don’t tell me that you and Mr. Philbrick were—”
“No. Nothing like that. I was in love with Mr. Sterling.” The girl’s blue eyes filled. “I guess a part of me always will be. Oh, I know he was faithless, and a liar to boot, but still—”
“And Mr. Philbrick?”
Miss Bryson went still. “Am I in trouble, Miss Hartley?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
The girl burst into tears. “Oh, more trouble than you can ever imagine.”
India crossed the room and sat behind her desk, waiting for Miss Bryson to compose herself. At last she said, “Maybe you should begin at the beginning.”
Miss Bryson sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Right after I started working at the theater, I was assigned to the odd jobs, helping with the scenery and keeping up with costumes and such. Hoping for my big chance to actually be in a play. Finally, last spring, Mr. Sterling noticed me and asked Mr. Philbrick to give me a small part in King Lear. You know that play?”
India smiled. “I do. Go on.”
“Well, I took sick, and Mr. Philbrick replaced me. I know he had to. The show must go on and all that. But I was heartbroken at missing my chance. I couldn’t stay away from the Southern Palace. It’s like a home to me, you know? I feel dead inside when I’m not here. So I started helping Mr. Philbrick in the office. Just to be a part of it.” Miss Bryson hiccupped. “Then one day I heard Mr. Philbrick and Mr. Sterling arguing. I was in the hallway, so I could hear most of what was said. Mr. Sterling was angry because Mr. Philbrick had charged some expensive dinners against the house receipts, and Mr. Sterling denied ever having attended them. He was afraid the theater owners would fire him for being too expensive, and he threatened to tell the owners what he knew.”
“That Mr. Philbrick was falsifying the expense reports and keeping the money for himself.”
Miss Bryson bobbed her head. “And then the door flew open unexpectedly, and Mr. Philbrick caught me with my ear pressed to the wall.”
“I see. Then what?” India had a good idea of what had transpired next, but she wanted to hear it from the girl herself.
“Mr. Philbrick threw me out. He told me never to set foot inside the theater again. But I couldn’t do that. The theater is everything to me. So we made a deal.”
India recalled the girl’s expensive reticule, her outrageous hats. The money for such fine things had to come from somewhere. “Mr. Philbrick agreed to pay you for your silence.”
“Yes. I know it was wrong, but he gave me no choice.”
“We always have choices, Miss Bryson. We might not like them, but there they are, all the same.”
The young woman drew the small blue book from her reticule. “It’s all here. The amounts he paid to me and the dates. When he went to jail, I got scared. That’s why I came here to find it. Mr. Philbrick might seem like a good man, at least some of the time. But he will stop anyone who gets in his way.” She paused. “What happens to me now, Miss Hartley? Will I go to jail?”
“I don’t know. But I do know you are going to need a good lawyer.”
“Will Mr. Sinclair help me? I suppose he’s just about the best there is.”
“I’ll send word to Indigo Point. We’ll see what he says.”
“All right.”
“In the meantime, we will carry on.”
“You’re not firing me?”
“I don’t approve of blackmail. But you are young, and I can see how this happened. For now it’s best if you don’t say anything to anyone. Not until we hear from Mr. Sinclair.”
Miss Bryson rose unsteadily and released a shuddering sigh. “Thank you, Miss Hartley. And I’m sorry for the things I said at the trial. And for what I said to you, about being old, and such.”
India saw her out, then returned to her desk and collapsed into her chair. She needed to inform Mr. Shakleford about Mr. Philbrick’s embezzlement, and she needed to compose a letter to Philip. It was still early enough that the letter could leave on this evening’s steamer. If he received it tomorrow morning, she might possibly receive a reply by Wednesday. The whole thing was worrisome, but not as disturbing as the new, darker suspicions rising to the surface of her mind.
At the opening-night party, Cornelius Philbrick had quarreled with Mr. Sterling. Had Arthur Sterling threatened to expose Mr. Philbrick’s deception? If so, the theater manager would have wanted to stop him. And what better way to do so than to hatch a plan to kill the man in the middle of a performance?
India shuddered at the cold-blooded nature of it all. But with Miss Bryson’s confession, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Now India saw how everything had come together in a real-life scenario as intricate as any playwright could devise.
Laura Sinclair, already a murderess, discovered that Arthur Sterling had transferred his affections to Victoria Bryson. When Cornelius Philbrick changed the play, Laura seized her chance for revenge and switched the weapons, hoping that India would shoot Laura’s faithless lover. At the same time, Mr. Philbrick, fearing that Mr. Sterling might at any moment expose his crime, decided to shoot the actor himself. In her last moments, Laura contended that there was nothing between them. But he must have had some reason for showing up when he did, professing his devotion to her.
A knock sounded at her office door, and Riley Quinn stuck his head inside. “Ready for dress rehearsal, Miss Hartley. And everything looks spectacular, even if I do say so myself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quinn. I’ll be right up.”
India collected her script and pencils, her notes and her keys, and climbed the stairs to the stage. She had worked hard for weeks to get to this point, but the sense of happy anticipation she usually felt when a play was about to open was buried beneath a shroud of worry. If only Philip would come home.
The cast broke into applause as she made her way to her seat in the third row, center. She acknowledged them with a smile, then clapped her hands to signal silence. “All right, everybody. Act one, scene one. Please begin.”
APRIL 20
India returned from an early dinner with Fabienne to find Philip waiting on her doorstep. Wordlessly, he folded her into an embrace. She leaned against him, breathing in the scents of soap and fresh starch. In his arms was a safety far greater than any walls could afford.
“Thank goodness you’re home.” She drew back to look up at him. “You got my letter about Miss Bryson?”
“I did. What a royal mess.”
She fished her key from her reticule and opened her door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Fabienne just returned from a month of travel and wanted to assure me she intends to help out at the opening on Saturday night.”
They went inside. She motioned him to a chair. “I’d offer you some tea, but sadly, this apartment has no kitchen.”
“I don’t need anything.” He eased into the overstuffed chair. “This feels good after a day on the steamer.”
She perched on the edge of the chair opposite and leaned forward until their knees were almost touching. “Miss Bryson has broken the law, but she’s young and without anyone to guide her. I didn’t know what else to do but write to you.”
“I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t. I hope you know you can always count on me.” He leaned forward in his chair, hands on his knees, and smiled into her eyes.
“I do know that.” Her voice was barely a whisper. From their first meeting, Philip had the power t
o take her breath away. She forced herself to think of the problem at hand. “I hope this doesn’t turn into another scandal. I am sorry Miss Bryson has placed herself into such a troublesome position, but I couldn’t ignore it.”
“Of course not.”
“Mr. Shakleford and Mr. Kennedy have put their trust in me. Fabienne, Mr. Quinn and his new assistant, and Miss Sawyer, to say nothing of the players themselves, are depending upon me to make the theater a success.” She paused. “Maybe I’m wrong to suspect Mr. Philbrick of plotting to murder Arthur Sterling. Maybe I ought to have kept my suspicions to myself, but why would he have brought his gun to the theater that night, if he didn’t have plans to use it? And why would he have confessed to the judge when no one suspected him? Unless he feared he might go to jail longer for embezzlement than for an accidental shooting. He must have felt something for Laura, despite her assertions to the contrary. It—”
“India. Wait a minute. Whether he did or not, it isn’t your burden to bear. Tomorrow I’ll speak to the prosecutor and lay out the facts. The embezzled money, the blackmail, the arguments between Sterling and Philbrick. Then it will be up to Mr. McLendon to investigate, to decide what charges are warranted, and to prove those charges in court. Let it go. The way I’ve let go of Laura and the things she did.”
India realized that she was crying. Relief, regret, and hope warred inside her. What a joy it would be to wake up without the prospect of another disaster crowding her thoughts.
“What’s this?” His voice was gentle. “No need for tears.” Philip took out his handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks. “Deceit may prosper a person in the beginning, but sooner or later the truth comes out, and then there is nothing but misery and shame. Perhaps Philbrick is guilty of more than we realize. But it has nothing to do with us.”
Darkness had fallen. India rose to light the lamp and regarded him through tear-spiked lashes, her heart full of hope, afraid to ask what he meant. Afraid not to, lest the moment slip away.
