“I do hope it will all work out for the best, Georgina,” I said sincerely.
She smiled, and this one was less forced than the last. “Thank you. But you haven’t come here to discuss my husband’s foibles, so let us talk of other things.”
I had, in fact, come to discuss just that, but it was clear from the pained look in her eyes that it was not a topic on which she wished to dwell.
We spoke of lighter things then, and, when I left, tickets in my handbag, it was with something of a heavy heart. I had tried to be encouraging, but I could tell that she viewed the situation as very bleak indeed. What was worse, I was not sure I disagreed with her. Even if Gerard Holloway were to give up Flora Bell, the damage had already been done.
Georgina seemed almost resigned to the situation, as though she were waiting for things to play out fully before she made any decisions. But perhaps that was only on the surface. Was it possible that she was sending the threatening notes to Flora Bell? Given what I knew of Georgina’s personality and her attitude today, I didn’t think so. But one could never be sure.
I arrived back at the flat to find Milo waiting for me.
“There you are, darling,” he said, coming out of the sitting room as I closed the front door behind me. “I’ve been wondering when you might return home.”
I had not told Milo of my errand, knowing he would, in all likelihood, disapprove of my visiting Georgina. It was all well and good for him to involve us in Gerard Holloway’s affairs as far as the mysterious letters went, but he wouldn’t like my wading too deeply into the Holloways’ matrimonial struggles.
“I had some things to attend to,” I said, vaguely surprised that he had been waiting. “What is it?”
“Holloway wants us to come back to the theatre.”
“Now?” I asked, surprised.
He nodded, and though his expression didn’t change, there was a glimmer of interest in his blue eyes. “I’m afraid there’s been another threatening letter.”
6
MILO DROVE US to the theatre in his blue Talbot. Pulling the car up to a curb I was fairly certain was not meant for parking, he alighted and came round to open my door. We walked toward the theatre, but instead of going in the front door as we had the night before, Milo led the way to the stage entrance at the end of the narrow, cobblestoned alley between the theatre and the building next door. The brick walls rose high on either side, casting the alleyway into shadow, even in the brightness of late afternoon.
“Holloway said he would hear if we knocked,” Milo explained, rapping on the somewhat battered red door.
A moment later, it opened slightly and Gerard Holloway eyed us through the space before stepping back and pulling the door open. I preceded Milo into the theatre, and Mr. Holloway quickly closed the door behind us and locked it.
I looked around. We were at the end of the passageway that led to the dressing rooms. The lights were on, but it was still dim, and all was quiet.
I turned back to Mr. Holloway, who had yet to speak. It was then I noticed he held a pistol at his side. It looked strange in his hand, perhaps because it was so unexpected.
“What do you mean to do with that?” Milo asked mildly.
“I wanted to have it on hand.”
“Is it as bad as all that?” Milo gave every appearance of perfect ease, but I noticed he had shifted ever so slightly, so as to put himself between me and the gun. It was not the first time he had shielded me in such a way, and I hoped this instance would be much less traumatic than the last.
“I didn’t want to go into details over the telephone, but I’m afraid things may be worse than we assumed,” Mr. Holloway said.
“Gerry?” Flora Bell’s voice came from farther down the hall. “Have Mr. and Mrs. Ames arrived?”
“Yes, Flora. We’re coming,” he called back.
He turned back to us, his face taut.
“She’s in her dressing room,” he told us. “Come this way, will you?”
We followed him down the corridor and into Miss Bell’s dressing room. She was sitting in a velvet chair in the corner, and any doubts I had had about her involvement concerning the letters were erased with one look at her face. She was as pale as death, her blue eyes wide. Her hands were in her lap, clutching a handkerchief, her knuckles white.
“Hello,” she said as we came in; her uncertain expression reminded me of a child. I was half tempted to embrace her.
“It’s going to be all right, my dear,” Mr. Holloway said as he mercifully put the gun away in one of the dressing table drawers. He reached for a single piece of paper that lay atop the table and turned toward us. “Here it is.”
He held it out to Milo, who ran his eyes across the page before he handed it to me.
It was written in block letters, so as to obscure the handwriting, in dark ink that had bled out onto the inferior-quality paper.
Let your opening performance be your best. It will be your last.
Though I had come prepared to read an unpleasant note, I felt a jolt at the words. This was no harmless prank. Someone was very clearly threatening to do harm to Flora Bell.
“When did you find the note?” Milo questioned Miss Bell.
“I came to the theatre to go over a few things.”
“Alone?” I asked. As I said it, it occurred to me that it was more likely that she had come to the theatre to meet Gerard Holloway. What better place for them to be alone together, after all?
If this was the case, however, she didn’t intend to admit it. “I like being here alone,” she said. “It helps me really think about the character, about the movements I want to make on the stage. After every performance, I like to go out on the stage alone and consider how things might be done better. Well, today when I got here, the note was pushed under the stage door. It had my name written on it.”
“If it was pushed under the stage door from the alleyway, anyone might have done it,” I said.
“But who would want to?” Holloway demanded. “I want to know who was here and who is behind this. This cannot go on. I will not allow it.” His face was very red, and his voice had grown unsteady with heightened emotion. He seemed to realize it, for he drew in a deep breath, his jaw tightening as he worked to suppress his feelings.
“I think you ought to ring the police,” Milo said.
“Oh, no,” Flora said quickly. “I don’t want the police. Someone only wants to make me uneasy before my performance, and I shan’t give them the satisfaction.”
“I don’t care what their motive is,” Mr. Holloway said, his voice still loud and unsteady. “I intend to find out who is responsible. I’m going to ring the police now.”
“No,” she said sharply. “We agreed, Gerry.”
I looked at her, surprised at the determination in her voice. What reason could she have for objecting so strongly? If I felt my life was in danger, nothing could induce me to keep from contacting the authorities.
She seemed to sense that her reaction was being observed, for her expression softened and she smiled. “Word is sure to get out,” she said, “and I couldn’t bear it if that happened, not before the play. I don’t want anything to ruin it. Gerry has worked so hard. That’s why I agreed when he suggested we speak to you. He was certain you could get to the bottom of things.”
I felt the sudden weight of the responsibility Mr. Holloway and Miss Bell had laid at our feet. After all, Milo and I might be good at solving mysteries, but I felt we would be sadly inadequate protection against physical harm.
A possible solution occurred to me. “I know a policeman,” I said. “A Scotland Yard inspector. He’s very efficient and clever, and I’m sure that he would be discreet.”
Milo cast a glance in my direction, but made no comment. Though he and Detective Inspector Jones had not always been on the best of terms, I knew Milo had fairly judged the inspector as an excellent policeman and a good man to have on one’s side in time of trouble.
Flora shook her head, her bl
ond curls bobbing. “It’s very kind of you to suggest it, but I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you.” There was a note of finality in her tone that told me it would be no good to press the matter.
She poured a drink with perfectly steady hands and gave it to Gerard Holloway, who was looking up at her as a child might look at a trusted adult for reassurance. I was struck by his demeanor, by the way he apparently relied on her. I once again felt a sinking feeling about the depth of their feelings for each other. This was no passing fancy. Emotions ran deep, at least as far as Mr. Holloway was concerned.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. or Mrs. Ames?” she asked in a cheerful voice.
We declined, but I felt the tension in the room begin to dissipate as if by the sheer force of her will. Despite her calm demeanor and easy dismissal of the facts, however, I found my initial discomfort had begun to develop into a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Someone meant to harm Flora Bell, but she seemed determined not to acknowledge the severity of the situation.
“Hello,” a voice called suddenly, and I saw Flora flinch. I wondered if it was with surprise or at the sound of that particular voice. “Flora? Mr. Holloway, are you here?”
I watched Flora Bell and Mr. Holloway exchange a glance as the voice echoed along the hallway. Then Mr. Holloway rose to his feet and went to the door, looking out into the corridor.
“We’re here, Dahlia,” he called.
I heard quick, light footsteps approaching, and a moment later a woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and slim, with bobbed red hair and large brown eyes.
“I thought I might find you here, I…” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Milo, and I recognized that instant look of predatory interest I had seen in the eyes of so many women over the years.
“I didn’t realize that you had company. Are you going to introduce me to your guests, Mr. Holloway?” she asked with a smile.
“Oh. Oh, yes, these are my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Ames,” he said distractedly. “Mr. and Mrs. Ames, Miss Dahlia Dearborn.”
If she had heard that there was a “Mrs.” included in this introduction, she gave no sign of it. Her eyes were still on Milo. “How do you do?”
Milo gave her the barest of nods. “Good afternoon.” He was very aware of the effect he had on women, but it seemed that he was not in the mood to be charming.
“What are you doing here, Dahlia?” Mr. Holloway asked.
“What a greeting,” she laughed. “As though I am quite unwelcomed.”
I noticed that neither Mr. Holloway nor Miss Bell made any effort to deny this.
“How are you feeling, Flora?” she asked, turning to Miss Bell. “No sign of ill health, I hope.”
Flora, despite the masterful control she exerted over her pretty features, seemed to pale a little at this remark, and I saw Gerard Holloway’s posture stiffen. Miss Dearborn, however, didn’t seem to notice the effect her words had had.
She turned back to Milo. “I’m Flora’s understudy. Of course, there’s little chance I’ll ever see the stage, but one never knows, does one?”
We all looked at her, the possible implications of her words sinking in. Surely she would not be so brazen as to reference such a thing if she were the letter writer. Then again, it might all be part of the game she was playing.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was Flora Bell who roused herself first. She gave a careless laugh. “I’m afraid we were all being rather gloomy,” she said. “It’s nothing. But what brings you here, Dahlia?”
“I left my coat,” she replied. “It’s the only fur I’ve got, and I want to wear it for my date tonight. I have plans with a reasonably amusing gentleman. Unless anything better happens to come along.” I’m sure I was not mistaken that her eyes flickered momentarily to Milo as she said this. I never ceased to be amazed at the number of women who made their availability known to Milo, whether or not I was present.
No one said anything to this and she sighed heavily. “Well, it seems there’s no fun to be had here, so I shall go. I’ll see you all at the performance. I hope you manage to be a bit more cheerful then.”
When she was gone, Gerard Holloway turned to us, his face tight. “I think you can see why she might be a good suspect.”
“Oh, Gerry, don’t,” Flora Bell said. “Dahlia isn’t clever enough for something like this.”
“It doesn’t take a great deal of cleverness to write nasty letters.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t think…” She stopped, glancing in our direction. “In any event, I’m sure these letters are nothing of consequence. You shouldn’t have bothered Mr. and Mrs. Ames. Think no more of it. Just come to the performance and enjoy yourselves.” She gave us a dazzling smile then, and I realized that we had been dismissed.
Despite my misgivings, it was clear that Flora Bell did not want to discuss the matter any further, and a few moments later Milo and I made our exit.
“What do you think of all of this?” I asked as we walked through the shadowy alleyway and back into the sunlit street.
“I think she’s in danger and either doesn’t know it or doesn’t want anyone else to,” Milo said, opening the door of his car for me.
“Then what are we going to do?”
He shrugged. “There’s nothing that can be done, really. They don’t want the police called. I suppose the best we can do is watch the performance and hope for the best.”
“Then why do you suppose Mr. Holloway called us here?” I asked. “Surely he knew that we would recommend the police.”
“He called us here because he’s practically frantic with worry. You saw it as well as I did.”
He went around to the driver’s side and got in as my thoughts shifted to the other person we had met today.
“Flora Bell and Miss Dearborn don’t like each other,” I said as he settled into his seat.
“No, though they both tried very valiantly to pretend that they do. Miss Bell is a much better actress, so she was the more successful of the two.”
“I thought the same,” I replied. “Then again, there is bound to be jealousy on Miss Dearborn’s part. Miss Bell has everything that she wishes for: a good role and a handsome benefactor. She may have more motive than the others to have written the letters. Maybe she left the letter, waited awhile, and then came back to see if it had had its desired effect.”
“It’s possible,” he said.
“Miss Dearborn is rather lovely, don’t you think?” I asked, wondering if he had noticed the way she had been appraising him.
He glanced over at me with a smile as the car roared away from the curb. “I didn’t notice. I was too busy looking at you, the most beautiful woman in the room.”
7
THE NEXT DAY seemed interminable as I waited to attend the play and gala. While I knew society had been looking forward to it with great anticipation, I was merely anxious for the evening to be over. I could not bring myself to view this as just another social event. I felt somehow that it was much more than that. There was a sense of foreboding that I could not seem to shake.
“You seem tense,” Milo observed as we at last made our way to the theatre that night.
“I am,” I replied. I felt certain that something bad was going to happen, but I also felt powerless to stop it. But perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Perhaps the letters had only been a cruel joke, a ruse contrived by a jealous person to ensure that Flora Bell did not give her best performance. I certainly hoped that was the case.
The streets were packed with cars when we arrived. A crowd of people was moving toward the theatre, and there were photographers taking pictures of the new arrivals as though it were a film premiere, the bright flares of the flashbulbs nearly lost in the glow of the theatre lights. Never let it be said that Gerard Holloway missed an opportunity for spectacle.
As we stepped from our car and into the fray, I was glad that I had chosen to w
ear the gown of black silk and chiffon that I had purchased recently in Paris. I had known that Georgina Holloway and the other women involved in the event would be dressed in the height of fashion, and I had not intended to do any less. Diamonds and a silver fur added to my ensemble. I did not often wear black, and I thought that, in combination with Milo’s black evening clothes, we made a striking pair.
We moved with the crowd, and I greeted several acquaintances as we made our way into the lobby of the theatre and presented our tickets. Some of these people, I was sure, had scarcely ever set foot in a theatre before, and I suspected they were more interested in the drama that might play out between Gerard and Georgina Holloway than the one that would happen onstage. But whatever their motivations for coming, it was clear that the Holloways’ charity was going to benefit greatly from this evening’s entertainment.
As I always did when I entered a theatre, I felt the little thrill of excitement that accompanied the viewing of a live performance. The cinema was enjoyable, but, in my opinion, it didn’t have the same depth of feeling as did flesh-and-blood people baring their emotions before you on a stage. There was nothing quite like it in all the world.
We made our way through the throng, the air thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Voices mingled in the pleasant hum of scores of conversations overlapping one another. I caught a few phrases as Milo and I threaded our way through the crowd.
“They say she is quite talented.”
“You know what they are saying about her and Holloway.”
“I don’t see how Georgina stands for it.”
It seemed the theatregoers were well attuned to what was happening in the Holloway household.
We went up the scarlet-carpeted stairs to the first floor and an usher pointed us in the direction of our box. Before we could reach it, however, we spotted Mr. Holloway coming from the other end of the corridor, the one at the opposite side of the staircase we had just come up.
“Good evening,” he said cheerfully to us as he approached. “You look stunning, Mrs. Ames, as always.”
An Act of Villainy Page 5
