“Yes. Thank you, Winnelda,” I said, picking up the pot to pour. She hurried from the room. Poor girl. I sometimes forgot that such talk might be distressing to her.
“How do you take your coffee, Inspector?” I asked.
“Black. Thank you.”
I poured his coffee and handed him the cup and saucer.
“Milo?” I asked.
“No, thank you. I’ve had enough for one morning.”
I poured myself a cup of the steaming liquid, stirring in a bit of sugar and milk. Winnelda was not what one might call a culinary master, but her pots of tea and coffee were above reproach. What more could one ask for, really?
“If it was possible for it to be a woman, it might also have been Dahlia Dearborn, Miss Bell’s understudy,” I said, remembering Milo’s earlier comment. “She’ll be next in line for the role. Not a very good motive, but people have killed for less.”
Inspector Jones nodded. “Did you speak to her at the gala?”
“No, but I did notice how angry she looked when Mr. Holloway gave a toast to Flora Bell. She looked very much as though she wished the glasses had been raised in her direction.”
“Duly noted. Who else do you see as having a possible motive?” Inspector Jones asked.
“Her brother was there,” I said. “Frederick Bell. They’d been arguing about money earlier in the evening. I heard them.” I related the gist of the conversation to Inspector Jones.
“And his whereabouts, too, are unaccounted for?”
“So far as I know. I think he meant to leave when we finished speaking, so he might have gone to the theatre. But I doubt very much he would kill his sister,” I said. “They seem exceptionally close.”
“I shall bear that in mind,” he said. “Anyone else?”
“Mr. Landon, the lead actor in the play,” I said. “He and Miss Bell were involved before she took up with Mr. Holloway. I don’t think he had quite forgiven her for it.”
“I’ll look into it,” he said. “Did you happen to notice Mr. Landon’s location during the time in question?”
I thought back. “I spoke to him once. It was after Mr. Holloway’s speech.”
“That was when he told you he had overheard Mr. Holloway and Miss Bell arguing.”
“Yes.”
“And did you see him again after that?”
I tried to recall if I had seen him there before I went to the theatre, but it was difficult to remember. There had been hundreds of people at the gala, and my focus had been on locating Georgina. “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” I said at last.
“What about you, Mr. Ames?”
Milo shook his head. “I wasn’t paying much attention.”
I fought the urge to be annoyed that drinking and women had kept him from being observant. Then again, we had both let down our guard at the gala. We had never truly believed that something like this might happen.
“I never saw them together,” I said. “But he might have arranged to meet with her later in the evening. Did he have a key to the theatre?”
“He did. It seems Mr. Holloway gave each of the principal performers a key when the play began. It was rather a relaxed atmosphere, and he wanted them to be able to come and go as they pleased.”
“Then Mr. Lebeau had one as well.”
He looked up. “Ah. Balthazar Lebeau.”
“Do you know him?”
“My wife is rather fond of him,” he said. “She’s been to see four or five of his plays and follows his movements quite closely in the society columns.”
I smiled. “You should bring her to meet him.”
“We’ll ascertain first that he is not a killer,” Inspector Jones replied. “He was not there when I arrived.”
“No,” I said. “He was preparing to leave before I made my way to the theatre, said he had an appointment with a producer, but he could have conceivably killed her and then disappeared into the night.”
“And do you suppose he might have any reason to have wanted Miss Bell dead?”
I considered the question. I didn’t like to cast unwarranted suspicions upon anyone, but there was the matter of the way he had spoken about her.
“He didn’t like her,” I said. “He … disapproved of her, I think.”
“In what way?”
“I complimented Flora Bell’s and Christopher Landon’s performances, and it made him angry. He seemed to think that they were parvenus in the theatre world, that their fame would be fleeting.”
“It sounds not unlike the opinion of the mysterious letter writer,” Inspector Jones observed.
“It could be construed that way, I suppose. I don’t know, of course, that he meant any harm. Illustrious actors are sure to have strong opinions about the newer generation.”
“Perhaps.” He did not sound entirely convinced.
“You think her death is connected to the letters Miss Bell was receiving,” I said, now that he had brought them up.
“I’m afraid, at present, there’s no way to say for certain. If not, the timing is certainly strange. But coincidences are not unheard of, so we shall see. In either case, I certainly intend to get to the bottom of those letters.”
I felt again that sense of calming comfort that came with knowing Inspector Jones was on the case. I was half tempted to leave it in his capable hands, but I also knew that I had access to information that he did not.
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Something about the scene does not sit right with me.”
“What do you mean?” I encouraged him, surprised that he seemed inclined to share something more.
“If someone wanted to kill Flora Bell, they might have done it anywhere. They might have killed her on the street outside or at her boardinghouse. Why did they choose to do it on this night and in this place?”
I considered it. “It’s the same with the notes,” I said at last. “Why warn her at all?”
He nodded. “The nature of the scene is, if you’ll forgive me, rather theatrical.”
I knew exactly what he meant. It had not fully occurred to me, at least not at the moment, but in the back of my mind I had been struck with the possible symbolism of the action.
“You think it was meant to send a message or some such thing?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps someone is enjoying the sense of the dramatic,” Inspector Jones said.
Unfortunately, given who the suspects were, that didn’t narrow the list much at all.
He rose from his seat then. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time for one morning.”
“I want to do everything in my power to help,” I said.
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Ames. Which brings me to what I wanted to discuss.”
“Oh?” I was suddenly wary. I did hope he was not going to forbid me to involve myself.
“I know from past experience that it’s hard to dissuade you from doing things when you’ve made up your mind to do them, so I may as well take advantage of your … persistence. As you’re already involved, I’m sure nothing will stop you from seeing this thing through.”
Well, this was a pleasant surprise.
“That’s the same thing Milo said,” I told him, not knowing whether to be amused or a bit insulted by this assessment of my character.
“Yes, well, I think Mr. Ames and I have both learned that it’s better to work with you than against you,” Inspector Jones said.
It was, I realized, probably the closest Detective Inspector Jones had ever come to making a joke with me, and I was oddly touched.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to be in contact with those involved in the matter. I only ask that you be careful and that you let me know if you learn anything.”
“Of course, Inspector.”
“Very good.” He gave Milo a look that I interpreted as strict instructions to keep me out of trouble, but I was too busy contemplating the task ahead to be much annoyed.
I felt certain that, with my social ties to those involved
and Inspector Jones’s official connections, we would catch the killer in no time. And, I told myself, unwilling to give up this particular fight, with any luck we could reunite Gerard and Georgina Holloway in the process.
12
MILO AND I parted ways shortly after Inspector Jones left, Milo to locate Mr. Holloway and me to try to see Georgina. If I were a betting woman, I felt that Milo’s odds were much better than mine. He had access to Mr. Holloway’s club, which was no doubt where he was staying. Georgina, on the other hand, was likely at home and not accepting guests.
It was, I realized, a bit rude of me to call on her so soon after something of this nature had occurred, but it wasn’t only morbid curiosity that was drawing me there, or even the possibility of gathering information. I was genuinely concerned about my friend. I knew that things had not been easy for her with half the city talking about her husband’s affair. I could only imagine what it must be like now, with a sordid murder having taken place at her own charity event.
I chose a double-breasted, belted suit of black over a white silk blouse and a black close-fitting hat bedecked with a small bow and a netted veil for my visit. It was both stylish and slightly somber, which I thought fitting.
Winnelda confirmed this impression as I prepared to leave.
“You look ever so elegant, madam,” she said, her blond head bobbing approvingly as she handed me my gloves. “Lovely enough to be going to a funeral.”
With that dubious compliment to buoy me, I was on my way.
I approached the Holloways’ home with something like trepidation. I was not one who was normally uncomfortable making social calls, even in cases of family tragedy. After all, I had paid my share of condolence visits throughout the years. No, my unease stemmed from more than the potential awkwardness of discussing the murder of Flora Bell. There was something different about this.
At last I forced myself to recognize what it was. I was nervous about what Georgina’s reaction might be, that I might perceive some sign that she had had something to do with the murder. I told myself it was a ridiculous fear, but I couldn’t quite push it away. She had, after all, more of a motive than anyone else.
As Markham, our driver, pulled the car up to the Holloways’ home, I realized I was not the only one who had come to visit Georgina Holloway. There were several reporters standing outside the gate, cameras in hand. I had not really considered the fact that they might wait outside the house for Mr. Holloway or Georgina to appear, but it seemed that was exactly what they were doing.
“Do you want me to stop, madam?” Markham asked. “It seems as though there’s a crowd.”
I briefly considered telling him to drive on. I could pay Georgina a visit another day. Then I thought of her alone in the house, trying to sort out everything that had just happened, and I realized that I needed to see her.
“No, I’ll go in,” I said, adjusting the veil of my hat across the upper half of my face as a precaution.
“Very good, madam.”
He parked the car and came around to let me out, doing his best to block me from the view of the gathered press.
“Excuse me, miss!” one reporter called. “Who are you? Do you know anything about the murder?”
I, of course, knew better than to answer any questions. I did not want my name to appear in tomorrow’s gossip columns alongside misleading statements on my opinions on the matter. I was already a bit afraid I might be recognized, despite the veil, and some connection would be drawn between my appearance and the other murder cases in which I had been involved.
Luckily, Markham walked me to the front door without incident, and I was very much relieved not to be turned away. Instead, I was shown to the quiet sitting room.
“Mrs. Holloway will be with you shortly, madam,” the maid said.
“Thank you.”
I had been in this room before, though it had been some time. I had always found it a charming place, for it was scattered with artifacts of the Holloways’ adventures. Photographs lined the mantel. There was one of the two of them standing before a lion they had shot in Africa. Its skin lay before the fireplace, teeth bared in its final roar, the mighty beast now a rug.
Another photograph showed them standing on the peak of a mountain. I remembered that climb well, for it had been the talk of London. They had climbed together, pressing forward to the top after half of the party had died in an avalanche. It had nearly proved fatal for them as well. Mr. Holloway had dug Georgina out of the snow, no doubt saving her life. And yet they had continued upward.
Despite the hardship of what they had endured, they had reached the summit. The photograph was evidence of the bond they shared: their arms were around each other, eyes aglow with the triumph of what they had accomplished and what they had survived to get there.
It made me sad to see that joyous confidence on their faces. They had been through so much together. How on earth could Gerard Holloway throw it all away?
I was still looking at the photographs, at the happiness on their expressions, when Georgina came into the room. I had been so lost in thought that I didn’t hear her enter at first, and it was only as she moved closer that I realized that she was there.
“Those were good times,” she said.
I turned to her. “There may be good times again,” I answered softly, hoping that it was true.
“Perhaps.”
I felt the stir of uneasiness as I looked at her, and it took me a moment to realize why. I was not sure what I had expected, but I was a bit disconcerted to see that she looked practically radiant.
Despite the solemnity of her words, her face was completely devoid of the tightness that had been there when I had come for tea. Her expression was untroubled, her eyes no longer clouded with the worry she had been trying to suppress. I was not sure what to make of this dramatic change of countenance.
“Will you sit down, Amory?” she asked me, nodding toward one of the chairs arranged near the fireplace. I sat and she took the seat opposite.
“Can I offer you some tea?”
“Thank you, no. I don’t intend to stay long. I just wanted to look in on you. How are you, Georgina?” I asked carefully. I knew she would not want me to tiptoe around the subject, but I couldn’t very well ask her how she felt that her husband’s mistress had been murdered.
“I’m fine,” she replied, her crystal blue eyes meeting mine. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
I paused. If she was going to be purposefully evasive, I would have to get to the point.
“It was a terrible thing that happened to Flora Bell last night,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose it was,” she replied. I was almost startled by the complete lack of emotion in her voice.
“I’m sure it was quite a shock,” I pressed.
“I’m not sorry she’s dead, if that’s what you mean,” she said. Her eyes held mine defiantly for just a moment before she looked away. “That’s a cruel thing to say. I don’t mean it. Of course, I’m sorry that she’s dead. No woman should have to go through such a thing. But I’m not heartbroken about it, if that makes sense.”
“I understand what you mean,” I said carefully. I supposed one could not exactly fault her for being glad that her rival had been removed. However, this did nothing to relieve that nagging worry that she might be involved. It was, perhaps, a traitorous thought to have about an old friend, but, if I had learned anything in the previous investigations in which I had been involved, it was that a great many people were capable of murder when pushed too far.
On the other hand, just because Gerard Holloway had been having an affair didn’t mean that Georgina had killed his mistress. After all, there had been rumors about Milo and numerous women, and I had never once thought of killing them—or him. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true. But I had never thought seriously of it. And I felt that Georgina and I were very similar in terms of temperament.
She would have tolerated it for as long as she could, and then she would ha
ve forced Mr. Holloway to make a decision. She would not, I was sure, have begged him to stay. She had too much dignity for that. If she thought, in the end, that he wanted to be with Flora Bell, then she would have gone on her way, her head held high.
Even if she was inclined to murder, I simply could not envision her going to a theatre and strangling her rival to death. It was too vulgar. Georgina Holloway was calm and dispassionate. As a murderess, I thought she would use poison or something equally refined. If refined was a term that might be applied to murder.
“Is there any idea who might have done it?” she asked, bringing my attention back to the matter at hand. She asked the question as though she was asking about the weather.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.
She looked up at me with a smile. “I know how you have a tendency to get involved in these sorts of things, Amory. I thought you might know a little bit more about it than the papers seemed ready to divulge.”
There was something in the way she said it that put me slightly on my guard, as though she was trying to determine what I might know for reasons of her own. Was that why she admitted me into the house when she had no doubt refused other visitors?
“I’m afraid I really don’t know anything,” I told her truthfully. “It was so dreadful, I can hardly believe it really happened.”
“I don’t know much about it at all either,” she admitted. “The policeman I spoke to was cool and unforthcoming.” This description of Detective Inspector Jones was startlingly accurate.
“Do you have any suspicion who might have done it?” I asked.
Was it my imagination, or did a flicker of something cross her eyes? “No,” she said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. As I’m sure you can imagine, I’ve made it a point to stay away from the theatre.”
“Yes,” I said. “Then you don’t know any of the cast very well.”
“No,” she said. “I know Balthazar Lebeau and Christopher Landon slightly. We had dinner with them when the play was first getting started. I … I helped Gerard make decisions on some of the casting.”
“I see.” I wondered if she had helped to cast Flora Bell and had lived to regret it.
An Act of Villainy Page 11
