“Your mother’s here again,” she whispered.
I closed my eyes and let out a breath. I had thought that she was returning to the country, and I could guess why it was that she had made this unexpected return.
“So you’ve gotten yourself involved in another murder, have you?” she asked as she swept into the room without waiting for Winnelda to return and show her in.
“Will you make us some tea, Winnelda?” I asked.
“Yes, madam,” she said, glad to make a hasty retreat.
“Sit down, won’t you, Mother?” I said, leading her to the arrangement of chairs near the fire.
She sat with an attitude of protest. “I’m quite upset, Amory.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster.
“Your father and I were visiting the Fairleys in Norfolk when we heard the dreadful news,” she said accusingly.
“News certainly travels quickly,” I said.
She frowned at me. “The entire city is talking of nothing else. I saw the photograph of you visiting Georgina Holloway in three separate society columns, as though that flimsy veil would disguise your appearance.”
So I had been recognized after all. I made a mental note to invest in headwear that would truly allow me to travel incognita.
“I would have come back sooner,” she went on, “but I didn’t like to call any more attention to the matter. Here you are involved in this sordid affair when you might have engaged yourself in Lady Honoria’s charity without the hint of scandal.”
“I certainly didn’t know there was going to be a murder at the Holloways’ gala,” I pointed out reasonably.
“I do wish you would consider your father and me,” she went on, as though I hadn’t spoken. “It is dreadful to have people mention your escapades to us. We’re quite vexed by it.”
I highly doubted my father was at all vexed by any of it. He was a person exceptionally unmoved by the tides of life. He seldom expressed strong opinions on anything, a result of both his taciturn nature and the fact that he had learned in thirty years of marriage that acquiescence was easier than conflict. If my parents had disagreements, I could not recall them ever having been openly discussed.
“I shouldn’t think it would make much difference to you, Mother,” I answered coolly. “After all, we don’t see each other often. You can’t be expected to be held responsible for my actions.”
“Nevertheless,” she said.
I waited for more, but it appeared she thought the “nevertheless” sufficient.
We sat for a moment, looking at each other. I wished Winnelda would hurry with the tea.
Then it occurred to me that if my mother was going to make a nuisance of herself, perhaps there was a way that she could be of use.
“Have you heard of Flora Bell’s involvement with Gerard Holloway?” I asked.
She looked at me as though I had said something very silly indeed. “Dear, just because your father and I spend a good deal of time in the country does not mean that I am not aware of what is going on here in London.”
That was just what I had been counting on.
“Who do you think might have killed her?” I asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, adjusting her furs with great disdain.
“Surely you must be curious. As you said, this murder is the talk of London.”
“I am not acquainted with any actresses and could not venture to guess who would want to kill them.”
I fought down my irritation. She was being purposefully obtuse, as she knew how much it annoyed me.
“You know I don’t approve of these things, Amory,” she said, her voice taking on a tone of weariness. “It distressed me greatly to see your name linked to such vulgarities.”
“Milo and I have been friends with the Holloways for years,” I said. “We don’t mean to abandon him in difficult times.”
“Friendship is one thing. Ruining one’s reputation is quite another.”
“It’s not a question of reputation, Mother. Don’t you agree the killer should be brought to justice?”
“Of course,” she said archly. “But I believe the city employs policemen for such things.”
I considered telling her that I was working with the police, but decided against it. I couldn’t be sure of her reaction, and I didn’t know if we had any smelling salts on the premises.
Thankfully, Winnelda arrived with the tea things then, giving me sufficient time to formulate my next plan of attack.
“What do you think about Georgina Holloway?” I asked as I poured the tea.
“She’s a lovely person,” my mother said. “She comes from a very good family, as you know. I’m sure all of this has been a great blow to her.”
“I always thought she and Gerard Holloway seemed very happy together,” I said, handing my mother a cup and saucer.
“One can never tell what happens behind closed doors. You of all people ought to know that what seems to be an ideal marriage can quickly go sour.”
Despite this barb, I supposed she was right. I had judged the relationship between Gerard and Georgina Holloway based on their interactions in public. Though I believed a certain amount of information could be gleaned from such exchanges, it was still difficult to say how two people really felt about each other without observing them privately. I was certain, however, that I had not misjudged their affection for each other.
“Do you think that she might have killed Flora Bell?” I asked.
I said it, at least in part, out of spite to shock my mother, and I was surprised by her response.
“It isn’t impossible, I suppose.”
“You think she might have strangled Flora Bell with the curtain rope?” I pressed.
She made an expression of distaste, letting me know how repulsive she found the question, but she answered it nonetheless. “I don’t say that she did it, but there is a streak of determination in that family. I never approved of those reckless things she did, traipsing about scaling mountains and wrestling lions and any number of things. She was always strong-willed. If she thought the girl was going to take her husband away, she might have decided to put a stop to it.”
My mother, for all her bluster, was a keen observer of human nature, and I wondered if it was possible she was seeing something that I was not. After all, I was friends with Georgina Holloway. I didn’t want to believe that she might have done something like this. Sometimes outside observations were more accurate than those of close acquaintances.
Of course, I still found it difficult to believe that Georgina would have killed Flora Bell over her affair with Gerard Holloway. It was much more likely that she would have ended the marriage than killed her rival. What was more, she was always so cool and poised. A rage killing was not in her nature. An intrepid spirit did not a murderess make, mountain climbing and lion wrestling notwithstanding.
“There are other suspects, naturally,” I said. “The male lead in the play, Christopher Landon; Miss Bell’s understudy, Dahlia Dearborn; and Balthazar Lebeau.”
My mother—against her will, I suspected—looked vaguely intrigued. “Balthazar Lebeau, you say?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling that perhaps I had stumbled upon my trump card. “I’ve spoken with him several times. He’s a very charming gentleman.”
She was impressed, though she tried not to show it.
“I saw his Hamlet once,” she said. “He was magnificent.” My mother was not given to effusive praise, so I knew that I had struck a chord with her.
“He’s in the play,” I said.
“I’m sure such a man would not have anything to do with something as sordid as murder,” she pronounced. Never mind that Balthazar Lebeau had been involved in one sordid scandal after another over the years.
“One never can tell, I suppose,” I said vaguely.
“But what is he doing in a supporting role? And in something written by Gerard Holloway?” she asked. “M
r. Holloway is a charming enough gentleman, but he’s certainly no Shakespeare.”
“I suppose the role will bring him a good deal of attention now. I imagine people will be lining up to see it, all things considered.”
She looked at me, aghast. “You don’t mean to say the play is going on?”
“Yes,” I said warily.
She seemed to consider this for a moment, and then she said exactly what I feared she might.
“Well, I suppose I shall have to come and see it for myself.” She set her cup and saucer down then and rose quickly to her feet. “Procure some tickets for me, will you, Amory? I’ll call again soon to collect them.”
She left the room before I had a chance to respond, and I heard the front door close behind her.
Winnelda poked her head into the room a moment later. “Is everything all right, madam?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. But will you bring me another pot of tea, Winnelda?” I asked. “Very strong. And some aspirin.”
* * *
I HADN’T HEARD from Milo by dinner and as the hours crept past I began to suspect that he had indeed located Frederick Bell at his gambling club. No doubt he had decided the best course of action would be to blend into his surroundings. It wouldn’t be the first time he had been distracted by such a thing.
At last I went to sleep, and was awakened some time later as he slid into bed beside me.
“What time is it?” I asked sleepily.
“I don’t know,” he replied, moving closer. “Nearly dawn, I should think. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Did you have any luck?” I asked, having decided that chiding him again for neglecting to telephone me would be of no use.
“In more ways than one,” he said, his arm encircling my waist to draw me against him. “Would you like to hear about it? Or shall I wait until morning?”
“You certainly aren’t going to wake me up and then make me wait,” I said.
He laughed. “Well, first of all, I won quite a bit of money.” This was no great surprise. Milo was notoriously lucky. It seemed he was always managing to win money in the course of his investigative pursuits. I sometimes wondered how much of a night spent away from home was spent collecting information and how much was spent playing roulette.
“Secondly, I learned some very interesting things about Freddy Bell.”
“Such as?” I asked. I was feeling less sleepy by the second.
“Well, it seems the young man is in quite a lot of trouble,” he said. “He owes a significant amount of money to people to whom it is not wise to owe money.”
“Then he did really need the money he was asking Flora for.”
“Undoubtedly. And not only that, it seems that he will get all of Flora Bell’s money now that she’s dead. She’s managed to put a tidy sum aside.”
“How on earth did you manage to learn that?” I asked.
“I shouldn’t reveal my methods, but remind me never to have a drunk for a solicitor. Makes me glad old Ludlow is such a crashing bore.”
I didn’t know how it was that Milo had managed to contact Freddy Bell’s solicitor, but I was not going to complain about his uncanny knack for locating people and prying information from them.
He didn’t give me time to compliment him on his success before he moved on to the next bit of news.
“I saw Holloway this evening too.”
“Oh? How is he?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. He said he doesn’t think he’ll be able to go to the theatre tomorrow. He’s asked that we look in on things for him.”
I found this surprising. After all, Mr. Holloway had overseen every aspect of the play until now. Surely he didn’t mean to just abandon it? Had his feelings for Flora Bell really run that deep? Or was he just not ready to return to the scene of a murder—perhaps one he had committed?
“That will be a good opportunity to talk to the suspects,” I said. “There are some things I’ve been wanting to ask some of them. I do wish I could speak to Freddy Bell, though. Did you talk to him personally?”
“No, I didn’t get the chance. He came in only briefly, perhaps to make assurances that he would be able to pay off his debts, and then left before I could speak with him.”
It was as I suspected then. Milo had accomplished his aims early and spent the rest of the evening gambling. I had to admit, however, that the information he had collected had earned him a night of amusement.
“Then we may have lost our chance. Perhaps he won’t be back to the gambling club with so much debt hanging over him,” I mused.
Milo gave a derisive laugh. “I don’t think you need worry about that. He’ll be back. Gambling gets in one’s blood, just like an addiction. Some people can’t resist its pull.”
“People such as yourself?” I asked casually.
“I can resist it,” Milo said. “But I see no reason to give up a diverting pastime that is also lucrative.”
He did have a point, I supposed. So far as I knew, Milo’s gambling had never been a financial detriment to us.
Besides, I somehow doubted Milo could ever really care enough for anything to be addicted to it. He did everything with a casual interest that spoke of amusement but never deep enthusiasm. The things that might be vices in other men—gambling, drinking, carousing—he did with enjoyment, while still managing to give the impression that should any of them cease to exist tomorrow it would be of little matter to him. The only exception to this rule was his horses, which he genuinely cared about. And possibly me, though I could never be entirely certain.
“That isn’t all,” Milo said. “It seems Freddy Bell was no great admirer of Holloway. He claimed Holloway was using his sister ill.”
“I don’t believe he intended to marry her or any such thing, if that’s what Freddy Bell meant,” I mused. “But nor did I have the impression that Flora Bell was deeply in love with Mr. Holloway.”
“I would hazard to guess that love has nothing to do with her relationship with Holloway. If anything, I’d have said he was the one being used. But I suppose he knew what he was getting into.”
“Do you think so?” I asked softly, as Milo once again spoke casually of Mr. Holloway’s affair.
“Perhaps he found a change of pace amusing. Georgina Holloway is very reserved and serious, after all.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking how similar I was to Georgina Holloway.
“Well, I don’t suppose it much matters now,” Milo said.
I didn’t answer, but Milo didn’t seem to notice. He pressed closer beneath the blankets and was soon asleep.
I stared up at the shadowed ceiling until the sun came up.
17
WHEN WE WENT to the theatre the following morning, I was not sure what to expect. The world of the stage was entirely outside my milieu. I had never harbored any secret desire to be an actress. The scope of my theatrical experience was a play in which I had participated as a girl when one of my school friends had been quite keen to be a playwright. She had written what seemed to our group of fifteen-year-old girls to be a stirring melodrama. The experience had, however, cured me of any desire to tread the boards.
It seemed that the old adage “the show must go on” was accurate, however, for the rehearsal was already in progress.
Dahlia Dearborn was on the stage, preparing to give one of Victoire’s longer speeches.
Milo and I slipped quietly into seats in the back.
I had wondered what Dahlia Dearborn would be like in the role. She had beauty and ambition, but that was not at all the same thing as talent. Granted, actresses before her had succeeded on the strength of this combination alone, but I was not sure the same would happen for Miss Dearborn, at least not in this play. The performance Flora Bell had given would be nearly impossible to rival.
Miss Dearborn wore the same dress that Flora Bell had worn. The exact same dress, I thought, for it was a bit too long for her. Likely they hadn’t had the chance to alter it in time for tonight�
��s performance. One does not expect, after all, that the understudy will ever need a wardrobe.
“‘What is more important, victory or honor?’” She spoke the line in a flat, breathless voice, and I knew at once that the performance was not going to be a success.
It was not that she was bad. It was just that she was nothing compared to Flora Bell. I knew, of course, that future audience members who had never seen Miss Bell perform would not compare them. However, I couldn’t help but feel that for them, too, Dahlia Dearborn would be a disappointment.
“She isn’t very good,” Milo said in a low voice.
“No,” I replied. “Surely she must realize that she’ll never be a celebrated actress.”
“Darling, you know as well as I do that few people see the limitations of their own talents.” This was true. I had known a great many people who had overestimated their abilities.
We were quiet then, watching the remainder of the play from the back of the theatre. This was the third time I had seen it, but I had to admit that it still drew my interest. Even with Dahlia Dearborn’s unsteady performance, the story line was strong.
The scene where the heroine, Victoire, bids her lover, Armand, farewell as he prepares to ride into the battle for the last time was especially touching. I remembered how well Flora Bell and Christopher Landon had expressed the emotions of that moment. Dahlia Dearborn and Mr. Landon exhibited no chemistry whatsoever. Granted, this was only a rehearsal, but there was something awkward and stilted about their interactions that did not bode well for the performance.
Despite the lack of feeling between them, however, the words were still touching. After my conversation with Milo last night, I felt the little twinge of sadness knowing that Holloway had written this play, this stirring defense of the power of love, with Georgina by his side. Had either of them had any inkling of what trouble the play would bring to their lives?
The curtain closed and, from behind it, I heard Dahlia Dearborn’s exuberant laugh. “I think it went well, don’t you?” she loudly asked someone who either did not answer or whose voice lacked enough enthusiasm to carry.
An Act of Villainy Page 16
