An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  So Dahlia Dearborn would have her moment to be a star. She stood behind that curtain, on the stage where Flora Bell had died, and awaited her time in the limelight. The question was, had she been desperate enough for her time upon the stage to kill for it?

  Somehow I found it difficult to imagine. After all, there were any number of ambitious actresses in London who were anxious for good roles. Most of them did not have to resort to violence to achieve their aims. Dahlia Dearborn was, after all, very attractive. Even without great talent, she could easily have insinuated herself into the good graces of a man willing to finance her success. It was a cynical thought, but not altogether unfair. It was much the same as Flora Bell had done, after all. But Flora Bell had been talented. That was the difference.

  “Perhaps you should go and speak to Miss Dearborn,” Milo suggested, surprising me.

  “I should have thought you’d want to speak with her,” I teased.

  “You may have more luck getting information out of her than I did,” he said.

  I suspected what he really meant was that she would not be able to concentrate on the matter at hand in his presence, but I didn’t press the issue.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked as I prepared to go toward the dressing rooms.

  “Wander about a bit,” he said, then disappeared before I could quiz him further about his intentions.

  As it was the quickest route to the dressing rooms, I walked down the aisle toward the stage. Despite the fact that the theatre was brightly lit and that I could hear the voices of those backstage, I felt a little queasy as I retraced my path from the night of the murder. I went up onto the stage and past the curtain where I had found Flora Bell hanging. I noticed that the gold curtain rope had been replaced. It was almost as though nothing had ever happened there.

  Stepping backstage, I moved along the corridor. Aside from a few stagehands, who paid me little attention, I saw no one.

  I reached the corridor where the dressing rooms were and hesitated. Would Dahlia Dearborn have taken over Flora Bell’s dressing room? My instincts told me yes.

  I moved to the door and knocked.

  “Yes? Come in,” she called.

  “Hello, Miss Dearborn,” I said as I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was mostly unchanged from when I had visited last, though I noticed that there was a box on the floor beside the little settee that seemed to contain some of Flora Bell’s personal effects. It was sad how quickly all reminders of her had been cast aside.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ames,” Miss Dearborn said. “Please excuse the untidiness. I’ve been moving my things in here.”

  “It’s a lovely room,” I said, for lack of something better to say.

  “Yes. And this dressing table is much larger than the one in my old dressing room. Except for one of the drawers is locked, and I haven’t found the key.”

  This piqued my interest. Had Flora put something of importance inside the drawer?

  “Oh?” I asked. “Which one?”

  “This one,” she said, tugging ineffectively on the bottom drawer on the left.

  “Is it stuck?”

  “No, locked. I suppose Flora kept some of her secret things in it.”

  “Secret things?” I repeated.

  “Oh, she was always receiving letters and the like,” she said, her eyes now on her reflection as she smoothed out her hair. “I saw her reading one once and then putting it there. It was from an admirer, I suppose.”

  I wondered if the letter she’d seen could have been one of the threatening notes Flora had received. So far as I knew, Gerard Holloway was now in possession of those letters. So why was the drawer still locked? Might there be something else hidden there?

  “I suppose Mr. Holloway has the key,” I suggested.

  “It isn’t likely. I think she didn’t want Mr. Holloway to see them,” she added slyly before changing the subject. “Did you only just arrive, Mrs. Ames?”

  I realized that any more questions on the topic would likely draw suspicion, so reluctantly I let the matter drop.

  “No, I’ve been here for perhaps half an hour. I saw some of the performance. You’ve done a wonderful job of taking over the part.” This, at least, was not a lie, for she had seemed very much at ease assuming the role Flora Bell’s death had left vacant.

  “Thank you. I believe I have brought something a bit different to the role than Flora did. I don’t like to think of myself as replacing her, just as carrying on her legacy.” She said this in a somewhat artificial tone, as though she were practicing the lines to recite to the press should the opportunity ever arise.

  I decided perhaps this would give me an avenue of conversation that might make her warm to me. “Have you always wanted to be an actress, Miss Dearborn?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I saw Lilian Braithwaite perform when I was very young, and, from that moment on, I never wanted to do anything else.” Suddenly her eyes were alight and there was more animation in her face than I had yet seen there, even on the stage. I realized how powerful that dream had been and how much this moment had meant to her.

  She seemed eager to talk now, warmed by my interest in her career, and waved me to the chair where Flora Bell had sat the day Milo and I had first come to the theatre.

  “Did you grow up around the theatre?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “I grew up in a rather conventional family. I don’t tell many people this, but Dahlia Dearborn isn’t my real name.”

  I fought very hard to repress a smile at the way she treated this rather obvious piece of information as a confidence. “Really?” I asked.

  “It was Mary Harris. Not a very suitable name for the stage.”

  “Dahlia Dearborn is certainly memorable,” I said.

  “My mother’s favorite flowers were dahlias, and I thought ‘Dearborn’ sounded very nice with it. Besides, I didn’t want to use ‘Harris.’ All the Harrises are in government, and I thought the name might leave a bad taste.”

  “Yes, I see.” I remembered that Mrs. Roland had mentioned that Miss Dearborn came from an influential family.

  I thought of what else Mrs. Roland had told me, that there had been some sort of trouble in Miss Dearborn’s past.

  “I’m sure you performed in a great many plays at school.”

  Was it my imagination, or did her pleasant expression falter for just a moment?

  “Oh, not so very many,” she said airily. “My parents liked me to concentrate on other things, and, anyway, they mostly did dull plays at school, stories for children. It was after school that I really began to develop my talent. My father has always thought theatre was a waste of time, so I am hoping that this role will convince him otherwise.”

  It seemed that, like Mr. Landon’s family, they had not been thrilled with her entrance into the theatre world.

  “How did you come to meet Mr. Holloway?”

  “It was rather a lucky thing,” she said. “I had been wanting to be in a play, and I heard that he was looking for someone to star in The Price of Victory. I knew it was a wonderful opportunity. His name is well known in the theatre world, and the charity gala was sure to bring a lot of influential people to see it.”

  This assessment had been an astute one, for I had indeed seen many prominent individuals at the gala. It was possible that Miss Dearborn was shrewder than I had taken her to be.

  “I wanted the lead role, of course, and I almost had it. Mr. Holloway was very interested in me. We were getting on well. He had me read some of the part and we became fast friends. I told him all about how I had longed to be an actress and my struggles with my family, and I was sure he was sympathetic and intended to offer me the part. But then a few days later, he said that he was very sorry but he had decided to cast Flora Bell instead.”

  She had meant to relate this in a careless way, but I saw the bitterness in her eyes as she spoke.

  “That must have been very disappointing,” I said sympathetically.<
br />
  “It was more than just talent that got her the role,” she said.

  “You mean he was … attracted to her,” I suggested.

  She smiled, but her eyes were hard. “You might say that. She told me later that he seemed instantly drawn to her. She said they talked the whole night when they first met.” She gave me a skeptical look that suggested talking had not been all they had done.

  “I see.”

  “She said she felt as though she had known him for years. He convinced her that she should take part in his play. I don’t think she really wanted to at first. It’s not the sort of play she had hoped to be in. She had dreams of being a serious actress. Shakespeare and things like that. But she did all right in the part.”

  She had done more than all right. I had no doubts that, had Flora Bell lived, her performance in The Price of Victory would have led her to great things in the theatrical world. Her death was a great shame in more ways than one.

  “Who do you suppose killed her?” I asked.

  I meant to throw her off guard with the questions, but Dahlia Dearborn was not the sort of woman who was easily flustered. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I think perhaps it was some maniac who followed her into the theatre. Perhaps someone saw her performance and was so overcome that they decided they had to have her and, when she resisted, they killed her.”

  It was, perhaps, the sort of melodrama that would work well in a radio play or an inexpensive theatre production, but it wasn’t very plausible from a more realistic standpoint. After all, I didn’t think Flora Bell could have been easily surprised on that stage. It seemed certain that she had been standing there with someone that she knew before the curtain rope had been suddenly forced around her neck.

  “But suppose it was someone she knew,” I pressed. “Who do you think it might have been?”

  She seemed to consider this for a moment. “I think it might have been Kit,” she said at last. She said it without any sign of malice, and I was very curious as to why she had picked him out as the most likely suspect.

  “Why do you think so?” I asked.

  She had definitely warmed to me. I almost felt as though we were becoming friends. Or perhaps it was just that she was enjoying giving her opinion on the matter. Whatever the reason, she leaned toward me, her eyes suddenly bright. I recognized the look of a woman who had a bit of juicy gossip to share.

  “I oughtn’t say anything,” she said. “But I suppose it will be all right to tell you. I think it might have been Kit because I heard him talking to Flora one day. They were having a bit of an argument. He said, ‘I know you love me, Flora. You’re wrong about all of this. One day you’ll see.’” She recited the words carefully, as though they had made a strong impression on her.

  “Wrong about what?” I asked. “Her relationship with Mr. Holloway?”

  “I don’t know. Someone went by just then and I didn’t hear her reply,” she said, not the least bit embarrassed by the implication she had been eavesdropping. “But then he said something that caught my attention. He said it in a low voice, so it was difficult to hear, but I’m certain he said something about how her behavior would be the death of her.”

  “Did he indeed?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. But ever since the murder happened, I have begun to wonder. Kit is the sort of man who doesn’t like being rejected. He hasn’t much experience with it, after all. Anyone he’s ever set his eyes on has fallen sway to his charms. So when Flora Bell turned to Mr. Holloway, I think it was a bit of a blow to his pride.”

  I had suspected as much myself, but I was a bit surprised at this bit of insight from Miss Dearborn. I wouldn’t have thought her to be a particularly observant sort of woman, but it seemed that I had misjudged her. One could never tell, I supposed.

  I did have one question, however. “If she had felt an attraction to Mr. Holloway from the start, how was it that she came to be involved with Mr. Landon?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose Mr. Holloway fought his attraction for a while, being married and all. When we first started the play, his wife came around fairly often. I think Flora might have taken up with Mr. Landon in part to make him jealous. I suppose it worked.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Of course, I don’t suppose that means Kit killed her,” she said.

  “Not necessarily,” I agreed.

  “But he had a reason, all the same.”

  “It seemed to me that Mr. Lebeau was not particularly fond of her,” I ventured, hoping to draw her out.

  She smiled, and it seemed that this smile was a bit malicious. “I think he had a fancy for her, too. Everyone seemed to be drawn to Flora, though I’m not sure why.”

  “And you think she rebuffed Mr. Lebeau’s advances.”

  “I couldn’t say for sure,” she said. “I didn’t ever see anything telling between them. But I saw him watching her often enough when she wasn’t looking. His eyes would follow her around the stage, and more than once I saw him look at her with a certain sort of longing.”

  I wondered. Was it possible he had been infatuated with the young, pretty actress and she had looked on him as nothing more than an aging player well past his prime?

  Of course, I reminded myself, it might well be that the killer was neither Christopher Landon nor Balthazar Lebeau.

  It was all well and good to say that these gentlemen had had their pride wounded by a woman who had ended up murdered. But, after all, many gentlemen were rebuffed by women and did not resort to killing them. I would not do either of these men the disservice of assuming they had been so desperate for the attentions of Flora Bell that they had decided to murder her when she had rejected them. Mr. Landon and Mr. Lebeau had apparently had great romantic success, and I did not think that one failure would be enough to drive either of them to such a drastic action.

  However, the fact that they had both had difficulties with her did mean it was possible that some sort of violent confrontation had occurred. A strangulation with a curtain rope did not speak of premeditation, and it still seemed to me that whoever had killed Miss Bell had done so under the influence of some sudden uncontrollable emotion.

  But where, then, did the threatening letters fit into all of this? I realized I had never questioned Miss Dearborn about them, though she had given me an excellent opportunity.

  “You mentioned that you saw Miss Bell receiving a letter,” I said. “Did you know someone was sending her threats before she was killed?”

  The effect of my words was startling. Miss Dearborn turned quite pale before giving a casual shake of her head that was not at all convincing. “No, I didn’t know. In fact, I’m not even sure it was a letter I saw her receive. It might have been anything, a bill, perhaps.”

  She turned to her dressing table and shifted a few things around before turning back to me.

  “I still think it was a maniac that killed her,” she said with a sudden, almost aggressive assurance. “After all, a decent person just doesn’t do something like that. And one likes to believe that one’s friends are decent.”

  One did like to believe it. But that didn’t make it true.

  * * *

  I LEFT MISS Dearborn’s dressing room just in time to see Mr. Lebeau leaving his.

  “Hello, Mr. Lebeau,” I called.

  He looked up sharply, but the surprise that flickered momentarily in his eyes was soon smoothed over by his usual expression of indolent amusement.

  “Mrs. Ames. How lovely to see you again.”

  “Mr. Holloway asked us to come by the theatre and say that he was sorry he couldn’t be here today and that he hoped the rehearsal would go on without him.”

  “Yes, I believe he telephoned. But I suppose he sent representatives to make sure everything was in order.”

  “Everything seems to be going well,” I said. “It seems Miss Dearborn has stepped quite readily into the role.”

  His mouth tipped up at
the corner. “Yes, well. I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “You’ve elected to stay on with the play?” I asked.

  “For now. I have a few other things lined up that I may move on to, if things work out right.”

  I remembered the meeting he had mentioned with a producer the night of the play. Had Inspector Jones looked into that? If Mr. Lebeau had been with the man at the time of Flora Bell’s death, he could be eliminated as a suspect.

  “I see. Well, I’m certain your public would enjoy seeing you in another play when your time with The Price of Victory has run its course.”

  “I hope so,” he said vaguely.

  For all his easy charm, there was something distant about Mr. Lebeau today. I could not quite put my finger on what it was. I decided that perhaps I should change topics.

  “I’ve recently discovered that we have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Yvonne Roland.”

  I was not sure what reaction I had been expecting, but I found myself vaguely surprised by the wide grin that spread across his face, clearing away the clouded expression that had been there a moment before. “Yvonne … Roland now, is she? There have been so many husbands that it’s difficult to keep track.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” I replied with a laugh. Somehow the mention of Mrs. Roland had broken through the barrier that had existed between us, and now he seemed much more at ease. “She speaks fondly of you, though I understand you broke her heart,” I said with a smile.

  “Hardly that,” he replied. “She married quickly enough after we parted. She was never one for sentiment.”

  “No,” I agreed. “She doesn’t seem as though she would be.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing old Yvonne again,” he said, the expression on his face speaking of pleasant recollections.

  “It’s always nice when a person from the past evokes pleasant memories rather than unpleasant ones,” I said. I had been speaking from personal experience, but I realized as I spoke the words that they could be construed as having another meaning.