An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  He looked at me searchingly, something flickering in his eyes for only an instant before it was gone.

  “I was engaged to be married to someone else before my husband,” I explained. “I saw him again not too long ago, and it was nice to part again on more pleasant terms.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, and I was certain he had thought I was hinting at something else.

  “But I suppose not everyone has had such an experience,” I said, meeting his penetrating gaze with one of my own. “Sometimes partings can be painful.”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Mr. Landon can tell you about such things, I’m sure.”

  “Oh?” I asked. I was very curious what he might have to say, after what Miss Dearborn had told me.

  “I don’t mean to cast aspersions,” he said, though clearly he did. “Everyone has their secrets.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked.

  He gave a short laugh. “Do you suppose any of us here are spotless? No, I’d wager there are enough skeletons in this theatre alone to fill Highgate Cemetery.”

  “But you meant something specific about Mr. Landon?” I asked.

  He looked at me, that canny look coming back into his dark eyes. “I meant that Flora Bell is not the first woman of Kit Landon’s acquaintance who has ended up dead.”

  18

  WITH HIS CHARACTERISTIC flair for the dramatic, Mr. Lebeau had swept away at this pronouncement, leaving me to wonder just what he had meant by it. Mrs. Roland had mentioned an unfortunate event in Mr. Landon’s past. If it had indeed been the tragic death of a woman with whom he was involved, I was surprised that Yvonne Roland had not remembered all the sordid details. Then again, perhaps it was the sort of thing that would have been covered up at the time. I was going to have to see if I could discover the particulars.

  I had yet to see any sign of Milo and went back out onto the stage. I stopped, a bit startled to see Christopher Landon sitting on the edge, his feet dangling into the orchestra pit, a bottle in his hand. I had not realized he was still here.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have tiptoed quietly away. I was not one to intrude upon people’s privacy, and something in his posture, plus the presence of a bottle—sans glass—at this hour of the day, indicated that he was indulging in a moment of private emotion. Considering all that had occurred, however, I thought perhaps it would be best for me to speak to him while his guard was down.

  “Mr. Landon?” I said softly, walking out onto the stage.

  He didn’t turn. “Good morning, Mrs. Ames.”

  “I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” I said.

  “You are, but an intrusion is welcome at the moment,” he said. “Come and sit with me, will you?”

  His words were not slurred; he had too much mastery over his voice for that. But there was a hazy quality to his tone that led me to believe that the contents of the bottle had begun to take effect.

  My suspicions were confirmed as I reached him.

  He held up the bottle. It was nearly empty, and the lingering smell of what had already been consumed wafted up from his person. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no,” I said. I lowered myself onto the stage floor beside him, my feet dangling into the pit like his. It occurred to me that this was something of a vulnerable position if he was a murderer, but we were not really alone in the theatre, after all. I had just left Dahlia Dearborn and Balthazar Lebeau near their dressing rooms. And Milo was somewhere about.

  For a moment we sat in silence.

  “I don’t know what I’m still doing here,” he said at last.

  “Some of the others are still here as well,” I said.

  “That’s not what I mean,” he replied. “I don’t know why I’m still here, still doing this wretched play.”

  “Perhaps you’re doing it to honor Miss Bell’s memory.”

  “Do you think it’s possible to hate someone and love them at the same time?” he asked, staring out at the empty seats.

  “I … I think so,” I said. In the lowest depths of our marital difficulties, I had hated Milo a great deal even as I loved him desperately, and I could relate to the sentiment.

  “There have been other women in other plays, but she did something to me. If I believed in curses and such rot, I’d say I was bewitched. As soon as I saw her, I knew that I wanted to have her. She was all that I could think about.”

  “Love strikes unexpectedly at times,” I said.

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I began to think ridiculous things. That we could go on performing together, make a name for ourselves as a couple of the stage. I began to think that we might even get married…”

  He stopped, opened the bottle, and took a long drink from it. I said nothing, having learned from experience that one could often be most useful to a person in need of a confidante by saying nothing at all.

  After a moment, he continued. “And then Holloway came along and swept her off her feet. I couldn’t compete, not with all he could offer her. She couldn’t see that he didn’t really care for her.”

  “You don’t believe he loved her?” I asked.

  “No, Holloway didn’t love her,” Mr. Landon said scornfully. “In fact, they were always arguing over one thing or another, like that blazing row that night after the play, where they said all those things to each other. I suppose Holloway regrets that now.” There was something a bit smug in his tone, as though he would be glad to know that Gerard Holloway was suffering. This bit of vindictiveness was not what had caught my attention, however.

  “What did they say to each other?” I asked. The first time I had questioned him about it, he had claimed not to know what it was about. But he had not been drinking then. Perhaps now he would be more forthcoming.

  “I had wanted to congratulate Flora, to tell her what a wonderful job she had done. I hadn’t yet had the chance to speak to her.”

  It struck me that he would have had plenty of time to congratulate her on her performance after the play had ended. They had taken their bows together and would presumably have gone down the long corridor to their dressing rooms at roughly the same time. Of course, it was always possible in the rush and post-performance euphoria that they had not spoken. He might very well be telling the truth, but it was strange that he had been seeking her out.

  “I had seen her a few moments before, going offstage,” he said. “I walked that way to have a word with her when I heard their voices.”

  “You’re sure it was Mr. Holloway?” I asked.

  He snorted derisively. “I know his voice well enough. I’ve been listening to him drone on about one thing or another for months.”

  “What was the argument about?” I asked.

  He looked at me speculatively, as though suddenly realizing that I had been asking questions. It had certainly taken him long enough. “What’s your stake in all of this, Mrs. Ames?” he asked. His tone had lost some of its hard edge, and I felt that he was genuinely curious about my involvement.

  What was my stake in this? It was a good question. Though I had told myself that I was doing it to help my friend Georgina and to assist Detective Inspector Jones in whatever way I could, a part of me knew that it was more than that.

  I was invested in this situation because I wanted to help find a way for Gerard and Georgina Holloway to be together again. They had loved each other so desperately once. It seemed impossible that that love no longer existed.

  I realized that he was still waiting for an answer, so I gave him a somewhat embarrassed smile. “I’m afraid this isn’t the first such case in which I’ve been involved,” I told him. “It’s silly of me, perhaps, but I find I enjoy trying to work out the puzzle.”

  He watched me for a long moment, as though trying to determine what I was concealing behind that answer. He was an astute gentleman, and I was not at all sure that my society-lady façade would be satisfactory to him. Apparently, it was, however, for he answered at last.

  “
I didn’t hear the beginning of it. They were both already in high dudgeon by the time I was within earshot. Holloway was haranguing her about something to do with her performance.”

  “Her performance?” I frowned.

  “Yes, one of the scenes between Victoire and Durant. ‘What was that with Lebeau?’ he asked her.”

  “What did he mean?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Probably a bit of staging gone wrong. Holloway is mad about his staging. He likes everything just so. And he was overstrung about the whole evening. Wanted it to go off well.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Flora could hold her own when need be. She replied that she had had the right to make her own decisions, that Holloway was not her lord and master.” He laughed. “That riled him, I’m sure. If there’s one thing Holloway enjoys, it’s being lord and master. That’s when he said the bit about wringing her neck.”

  “I see,” I said thoughtfully. There had been no sign of tension between them when they had come to the gala, so perhaps they had smoothed things over. Or perhaps they were just very good at acting.

  “Did you hear anything more?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t want to hear anything else. I was very much afraid I was going to hit Holloway if I heard any more. I didn’t like the way he spoke to her. But it was none of my business, not anymore.”

  It was curious. I wondered why it was that Mr. Holloway should have been angry with Flora Bell. The performance had been a huge success, and I had noticed nothing amiss in her interactions with Balthazar Lebeau onstage. The audience had risen to their feet and had showered her with praise from the first moment that she stepped into the ballroom. Why then had he been dissatisfied?

  It seemed to me more likely that he was piqued over the trouble with Georgina, as he had mentioned to Milo before the performance. His strained relationship and the stresses of opening night had no doubt put him in a temper, and he had taken it out on Flora Bell.

  Of course, there was also the possibility that it might be a lie.

  Christopher Landon looked to all the world like a carefree playboy of the theatre, yet he had clearly felt strongly about Flora Bell. Was it possible that he had killed her and was trying to shift blame onto Mr. Holloway, saying he and Flora had quarreled?

  Then again, it might just be the alcohol, making him morose and speculative.

  As if to prove my point, he took another long drink from the bottle and mumbled, “It’s my curse, to be in love with a dead woman.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Landon,” I said softly. “I know words are inadequate in cases like these, but I do hope you’ll find happiness again.”

  He didn’t answer, staring out into the darkened auditorium.

  There was nothing else to say, so I thought it best to take my leave. I started to rise, and just as I did, my foot slipped off the edge of the stage and I nearly lost my balance. He reached out and caught my arm, keeping me from a nasty tumble.

  “Be careful, Mrs. Ames,” he said with a smile. “We should very much hate for another tragedy to happen on this stage.”

  * * *

  I RETREATED FROM the stage and made my way out into the foyer, where Milo was waiting for me.

  He looked up as I walked toward him.

  “Oh, there you are, darling,” he asked. “Ready to go home?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But where did you get off to?”

  “I walked around the theatre a bit, getting the lay of the land, so to speak.”

  “Did you learn anything of interest?” I asked.

  “Only that it would have been a fairly easy thing for the killer to slip out unnoticed, if he was indeed still in the theatre when you discovered Miss Bell’s body. There are several exits, including the stage door, which is directly across from a door to the building where the gala was being held.”

  “Then the killer might have gone across the alley and back to the gala without being observed by anyone on the street.”

  “Yes. What about you? Did you learn anything from Dahlia Dearborn?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “We’ll discuss it later. Is there anything else we need to do for Mr. Holloway?”

  “I don’t think so. They seem to have everything well in hand.”

  We returned to our car, and, as we rode home, I related the information I had gotten from Miss Dearborn and Mr. Lebeau regarding Mr. Landon. “I know it’s not definite proof of anything,” I said, “but if both of them suspect him, there might be something to it. However, when I spoke to Mr. Landon, I had a different impression. He doesn’t seem as though he wanted to kill her. In fact, I’m certain he was still in love with her.”

  “Men have killed women they’ve professed to love before,” Milo pointed out.

  It was not exactly a happy thought.

  We pulled up in front of our flat, but Milo didn’t get out of the car. “I’m going out,” he said. “I’m going to look into Mr. Bell’s whereabouts a bit more. I’m not sure when I shall be home.”

  “I want to speak to Mr. Bell,” I said. “So if you decide to talk to him, ring me up.”

  “It may be late.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” I said firmly.

  I watched as the car pulled away and wondered if he had learned something that he was keeping from me, as he had been known to do in the past. I hoped not.

  Even if he was really looking for Frederick Bell, I somehow doubted he would ring me up to let me know. That would remain to be seen.

  I walked into the flat and was greeted by Winnelda, who almost seemed to have been waiting for me near the door. “That policeman is here again,” she said in an urgent whisper.

  “Inspector Jones?” I asked, taking off my hat and gloves. “Has he been here long?”

  “No, madam. I told him I didn’t know when to expect you back, but he said that he would wait a few minutes to see if you arrived.”

  “I’ll go and see him now. Thank you, Winnelda.”

  I went into the sitting room and found Inspector Jones looking at the portrait of me Balthazar Lebeau had been studying the night of our little party.

  “It’s an excellent likeness, Mrs. Ames,” he said, turning as I entered. “He’s captured that look of determination in your eyes.”

  As the portrait had been painted during another murder investigation, I felt that perhaps Inspector Jones’s appraisal was accurate.

  “Thank you. I’m glad you’ve come by, Inspector Jones,” I said. “Would you care for some tea?”

  “Thank you, no. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I would drop in. Do you have a few moments to compare notes?”

  “Certainly,” I replied, excited at the prospect that he might be willing to give information as well as receive it.

  I ought to have known better.

  We settled into our seats and Inspector Jones regarded me expectantly. “Why don’t you begin?”

  I was forced to acknowledge that, though I was certain Inspector Jones liked me and had come to value my opinion when it came to certain things, we were not equal partners in this venture. Not that I expected the police to share all their evidence with me. But having worked together on previous cases, I did feel as though I was entitled to a bit more than a common civilian.

  “I’m not entirely sure what I’ve learned,” I admitted. “Nothing definitive, that’s certain.”

  “Even little pieces of information might prove useful when viewed as a whole.”

  I considered all I had discovered and decided to begin with what was potentially the most telling piece of gossip.

  “Did you know about Christopher Landon’s past?” I asked him. A part of me hoped not. I enjoyed being able to present him with information he had not yet uncovered on his own.

  “About the girl who threw herself off of the bridge?” he asked, spoiling my surprise. Apparently, he knew more than I did.

  I was trying to decide whether to feign knowledge of the details or ask him outright wh
en he seemed to deduce that I did not know the particulars and went on.

  “It probably has nothing to do with any of this,” he said. “Although, one never knows for certain. He was involved with a girl, Helen Whitney. They were engaged to be married at one point, but, when things had run their course, he broke it off with her. They found her in the Thames. Apparently, she had thrown herself off a bridge, but, given the circumstances, one wonders.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “It’s a bit strange that two women he was reportedly involved with died violent deaths.”

  “Of course, it sometimes happens,” Inspector Jones replied noncommittally. “Young people these days can be volatile.”

  “But what do you think?” I pressed. “Are the two deaths connected?”

  “I have not found anything to suggest so,” he said. “For one thing, the first woman left a note. She was distraught that their relationship had ended. This business with Miss Bell seemed to be the other way around. It was he who was upset that she no longer returned his affections.”

  “Speaking of notes, have you any more information on who was sending those threatening letters?”

  “I’m afraid not. Mr. Holloway gave us the letters in his possession, but an analysis of them has proven inconclusive. The handwriting had been disguised and both the paper and ink are of an inferior quality, easily purchased at any corner shop in London.”

  I sighed. “Then we are no closer to finding the killer.”

  He smiled. “You mustn’t let this business trouble you too much, Mrs. Ames. After all, it’s my job to lose sleep over the matter.”

  I returned his smile. “That may well be, Inspector, but I can’t help but feel that I should have done something to stop it happening in the first place.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything.”

  “I still feel that if I had telephoned you when she received those letters, or if I had paid closer attention to her whereabouts on that night…” My voice trailed off. I had not really realized until now how deeply I felt the weight of Flora Bell’s death. I had known that the woman was being threatened, had believed the threats to be a danger, and yet I had not been able to prevent her murder.