An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  So it had been more than the promise of a meal that had brought him to the café. Well, I could not fault Milo’s methods when they had been so successful. Besides, I was glad he had helped Freddy Bell, though what the boy really needed was someone to look after him.

  “He’s hiding something,” I said. “When I mentioned the letters, his manner changed.”

  “Yes, I noticed that,” Milo said. “He seems to know more about the matter than he let on.”

  “And I don’t know what to make of what he said about Christopher Landon. Surely Flora Bell wasn’t in love with him? He spoke to me only this afternoon about how difficult it was to lose Flora, about how Holloway had stolen her away. It completely contradicts what Freddy Bell told us tonight.”

  “Then one of them is lying,” Milo said.

  “Yes, but which? And why?” If Christopher Landon had indeed been the one to break things off with Flora Bell, it seemed a better argument against his having killed her than if she had broken it off with him. Why, then, wouldn’t he have said so? But what would Freddy Bell have to gain by lying?

  “Come, darling, don’t think about it anymore tonight,” Milo said, as though it was as easy for me to brush things aside as it was for him. “Try to get some sleep.”

  He pulled me against him, and, though I was sure I was not going to be able to rest, something about the warmth of him and the soothing, steady sound of his breathing relaxed me, and I soon drifted off.

  I was roused from a very heavy sleep sometime later by a loud pounding sound. I sat up, disoriented, wondering what the noise was. It took me a moment to realize that it was an insistent knock at the front door. It was pitch black in the room, so I could not see the clock, but I knew that it was very late and I could think of no reason why someone would be pounding upon our door at that time of night.

  It briefly crossed my mind to worry about Winnelda opening the door, but I remembered that she was away visiting her mother.

  I switched on the lamp and then reached over and shook Milo. He slept very soundly, and it took several vigorous shakes before he opened his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “There’s someone pounding at the door.” Another loud knock sounded then.

  “Who do you suppose it is?” I asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Milo replied. He rose unhurriedly and pulled on his black dressing gown over his nightclothes as he walked toward the bedroom door.

  “Wait here,” he said. Then he went out of the bedroom.

  20

  I GOT OUT of bed, pulling on the lavender satin robe that matched my nightdress, and stood in the bedroom doorway, listening to see who it was.

  I could just make out the voice of Gerard Holloway, though he sounded strange, different somehow. Then Milo said something in a voice too low for me to hear, and all was quiet.

  I stepped out of the bedroom in time to see Milo coming out of the sitting room.

  “It’s Holloway,” he said.

  “What is he doing here at this hour?” I asked.

  “He’s very drunk.”

  “Oh, I see.” The fact that he was drunk, however, did not really answer my question. I didn’t know why it was that he would come to us in the middle of the night. Of course, intoxication often gave one strange ideas.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” I said, turning toward the kitchen.

  Milo caught my arm. “Perhaps it would be best if you went back to bed,” he said. “I can handle Holloway.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied. “I certainly won’t be able to go back to sleep now.”

  Milo looked as though he was prepared to argue with me but then thought better of it. He went back into the sitting room and I went to the kitchen.

  As I went about brewing a very strong pot of coffee, I considered the reasons why Mr. Holloway might have come here. Had he had another row with Georgina? Had he even been home? Or perhaps he had, in his drunken state, somehow remembered something important. Occasionally, the sound of his poorly modulated tone drifted into the kitchen, but I could not make out what he was saying.

  When the coffee was finished, I carried the little tray with the pot, cups, sugar, and milk, as well as the last-minute addition of a tin of biscuits, into the sitting room. Gerard Holloway was sitting on a chair before the fire, his head in his hands.

  I glanced at Milo, who gave me a look that I interpreted as one of suppressed irritation.

  Gerard Holloway looked up, and I was startled at his appearance. He looked ghastly. His face was gray, his eyes red, and there was an expression of such absolute misery on his features that I couldn’t help but feel a bit alarmed.

  He attempted to rise when he saw me, though it seemed a difficult thing for him to manage. He swayed on his feet, and I was very much afraid he was going to topple to the floor. He reached out, however, and caught the mantel.

  “I’m sorry to come here at this hour, Mrs. Ames,” he said, his words slurred. “I know it is very ill-mannered of me.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mr. Holloway,” I said. “Please sit down.”

  “I’ll take that tray from you, darling,” Milo said, coming to my side.

  I knew perfectly well what he was doing. He was trying to gently hint that I might leave him alone with Holloway. I pretended as though I didn’t understand.

  “Thank you,” I said, handing him the tray and going to sit on the chair across from Mr. Holloway.

  I could feel Milo’s gaze on the back of my neck, but I didn’t turn around. I knew he wanted to spare me Mr. Holloway’s drunkenness, but if he thought that I was going to be excluded from this conversation, whatever it was, he was sadly mistaken.

  Milo set the tray down on the little table near Mr. Holloway’s chair and poured coffee into one of the cups.

  “Why don’t you drink this, Holloway,” he said.

  I didn’t know how Mr. Holloway was going to manage a cup and saucer in his condition, but Milo seemed to have thought of this before I did, and handed him the cup without the saucer. Mr. Holloway clasped it in his unsteady hand. I knew the cup was probably hot, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was almost as though he forgot it the second he took it, for he did not try to take a drink.

  “Is there anything we can do for you, Mr. Holloway?” I asked gently.

  He shook his head, his hand and the cup moving with it, sloshing a bit of coffee over the side. He didn’t even blink as it dripped down his hand and onto his trousers. “I don’t think anyone can really be of help now,” he said.

  “I know things seem bleak,” I said gently. “But with time…”

  He looked up at me and then said, his voice very faint, “What am I going to do now?”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I hadn’t liked his relationship with Flora Bell, but his pain was almost palpable.

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  He seemed to collect himself then. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, and when he spoke again his voice was steadier. “I know that Flora didn’t feel the same way about me as I did about her.”

  I was not sure what he meant by this, so I waited for him to continue.

  “Oh, I think she was fond of me. But she was young and beautiful, and I’m … well…” He waved a hand, sloshing more coffee. “But I cared for her, and I thought … I don’t know … She was fond of older gentlemen, after all, and I … I didn’t think it was only the money…”

  He was rambling now, not making sense.

  “I think perhaps you’ll feel better if you sleep,” I said, getting up and going to take the coffee cup from his hand.

  “Milo, have you a handkerchief?”

  He found one in the pocket of his dressing gown, and I took it. I dabbed the coffee away from Mr. Holloway’s hand, though he didn’t pay me any mind. Even his clothes smelled of alcohol.

  “Would you like to go lie down?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to sleep. I
haven’t been able to since … since it happened.”

  I thought of Georgina. I wondered if she was concerned about Mr. Holloway’s whereabouts. I remembered, however, that she had told me he had not been home since the murder, so I doubted that his absence tonight would be cause for more alarm than usual. In any event, calling her at this time of night would likely only upset her.

  “Do you want me to take you home?” Milo asked.

  “No!” he said quickly. “I can’t see Georgina now. She … that is…” He was struggling very hard to conceal something, but alcohol is good for nothing if not for bringing the truth to light.

  “What is it, Mr. Holloway?” I pressed.

  “She … I…” He rubbed his hand across his face, swallowed as though trying to force down the words.

  I waited.

  “I’m afraid she killed Flora,” he said in a rush.

  I stilled, my eyes rising to meet Milo’s.

  “Why would you think that?” Milo asked with a casualness I would not have been able to muster.

  “I … I don’t know. It’s just that she was so angry when we quarreled, and then I couldn’t find her afterward. She … I thought she had gone to the theatre. I … had the feeling she was going to speak with Flora, to have it out. But she wouldn’t have done it. Would she?”

  He looked up at me so pleadingly that I didn’t have the heart to argue with him.

  “I don’t think so,” I said gently, though I was less sure now than ever.

  “I … she’s such a good woman. I don’t think she could have done it…”

  “Perhaps you might lie down for a few moments,” I said, arranging pillows on the sofa. “I think you’ll feel better.”

  “You’re very kind, Mrs. Ames,” he said as he reclined against the cushions. “I’ve been a fool, but I do love Georgina, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  His head dropped onto the pillow and, despite his claims of insomnia, he was almost instantly asleep. When it appeared that he was not going to stir, Milo and I went quietly back to our bedroom.

  “This is dreadful,” I said, turning to Milo as he closed the door behind us. I was keeping myself from wringing my hands only by the strongest efforts.

  “He oughtn’t to have come here in that state,” Milo said. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  “He’s thinking his wife may be a killer and he doesn’t know who else to turn to,” I replied, annoyed at Milo’s callousness.

  “Just because Holloway worries Georgina did it doesn’t mean she did.”

  “I know, but he thinks her capable of it.”

  “He’s soused, darling. You can’t take anything he’s saying seriously.”

  “But he’s clearly been worrying about this since it happened,” I said. It all made sense now. Why he had looked so strained and anxious, why he had taken to drink. It hadn’t been because he was madly in love with Flora Bell. He was worried that his wife was a murderess.

  Somehow, this was not a relief.

  “I still don’t believe Georgina did it,” I said. “But this will only be a further wedge between them. If things don’t work out … he’s already so distraught.”

  “He’ll pull himself together,” Milo said unconcernedly, sitting on the edge of the bed and lighting a cigarette. “A few weeks more and he’ll feel much less strongly about everything than he does now. People have survived much worse, after all.”

  I stared at him. “I don’t know how you do it,” I said.

  He looked up. “How I do what?”

  “How you take everything in stride, remain indifferent to the bad things happening around you.”

  One dark brow rose. “What else am I to do?”

  It was very annoying when he presented me with a simple question that defied an answer.

  “I don’t know,” I said with a sigh.

  “Unpleasant things happen, darling. Most times, there’s nothing I or anyone else can do to change them. What good is it to worry about them?”

  It was an eminently practical approach to life, but so difficult to implement. That was a part of Milo’s nature, however. He went through life with the sort of ease that was impossible for most people, myself included.

  That was not to say, of course, that his own life had been untouched by trouble. His mother had died when he was born, and he and his father had never been on good terms. Though Milo had good looks, money, and a great deal of charm, for most of his life he had not had anyone upon whom he could rely. Sometimes I thought that was what had developed that maddening combination of cynical outlook and ironclad composure.

  “Unpleasant things happen, yes,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do something to make them better when we can.”

  He blew out a stream of smoke. “I have a feeling you view this as one of those instances?”

  I came and sat down on the bed beside him. “I feel that everything would be better if Gerard and Georgina Holloway realize what they mean to each other.”

  “What if one of them is the killer?” Milo asked, leaning to tap the ashes from his cigarette into the Bakelite ashtray on the bedside table.

  I realized that I had not really considered this. Oh, I had put both of the Holloways on my list of suspects, but when confronted with the possibility now, I had to admit that I viewed this case as coming to a happy conclusion for them.

  “It will be even more heartbreaking,” I said at last. “But I feel we should at least try to reunite them.”

  “Darling, their marriage is none of our business,” Milo said.

  “They’re our friends.”

  “Yes, but how would you like any of our friends meddling in our marriage?” he asked.

  I paused. I had not really considered it from that perspective. There had been friends, during our marital difficulties, who had made careful suggestions and asked in soft voices if there was anything they could do. I had appreciated the sentiment, but not necessarily the action. Their concern had made things worse somehow, made my troubles feel more exposed. I realized that Gerard and Georgina would likely feel the same way.

  Perhaps Milo was right. Perhaps there was nothing to be done but let their relationship run its course. I just so hated to see something that had once been so promising go by the wayside.

  I rose to my feet, unable to keep still, and walked to my dressing table, idly toying with the bottles and boxes on its lacquered top.

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” I said with a sigh.

  “What doesn’t?”

  “The relationship between Mr. Holloway and Flora Bell.”

  “I’m afraid it makes perfect sense. Men often look at young women as the antidote to advancing age.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “If he and Georgina truly care about each other, and I’m quite sure they do, he should have known better than to pursue Miss Bell.” I looked up at Milo in the mirror. “What makes people do such things, put everything they hold dear at risk for the sake of something so fleeting?”

  Milo shrugged. “Sometimes the forbidden holds a great appeal.”

  It was not the sort of answer I wanted to hear.

  “But he ought to have been more discreet,” Milo went on. “He and Flora Bell had a perfectly good reason to be seen together, but he made no attempt to hide the fact that it was more than a professional relationship. He was careless, which always makes things worse.”

  I felt that little twist in my stomach as Milo spoke with apparent authority on the best way to cloak one’s infidelity in the guise of something more respectable.

  “Do you suppose discretion compensates for unfaithfulness?” I asked, turning to face him, the edge in my tone giving voice to the emotions I had been attempting to suppress.

  He looked up at me, as though he had realized that we were no longer talking only about the Holloways.

  “Of course not,” he said easily. “If he was a smart man he would never have gotten involved with Miss Bell to begin w
ith.”

  It was the right thing to say, but somehow it did nothing to appease me. The growing resentment I had felt at Milo’s casual acceptance of Gerard Holloway’s affair with Flora Bell had grown so strong that I realized my teeth were clenched.

  His next words did not improve matters. “In any event, I’m tired of talking about the Holloways’ marriage. Even if it falls apart, it isn’t the end of the world.”

  “It’s the end of their world,” I said. “The world they’ve built together all these years, crumbling into nothing.”

  “Now you’re being melodramatic,” he said, rising from the bed to grind out his cigarette. “Trust me: they’ll both get on with their lives.”

  “Do you realize,” I said, trying very hard to keep my voice steady, “that flippant way you speak of marriage sometimes makes it seem as though you view it as little more than a temporary convenience.”

  He turned to look at me. “You know that isn’t how I think of it.”

  “Do I?” I replied. “Sometimes I’m not at all sure.”

  He gave a little laugh. “You’re imagining things and distraught over nothing. You need to get some sleep.”

  I felt another surge of indignation.

  “If you can’t acknowledge what I’m saying,” I said coldly, “at least do me the courtesy of not speaking to me as though I were a child.”

  He seemed to realize I was serious then, for the glimmer of amusement that had been in his eyes a moment ago faded, and then there was nothing on his features. I hated that look, the expressionless mask that fell across his face when he was confronted with my emotions. It was as though he had shut me out completely.

  We looked at each other. There had been other moments like this in our marriage, moments when I felt that we might be at an impasse. I didn’t see how this situation might be resolved, for we would never view things the same way.

  “We are not the Holloways, Amory,” he said at last.

  And there it was. He had cut to the heart of the problem. Somehow this sharp insight into my insecurities only made me wonder if he, too, had been contemplating the way even the strongest marriages could disintegrate with time.