“No,” I replied. “Their marriage was better than ours, and look where it is now.”
His eyes met mine, and the only thing I could read in them was a flicker of impatience. “What do you want me to say?”
His asking that question only made it worse. There were so many things I wanted him to say, but I didn’t want to have to ask for them.
I realized suddenly that I hadn’t the heart for this fight. I couldn’t make him understand, and I was too tired to try.
I sighed wearily. “Nothing, Milo,” I said, walking to the bed and pulling back the covers. “I don’t want you to say anything.”
21
I AWOKE BEFORE Milo and slipped quietly from the bed. I was glad he was still sleeping, for I was not ready to continue our conversation from last night.
I knew he hadn’t meant to hurt me, and I had to acknowledge that some of my anger had its origins in the comparisons I was drawing in my own mind. Gerard and Georgina Holloway’s relationship had been strengthened by adventure, even danger, and I couldn’t help but feel that the same might be said of Milo and me. It was a murder mystery that had set our marriage back on course, and I wondered if, as it had done for Gerard Holloway, the adventure would eventually cease to be enough for Milo. Some part of me realized that it was unfair, even irrational, to reflect the problems in the Holloways’ marriage onto my own, but that didn’t stop the disquieting thoughts.
I ventured out into the sitting room to check on Mr. Holloway and was surprised to see him sitting up on the sofa. Once again, he tried to rise when he saw me, but I hurried to him, placing a gently restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t get up, Mr. Holloway,” I said.
“I … I don’t know … how did I get here?” he asked.
“You took a cab, I believe,” I replied. Thank heavens for that. He might have done any amount of damage if he had tried to drive in his condition.
“I don’t remember any of that,” he said.
I was not at all surprised, but there was no need to comment upon the state he had been in.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “No harm done.”
“Was I … a terrible nuisance? I can be awfully verbose when I’ve had too much to drink.”
I realized suddenly that he probably wondered what he had said and done while he was here. I was sure he had not meant to reveal his suspicions about Georgina in his inebriation.
Should I mention it? I decided against it for the time being. There was no need to bring it up without proof.
“You didn’t say much before you fell asleep,” I told him truthfully.
“I’m dreadfully sorry about this,” he said. I could tell that he was very embarrassed. Not only that, he looked quite ill. I had thought he looked gray when he had come to us last night, but this morning his face was positively white.
“There’s no need to be sorry,” I said. “We’ll make you feel better before you leave. You need to eat something.”
He shook his head, wincing as he did so. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Perhaps just some tea and toast?” I suggested.
He looked as though he was about to shake his head again but then thought better of it. I imagined his head must be very painful this morning, considering the state he had been in last night.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, before he had the chance to refuse. He looked wretched, and I wanted to do what I could to help before sending him on his way.
I made some tea, not too strong, and some toast and brought it back into the sitting room.
He was sitting in the exact same position in which I had left him, his gaze fixed on the empty fireplace.
“How do you take your tea?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
I poured in a bit of milk and sugar and handed the saucer to him. He hesitated for just a moment and then reached out to take it. I was glad to see his hands were steadier this morning.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Drink at least a bit of it for me, won’t you?” I asked.
He dutifully brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Despite his initial reluctance, it seemed the taste was palatable enough, and he took another sip.
A bit of the color returned to his face, and I was glad of it.
“Now perhaps a bit of toast?” I asked. “I think it will make you feel better.”
“I don’t deserve to feel better,” he said.
I was not quite sure how to respond to this. What was it that he was blaming himself for?
“You must keep up your strength, Mr. Holloway,” I said.
I held out the plate of toast and he took a piece, bringing it to his lips.
I sat across from him, my hands in my lap. “Do you want to talk about anything?” I asked. “I don’t want to pry, but if you need someone to listen…”
“I … I don’t know. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve imposed upon you, taken advantage of your kindness, and I’m deeply embarrassed. I suppose I just didn’t know where else to go.”
“You can’t go home?” I suggested softly.
He looked up at me, the misery on his face increasing, if possible. “I … I haven’t spoken with Georgina.”
“Don’t you think you ought to?” Despite my recent admission to myself that their marriage was none of my concern, I couldn’t help but feel that things would be so much better between them if they would only talk to each other.
“Perhaps,” he said, seemingly unwilling to discuss the matter at present. “But not just yet.” Was he worried that if he spoke with her he might be able to read some sort of guilt written on her face?
“I’m sure she will be ready to talk when you are,” I said, though I was afraid that Georgina would only wait for so long.
He took another sip of tea. “I … I’m afraid things may get worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“I … well, I wrote Flora some rather … indiscreet letters. If she kept them, they may come out.” He let out a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything.”
I was inclined to agree. However, now was not the time to let him know what a fool he had been. He was already miserable enough.
“I don’t think anyone would give your letters to the press or any such thing.”
He gave me a skeptical smile. “You’d be surprised how bitter some people can be.”
He had a point. The letters were a concern. I would very much hate for Georgina to suffer any more embarrassment than she already had.
“I wonder if I might ask you a favor, Mrs. Ames. Do you think you could go to Flora’s boardinghouse and retrieve them?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of retrieving the mementos of his illicit relationship, but I also didn’t want the letters to fall into the wrong hands. Besides, it had occurred to me that the landlady might have some useful information about Flora Bell. Perhaps I could help Mr. Holloway and Inspector Jones at the same time.
“Yes,” I told him. “I can go this morning, if you like.”
* * *
FLORA BELL’S BOARDINGHOUSE was a tidy building in Shepherd’s Bush. I was not sure what I had been expecting Flora Bell’s residence to look like, but this quiet, modest house was not quite in keeping with her glamorous image. Of course, she had been a rising star. No doubt the penthouses would have come later, had she been given the opportunity to succeed.
I had left Mr. Holloway to drink his tea, and hoped that Milo would be able to convince him to return home. He couldn’t very well continue wandering the streets. Sooner or later, he and Georgina would have to talk.
As I rang the bell at Flora’s boardinghouse, I wondered if Inspector Jones had visited her residence. I assumed that he would have done so if he thought anything of importance could be learned in that way, but I couldn’t help but feel that I, as a sympathetic ear, might be able to get more information from the landlady than a brusque policeman would.
A maid showed me into a cluttered yet s
potless parlor, still bearing the furniture and dark acanthus-patterned wallpaper popular in Victorian décor, and a moment later the lady of the house made her appearance. She looked just as one might expect a landlady to look, dressed in prim, dark clothes with a pleasant face that held sharp, searching eyes.
“I’m Mrs. Potter,” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. I’m Amory Ames … a friend of Flora Bell,” I said. It was, perhaps, not entirely true. But I did feel as though searching for her killer made me her friend. I was certainly her ally.
“Were you at the play that night?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, hiding my surprise at the question. Clearly, she was the curious sort. I hesitated, wavering between my natural discretion and revelation for the sake of building camaraderie. Finally, I decided that she would likely be more inclined to share information with me if I first shared it with her. “In fact, it was I who found her body.”
The flash of interest in her blue eyes told me I had judged correctly.
“The poor dear,” she said with a soft cluck of sympathy. “Such a dreadful thing. I suppose it was rather gruesome.”
The way she looked at me could only be described as hopeful. Clearly, she wanted details. I knew, however, that Inspector Jones was not likely to approve of my going about telling people what I had seen.
“It was rather a shock,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t much like to think about it.” This, at least, was entirely true.
She seemed to accept this, for she nodded. “Yes, I imagine it was dreadful for you.”
Her next words confirmed that I had won her over. “Might I offer you some tea?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
She rang for the maid, and in the space of a few minutes we were sipping steaming tea from lovely blue and white chinoiserie china. I was relieved that she seemed to be warming to me considerably.
“Did Flora live here long?” I asked, accepting a ginger biscuit.
“No, only for a few months,” she said. “I gather the last place she lived was less respectable, but she had come into some money and could afford more appropriate lodgings.”
“Yes, I see.” No doubt she had received an advance from Mr. Holloway. I was glad, at least, that he hadn’t set her up in a private residence somewhere. It seemed he had been mindful of her reputation, at least to some extent. Or perhaps it was Flora who had insisted on the semblance of propriety.
“Flora was a lovely woman,” I said, hoping that Mrs. Potter would elaborate more on the character of Flora Bell. After all, I had only seen the persona she had carefully cultivated. What had she been in her daily life?
“She was a quiet girl,” Mrs. Potter said. “Not what one might expect of people from the theatre. When I first heard that she was on the stage, I was concerned. I keep a respectable establishment, you understand.”
“Of course,” I replied.
“But I consider myself an excellent judge of character, and I felt that she would be all right.”
“And she was, wasn’t she?” I said it as though I knew it for a fact, but I was really hoping that she would confirm or deny it.
“Yes,” she said. “She was rarely here. Spent her time at the theatre preparing for a play or some such thing. And even before that, she was always out at the Empire and the Palladium, filling her head with nonsense. But when she was home, she was always quiet and well-mannered, just the same. Of course, I didn’t hold with that gentleman who came to see her.”
I looked at her. “What gentleman?”
“She had a gentleman friend that would come by some nights and see her in the parlor. I don’t allow men in the rooms, of course.”
“Her brother, perhaps,” I said.
She shook her head, a frown crossing her expression. “I didn’t approve of Mr. Bell, and Miss Bell knew it. They didn’t often meet here. He came here a few days ago, trying to get into her room, and I sent him off at once.”
This was not entirely enlightening. I couldn’t imagine there were many respectable landladies who would approve of Frederick Bell.
“I know well enough what he wanted,” she went on. “He was after her money. He’d stolen some from her room before, she told me. Came when neither of us were home and rifled through her drawers. After that, I insisted she keep her room locked.”
“I see.” So Freddy Bell had not been above stealing. That did not, of course, make him a killer, but it did prove he was willing to go to extremes to get what he wanted.
“Who was the other gentleman?” I asked casually.
If she thought it odd that I continued to pepper her with questions, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she seemed to grow friendlier the more questions I asked. I wished all my interrogations would go so smoothly.
She took a sip of her tea before leaning forward conspiratorially. “That’s just it. I don’t know. He was very mysterious.”
“Was he tall and handsome, with a dark moustache?” I asked, thinking of Gerard Holloway.
“I couldn’t really say. You see, he came disguised.” She said this as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Disguised?” I repeated.
She nodded. “Yes, he usually wore his hat pulled low and a muffler across his face. I thought it was rather strange, but as long as they stayed here in the parlor, it didn’t much matter to me who he was. I was a bit curious, of course, but I knew she was an actress. They know all types of strange people.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said, my mind in a whirl. I wondered who it was that would have come to see Flora Bell in disguise. It seemed most likely that it would have been Gerard Holloway, but somehow I could not picture him coming in disguise to sit in Mrs. Potter’s parlor. If he wanted to see Flora, they might meet at the theatre or any number of places.
“I’m fairly certain that he had no moustache,” she said after some reflection, confirming my suspicion that it had not been Mr. Holloway. “Once the muffler slipped and I got a bit of a look at his face, in profile. He was a handsome gentleman.”
The next best guess was Christopher Landon. He and Miss Bell had had some sort of a relationship. Perhaps he had come to see her to try to convince her to abandon Holloway’s affections for his.
“I don’t suppose you might have overheard any of their conversation?” I asked casually.
She looked up at me sharply. “I’m not the sort of landlady who goes about putting her ear to the keyholes.”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” I said quickly, in an attempt to soothe her. “I only meant that you might have heard something when passing the room. You see, if she had a gentleman friend, I would like to get in touch with him.”
This seemed to appease her, for she took a sip of tea and appeared to think. “I do think it might have been a special friend, so to speak. I heard him say something that caught my ear. He said, ‘Love doesn’t end with time, and not all bonds can be easily broken.’ I thought it a pretty turn of phrase.”
“Yes,” I agreed absently. So it seemed it must have been Christopher Landon, after all. Though I wanted to press her further, something told me it would be best not to pursue this line of questioning, at least for the time being.
We finished our tea, chatting about mundane things, and then I got around to the purpose of my visit. “I was wondering … would it be possible for me to step into her room? There were some letters there that I would like to retrieve. For sentimental reasons, you understand.” I did not mention, of course, that I had not been the one to write them.
“Certainly. Come this way.”
She led me out into the foyer and up a set of polished wooden stairs, her hand sliding along the gleaming bannister. The walls, papered in a dark green, held dozens of photographs of different individuals, some of them dating back to the last century. Light from the leaded stained-glass windows at the top of the stairs cast colorful, dappled light across the carpet on the landing, and I felt sad thinking that Flora Bell
would never grace this cheerful spot again.
Mrs. Potter led me down the hallway past three doors and stopped before the fourth. “This was her room,” she said, pulling a large ring of keys from her pocket. With barely a glance, she located the correct key and slipped it into the lock.
“The police were here, going through her things, but I made sure they put everything back as it was,” she told me, disapproval plain in her tone. “I don’t hold with policemen sticking their noses into every part of a woman’s life, just because she’s died.”
As I suspected, she was not likely to have revealed everything she knew to Inspector Jones and his colleagues. That meant, perhaps, that I would be able to discover something that they had not.
She pushed open the door for me to enter, and I stepped inside. It felt almost intrusive, stepping into the dead woman’s room. I felt another pang of sadness to think that she had left it one morning with no idea that she would never return.
The white lace curtains were open, letting in the morning light. I glanced around. There was a bed, neatly made with a floral-patterned blanket. A table with a lamp sat beside it. There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, but the most noticeable piece of furniture in the room was a dressing table with a large mirror and satin stool.
“She brought that thing here,” Mrs. Potter said, following my gaze. “I suppose, if no one claims it, my next lodger will be glad to have it. It’s the sort of thing young ladies these days enjoy.”
“Yes,” I answered absently. Now that I was here, I wished I hadn’t come. It felt wrong, somehow, to invade this quiet room. Of course, it would be emptied soon enough, just as her dressing room at the theatre had been, another young girl living here with no knowledge or thought of the former tenant.
I walked to the dressing table and opened one of the drawers. There was an assortment of makeup and costume jewelry inside. I closed it and opened another. This one held a pile of papers, but closer inspection showed that they were playbills from performances Flora Bell had either taken part in or attended. There was also a copy of the script for The Price of Victory, bound with a blue hardcover binding. I took it out and set it atop the dressing table, thinking that perhaps Gerard Holloway would want to keep it.
An Act of Villainy Page 21
