A search through the rest of the drawers yielded nothing. If the letters had been here, they weren’t now.
“You can’t find them?” Mrs. Potter asked.
“No, perhaps she threw them away,” I said. I was about to turn away when my eye caught something on top of the dressing table. Lying between the perfume bottles was a small key.
I reached out and picked it up. I thought at first that it belonged to the dressing table, though none of the drawers had been locked, but when I glanced again I saw that there were no locks on these drawers. The key belonged to something else. I thought at once of the locked drawer in Flora Bell’s dressing room.
“She may have kept the letters at the theatre,” Mrs. Potter said contemplatively. “She told me, after her brother took her money, that she had more valuables kept at the theatre. ‘No one thinks of looking in a dressing room, Mrs. Potter,’ she said with a laugh. She had a lovely laugh.”
Mrs. Potter was busy examining the photographs pasted to the edges of Flora Bell’s mirror and hadn’t noticed when I picked up the key. I slipped it into my pocket.
“She was a lovely girl,” Mrs. Potter said. “She wore too much makeup, of course. But that’s how actresses are. But she really was lovely. Such a shame.”
I looked closer at the photographs. There were several of Flora in various costumes, each of them lovely. There was one of her and Freddy Bell, her arm around his neck, both of them smiling, the resemblance striking as they stood with their faces close together. Despite their disagreements, I knew that a special bond had been severed.
I spotted a photograph of Flora and Mr. Holloway. Their pose was very circumspect. They stood, not quite touching, but there was something about both of their expressions that spoke of intimacy. If I could not find the letters, at least I could return the photograph to Mr. Holloway.
I reached out to take it, and a piece of paper that had been held in place behind it fluttered to the dressing table.
“Oh! That’s the man who came to see her,” the landlady said.
I looked up from the photograph, surprised by her words. She nodded to the paper that had fallen onto the desk, and I looked down. It was a playbill, and on it was a photograph of Balthazar Lebeau.
22
A FEW MOMENTS later, I followed Mrs. Potter back down the stairs, lost in thought. Why had Mr. Lebeau visited Flora Bell’s boardinghouse? What had he meant by his talk of unending love and unbroken bonds that Mrs. Potter had overheard? As far as I had seen, Flora Bell had shown no interest in him, romantically or otherwise. What, then, was their relationship?
I would have to speak with Mr. Lebeau again. I glanced at my wristwatch. The morning rehearsal with Miss Dearborn would be almost finished. I was not under the illusion that I would be able to question Mr. Lebeau directly on the matter. But perhaps if I hinted at things in a roundabout way, he would let something slip.
I needed to visit the theatre in any case, for I needed to see if the key fit in the dressing table lock. I had the feeling there was something in that drawer that would prove enlightening.
Even as the idea came to me, I hesitated. There was a killer at large, and I didn’t want to put myself in harm’s way. It wasn’t likely that anything would happen during their rehearsals, of course. But I knew I ought to take precautions.
I bid Mrs. Potter a fond farewell, and then walked down the street to the nearest telephone booth. Though I was still irritated with Milo, I phoned the flat.
It was Winnelda who answered, though I hadn’t expected her home yet.
“When did you get back, Winnelda?”
“Just a little while ago, madam. My little sisters make me very tired, and I decided to return early.”
“Well, I hope your visit was pleasant.”
“It was very nice.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Let me speak to Mr. Ames, will you?”
“He’s gone out, madam.” I ought to have expected as much. Milo never sat still for long.
“Oh, I see. Is Mr. Holloway still there?”
“No, madam. No one is here but me.”
I weighed the options. I knew Milo wouldn’t like me going to the theatre alone, but I also felt that I shouldn’t miss the opportunity to speak to Mr. Lebeau.
“All right,” I said, settling on something of a compromise. “If Mr. Ames comes back, will you tell him I’ve gone to the theatre?”
“Yes, I’ll tell him.”
I rang off and had Markham drive me to the Penworth Theatre directly.
As I walked inside the building, I heard the sound of voices coming from the stage. Perhaps they weren’t finished with their rehearsal. I listened. No, it was a single person, and it took me only a moment to recognize the speaker. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Balthazar Lebeau.
I stepped into the auditorium. It was dark in the back of the theatre, and he didn’t see me. He was standing on the stage, his gaze trained out on the empty seats. It was clear that he was reciting lines, and it was only a moment before I recognized them from The Price of Victory, though there was something about the words that struck me as strange.
“‘I don’t ask for glory,’” he said, his voice reverberating across the theatre. “‘I ask only for the chance to love and be loved. This battle will test me; it may even end me. But nothing—not even death—can end my love for you.’”
I felt almost as though I were intruding, but something about his performance was so arresting that I couldn’t seem to help myself; I stepped closer.
The movement caught his attention, however, for he stopped suddenly. The change was startling. The expression he had worn, the noble regality of another age, faded and he was suddenly a simple actor standing on the stage.
“Ah, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“You could not possibly disturb me with your delightful presence.” He said the words automatically, with that well-worn charm that came so easily to him.
“I thought the rehearsals would be over by now.”
“Oh, the rehearsal is done. In fact, I think I may be the only one here.”
“Oh?” I asked, wondering if it was a good idea to remain here alone with him. Then again, Milo knew where I was. And Markham was still outside.
“Yes, I was just going over a few things. What brings you here, Mrs. Ames?”
“I … I just thought I would come by and see how things are going. I do have a question for you, however.”
“Ask me anything you like,” he said. “My life is an open book.”
I opened my mouth to ask about his visits to Miss Bell, but something stopped me.
“Did you always want to be an actor?” I asked.
His brows rose ever so slightly, as though this had not been the question he was expecting.
“I come from a long line of actors, troubadours, and fools,” he said. “I expect if you were to research the history of English jesters, you’d find a Lebeau or two among them. My parents were actors, and my sister and I grew up on the stage. I’ve been performing almost since birth. I never considered any other profession, for I knew the theatre was in my blood. It’s a strange phrase, isn’t it? ‘In my blood.’ As though our blood, that crimson liquid running through our veins, somehow has the power to make us one thing or another.”
I wasn’t sure where this was leading, but I stood silently, listening to him talk. There was something mesmerizing about his voice.
“It has been an interesting career. I know people who have despised it, but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Indeed, I have sacrificed a great deal for it. When one gets older, one begins to contemplate the things that really matter. But I’m sorry,” he said, stopping suddenly. “I’m afraid I’m boring you.”
He knew that he was not, but still there was something sincere in the casual way he dismissed his past, as though it was he himself who didn’t want the story to go on.
He smiled. “You should have seen me in my prime.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you could possibly have been any more talented,” I said. “Even just now—that scene you were rehearsing—I was captivated. It was from The Price of Victory, wasn’t it?”
“You’ll think me foolish if I tell you,” he said with a smile, though it was perfectly obvious he was not at all abashed. He was the type of man who never felt foolish. I recognized this trait, for Milo was the same way: so supremely confident in everything he did that the opinions of others bounced like flimsy arrows off an impenetrable shield of self-assurance.
“I doubt that very much,” I said.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m rehearsing the lines for Armand. Landon’s hinted that he won’t remain much longer, and I intend for Holloway to see that I’m right for the role.”
“Oh?” I asked. That was why the lines had sounded strange. I had been used to Christopher Landon speaking them.
“I’m a bit older than the average leading man, perhaps. But I feel that I can play it.”
“I’m sure you could,” I replied. I remembered something then and added casually, “I understand Mr. Holloway once took a part that you were eager to get. Perhaps now you’ll be the lead of his play. It’s strange, isn’t it, how things work?”
“Did he? I don’t remember. Would you like to help me with this?”
“How?” I asked, a bit surprised at the request.
“You can read the lines for Victoire.”
“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know.” I had not been expecting this, and somehow I felt a bit uncertain. I had not been raised to be retiring or insecure in my own abilities. Indeed, if life with my mother had taught me anything, it was how to convey confidence in the face of conflict. However, this was something different. With a man of his talent and reputation, I felt suddenly self-conscious.
He seemed to sense this, for he gave me a smile, a genuine one, it seemed, lacking in his normal practiced affability. “I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”
He walked offstage and picked up a script from a table, riffling through it until he found the page he wanted. “Ah, here we are.”
He walked to me, holding out the script.
I took it a bit reluctantly.
“I know you’ve seen the play and this set is adequate,” he said, sweeping a hand to encompass the stage with its excellent reproduction furniture and tasteful bric-a-brac. “But now let me really set the scene so you can feel the mood. Picture us in a luxuriously appointed drawing room in France early in the last century. Europe is in turmoil. The Napoleonic Wars are raging, the casualties increasing day by day.” His rich, deep voice rolled over me, and I found myself caught up in his words, picturing things just as he had described them.
“I am an officer in the emperor’s army, in a jacket of blue with epaulets and brass buttons, sword at my side. You wear a high-waisted gown of ivory silk, your hair braided with lace, a knot of pearls at your throat.” As he spoke the words, his fingers reached out to brush across my collarbone.
“For months you have worried, feared for the safety of your lover, each morning dawning with the knowledge that it could be the day he dies in a field caked with mud and blood. And now I have come back to you before the penultimate battle. To say good-bye—perhaps for the last time.”
It was a very dramatic recitation and I felt as though I ought to be amused at his intensity. But somehow I wasn’t. Somehow, he had managed, with his theatrical gravitas, to instill in me the significance of the scene we were about to play. I didn’t know how he had done it, but the atmosphere had changed. I felt suddenly as though I were Victoire.
I could feel the sadness, feel the heavy dread in the chest of a woman who might never see her lover again. I had been a child during the Great War, but quite old enough to remember a great many young men who had gone off to battle, never to return. I did not have to try too hard to imagine what it was like.
“Are you ready?” he asked, pulling my thoughts back to the present.
I hesitated momentarily then looked down at the papers in my hand. He nodded at me encouragingly and I lifted them up and, clearing my throat, began to read.
“‘You’ve come back to me,’” I said. “‘And yet I don’t know if I can bear it.’”
When he spoke there was understanding and tenderness in his voice. “‘I didn’t want to bring you pain, but I had to see you one more time.’”
“‘I can’t say good-bye to you again,’” I said.
He stepped closer. “‘I don’t want you to say good-bye, my darling. In a moment, I will turn and walk from this room and I won’t look back. But I will be taking you with me. The sound of your voice, the scent of your skin, your silken curls.’” His hand moved as he spoke, caressing my throat, my cheek, and then my hair. “‘Every part of you will be a part of me.’”
He took me into his arms, crushing the script between us, and I could no longer read my lines. Mr. Lebeau took no notice of this.
“‘I want to remember you this way,’” he said in a low voice, his blue eyes boring into mine. “‘I want to remember your beauty and your strength and the fire in your eyes.’”
He lowered his mouth toward mine and I was suddenly recalled to where I was. I put my hand against his chest and stopped him, giving a mild laugh as the luxurious drawing room evaporated before my eyes and I was once again on the shadowy stage. “I think we’d better stop there,” I said, surprised that I sounded a bit breathless.
He looked down at me, his arms still around me. There was a look in his eyes I found it difficult to interpret. “You did very well, Mrs. Ames.”
“I … thank you,” I said, unaccountably flustered.
He looked down at me a moment longer, and then he released me, stepping back.
“I’m afraid I’ve been taking up too much of your time,” he said. “I’ll just be going now. Thank you for your assistance.”
“I enjoyed it,” I said. I realized I still clutched the script in my hand. I held it out to him. “Where shall I put this?”
“Keep it if you like,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you may help me with my lines again.”
“All right,” I said, rolling up the script and slipping it into my handbag. I wavered for just a moment before continuing. “Although, I have another copy of the script. One I found at Miss Bell’s boardinghouse.”
“Oh?” There was not a flicker of emotion on his face, and I knew at once that he must be hiding something.
“Yes,” I said, plunging ahead. “I spoke with the landlady. It seemed she recognized you.”
He gave a little laugh. “I ought to have known. Landladies are a cunning lot. Yes, I stopped by once or twice to help Flora with some matters on the script.”
It was such a preposterous lie that he couldn’t have expected me to believe it, but I had the distinct impression that he didn’t care whether I believed it or not.
“Thank you again for your help, Mrs. Ames. I hope we may do another scene together someday.”
He left then, and I did nothing but watch him go. I could have pressed him further, perhaps I should have, but I didn’t want to push him too far. After all, I didn’t know what he was capable of.
Despite that, however, I felt a new appreciation for his talent, having shared the stage with him for just a few moments. I had been given a taste of that legendary magnetism that had made decades of women swoon, and, though I thought myself quite immune to that sort of charm, I had been drawn to it just the same.
Not only that, I had seen the depths of his personality. The swaggering thespian that he had become was just another role he played. There was clearly much more beneath that mask of bluster and bravado. He was a complex, intelligent man, and I wondered if he might p
ossibly be a killer.
I had failed in one aspect of my mission, but I remembered the key in my pocket. At least I could try to accomplish the other.
Going backstage, I moved along the corridor toward the dressing rooms. Though Mr. Lebeau had said he thought everyone else was gone, I wondered if Dahlia Dearborn might still be in her dressing room. If so, I would have to think of some sort of excuse to rummage through her dressing table drawer.
Luckily, when I reached the door and knocked, there was no answer. I knocked again. “Miss Dearborn? Are you there?”
I was greeted with silence, so, with a glance down the hallway, I put my hand on the knob and tried it. The door was open.
With one last glance down the corridor, I slipped inside. I turned on the light and then moved toward the dressing table. Dahlia Dearborn’s things were strewn across it now, every hint of Flora Bell’s occupation erased.
I took the key from my pocket and leaned down toward the drawer. Inserting the key into the lock, I turned it and felt the tiny click as it released. So it was the right key! It seemed I had beaten the police to this particular clue.
I began to pull the drawer open when I felt rather than heard movement at my side. I started to look up, but it was too late.
I felt a tremendous pain at the side of my head, and everything went black.
23
“AMORY. AMORY, LOOK at me.” I heard his voice as if from very far away. It was as if I were trying to awaken from a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. Then I felt Milo’s hand on my face, and I opened my eyes. His face was a blur. My head ached fiercely.
“I … I…” I tried to speak, but it came out as more of a moan.
“It’s all right. Don’t try to talk.”
He was leaning close, and I struggled to clear my vision. I focused on his eyes, on the blueness of them. I felt my head begin to swim, and my lids fluttered closed.
“Open your eyes, darling,” Milo said gently. “You need to stay awake.”
An Act of Villainy Page 22
