An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  I also considered the possibility that it might have been Georgina Holloway who had followed her to the theatre. After confronting her husband, she might have felt that she should speak with Flora Bell. If so, it would not have been a nice conversation. I could imagine such an exchange must be tense and unpleasant. Was it possible it had escalated into something violent?

  Georgina was so cool and elegant; I found it hard to believe that she would have the brutality to strangle Miss Bell to death with a curtain rope, but there was also a strength in her, a deep resolve in her character that would not let me rule her out entirely. Besides, drunk or not, Mr. Holloway had thought her capable of it. I knew from my own experience how damaging it could be to suspect one’s spouse of murder.

  The doctor had said that it would be possible for a woman to do it, under the right circumstances. That meant that it could also be Dahlia Dearborn. She had wanted the role, had even jested that she would not likely get to take the stage unless something happened to Miss Bell. I had seen a ruthless ambition in Miss Dearborn, and it was not outside the realm of possibility that she had been willing to kill to get what she wanted.

  I moved next to Freddy Bell. He had been seen skulking around the party that night, clearly in an unpleasant frame of mind. It was more than possible that he had asked her for more money. She might have said no, and he, in anger, might have strangled her, knowing that he was due to inherit what money she had.

  Freddy Bell had also been there when I had been hit on the head. He might have done it and then, when he encountered Milo, feigned that he was seeking help. But what was to be gained by hitting me and stealing the letters in Flora Bell’s dressing table drawer? Or had there been something else in the drawer that he was after?

  For that matter, who might have benefitted from the love letters Mr. Holloway had written to Flora Bell? Gerard and Georgina Holloway might have wanted them kept quiet, but I thought they would both be much more inclined to ask me for the letters than to hit me on the head. One of the others might have wanted them for the purpose of blackmail, but how would they have known what was in the drawer? Had someone suspected I might find something in the drawer and hit me as a precaution? It was so difficult to know.

  I moved next to Christopher Landon. What I had discovered about him today was too strange to be a coincidence. Flora Bell had looked almost exactly like the first woman in his life who had died a mysterious death. The resemblance had been so strong, I had even considered, for an instant, the possibility that the women might be one and the same. However, it was clear from the dates of the newspaper clippings that Helen Whitney was dead and buried long before Flora Bell had met Christopher Landon, and a closer inspection of the photograph showed subtle differences in appearance. What, then, was the relationship between the two women who looked so alike? Was Mr. Landon some sort of maniac who enjoyed seducing then killing women of similar appearance? That seemed far-fetched.

  Whatever his reason for wooing Flora Bell, I thought it possible that he had been going to see her in order to try to rekindle their romance. She might have agreed to meet with him and, when she refused his advances, he might have killed her.

  The other possible option was Balthazar Lebeau. It wasn’t just my growing fondness for the man that made me believe he was innocent of this crime. It was also that I found it difficult to believe he would become so deeply emotional that he would commit a murder in a fit of rage. He was too unaffected by everything around him. It was possible, of course, that this seeming indifference had finally reached its limit. Mrs. Roland had said that he had always felt things deeply and attempted to hide it. Sometimes a trickle of long-suppressed feeling can become a geyser.

  I looked down at my list in disgust. I had effectively accomplished nothing. Despite my best efforts, I was having no success in making any sense of the clues. I lay back against the pillows with a sigh. I reminded myself of poor Victoire, trying so hard to make sense of everything falling apart around her.

  If only life could have a neat resolution like a play.

  Like a play. I thought suddenly of what Freddy Bell had told me Flora had said. “It’s just like the play.” I had assumed that she meant the tragic love story, the lover choosing nobility over the desires of the heart. That’s what she would have thought if Mr. Holloway had decided to return to Georgina.

  But what if she had meant something else?

  I sat up in bed, my mind awhirl. It was just possible that there was something I had overlooked, something that would help to make sense of it all.

  Grabbing my list of suspects and throwing back the covers, I left the bedroom and went to the sitting room. The copy of the script I had used when helping Mr. Lebeau practice the scene was still in my handbag.

  I went to the desk and picked up a letter opener. Slipping it onto the binding, I carefully cut the pages free. Moving to the center of the sitting room, I set the stack of pages on the floor and began to push back the furniture. Luckily, there weren’t any heavy pieces in this room, and it was the work of a few minutes to move the ivory-colored leather chairs and push the sofa off of the rug toward the wall.

  Then, facing the fireplace, I began to set the pages out on the rug in chronological order. One by one, I laid the crisp white sheets of paper on the floor with a small space between each row for me to move as I went over everything.

  I went back to the desk to collect a pencil, and then I sat on the floor before the first row, ready to see if I could learn anything of use.

  Though I had seen the play more than once, I had not paid attention for anything that might hold special significance. Now I started at the beginning and underlined words and phrases I thought might mean something to Flora Bell, sometimes scribbling notes in the margins.

  “Madam!” Winnelda cried from the doorway, clearly horrified that I was up and exerting energy.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “My head doesn’t even hurt.”

  “But…”

  “Would you be so kind as to bring me some coffee?” I asked.

  She let out a sigh, clearly knowing when she had been defeated. “Very well, madam.”

  I continued moving pages around, lost in thought, and was surprised at how quickly she returned with the coffee things on a little tray.

  She stood for a moment, glancing around the room at the unfamiliar configuration of furniture. “Where shall I…?”

  “Just put it on the floor, there, Winnelda,” I said, nodding to the space just off the rug, close enough to reach but not near enough to be in the way.

  She leaned to set it on the floor. “Shall I pour it for you, madam?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll fix a cup in a few moments. Thank you, Winnelda.”

  “Are you sure…”

  “Quite sure. It’s getting late. You may go to bed if you like. I shan’t be needing anything else.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Winnelda went off to bed then, a bit miffed, I thought. She didn’t like having been sent away when I was working, but there was no way she could be of help in this venture. In all honesty, it was likely she would only have been a distraction.

  I leaned to pull off my satin bed slippers, tossing them aside. Then I returned to my work.

  There was more to all of this than I had previously considered. Now that I looked at the lines, it seemed that any of them might contain a hidden meaning. It was possible, of course, that Flora’s comment to her brother was unconnected to her murder, but something told me that I could not overlook the possibility that they were related. I had had the impression that day in her dressing room that she knew more than she was saying. Perhaps she had realized that someone meant her harm, but had been protecting that person for unknown reasons.

  Whatever the case, I was going to work my way through the entire play so that I could have a full idea of what she might have meant. I sorted the papers into stacks of those which might prove useful and those which would not.

  I worked in silence
for some time, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

  “What have we here?”

  I looked over my shoulder to see Milo leaning against the doorframe, his eyes taking in the tableau before him with an expression of vague interest. I had been so engrossed in my task that I had not even heard him come in the front door.

  Out of habit, I glanced at the clock and saw it was not yet ten o’clock. He was home early.

  “Hello, Milo,” I said, turning my attention back to the page before me. There was a line on it about a romantic rival and the danger of passion. Could it be a reference to Dahlia Dearborn? Had Flora sensed that she might be dangerous? I made a note and put the paper in the “possibly useful” stack.

  “Did you find Freddy Bell?” I asked, my eyes moving to the next page.

  “No, but I left a message at the gambling club. Said I want to give him a reward for helping you. I expect he’ll show up soon enough. I have a bit of other information that, while likely insignificant, is a bit interesting.”

  “I shall be delighted to hear it when I’ve finished with this,” I said, trying not to lose my train of thought.

  “Certainly. Might I ask what you’re doing?” he asked, coming into the room.

  “I’m working.”

  “I can see that. Working on what?”

  I spared him another glance. “I’m reading over the play and making some notes.”

  He came further into the room, loosening his necktie. “What sort of notes?”

  “Don’t step on anything,” I said, waving a hand in a preemptive attempt to keep him from stepping on the rug and upsetting any of the neat stacks of paper I had made. “Flora told Freddy Bell that something was ‘just like in the play.’ I think she knew she was in danger. If so, there might be a clue somewhere in the script. I’m going through the play looking at lines that might hold a special significance.”

  “An interesting theory.” He stepped carefully around the rug and looked down at me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You certainly make a pretty picture in your bare feet, with your hair mussed and a pencil behind your ear.”

  “Yes, well, I hope you won’t mind if I continue.”

  “By all means,” he said, with a courteous wave of his hand.

  I looked back down at the paper before me and tried to read, but I was very aware of Milo standing over me.

  I looked up. “Do you intend to stand there for the remainder of the evening?”

  “Certainly not. I can make myself comfortable as well,” he said. He removed his jacket, tossing it across the back of a chair, and then lowered himself to the floor beside me.

  I glanced at him warily over my shoulder. I had the distinct feeling he was going to be much more of a hindrance than a help. Probably even more so than Winnelda would have been.

  “What’s this coffee doing here?” he asked, indicating the tray Winnelda had left on the floor at the edge of the rug.

  “Winnelda brought it for me, but I forgot to drink it.”

  He reached out and poured some into the cup. Though I had neglected it for some time, steam rose up as he poured and the aroma drifted over to me.

  He stirred in the milk and sugar and handed the cup to me. I took a sip of the coffee, the warmth trailing its way down my throat.

  I handed the cup back to him, and he took a sip, glancing down at the papers beside him. I was gratified that he didn’t touch anything.

  “Now, what have you discovered?” Milo asked.

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I said, leaning down to mark another line, one about the dangers of the past—a reference to Christopher Landon?—a piece of hair falling across my forehead.

  “Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?”

  I turned to look at him skeptically. “Pale as parchment, with this unsightly bruise covering half my face?”

  “Yes,” he said with a credibly straight expression. “The purple gives a violet cast to your gray eyes.”

  “Milo…”

  “In fact, you’re so lovely that I think I must kiss you.” He deposited the cup back on the tray and leaned toward me.

  I shifted away and my hand hit a pile of papers, knocking them askew. I straightened, shoving him back. “Stop this at once,” I laughed. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  He smiled, but he sat back and didn’t try to kiss me again.

  “Very well. Tell me how I can help.” I resisted the urge to tell him that he could be the most helpful by going to bed and leaving me to work through this on my own. I knew, however, that he wasn’t likely to oblige me.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Perhaps you may look over some of these pages I’ve marked and see if anything jumps out at you.”

  He took the stack I handed him, glancing over it. “You’ve marked half the script.”

  “Everything seems to hold significance when you look for it,” I said with a sigh.

  “Perhaps we ought to make a list,” Milo suggested.

  “I’ve already made one.” I rose and, moving carefully to avoid stepping on any of the play pages on the floor, went to the desk where I had deposited my list when I had come into the sitting room. Then I moved back to my place on the rug and handed it to him.

  He scanned it. “You haven’t addressed the threatening letters.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re right. There is just so much to consider.”

  “One does wonder why the killer sent them in the first place,” Milo said.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  So engrossed were we in our conversation that the sound of an unexpected voice from the doorway was startling.

  “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture.”

  I looked up to see my mother standing there, her eyes taking in the scene before her.

  Milo glanced at me as he rose to his feet. “Good evening, Mrs. Ames.”

  “Good evening,” she said coolly.

  “Hello, Mother,” I said. “I didn’t hear you knock.”

  “That’s because I didn’t. The door was ajar, and I heard voices. I must say, if this is the way you spend your evenings alone, it’s no wonder I haven’t any grandchildren.”

  I shot Milo a glance, knowing very well that he would make some sort of embarrassing remark if I didn’t stop him. It seemed I had judged correctly, for he was just about to speak when my gaze stopped him.

  “What brings you here at this time of night?” I asked.

  “Your father and I are going out of town in the morning, and I thought that I would stop in and see you.”

  It was a poor excuse, and I knew then that there was some ulterior motive for her visit.

  She looked at me closely, a frown creasing her brow. “Whatever has happened to your face?”

  Something in the way she said it made me think she had already known about my injury. Who had told her? My mother had a great many friends. I could only assume that one of them had seen Milo helping me from the theatre after I had been hit.

  I hesitated, not wanting to tell her the truth but not knowing exactly how to avoid it.

  She seemed to misinterpret my reluctance and leveled her gaze on Milo. “Young man, I hope you had nothing to do with this. Carousing is one thing, but…”

  “Certainly not, Mother!” I said. “Milo had nothing to do with it. In fact, he came to my rescue.”

  I glanced at Milo to see if he was angry, but he appeared more amused than anything.

  “I suppose it has something to do with this investigation you’ve become involved in,” she said. She fixed me with her piercing gaze, and it seemed there was no use in denying it.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I was hit on the head by a killer.” If I was going to tell her the truth, I might at least have the satisfaction of shocking her.

  She blinked, and I was gratified that I seemed to have rendered her speechless.

  Alas,
her next words took some of the wind from my sails. “You’ve caught the killer then?”

  “Not exactly,” I said with a sigh.

  “Hmm.”

  “That’s what we’re doing now,” I said, waving a hand at the papers scattered about the room. “We’re going over the evidence.”

  She looked around, clearly not impressed. “If the police are incapable of solving crimes on their own, perhaps it is something that ought to be addressed in Parliament.”

  “Well, we all know that government needs a bit of assistance here and there,” Milo said with a smile.

  “That’s true,” she said grudgingly. “But I don’t see why my daughter must be the one to do it. If anyone need go about getting hit on the head, send your husband to do it.”

  I bit back a laugh. “Remember that, Milo,” I instructed.

  “I shall,” he replied.

  “Well, I clearly can’t stop from you behaving recklessly, but I do hope you’ll be careful. Perhaps your father and I ought to stay in town a few more days. You clearly need looking after.”

  It was touching, in a way, that she had been concerned enough about my safety to pay me this unexpected visit, but I had no desire for her to make good on her threat to look after me. She had never been the sort of mother to fuss over my well-being, and it would be disconcerting if she were to start now.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I assured her quickly. “We’re very close to a solution. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m very distressed that you’ve put yourself in danger, and over an amateur production, no less. I’ve just been to dinner with the Carvers, and they tell me that The Price of Victory, while amusing, is not up to the standard of a good many plays this season.”

  I knew now who my mother’s informant was. Mrs. Carver had an eagle eye and a serpent’s tongue. She was especially fond of gossiping about the goings-on in the theatre district. No doubt she had heard about my incident from one of her sources. My only surprise was that it had taken the news a full day to get back to my mother.

  “Oh, I know that Gerard Holloway has always had delusions of grandeur and a desire for accolades, but he hasn’t the true spark for theatre. I believe acting must be in one’s blood, not something that can be learned. Of course, I know that so many people enjoy the theatre because it allows them the opportunity to pretend. People do like earning reputations for themselves and going about trying to live up to them. But, on the whole, I dislike amateur productions. The acting is never very good, and everything is so obviously an illusion. Even the stage props look excessively unrealistic. It takes away from the experience, really, and I, for one…”