An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  An unfortunate side effect of my somewhat strained relationship with my mother is that it often takes some time for her words to work their way through the filters I have built up over the years. My mind was slowly turning as she spoke, only half listening, but suddenly I started, a chill sweeping through me. In an instant, everything seemed to fall into place, as clearly as if I were watching it play out on a stage before me.

  I didn’t even notice that my mother had stopped speaking.

  “Whatever’s the matter, Amory?” she said. “You’ve gone all white.”

  “I … you’ve made me think of something.” I looked up at her. “You may have just helped me solve the murder.”

  “What?” Though I think the word was meant to sound aghast, she could not hide the note of excitement that was there.

  “I think I know what happened,” I said. “Something you’ve just said…”

  “Well, what is it?” she demanded.

  I looked over at Milo. My mind was still whirling. The solution seemed impossible, and yet, somehow, I knew that it was not.

  “I’ll explain in a moment,” I said, getting quickly to my feet. “I just need to think…”

  “Take your time, darling,” Milo said.

  I looked again at my mother and was surprised to see a glimmer of admiration in her eyes. Despite her disapproval at my involvement in the matter, she was clearly impressed that I had come to the truth. Yet some part of me wished that I were wrong.

  Slowly I worked through the pieces of the puzzle in my mind, hoping that one would prove an ill fit, hoping that the solution was not correct. But piece by piece it all fit into place.

  “I … I’ll explain,” I said again. “But I need to speak to Inspector Jones.”

  My mother moved to the sofa and perched on the edge, clasping her hands in her lap. “I shall wait. I don’t mean to leave before I learn the truth.”

  “It’s a good thing you dropped in, Mrs. Ames,” Milo said, turning to her. “It was very kind of you to sweep through and solve our mystery for us.”

  “I suppose now I can see why you get a certain thrill from such things,” she said. “Vulgar though it may be.”

  “Vulgarity can be very amusing on occasion,” Milo said, a wicked glint in his eyes.

  My mother gave him a disapproving glance before turning back to me. “What will you do once you’ve telephoned the police? Will they arrest the suspect directly?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The trouble is, it’s going to be difficult to prove. We must find a way to bring the truth to light.”

  “How do you mean to do that?” my mother asked. She was clearly becoming invested in the matter, and I wondered for the first time if my mother had a bit of a taste for adventure herself. Perhaps it was a trait I had inherited without realizing it.

  “These are theatrical people,” I said. “They won’t respond to the usual methods. We’re going to have to create some sort of drama to get a confession.”

  My mother’s brows rose expectantly. “Well, then, I suppose you shall have to put on a show.”

  26

  WE GATHERED AT the Penworth Theatre the next morning. I had telephoned Inspector Jones very late, but, once I told him what I had in mind, he had gone immediately into action. Even with that very short notice and the fact that it was a Sunday morning, he had managed to have each of the players present for the drama that was about to play out.

  The stage was still set for the first scene, in Victoire’s drawing room, but several additional chairs had been set up there, and there was a seat for everyone. As each of the suspects took their seats, I felt a flurry of nervousness in my stomach. Stage fright, I supposed one might call it.

  I glanced at Inspector Jones, and he met my gaze and gave me the slightest nod. It was an immeasurable boost to my confidence. So, too, was Milo’s presence behind me. I couldn’t see him from where I stood, but I knew that he was there and that he was my partner in this. Whatever happened today, he would be behind me.

  I had expected there would be grumblings and protests as everyone gathered at this rather unorthodox location, but there was nothing until everyone was seated. It was no great surprise to me that it was Dahlia Dearborn who first voiced her disapproval.

  “I don’t understand why we’ve all been called here,” she said.

  “Yes, what the devil is this all about?” demanded Christopher Landon.

  “This will only take a few minutes, Miss Dearborn, Mr. Landon,” Inspector Jones said. And that was all he said. He didn’t elaborate further, and yet silence descended over the actors.

  It never ceased to amaze me how Inspector Jones’s calm, matter-of-fact manner set everything to rights. When he spoke, people accepted his authority and proceeded from a place of respect. It was really a remarkable quality.

  I expected that he would begin then, but he waited for a moment, as though to further emphasize that those present were here at his request and would remain so until he had dismissed them. I knew he was not the sort of person who reveled in his authority, but he was also clever enough to know when it could be wielded to its best advantage. This room was full of people who appreciated a display.

  I looked at Gerard and Georgina Holloway. Though they sat next to each other, they didn’t speak. Mr. Holloway looked perfectly miserable, his face drawn and grim. Georgina had her arms crossed, as though protecting herself from something. It appeared the rift between them was not yet mended.

  Balthazar Lebeau sat back easily in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. As ever, he looked as though the world was his to command. If he was at all concerned about the proceedings, he gave no sign of it. After all, there was no place where he was more at home than on the stage. Nevertheless, I noted that, despite his perpetual expression of mild amusement, his eyes were moving from person to person, as though he, too, was observing them.

  Dahlia Dearborn was trying very hard to act as though the entire thing was nothing but a nuisance, but I could tell that she was nervous. She was tapping her long red fingernails against her leg and biting her lip.

  Christopher Landon was seated beside her, his handsome face set in hard lines.

  Freddy Bell sat a bit apart from the others. He had a look of almost defiant indifference on his face, but his eyes betrayed him. That blue gaze, so like Flora’s, was darting around the room, fear evident.

  “I suppose we can begin,” Inspector Jones said at last, and all conversation ceased as he stepped forward. “Mrs. Ames has graciously agreed to help me, and I would like all of you to afford her every courtesy.”

  That was my cue.

  I felt the weight of every pair of eyes turn toward me, and I knew what it must be like to step out onto the stage in one’s premier performance, exposed and ready to be judged. Only, this time so much more lay in the balance than applause and acclaim, and the thought made me more nervous than ever. What if this didn’t work?

  “I was drawn into this matter when I learned that Flora Bell had been receiving threatening letters,” I began, my voice echoing out onto the stage and into the darkness beyond. I was pleased that I sounded much more confident than I felt. “It seemed, at first, that they might have been designed to simply frighten her, a mean-spirited joke by someone who envied her and wanted her to fail. But when she was killed, it became clear that there must be more to the letters than that.”

  I paused. There was no reaction. Everyone was silent, watchful.

  I went on. “What was puzzling was the nature of the letters. They gave no instructions, nor did they make demands. They only warned of impending danger. Therefore, it seemed their purpose was merely to make her aware that harm was coming, to cause her suffering before she died. In order to determine who might want to do this, I began to examine the motives each of you had for wanting to kill her.”

  “This is preposterous,” Freddy Bell said. “I had no reason to kill my sister, and I resent your saying that I did.”

  For some re
ason, this protest did not deter me. Instead, it only made me more determined. It was time that we came to the truth.

  “That isn’t quite true, Mr. Bell,” I said. “You were—and still are—in rather dire financial straits. Your sister, who had always been a steady source of income, had refused to give you any more money. You are, however, her heir. Her death has benefited you.”

  His face turned crimson, some combination of embarrassment and fury. “You haven’t any right to say things like that.” He shot to his feet. “I won’t stay here and listen to this.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Bell,” Inspector Jones commanded softly.

  Freddy Bell hesitated ever so slightly, almost wobbled on his feet, and then he dropped back into his seat, his face still a bright shade of red. He looked almost as though he was about to cry, and I felt a sudden pang of pity for him. It would not do to lose focus, however.

  “Not only that, it came to my attention that you had been stealing from her.”

  “I never…”

  “Flora told her landlady you had taken money from her room, and she was forced to hide valuables in her dressing room. It was possible that she had noticed something else was missing that night and took you to the theatre to confront you about it. You might have argued with her and, when things got heated, killed her.”

  “I didn’t do it,” he said weakly. “She was my sister, my only family. I loved her…”

  “Mr. Bell was not the only one, of course,” I said. “As I got to know each of you, I realized you all harbored ill feelings toward Miss Bell in your own ways. There was, first of all, the … relationship between Mr. Holloway and Miss Bell.”

  I looked directly at Mr. Holloway as I said this, but his eyes were on the floor. Georgina’s gaze met mine briefly, something unreadable in it, and then she, too, looked away.

  “Their relationship was an intense one, and more than one person heard them arguing on several occasions.”

  I waited for Gerard Holloway to contest this, but he did not. I wondered if he was simply too embarrassed to discuss it in front of his wife.

  “There was, in fact, the matter of a rather intense row that Mr. Landon heard after the opening performance.”

  “Would you like to tell us about that, Mr. Holloway?” Inspector Jones asked.

  “That was nothing,” Mr. Holloway said calmly. “We were both a bit excitable after the performance. It has no bearing on anything. I didn’t kill Flora.”

  “Mr. Landon said you asked her about Mr. Lebeau.”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “It was insignificant.”

  I let this pass for a moment, moving on. “It was also possible, of course, that Georgina might have done it.”

  Her eyes came up to mine again, cool and unconcerned. Mr. Holloway, however, did not take these words with such equanimity.

  “You know it wasn’t Georgina, Mrs. Ames,” he said, his voice tight. “She would never do such a thing.”

  “There is very little one will not do when pressed to the limits of desperation, Mr. Holloway,” I replied softly.

  He looked as though he was about to say something, but then he stopped, sinking back further into his chair.

  “Of course, there was no love between Flora Bell and me,” Georgina said calmly, her cool, smooth voice washing over the stage, as lovely as any actress’s. “She ruined my marriage, took my children’s father from me—”

  “Georgina…” Holloway broke in, his voice ragged.

  She ignored him, didn’t even look at him. “I didn’t like her, and I didn’t mourn her death, but I also didn’t kill her. I am not a woman to make grand gestures for the sake of love. If Gerard wanted her that much, he could have her.”

  “Georgina, darling…” Holloway said, but then he stopped, as though remembering suddenly where they were.

  I felt the knot in the pit of my stomach growing. No matter what happened here, the outcome was not going to be what I had hoped. There was too much damage done.

  Almost without realizing it, I glanced over my shoulder at Milo. It was as though he had been expecting it, for he was already looking in my direction, waiting for my gaze to meet his.

  I turned back to the group. “The Holloways were not the only ones who wished Miss Bell ill. Miss Dearborn, too, had a reason to resent her.”

  “I?” she asked, her hand moving to her chest in a very poor imitation of surprised indignation. “I didn’t want anything to happen to Flora.”

  “Perhaps not,” I said. “But she did stand between you and a starring role in The Price of Victory.”

  She shrugged. “There are a lot of roles, Mrs. Ames,” she said coolly. “This is a good play, yes, but it’s not good enough to kill for.” She gave a little laugh. “It’s preposterous to think such a thing. If I wanted a part, I could get one in easier ways than committing murder.”

  She was right about that, of course, but there was more.

  “But it wasn’t only the role,” I went on. “You hated Flora Bell because the role was nearly yours and she took it. As well as Mr. Holloway’s attentions.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “There was another incident in the past that also seemed to point to you,” I said. “A case that involved unsavory letters.”

  “That has nothing to do with this!” She was growing angry now, her face very red. “I was a silly schoolgirl. It means nothing.”

  “It was interesting all the same,” I said.

  She glared at me, but didn’t respond. For the moment I would press her no further.

  “You’ll read my fortune next, I suppose,” Mr. Landon said, an unpleasant smile playing on his lips. I had never taken him for a nice young man, but there was something even less agreeable about him now. His eyes were very hard, cold, and he was watching the rest of us as though he held us in the greatest contempt. I would not have been at all surprised if he got up and attempted to leave the theatre. I knew, however, that Inspector Jones had men stationed at the exits.

  “Yes, Mr. Landon. You, too, had your reasons for resenting Miss Bell.”

  He shrugged. “It seems we all did. That doesn’t prove that any of us killed her.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “But there were other clues that pointed to the fact that you might have been the one to kill her.”

  He smirked, putting a cigarette to his mouth. The rasping scrape of the match seemed very loud on the quiet stage. “By all means, do enlighten us, Mrs. Ames,” he said.

  I refused to be intimidated by his evident disdain.

  “You and Miss Bell had formed a relationship at one point.”

  “What of it? I’ve had a lot of relationships.” Despite his arrogance, he was growing uneasy. I could sense it. He had, for that moment we sat on the edge of this stage together, let his guard down, and I knew that he was regretting it now.

  “You cared for her, but she cast you aside in favor of Mr. Holloway.”

  “He has money, and I am but a lowly player. It was not so great a shock.” I saw Mr. Holloway shift a bit uneasily from the corner of my eye. Georgina still sat stone-faced.

  “That doesn’t mean you took it well.”

  He looked up at me. “I took it just fine. I cared for Flora, yes. But if she was happy with Holloway, I wasn’t going to quibble. Things have always ended well with my lovers.”

  I supposed he meant to shock me with this referral to numerous love affairs, but it was I who shocked him in the end.

  “That’s not exactly true, is it?” I asked softly.

  “What are you getting at?” he demanded. I could tell from the way he was looking at me that he knew precisely what I meant.

  “There was, unfortunately, another woman in your past who met a tragic end.”

  “Don’t you drag her into this,” he said in a low voice.

  I knew it must be unpleasant, perhaps even painful, for him to have the past dredged up, but I had no choice.

  “You had a falling-out, and her body was l
ater found in the Thames.”

  “You shut up,” he said, his eyes suddenly blazing.

  Undeterred, I went on. “It was ruled a suicide, but there were people who doubted it.”

  “Don’t you say another word, you lying little—”

  “Careful, Landon,” Milo said from behind me.

  Mr. Landon paid Milo no heed. His eyes were still on me, pure hatred emanating from them. “You filthy liar. If you weren’t a woman, I’d bash your head in.”

  This unexpected threat of violence caught me by surprise, and I heard a murmur of dismay from Miss Dearborn as well as protests from the other gentlemen.

  “Another remark such as that, and I expect Mr. Ames may return the favor,” Inspector Jones said, his normally steady tone surprisingly tight. “And I’d be obliged to turn away while he did it.”

  Mr. Landon’s face looked thunderous. “You can’t threaten me,” he said.

  “No,” Inspector Jones replied. “But Mr. Ames can.”

  “Consider yourself threatened,” Milo said in a deceptively pleasant tone.

  With the greatest of efforts, Landon seemed to master his emotions. At last he spoke, his voice almost returned to normal. “That woman’s death had nothing to do with Flora. Don’t bring her into this.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Landon,” I said sincerely. “I don’t mean to cause you pain. But we must look at things from every angle.”

  “I loved Helen,” he said. “We had a row and I broke things off, but I didn’t mean it. I thought we would reconcile. But Helen was distraught … I didn’t realize…”

  “The death of Helen Whitney was tragic, but it became even more curious when I saw a photograph of her. You will admit that she bore a striking resemblance to Flora Bell. It was almost as though Miss Bell served as a replica of the woman you lost.”