A Haunting Reprise

by Amanda DeWees

  She took my hand without hesitation. “As to that,” she said, “I think you’ll find that a good many of the troupe had started to doubt Atherton’s story.”

  “They might have said so a few minutes ago instead of standing about like statues,” Roderick put in dryly, and she acknowledged the point with a little half smile.

  “In due time they will have to answer for themselves in that regard. I hope you’ll give them a chance to make amends.” Behind her I saw more and more of the partygoers spilling out onto the terrace, as they too sought the frosty luminance of moonlight instead of the harsh electric glare, and I drew back.

  “Perhaps that can wait until tomorrow,” I said. I wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel and curl up in my soft bed with Roderick, but Polly tugged at my sleeve. Her pleading look gave me pause. I said to Mrs. Atherton, “If I may trespass on your kindness—”

  “Anything you ask, Miss Ingram.”

  “Perhaps you could take my sister Polly around and introduce her. That is, if there truly is anyone present who would not be prejudiced against her as my sister. She is training for a theatrical career, and while I don’t wish to squander her opportunity to meet people in the business, I confess I’m more inclined for a quiet stroll with my husband.”

  Her smile was warm. “I shall be happy to make introductions for Polly. That seems the least I can do.”

  “Perhaps we can all meet by the Sydenham gate in half an hour,” Roderick suggested. “Maudsley, will you be good enough to see that Miss Ingersoll gets there on time?”

  “Most happily,” Martin said and followed the two of them back into the crowd.

  “Let’s walk to the lake,” I said to Roderick. It was about as far as one could get from this ugly scene.

  “Whatever you desire is yours. If you like, I can even go back and give Atherton a black eye to go with his bloody nose.”

  Holding a bit more tightly to his arm, I said, “No, thank you. I don’t want either of us to waste another moment’s thought on him.”

  WE WALKED FOR WHAT felt like hours, silently. Whenever we heard voices approaching Roderick would lead me away down another path. Though the voices never sounded hostile, I only wanted to be with my husband.

  “What did you think of him?” I asked suddenly.

  He didn’t have to ask who was in my mind. Without hesitation he said, “He’s a weasel.”

  For some reason that made me laugh. We had just crossed the footbridge to the first of the dinosaur islands, where the scaled figures loomed twice as high as our heads, and I had to stop and lean against one beast’s leg for support as the laughter shook me.

  Roderick stood watching me with an uncertain tilt to his head, doubtless wondering if this was healthy mirth or hysteria. “Well, you did ask,” he said.

  It felt wonderful to laugh. Eventually the hilarity subsided, however, and I heaved a long sigh that seemed to expel the last of my tension. His bluntness had done me good, cutting through the miasma of self-questioning and what-ifs. I took his arm once more.

  “If only I had known you a year ago,” I said. “You would have steered me on the right course when Atherton made his proposal. Come, darling, let’s find the others and go home. I’m sure it’s been half an hour.”

  “With pleasure,” he said, and from the change in his voice I could tell how worried he had been. “I believe we’ve only to turn left at the next Iguanodon.”

  “Is it really an Iguanodon?”

  “I’ve no idea. If he weren’t extinct, we could ask him.”

  His foolishness was putting me in a better humor. “But we wouldn’t be able to understand the answer.”

  The bulk of the ostensible Iguanodon loomed ahead. Its jaws were open, showing pointed teeth, some of which were missing. The closer we drew, the more benign and whimsical the creature looked, rather than frightening. In part this was due to how age was destroying the illusion of life. Seen up close, his paint was flaking, and there were cracks in the creature’s tail.

  “Poor fellow,” Roderick said, and patted him on his thick scaled neck. “A bit the worse for wear, aren’t you?”

  “They do look a bit run down from the way I remember them,” I admitted.

  Roderick withdrew his hand and looked at his palm, frowning. Then he stepped to the side of the path and brought his hand closer to the light of a torchiere.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Perhaps nothing,” he said, but his voice was troubled. He turned to look again at the dinosaur, and following his gaze I saw beneath the creature a glimpse of white shirt and a reflection off glossy patent-leather pumps.

  “Has someone had too much to drink and crawled underneath the dinosaur for a nap?” I wondered aloud.

  Instead of answering, Roderick seized the torchiere. He had to use both hands to wrest it from the earth. Then, holding it with one hand while extending the other warningly to keep me back, he approached the statue.

  The flames illuminated a man lying beneath the belly of the statue, as still as the stone creature itself. The round torso and plump outflung hand told me his identity even before the light touched his face. A gasp broke from my lips, and I rushed to kneel by his side.

  Urgently I took him by the shoulders and shook. “Atherton,” I cried.

  I heard Roderick mutter an oath, but his voice was gentle when he addressed me. “Sybil, sweetheart. Come away.” He moved to plunge the torchiere back into its place, and I cried out in protest as the light receded.

  “We must help him!” I said. Lightly I slapped the prone man’s cheek, but he did not move. There was a stain on his shirt front, but that was from when Roderick had struck him, and I told myself that men did not die from having their noses struck. “Wake up, Atherton. Wake up.”

  Footsteps neared, and I heard questioning voices. Roderick came to take my arm. “Sybil, you mustn’t. There is nothing to be done.”

  “You can’t know that for certain. He needs a doctor.” I pulled my arm from his grasp, but he took hold of me around the waist and drew me away.

  “It’s too late,” he said gently. “I’m sorry.”

  A male voice called, “Is there trouble?”

  I hid my face against Roderick’s chest and felt his arms fold around me. “Someone needs to summon a constable,” he called in return, and with my cheek against his chest the words thrummed through my head so as to almost make me dizzy.

  There were shocked exclamations and questioning voices. “What has happened?” asked a frightened voice I recognized as Polly’s. “Is someone hurt?”

  I turned my head to find her standing before us with Martin, curiosity and concern on their faces.

  “Gerhardt Atherton is dead,” I said.

  AN ENDLESS TIME PASSED. A crowd gathered, full of questions. Then there were questions from the constable when one finally appeared. We had to promise to be available to answer still more questions the next day. Polly and I were both shivering by the time our subdued group of four at last set out for our respective residences.

  When Roderick and I finally returned to the Langham I told him that I was cold and would draw myself a bath. He had taken for us one of the few suites that included its own bathroom, which had the most modern fittings. The long copper tub was enclosed in a mahogany casing carved like a sarcophagus—though perhaps that was my mood coloring my perception.

  What I hadn’t told him was that the noise of the water thundering into the metal tub would mask the sound of my crying.

  I had not wept for my father. Not out of any stubbornness or principle; tears simply had not been present, probably because my sorrow was tempered by the distance between us. But now, with the death of the man who had been my second father, the tears would not stop flowing. Now Atherton and I would never make peace. He would never have the chance to make up for how he had betrayed and failed me, and I would never be able to give him that opportunity.

  At one time I had thought the world of that benign,
flawed, kindly man. Sometimes foolish, sometimes wise, and always—I thought—looking after me. He had taken on the role of mentor without any ulterior motive or making any claim on me, though I had been a naive girl when first we met. Not many other managers would have been so disinterested. For Gerhardt Atherton, the theater itself was mistress and goddess, and he had patiently trained me to perform the rites of a high priestess. And for years we existed in that happy idyll.

  But now all those memories, which went back a decade and a half, were tainted and soured, with no hope now of Atherton redeeming them.

  When Roderick came in search of me I was huddled on the floor, leaning against the bath with my head buried in my arms. With an exclamation he turned off the taps, and in the sudden silence my weeping was shockingly loud.

  “Sweetheart,” he began, and then fell silent. He had never seen me fall to pieces. He probably had no idea how to help me.

  I raised my head and looked at him. Though I could say nothing, at once he knelt down beside me and drew me to him. He held me close against him while I cried, stroking my hair and making no complaint when my tears soaked the front of his shirt.

  We remained thus for as long as it took for the weeping to quiet and the shuddering sobs to begin to ease. Only then did he ask, “Do you truly want a bath?”

  Gulping, I shook my head.

  With that he picked me up and carried me into the next room to set me on the bed. For a man with a justified reputation for being turbulent, he could be very gentle, and he was gentle now as he undressed me. I sat docile and exhausted under his ministrations, with only the occasional gulp and sniffle to relieve the silence. When at last I wore nothing more than my chemise and drawers, and he had even removed all my hairpins, he helped me lie down and drew the bedclothes over me.

  He said, “I shall ring for a hot-water bottle,” and leaned over to touch his lips to my forehead.

  I fastened one hand onto his shirt front. “Don’t go.”

  “It won’t take a moment—”

  “Don’t go. Stay with me.” His eyes were troubled and full of loving concern, and I tried to force the waver from my voice. “Love me,” I said, and drew him down to me. “Please. Love me.”

  He touched my cheek, his eyes searching mine. What he saw must have convinced him of my need for him, for he said softly, “With all my heart.”

  And then with lips and hands and body he did love me, granting me both comfort and delight, so that for a transcendent interval of time there was no room for pain or grieving... or regret.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time Roderick began to stir and yawn the next morning, I had already bathed, dressed, and breakfasted. When he looked around for me, I brought the breakfast tray over to him and perched on the bed.

  “How are you?” were his first words as he sat up. He was still blinking himself awake as I handed him his tea, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him: hair tumbled, his broad chest bare, his chin dark with stubble, looking as rakishly dangerous as a pirate... holding a cup of tea.

  “I’m much better,” I told him. “I know just what I need to do. First, at ten o’clock we have an appointment with a detective.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “I sent a letter to police headquarters by the first post and told them we would see the detective who has been assigned to the case then. I’ve reserved one of the smaller coffee rooms downstairs for us so that we may talk in private. The detective will take down our account of last night. And, more important, he will give me as much information as I am able to winkle out of him.”

  His smile was drowsy. “You have the air of a woman on a mission.” Setting aside his teacup, he leaned forward to kiss me. I loved the warmth of his skin when he was newly awakened like this, and the roughness of his stubbled jaw was stimulating against my face. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” he said softly. “Last night I was afraid your heart was broken.”

  “It was,” I admitted. “Or at least a little. But I’m going to find out what happened and who is to blame. I must see him—or her—brought to justice.” I also had an idea to present to Treherne and Narcissa that might establish my bona fides and do all of us a bit of good, including Polly, but I saw no need to spring that on a man just waking.

  He gave me a long look. I think he was uncertain whether my resolve was wise. “Are you certain you wish to involve yourself in the investigation? It may not be easy... and it may also turn up things that you won’t wish to know.”

  “I’ve given it a great deal of thought.” When he raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, I explained, “I didn’t sleep much, and I’ve been mulling it over. The fact is, even though Atherton failed me at the end, for years he was nothing but good to me. He was more a father to me than my real father. I wouldn’t be living the life I am now were it not for him.”

  “Were it not for his practically forcing you to move to America and marry my stepfather, you mean,” Roderick said dryly. “You’ll have your work cut out for you to convince me that he ever put your welfare ahead of his.”

  “Darling, I’m not saying he was ever a paragon. But he was my family. And who’s to say he might not have improved had he had the opportunity—which now he never will have. I must know who robbed him of that.”

  Roderick leaned forward and took my face in his hands. “He didn’t deserve you,” he said. “Are you certain you’re up to this? You don’t need more time to rest and... ?”

  The meaningful lift of his eyebrows made me smile, and I permitted myself one more kiss—but only one. On any other morning I might have taken him up on the suggestion, but today I had work to do.

  “My ‘rest and’ was wonderfully therapeutic,” I said. “You are dear to worry about me, but you needn’t. Worry about whoever stands between me and the truth.”

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Strack had a weakness for the fair sex. It was clear as soon as he entered and caught sight of me, for in what looked like an automatic reflex he smoothed down his drooping moustache with one knuckle, first one side, then the other.

  I had dressed for the occasion in a charming but relatively demure gown of lilac glazed cotton trimmed with gauzy flounces of robin’s-egg blue, more appropriate for springtime but not incompatible with this mild autumn. More important, it might remind him of the innocent bloom of English womanhood and awaken any chivalrous impulses that might reside within him.

  The inspector himself was no fashion plate. His dark suit was certainly not modish, and it showed wear at the edges of the sleeves and trouser hems. Perhaps he liked to stretch his pennies—or was forced to do so. His hair and moustache were iron gray, and he squinted a bit as we introduced ourselves, as if he needed spectacles... or as if he wished to give the impression of being shrewd and observant.

  He certainly was observant of me. He scarcely glanced at Roderick after greeting him. Well, that was all to the good. A bit of flirtation and flattery from me, and soon he would be revealing every useful thing he knew.

  “I come with excellent news,” he announced as he took his seat. “The case is closed.”

  “What?” I exclaimed, thrown off balance.

  His smile, perhaps understandably, had a touch of self-satisfaction. “I made the arrest myself early this morning.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, to be sure,” Roderick said. “Who is it?”

  “Why, Mr. Ivor Treherne, of course.” Seeing the surprise on our faces, he explained with a touch of condescension, “It’s as clear as daylight that he’s our man. He and Mr. Atherton had been fighting for weeks over money troubles, the Crystal Palace engagement, the casting of Miss Holm—practically everything two business partners could wrangle over. Then came that final argument, overheard by practically everyone. When you showed up, Miss Ingram—looking quite lovely, by all accounts—and forced Treherne to realize that Atherton was entirely to blame for the troupe’s financial woes... well, he simply snapped.”

  Somehow that felt wrong to me.
“Treherne certainly was angry,” I said, “and taken aback when I challenged Atherton’s story, but I wouldn’t have thought he would resort to violence.”

  “It’s true he had no history of violent behavior,” the detective conceded. “Unlike your husband here.”

  I wondered if that was a reference to the duel in Roderick’s past. That might put my husband in a difficult position if the case against Treherne fell through, since it could be argued that Roderick did have a motive for the murder.

  Fortunately, as Strack continued, I realized he meant something much less serious. “It’s the meek ones you have to watch,” he told me. “After a lifetime of reining themselves in, when they reach the breaking point, it’s quite an explosion. Whereas someone like Mr. Brooke finds a vent for his anger by simply punching the man in the nose and being done with it, someone like Treherne would be unable to stop there once he got started.”

  “You’ve seen such cases before?” Roderick asked.

  Waving airily, Strack leaned back in his chair. “Countless times, Mr. Brooke. Add that to the shock and dismay of seeing his protégée’s performance go off so wretchedly, and you have enough motive for five murders. And the method of murder itself—I beg your pardon, Miss Ingram. Such matters are unsuited to a lady’s ears.”

  “Pray go on,” I said. “I’m perfectly well. It was a violent assault, was it not?”

  He hesitated, but a closer look at my composed demeanor must have convinced him that I was not the type of woman to shriek and faint at a description of violence. “It was indeed,” he said. “The marks around the throat indicate that he was throttled, but that wasn’t what killed him.”

  “It was a blow to the head,” said Roderick.

  Strack’s eyebrows rose, and I guessed he was displeased at having this revelation taken away from him. “As a matter of fact, it was. How did you know?”