“There was blood on the dinosaur at roughly head height. That was what first told me something was wrong.”
The detective gave a grudging nod. “Observant of you. Evidently what happened is that the assailant overpowered Mr. Atherton, seizing him by the throat and driving him back until the back of his head struck the statue with some force.” He stole another glance at me. “Everything about the crime speaks of overpowering emotion—blind, unreasoning fury.”
“That does make sense,” I said slowly. “Especially since...”
“Yes, Miss Ingram? Please don’t hold back if you have any additional information, no matter how minor it may seem.”
I was already regretting having revealed that I knew anything further, but if the man was guilty, it could do no harm. “I don’t know it for a fact,” I said, “and please consider it nothing more than speculation, for that’s truly all it is. But I have an idea that Mr. Treherne may have more than a professional interest in Miss Holm’s welfare and career.”
Roderick took up the thought. “So when he saw the woman he loves give a disastrous performance, he would be infuriated not just because of the potential earnings lost but because it hurt him to see her humiliated.”
I had to admit that Mr. Treherne was looking more and more like the guilty party. “Did anyone see him leave the reception?” I asked. “I imagine you wouldn’t be so secure in the arrest if you didn’t have witnesses to place him with Atherton.”
“We have a witness, yes. Naturally we hope that others will come forward. Unfortunately, scarcely anyone’s whereabouts last night are clear. When most everyone moved out of the building and onto the terraces, the darkness and the open area make it almost impossible to pinpoint anyone’s comings and goings. Some stayed on the upper terrace, while some ventured to the lower. Some wandered off to the rose garden, it seems, or even the hedge maze.” He shrugged. “The Crystal Palace grounds are so extensive that it’s very unlikely we shall find anyone else who can confirm that Treherne left the reception with the victim.”
“Under those circumstances, I’m impressed that you found even one witness,” I said, smiling to show my dimples. “May I ask who it is?”
With an answering smile, he said, “I wish I could oblige so charming a lady, but the witness has requested confidentiality.”
If even my considerable charm would not persuade him to divulge that information, I might as well abandon that line of inquiry. “And Atherton?” I asked. “What was he doing on the dinosaur island? Have you learned that?”
The detective must have thought I was criticizing his abilities, or perhaps he was tiring of my curiosity, for his manner grew defensive. “You must remember, my dear Miss Ingram, that this case is not yet twenty-four hours old. We’ve much still to do. But at least we know for certain that we have the murderer. The case will be easy to construct since we have that knowledge to build upon.”
“I’m certain you’ll have no difficulty in uncovering the entire story,” I said to soothe his fragile masculine pride. “Perhaps Mr. Treherne will confess.”
“I feel certain of it,” said Strack, with a return of his confident—not to say arrogant—manner. “He made no attempt to resist arrest, and indeed seemed almost resigned when we took him away.”
That was an interesting morsel of information. “Does this mean you won’t need to interview my sister? I’d like to spare her that if at all possible. She is so young, not yet eighteen.”
“She was with Mr. Maudsley at the time, I believe?”
“Yes. I’m sure he can vouch for her whereabouts.”
“Then I see no reason to distress the young lady.” He rose, and I could have sworn he puffed his chest out a trifle as he stated, “After all, we have our man.”
Somehow, hearing this did not give me a feeling of relief. Perhaps I wouldn’t be satisfied until the culprit had confessed. Or perhaps it was simply that, not having been involved in identifying him or seeing him being arrested, it did not feel quite real. It was difficult to comprehend that the entire matter had been concluded already.
Roderick seemed to notice my feeling of dissatisfaction. When the detective had left us, he said, “It may take some time to sink in, especially since Treherne is practically a stranger.”
“I suppose,” I said. “Perhaps that’s why I don’t take much comfort in his having been arrested. The main thing I feel...”
“Yes?”
“I feel sorry for Narcissa Holm.” It might have sounded ridiculous under the circumstances, but remembering her strained performance and her tear-filled conversation with Gertrude Fox, I couldn’t help but wonder how she was bearing up. She might be completely at sea with both her managers gone, and with more nights of Macbeth ahead of her, it would not have surprised me if she was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
Roderick cocked an eyebrow. “She might have been in on it, you know.”
“I suppose she could have put Treherne up to it,” I conceded. “But if she isn’t complicit, she must be in a dreadful state. You can be sure that others will be suspecting her of involvement.” She might be in need of friends just now... and a means of rescuing herself from the Macbeth disaster.
And if she had in fact conspired with her manager in Atherton’s death, I would not rest until I could prove it. I sprang up and was almost out of the room before Roderick realized I was going.
“Where are you off to now with that determined look?” he asked, overtaking me in a few long strides.
“I’m going to the theater,” I said. “I must find out whether Narcissa is a Lady Macbeth in reality as well as onstage.”
That brought a wry smile from Roderick. “She was an ineffectual villainess onstage,” he said. “Let’s hope that she is just as unsuccessful at bloodthirsty deeds in her own persona. But what makes you think she’ll be at the theater?”
“There is no one at the helm now. If I were her, the first thing I would do is to search Atherton and Treherne’s offices to look for any papers relating to how the troupe is to be run and what its current financial state is.”
“Dire, I should think.”
“No doubt. But I believe I can help them.”
He pulled a doubtful face. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “giving them money may not be the best idea.”
“Goodness, I’ve no intention of doing that. I have a far better idea.”
“You don’t owe them a thing, you know.”
He sounded worried, and I put my hand to his face to reassure him. “I know I don’t, but all the same I feel that I have something to prove.”
“Thanks to Atherton.”
“Yes, thanks to Atherton. But I know I can show them that I’m not what they thought me.” The prospect made me smile. “It is the perfect opportunity for me to be the heroine who swoops in to save the day. I shall be their Sybil ex machina!”
WHEN I REACHED THE theater and was admitted by Blenkins, I went straight to Atherton’s office. Even before I turned into the corridor I could hear the voices raised in agitation and argument: a brusque masculine voice that must have been Mr. Richmond and a young, emotional feminine one, Narcissa Holm.
With my hand raised to knock, I went still for a moment as I remembered the last occasion on which I had rapped at this door. It was the day that Atherton had waylaid me with his infamous plan: that to make way for a popular new leading lady and lure her manager to go into business together I should retire and take the blame for my mentor’s misadventures with the troupe’s income.
Inwardly I squirmed. Even at the time I had had deep misgivings about the scheme, but my gratitude toward Atherton, along with his skillful manipulation of my loyalty, had at last persuaded me. And here I was, all these many months later, still feeling the consequences of my rash decision.
I might find that no one would trust me, even now. But I had to make the attempt. I had the means of proving myself, if only I had enough shreds of credibility to make myself heard.
St
raightening my shoulders, I took a deep breath and rapped briskly. “Come in, Griffiths,” said a masculine voice.
Ignoring the fact that I wasn’t who they were expecting, I went in. At once I noticed the ledgers and papers strewn higgledy-piggledy across Atherton’s desk. It was strange not to see Atherton there in his favorite place, beaming at me with his fingers laced across the expanse of his waistcoat. Everything in the office spoke to me of him, and he was almost literally present in the form of the mannequin dressed in his old costume as Orlando from a long-ago production of As You Like It.
For a second I was in danger of welling up with tears at the sight of his familiar domain, but I knew I must take hold of myself to carry out my mission with Mr. Richmond and Narcissa Holm, who now stood gazing at me in surprise.
“Miss Ingram,” exclaimed Narcissa. Her eyes were red, and her dark hair was pinned up so untidily that a few wisps had slipped loose, giving her a waifish appearance. She was wearing a dark blue dress that made her look older than her years—or perhaps it was her obvious grief. She looked an entirely different person from the gorgeously arrayed young star who had swept onto my stage on our first meeting. “This is a surprise,” she said. “We expected Mr. Griffiths.”
There was no hostility in her voice, which was encouraging. “Clement is notorious for oversleeping,” I said. Since Clement Griffiths was the troupe’s leading man, I could understand why they would wish for him to be part of whatever plans they were making.
Mr. Richmond was not welcoming, but it didn’t seem to be personal. “We’re busy here, Miss Ingram,” he said brusquely.
“I’ve no doubt. I gather you have taken up the mantle of manager?”
He heaved a sigh that ruffled some of the papers on the desk. “My stepmother is in no state to set her mind to matters of commerce, even if she were not in mourning. I promised her I would do my best—though I fear that’s little enough.”
“She is fortunate in having you to rely upon,” I said, but this was mere tact; he looked completely at sea, and his hair was mussed as if he had been dragging his fingers through it in frustration. “Have you determined how to move forward from here?” I asked.
He gave a humorless bark of a laugh. “If only! It could take me weeks to get to grips with how this troupe operates. Why are you so interested?” He brightened. “Would you like to buy us out?”
“No, indeed! I do I believe I have a solution, though.” But I was getting ahead of myself. I approached Narcissa and took her hand. “You must be in terrible distress,” I said. “I am so sorry that you are in such a difficult position.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Miss Ingram,” she said with great dignity, and then ruined the effect by bursting out, “It’s all so horrid. I know that Ivor must be innocent, but they burst in and dragged him away as if he were some common criminal.”
That bit of information made it sound as if she had been present at the arrest early that morning, which combined with everything else convinced me that she and her manager were lovers. No wonder she was so distraught. The man she relied on not only to guide her career but also to give her love and companionship had been torn from her... perhaps forever, if he proved to be guilty.
Of course, she might be complicit herself. As a successful actress, she might be putting on a performance of innocent distress, though if it was feigned, it was well done indeed. Fresh tears welled in her eyes even now, and even though I reminded myself that an experienced actress could summon tears at will—I myself had mastered the technique years before—the effect was moving.
“And in the meantime,” she continued, “we have no idea how to proceed without him. The show is a disaster—and I fear must remain so without Ivor here to put things to rights.”
“I tried to visit him in jail,” Mr. Richmond added glumly. “They wouldn’t admit me. And even if they had, what good would it have done us? How could any man possibly bring his mind to bear on a theatrical entertainment when he has been arrested for murder?”
“Indeed, it is an unfortunate situation,” I said. Not as unfortunate as lying dead beneath a concrete dinosaur, but I put that thought out of my mind. “Please don’t despair, either of you. I have some experience in managing the troupe, since Atherton and I shared the responsibilities toward the end of my time here. Mind you, I know my credibility is in tatters because of his nonsensical fiction, but—”
“That’s as may be,” Mr. Richmond interrupted with an eager note in his voice. “If you have a head on your shoulders and can help us out of this coil, that’s what matters at the moment. You said you could rescue us. How exactly would you go about such a thing?”
“First of all, is there any possibility of canceling the rest of the run?”
He shook his head. “I inquired about that very thing. The penalty would be ruinous.”
“The cost will be every bit as ruinous when audiences desert us,” Narcissa cried. “As they surely will as soon as word gets out about how dreadful my performance was last night.”
“All is not yet lost,” I said soothingly. “There are other ways of reducing the toll on the budget. You could reduce the running costs by switching off the electricity wherever possible, moving in lanterns for footlights, and bringing back the quicklime spotlight. You could also cut back on the absurd proliferation of torchieres on the grounds.”
“We could,” Mr. Richmond said. “That isn’t nearly enough to make up the lost revenue, though.”
“What about a hiatus?” I asked. “If asked sweetly enough, might the management grant us a few days’ grace in view of the tragedy?”
“I suppose it’s a possibility, but to what end? What good will a few days do?”
“All the good in the world,” I said, “when we are to present a different version of the Scottish Play.” After all my years in the theater, it was second nature to use euphemisms instead of speaking the word Macbeth. “A few days’ retrenching and rehearsing, and”—here I had to brazen it out and pretend to more confidence than I possessed—“Narcissa will change roles from the Scottish Lady to Lady Macduff, and Gertrude Fox will take over the part of the Scottish Lady.”
A silence followed my shocking suggestion. Mr. Richmond looked puzzled, as if he was not familiar enough with the play to understand the ramifications of such a change, which might have been the case. He might not even have understood that “the Scottish Lady” was a euphemism for Lady Macbeth.
Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t seem outraged, but she was suspicious... and with some cause. “You don’t find me believable as the Scottish Lady?” she said coolly.
She had evidently forgotten that not two minutes ago she had admitted her performance was poor. “Under other circumstances, I’m sure your interpretation would be a triumph,” I said. Diplomacy prevented me from adding that the other circumstances would include pigs flying. “But considering all of the strikes against this production, I think it would be wise to give audiences the Narcissa Holm they want—a heroine they can adore. And that is Lady Macduff.”
“That’s a very small role,” she pointed out. “She is only in one scene, though I grant it’s an effective one. It will look as if I’m no longer the leading lady.”
“Ah, but we won’t be limited to the material that Shakespeare gave her,” I said triumphantly, and produced my figurative rabbit from my metaphorical hat. “Somewhere in Atherton’s shelves, here in this very room, there is a 17th-century version of the Scottish Play that has additional scenes for Lady Macduff. We performed it several years ago, albeit with some changes.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” But she sounded as if I had piqued her interest.
“The editor—D’Avenant, if I recall correctly—expanded her role and made her into a foil for the Scottish Lady, a symbol of goodness and innocence to contrast with the other woman’s evil ambition,” I explained. “The role has the kind of sweet, gentle pathos that you are so well suited for and that audiences can’t fail to res
pond to. It’s an ingénue role, as the Scottish Lady emphatically is not.”
It was, if I said so myself, a very clever plan. Alas, the full extent of its brilliance was lost on Mr. Richmond. He had been showing signs of impatience, and now faced me with his hands on his hips.
“I’m not a man of the theater, so I don’t understand any of this business about characters and foils,” he announced. “But isn’t it unwise to make drastic changes to the play at this point?”
“Not if they will display Miss Holm to better advantage and win the audience over,” I said. “Besides, the play as a whole needn’t be changed. There will be new material for the Scottish Lady and Macduff in the added scenes, but it won’t amount to much.”
“Then my only question is whether the play can be altered in what little time we have available to us.”
“Gertrude already knows the role of the Scottish Lady,” I said. “She has played it before, and learning the new material won’t pose a challenge for her. I can’t speak for the actor playing Macduff. As for Miss Holm... do you feel up to the challenge?”
Narcissa’s eyes were thoughtful. “I should like to at least see the script before committing to it,” she said.
“Naturally! We can make a search of the shelves right now. And if it meets with your satisfaction?”
“Well... it’s worth trying, I suppose.”
Mr. Richmond clapped his hands together as if the matter was settled. “Excellent. I shall leave the matter of the script changes to you ladies and the stage manager. If Mrs. Fox is agreeable, of course. I must go make our appeal to the palace manager for a few days’ grace in which to prepare.”
When the door had shut behind him, I said, “I like him. He leaves theatrical matters to us instead of trying to manage what he has no understanding of. His stepmother is fortunate to have him looking after her interests.”
“Someone must,” Narcissa said soberly. “Considering how wretchedly money has been mismanaged here. Miss Ingram?”
I was already examining the volumes in the nearest bookcase. If memory served, the one I sought was bound in green calfskin. “Yes?”
A Haunting Reprise Page 14
