A Haunting Reprise

by Amanda DeWees

  She herself had not changed as far as I could tell. A sturdily built woman around the age of fifty, Gertrude was far from beautiful, but she had a face that lent itself to a variety of characters. Broad and flat, with an almost masculine square jaw, eyes that were somewhat close together, and a wide mouth, it was nonetheless a visage that could look lovely when warmed by a smile. Her voice was her real beauty—low in pitch, as rich as a plum pudding, with a delicious sly purr that could suggest humor, cunning, or seduction depending upon the role. She typically played character roles and so-called heavies or villainous characters, and she would be a magnificent Lady Macbeth.

  Now she asked, “Can you forgive an old woman for being so foolish as to believe that ridiculous Atherton? And for saying such horrid things—”

  “Of course I forgive you, Gertrude.” I embraced her, smiling as I inhaled the familiar scents of face powder and carnation soap. If Atherton had been my father in the theater, Gertrude was the closest I had had to a mother, and now with her hugging me so tightly that both our corsets creaked I felt that perhaps, despite losing Atherton, things might begin to be set right.

  When we released each other we were both blinking away tears, and we laughed at ourselves as we reached for our handkerchiefs. “A fine fierce Scottish Lady I am,” said Gertrude, wiping her eyes. “‘Infirm of purpose, give me the daggers—’ and my smelling salts! My dear Sybil, you must tell me of all your adventures. I confess I followed you in the newspapers to some extent. You had a successful run at one of the French theaters, didn’t you?”

  “That was unplanned,” I said, “and came about in a most peculiar way. We must have tea soon so that I can tell you everything.” Then I noticed a young actor hovering in the doorway, gazing at Narcissa as she continued to unfold the mysteries of her wardrobe to Polly. “Is that young Mr. Fairbrother?” I asked.

  Gertrude beckoned him over. “No-Relation!” she hailed him in her mighty voice. “Come meet our Sybil.”

  While I was trying to puzzle out that curious name, he obligingly joined us. He was a handsome young fellow, the kind I might have daydreamed about as a girl, for he looked scarcely out of his teenage years himself. He had one of those clean, chiseled profiles that one sees so often in military heroes; features like that seemed to bespeak heroism even if the bearer performed no grander function than blacking boots. His fawn-brown hair stuck up in an endearing tuft at the front, in defiance of pomade, and he had clear gray-blue eyes that gave him a look of candor. He bowed very nicely and introduced himself as Anthony Fairbrother, adding a propos of nothing, “no relation.”

  Gertrude chuckled. “‘No-Relation’ is how he’s known around here,” she said. “The lad’s had to say it so often, we’ve come to say it for him.”

  Then the penny dropped. “Because of Sarah,” I exclaimed. The notorious Sarah Fairbrother, now retired from the theater, was an actress who some years before had gone through a form of marriage with Prince George, a cousin to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. An illegal form of marriage, to be precise. Not exactly a distinguished association. It was little wonder this young man wished to distance himself from her.

  “I can see how people might make that assumption,” I said, “especially with your being an actor.”

  His smile was gently regretful. “My family intended me for the army. I have to admit the name might have been less conspicuous in that career.”

  “It’s possible that having so memorable a name may actually help you,” I said. “In any case, at least it hasn’t the associations that mine has here.”

  A flicker in his eyes indicated that at least part of the story had reached him, but he had the gallantry to brazen it out. “All that I remember hearing is that your beauty is matched only by your artistry,” he declared.

  Gertrude caught my eye and smiled. “You can see why we enjoy having No-Relation here,” she said.

  “Indeed I can,” I said. “I was afraid my reception wouldn’t be so warm since I’ve introduced last-minute changes into the play and created more work for you. I do apologize for that.”

  To my surprise, his expression brightened. “On the contrary, I owe you my thanks, Miss Ingram.”

  That was a more favorable response than I had expected. “I suppose it does offer you more of a chance to show your mettle,” I began, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were shining with the rapture of an acolyte, and he dropped his voice to a whisper that was nearly reverent.

  “I’d have given nearly anything for the opportunity to perform opposite Miss Holm,” he said. “And now to have scenes together as husband and wife—it is a wish come true.”

  “I know she must be grateful that you are taking the changes with such good grace,” I said neutrally. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but it was true that Lord and Lady Macduff shared no scenes in Shakespeare’s text. Judging from the rapture in this young man’s eyes, it seemed clear that his excitement was not for his professional reputation but something more personal.

  “The gratitude is all mine,” he said. Then he bowed once more and excused himself, and directed his steps straight toward Narcissa as if she drew him by magnetic force.

  “He’s a dear boy,” Gertrude declared, also watching his progress. “Far too soft for our Narcissa, of course, but it’s pleasant to spend time with someone who hasn’t yet become jaded. Mind you, he’s bound to have some of that innocence knocked out of him soon.”

  “You don’t mean you think Narcissa will toy with him? She is devoted to Treherne, or so I thought.” How easily one fell back into the old habit of gossiping. I told myself that it was more than idle chatter—after all, with a murder in the vicinity it was wise to gather information.

  Gertrude’s eyes were shrewd as she watched the two of them across the room. “Narcissa is a clever little baggage. She’d have to be to rise so far by such a young age, Treherne’s help notwithstanding. She keeps No-Relation at just the right distance—singling him out with praise, choosing him to run small errands, but not promising anything in return.”

  “Clever,” I agreed, but then I would have expected nothing less from Narcissa.

  “Of course, it needn’t be love that shatters the hapless youngster’s ideals,” Gertrude said. “Being mixed up in a murder trial is bound to have an effect on him.”

  “Mixed up in what way?”

  “Why, he’s a witness. He is the one who saw Treherne and Atherton leave the reception together.” When I looked at her in surprise, she lowered her voice. “But no one is supposed to know—he let it slip to me in a moment of distraction.”

  I regarded the young man with greater interest. As Narcissa introduced him to Polly, he stood as straight and proud as a soldier being bestowed with a medal. He struck me as an idealistic lad, one who would feel it imperative to do his civic duty... and who might be unprepared for the nasty revelations about human nature that the trial was likely to present.

  “How unfortunate for him,” I remarked, “not to mention a ticklish position to be in if Narcissa should find out. Depending upon how desperate she feels Treherne’s case is, she might try to seduce No-Relation into recanting his testimony. Has that occurred to him?”

  Gertrude shrugged with the amused resignation of one who has seen many human dramas, large and small, pass before her eyes. “I don’t believe his powers of reason are operating well at present,” she said. “His logical processes are a-bristle with Cupid’s arrows. I think that at this moment, all he sees is the opportunity to spend more time with Narcissa in the absence of his rival.”

  I shook my head, troubled. On one hand, I ought to have found it reassuring to learn that the testimony damning Treherne came from so apparently unimpeachable a source. My lingering doubts as to the manager’s guilt ought now to be put to rest. But the fact that this innocent was besotted with a woman so much cannier and more ruthless than he—

  Then I grimaced at myself. Hadn’t I recently seen what I thought was a similar instance of an innocent young m
an placing himself at the whim of a cunning, ruthless woman? Yet the case of Philippe Charbonneau and Julia de Lioncourt, Roderick’s former mistress, had not been at all what it seemed, and young Philippe had proved to have a good head on his shoulders and his own pragmatic reasons for becoming entangled with the seductive Julia.

  These are actors, I reminded myself. I of all people should remember that their appearances are not necessarily to be trusted.

  “Sybil,” a man’s voice exclaimed, and I turned to find Clement at my side. Perhaps there was more gray now in his hair and moustache, and the crinkles around his eyes were more pronounced, but his sheepish smile was the same. Unlike many leading men, he tended to be diffident and self-effacing offstage. He reached for my hand and pressed it between the two of his. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I didn’t expect you’d be here tonight,” I said. “Your scenes are scarcely affected by the new material.”

  He ducked his head self-consciously. “I was hoping for a chance to apologize. I shouldn’t have given any credence to that ridiculous story about you.”

  Then why did you? I almost asked, but I decided to be merciful. Clement had always been good-hearted but not terribly bright. Gertrude had once said that if his skull had had a brain in it, his voice wouldn’t have had so much resonance.

  “It’s all in the past now,” I said. “I’m just happy to be on good terms again.”

  He beamed. “As am I, as am I.”

  Having said that, however, he seemed uncertain as to what to say next. The silence threatened to become awkward until I cast about for a safer topic and asked him what he thought of Narcissa’s change of role.

  Rehearsal went well. Other old friends approached me over the course of the evening to rebuild the bridges Atherton had burnt. It did not restore our former closeness entirely, or at least not yet. But it was a strong start, and I found my heart quite full of gratitude and relief.

  In this admittedly sentimental frame of mind, Polly impressed me. She stayed close by Narcissa, hanging on her every inflection, jotting down every point the leading lady made about blocking or delivery. And I had to admit that Narcissa was generous to the newcomer. After running the new scene between Lady Macduff and the Scottish Lady a few times, she asked Polly to take her place, purportedly so that she could gauge the effect from the audience.

  She chose to do so from the seat next to mine. “Your sister isn’t bad,” she said in an undertone. “She has potential, as you say.”

  “Thank you for helping her,” I said. “I think it’s safe to say that you have her lifelong loyalty.”

  Her smile was ambiguous, and she was silent for Polly’s next speech. Polly got through it with admirable poise, and I was proud of my sister for doing so well under the gaze of so many established actors. Then without looking in my direction Narcissa said, “Polly tells me that you and your husband are the ones who discovered Atherton’s body.”

  Startled, I said nothing, and the disquieting blue eyes came to rest on my face. “Is it true?” she asked.

  “Why, yes, it is. Polly and Martin Maudsley joined us just moments later, but Roderick and I were the first ones on the scene.”

  “So you can account for each other’s movements.”

  “Completely,” I said, bristling.

  She gave an expressionless nod. “I only wish I could say the same for Ivor and me,” she said. “On practically any other night we would have been inseparable once I came offstage, but that evening I was so humiliated by my terrible performance that I departed in a cab without waiting for him.” She bit her lip. “My vanity may prove to be fatal to him.”

  Treherne was not the one whose life had ended that night, but I took her meaning. “If he is innocent, I’m certain Inspector Strack will find it out.”

  “Oh, Strack!” she exclaimed with such emphatic disgust that the players onstage halted, staring at her in consternation. She waved for them to continue, then said in a lower voice, “I’ve no faith in that man whatever. He is so certain that Ivor is guilty that he refuses even to consider other people who might easily have committed the crime.”

  I didn’t have to guess at what “other people” she meant. I said firmly, “Roderick did not kill Atherton. Nor did I, though I’m certain you aren’t alone in suspecting us.”

  “I would never say such a thing.” She was silent for a moment, watching the scene play out onstage, though I suspected she did not hear a word that was said. “Still,” she said presently, “a suspicious person might point out that you both had excellent motives.”

  “A suspicious person could say that you did as well,” I returned.

  Her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “How fortunate, then,” she said, “that we are neither of us suspicious types.”

  FORTUNATELY, MY PLEA to Martin had been successful. In response to my letter—dashed off in a great hurry though it was—he had agreed to see my family and try to solve their poltergeist problem.

  When Roderick and I fetched him the next morning, however, he was looking rather strained. His dark eyes were more haunted than ever, and his face was almost as pale as the white streaks in his hair. He had the tragic grandeur of some ancient king in exile, and I was worried for him. Did he seem more world-worn than before?

  “I slept poorly,” he said when I inquired how he was doing. “I hope the shock of recent events is not weighing on you too terribly.”

  So much had happened in less than forty-eight hours that I wasn’t sure whether he meant my family haunting or Atherton’s death. “It has been difficult,” I said, which was equally true for both.

  “Were you close to Atherton?” Roderick asked Martin. He was on his best behavior since we needed this favor from the medium. Yesterday at supper I had sketched in the basic details of the haunting for him, omitting the rash untruth I had uttered to Polly. When Roderick had offered to accompany us for moral support, I wasn’t certain that a whiff of jealousy wasn’t the root of his helpfulness, but I could think of no reason to deny him. And at least he was behaving himself—so far.

  Martin lifted one thin hand and let it fall sadly, like an actor playing Hamlet. “Fifteen years ago Atherton and I were fairly close,” he said. “Ours was a small and close-knit troupe, as your wife will attest. We saw each other almost daily. But until you and Sybil came to visit me I hadn’t been in communication with anyone from the theater since those days.”

  “Of course,” I said. “It would only have reminded you.”

  “As if I needed reminding.” For a moment he was silent, no doubt transfixed by past and present tragedy. What must his life had been like, constantly weighed down with such futile grief? I felt I could never fully grasp how miserable such an existence would be. This curious attachment to a dead woman had even denied him the chance to pursue happiness with another sweetheart.

  Perhaps it wasn’t intentional on Aurelia’s part, but her spirit had done essentially what my father’s spirit was trying to do: control the living, prevent us from moving forward with our lives.

  In Paris, Roderick and I had come to know a distinguished actress whose later life had been blighted by the persistent supernatural presence of her husband. Rather than communicating with her clearly, however, he tended to take the form of oppressive moods. Not understanding what was happening, his widow had feared she was going mad, and the ghost’s influence had driven her to commit a terrible crime.

  At least Martin’s case was not that dire. He was fully aware of Aurelia’s presence and knew her to be a separate being, not part of his own mind. After so many years together, I would have hoped that he had developed some emotional armor... though he didn’t look as if that was the case right now.

  As if sensing my train of thought, he seemed to cast off the mournful reflections that distracted him and bring his focus to the matter at hand. He fixed me with a steady gaze.

  “Now, Sybil,” he said, “please tell me more about the spirit that you wish me to confront.”
r />   Chapter Twelve

  By the time we arrived at my family’s house, I had covered most of the pertinent facts. With Roderick present, I was too ashamed to disclose my lie about my father’s final wishes for Polly, but it hardly seemed necessary to hammer that final nail into the coffin of my guilt. I was responsible for training Polly, for introducing her to my theatrical friends, for doing my best to set her on the path to life as an actress. My role in the ensuing haunting was not in doubt even without that final incriminating detail. And, knowing my husband’s disgust for lying, I hoped it could remain a secret.

  Linden and the little girls were at school, Ada told me as she showed us upstairs to the parlor. She eyed Martin with undisguised interest.

  “Do Mollie and Jerome know about the disturbances?” I asked.

  Ada shook her head. “They’ve been in the shop all day,” she said. “Didn’t hear a thing, near as I can tell.”

  Polly greeted Martin with a sweetly tragic air, as if having a poltergeist somehow made her a courageous martyr. If she could transfer that flair for drama to the stage, she might yet become a passable actress. My mother, on the other hand, regarded the medium with much the same wariness with which she received Roderick. She had not been pleased with my plan, disliking the idea of bringing a stranger into the household to witness the chaos. But his dignified appearance and low, gentle voice seemed to thaw her. Soon she was wearing a smile. The tragic, decorous smile of the recent widow, mind you, but a smile nonetheless.

  Roderick shook his head and muttered into my ear, “As I said—ladies do love the brooding type.”

  “Shush,” I said. “The important thing is whether he can impress my father as favorably.”

  “Let’s have the drapes closed,” Martin requested, “and lower the gas somewhat. Dimmer light may help me to make contact.”

  Ada shrugged as she went to yank the drapes closed. “Didn’t make any difference before,” I heard her mutter, and my mother’s lips compressed.