A Haunting Reprise

by Amanda DeWees

  “I suppose so, but she had no way of knowing she would end up playing the lead role if Atherton was out of the way. As for Clement, he had nothing to gain or lose, it seems to me.”

  “And Polly?”

  I stared at him. “You can’t seriously think she had anything to do with it!”

  “Well, she is Narcissa’s understudy now, so one could say she has benefitted from Atherton’s death.”

  “It isn’t as if I’d asked him and been refused. If he had lived, I could have talked him into allowing it.”

  “I imagine you’re right. And in any case, she and Martin provided each other with an alibi. I’m simply trying to think of who else had a personal stake.”

  Recalling our conversation now, as I stood backstage and listened to the play unfold, it all seemed so unreal. The performance was going brilliantly. The audience was a responsive one, quick to gasp or sigh or cheer, and Narcissa’s Lady Macduff was all I had hoped. Her youthful voice and the sweet plaintiveness with which she infused it won the audience’s hearts and contrasted perfectly with Gertrude’s menacing, somber Scottish Lady. Although the D’Avenant version of the play had dispensed with Lady Macduff’s death scene, perhaps because it struck the 18th-century editor as too gruesome or sensational, we had preserved it, and the audience’s palpable shock and dismay when the assassin came for her were most gratifying. Yes, Narcissa’s reputation would do well from this production after all.

  After the final bows, when everyone was clasping each other by the hand and exchanging congratulations, a surprise was in store. Over the sounds of jubilation and popping wine corks came a man’s voice crying, “A toast to Narcissa’s performance—and to my freedom!”

  I hurried to the foyer where the reception was being held. Sure enough, it was Ivor Treherne, holding a glass aloft and beaming at everyone in what struck me as a distinctly self-congratulatory way.

  So Strack had released him. Without No-Relation’s testimony, there must not have been enough solid evidence to hold him.

  My stomach hollowed out in dread. Did this mean that a killer was now walking freely among us? From the uncertain expressions on some of the troupe members’ faces I gathered that I was not the only one to entertain such a thought. No-Relation looked simply miserable, gazing at Narcissa with a hopeless yearning that tugged at my heart despite what he had done.

  Surprisingly, Mr. Richmond was there, and I wondered if he was present in his capacity as financial watchdog. The bruising on his face was even more marked than before, though he seemed to be in amiable enough spirits as he toasted Treherne’s return.

  On one face, however, there was nothing but unmixed joy. Narcissa raised a glass to her manager, her face shining with joy and devotion. “To your freedom,” she echoed. “For as long as it lasts, anyway!”

  An appalled silence fell over the company, but Treherne laughed. “We may as well announce it,” he said. “Miss Holm and I are to be united in the sweetest sentence that ever a minister imposed—marriage!”

  There was general cheering and applause, although No-Relation, looking almost green with dismay, slipped away from the company. I applauded politely, sneaking looks all about me. No one looked frightened at Treherne’s presence. No one but poor No-Relation had felt the need to absent himself.

  Then I was startled to hear my own name. “My thanks to Miss Sybil Ingram,” Treherne declared, and to my consternation he approached me. “Your swift thinking saved this production,” he said, “and your help is all the more appreciated for having been unearned. I humbly ask of your womanly kindness that you let the dead past bury its dead, and toast to a new-forged friendship between us.”

  Automatically I took his outstretched hand. I could not tell whether his smile was sincere. I knew so little of this man, and this hearty glibness might be a mask—but whether it covered an innocent conscience or a guilty one I could not tell.

  Everyone was waiting for me to say something. I summoned up a smile. “For Atherton’s sake,” I said, “I’m happy that I was able to help. I only wish that he could be here tonight.”

  I held Treherne’s gaze as I spoke, watching his face for any sign of guilt. But his eyes did not flicker or evade mine, nor did his smile waver. He merely said, “Hear, hear!” and raised his glass in another toast. I was none the wiser as far as his guilt or innocence.

  As more champagne circulated, I accepted a glass for myself, though I didn’t think much of its quality once I had tasted it. I had to admit that I was baffled. But for tonight, with my friends celebrating a successful final dress rehearsal and a brilliant performance, perhaps I could just enjoy their triumph unquestioningly and resume investigating later.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, however, I found that I had a more urgent concern.

  The day started normally enough. I awoke in my husband’s embrace, which was indisputably the best way to start any day (or end it), and kissed him before waking him with a “Good morning.”

  At least, I tried to. But when I spoke, no sound emerged.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. Still nothing.

  More forcibly, I cleared my throat again. When I strained hard to speak, I could produce a faint, hoarse whisper. That was all.

  I had no voice.

  Worry was growing with each passing second, and I tried to reason it away. It had been a late night, after all, and I had talked a great deal and drunk a good deal of champagne. Or perhaps I had caught a cold.

  Except that I didn’t feel ill, and I had never attended a party that caused me to lose my voice. I forced myself to cough, fetched and drank a glass of water, all to no avail. When I shook Roderick awake, I was very worried indeed.

  His drowsy smile and the slow blink of his deep-set eyes would have been enough to distract me from any less pressing anxiety. “You seem wide awake,” he murmured. “Do you have some tempting plan for this morning?”

  I can’t speak, I tried to say.

  “Mmm?”

  I’ve lost my voice. I gestured to my throat.

  His brows drew together in perplexity. “Can’t you speak?”

  I shook my head urgently.

  That made him sit up. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

  I spread my hands and shrugged. I didn’t have any pain. It would almost have been less frightening if I had. To suddenly be voiceless for no apparent reason made no sense. If there was no apparent cause, how could I know how to cure it—or how long it would take me to recover?

  He rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw and regarded me with concern. “Is there any other reason you can think of why might have lost your voice?”

  Again I shook my head. Soon we were going to run out of yes-or-no questions, and then things would really get difficult.

  Leaning forward, he took my hands in his. “It will be all right,” he said softly. “Take a few deep breaths. Just relax. Don’t force it.” I tried to concentrate on the soothing huskiness of his voice, the warm security of his hands clasping mine. “Now try.”

  I tried. Nothing.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked. I shook my head, and he said, “Well, that’s one good thing, at least.”

  I stared at him in consternation. I couldn’t explain that being voiceless might have made some sense if my throat hurt, so it was far worse this way.

  He studied my face. “I’m going to ring for the porter to summon a doctor,” he said, and slid out of the bed.

  I waved to get his attention, but he was already walking to the sitting room. Glancing around for something that would make a noise, I knocked rapidly on the headboard of the bed, and the sound made him stop and turn an inquiring look toward me.

  I gestured at him and pantomimed putting on a dressing gown. He was stark naked. If the bell summoned a chambermaid instead of a porter, the girl might die of shock... though it would be a delightful way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

  After my pantomime, he nodded. “An excellent idea,” he said. “You
have a bath while I talk to the porter. Perhaps the heat and water vapor will be good for your throat.”

  I sighed. Despite being remarkably in tune with each other, we sometimes did encounter a failure in understanding, and it looked as though my condition was going to tax our powers of communication to the utmost. Rather than trying to correct his misapprehension through gesture, I got up and fetched him his dressing gown.

  When the doctor arrived some half an hour later, after Roderick and I were both decently dressed, he proved to be an elderly gentleman with a beard that reached nearly to his waist. Despite wearing spectacles, he squinted a great deal, and he had a high, reedy voice that grated on me. Perhaps I was simply intolerant because I missed my own voice, though.

  To my astonishment, he did no more than glance at me before addressing himself to Roderick—not me. “When did your wife lose her faculty of speech?” he asked.

  Roderick explained the situation, occasionally looking to me for confirmation. The doctor nodded, gave me a perfunctory look, and asked Roderick, “Is your wife a nervous sort?”

  “Absolutely not,” I whispered indignantly, but the words were nearly inaudible.

  Roderick answered for me. “I wouldn’t say so.”

  “Are you certain? Is she excitable? Does she like stimulating activities, such as reading?”

  Roderick’s lips began to twitch. “Sybil does have an unfortunate tendency to read novels,” he said. “I’ve tried to break her of the habit, knowing of its dangers.”

  I gave him a look of disgust. It was all very well for him to poke fun. He didn’t have to listen to other people discussing him without having a say in his own welfare.

  The doctor nodded sagely. “Novels can inflame the feminine mind to a dangerous extent. Does she like popular entertainments? The theater?”

  “As a matter of fact, doctor, my wife is an actress. Could that have anything to do with it?”

  “Indeed, very likely. If you will allow me, I shall take the patient’s pulse.”

  Roderick made a show of stroking his chin and considering it, while I wished I had something to throw at him—something harder than a muffin. “I suppose it’s all right,” he said with a show of reluctance. “Your being a doctor and all. Otherwise, I’m not certain but that a strange man touching her might make her even more excitable.”

  I flashed a look of exasperation at him, but the doctor tapped his nose with one finger and nodded. “Very wise of you, Mr. Brooke. The feminine constitution is so easily deranged.”

  He took hold of one of my wrists and felt the pulse without speaking to me. I opened my mouth to say something tart and then remembered that I couldn’t say anything. But perhaps, I told myself, he really did have some useful information to offer, even if his methods didn’t suit me.

  “Her pulse is rapid,” the doctor informed Roderick, again not addressing me. “Her palm is warm as well. It seems all too clear that the problem is hysteria.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. It was just as well for him that I couldn’t speak, or I probably would have unleashed some invective at him that would have given him a heart attack or at the very least chased him from the room.

  Roderick spoke in the strangled voice of one trying not to laugh. “Hysteria,” he repeated. “That did not occur to me.”

  The doctor grasped his lapels with the air of one lecturing before a classroom. “As happens with so many women who experience too much stimulation of mind, your wife’s uterus has become untethered. It is clearly strangling her vocal cords. Laryngitis is thus the natural result.”

  Roderick’s face had gone brick red. I wasn’t certain whether he was holding back laughter or an urge to do violence to the doddering old idiot. “And the cure?” he asked.

  “You must take a firm hand, Mr. Brooke. Do not permit any more reading or theatergoing or gadding about. She must have no visitors, no mental stimulation of any sort. A bland diet is called for. No red meat, no alcohol. And no exercise.”

  The look I gave Roderick must have convinced him that murder was imminent, for he took hold of the doctor’s skinny elbow and steered him toward the door. “Thank you very much, doctor,” he said, “but we’ll pursue our own course of treatment. Please send us your bill.”

  As soon as the door shut behind him I leapt up and glared at Roderick, hands on my hips. “He didn’t even look at my throat!” I whispered as loudly as I could, but Roderick didn’t hear me.

  “I had no idea such hidebound notions were still even in circulation,” he said, shaking his head. “What an old quack.”

  I might as well give up whispering; it tired my throat and gained me nothing. Instead I mimed tearing my hair out.

  He smiled in sympathy. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll go talk to the manager and ask him for other recommendations. I know we can do better.” Depositing a kiss on my cheek, he left the room.

  The second doctor was a bald man with a lackluster manner, but at least he looked inside my throat. I was none too certain the metal tongue depressor had been adequately cleaned since his last patient, however. After listening to my heart and taking my pulse, the doctor felt my throat around my jaw and at the back of my head.

  “Fortunately, I don’t see any signs of cancerous tumors,” he said.

  Roderick and I stared at each other in shock. It had never even occurred to me that cancer might be the cause of my laryngitis. From the expression on Roderick’s face it seemed clear that the idea was new and startling to him as well.

  “What do you think it is, then?” he asked.

  The doctor returned his stethoscope to his bag. “Perhaps a change in environment. You said you are lately arrived from Paris, yes? Your wife may be having trouble becoming acclimated to our London air.”

  I gave him a look of disgust. That’s preposterous, I mouthed to Roderick.

  “That’s preposterous,” Roderick said to the doctor.

  The doctor drew himself to his full height, which was a good head shorter than me. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Brooke, but which one of us is the trained medical professional? It would behoove you not to be so dismissive.”

  “Very well,” said Roderick in the cool, even voice that made wiser souls back toward the door, “what treatment do you recommend?”

  With the flourish of a stage magician, the doctor produced a square brown bottle from his medical bag. “I’ve a proprietary mixture,” he said, “a tincture of herbs in laudanum, which has been proven effective for any range of conditions, ranging from catarrh and dropsy to scrofulous humors—”

  I had no intention of dosing myself with some cure-all, and I shook my head decidedly. The doctor looked at Roderick for confirmation.

  “Have you anything else?” Roderick asked in a warning tone.

  “I’ve heard that slippery elm is used in America for throat ailments,” said the doctor with the same lofty distaste that he might have shown for a naughty music-hall performance. “If you can’t locate an apothecary who stocks such a thing, a purgative is always a sound idea.”

  I folded my arms and gave Roderick a meaningful look. He correctly interpreted it to mean that it was time for the doctor to depart, and he ushered the medical man from the room without ceremony.

  “And here I thought English medicine was supposed to be so advanced,” he said.

  The third doctor, upon learning that I was an actress, asked Roderick if I had syphilis.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Roderick in his most dangerous voice.

  “Syphilitic lesions in the throat can bring about loss of voice. If your wife has been, er, intemperate in her habits, we could try a course of fumigation with mercury—”

  But Roderick was advancing upon him with a demeanor so furious that the doctor nearly ran for the door. He had stayed less than two minutes by the clock.

  The fourth doctor, upon learning that I was an actress, stated that I had lost my voice by overstraining it. In vain Roderick told him that I was not currently appearing in a play or e
ven rehearsing one. When I tried to pantomime that I knew better than to strain my throat and always projected my voice from my diaphragm, the doctor thought I was miming vomiting and announced that a digestive upset was clearly the cause of my problem.

  By this time the day was well advanced, and I was struggling against a growing sense of depression. What if I never regained my voice? I would never be able to return to the stage. Even though there was no longer any financial need for me to work, I loved the challenge and excitement of being an actress. The thought of having that taken away from me was appalling.

  And then there was the frustration of being unable to communicate. Roderick was accustomed to reading my face, and my theatrical training actually gave me the capacity to display a wide range emotion without words, but we would no longer be able to exchange repartee. I would be deprived of the simple pleasure of speaking endearments to him. I would be forced to write down any observations I had. It would force a maddening delay into our conversations. As much as Roderick loved me, he was not a patient man—nor I a patient woman, for that matter—and the prospect of the frustration that lay ahead for both of us if I had to write down my side of all our discourse struck dread into my heart.

  Then to think about the consequences for our social lives! In the swift give-and-take of dinner conversation, for example, I would be unable to keep up with pencil and paper. And sitting in silence was not something I enjoyed—or indeed had much talent for.

  It was too early, of course, to try to resign myself to this hollow vision of the future. But I realized now that my voice was integral to my being. Both as an actress and as a woman who had always taken pride in speaking her mind, I needed my voice. I would not be Sybil Ingram without it.