A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  Certainly not me.

  After his appearance yesterday, I had no doubt that he shared many of the same strong feelings. But we had already agreed by letter to address all of that when I arrived in London, now only about three months hence. More to the point, we were merely at the beginning of a courtship. It defied logic that he’d waste a trip across the sea to see me sooner.

  His behavior didn’t fit with it, either. A man who’d sailed the ocean to claim his beloved, assuming I even was his beloved, wouldn’t coolly fence with her, then share a relaxing late-afternoon tea with her friends.

  Not a bit of it.

  After such a long trip, he would presumably be ready to march in and claim his prize. He would make his declaration, sweep his fair maiden into his arms, and probably drag her right to the nearest priest or judge to make it official. Or make sure she had no chance of escape. Win her and tie her right down.

  None of that was in character for Gil, and good thing, too.

  On the whole, I wasn’t entirely displeased that I was not the motive for the journey. If I was already concerned about what he might expect, what on earth would he have wanted or hoped for if he’d made such a dramatic gesture? And what kind of man would he be if he tried it?

  Insane, for a beginning. And very definitely not the man for me.

  “What are you thinking, Heller?”

  “That I am quite certain His Grace is not here just to see me.”

  Tommy, who had probably been entertaining many of the same thoughts, nodded. “I agree. Which makes one wonder.”

  “It does.” I took a sip of coffee. “But not in a bad way.”

  “No?”

  “That ‘Rush in and sweep the lady off her feet’ gambit happens only in books. A man who actually thought it might work—”

  “Would be a fool or worse, and absolutely not the one for you.”

  “So whatever brought him here, it was not the pleasure of my company.”

  “I’m sure seeing you is part of the game, though,” he added quickly. “He does care for you, and he is going to ask for your hand one of these days, you know.”

  I sailed past that one with a little more coffee. “But there is something else going on here.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “So am I.”

  “Which shouldn’t stop you from enjoying the visit.” Tommy smiled. “You know . . .”

  “What?”

  “If he’s up to something, it will be that much harder for him to complain about your career.”

  “What do you think he’s up to?”

  “No idea. But the empire on which the sun never sets has a lot of interests. It’s not impossible that he’s bringing a message to a friend or working on some mission you’ll never need or want to know about.”

  “While playing my adoring swain.”

  Tommy took another muffin and buttered it as he contemplated. “He’s not just playing your adoring swain. But there’s more.”

  “Of course.” I turned my cup in my hands. “Though I’m not sure how that helps matters.”

  “Look at it this way. You’re concerned about him upending your life, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, if he has some other important vocation, you can demand room for your own work.”

  “Makes sense.” I drank a little coffee. “There is absolutely no way this is all about me.”

  “Sorry, Heller. No way at all.” Tommy took a bite of his muffin. “What do you think he’d expect if he’d come all this way just for you? Not a little duel in the studio, for sure. Things you aren’t prepared to give.”

  “I know. You’re right.” I considered a muffin and decided my stomach wasn’t quite up to it. “And yes, whatever this is may improve my negotiating position, if I decide I want to negotiate.”

  He laughed. “You two are already at Appomattox Court House. It’s now just about working out the terms of surrender.”

  I tossed my napkin at him. “Does that make me Lee or Grant?”

  “Never. You’re still Henry Tudor, the hero of Bosworth.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  We laughed together.

  “So how am I going to find out what he’s up to?” I asked.

  “Surely you haven’t been a female for thirty-odd years without gaining some persuasive skills.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And he’s clearly susceptible to your charms . . .”

  “Are you suggesting I—”

  “Nothing improper, of course. Take your suitor for a walk in the park and some sweet talk. Whatever did you think I meant?”

  Tommy grinned at me and returned to his bacon and eggs.

  I poured more coffee. I was going to need it.

  “Miss! Mr. Tommy!” Sophia called. “Something in the mailbox.”

  “Perhaps Madame Lentini magically knows I need her guidance again,” I said as Toms took the envelope from the girl. I could have used some encouragement from my teacher and mentor just then.

  “Not Madame. Too early for the post. And no return address.”

  We exchanged glances. Every once in a while, we have been known to get the occasional nasty letter. Tommy, as a former champ, and I, as a woman who very publicly practices a rather unconventional profession, do draw a certain amount of ire, in addition to the entirely deserved admiration.

  He got up from the table and took the cheap plain white envelope into the parlor. I followed and watched as he carefully slit it open, and then I read over his shoulder.

  To the Ella Shane Opera Company:

  You should know the sort of man you have hired. Ruben Avila is not what he seems. He is harboring a terrible secret that will bring disrepute upon himself and the entire company. You should send him away at once.

  Of course it was unsigned. The hand was very careful cursive and perhaps a bit feminine, or perhaps just overly precise. Not to mention, the letter was an ugly echo of the past; the imprecation against Ruben inevitably reminded me of the trouble we’d had with a previous member of the company with a bad background and worse intentions. Tommy was watching me.

  “Henry checked all his bona fides.” He scowled.

  “I know. So did you.”

  “Drank two terrible pints at the singer’s bar. Ruben’s as clean as they come, and a good man besides. As far as the boys know.”

  I nodded. “Lives with his widowed mother, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. Very quiet, by all accounts. Engaged a few years ago, but the young lady decided to become a nun instead.”

  I winced. “Well, losing out to God is probably a little less painful than losing out to another man.”

  “Perhaps.” Tommy didn’t seem convinced. “Problem is, there’s no way to compete with God.”

  “And He always wins.” I nodded. “Funny that it all comes so soon after he took over the male lead, though.”

  “Jealousy?” His eyes narrowed. “A lot of that going around in opera companies.”

  “Inside and outside.”

  “Someone we didn’t hire, perhaps. I’ll talk to Henry later today.”

  “And I’ll sniff around at the theater. I think Marie knows him a bit better.”

  Tommy nodded. “Let’s hope it’s just some foolishness that we can easily resolve.”

  “When has that ever been the case for us?” I asked, not unkindly.

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

  We returned to the dining room and drank our coffee quietly for a few moments, contemplating the possibilities, none good. I wondered if it might somehow have something to do with Albert, though it was hard to imagine how.

  “Well, while you play reporter, I shall play detective and see what I can see about this latest development,” Tommy said.

  “Reconvene at dinner.”

  “Father Michael is coming over. His usual housekeeper has been down with the gout, and there’s been a great deal of boiled dinner.”

  “Po
or thing. Let Mrs. G know, and we’ll all feast tonight.”

  Tommy’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly my plan, Heller.”

  Chapter 11

  On Trial for Her Life

  Considering all the various dramas of the moment, I would have far preferred to rest on this particular dark Monday, but it was closing arguments and really my last chance to join Hetty at the trial. The unfortunate Mrs. Van Vleet would no doubt know her fate by our next break. Even though I was attending to support Hetty in her work, and not for the sensation, I couldn’t repress a tiny frisson of excitement as I buttoned my serviceable midnight-blue coat over my very plain dark blue suit and white shirtwaist and topped the outfit with the same unremarkable hat I’d worn to the Tombs a week ago.

  On the way out, I caught a rather depressing glimpse of myself in the mirror. Just a boring, respectable lady past her first youth, I thought irritably, vowing to bring out my splashy purple coat with the nutria fur trim and my new broad-brimmed violet velvet hat topped with a huge bow, plumes, and a glittery pin as soon as ever I could.

  My sartorial sulk ended as soon as I met Hetty outside the courthouse. She was every drop as respectable and dull as I in dark gray plaid, but it did nothing to diminish the sparkle in her eyes. I recognized it immediately as the same feeling I had at curtain time. When will men realize that we’re capable of loving our work as much as they are?

  “Ready for closings?” she asked, holding up her tools. “You did bring a notebook?”

  I pulled a similar one and a pencil out of my sturdy bag. “I have my props.”

  She grinned and took my arm. “Then on to the show.”

  At the door, Hetty showed her Beacon press card to a guard, who seemed only a little bemused, having had a couple of weeks of trial to get used to her. Then he looked at me. “Bringing a friend?”

  “An assistant.”

  “Probably need it today.” He nodded to me. “Good luck, ladies.”

  We bowed and went to take our seats in the press gallery. Unsurprisingly, we were the only females. The gents tended to be older and far more serious of mien than the sports writers. Probably not surprising, considering that this story could well end in an execution, however richly deserved.

  The press gallery was really just a couple of rows of seats at the back of the packed courtroom. Once the reporters were in place, they started letting in the ordinary spectators, who apparently were on some sort of first-come-first-served basis. While Hetty made some initial notes and chatted with a few of her peers, I studied the audience, which was my own area of expertise, after all.

  The crowd was mostly male and mostly older gentlemen. Younger folk would be working. A few ladies appeared in knots, apparently huddling together for the safety of numbers. All of them had dressed carefully and soberly, as Hetty and I had done. No one really wanted to stand out while doing something as unladylike as attending a murder trial.

  Speaking of standing out, though, I found myself staring in shock when I saw the next to last gentleman allowed into the spectators’ benches. Gilbert Saint Aubyn owned any room he entered, whether he intended to or not, and he seemed to be cultivating an unobtrusive air as he strode to his seat.

  “Isn’t that—” Hetty began.

  “It surely is.”

  “Maybe we piqued his interest at tea yesterday.”

  “Maybe.”

  Gil took a carefully casual glance around the room, and his eyes landed on us. For a second, he looked puzzled. Then he grinned, entirely inappropriately for the venue, and bowed.

  I couldn’t avoid a blush as I nodded.

  “Heaven help us,” Hetty whispered. “That smile’s a dangerous weapon.”

  “Aren’t you here to work?”

  “You should get to work on that courtship, Miss Diva.” She chuckled. “That is some very fine real estate.”

  I just shook my head, since the matron was bringing in the defendant.

  Amelie Van Vleet seemed to be quite appealing, at least from this distance. Naturally, after a lifetime onstage, I am well aware that all you really need to give the impression of loveliness from a few dozen yards away is large eyes with strong brows, a regularly shaped face, and a noticeable mouth. All easily accomplished with makeup. Probably not an option for the woman in the dock, but she was in a simple black dress rather than a prison uniform, so she definitely did have some chance to see to her toilette.

  Her hair and brows were dark, and I couldn’t be certain about the eyes, but she definitely had dark lashes. She was very pale and seemed to be leaning on her lawyer’s arm. Rowan Alteiss is one of the best defenders in the City, a tall, spare man with rumpled salt-and-pepper hair and a kind aspect.

  As he guided her gently to the defense table, she smiled at him, and I caught a flash of something between them, but I couldn’t be sure precisely what. I didn’t doubt that I’d be awfully fond of the man who was keeping me from the electric chair, after all, and she must be a charming woman, Hetty’s reservations notwithstanding.

  “All rise!”

  As everyone complied with the bailiff’s cry, I noticed Gil watching Mrs. Van Vleet and Alteiss very closely. Well, his friend Joshua is a top barrister in Britain.

  “Be seated.” The judge, a tiny little man of considerable years, discretion still to be determined, looked over the courtroom. “I will issue my usual admonishment to our spectators of the weaker sex. We shall have no fainting . . .”

  “Or emotional outbursts of any kind,” Hetty hissed irritably in my ear. I bit back a smile.

  “Approach the bench?” asked Alteiss.

  “You may.”

  Alteiss exchanged a few words with the judge, who then motioned the prosecutor over. They all talked for a few moments, and the judge finally nodded.

  “I’ll allow it. Defense may call one more witness.”

  “Call Mrs. Herman Naylor.”

  The name was vaguely familiar, and as soon as I saw her, I knew why. She and her husband kept a small florist’s shop just off Fifth Avenue, not far from the Ladies’ Mile—or the Van Vleet manse.

  Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Naylor was a cheerful and friendly blond lady of a certain age, with a bit of extra avoirdupois from a prosperous life, well hidden by a voluminous florist’s smock always tied with a bright bow that gave color to her ivory face. For court, though, she was in a very serious black merino dress and coat. No doubt it was the outfit she wore for funerals or other important events, but the grim fabric washed her out, and the close fit made her look stouter than she was.

  Worse, her usually bright smile was replaced by a determined scowl. I hoped she’d be back to her usual self the next time I dropped by for a few flowers for the drawing room.

  She walked to the box, carrying herself with the stiffness of one afraid of doing something wrong, and who could blame her? Most people never find themselves in the witness box at all, never mind in a murder trial.

  After she was sworn, Rowan Alteiss greeted her and thanked her extravagantly for coming, clearly in an effort to put her at ease a bit. It did have some minimal effect.

  “Now, Mrs. Naylor, can you tell me what you do?”

  “My husband and I own the florist’s shop on Washington Terrace, just off Fifth Avenue.” She spoke clearly and with pride.

  “Where is that in relation to the Van Vleet home?”

  “Less than a block. I can see the servants’ door of their home from my window.”

  “Ah. May I take you back to the day of April fourteenth?”

  “A pretty day, even though it wasn’t an especially good spring this year.”

  “Very true, ma’am. Why do you remember it?”

  “Well, I remember the afternoon, when there was all the commotion at the Van Vleet mansion, of course.”

  “Did anything else unusual happen that day?”

  “I didn’t think it unusual at the time, but knowing what happened, I remembered it.”

  “And what was that?”

  �
��Well, a Frenchman came in and bought a large bouquet.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  She smiled a little. “Mostly, we see New Yorkers, sir. Frenchmen stand out.”

  “Did he stand out enough that you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

  She pointed to the bench behind the defense table, where Anatole Lescaut was trying to look unobtrusive. “Him. That’s the one. I’d recognize that oily look anywhere.”

  Hetty choked back a snicker, and she wasn’t the only one. The judge raked the room with a glare.

  “What did he buy?”

  “A big bouquet of pink peonies. Not my favorite flower, especially in spring. So showy and not much scent. But some people like them.”

  “I imagine they do. And then?”

  “He had me wrap them all up with a nice shiny pink ribbon and headed off with them, proud as punch.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “Last I saw, he was going up the back drive at the Van Vleets’.”

  A murmur in the courtroom. Another judicial glare.

  “And did you see him after that?”

  “I didn’t. Another customer came in to buy violets—a much better choice in April, ask me—and I didn’t think of it again until much later.”

  “Why are you coming forward now?”

  “Well, the poor thing shouldn’t hang for him, even if she was up to no good.”

  That brought the house down. The judge pounded his gavel once, to no avail, and then a second time, while yelling, “Order!”

  That accomplished the purpose.

  “I will remind the jury that we established yesterday that the scullery maid could not remember locking the back door,” Mrs. Van Vleet’s lawyer said.

  “That’s for your closing argument, Alteiss,” snapped the judge.

  “I move for immediate dismissal on grounds of reasonable doubt,” countered the lawyer.