Tommy shrugged. “You know all that we do. Someone came after Connor here, and he apparently took care of the danger.”
I did my best not to think about how.
Cousin Andrew gave Tommy a hard look. “You two don’t actually know Coughlan—”
“Tommy decked Connor when he was sixteen, that’s all.” I didn’t want our detective looking for connections that did not exist.
“With some help from Heller,” Tommy added quickly. “He is proud of her accomplishments . . .”
“And yours!” I added with some heat.
Tommy glared at me for a second. “He admires her from afar and probably does take a certain amount of pride in having fought me back then. We might see him once a year.”
The detective nodded. “I didn’t really think you had any business with him, but I had to ask.”
“Of course.” Tommy shrugged. “You’re looking into things.”
We’re both far too familiar with the ways of law enforcement to be troubled by such questions; Tommy’s late uncle Jim was a desk sergeant, and we have a few more distant relations on the beat. Not to mention the fact that we are hardly the only Irish people to have connections on both sides of the law. Unless I misremembered, a few years before, Cousin Andrew and Father Michael had buried another cousin who’d been up to no good in Five Points.
Cousin Andrew gave him a grateful nod. “Well, Coughlan was here . . .”
“Just for the Jamie Eagger benefit,” I explained.
“Jamie Eagger. Terrible thing.” The detective shook his head. “His mother is a cousin of Katie’s father.”
“A terrible shame.” Tommy’s face tightened again at the mention of Jamie Eagger, and I noticed that the shadows under his eyes hadn’t quite gone away. When the run was over, we should take a little time for rest, I thought. At least a week of sleeping in, without any responsibilities.
Toms carries too much, I thought, not for the first time.
“And all of that after the Florian Lutz killing,” the detective said.
“Do you think—” I began.
“I don’t think anything, Miss Ella. But there’s nothing coppers hate more than coincidences and cases that seem too easy. And I know you and your world well enough not to let those headline grabbers at the Broadway Squad write it off.” His scowl left no doubt of his disdain for Manhattan’s most famous, and most chronicled, detectives.
Tommy and I nodded, exchanging glances. We’d somehow fallen into some kind of internal police battle, in addition to everything else.
“At any rate, Andrew, we all need to get some rest,” Tommy said, moving to give the detective a graceful escape. “I’d invite you back to the house for a cup of cocoa, but . . .”
“No, no. I understand.” Andrew looked at his watch. “It really is quite late.”
“I’m going to go get our cab. Do you mind walking Ella to the door once she and Rosa collect their things?”
“Not at all.” He actually seemed quite pleased by the prospect.
Tommy walked out, and Cousin Andrew turned to me and stared for a long second with an awkward little smile that made me wonder what might come next. “You’re a woman.”
“I believe so.”
“And you love your work.”
“Also true.”
He took a breath, thought about it a bit, and then just jumped in, words tumbling out in a rush, his face tight with distress. “Katie won’t marry me, because she doesn’t want to stop teaching. Says she needs more than a home and children. Should I just give up? I love her, Miss Ella.”
I carefully kept my face neutral, thinking that we were about to find out how modern Cousin Andrew was. “First off, don’t give up.”
His miserable expression brightened a bit. “No?”
“Not if you really love her.”
“I do.”
“Enough to accept a wife who works?”
He considered for a moment. “As long as the wife is first and the work second.”
Really, not bad, I thought. Probably as good an answer as one can expect from a New York Irishman in the last months of 1899. “Well, then, you find a way.”
“You think? How? The city schools don’t allow married women teachers.”
“They aren’t the only schools, after all. I imagine a settlement house or some other private concern would be grateful for some of her time.”
“Oh.” He smiled, relieved.
“What matters is you’re willing to meet her partway.”
“It’s Katie, Miss Ella. I’d move heaven and earth for her.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I shook my head. Men always want to be our heroes, when all we really want is a helper. “You just have to let her be herself.”
He looked a bit puzzled.
“You are the man who loves Katie McTeer, but that’s not all you are, right? You’re a detective and a son and a friend . . .”
“Right.” The light dawned. “She needs her work.”
“Exactly. Not as much of it, maybe, when you have wee ones, but she needs to be Katie, as well as Detective Riley’s wife.”
“Good insight, Miss Ella.”
“Only if you use it.”
“I surely will.”
“Don’t expect her to believe you right away. A lot of men, even good ones, don’t understand this.”
“Does your duke?” Not for nothing is Andrew Riley a detective.
“I think so . . . but I’m in no hurry, either.”
The little copper grinned. “Well, I hope the two of you will dance at our wedding one of these days.”
“First, you convince her of your earnest.”
“Right. And perhaps get Mack to leave us alone for a bit.”
“You don’t mind calling her Mack?”
“She’s Katie’s chaperone. I’ll call her the Princess of Wales if she’ll let me walk Katie to the door alone.”
I joined him in a sigh. It seemed other courting couples appreciate a bit of privacy in the foyer, as well. I wondered if Mack lurked in the parlor doorway at the McTeer house the way Tommy and others did at Washington Square. If Katie’s upbringing was even remotely similar to mine, and I had no reason to suspect otherwise, the precautions were silly and pointless, but Irish families guard their girls’ virtue as much for appearance as for practicality.
“You would think an officer of the law could be trusted for a respectful good night.”
“No, Miss Ella, there you would be very wrong. It’s just as well Mack is always about.”
Chapter 24
In Which the Matinee Takes a Dangerous Turn
On our last matinee Wednesday, the audience got a much more sensational final duel than they’d bargained for.
As Louis imagined that ultimate confrontation, it is eerie and wonderful. Richard has already sung his last aria, “I Prevail or Die,” and while he and Henry Tudor battle for the kingdom and, not incidentally, for their lives, the only music is a soft and spooky a cappella Latin chant. As the fight goes on, the chant very slowly resolves into the prayers for the dead and finally, as Richard lies vanquished at Henry’s feet, into silence.
In that silence, I take the diadem from Richard’s head, then pause to offer a prayer, perhaps for his soul, perhaps for the strength to rule the nation that is now mine. I stay for a measure or two in absolute quiet, on one knee beside his body, holding that crown. Then I stand, and as I settle the crown—and its weight—on my own head, the triumphant music of my final aria, “Mine the Kingdom,” begins.
Amazing theater when done well.
Both Ruben and I have to stay entirely concentrated to make the duel work, and it’s actually more difficult than the final aria. In the aria, after all, I have to worry only about myself.
That afternoon, all started as usual, the male chorus falling into their chant as Ruben and I circled each other, following the very precise fight blocking we’d done several dozen times in rehearsal and performance now. Ruben makes
the first strike; Richard wants this to end in victory or death. I meet the strike and battle back, Henry’s life and honor equally in the balance.
We clashed, matching parry and thrust for several stanzas, as the chant grew louder. At the climax of the fight and the music, Ruben moved to make a killing stroke over my head.
Every other time we did this, I blocked his blade with mine, then made a quick thrust toward him, sending my sword harmlessly past his torso and onto the stage side to give the impression that I’d run him through. This time, though, his sword broke when it hit mine on the downward strike. Two large pieces of metal and some shards flew between us, and we stepped apart for a second, still working to stay in character.
Ruben stared at me in horror. I gazed back in equal shock for an instant, then quickly recovered myself, gave him a grim final nod, and took my kill thrust according to plan, finishing the battle as if the mishap had simply been the way it was intended to end.
He crumpled to the stage floor as always, but his breathing was ragged, and as I took the diadem, I caught a glimpse of his eyes, stunned and frightened.
As I’m sure mine were, too.
I know I sang the finale, and I know it was good, but I don’t remember doing so. What I do remember is giving him a hand up after the curtain dropped, as I always did, and seeing a smear of blood on his cheekbone. “Ruben . . . are you all right?”
“What?” He shook his head. “I was concerned for you.”
“What in the living blazes just happened here?” Tommy stomped onto the stage and grabbed the two large pieces of broken sword from the floor. “Where’s the propman? Booth!”
On his call, Booth and the propman both ran up with confused and worried faces.
“Look at this! Somebody could have been really badly hurt,” Tommy snapped. He handed the pieces to Booth, his eyes already on Ruben and me. “Do I need to call Dr. Silver?”
“No, no, not for me.” Ruben dabbed at the small scratch on his cheek. “We have bandages and such in the dressing rooms.”
“What about you, Heller?” Tommy took a hard look at my face, and it was really only then that I understood how terribly close we had come to disaster.
“What happened, kid?”
Oh, precious joy. An angry and upset Preston walking in from the wings. Just the addition we need to the scene.
“I’m fine.” I put my hand to my head, which was when I, and everyone else, saw it. A slash in the shirtsleeve on my forearm, and blood staining the white fabric.
Cue a chorus of concern, which culminated in me being dragged off to my dressing room, where the company and friends stood watch or offered mostly useless medical advice. I ignored them, rolling up my sleeve, taking the medicine box Booth had produced and Tommy had grabbed from him, and setting to work on patching up what was really quite a minor injury. Bloody, yes, and fairly deep, but a simple straight cut, which would heal quickly enough if kept clean and bandaged.
“More iodine, kid. You don’t want that getting infected,” Preston urged as he unrolled a bandage. “Looks like the bleeding is slowing down, anyway.” Something very dark in his voice reminded me of his comment that he’d been at Gettysburg.
I did my best not to wince as I painted on another coat of the tincture. Once my arm was nicely wrapped, with some entirely too proficient help from Preston, I moved on to tending to Ruben. It gave me something constructive to do.
Booth, who’d been responsible for informing the audience that there’d be no curtain call or backstage visits this afternoon, returned as I set to work on Ruben. The stage manager’s bony, handsome face was grim as he knocked on the open door. “Is everyone all right?”
“No thanks to the propman,” Tommy snapped. “Send him—”
“Not so fast, Mr. Tom,” Booth said, handing him back the two large pieces of Ruben’s sword. “This was no accident. Someone filed that blade so it would break.”
Tommy took a careful look, then threw the metal down. As the clatter echoed in the small room, he stalked out, shouting, “Eamon Morrissey! I want you here. Right now!”
As I dabbed more iodine on Ruben’s cheekbone, his face tightened, and not from the pain of the antiseptic. He spoke through gritted teeth: “Eamon.”
“What?”
“It makes sense. I’ve had a few odd little things happen lately. The heel filed down on one of my boots—which could’ve caused a nasty fall—something odd smelling in my tea before the show . . .”
“Damn it,” I said. Ruben’s eyes widened. “I’m aware of the words. I don’t usually use them. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t want to bother you . . .”
And perhaps, horrifically, he thought it was just something he had to face in life. What a terrible world this is at times. “We’ll take care of this, Ruben. I can’t fix everything, but I can make damn sure people treat my singers well in my own blasted theater.”
Ruben just blinked at me.
If he thought I was a picture of righteous fury, I could only imagine what he thought when Tommy dragged Eamon into the dressing room and shoved him against the wall.
Eamon, though an inch or so taller and sturdier, didn’t fight back. He was blue-white with fear, just staring at Tommy. Everyone knows he’s a former champ, of course, but even in the ring, he was known for his calm. On the vanishingly rare occasions that Toms gives in to rage (as opposed to yelling for show, as Irishmen always do to keep their women in line), it is absolutely terrifying.
Tommy held him against the wall and snarled right in his face. “Someone could’ve lost an eye! What the hell were you thinking?”
“As God’s my witness, I wouldn’t do that.” Eamon looked like he might cry. “I admit it. I did put a little ipecac in Ruben’s tea . . . and sand down his boot heel. I just wanted one chance. I didn’t mean for anyone to get badly hurt.”
“You could have blinded or even killed them if that sword had broken the wrong way.”
“I’m telling you!” It came out almost as a wail. “I didn’t tamper with the sword.”
“If you didn’t, who did?”
“Me.”
We all turned to see one of the hands, a small, sinewy, narrow-eyed older man who was new for the run, scowling in the doorway. I vaguely remembered his name was Edwin Drumm, the man who’d been glowering at Ruben during his first walk-through—and at the two of us when we walked in together last week. “I don’t hold with that Cuban being on the stage with good white people.”
“What?” Tommy let go of Eamon and turned on Drumm, leaving the young singer to slide down the wall and try to catch his breath.
“You heard me. I don’t want the Irish boy to lose his chance. I did the sword. I’m sorry Miss Ella got hurt, but she shouldn’t be playing with the likes of Ruben, anyway.”
“Get out!” Tommy roared as he pointed to the door.
“Glad to. And I’ll be glad to tell anyone who’ll listen what you people are really putting onstage.”
Tommy took two huge strides to him and grabbed him by the collar. The point at which Mr. Edwin Drumm found his feet dangling in the air is likely when he realized his error. “The hell you will.”
“I’ll . . . ,” Drumm choked out.
“If I hear any such thing, I will know where it came from. And I will happily go down to the police station and swear out an assault charge for the sword.” Tommy smiled terrifyingly. “I will also be happy to let certain friends of the company know that you deliberately endangered Miss Ella.”
“All right.” Drumm knew which friends he meant. “Let me go.”
Tommy did. “Now that we understand each other.”
Even though he was still fighting to regain his balance, Drumm gave Tommy one more glare and Ruben a long gaze of undiluted hatred. “I’m leaving.”
“Damn right you are,” Preston snapped. “I didn’t watch my friends die at Gettysburg so some prejudiced fool like you could hurt good people.”
That struck everyone
speechless for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few seconds.
“I’ll take this trash the hell out,” Booth said finally, grabbing Drumm by the scruff of the neck. “Sorry, Miss Ella.”
I swallowed a tiny smile at the courtesy.
“Now, about you.” Tommy turned back to a still pale and terrified Eamon. “I should send you away without a character.”
“I know. And I’m sorrier than I can say to Ruben and Miss Ella and—”
“Shut up,” Tommy said coolly. “I don’t need apologies. I need a bass-baritone who knows the role for the next three days. Don’t take that as a reprieve. And if you so much as look crosswise at Ruben . . .”
“I understand. I really am sorry.” Eamon looked to me. “Miss Ella, I—”
“I think we’ve talked enough,” I said with the same arctic note as Tommy. “You can leave.”
He took one long glance around the room, perhaps hoping for some kind of sympathy or encouragement, but he got none, as he deserved. Then he turned and walked away.
“All right,” I said once he was gone. “Can someone get a spare sword for Mr. Avila?”
Everyone except Ruben turned on me with various angry remonstrations. He just nodded gravely, because he knew.
I held up my hands. “No. We have to rehearse the duel again right now. If we don’t, the mishap will always be in our minds, and we could make much more dangerous mistakes later.”
No one was happy about it, least of all Ruben and me, but everyone understood the importance of jumping right back in before the fear had time to settle. So duel we did, smoothly and uneventfully.
Marie, the two young sopranos who played her ladies-in-waiting, and the entire chorus joined the others watching from the wings. Everyone was as silent and concentrated as we were. They knew how important this was.
When Ruben went for his killing stroke, I saw his face tighten a little, and I knew he saw mine do the same. But all that happened was the usual block, and I made my final thrust wide on the stage side, as always. I saw the relief on his face as he crumpled to the stage.
Before he even landed, I was bending down, with my hand out. “Magnificent.”
A Fatal First Night Page 19
