A Fatal Finale

  Tommy nodded. “That’d be a good bit more than a breath of scandal, Heller.”

  “I know. All a lady has is her reputation.”

  “Overworked turn of phrase because it’s true.” Preston glared sternly at me. “You can’t just run off and do things like anyone else.”

  I nodded and took my medicine, doing my best to look like a good little girl while I put the marker in my book, and considered the idea.

  Blackmail. I have no real secrets, of course. But what if someone did? What, say, if you were trying to pass yourself off as someone you weren’t . . . would you perhaps try to buy silence with a jewel or two? Two of the jewels were missing.

  Tommy and Preston had moved into an amiable argument over some boxing rule, which I only vaguely understood, leaving me free to contemplate for a moment. Would Frances have been willing to surrender some of her stake—and her inheritance—to prevent anyone from finding out who she was?

  The truth would not have bothered us. She did a fine-enough job, overacting notwithstanding, and it would have taken more than a coronet in her family tree to convince us to get rid of a Juliet in the midst of a tour. Far too much trouble to find a replacement, though I’d surely have made it very clear what I thought of her lying.

  Fear of her family? Perhaps. Saint Aubyn was clearly opposed to her career at the time she left, and there were certainly lurid tales of British aristocrats forcing errant females back to the family fold. Yes, I had a hard time envisioning him as the man to do it, but, of course, he wasn’t the head of my family. He might have behaved differently with her, and she might have had an entirely different view of him than I did.

  If she were afraid of being found out and dragged back to the drawing room she’d run so far to escape, she might well have tried to pay someone off. But who?

  Henry? Doubtful. He’d have to be a very creative and subtle liar to play that game, and from his reaction to the donnybrook over Arden, I didn’t think he was.

  Arden. Certainly a better possibility.

  A paper glider, Tommy’s most recent bookmark, landed in my lap.

  “Come back here, Heller!” Tommy called with a laugh. “What on earth were you thinking of?”

  “Not much.” I shrugged. “Just puzzling out a few things.”

  Both gave me the hard look that I knew meant they neither believed me nor planned to leave me to my thoughts.

  “Nothing serious. Truly. Just wishing there were some way I could help Hetty more.”

  Preston smiled. “She didn’t need it.”

  “True.”

  “You’re just upset about missing out on an adventure,” Tommy said with a laugh. “Maybe you wanted to meet that postal inspector.”

  “Charles Burley?” My turn for a giggle. “She met him at Sunday school. He’s nearly seven feet tall and hasn’t laughed since he was in short trousers.”

  “Sounds like the perfect man for you, kid.”

  “Not on your tintype.” I glared at Preston, then decided it was time for a subject change. “So, gentlemen, now that we’ve done with investigative reporting, perhaps you’d care to investigate some of Mrs. G’s strawberry-rhubarb crumble?”

  Preston smiled. “That is definitely worthy of further study.”

  Tommy put the sheets down on top of his book. “I can read later.”

  “Me too.”

  Not only was the aforementioned crumble available, so, too, was its maker. Mrs. G told us she was setting up a batch of bread for tomorrow’s baking day, and she’d miscalculated the time. I’m quite sure that was the honest truth.

  She was not, however, any less pleased to see Preston wandering into the kitchen than he was to see her. Tommy and I exchanged glances as Preston swept over and bowed extravagantly, and the cook’s face turned rosy pink beneath her crown of still-golden braids.

  “Mr. Dare, really!”

  “Mrs. Grazich, it’s always delightful to see you.”

  “I suppose these poor hungry children need some more crumble,” she said, looking at Tommy and me before returning to her main interest. “Have you had a proper dinner, Mr. Dare?”

  “Proper enough,” he assured her. “But no dessert.”

  “Well, we must remedy that at once.” She motioned him to the kitchen table and started fussing over a bowl of crumble.

  “Any chance you’d sit with us, Mrs. G?” I asked. “Otherwise, we’ll be an awkward three at the table.”

  She considered for a moment, weighing the protocol violation versus the opportunity to sit with Preston. Thankfully, Preston won. “All right, since we are at the kitchen table, after all, and it’s quite late. I haven’t had a chance to have dessert, either.”

  There was a fresh pot of coffee on the stove, and I took over to pour as Mrs. G dished up bowls of crumble and topped them generously with whipped cream. I was amused to see that Preston got more, and more artistically composed, topping than anyone else, though no one need worry about going to bed hungry.

  Once we were all settled in, I asked Preston for the latest developments on the wretched Cleveland Spiders, knowing that Mrs. G has a cousin who lives in that city. That was all that was required. Preston happily regaled us with tales of the Spiders, their home city and (carefully edited for maidenly ears) the sports-writing circuit, playing to a highly appreciative audience of one. Mrs. G watched him with sparkling eyes, occasionally asking an encouraging question or offering an apposite comment.

  Tommy and I were quite superfluous, except perhaps as chaperones. Although from the worshipful gaze Preston was giving Mrs. G, the only thing she would have to worry about was how she might climb down from the pedestal and get home. She was glowing right back at him, clearly enjoying his stories on their merits, as well as the pleasure of having an appealing man perform just for her.

  The crumble and coffee were long gone, and Tommy and I were both starting to get dozy, when Mrs. G noticed the kitchen clock.

  “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “Is that really the time?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” I said. “I’m sorry we’ve kept you so late.”

  “I’ll happily walk you home, Mrs. Grazich,” Preston offered.

  “Well, Mr. Dare, that’s quite kind, but—”

  She was going to say no, and I quickly looked over at Tommy. He had already divined his role. “I’ll come along, too. I need to, ah, ask Preston about that . . . thing.”

  “That’s all right, then. Thank you, Mr. Tommy.”

  Tommy and I kept our smiles very much to ourselves as Mrs. G picked up her wrap and Preston offered his arm.

  “Good night, everyone,” I said. “I am going to bed. I have a rehearsal tomorrow, and the benefit Saturday night, and I’d do well to sleep.”

  “Good night, kid.” Preston took his focus away from Mrs. G, for just a moment, and smiled at me, looking less weary and more happy than I’ve ever seen him. “Don’t slam any doors on your way.”

  Mrs. G looked puzzled, but Tommy knew what he was about and gave me a wise nod.

  I nodded. “I’ve slammed far too many in my day.”

  “Just leave the right one open. That’s all.” Preston offered his parting shot and turned back to squiring Mrs. G.

  I headed upstairs and brushed out my hair in my quiet room, with much to think about. The right door . . . and the right man on the other side.

  Chapter 29

  What It Was, and How It Was Done

  Friday morning, I brought the final edition of the Beacon, with Hetty’s story on the front, below the fold, to the theater, in case I got a chance to finish reading it in the dressing room while waiting for my rehearsal with Marie. Since this was a large and important benefit for the settlement house, we actually rehearsed a day in advance, instead of just showing up and singing like everyone had at the school event.

  While it’s easier for the stagehands if they do, rehearsals don’t absolutely have to go in show order. Since Marie was on a very tight schedule because of her children, the stage
manager agreed to let us go a little earlier. Arden Standish grumbled, but gave us his space in the rehearsal, informing the stage manager at a volume clearly intended for us that he would go for a nice walk around the neighborhood. I suspected some smoking might be involved as well, even if it is terrible for the voice.

  Our set pieces were the biggest in the show, but worth it: Giulietta’s balcony and a wall for me to scale to her window. The climb was perhaps ten feet, just enough to feel a little scary if you look down at the wrong angle while you’re singing. When I got to the top, Marie threw open her door and walked out onto the balcony.

  The practice went easily enough, and once safely on the ground again, we lingered in the wings to talk for a few moments.

  “How is Louis doing on the scores?”

  “We should have copies before I leave for the Western tour, and we can start working on it.”

  She grinned. “Premiere in the fall.”

  “Yes.” I returned the grin. “And Tommy is working on a theater.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And he thinks we should do a carte de visite.”

  “Like that famous painting. I love it.”

  I sighed.

  “Stop. We’ll be absolutely lovely.”

  “That’s what Anna said, as she promised to make us nice black velvet doublets.”

  “It’s perfect. What are you complaining about?” She motioned to my breeches, the old dark blue ones again today. “You’re out in trousers all the time. Nobody but Paul has seen my legs since I put on long skirts.”

  “You’ll be fine. Anna won’t let you look bad.”

  “I know.” She shook her head at me. “So if I can manage it, you certainly can.”

  “All right.”

  “Anything else from the duke?”

  “You saw the paper.” I meant the Beacon; the Illustrated News and “The Lorgnette” were beneath her notice. Should have been beneath mine.

  “Yes. You set up the interview.”

  “Of course. There’s really nothing else. It looks like a sad accident, and he’ll have to accept it.”

  Marie shook her head. “Very sad. But at least they don’t have to live with her doing it deliberately.”

  I nodded. “That will help, I hope.”

  “It will.” A twinkle came into her eyes. “And what about the very attractive His Grace?”

  “What about him?”

  “Ells, the way he looked at you—he’s dead gone on you.”

  “And he’s still who he is, and I’m still who I am.”

  Marie glared at me. “And it’s 1899, not 1799.”

  I sighed. “But not 1999.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “And you know what I mean.”

  She looked at her watch. “We’ll have to settle this later. This discussion is not over, you know.”

  “I know.” We exchanged a quick embrace and she swept out.

  Back in the dressing room, I finished the last few paragraphs of the article. Hetty’s piece was a classic exposé, and it was having the desired effect: Not only was the mad scientist in a world of legal trouble, but some of our local members of Congress were now talking about regulating patent medicines. Even better, druggists were promising to make sure they knew what they were selling. She was causing the right kind of trouble, and things were going to change for the better. And best of all, it was a perfect Nellie-Bly-style investigation, exactly as Preston had suggested, carving out a good place for Hetty. Morrison would have to let her do more now.

  Or at least let her escape from hats.

  * * *

  With a little help from Anna, I got back into my mauve shot-silk day dress much more quickly than I’d have done on my own. I was pinning my new hat, a mauve version of the one Marie had worn a week or so ago, into place as I heard a knock at the door.

  Anna looked up nervously. “Surely, none of those awful men today.” We’d both been looking forward to being done with the rehearsal and getting out of the theater. She was going home to Louis and her boy; I to a relaxing afternoon and early night at home with Tommy, and perhaps some unfair speculation about Preston and Mrs. G.

  “None of them should know to look for me here.” I shrugged. “Come in.”

  No Lothario here. “Is your wretched city trying to kill me?” Saint Aubyn asked by way of greeting.

  “And a good day to you, too.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Shane. Someone very nearly pushed me in front of a beer wagon just now.”

  “Really?” I remembered my close escape the day of our tea at the Waldorf. And wondered a bit. “Are you sure you were pushed? Or was it just being in the crush of people here in the Theater District?”

  “It certainly felt like someone was trying to push me off the curb,” he reflected. “But I suppose it could have been the crush of the crowd. I could be seeing threats where none exist because of all that’s happened.”

  “Perhaps.” I wasn’t convinced, but I saw no need to add to his burdens.

  Saint Aubyn looked around my dressing room. “This is much nicer than your quarters the other evening.”

  “Well, this is a real theater. As a leading singer, I will always have my own room and plenty of space for Anna to do her work.”

  “What would Frances have had?”

  “As the second lady, she would never share a room like the chorus, but she wouldn’t have a dresser, either. Her space at Poli’s Wonderland was smaller, and on a lower level, a few doors down from the tenor.” The tenor. Arden Standish, complete with imagined passion for Frances and nasty habits. And out for an angry walk nearby when Saint Aubyn almost met his Maker with the help of a beer wagon, just a day after the world found out that the duke was Lady Frances’s cousin.

  I looked down at my dressing table, with makeup jars, brushes and my little tins of horehound and peppermint lozenges ranged across it, along with a few other things, like the handkerchief I gave Marie, the only prop I needed. All of the items were left out the way they always were for the time that I took over the leading lady’s room in a theater. Suddenly, like the turn of a kaleidoscope, the plot came together. I knew what happened, and I knew who. What I didn’t know was whether I could prove it.

  “What?” Saint Aubyn saw something in my face.

  He deserved the truth. “I don’t think your cousin’s death was an accident.”

  “You mean . . .” His eyes widened and he waited.

  “You know she was using a patent medicine. She would likely have left it, and her prop vial, out on her table. Someone just walked in and poured an additional dose of it into the vial.”

  “Not just someone.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t prove it yet.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I need to figure out how to prove it. Right now, I would just be slandering someone’s name with no evidence.”

  He glared at me. “That’s not acceptable, Miss Shane.”

  “It will have to be.” I glared right back. “A barrister should know that. No police officer will make an arrest in a months-old death based on a mere theory with no evidence. I don’t have the bottle, and I don’t have an admission of guilt.”

  And I’m the only one who can figure out how to get that. My company, my Juliet. My responsibility to get justice for her, I thought.

  Saint Aubyn’s eyes were sharp and cold on my face. “What are you going to do?”

  “The less you know, the better, I’m afraid.” I took a breath. I wasn’t sure myself. “But, hopefully, there will be good news soon.”

  “I rather wish I were the sort of old-fashioned ruffian who would force you to tell me.” He put a hand on my arm, and I could see him trying to look menacing, and failing both comically and miserably.

  “No, you don’t.” I smiled at him. “You’re incapable of threatening a woman. Even a mere theater person such as me.”

  He shook his head and lightly ran his hand down my arm, sparking more of that weird energ
y, fingers lingering a moment at the charm bracelet, as he returned the smile. “There is nothing mere about you, Miss Shane, and I have nothing but the highest respect for you.”

  “Oh.” Somewhere, as a background theme, mixed in with all those confusing electrical disturbances, I heard Mrs. Corbyn’s smoothly evil little voice: “If he’s spending time with you, dear, it’s not because he wants to court you.”

  “I’ve surely given you no reason to question that.” His eyes held mine, sharp and concerned.

  “No, no,” I said quickly, reassuringly. “Nothing you’ve said or done.”

  “Yet more for the horrid Mrs. Corbyn’s account, I suppose.”

  “What?”

  “I can guess.” Saint Aubyn scowled. “It probably went something like this.” He cocked his head and pitched his voice a bit higher, with almost exactly the same falsely kind tone as Mrs. Corbyn’s. “My dear, he can’t possibly have honorable intentions toward someone like you.”

  It’s fair to say I am almost never speechless. But I was then.

  “What utterly mystifies me is why you would even allow her to speak to you, or God forbid, believe one word she said.” He shook his head and spat the next words: “Nasty, grasping fishwife.”

  My eyes widened.

  “I’d say something else, if I weren’t in the presence of a lady,” Saint Aubyn pronounced very deliberately. “Right, Miss Shane. A lady, which is how I think of you.”

  I nodded.

  “And further, there’s one thing you need to remember. I am a duke.” He smiled, the scary, humorless one that he’d used to back off Grover Duquesne. “I decide what is appropriate for me, not some society matron trying to foist off her vapid daughter.”

  I just stared. I’m glad he’s on my side, I thought, not for the first time. But, of course, I had forgotten that Northerners are not Londoners; border lords have always played by their own rules, and Heaven help anyone who tried to tell them what to do. If Henry VIII could not make them bend the knee, Mrs. Corbyn had not a prayer.

  “I know the difference between a ‘soprano’ and a ‘soubrette’ these days, Miss Shane.”

  I smiled at the reference to our first meeting. “I probably brought my point home a little too forcefully.”