Murder at the Mikado (A Drew Farthering Mystery Book #3)

by Julianna Deering

  She extended one black-gloved hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Her voice was a husky whisper, but he was certain he had heard it before.

  “Mrs. . . . Mallowan?”

  She nodded once. “Will you shut the door so we may speak in private?”

  He inclined his head. “Forgive me, but I’ve asked my fiancée to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She made a petulant little huffing sound that he recognized at once.

  “Fleur?”

  She used both graceful hands to lift her veil just enough so she could peep out from under it. “Must she, Drew? I’d much prefer—”

  “I do hope you’ll pardon me, but, yes, she must. If you wish to speak to me, she absolutely must.”

  “But Drew—”

  “Otherwise I really have to bid you good morning.”

  She pouted and let the veil fall over her face again. “Can she at least be trusted not to let anyone know I’ve come to see you?”

  “If that’s necessary, I’m certain she can. Madeline is always very—”

  “Always very what, darling?”

  Madeline stood in the doorway, smiling and spring fresh in a flowered frock and pink jumper.

  Drew held out his hand to her. “Come in, Madeline, and shut the door if you would.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, but did as she was asked and then came to stand at Drew’s side. “Won’t you introduce us?” she asked.

  Fleur put back her veil again and discarded her hat altogether. “I’m sure you remember me, Miss Parker.”

  Madeline glanced at Drew, her expression suddenly cool. “Yes, Mrs. Landis, I do. Forgive me, but I wasn’t expecting—”

  “No, forgive me.” Fleur’s dark eyes were pleading and helpless. “Both of you, please, I really can’t have anyone know I’ve come to you today. Will you promise not to say anything?”

  Drew settled Madeline on the love seat and then sat next to her, putting her arm through his.

  “Say anything?” he asked. “To whom?”

  “To anyone. Please, Drew. I know we didn’t part the best of friends back in Oxford.”

  She turned those eyes up to his, shining with unshed tears, and he remembered now why his eighteen-year-old self had been so easily smitten. He wouldn’t again be such a fool.

  “I daresay.”

  His voice was coolly polite, and no one said anything for a moment. Madeline looked at him, her delicate eyebrows lifted just the slightest bit.

  He turned again to their guest. “I take it there’s a reason you’ve come? Why go through the pretense of saying you were Mrs. Mallowan?”

  “I know you like mystery novels, and I thought the name might pique your interest. I couldn’t risk your not seeing me. I . . .” Fleur had a lace handkerchief crumpled in one hand, and now she touched it to her trembling lips. “I’m in the most awful trouble, Drew, and I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

  “Perhaps you ought to be talking to the police. I know a Chief Inspector Birdsong who—”

  “No.” She shook her head, again pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. “Oh, Drew, no. You don’t understand. The police are the ones I’m going to be in trouble with!”

  Madeline gave Drew a subtle glance, one he knew meant she didn’t want him to get involved with anything that would interfere with their wedding plans. He squeezed her arm in acknowledgment.

  “Perhaps a solicitor then. I could give you the name of the firm we use. Or if you had rather keep the matter separate, I’m certain they could give you a referral to someone who specializes in whatever sort of case you have.”

  “No, no.” Fleur’s voice was nearly a sob now. “I need someone unofficial, someone who can keep my name out of it.”

  “A private investigator perhaps.”

  “I couldn’t possibly go to someone like that. Poor Brent, the scandal would kill him.”

  Drew narrowed his eyes at her. “Just what are you afraid you’ll be accused of?”

  “Haven’t you seen the morning paper?”

  He shook his head. “At least not all of it. I was reading it over breakfast, but I always start at the back and work my way to the front. Save the headlines for last, as it were. Shall I have it brought in?”

  She sniffed and then nodded. “I couldn’t . . . Oh, Drew, I couldn’t possibly tell you the awful details.”

  He tried to figure out how much of her fright was real and how much of it was put on to sway him. But it didn’t matter. Whatever this was, it wasn’t his place to help her. She had a husband, and he seemed a very good man. Surely he would stand by her whatever the problem was.

  He rang for Denny, and in just another moment Drew had that morning’s paper in hand. One bold headline caught his eye.

  ACTOR RAVENSWOOD MURDERED

  Drew looked up at Fleur. “Ravenswood? It was his troupe you were in back in Oxford, wasn’t it? What happened?”

  “Read it.” A single tear traced down her porcelain cheek, and she immediately blotted it away, forcing herself to sit up straighter. “You’ll want just the facts, and that will tell you better than I would be able to.”

  Madeline was already reading over his shoulder, and he hurried to catch up.

  Local celebrity, actor John Sutherland Ravenswood, born Henry Percival Sutherland, was found at two o’clock this morning in his dressing room at the Tivoli Theater, bludgeoned to death with an empty champagne bottle. Ravenswood’s wife and leading lady, Miss Simone Cullimore, already having gone home after last night’s performance, called the theater to speak to Ravenswood before he left for the evening. Conor Benton, another of the actors, and one of the workmen found the star’s dressing room locked, and receiving no reply to repeated knocks and calls, they forced the door open.

  “He was lying there with his head bashed in, mind you, and fair wallowing in his blood,” said Grady Hibbert, the Tivoli’s longtime stageman. “I never had nobody killed in my theater, barring onstage of course, nor seen a dead body since I was at Ypres in the Great War.”

  “We had all been drinking champagne,” Miss Cullimore said. “It was the fifth anniversary of our opening night at the Tivoli, and everyone was in a jolly mood. Johnnie said he had a few things to see to before he went home, so I went on alone. Now I’ll never see him again.”

  Chief Inspector James Birdsong of the Hampshire Police declined comment except to say his men were investigating the matter and that they were not prepared to name any suspects.

  Again Drew looked up at Fleur, skipping the remainder of the article. “What does this have to do with you? Did you kill him?”

  “Drew!” Tears sprang to her eyes, and once more she pressed the frothy bit of lace to her mouth, her body shaking. “I know what you think of me after . . . after Oxford, but you can’t believe that of me. Not murder. Please tell me you don’t.”

  “I haven’t seen you in six years, Mrs. Landis,” he told her. “And even back then, I can’t say I really knew you. How would I know what you’re capable of?”

  “Drew,” Madeline murmured.

  He pressed his lips into a tight line. “Sorry, darling.”

  Fleur studied them for a moment, then looked away. “I just thought you might be able to help me.”

  “Is there some reason in particular you think the police will suspect you?”

  “Well, I . . . I knew Johnnie Ravenswood. We were . . . we used to be an item, but that was years ago. When we were in that repertory company in Oxford.”

  Drew glanced at Madeline. “Was that before or after you and I met?”

  Fleur looked down and somehow had the grace to look ashamed. “Before and after. I know. I know. It was insane. I was sowing my wild oats, and now I suppose I get to reap the harvest.”

  “That’s hardly any reason for you to be a suspect now, is it?” Drew asked, his voice cold. “There must be more.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “I still kept in touch with him. Well, with all of them. That’s often
how it is in the theater. Sometimes, especially with small companies that have the same players in them for years at a time, it’s like a little family. I was friends with his wife, believe it or not, and with several of the others. I missed it, being onstage, and I liked chatting with them about old times. Sometimes I’d sit in and read a part when they were rehearsing or trying out some new bit of business. Johnnie would sometimes use one of my suggestions, especially if it was one of the women’s roles. Brent never understood, so I never told him that’s what I was doing. But there wasn’t any harm in it. It was just . . . fun.”

  Drew exchanged a look with Madeline. She looked no more convinced than he.

  “And this ‘fun’ is enough to make you a suspect?” he pressed.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes filled with tears once more. “The police came to talk to me this morning. Evidently someone claims he saw me at the theater last night after everyone else had gone, but I tell you I wasn’t there! I was at home all night—you can ask Brent.”

  “The police haven’t talked to him yet?”

  “He had already gone to the office, but I suppose they’ve gone there to question him. I don’t know.”

  “And who is it that says you were at the theater last night?”

  Fleur pursed her lips. “A perfectly odious man. Conor Benton. He plays all the juvenile leads, and juvenile is the perfect word for him. He and Johnnie were always at it hammer and tongs over blocking and stage business and how lines ought to be delivered.” She frowned. “I suspect too they had a bit of not-so-friendly competition over the girls in the chorus and any stagestruck young things who threw themselves at the two of them. I mean, fair’s fair. Johnnie was more handsome than any man ought to be. More than that, he knew how to charm anyone out of anything. Benton’s not much better. He fancies himself something of an Adonis, though I think he’s got a bit of a weak chin. Still, he draws the ladies, and that’s what he was engaged to do.”

  “I see,” Drew said. “But why would he claim to have seen you at the theater if you weren’t there?”

  She glanced at Madeline, and a blush touched her cheek. “A few months ago he tried to seduce me. I told him I wasn’t interested, that I loved my husband. He called me all sorts of filthy names and said I was a hypocrite. He couldn’t believe I was different now, that I wasn’t who I used to be.” Again there were tears. “You have to believe me, Drew. I’m not who I was. I’m not that thoughtless girl you once knew. I love my husband and my son. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to ruin them. Please help me.”

  Drew sighed and again looked at Madeline, knowing her grim expression was a mirror of his own. This was bad. Very bad.

  “And you want me to do what exactly?” he asked at last.

  She squirmed in her chair, dark eyes pleading. “I merely thought that you could investigate the case yourself. If you could find out who really killed Johnnie, then they couldn’t suspect me, could they?”

  “I suppose not. But I’m not—”

  “If you could start work right away, and work very quickly, then Brent doesn’t have to deal with all this.” She clasped her hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer, and there was more than a touch of desperation in her expression. “And nobody has to know.”

  “If you are innocent,” said Drew, “then what does it matter if your husband or anyone knows you might briefly be a suspect? You will be cleared by the police in time, won’t you?”

  “It’s just . . .” Again the dark eyes were pleading with him. “You know already, Drew, how foolish I’ve been in the past. I’m not proud of how I treated you once. I’m not proud of how I’ve treated other men.” She glanced at Madeline and then back at him. “But I’ve tried to change my ways. The police suspect me. They might even arrest me before long, but I didn’t do it. You must believe me, Drew. You must.”

  Drew stared at her. Was she a murderess? He couldn’t quite imagine it of her, but he didn’t trust her either, not after what had happened in Oxford. Her distress seemed genuine, but perhaps it would be even if she had killed Ravenswood. Maybe more so. He liked to think himself discerning, but just how good an actress was she?

  He glanced at Madeline, trying to read her reaction, but her expression remained determinedly cool.

  “Why did you stop seeing Mr. Ravenswood, Mrs. Landis?” Madeline asked. “Were you the one to break it off or was he?”

  “I was,” Fleur said. “I had my little boy, you see. I thought what it might be like for him in a few years to know his mother was . . . well, talked about.”

  “And your husband?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Brent’s been nothing but good to me. No matter what. He’s why I’ve come to you now. I don’t want to hurt him more than I have already. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve the scandal that would surely come if I were to be accused of something like this.” She smiled wanly. “You like him, Drew. I could see you did right from the start. Everyone does, you know. Couldn’t you help me for his sake, if not for what you and I once were to each other?”

  Something flickered in Madeline’s eyes at that, and Drew abruptly stood.

  “We were never anything to each other, Mrs. Landis. You made that quite clear the last time we met in Oxford, and I quite agree with you.”

  “But Drew—”

  “I’m sorry you’re rather in a bind right now. Sorry for Landis and for your little boy more than anyone. But I think you need to find someone who can actually help you.”

  She took a deep breath, and her laugh was almost soundless. “It’s been a long time, Drew. I thought perhaps you would have forgiven me by now.”

  He shrugged. “It has been a long time. We’ve both moved on. I’m not angry anymore, Mrs. Landis. I just haven’t anything to say to you. And there’s nothing I can do for you now.”

  She looked up at Drew, still pleading with those fathomless dark eyes of hers. Then she gave Madeline a desperate look, but Madeline merely turned away from her.

  Fleur slowly nodded, her expression stiff, and stood with her black-lace bag clutched in her hands. “Well, I suppose that’s it then. I’m sorry to have bothered you both.” She smoothed her already sleek hair and replaced her hat, drawing the veil once again over her face.

  “I’ll see you to the door,” Drew said. He turned to Madeline. “Don’t get up, darling. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “All right,” she said. “Goodbye, Mrs. Landis.”

  Fleur inclined her head, regal as a queen. “Miss Parker.”

  With just the lightest touch to the back of her elbow, Drew accompanied her out of the drawing room and into the foyer.

  “I take it you didn’t drive your own car here,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Shall I phone for a taxi?”

  “I have one waiting,” she said, her voice also low, just as it had been when she’d tried to pretend she was a Mrs. Mallowan.

  “Excellent,” he said. He touched her elbow again, meaning to see her down to the drive, but she stopped. He couldn’t see her face, yet he could tell by the angle of her head that she was looking up at him. He could feel her eyes on him.

  “Will you forgive me, Drew? I know I hurt you. I knew all along, you see, that first night you took me to dinner. I knew. That’s what made the game so much fun.”

  “Knew what? What game?”

  Her head went down again. What was that? Regret? Shame?

  “What game?” he pressed.

  “My friends, the ones I was with that first night we met, they said you were a rarity. Being on the stage, of course, we were all used to proposals of one kind or another. They said you were too posh to propose marriage to somebody like me, and too much the gentleman to propose anything else. I told them I’d get one or the other from you before the week was out.”

  “How proud you must have been to tell them you’d been so successful.”

  “I’m not proud of it now, Drew. I know I broke your heart. I know—”

  “D
on’t flatter yourself. You never had my heart to break. You hurt my pride, I’ll give you that much, but maybe I was a bit too sure of myself back then anyway.”

  “Back then?” Her laugh had a touch of derision in it, but it was soon gone. “I meant it, Drew. I’m sorry for what happened. All of it. I’d like you to forgive me if you possibly can.”

  He studied her for a moment, imagining her sweet face turned up to his under that veil. Imagining her dark eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Then he saw those same eyes glittering with amusement back there in her Oxford flat, her flawless features smug and twisted as she told him she was already married, and his heart turned icy inside him.

  He opened the front door. “Your cab is waiting.”

  Three

  I’m glad you turned her down.” Madeline put her arm through Drew’s when he came back and sat beside her on the parlor sofa. “I don’t like her being around you.”

  He put his hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You needn’t worry, darling. I was decidedly cured of her six years ago.”

  He felt her laugh rather than heard it. “I’m not worried about that. I just know she’s not a pleasant memory for you, and I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  “Unhappy? You love me, don’t you, darling?”

  She looked up at him, a warm softness in her eyes. “Very much.”

  “Then I could never truly be unhappy.”

  He put his arm around her, but she pulled back a little, her expression troubled.

  “Darling?”

  “Is she . . . ?” She frowned just the slightest bit. “Is she why you’ve been so careful with me? Making sure we don’t get into any compromising situations?”

  “Partly, love.”

  “And the rest of it? Is it because I’m not as irresistible as she was?”

  He looked deeply into her eyes. “It’s not because you’re not driving me mad every moment I’m with you, and even when I’m not. It’s just I don’t want us to have any regrets. If I resist you, it’s because I’m trying my best to do what is right, not at all because it’s easy. I’ve told you before, it’s because I love you even more than I want you. And that, Madeline, is much more than I could ever put into words.”