An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  I nodded. “I’d much rather do it together anyway.” We had always been better as a team.

  “I don’t want you to do anything foolish,” he went on, “and I insist upon your telling me everything that you learn.”

  “Then I shall expect the same of you,” I said.

  “Very well.”

  “I feel as though we should shake hands,” I said with a laugh.

  “I’ve a better idea,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me gently on the lips.

  We settled into bed then, though I knew I would have a hard time sleeping. At least one difficulty had been cleared up. I had suspected Milo would try to keep me out of this, as he always did when we were faced with a mystery. It was a relief that he had agreed that we should look into it. But I realized my way was not completely clear.

  Milo was only the first obstacle. Detective Inspector Jones was the next.

  11

  AS IT TURNED out, I would not have long to wait for Detective Inspector Jones to call.

  I was feeling somewhat better when I rose the next morning. The haziness of shock had worn away, and I was ready to face the day. I felt a sense of renewed purpose this morning. We had not been able to keep Flora Bell from being harmed, but we could bring her killer to justice.

  I found Milo in the sitting room, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He had already risen and dressed by the time I awakened, an unusual turn of events, as I was normally a much earlier riser than he was.

  He looked up as I came into the room. “Good morning, darling,” he said, setting the paper aside. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Much better,” I said. At any rate, I felt much more composed than I had last night.

  His eyes searched my face, as if to be sure I was telling the truth. Apparently, he was satisfied with what he saw. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Anything of interest?” I asked, nodding toward the paper.

  “The usual headlines: ‘Charity Gala Ends in Murder,’ ‘West End Killer At Large,’ that sort of thing,” he said. “There’s a lot of rumor and speculation. The accounts of anonymous members of the audience, sly rumors voiced by ‘a person in a position to know.’ You can imagine what a boon a thing like this is to the newspaper industry.”

  I grimaced. I certainly could. No doubt all of London was poring over every sordid detail this morning.

  “Have you spoken to Mr. Holloway?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I thought I would go over and see him later today.”

  “I hope he’s all right.”

  “I’m sure he’ll bear up.”

  I looked at him, caught by something in his tone. “You don’t sound as though you pity him.”

  “Holloway is not the type of man who wants pity,” he replied. “In any event, pity doesn’t do any good.”

  He was right, of course, but I still felt sorry for Gerard Holloway. I hadn’t approved of his relationship with Flora Bell, but I could sympathize with his loss all the same.

  My thoughts turned to Georgina. She had been through so much scandal as of late, and now this. I wondered what she was thinking about it all. I would need to go and see her, though I hated to intrude at such a difficult time. I didn’t want her to think I was trying to pry into her private affairs, though I supposed, in a sense, that’s exactly what I was doing.

  Another thought occurred to me then. “What’s going to happen to the play?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Milo replied. “Holloway’s invested a lot of money in it, so they may keep it going once things are settled. They’ve got an understudy waiting in the wings, after all.”

  Our eyes met, his words taking on a new significance in light of the murder. It was a thin motive, perhaps, but a motive nonetheless.

  “Excuse me, sir, madam,” Winnelda said, coming into the sitting room.

  “Yes, what is it?” Milo asked.

  “That policeman is here,” she said with the faintest hint of disdain. Winnelda did not approve of my association with Detective Inspector Jones, no doubt because she secretly suspected he would, at any moment, try to take me off to prison for unknown crimes. Winnelda was very protective of me, which I thought quite sweet of her.

  “Show him in, please,” I said.

  “Yes, madam.”

  A moment later, Inspector Jones came into the room. He wore a dark gray suit and, though I was sure he had had a very late night, he looked completely rested and composed. I thought how his outward appearance was always as tidy as his thoughts seemed to be.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” he said. “But I thought it best that we spoke again soon, while your memories of the event are still fresh.”

  “I’m afraid my memories of last night are not going to fade anytime soon,” I said. I had had several unpleasant dreams, the details of which had, thankfully, faded away upon waking, but what I had witnessed last night seemed imprinted upon my brain.

  “All the same, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.” He paused almost imperceptibly. “And there is something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

  If his goal had been to pique my curiosity, he had succeeded.

  “Please, have a seat,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Though the chair closest to Milo was open, he moved to take one that sat near the fireplace. Always strategic in his movements, he had chosen a seat that would allow him to observe both Milo and me at the same time.

  “Will you take some coffee?” I asked. I expected him to decline, for, though we had developed a mutually respectful relationship, he usually maintained an air of formality when he came to call that did not allow for social pleasantries. To my surprise, however, he accepted.

  “That would be very nice. Thank you.”

  I nodded at Winnelda, who still stood in the doorway, and she went to fetch the coffee.

  “You came to call more quickly than I thought you might,” I said, turning back to Inspector Jones. “I imagine things were quite hectic after we left last night.”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’ve discovered the window of time in which the murder was committed. Miss Bell was apparently seen by several people around midnight, so she died sometime between then and your discovery of the body, at around one o’clock.”

  I nodded. “Mr. Holloway gave a speech at midnight, and I noticed her then. But I don’t know when she might have slipped out.”

  “Very few people seem to have noticed,” he said. “You’d be surprised how little attention people pay to their surroundings.”

  This was disappointing. I had been sure that someone must have noticed her leave the gala. After all, she had been the star of the evening. I realized what he had not added, however, was that it had been quite late and there had been a good deal of drinking and revelry, a combination which was not known for sharpening perception.

  “You mentioned wanting to discuss something?” I asked.

  “Yes, but before we get into that, I wanted to ask you who you think might have killed Miss Bell.”

  I had not expected so straightforward a question. Did he already have someone in mind and was hoping for a confirmation?

  “I don’t imagine idle speculation will be of much help to you, Inspector,” I said carefully. I had learned always to be on my guard with Inspector Jones. One never knew exactly what he was playing at. It was, I supposed, what made him such an excellent policeman.

  I glanced at Milo, but his expression was unreadable.

  “The fact remains that you are likely to know the killer,” said Inspector Jones.

  I wondered just how he had surmised this. It then occurred to me that he had already winnowed down the suspects.

  “You’ve ascertained, then, that it wasn’t a stranger,” I said. “Could it have been one of the guests at the gala, someone unconnected with the play?”

  “It seems unlikely,” he said. “Only a few people had a key to the theatre, and, if the killer did not possess a key, he must have
gone into the theatre with Miss Bell. So far as I’ve learned, no one at the gala but those involved in the play knew her personally.”

  That did seem to narrow the field.

  “Why don’t you tell me who you think it might have been and what you know about each of them?” Inspector Jones said, as usual asking for answers before giving any.

  I hesitated. I did not want to cast aspersions upon anyone without proof, least of all my friends. “I’m really not sure…”

  “Come now, Mrs. Ames. You don’t expect me to believe that.”

  He was right; I didn’t. If there was any man as difficult to deceive as Milo, it was Detective Inspector Jones. He had a deceptively mild way of looking at one as he took in everything that was being said. Then somehow his brain parsed through it, and he knew with uncanny certainty what was truth and what was not. It was an extremely useful skill for a policeman to have, but it was not altogether comfortable to be on the receiving end of one of his searching gazes.

  I sighed. I might as well tell him what I knew and be done with it. “There is Mr. Holloway, of course,” I said.

  “In addition to his involvement in the charity event, he also wrote and directed the play, I understand?”

  I nodded. “He has a reputation for being very much involved in all aspects of the projects he takes on.”

  “‘All aspects’ having taken on an additional meaning in this case,” he said, and I realized that he was hinting at the relationship between Mr. Holloway and Flora Bell.

  “So it seems,” I replied. “He and Miss Bell were … quite close.”

  “They were having an affair,” he said. I wondered who had revealed this to him. It hadn’t exactly been a secret, so I imagined anyone might have mentioned it.

  I nodded my confirmation, though I knew he didn’t need it.

  “Did they seem to be on good terms last night?”

  “I … I’m not sure.” I glanced at Milo. I did not want to implicate Mr. Holloway on the basis of hearsay.

  Milo, however, seemed to have no such qualms. “Apparently, Holloway was overheard telling Miss Bell he’d like to wring her neck shortly after the performance,” he said.

  I was relieved that he was the one to have revealed this. After all, if Mr. Holloway was innocent, I hated to cause him any more grief than he was already feeling at the moment. Milo, however, had never been one to worry about people’s feelings.

  If Inspector Jones found this news surprising or alarming he gave no sign of it.

  “And are love affairs of this sort usual behavior for Mr. Holloway?” he asked. I could never quite get used to the way he asked such probing questions with perfect ease. This conversation was not one I was entirely comfortable having, but I supposed there was no getting around it.

  “I don’t know Mr. Holloway well enough to say,” I replied, glancing again toward Milo. “Perhaps my husband might better answer that question.”

  “Holloway and I are friendly, but he has never been one to share confidences. I should have thought it unlikely, but one can never tell. However, I don’t know of any other women in his past.”

  “Then this is an unusual occurrence.”

  “Before all this happened, I should have thought it impossible,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Inspector Jones asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thought that Mr. Holloway would be … swept away by a woman like Flora Bell. By any woman, for that matter. He has always seemed to be very much in love with his wife.”

  “Ah, yes. Tell me about Mrs. Holloway.”

  “Georgina and I have known each other a long time,” I said. “We’re not exceptionally close, but I consider her a friend.”

  “Did she know about Mr. Holloway’s relationship with Miss Bell, do you think?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked up from his notebook, and I realized that I had spoken with absolute assurance. Now he was waiting for me to tell him how I knew this.

  “I had tea with her a few days ago, and she discussed the matter with me.”

  I saw Milo shoot me a look, and I remembered that I had not told him about my visit to the Holloways’ home.

  “What did she say about it?” Inspector Jones asked.

  I realized that, just as I had feared, Georgina Holloway might find herself the chief suspect. The woman scorned was, after all, the classic culprit.

  “She wasn’t happy, of course.”

  “Naturally,” he replied.

  I drew in a breath and told him the rest. “I heard her and Mr. Holloway arguing perhaps thirty minutes before I discovered the body. Georgina resented the fact that Flora Bell had ruined her marriage.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said the gala wasn’t the place to discuss it. But please know, Inspector, I don’t believe Georgina Holloway would resort to murder.”

  “You know as well as I do, Mrs. Ames, that unlikely people have killed before this.”

  “It isn’t just that,” I protested. “I don’t think Georgina is capable of murder, but if she was, I don’t think that … strangulation would be the way she would do it. It’s so ghastly.”

  “But it was shortly after this disagreement between Mr. and Mrs. Holloway that you went to look for Mrs. Holloway in the theatre?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Mr. Holloway came from the corridor along the ballroom and said that Georgina had gone away crying.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Shortly before I discovered the body. Perhaps a quarter or ten minutes to one. There was a space of several minutes after I overheard their conversation before Mr. Holloway reappeared.”

  “Could either of them have slipped out between Mr. Holloway’s speech and the argument between him and his wife?”

  I thought back. “It’s possible, I suppose. If they did, however, I didn’t notice it.”

  “Was there time enough between the argument you overheard and his reappearance for him to have gone to the theatre?”

  “It would have been a small window of time, but not impossible. It would depend, I suppose, on how long the argument had continued.” We had reached a nice rhythm in our questions and answers now, and I thought again what a skillful interrogator Inspector Jones was. His next question, however, gave me pause.

  “But Mrs. Holloway would have had a bit more time after the argument, as you saw no sign of her, and Mr. Holloway said she was missing.”

  “Yes,” I admitted, realizing what he was getting at.

  “He told you she might have gone to the theatre, and you thought you heard movement in the auditorium, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said uneasily. It seemed Georgina looked guiltier by the moment.

  He made no reply to this, but jotted something down in his notebook.

  “Did you speak with Mrs. Holloway?” I asked, certain that if he had he would see that she was not capable of a crime like this.

  “I did,” he replied.

  “What did you make of her?”

  He looked up at me, his expression blank. “I’m not really at liberty to discuss that, Mrs. Ames.”

  “Oh, but you can tell me, unofficially, of course, what you make of her,” I said with a smile. “Not what she had to say about the matter, but your impressions of her.”

  I wanted very much for Georgina’s innocence to be quickly proven. I could not believe that she had taken part in this horrible crime, and it was going to be an added trial waiting to see if he would suspect her.

  “She seems a very elegant woman,” Inspector Jones said, effectively telling me nothing.

  “Did she give an account of her whereabouts at the time?” I pressed.

  “She said she had a conversation with her husband and then went to the powder room in the floor above the ballroom to freshen up her makeup before coming back to the gala. She was still there when my men arrived and began asking questions. She was most cooperative.”

  “As I said,” I told him, “I don’t think she’s at al
l the type of person to strangle someone.”

  “What type of person is the sort to strangle someone?” Milo asked dryly.

  “That’s just the thing,” I said. “I don’t know who might have done it. It was such a … brutal thing. I wouldn’t have imagined that any of the people close to her would be capable of such violence.”

  “Crimes of passion are often more violent than one might expect,” Inspector Jones said.

  Crimes of passion. Was this a hint of some sort?

  “You mean someone might have done it without planning to,” I said.

  “It’s possible,” he said. “Flora Bell and the killer may have met there, to be alone, to talk, for any number of reasons. Something went wrong and the killer acted in a fit of rage.”

  “You think she had arranged a meeting with someone,” I asked.

  “I presume so,” Inspector Jones replied. “What other reason would she have for going to a darkened theatre alone in the middle of a party in her honor?”

  Another thought occurred to me. “Did they … did they say if the killing seemed to have been done by a man?” I asked, just as Winnelda brought in the tray of coffee.

  Inspector Jones looked at me for a moment with that perceptive gaze of his, and I had to force myself to keep from shifting in my seat. He was one of very few people who could make me feel like I was an unruly student being scrutinized by a stern headmistress.

  “The doctor has said that the crime could have been committed by a man or a woman,” he said. “One had only to get the curtain rope around her neck, perhaps when she was facing away, and pull it tightly.”

  Winnelda set the tray down with a rattle.

  “But she would have struggled,” I said.

  He nodded. “She did. Her fingernails were broken in the fight, but once the rope was around her neck, it would have been difficult to remove it. The killer had only to keep a grip until she lost oxygen.”

  “It’s horrible,” I said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Not at all a pleasant way to die, though she would have lost consciousness before the end.”

  “Will that be all, madam?” Winnelda asked, her face white.