An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  I remembered something Mr. Holloway had said the night he had first told us about his play. “Your husband mentioned that he felt he owed Mr. Lebeau a chance. What did he mean?”

  “Oh, that,” Georgina said with a wave of her hand. “I think a few years back, when Gerard first considered acting, he was given a role that Mr. Lebeau wanted. Mr. Lebeau’s career began a decline shortly afterward, and Gerard thought it would be nice to give him a role in The Price of Victory. Of course, he’s very talented. I’m sure he played his part well.”

  “He did,” I confirmed. “And what do you know about Mr. Landon?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. He seems a very interesting young man, a bit moody, perhaps. But you know how actors can be. I always had the impression he didn’t much care for Gerard. I could be wrong, of course.”

  It seemed, then, that she was not aware that the young man had been a rival for Miss Bell’s affections.

  “I don’t imagine either of them would kill Flora Bell,” she said. “But I suppose we never really know what a person is capable of.”

  I looked up at her, wondering if she was thinking of anyone in particular.

  “I suppose the police will suspect Gerard,” she said suddenly. “But he’d have no reason to kill her, not a lover’s quarrel or any such thing. You see, he was about to break things off with her.”

  I found this information a bit surprising. From all I had seen, Gerard Holloway had been very much attached to Miss Bell.

  “I had a talk with Gerard,” she said. “Last night at the gala.”

  “Oh?” I asked. I was no actress and hoped it would not be apparent that I already knew this.

  “Yes. I took your advice. I told him that he needed to make a decision.”

  That had not been advice, per se. I had only told her what had happened in my own relationship. I was certainly not an expert on matrimonial harmony, as my somewhat troubled history with Milo could attest.

  “Well, I hope it went well,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “It did,” she said. “He told me he was going to give her up.”

  I had not heard their entire conversation. Perhaps it had ended differently than it had begun. What I had heard, however, had not led me to believe that Mr. Holloway was planning to break things off with Flora Bell. If anything, I had had the impression that things were coming to a head in the Holloway marriage.

  There was a discrepancy here, and it made me a bit uneasy.

  I wondered if he had said it simply to appease her. Worse still, I wondered if he had meant it, and, when he went to break things off with Miss Bell, things had gone badly.

  “I see,” I said, not wanting to pursue this particular line of thought at present. “Well, perhaps Mr. Holloway has an idea who might have wanted to kill her.”

  “Perhaps. I’m sure he has his own opinions. He will, no doubt, be of more assistance to the police than I could be.”

  “You haven’t talked to him about it?” I asked. It was, admittedly, none of my business, but I was very curious to know if she and her husband had discussed the matter.

  “I didn’t see him last night, and he hasn’t been home,” she said without looking up.

  I wasn’t exactly surprised. After all, Gerard Holloway was not likely to seek comfort in the arms of his wife for the death of his mistress. All things considered, it was rather a rotten mess.

  “I’m sorry, Georgina,” I said.

  “It’s probably for the best at present,” she said calmly. “After all, Gerard is still suffering from … shock. I don’t imagine that he’ll be eager to discuss the incident—or the state of our marriage—anytime soon. He’ll be back eventually.”

  I supposed he would. There was an uneasiness between them now, but tragedy often brought people together in unexpected ways. I had experienced the same thing with Milo. The first murder investigation in which we had been involved had, against all odds, brought us closer together. When it came to a crisis, people often sought comfort in the arms of the familiar.

  Some little part of me couldn’t help but wonder traitorously if that might have been Georgina’s intention all along.

  * * *

  I WENT HOME to await Milo’s return and spent a good deal of time reading the newspaper articles written about the gala. As Milo had said, there was a great deal of lurid speculation. There were also a few genuinely moving pieces about Flora Bell, a rising star who had been so tragically extinguished.

  It was late in the afternoon when Milo finally came in. Emile, who had grown quite bored with me, leapt into his arms to greet him and chittered excitedly.

  “Hello, Emile,” Milo said. “Hello, darling.”

  “Hello,” I replied, setting aside the newspaper I was reading.

  “I had a devil of a time tracking down Holloway,” he said, carrying Emile to the sofa. “He wasn’t at his club or any of the other places I thought he might have gone.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He found me, in fact. I left word at his club, and shortly after I returned home he rung me up. Said he’d been wandering the streets, thinking.”

  “Wandering the streets?” I repeated.

  “He said he feels that people are looking at him everywhere he goes; he needed fresh air and time alone.”

  I frowned. It didn’t sound as though he was holding up at all well. What sort of power had Flora Bell had over him? What was it about a beautiful woman that made men lose their heads?

  “How did Flora Bell do it?” I mused aloud.

  Milo looked up from where he was feeding nuts to Emile, who sat quietly by his side on the sofa.

  “Do what?”

  “Both Gerard Holloway and Christopher Landon were mad about her. What was it that made her so appealing?”

  “I don’t see why you’re asking me.”

  “Come, Milo, don’t be so modest,” I replied dryly. “When one has a question, one consults the experts. And women are definitely your field of expertise.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I feel very much like I have walked into some sort of trap.”

  “I simply want to know what it was that made Gerard Holloway fall for her so quickly. She was beautiful, yes, but it must have been more than that. He knew her for a few months at most; he’s been married to Georgina for ten years.”

  Milo shrugged. “Some men like women who rely on them and make them feel wise and important, who will do what they ask. Wide-eyed adoration can be very effective on the right audience. Not that that sort of thing has ever appealed to me.”

  “Oh, doesn’t it?” I asked sweetly.

  “I should think it obvious,” he replied. “If I wanted a pliant and adoring woman, I certainly wouldn’t have married you.”

  I threw a little pillow at him, which sent Emile jumping to the back of the sofa, where he chattered irritably at me.

  “I do apologize, Emile,” I said. “If only your papa wouldn’t talk such nonsense.”

  “Whatever it was, Holloway’s taken her death hard. He says he doesn’t think he’ll be able to rest until the killer is brought to justice.”

  “I … I hope it wasn’t Georgina,” I said suddenly.

  Milo looked up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just feel uneasy after speaking with her. She didn’t seem at all upset that Flora Bell is dead.”

  “Did you expect her to be?” he asked. “As you’ve pointed out, darling, the woman stood in her way of happiness. She doesn’t have to have killed her to be happy that she’s dead.”

  “It’s just so cold,” I said. “I would have thought she would be horrified by a murder at the theatre, but, though she tried to appear sympathetic, I didn’t get the feeling that she was.”

  “That doesn’t mean she did it. You know Georgina Holloway has always been aloof and self-possessed. She may be more upset than she appears.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “But there was something more, some impression
I had that she was trying to get information out of me. She was asking questions, very casually, but I could feel that the answers meant something to her.”

  “Perhaps she thinks Holloway did it.”

  I considered this. It was possible. She might suspect her husband of the crime and was alert to see what others knew.

  “Would she shield him, do you think?” I asked. “Despite everything?”

  “What would you do if I killed someone?” Milo asked, effectively distracting me from my train of thought.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you thought I had killed someone, would you shield me or turn me over to the police?”

  “Milo,” I protested, “my head is already hurting.”

  “Come, darling,” he said with a smile. “Humor me.”

  I considered the question for a moment, though I found this exercise fruitless and in poor taste. My instinct would be to protect Milo, but I also had a very strong sense of duty and justice.

  “I suppose it would depend on who you had killed and why,” I said at last.

  “Not very loyal of you,” he said.

  “Well, one can’t have one’s husband going around killing people,” I replied. “What about you? Would you shield me?”

  “Certainly,” he replied without hesitation.

  “Just like that? You wouldn’t have to weigh the circumstances?”

  “Definitely not.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I know you wouldn’t kill anyone without a very good reason.”

  “You’re quite ridiculous, Milo.”

  “Well, anyway, you haven’t let me tell you the most interesting thing. Holloway’s made a request.”

  This caught my attention. “Yes, what is it?”

  “He says he’s worried about the play.”

  “What about the play?” I asked.

  “It’s scheduled to run for some time, and a great many expenses have been tied up in the production. Most of the actors have made investments as well.”

  “But a murder is rather an extenuating circumstance,” I said.

  “Which is why Holloway wants to hold a meeting with the cast to discuss things,” Milo said. “He feels that he owes it to the players to let them decide if they wish to continue.”

  It was like Gerard Holloway to think of the well-being of the others, despite his own tragedy. One might think him mercenary for wanting to continue the play if it wasn’t a well-known fact that his family was incredibly wealthy. Despite the financial troubles that had beset the globe, the Holloways had no financial woes.

  I wondered why Milo should find this the most interesting piece of news, and then an idea struck me. “Are we to attend?”

  “Better,” Milo said. “Holloway had an idea that we host the meeting.”

  “That we host it?” I repeated, surprised.

  “He said the police haven’t yet finished with the theatre, and he can’t exactly hold it at his house. He’s currently avoiding Georgina like the plague.”

  “But he could have chosen any restaurant in London,” I pointed out. “Or any number of other places.”

  “Yes, but I’ve told you he’s trying to avoid publicity. Besides, his real motive is to continue to find the letter writer, and I think he’s rather hoping that we’ll be able to help him. He thinks that whoever wrote the note is the killer, and he wants us to have a look at some of the suspects.”

  I considered this. It seemed a bit unusual that he should have asked to hold the theatrical meeting in our flat, but I was certainly not going to complain about this excellent opportunity.

  “When does he want to do it?” I asked.

  “I suggested tomorrow night.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve already agreed to it.”

  The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. It would be good to get several of the suspects in one room, to observe their reactions to the things that were being said.

  “You don’t mind?” Milo asked when my silence stretched out.

  I looked up, pulled from the schemes I was already making in my mind. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s almost too perfect.”

  He smiled. “I thought you might say that.”

  13

  WINNELDA AND I spent that evening and the rest of the next day making preparations for the arrival of our guests. Mr. Holloway had suggested we call the meeting late the following evening. It would be a small affair with just coffee and after-dinner drinks. In addition to the group of suspects, several minor players had been invited as well. I assumed this would help to hide the fact that we were looking into the motives of the group of people who had had access to the Penworth Theatre.

  “Now, remember the plan,” I told Milo as we went into the sitting room to wait for our guests to arrive. “You’re to pay special attention to Dahlia Dearborn. Make her believe that you find her fascinating.”

  I had no doubt that Miss Dearborn would be more than willing to talk to Milo, and he excelled at gleaning information in a roundabout way. For my part, I was going to see what I could get out of Balthazar Lebeau and Christopher Landon. Both gentlemen were still high on my list of suspects.

  Milo sighed as he poured himself a drink. “It’s going to be a dull evening. I haven’t the least interest in Dahlia Dearborn.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I replied. “But do try to be nice to her.”

  “Being nice is not in my nature.”

  “Perhaps not, but you’re very good at pretending,” I said. “Besides, it’s not as though an hour or two of conversation with a pretty young woman is a chore.”

  “Things are never as amusing when one has been assigned to do them,” he remarked over his glass.

  I shot him a look and turned to survey myself in the mirror. I had had my dark hair freshly waved and I wore a good deal more makeup than was my usual habit, dark red lipstick to match the crimson evening gown I had chosen. It was, perhaps, a bit of a dramatic choice for such a meeting, but, after all, our guests were dramatic people and likely would all be coming from dinner parties elsewhere.

  I glanced once more around the sitting room. The furniture had been arranged, a cheerful fire was glowing in the grate, and the sideboard was well stocked with drinks. We had only to await our guests.

  Dahlia Dearborn was the first to arrive. She let her mink coat slide off her shoulders, and, when Winnelda nearly failed to catch it, she turned to her and snapped, “Be careful with that. It’s very expensive.”

  I saw Winnelda’s nose wrinkle in annoyance as Miss Dearborn turned back to me, and I had to stifle a smile. Winnelda had not yet mastered the fine art of hiding her opinions.

  The dress Miss Dearborn wore beneath the coat was gold lamé, and I no longer felt overdressed.

  “Mrs. Ames,” she said, smiling brightly and reaching out a hand aglow with artificial diamonds to take mine. “It was so kind of you to invite me.”

  “I’m so glad you’ve come.” As I heard myself say the words in a convincingly sincere tone I thought that perhaps I was a much better actress than I had given myself credit for being.

  Though she was trying to be subtle, I noticed the way her gaze kept moving to the door behind me. As I had hoped, it appeared that she was looking for Milo. I waited for the question, and I did not have to wait long.

  “Will your husband be joining us as well?” she asked in a passably casual tone.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied. “He’s in the sitting room. Come this way, won’t you?”

  We made our entrance, and I saw the gleam in her eyes as she caught sight of Milo, who looked handsome and mysterious, his elegant figure backlit by the glow from the fireplace. Though I had concocted this plan myself, I gritted my teeth a little. I did not relish the idea of setting that woman loose on my husband. I could only hope the ends would justify the means.

  He came to my side to greet her, and it was only the work of a moment for him to lead her off to fetch a drink.

  The next t
o arrive was Balthazar Lebeau. He had decided to forgo his cape for the evening, but was still dashingly attired in evening dress.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Ames,” he said, taking my hand. “I was very glad when I heard that our paths would cross again.”

  “I’m glad you could come.”

  He smiled, and I recognized it as the smile of a man who had had a great deal of success with women.

  I had seen photographs of Balthazar Lebeau in his younger days, and there was no denying that he had been extremely handsome. Even now he was very attractive. He reminded me of an aging pirate, the swagger and bravado built up by a lifetime of licentious behavior. Though the years of hard living seemed to have taken their toll, as evidenced by the lines on his face and a certain weariness in his pale blue eyes, he was still appealing, his rugged air nicely balanced by an elegant manner.

  “I hope we may get to know each other a bit better this evening.” Perhaps it wasn’t only his looks that reminded me of a pirate. It was the way he looked one over with that somewhat plundering gaze.

  “Yes, that would be nice,” I said vaguely, hoping not to give him too much encouragement.

  Fortunately, a small group arrived just then, and as I greeted them, Mr. Lebeau made his way to join Milo and Miss Dearborn.

  Christopher Landon was among the latest arrivals, and I tried to take stock of his mood. There was an air of forced nonchalance in his manner, and he met my searching gaze with an almost aggressive smile, as though he was trying to prove to the world that he had not been affected by Flora Bell’s death. It made me think that he was almost certainly suffering deeply.

  It was Mr. Holloway who arrived last. I had heard Winnelda open the door and thought that perhaps I should greet him privately. As I walked into the foyer, I was hit with the very strong odor of alcohol. When Mr. Holloway looked up, his face was pale and drawn, his eyes revealing the depth of his pain, though he had certainly tried to numb it. I had to fight the urge to embrace him.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Ames,” he said somberly.

  “Good evening, Mr. Holloway. I’m very sorry about Miss Bell,” I said, reaching out to squeeze his forearm.

  “Thank you.” It seemed to me that he steeled his expression, as though trying to keep his emotions in check. “And thank you for hosting this rather unconventional meeting. I know it was irregular of me to ask you, but I … I couldn’t have them at home. And the police are still at the theatre…” His jaw clenched as he struggled to contain a strong emotion, and I reached out quickly to pat his arm again.