“How are you, Mr. Landon?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Can I fix something for you?”
“Another whisky, perhaps. I can pour it.”
“Very well. Please help yourself.” I lingered, waiting to fix Mr. Holloway’s drink. “It’s dreadful what happened.”
“Yes,” he agreed, reaching for the crystal decanter.
“I’m sure it has been difficult for you,” I pressed.
His hand stilled on the stopper, and he looked up at me. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, I thought you and Miss Bell might have been … close.”
His gaze searched mine, as though trying to determine exactly what I knew.
It seemed he realized that I knew about their past, for he suddenly shrugged, his expression taking on a look of indifference, and he pulled the stopper from the bottle.
“I suppose you heard that we had a bit of a romance before she took up with Holloway?” He poured his drink and then looked up, his expression a mask of amusement. “Well, it didn’t mean anything. I know you’re not of the theatre, Mrs. Ames, but there is not much that goes on here that is done in the name of love. Oh, there is passion, but it seldom lasts. That bright star burns itself out as easily as the rest.”
It was a pretty speech, but I could not quite believe that it was sincere. Something in his manner told me that he felt the death of Miss Bell much more deeply than he let on.
“And who do you suppose might have killed her?” I asked.
Something hard and dark flashed in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said.
I asked my next question for the sole purpose of seeing what his reaction might be. “Did you know that Miss Bell had been receiving threatening letters?”
I was certain that a flicker of surprise crossed his features before he quickly smoothed it away.
“No. I didn’t know,” he said.
“The last one she received said her opening-night performance would be her last.”
“I never heard about any letters,” he said with an almost disinterested casualness. “Flora and I weren’t on the closest of terms anymore, so she would hardly have confided in me.”
“Who do you suppose might have written them?” I asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
He was being purposefully evasive.
“If you had to guess,” I pressed him. “Surely you must have some idea who might have wanted to frighten Miss Bell.”
“It might have been any number of people,” he said. “But the most obvious suspect is Miss Dearborn.” He said this without any particular emotion, without even looking in Dahlia Dearborn’s direction, and I had the impression he was trying to fob me off with the first thing that came to mind.
“Why do you say that?”
“She resented Flora because Flora was everything she was not. And, anyway, Dahlia’s got a mean streak.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You ask a great many questions, Mrs. Ames,” he said suddenly. “I’m not entirely sure what your motive in all of this is.”
“I suppose I’m merely curious.”
“Curiosity is not always an attractive quality,” he said coldly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He walked away from me then, and for some reason I felt oddly ill at ease. I had not imagined that look in his eyes. It had been a look of pure hatred. At whom had it been directed?
I fixed a gin and tonic—mostly tonic—and brought it to Mr. Holloway. He took a long drink, and, if he noticed the ratio was a bit off, he did not comment. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and rose to his feet.
“I want to thank you all for coming,” he said, and, as if he had been on a stage, a hush fell over the room. “I … I know that Flora’s death has been a great shock to all of us, and … an inestimable loss to the theatre world.”
I glanced around the room, trying to gauge the reactions of those present.
“I’ve been struggling with what we should do,” he went on. “About whether or not we should continue with the play.”
I glanced toward Milo, and saw he was no longer the focus of Miss Dearborn’s attention. Instead, she was looking at Mr. Holloway, and I was surprised by the intensity of her expression. Then I realized it had likely never occurred to her that the role might not be hers. No doubt she felt that her career hung in the balance. If she was allowed to continue in Flora Bell’s role, she might very well make a name for herself.
I looked at Mr. Lebeau. He, too, was watching Mr. Holloway, but his expression was almost one of amusement, perhaps even contempt.
I glanced at Mr. Landon, but he was looking down at his drink, his features expressionless.
“I had planned to speak with each of you,” Mr. Holloway went on, “to see what your feelings were on the matter. But after much thought, I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if we go ahead with it, in Miss Bell’s honor.”
Miss Dearborn’s relief was practically palpable, and she struggled to keep a smile from her lips.
“I know that it will be difficult to carry on…” Mr. Holloway stopped a moment, licked his lips, and then continued. “To carry on … on the very stage where Miss Bell met her tragic end, but I believe the best way to mourn her death is to honor her life and the things that she cared so much about.”
There was a moment of silence that was broken by Balthazar Lebeau. “Bravo!” he said, raising his glass. “To Flora Bell.”
Though I had the impression Mr. Lebeau’s toast had been proposed more to put an end to Mr. Holloway’s speech than out of any depth of feeling, the others followed suit with apparent sincerity. “To Flora Bell” came the chorus of voices.
His announcement concluded, Mr. Holloway seemed to slump ever so slightly, and he drained the rest of his tonic water.
The company went back to their drinks, but there was the sensation that the meeting had come to an end. It wasn’t long before everyone began to take their leave.
Mr. Lebeau was the first to make a move to leave.
“Going so soon, Mr. Lebeau?” I asked as he reached the door.
“Yes, I have another engagement, I’m afraid.”
“A pity. I hope to see you again.”
Balthazar Lebeau took my hand before he left. “I have no doubt our paths will cross again, Mrs. Ames,” he said.
Christopher Landon left with a barely civil “good evening,” and Milo personally escorted Dahlia Dearborn to the door, which I’m fairly certain was the only way to be rid of her.
Finally, only Mr. Holloway was left. He had remained in his seat, empty glass in hand, and as the door closed behind the last guest, he looked up.
“Oh,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m sorry … I’ll just be going.”
“You needn’t leave yet if you’d like some company,” I said. I knew he would not be going home to Georgina, and I was concerned he might get himself into some sort of trouble.
“No, no. I won’t bother you any longer,” he said.
I looked at Milo, silently urging him to say something. “Where are you staying, Holloway?” he asked.
“At my club.”
“You’re going there straightaway?” Milo asked.
“Yes.”
We all walked to the foyer, and Mr. Holloway stopped at the door. “I want to thank you both for … for helping me with this. Do you … do you think that you might be able to come by the theatre? Not tomorrow. It’s … it’s the funeral. But in a day or two.”
“Yes, we’ll be there,” I assured him.
“When I think that someone did this to her, I … We’ve got to find out who did it. We’ve got to.”
“We will,” I promised. I only hoped it was a promise I could keep.
* * *
“WELL, THAT WAS as tedious as I imagined it would be,” Milo said, coming into our bedroom after returning from accompanying Mr. Holloway downstairs to a cab.
“Really?” I asked,
rising from my dressing table where I had been removing my makeup and jewelry. “You seemed to me to be having a marvelous time.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Miss Dearborn,” he said as he pulled loose his necktie.
“I’m not jealous of anyone,” I retorted, turning my back to him as I began to unfasten my dress. “It’s just that I daresay there’s nothing more annoying to a woman of good sense than a man who falls for the overt ploys of a…” I stopped, unable to think of a fitting description of Miss Dearborn.
He laughed, coming up behind me to finish the unfastening. “If you think I am in danger of falling for the wiles of Dahlia Dearborn, you do me a disservice.”
“‘Have you ever considered the stage, Mr. Ames?’” I mimicked in a low, sultry voice, turning in his arms and pressing myself against him.
“It’s a pity you never considered the stage, Amory,” he said, his arms tightening around me. “You’d have taken London by storm.”
It was my turn to laugh as I pushed away from his embrace. “I will not be flattered into forgiving you for your disgusting display with Miss Dearborn.”
“It was your idea, after all,” he protested as I moved away to finish undressing. “You told me to make her like me and to try to get some information from her.”
“Well, it’s quite clear you succeeded admirably on the first count,” I said. “Did you have any luck with getting information out of her?”
I slid into a becoming blue satin nightdress and moved back to my seat at the dressing table to put my jewelry away in the velvet-lined jewelry box.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said. “She has a great many opinions about her follow actors, but it’s all the sort of thing one might expect. Mr. Landon makes a habit of seducing and abandoning women. Mr. Lebeau doesn’t respond well to criticism. However, there was one thing that I thought you might find interesting. She seemed to be enjoying Holloway’s misery.”
I turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“More than once I saw her look in his direction with a definite kind of satisfaction. And when I mentioned that he wasn’t looking well, she replied that it was his own fault that he was suffering.”
“She said that?” He had my attention now. I turned on the stool to face him.
“She did. I asked her what she meant and she said that he ought to have known better than to make a fool of himself chasing after Miss Bell.”
It was a callous thing to have said, if not entirely surprising. After all, she had been rebuffed by Mr. Holloway in favor of Miss Bell.
“Mr. Landon says she has a mean streak,” I said. “And Mr. Lebeau told me that she tried unsuccessfully to seduce Mr. Holloway.”
“That might account for it,” Milo said. “From the little hints she gave me, I gathered that Holloway had shown some interest in her before Miss Bell came along.”
I frowned. “Surely not. I can’t believe Mr. Holloway would be enamored of every young actress that came his way.”
“It’s likely Miss Dearborn was exaggerating,” he said. “Whatever the reason, she held him in very definite disdain. That is, until he began his little speech and she realized that she had not quite secured the role after all.”
“I noticed that, too,” I said. “She looked almost shocked, as though the possibility had not occurred to her.”
“All the same, I somehow doubt that she would plan to kill someone by strangulation.”
“She might not have planned it,” I pointed out. “She might have followed Miss Bell to the theatre to have it out with her and then, when a nasty argument had ensued, she might have lost herself in a rage.”
“It’s possible. I don’t deny that anger and ambition can be a lethal combination.”
I was not entirely satisfied with this theory, however. While it would be convenient to lay the murder at Miss Dearborn’s door, there were still several other avenues to be explored.
“What did you make of Mr. Holloway tonight?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve never known him to take to drink.”
“He’s taken her death harder than I thought he might,” I said. “His grief seems genuine. I’m rather afraid he was in love with her.”
“It could be guilt, of course,” Milo said. “Perhaps he killed her and is having a difficult time hiding it.”
“I had the same thought,” I admitted. “Do you really think that he might have done it?”
“I don’t know, but I certainly wouldn’t rule him out.”
He said this with perfect ease, as though the idea that one of his old friends might be a murderer was of little concern to him. Of course, I could not be entirely surprised that Milo made no concessions for Mr. Holloway; Milo was perhaps the least sentimental person I had ever met. Quite a feat when my mother was included in this grouping.
“Well,” I said. “I suppose something good came of your evening in Miss Dearborn’s clutches.”
“And what about you and that old lecher?” he asked.
I feigned surprise. “Do you refer to Mr. Balthazar Lebeau?”
“I saw the way he was leering at you. Don’t suppose you’re the only one to notice when their spouse is being advanced upon.”
I laughed. “I don’t quite know what to make of him. I feel that he’s always playing the role of the consummate performer, but there’s a shrewd gentleman underneath it all. He made some very valid points.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, for one thing, he thinks husbands are quite useless as a whole,” I said airily as I rose from my seat.
“Does he indeed?” Milo asked, moving toward me, a recognizable gleam in his blue eyes.
“Yes,” I went on, suppressing a smile. “He says that it’s sometimes better to forget one has one for a while.”
“I hate to contradict the illustrious Mr. Lebeau,” Milo said, pulling me hard against him. “But I intend to be unforgettable.”
He leaned over to kiss me then, and I forgot all about the Holloways for the remainder of the evening.
15
THE NEXT DAY was the day of Miss Bell’s funeral. I knew there was going to be very little I could accomplish as far as the suspects were concerned, as most, if not all of them, would be attending the service.
Nevertheless, there had to be some way to gain more information about those involved. After all, everyone in the group was fairly well known, and rumors and speculation abounded.
I decided to start close to home.
“Winnelda,” I said as she poured my coffee. “What do you know about Flora Bell?”
As usual, she brightened at the possibility of sharing gossip. “Oh, I’ve heard ever so many things,” she said. “I know that she was a wonderful actress. People often talked about her beauty, but it was her talent that really shone through. She was going to be the next Sarah Bernhardt, someone said.”
“What else?” I asked.
“Well, there were rumors that she had a … gentleman friend who was … well, not exactly unattached. I suppose that would be your friend, Mr. Holloway,” she said, confirming my suspicions that, despite her flighty air, Winnelda was very much aware of what was going on around her.
“Have you heard anything about her brother?”
Winnelda thought about this for a moment, no doubt searching the corners of her mind for any small bit of information she might have heard. “I believe they were orphaned,” she said at last. “Poor, too, I think. With no one in the world to lean on. But she was going to make something of herself. And she would have become a great actress if only she hadn’t been murdered so cruelly.” She sighed. “It’s a very hard world we live in, isn’t it, madam?”
“It is indeed,” I replied. “What about the others? Balthazar Lebeau and Christopher Landon, for example?”
“Oh, I’m afraid Mr. Lebeau was a bit before my time, madam. I’ve heard my mum speak of him, of course. She said he was a fine actor, did Shakespeare and the like. And of course, he had something of a repu
tation, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do,” I answered.
“I don’t know much about Mr. Landon,” she went on. “I’ve seen his name a time or two in the society columns, I think. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“But there’s something sad about him. A kind of haunted look, I would say.”
This caught my interest. Winnelda could be very perceptive on occasion. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know, madam. He just strikes me as a gentleman with some secret sorrow.”
Winnelda read a great deal of sensational fiction, and I wondered if it had somehow tainted her impression of Mr. Landon. He did, after all, look the part of a tragic hero.
“Now that I think on it, I believe he was in my scrapbooks,” she mused.
“Scrapbooks?”
“Yes, I used to cut clippings when I was young. I made special pages for some of my favorites or people I thought might prove interesting later on. The scrapbooks are still in my old room at home. I seem to recall Mr. Landon, though I don’t remember why.”
“You’re going to see your mother soon, aren’t you?” I asked, remembering that she had mentioned going on her night off.
“Yes, madam. I’ll bring them back, shall I?”
“That would be marvelous, Winnelda. And one more thing,” I said, saving what was sure to be the most amusing reaction for last. “And what did you make of Miss Dearborn?”
“Which was she?” Winnelda asked.
“The one in the fur.”
“Oh, that one,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “‘Don’t drop that. It’s very expensive.’” Really, her talent for mimicry was uncanny.
She seemed to realize suddenly that it was probably not the done thing to mock my guests. “That is, I don’t think … she was … well, she’s not a very nice lady, is she?” she asked, coming back around to her indignation.
“I don’t know her very well,” I said neutrally, not wanting to set a bad example.
“Well, I didn’t drop her old fur. And, anyway, it wasn’t half as nice as any of your furs, so I don’t know what she was going on about.”
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