A Haunting Reprise

by Amanda DeWees

  When Roderick saw me blinking back tears of frustration and distress, he declared that it was time to take some nourishment. He was at his most entertaining as we enjoyed a late lunch of soup and chops, regaling me with stories so that I would not feel impelled to try to speak.

  “We’ve plenty more doctors to consult,” he said at last. “If we have to travel the globe to find one who can bring your voice back, we shall. Don’t worry, sweet Sybil. Soon you’ll be lecturing me and ordering me about just as well as ever.”

  I smiled and blew him a kiss. That needed no interpreter.

  The fifth doctor who called on us, to our great relief, was a far different specimen from the previous four. A vigorous man of about our age, he had a brisk manner that implied that he had no patience for outmoded ideas or false panaceas. He asked Roderick to fetch an oil lamp with a tall chimney and help him draw two chairs up to a small table. After bidding me seat myself, from his medical bag he drew a curious device made with a metal clamp, a mirror, and what looked like a viewing lens.

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded at it inquiringly.

  “This is a laryngoscope, Miss Ingram,” he said. He was the first doctor to treat me like a person in my own right. “It will focus the light in such a way that I can get a clear view of the inside of your throat.”

  I had heard of such a thing, but I had never had cause to see one in person. I regarded it with interest.

  When Roderick placed the lamp on the table, the doctor slipped the device over the glass chimney. When it was on a level with my mouth, he tightened the screws to clamp it securely. “Now, Miss Ingram, please put out your tongue.”

  When I did so, to my surprise he took out his handkerchief and used it to grasp my tongue and draw it forward as he peered inside my throat. It was not painful, but it was certainly undignified.

  “No polyps that I can see,” he said presently. “That’s all to the good.” When he eventually released my tongue and sat back to regard me, he asked me the last thing I would have expected.

  “How long have you had the cocaine habit, Miss Ingram?” he asked.

  I burst into soundless laughter. But his expression did not soften, so he must not have been making a joke.

  Never, I mouthed, shaking my head.

  “Mr. Brooke?” the doctor asked. “Can you vouch for this?” Apparently it was part of a doctor’s job not to take a female patient’s word for anything.

  Roderick hesitated, and I hoped that he wouldn’t try to be humorous. This doctor was so businesslike that if my roguish husband were to say that I took copious amounts of the drug at every opportunity, I feared the doctor might believe him.

  “To my knowledge, Sybil has never used cocaine,” Roderick said, to my relief. “What makes you ask?”

  The doctor looked from him to me, and his expression was grave. “Miss Ingram’s throat shows signs of some corrosive,” he said. “The closest condition I’ve seen to hers is in patients who regularly partake of the drug. Have you consumed anything recently that could have acted as an irritant, ma’am?”

  At first I was merely perplexed. But then I saw Roderick’s face.

  “Are you saying,” he demanded, “that someone may have poisoned Sybil?”

  The doctor made a noncommittal gesture. “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? It’s possible that Miss Ingram ingested something accidentally—or even deliberately. It’s your own affair if you wish to keep that private, ma’am, but it’s better for you to be open with me.”

  I shook my head rapidly. I haven’t taken anything.

  “Well, if that’s truly the case, it is quite possible that someone introduced a foreign substance into your food or drink. Can you think of anything you consumed recently that tasted strange, or that burned your mouth and throat?”

  Twisting my hands together, I tried to think. The muffin Roderick and I had shared at breakfast yesterday had been perfectly benign. So had lunch. I hadn’t taken any supper because I attended the performance. And afterward, at the reception—

  My face must have told Roderick that I had thought of something, for he snatched up a piece of staff paper and a pencil and thrust them at me.

  Champagne, I wrote.

  At the time I had thought that Treherne must have purchased an inferior vintage. But one of the virtues of wine—or faults, depending on how one looked at it—was that its euphoric effects overcame any defects of taste, so even the poor specimens were still palatable. In the contagious excitement and good humor of the evening, I had dismissed critical thoughts about the quality of the wine from my mind.

  Roderick was leaning over me to read what I had written. “Perhaps it was a bad vintage,” he said, “or perhaps something had gotten into some of the bottles. I’ll find out.”

  But I was shaking my head. We would have heard, I wrote. From Polly if no one else. I may be the only one.

  And if that was the case...

  Roderick’s deep-set eyes were dark with dread, and he reached out silently to squeeze my shoulder. If I was the only one affected, perhaps someone had indeed tried to poison me.

  The doctor was unable to tell us if I would regain my voice, or when I would know for certain. “Without knowing what caused the irritation, I can’t say how long its effects will last,” he said. “If you can determine what the substance was, that will be helpful.”

  Roderick assured him that we would do our best to find out. “For now, is there anything we can do to help Sybil recover?”

  The doctor snapped his bag shut. In the urgency of events I realized I hadn’t even learned his name. “Miss Ingram’s throat doesn’t look damaged beyond hope,” he said. “I am reasonably optimistic, though it may take months or even years to recover.” While I was still reeling from this sentence he added, “It’s best to rest the voice completely. Even whispering is a strain on the vocal cords and should be avoided.” Extracting a card, he handed it to Roderick. “Have me back in a month or so, and we’ll see how things are progressing. Good day.”

  I was nearly overwhelmed at the bleakness of this prospect. But now, for good or ill, I had an even more urgent matter to confront: who might have tried to silence me permanently.

  “It must be Treherne,” Roderick said when we were alone once more. “It’s too much of a coincidence, otherwise—his returning with plenty of champagne, so convenient for hiding poisons in.”

  I reached for the pencil and paper. Why would he wish to kill me? I don’t have any evidence against him.

  “Perhaps you don’t know you know something,” Roderick said, “but clearly he thinks—or someone else thinks—that you have information that could convict him. Perhaps he and Narcissa are in cahoots.”

  This time I wrote more slowly. Or perhaps they think that I can get incriminating information even if I don’t yet have it. I’ve made no secret of my being a medium. Perhaps they are afraid I can find out from Atherton himself who killed him.

  Long before I had finished writing this lengthy response, Roderick was nodding vigorously. “That makes perfect sense. You pose a threat to him.”

  But there were so many other possibilities. It might not be Treherne and Narcissa. Mr. Richmond might have murdered Atherton to stop him—

  “—from leeching off his stepmother. Yes, that’s possible. We mustn’t forget No-Relation, either. If he’s truly determined to have Narcissa for himself, he might be capable of just such a crime.”

  I scribbled, But he left before the toasts were well underway.

  Roderick ran his hands through his dark curls as if to stimulate his brain and assist thought. His eyes were stormy with concentration, and he was pacing the length of our sitting room with an energy that scarcely contained itself. He looked purposeful, intent—thrilling. I wished that circumstances had permitted me to make him aware of that fact. But matters of life and death left little leeway for such pleasures just now.

  Now he said, “It’s entirely possible that Fairbrother had a confederate. Some
one else who would gain from your death.”

  That was a nasty thought. How many more people might wish me dead? My face must have shown how taken aback I was, for Roderick paused in his pacing to kneel down by my chair and take my face between his hands.

  “Forgive me, my darling,” he said in a different voice. “I know this must be frightening for you.”

  When had he known me to give in to fear? I drew away and gave him a haughty look.

  His low, intimate chuckle made my skin tingle. “You are a rare and wondrous woman, my Sybil, and I salute your courage. But don’t think for one second that I’m not deadly earnest in my desire to protect you and expose the man who did this to you. I may be blunt and tactless, but until you’re safe I can’t promise to be any other way. Right now I am concerned with action, with results.” To my surprise, he drew me into his arms then, holding me tightly against him. His voice when it came again was muffled against my hair. “But when I know you are safe, believe me, I will show all the tender and solicitous concern that a wife could desire.”

  Blast the man, he was going to make me cry. I pushed against his chest until he released me, and I reached for the pencil, scribbling as fast as I could. Your love and concern for me are not in doubt, I wrote. Let’s apprehend the blackguard who poisoned me, and then we can be loverlike again.

  Roderick, reading this, broke into his most dangerous grin. “Amen to that, sweetheart,” he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We decided that there might be much to be learned by attending opening night of the revamped Macbeth, particularly if anyone in the production expected me to be dead. Simply observing people’s response to my presence might tell us a great deal.

  It was easy enough to procure tickets; I dashed off a letter to Treherne, and by the next post we had his response that tickets would be waiting for us at the Sydenham entrance to the grounds.

  Even with such weighty and dreadful matters casting a shadow over the evening, I couldn’t help but take enjoyment from the prospect of an evening out with my husband. As he waited for me to finish dressing I observed how devastating he looked in his evening clothes, all the more so since he greeted the evening with a set jaw and the dangerous gaze of a man ready and willing to accuse his wife’s poisoner.

  To give myself confidence, I wore a turquoise-and-gold shot silk evening dress designed for me by Worth, which was trimmed with an abundance of gold galloon lace. I was no longer making any pretense of wearing mourning. Indeed, the death of my father had been quite eclipsed by more recent events; it felt as though months had passed since I had left my parents’ home. The reflection was sobering, but right now I had more urgent business: to ferret out the person who was my poisoner and Atherton’s killer.

  I had just finished putting on my necklace and earrings of rose gold set with diamonds and opals—a cherished gift that Roderick had purchased for me in Paris—and was adding a last spray of eau de parfum when there was a knock at the door of our suite. Roderick went to answer it, and when he returned he was bearing a small box.

  “What every fashionable voiceless lady needs to complete her evening ensemble,” he said.

  When I opened the box I found that it contained nothing but a child’s whistle. At first I was perplexed.

  “In case you need assistance and I’m not with you,” he explained. “I fully intend to adhere to you tonight like flypaper. But accidents happen, and if we should become separated and you need help...”

  Whoever would have thought that a cheap children’s toy would make my heart swell with love? If anything, this was even more touching than the gift of my expensive jewelry. I kissed him to show my gratitude and then rummaged in a drawer until I found a length of thin ribbon with which to suspend the useful accessory around my neck. I tucked it under my bodice, but throughout the evening that was to come I found myself touching the ribbon from time to time to reassure myself that Roderick’s gift was still there in case of need.

  The opening night of Macbeth was gratifyingly well attended. I saw a few acquaintances, but since I could not perform introductions, I had to content myself with nodding and smiling. In each instance I could see the raised eyebrows registering my poor manners. How exasperating that my enforced silence was creating the wrong impression. Here was another consequence I had not expected of being without my voice—friends and acquaintances felt they were being snubbed. I huffed out a sigh, and Roderick, glancing at my face, announced that it was time we found our seats.

  The newspaper accounts of last night’s dress rehearsal must have been favorable. I had been too preoccupied to read the papers, but from the anticipatory murmur that surrounded us I gathered that the audience had read laudatory reviews. Even with the pressing anxieties of my lost voice and the knowledge that someone fatally hostile to me was probably even now in the same building, I couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. Opening night was opening night, whether I was on stage or no.

  I was not entirely surprised when Ivor Treherne strode onto the stage, causing the orchestra to cease its preliminary tuning up. How astonishing to reflect that less than a week ago, Atherton had been the one to take the stage to introduce the night’s entertainment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Treherne said, “I have an announcement.”

  So this was no mere managerial greeting to a first-night audience. Now I noticed that his hair was unkempt, and his eyes were strained with worry. It might have been in part the effect of the footlights, but the lines in his face were more pronounced than before. The last remnants of conversation in the audience petered out as the manager’s distress became clear.

  “I regret to say that our leading lady, the effulgent Miss Narcissa Holm, is indisposed,” he said. “She is under a doctor’s care, and we hope to learn of her recovery. In the meantime, we have a charming new talent, Miss Polly Ingersoll, to play the role of Lady Macduff tonight.” He stopped to produce his handkerchief and apply it to his brow. “I’m sure you will give her your kindest attention.” He summoned up a smile, but it was a ghastly specimen. “And now, without further ado, I give you tonight’s entertainment.”

  He hurried offstage, and a smattering of applause followed him. Roderick turned to me and raised his eyebrows. I spread my hands, indicating that I knew no more than he did. But I was deeply curious.

  Not to mention nervous. This would be Polly’s debut, and there could hardly have been a circumstance to put more scrutiny on her. Tonight’s audience had been looking forward to seeing the famous Narcissa Holm, an established star. Possibly many in the audience were familiar with her from past plays. Yet now they would instead be forced to watch an unknown.

  Biting my lip, I tried to compose myself as I awaited Polly’s first entrance. Perhaps she would rise to the occasion. It did happen. Sometimes the weight of all the audience scrutiny would put an actress on her mettle and actually give her the goad she needed to produce her best performance. But so often it went the other way, and nerves would wreck the performance almost before it started.

  We did not have long to wait. Lady Macduff’s first scene, a two-hander with the Scottish Lady, took place early in the play.

  When Gertrude and Polly entered, my heart sank. It was all too clear just from looking at them how things stood. Gertrude was composed, and she glided onstage in a manner that showed that this was her natural realm. Polly, however, moved timidly, darting frightened glances out across the footlights. Though she looked pretty in Narcissa’s costume, she wore it as though it itched. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides as if she had forgotten what to do with them.

  Fortunately, the first lines were Gertrude’s. With just the right degree of concern, she declared in carrying tones, “Madam, I have observ’d since you came hither, you have been still disconsolate. Pray tell me, are you in perfect health?”

  Polly stared at her blankly. She had forgotten her line.

  Dread squeezed my heart. How well I knew the paralyzing horror of stage fright. I mout
hed her line soundlessly as if I could communicate the words to her. Alas! How can I? My lord, when honor call’d him to the war...

  Someone in the audience coughed. There was a rustling, as of people checking their programs. I reached for Roderick’s hand, nearly as sick with dread as if I myself stood on stage, exposed and helpless.

  Gertrude, experienced trouper that she was, took command. She improvised. “I know what you will say: your lord, when honor call’d him to the war...”

  Polly gave a little start of recognition and clutched at this lifeline with all the desperation of a drowning woman. “Oh! Yes! When honor call’d him to the war took with him half of my divided soul...”

  In her panic she had forgotten every single thing I had taught her. She recited the line in a singsong rhythm like a nursery rhyme, rushing through it as though afraid of forgetting it again. I winced, and Roderick caught my eye. He made a sort of questioning grimace, and I, torn between laughter and groaning, hid my face in his shoulder for a moment until I could compose myself.

  After that unpropitious start, I wish I could say that Polly rallied, that she gathered her wits and delivered a fine performance. Alas, that would be a lie.

  She continued to flail for her lines, which Gertrude fed her with grim patience, and rattled off her dialogue as hastily as if she were relieved to get it over with—as perhaps she was. When she returned for her second scene she seemed less paralyzed by terror, and I wondered if she had resorted to spirits, the common actors’ crutch. She still stared glassily out at the audience, however, with a look on her face as though she wished she were anywhere else on earth.

  In short, Polly was terrible.

  Nor had this sad fact escaped those around us. As the scene continued, the rustlings and whispers increased. There was a restless atmosphere, and I was dismayed, thought not surprised, when one couple rose and walked out. Mercifully, Polly’s part in this scene was brief, and soon she staggered offstage, leaving Gertrude to seize the reins again and recapture the audience’s attention.