The laugh died, and his face turned serious. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“What?”
“I have to take care of an important matter. You are still entertaining everyone back at the town house?”
“Company and friends only tonight.”
“I believe I qualify as a member now.”
“That you do.”
He bent down and kissed me on the top of the head, then stalked off before I could react to the unexpectedly intimate gesture and doffed Richard’s cloak in the wings as the curtain rose to a chorus of bravas.
By the time Marie and I took our bows, the houselights were up, and all became clear. Gil, a police officer, and another man, who had that puffy, stuffy look one associates with bureaucrats, were escorting Amelie Van Vleet out of the orchestra. Gil looked back to me for just a moment and smiled faintly.
Of course, I would demand an explanation of all this later. Right now, it was enough that we’d come through to the end.
“What encore shall we give?” I asked Marie.
“Something fast. I want some answers—and a brandy.”
“So true.”
Chapter 32
In Which the Cast Adjourns to Washington Square
Within two hours or so of the final curtain, the company and friends were gathered in the parlor, sipping various medicinal beverages, with the full expectation of answers and baked goods. The answers might be a few moments in coming, but the refreshments were amazing, a truly magnificent display of Mrs. G’s finest efforts. I had no idea what had prompted this; usually, the end of a run meant just Tommy and me and a close friend or two who didn’t have a deadline or an early start, celebrating with leftover cookies or even just toast and cheese in the kitchen.
Not this time. There was a fancifully iced opera torte, a large batch of snickerdoodles, a platter of meringues, and an equally generous tray of lemon tarts. Preston’s favorite, of course, which perhaps gave a clue as to motive.
The party was larger than usual, as well, despite a few missing faces. Ruben was recovering at home under the care of his worried mother, and Albert likewise, but the mothers had already sent word that both sons would soon be back to full strength and virtuosity, thankfully. And speaking of happy family moments, Louis and Anna had decided firmly in favor of going home to the Morsel, preferring to share the joy of their success with the one they love most.
Cousin Andrew, of course, would be neither enjoying treats nor supplying answers, since he was occupied with Eamon and no doubt settling scores with the Broadway Squad. We would send him a delivery of baked goods and a carefully worded inquiry as to the status of matters with Katie McTeer in the morning.
But for now, I was ensconced on my usual chaise, in a new Parma-violet crepe de chine tea gown—with matching velvet ribbons threaded through the creamy lace at the low collar and bracelet-length sleeves that covered the bandage on my arm—my favorite afghan over my feet. I’d taken inspiration from Marie and settled on a brandy to go with a generous slab of opera torte.
Gil had taken the chair by the chaise, as if it were his natural place, which indeed it was by now, and he was enjoying a drop of whisky while taking great amusement at my enthusiastic demolition of my treat.
“One would think you had been on a desert island where there is no cake.”
“I haven’t had a scrap in months. No one wants a King Henry who looks like Falstaff.”
“There’s no risk of that.”
“And we’ll keep it that way.”
“The torte does look quite delicious.”
“It is.”
“May I?” He reached for my fork.
“Get your own piece.”
We were laughing together as Marie and Paul took over the settee closest to us, and Tommy and Father Michael took the other one, bickering over the snickerdoodles.
“Come on, now. Time to tell all.” Marie settled into her seat, smoothing her pale blue silk tea gown, a small violation of protocol allowed by the fact that this was a family night in the company, and focused sharply on Gil. “What about Amelie Van Vleet?”
“Yes,” Hetty said, putting down her sherry. She, like Yardley, had come straight from the news office—in her case, after dashing off a quick item about two separate arrests at the theater, with more details to come in the next day’s edition, and mysteriously describing our last-minute Richard as merely a visiting friend of the company. “Curtain falls on criminals,” the Beacon’s rather sensational headline writer would say.
Like us, she was more than glad for the medicinal drop. Worse for her, though, she was still in work dress, a suit and shirtwaist, meaning the dreaded stays. “What about that woman?”
“Well,” our barrister began, putting down his whisky and settling in to tell the tale, “she was born Annie Hardwick in East London.”
“Aha,” I said. “With credit to Mr. Holmes.”
“I do not believe he ever actually said that,” Tommy observed.
“Probably not,” I admitted, “but you don’t need Conan Doyle’s background in criminology or linguistics, to know that woman was not from anywhere in France.”
“Just so.” Hetty gave me a bitter little smile. “You caught that silly fake voice of hers.”
“You knew there was something very wrong about her,” I agreed, “but it took an extra pair of ears to figure it out.”
“And lovely ears at that,” Gil cut in with a warm glance at me before he resumed his barrister face. “At any rate, back to Annie Hardwick?”
“Absolutely,” Marie said. “She sounds like a nasty little piece of work.”
“Oh, she is. Believed she deserved far better than she came from. That, of course, is no sin . . .”
The company and friends nodded quite resolutely at that.
“The sin, as it were, was the way she went about bettering herself.” Gil nodded to me and the rest. “Unlike some ladies I know, born with nothing in their hands and much in their heads, and indeed their throats, Miss Hardwick decided the best way to improve her lot was by charming men. And perhaps harming them.”
“Perhaps?” Hetty asked.
“More than perhaps in at least one case. Before Mr. Van Vleet met her, and ultimately his Maker, she rather unexpectedly married a colleague of my friend Joshua’s.”
Marie’s eyes widened. “A bigamist?”
“Would that she were, Madame Marie.” Gil shook his head. “Charles—I read law with him—died of a strange and mysterious illness a year or so after the wedding. Not long after he had asked Joshua and myself to see what we might learn about his lovely new wife.”
Brows quirked across the room.
“By the time Joshua managed to get a lock of his hair to test, she and much of his money were long gone.”
“Test for what?” Yardley asked.
“Mercury. Calomel. Apparently, he started with a bit of dyspepsia, and she just kept increasing the dose. At least moderately creative.” His pained expression belied the wry words.
“Her first murder.” Father Michael shook his head.
“That we know of,” Preston put in with a dark scowl.
“I’m sorry.” Marie patted Gil’s arm.
A muscle flicked in his jaw as he nodded. “In any event, there the matter lay until a friend sent me Miss Hetty’s excellent article about the Van Vleet murder case.”
The friend and Miss Hetty both had the grace to blush.
“I couldn’t be certain from the sketches, naturally, but there was a strong possibility that it might be her, once one considered all the evidence. So Joshua asked me to come over here and see what I might see at the trial.”
The errand for a friend.
“Of course,” Gil said, with a significant smile at me, “there were other compensations to the trip, so it was easy enough to persuade me to come.”
“Do you think she killed Van Vleet?” Hetty asked.
“Unless I misunderstand your Constitution, it doesn’t much ma
tter. I still doubt she would have stabbed him fourteen times, especially since she was a dab hand with poison.”
“I wonder if it really was that nasty Frenchman,” Hetty mused. “What happens to her now?”
“Well, we’ll sail in the morning, and I suspect it shall be a far less pleasant trip home for her. After that, a trial. I will ask my friend at the consulate to give you an official statement.”
“Lovely.” Hetty raised her glass to Gil. Visiting friend of the company, indeed.
Yardley shook his head. “She’ll just get out of it there, too.”
“I would not be so sure, Mr. Stern. We have one great advantage in London.”
“Your lawyer friend.” Preston nodded. “Nothing like a man who wants justice for a friend.”
“Precisely.”
“All right,” Marie said, “so that’s answered. I can guess why Eamon attacked Ruben in his dressing room—but what about Connor Coughlan, of all people?”
I took a sip of my brandy and looked to Tommy. We had some of that answer, but not all.
“Maybe I can help with that, Madame.”
Connor stood in the foyer doorway, holding a bouquet of pansies, a very neutral floral statement (think of me). “I’ve heard companies often stay up on the last night, and I wanted to thank you.”
Gil tensed slightly beside me.
Connor grinned at him. “Relax, Saint Audrey. I know you’re the one she’s going to marry.”
I almost dropped my glass.
“Miss Shane and I have not settled any—” Gil started stiffly.
Connor shook his head. “Right. I know. You won’t push her. Good for you.” His eyes narrowed a bit. “Just remember. If you ever make her cry, you’ll answer to me. Especially after tonight.”
“Would you like a whisky?” I cut in quickly. “Or lemon tarts?”
“I won’t turn down the whisky.” He handed over the flowers as Tommy poured him one. “That was a hell of a thing. Sorry, Ellen, Father.”
“That it was.” Tommy handed Connor the glass and stood behind the chair as he sat. “You and Eamon didn’t even know each other.”
“No.” Connor took a sip and gave a grateful smile. “I don’t think it was about me.”
“He’s right.” I had a small sip of my own drink. “Eamon had no way to know he’d be backstage tonight.”
“So . . . ,” Marie said.
“I don’t know what that was.” Connor shook his head. “I had finished my other business at the theater, and I heard a fight in the dressing room. The big redheaded boy was beating the Cuban, just whaling on him. I’ve got a few Cuban friends, and I don’t like an unfair fight.”
I smiled a little at Connor. “So you jumped in.”
“Not my best decision of the night.”
“But why turn on you?” Hetty asked.
“I think he was just trying to kill his way out of it,” Tommy suggested. “He wanted Ruben as revenge, of course, and if he killed Connor, there would be no witness.”
“Ah,” Connor said, with a wry note in his voice, “but it’s never really possible to kill your way out of things.”
We did not want to think too deeply about why he knew that.
“In any case,” I said, firmly changing the subject, “this was really all about Richard III.”
“Well, it is a good part,” Marie put in.
“Not worth a life. Or three,” I reminded her, registering an approving expression from Gil and the priest. “But it was to him.”
“Exactly,” Tommy continued. “All he wanted to do—until tonight—was eliminate obstacles to the part. He killed Florian and made it look like Albert did it to move himself up one notch.”
“Pretty elaborate—and grisly,” Paul observed, no doubt thinking of the closeness of danger to his wife and wee ones. “I wonder if there was some kind of grudge between him and the Lutzes.”
“It’s possible,” Preston allowed, swirling his whisky a bit. “They all grew up together, so there might have been some kind of rivalry.”
“Especially since Eamon and Albert would end up competing for some of the same roles.” I nodded. “That can breed a lot of bad blood.”
“Enough to make people do dangerous and evil things,” Marie agreed. She took a sip of her brandy.
“Perhaps it had something to do with Albert’s sister, too,” Yardley offered. “She married Florian and died, and if Eamon had wanted her . . .”
“As good an explanation as any,” Hetty said. Actually agreeing with Yardley?
Good heavens.
“At any rate,” I cut in, pulling the conversation back to what we definitely knew, “after the killing, Eamon tried to discredit Ruben to eliminate him.” No need to go any further than that with this group, all of whom were firmly on Ruben’s side. “Failing that, he resorted to some direct sabotage against him.”
“Which he admitted when Drumm tried that stunt with the sword,” Tommy went on, sliding a moody gaze into his glass. “And when all of that failed, I suppose Eamon broke.”
“He would not be the first man to give in to evil,” Father Michael said.
“Kill the man who beat you.” Connor nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Exactly.” Gil had clearly been on the sideline of the conversation long enough. “Tonight Eamon no doubt realized that suspicion would fall on him because Albert had been cleared, and that he would soon take his place in gaol.”
“So he decided to go out in blood.” Tommy took another sip of whisky. “I wonder if that ovation for Ruben’s last aria was the last straw.”
“It could well have been.” Marie shook her head. “Ruben was incredible tonight.”
“If Eamon hadn’t come after him, we would never have been sure.” I put down my plate. Even my notorious appetite for cake couldn’t survive this. “He was desperate. Thank God you walked in. I can’t imagine what might have happened to Ruben.”
“No need for me to imagine.” Connor rubbed his neck a little. “If you hadn’t walked in when you did . . .”
“But I did.”
“And you didn’t hesitate.”
Gil was watching me, and I wondered if it was for signs of inappropriate affection, an utter impossibility. I ignored him and focused on Connor. “Of course not.”
“There are those who’d say you should’ve let him finish the job. I don’t lead the life of a choirboy.”
“That’s between you and God. I couldn’t live with myself if I let someone harm another person in front of me without trying to help.”
Connor and Gil both studied me as I spoke. I felt like a china figure in the vitrine. Then they looked at each other.
“And that, Saint Audrey, is all you need to know. Our Ellen’s an angel.”
“And I treat her as such, Mr. Coughlan.”
“Smart man. Put a ring on her hand and a tiara on her head as soon as she’ll let you.”
Gil and I both laughed. What else could we do?
“Thank you for coming, Connor,” I said.
“Thank you, Ellen.”
We smiled at each other. Then he turned to Gil with the cold, scary look he’d never given me.
“I assume the Van Vleet woman is on her way to England?”
“In the morning.” Gil nodded. “Someone may wish to search her home as soon as possible, but you won’t be seeing her again.”
“We’ve already gotten the rest of our interest payment. No one is especially creative about hiding money.” Connor’s eyes narrowed. “As instructive as it might have been to make an example of her, that’s a better ending. Let me know if she hangs.”
The two exchanged a grim nod as the rest of the company looked to me, and I responded by shaking my head in confusion and no small amount of dismay.
“What?” I asked.
“Mr. Coughlan and I had a confluence of interests.” Gil nodded coolly to Connor. The other business at the theater.
“Hosmer Van Vleet got himself in some nasty financial
trouble,” Connor explained, “and he turned to some friends of mine for help.”
“Which has been known to happen in shady financial dealings,” Gil added, with a little smile to Hetty. “But it became much more problematic when first the stock trader and then his grieving widow decided there was no need to pay all the agreed interest.”
“A very poor decision. Especially on her part.” Connor’s voice was as cool as if he were discussing the weather, but it did nothing to dilute the menace.
“How could anyone be so foolish?” Hetty asked for all of us.
“None of this for the papers,” Connor said, his eyes very hard on hers.
“As far as I’m concerned, the story is the unmasking of a British murderess.” Not only is my friend no fool, but she also knows the use of having a good source in a very bad place.
They exchanged a small nod, and Connor continued. “He apparently thought this was a matter for negotiation. Rich folk are stupid.” He shrugged and looked at Gil. “Some rich folk, anyway. They think their money makes them better and immune to consequences.”
“She, at least, should’ve known better,” I said. “Especially after what happened to Hosmer.”
“She thought it was the Frenchman,” Hetty suggested. “Or at least let herself believe it. Probably figured her lover did it, and that she deserved the extra money for all her trouble.”
Father Michael winced at the blunt description of Lescaut but said nothing.
Gil smiled very coldly. “I imagine it went exactly like that, Miss Hetty.”
“Well, Saint Audrey here decided he didn’t like the idea of her dancing away free any more than we did.”
“Hence the confluence of interests.” Gil nodded to Connor.
I just stared at the two of them.
“That’s enough.” Connor held my gaze coolly for a second. “It’s not for good women like you to know what would’ve happened to her if she hadn’t chosen to return to England and face a murder charge.”
I did my best to hide the shudder. I had no need to know the exact details, but there was no doubt that whatever Connor and his friends might do to make an example of our villainess was far more terrible than anything the hangman might come up with. At least the queen’s justice promised a chance of acquittal and, at worst, last rites and a relatively clean death.
A Fatal First Night Page 25