by Emily Queen
“What are you doing here? It wasn’t enough for you to mock my opening night performance in front of the entire cast, but now you’ve decided to come and berate me in my own home?” Jennie’s voice had turned hard and cold, and had she anything whatsoever to do with Mr. Segal’s death, Rosemary would have pegged her as a suspect without a second thought. She looked as though she were capable of committing murder; she might even have been plotting one at that very moment.
Rose watched as Vera bit back a sharp retort; it didn’t matter how sorry she might feel for the girl, the fire in her rose to the surface anyway.
“We didn’t come to berate you, Jennie,” she said, her voice more controlled than expected. “I wanted to apologize for what happened the other night. It wasn’t fair of me to treat you disrespectfully. You won the part, fair and square.” It was all she could manage.
Jennie’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that you came all the way down here to apologize? I know you think I’m some dimwitted fool, but I’m smarter than that, Vera Blackburn.” It appeared Jennie wasn’t going to accept the olive branch, and really, who could blame her?
“You’re right,” Vera made a quick decision and laid her cards on the table. “I’ve come to do more than apologize. We need your help. It’s a matter of life and death. Literally.” Though she could have acted her way out of the situation, there was no need because what Vera had said was the truth. The sincerity in her tone seemed to sway Jennie, or perhaps she was merely intrigued.
“Go on,” she said and waited.
Vera’s eyes flicked towards the door. “It would be better if we discussed the matter somewhere more private.”
“This had better be good.” Jennie’s eyes flashed before she turned and led them into her flat. Upon further inspection, the interior wasn’t quite as bad as the hallway had suggested. Plants littered nearly every surface and, combined with the tapestries that lined the walls to hide cracked plaster, invoked a romantic feel that was quite soothing. Not, of course, that Vera would have voiced the opinion out loud, and Rosemary followed suit if only to appease her dearest friend.
Jennie waved a hand to indicate they should take a seat but didn’t offer any refreshment as would have been the polite thing to do. This wasn’t a social call, and it seemed she wanted to keep it that way.
“My friend Rosemary, here,” Vera said with a hasty wave in Rose’s direction, “has a neighbor who is accused of murdering one of his patients.”
“He’s a dentist on Park Road,” Rosemary interjected. “You’ve probably read about him in the newspapers.”
Nodding, Jennie still appeared confused. “I have, but what does that have to do with me? Moreover, why would I want to help a murderer?”
“We’re not asking you to help a murderer,” Vera snapped. “we’re asking you to help exonerate an innocent man. We believe you know his nurse. You might have gone to school with her. Polly Calahan. Does that name ring a bell?”
With a raised eyebrow, Jennie peered at Vera, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. “No,” she said, “I did not go to school with anyone named Polly Calahan. Are we done here?”
Vera looked helplessly at Rosemary, who watched as realization dawned on her friend’s face. She might have been charitable to Jennie for absolutely no reason, and it made her want to gag right there in the girl’s flat.
“Wait for just a second,” Rosemary said as Vera rose to leave. “Do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?” she asked Jennie, who rolled her eyes, nodded, and went to fetch what Rose had requested.
Squinting, Rosemary thought back to her encounter with Dr. Redberry’s nurse. She recalled every nuance of Polly’s face, and then put pencil to paper and began to sketch. To Vera, who had limited artistic ability, it looked like scribbling, but slowly Polly’s face began to emerge from the page.
Finally, Rose held the drawing up for Jennie to see. Eyes narrowed, Jennie’s mouth set into a thin line.
“Yes, I know her, but her name isn’t Polly. It’s Marianna Lancaster.” She swallowed hard and sat back in her chair. “I think it’s about time for a G&T, don’t you agree?” Jennie’s demeanor had changed, and it set the hairs on the back of Rosemary’s neck bristling.
The girl rose and began to mix up their cocktails, drawing out the suspense while Rosemary and Vera waited with bated breath. Suddenly, she wasn’t Jennie Bryer anymore; she was an entertainer with a story to tell.
“Marianna Lancaster was one of the most talented girls in our class. She could have been a star, but she had an ego and a sense of entitlement even bigger than yours.” Jennie shot Vera a cold look, which Vera returned in kind.
“We were doing a run of Macbeth, and she got passed over for the part of Hecate.” One more pointed look set Vera’s blood boiling. “She didn’t take the rejection well. First, she spread a rumor that the girl who got the part—Bethany King was her name—had traded favors to get cast. Then, when that didn’t have the effect she expected, Marianna gaslighted the poor girl. She short-sheeted her bed; she put peroxide in her shampoo bottle; and she lurked outside her bedroom window at night, scratching at the frame and making noises until poor Bethany was so tired she took a tumble down the dormitory staircase. At least, that was the story our den mother told the police.”
Jennie tipped up her glass and took a healthy drink as if she needed fortification to continue.
“The den mother and Marianna had some sort of connection, and we always believed she knew exactly what was going on because Marianna was never punished for anything she did. The rest of us knew the fall was no accident.”
Hearing certain similarities in Jennie’s tale, Vera had gone silent, so Rose asked, “You mean it was murder?”
“Marianna pushed her, plain and simple. Bethany died because someone was so jealous of her talent and beauty that they couldn’t allow her to live. That is what I call a tragedy. Rest assured, if Marianna were backed into a corner, she wouldn’t hesitate to do something drastic. You said she’s this Dr. Redberry’s nurse?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Although, not a very good one, by all accounts.”
“I believe you’ll find, if you check her credentials, that she has no training outside acting the part. It’s just a hunch, but I’d be willing to bet a month’s rent I’m right.” Jennie said.
Rosemary allowed the information to sink in. Now that she understood the girl’s history, it wasn’t hard to see that the oddities of her demeanor were intentional. She had duped not only Dr. Redberry, but Max and Rosemary as well. “None of us even suspected that Polly—or, rather, Marianna—had anything to do with the murder. She appeared detached and—well, indifferent, I suppose.”
“That’s exactly how she acted after Bethany’s death. We all mourned for the girl, but Marianna pretended as if she’d never existed in the first place. She’s dangerous, but she’s also unwilling to face the consequences of her actions. Psychotic, I believe it’s called.”
“Thank you, Jennie,” Vera said reluctantly. “We appreciate you telling us about Marianna. I realize you could have turned us away, but you didn’t. I have to say I respect that. Why don’t we call a truce?”
Jennie’s big, blue eyes widened, and then narrowed into slits. “I’d rather eat dirt, Vera Blackburn. Now get out of my flat and forget my address.” She ushered the pair back out into the hallway and slammed the door behind them.
“Well, I suppose you still have an arch-nemesis, then,” Rosemary commented wryly as she and Vera made their way back downstairs to where Wadsworth was waiting with the car.
Vera scowled. “It’s a good thing she had useful information, or this time, I’d have made sure to break her nose.” The threat was an empty one and delivered without the heat of conviction. “What now?”
“Now, I think I have to call Max and tell him what we’ve learned.”
Chapter Twenty
Rosemary was quiet on the way back to her section of London. “What’s wrong, Rosie?” Vera asked, jabb
ing her elbow into Rose’s ribs to rouse her from her reverie.
“I just can’t stop thinking about how there’s been a psychotic murderer practically living next door to me, and I never even realized it.”
“Well, yes, it’s rather disconcerting, isn’t it? Although, at least it’s Martin’s nurse and not Martin himself. That would have been even more awkward.” Vera declared.
“Disconcerting and awkward,” Rosemary repeated, incredulous. “That’s all? You’d think we were talking about running into an ex-beau at dinner with his new, attractive girlfriend, not a murderous psychopath working in the flat beside mine.”
“Rosie, dear, if you’re going to continue with this line of work, you’d better get used to spending time with unscrupulous individuals,” Vera replied.
“Who said anything about continuing with this line of work?” Rosemary asked, her voice at a pitch Vera judged high enough to shatter crystal.
“Oh, Rose, come on. You know you can’t resist a good mystery, and lately, they seem to be finding you with the regularity of interested gentlemen.” Vera couldn’t help but goad her friend.
Rosemary was beginning to look as though she were ready to run off to a sanitarium herself, all wild eyes and disheveled hair. “Vera Blackburn—” she began, and then looked into her friend’s eyes for the first time during the conversation, “You’re putting me on, aren’t you?”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood. It is rather macabre, isn’t it? You’d think we’d be used to macabre by now. However, I’m determined to look on the bright side. We’re going to tell Max about Polly, or whatever her name is, and he’s going to take care of the rest. Then, we can be on our way to Cyprus, where the liquor flows free, and the men are all the color of sun-drizzled caramel.”
“That does sound lovely, Vera,” Rose said, though her heart wasn’t quite in it. Her methodical nature wouldn’t allow her to focus on the scene Vera had painted until Martin’s—and Abigail’s—lives were set to rights.
During the time it took for her to ring Max and fill him in on the fact that Polly Calahan wasn’t who she said she was, Vera explained Jennie Bryer’s story to Frederick and Desmond. Desmond, infinitely wiser than his friend, smartly kept his thoughts to himself while Frederick managed to further infuriate Vera with his opinions regarding Jennie’s finer qualities. She refused to glance in his direction even after Rosemary returned to the parlor and settled into an armchair.
Frederick turned his attention away from Vera’s sour expression. “I told you she would figure out who the murderer was, didn’t I, Desmond?” he said, which only made her even angrier.
“I suppose you think I had nothing whatsoever to do with it? You, on the other hand, have been more concerned with gallivanting around and getting zozzled,” Vera retorted, her face beginning to turn a shade of red that only Frederick could bring out.
The two bickered for so long Rosemary, even with her seemingly infinite well of patience, nearly turned on them both. She might have torn them limb from limb if the chiming of the doorbell hadn’t interrupted their diatribe.
“Dr. Redberry,” Wadsworth announced, ushering a flustered Martin into the parlor.
“I’m terribly sorry to barge in on you like this, but have you seen or spoken to Abigail since your maid’s appointment this morning?” he asked with a wild look in his eyes.
Rosemary shook her head. “No, Martin, we haven’t seen her.” She cast a glance at Wadsworth, who had been watching Martin with the wariness of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to protect his mistress should the need arise. He shook his head, indicating that Abigail had neither rang nor stopped by. “What’s happened?”
“I received a message this afternoon. It was the bank, important business that I needed to attend to in person. The funny thing was when I arrived, there was no record of the call. When I got home, I found this,” he reached into his pants pocket to retrieve a folded slip of paper and handed it to Rosemary.
“Martin,” she read out loud. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry. Abigail.”
“It sounds as though she’s leaving me, but it doesn’t make any sense.” Martin wouldn’t have been the first man in the world to react with shock and disbelief upon being thrown over by a woman.
“Abigail has been under a lot of stress lately. It’s possible the burden became too much for her to carry,” Rose said, placing a hand on Martin’s arm.
He shrugged her off, irritated. “No, it’s not possible,” he repeated, his voice rising in volume as he became more agitated. All three of the other men in the room, including Wadsworth, prepped for a possible battle while hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
“She’s the one who thought up this whole sordid lie.” Martin continued to talk to himself, his eyes unfocused on anyone else in the room. “It was her. It was her.”
Rosemary gazed at her friends, and then back at Martin, took two steps forward, and slapped him soundly across the face. Desmond’s eyes widened in shock that quickly turned to admiration, Vera smirked, and Frederick appeared as though he might start cheering. Wadsworth’s expression, however, didn’t waver.
“Ow!” Martin exclaimed, grasping his cheek and staring at Rosemary with surprise etched all over his face.
“You deserved that, and what’s more, you needed it,” she said unapologetically. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Martin crumpled into a char, dropped his head in his hands.
“Abigail wasn’t in the office the day Segal died. At least, not when she said she was. She came down with a breakfast tray that morning, as I had woken late and hadn’t the time to eat. Later, when that article came out, she decided she wouldn’t sit by and let me be sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit, so she lied and said she’d seen me during Mr. Segal’s appointment. I told her it wasn’t a good idea and begged her not to go through with it, but Abigail can be incredibly stubborn when she puts her mind to it. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
Rosemary understood a woman’s choice to protect her husband at any cost, but there was one thing she didn’t understand. “Did your nurse know about this? Was she in on it?”
“Polly? No, of course not. Only myself and Abigail. Why? What does Polly have to do with this?”
“Polly isn’t her real name, Martin. She’s the one who killed Claude Segal, amongst other things. We think she did those things to protect you. Is there something going on between you and your nurse?” Rosemary’s tone indicated that it would be prudent of him, to tell the truth.
“No, nothing. I’m a gambler, not a cheater. Though, come to think of it…” Martin trailed off. “You don’t think she has anything to do with this, do you?” he held up the note from Abigail.
“I think it’s more likely than Abigail suddenly developing cold feet and disappearing. Did you look to see if she took anything with her?”
“No, I don’t think so. I—I don’t know. What would Polly want with Abigail?”
“My guess is, Polly has developed an unhealthy fixation would do anything for you. She did commit murder, and that’s as extreme as it gets. This note could be interpreted another way,” Rosemary hedged, a sense of dread creeping up inside her. Martin caught her drift and nearly broke down again.
“Inspector Whittington is on his way to Polly’s—I mean Marianna’s—flat to pick her up now. Perhaps Abigail is with her.” It didn’t seem likely. The woman was smarter than that, and that meant she could have taken Abigail anywhere.
“You won’t find her there. Polly, or Marianna, or whoever she is—she’s in the office working on a filing project right now. I just saw her. She said she hadn’t seen Abigail all day.”
“I find that highly unlikely and, combined with the tone of this note, enough cause for serious alarm. Wadsworth, gear up, we’re going in.” It was all she needed to say. The butler returned seconds later, his jacket a little lumpier than it had been before. “You come with Vera and me through the main entrance. Freddie and Desmond
can follow Martin down the back staircase. Be careful, she’s dangerous.”
They did just that, with Wadsworth taking the first position in front of Rosemary. He kept his hand inside his jacket, she was sure wrapped around the pistol he carried there. It was an unnecessary precaution, as Marianna sat behind her desk, sans weapon, humming a happy little tune.
“The doctor isn’t in right now, I’m afraid,” she said, an odd look in her eyes that Rosemary judged somewhere between denial and insanity. “You’ll have to come back another time.” The phrase was one Rose guessed she’d repeated many times before, and it sounded almost inhumanely automatic to her ears.
“Marianna,” Rose said the name quietly, but with an edge to her voice. “Where is Abigail?” She could see down the hallway, watching as Martin turned the corner from the stair landing and crept silently closer to the front office.
The girl continued shuffling papers as though it were a regular workday, and nothing out of the ordinary was happening. “My name is Polly,” was all she said, but her eyes didn’t meet Rosemary’s gaze.
“Your name is not Polly. Now, what have you done with Abigail?” Rosemary demanded, her voice rising in volume.
Marianna finally looked Rosemary straight in the eyes and spat, “It won’t make any difference. She’s probably dead already.” Her gaze darted towards the closed examination room door beside which Martin stood, concealed from her view due to its position around the corner from the waiting room.
He tried wiggling the handle and when it refused to budge revealed himself by stepping around the corner with fury in his eyes.
“Give me the key. Now,” Martin demanded, his voice edging on hysterical.
“Whyever would you want to save her?” Marianna asked, unruffled. “I’ve heard your little disagreements; heard the slamming doors and the angry cries. The walls in here aren’t so thick, you know. You’ll be better off without Abigail. You’ll see.” She picked up a stack of papers and tapped them against the desk until the pile was straight and tidy, then fastened a paper clip to the upper corner.