An Act of Villainy E-Book

Ashley Weaver

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Amory Ames
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 469

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Walking through London's West End after a night at the theatre, Amory Ames and her husband Milo run into old friends, the wealthy investor and former actor Gerard Holloway and his wife Georgina. When Holloway invites them to the dress rehearsal of a new play he is directing, Amory readily accepts. However, she is shocked to learn that Holloway has cast his mistress, actress Flora Bell, in the lead role. Furthermore, the casual invitation is not what it seems-he admits to Amory and Milo that Flora has been receiving threatening letters, and he needs their help in finding the mysterious sender. Despite Amory's conflicting feelings-not only does she feel loyalty to Georgina, but the disintegration of the Holloways' perfect marriage seems to bode ill for her own sometimes delicate relationship-her curiosity gets the better of her, and she begins to make inquiries.

Leseprobe

AN ACT OF VILLAINY

ASHLEY WEAVER

For my Mimi, Minnie Weaver And in loving memory of Dan Weaver, Sr. Clarence Larson and Ethel Larson

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONCHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR BY ASHLEY WEAVER COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

London June 1933

Murder in fiction is not nearly as thrilling as murder in real life.

This wicked thought slipped unbidden into my mind as my husband, Milo, and I exited a West End theatre after a performance of Death Comes at Midnight, an original drama sorely lacking originality.

My dearth of enthusiasm was not entirely the fault of the play. Truth be told, I rather suspected the blame should be laid at the feet of my recent endeavours in detection. I had found myself immersed in several mysteries as of late and, in consequence, the play’s puzzle had proven less than enthralling.

It hadn’t helped matters that Milo had, annoyingly, deduced the culprit and his motives not twenty minutes into the first act, and I had spent the remainder of the performance hoping that he would be proven wrong.

‘Perhaps you’ll guess the killer correctly next time, darling,’ he said, deducing my thoughts as easily as he had the solution to the play.

‘It was too obvious,’ I retorted. ‘I was looking for a cleverer motive.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he replied with a smile.

‘Mysteries are rarely ever that straightforward, as you well know.’

‘All the same, it’s nice to take part in a mystery where loaded guns aren’t being waved about,’ he answered dryly.

‘I suppose,’ I said, though I still felt attempting to solve a fictional crime was disappointing in comparison to the real thing.

I took Milo’s arm and we walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, making our way through the crowds of people coming out of other theatres into the brightly lit streets. It was a lovely evening, clear and cool, and I was glad that we had decided to walk to a restaurant in Covent Garden rather than take a cab. There was something magical about strolling through this part of town late at night, surrounded by other theatregoers, all of us laughing and talking about the performances we had just seen.

‘I say, Milo Ames, is that you?’

We stopped and turned at the sound of the voice behind us.

It was Gerard Holloway, an old friend of Milo’s. He came towards us through the crowd, smiling.

‘It is you. And Mrs Ames. How delightful.’ It did not escape my notice that he had not been certain it would be me on my husband’s arm. Milo’s reputation had been less than sterling in the past, and I suspected Mr Holloway had encountered Milo on other occasions when I had not been the woman in his company.

‘How are you, Holloway?’ Milo asked.

‘Never better,’ he said.

I had always liked Gerard Holloway. He cut a dashing figure. Tall and well built, he had a handsome, friendly face with a thin dark moustache above a mouth that was generally smiling. His pleasant appearance was complemented by his amiable disposition. The youngest of an earl’s four sons, he had had the liberty to eschew duty and politics and had devoted his energies and wealth to a more creative milieu. He was a patron of the arts, known to frequent the theatre district, and was often looked to as the last word on the current trends in London theatre.

‘Have you been to a play?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we’ve just seen Death Comes at Midnight,’ I told him.

‘Of course. A mystery. That’s rather in your line, isn’t it?’ he said with a smile. It had not escaped society’s notice that Milo and I had been entangled in more than one murder investigation, and we had yet to live down our reputation. ‘How did you like it?’

‘A bit predictable,’ Milo said.

‘I thought the same,’ Mr Holloway said. ‘It’s only meant to be light entertainment, of course, so I suppose one shouldn’t judge too harshly. But so many plays these days aren’t what they used to be. I hope to do something on that score, however. I’m producing a new play of my own, The Price of Victory.’

‘Yes, I heard something about that,’ Milo said. ‘Wrote it yourself, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. The script’s given me a devil of a time, but we’ve smoothed it over.’ He was warming to the subject now, the spark of enthusiasm gleaming in his dark eyes. ‘We’ve got Christopher Landon, quite a rising star, as our lead man. And Balthazar Lebeau in a supporting role.’

‘Lebeau is still acting, is he?’ Milo asked.

‘In a manner of speaking. Half the time, I don’t know how the man manages to put one foot in front of the other, let alone turn out a decent performance, but his name still holds a certain sway. Besides, we have a bit of a history, and I feel I owe him a chance. Anyway, I think it’s going to be a great success. We’ll be opening this weekend. I hope you’ll come and see it.’

‘We’d like that very much,’ I said, though I knew that Milo would probably be annoyed with me later for having agreed to see a play we would be required to praise, whatever its merits. My husband had very little patience for such things, and, even though Mr Holloway was an old friend, I knew Milo would likely try to get out of attending.

‘Good, good,’ Mr Holloway said. ‘We’ve been working very hard on it. It’s rather my pet project. That’s why I decided to direct it as well. It’s my first time at the helm, so to speak. I’m afraid I’m making a nuisance of myself about every last detail, but so far they haven’t kicked me out.’

Such a thing was unlikely, given that he had no doubt financed the entire venture. Mr Holloway was incredibly wealthy, and, in addition to his interest in London’s art world, he and his wife were involved in numerous charities throughout the city.

‘How is Georgina?’ I asked. It had been some time since I had seen Mrs Holloway, though, over the years, we had formed a warm friendship through mutual social engagements and had worked on several charity committees together.

A strange expression flickered almost imperceptibly across his face, and he hesitated ever so slightly. ‘She’s quite well.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. I’ll have to ring her up.’

‘Yes, I’m sure she’d like that,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m afraid I must be off, but I do hope you’ll come to the play.’

‘Thank you,’ I told him. ‘We’ll look forward to it.’

He hesitated, as though he wanted to say something else. Then he added, ‘And, Ames, perhaps we might have a drink together soon?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Perhaps at my club? Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Say three o’clock?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Milo said. ‘I’ll stop by.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you then. Good evening, Mrs Ames.’

He tipped his hat then and left us.

‘Laid that on a bit thick, didn’t you?’ Milo said mildly as I took his arm again and we resumed walking.

As I had anticipated, he was less than pleased that I had agreed to attend an amateur performance. ‘I couldn’t very well refuse his invitation,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s only one evening; it won’t hurt to attend. Besides, you know Gerard Holloway never does things in half measures. I’m sure it will be a good play.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ he said.

I was suddenly confused. ‘Well, what do you mean?’

‘Asking about Georgina.’

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was getting at. ‘Why shouldn’t I have asked about her?’

‘Because Gerard Holloway’s new play just happens to star his mistress.’

I stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘What?’

He smiled. ‘My sweet, innocent darling. You really didn’t know?’

‘No,’ I said, genuinely shocked. Perhaps it was dreadfully naive of me, especially given the less than perfect state my own marriage had once been in, but I still managed to be rather taken aback at the rampant infidelity in our social circle.

‘It’s been the talk of London. She’s the theatre’s newest darling, as well as Holloway’s. Flora Bell, she calls herself. I’m rather surprised you haven’t heard something about it.’

I had long ago developed an aversion to the gossip columns. I could find no amusement in the troubles of others.

‘It did cross my mind that he didn’t mention the female lead in his play,’ I said. ‘And I thought he looked a bit strange when I asked about Georgina.’

‘I expect he thought you were pointedly mentioning her.’

‘I hope he did,’ I replied. ‘Someone ought to remind him of her. Poor Georgina. She must be dreadfully upset.’

Of all the couples that I knew, the Holloways were perhaps the last I would have expected to have this sort of trouble. The pair had been a love match. They had married young and had always seemed very much devoted to each other. Their romance had, in fact, been the sort of fairy tale young women dreamt about. They had grown up together and suddenly found one day that they were in love. After an opulent wedding that had been the talk of London, he had whisked her away on a summer-long wedding trip, and that had only been the beginning. From then on, they had travelled to countless exotic locales, doing all manner of adventurous things.

Whenever I had seen them together, I had admired their relationship. I had often noticed between them the little unspoken hints of affection that truly happy couples shared, the subtle gestures and glances that spoke volumes. It was astounding to me that he had taken a mistress.

I didn’t know why, but this news felt like something of a personal blow.

‘She needn’t worry,’ Milo said lightly. ‘These things never last.’

I felt a little pang of sadness at this careless comment. Milo would know about such things, of course. But the knowledge that an affair would be short-lived did not make it any easier for the wife in question. Georgina was a strong woman, and I knew it was not likely she would take her husband’s infidelity in stride. This could very well be the end of the Holloways’ marriage.

‘It may not last,’ I said quietly, ‘but the consequences of it surely will.’

I didn’t look at him, but I saw him glance my way out of the corner of his eye. He was aware, I knew, that I was thinking of the impact of past scandals upon our own marriage. We had surmounted our difficulties and the past was not something I liked to dwell on, but I could not help but feel exceedingly sorry for Georgina Holloway.

We let the subject drop as we reached the restaurant, but I was feeling much less carefree than I had been a few moments before.

I ought to have recognised the feeling then, but I didn’t. Couched as it was, in the guise of concern about my friend’s connubial disharmony, I am ashamed to say I hadn’t an inkling that my unsettled feeling meant we were on the precipice of another mystery.

CHAPTER TWO

The Holloways’ marriage trouble was still on my mind the next morning as I sat down to breakfast. I didn’t know why I couldn’t seem to forget the matter. They were not, after all, the first couple of our acquaintance whose marriage had gone by the wayside. I had always felt, however, that their relationship was different from most, stronger somehow. Surely it was a shame to throw something so valuable away?

The more I considered it, the more certain I was that Gerard Holloway still loved his wife and was making a terrible mistake. If only he could be made to realise it before it was too late. The trouble with men was that it was very difficult to make them see how stupid they were being.

Milo’s paper was folded by his plate, and, as he was still in bed, I picked it up, deciding to peruse the gossip columns over breakfast to see if there was any mention of Gerard Holloway and Flora Bell. It wasn’t just morbid curiosity on my part. I felt the stirrings of the desire to take action.

I was glad that Milo was not awake, for he would know what I was thinking about and tell me not to interfere.

I flipped through the pages until I found what I was looking for. Nestled between wedding announcements and a notice about a charity gala, there was one small item that was clearly related to the matter:

A certain earl’s son has continued to be seen in company with a certain actress. The lady in question seems to have captured his heart along with the lead in a new play. It remains to be seen whether her talents will translate to the stage.

I put the paper aside in disgust. Poor Georgina must be heartbroken. In that moment, I made up my mind. I was going to do what I could do to remedy the situation. At the very least, I could offer Georgina support and sympathy.

Now I just had to find a way to go about it. I could not very well show up at her door saying that I had heard about her husband’s affair. We weren’t on close enough terms for that. There had to be some other way for me to put myself into her company.

In the end, the means for doing so came from a most unexpected source. I glanced back at the paper, and my eyes fell on the notice for the charity gala. This time I noticed the names written there:

The charity gala held by the Honourable Mr and Mrs Gerard Holloway will commence following the opening-night performance of Mr Holloway’s new play, The Price of Victory, at the Penworth Theatre. The play, which features Miss Flora Bell and Mr Christopher Landon, is expected to be a great success.

The notice gave the date as the Saturday three days hence and said that all tickets to the gala had long ago been sold, but tickets to the play were still available for the following weeks. Apparently, the opening-night performance was exclusive to gala-goers, the proceeds going to a notable charity. This sort of elaborate philanthropic function was very much in the Holloways’ style, and they had had a great deal of success with it in the past.

I wondered why it was that Mr Holloway hadn’t mentioned the gala last night. Milo and I would have gladly contributed to the cause, even without tickets. Perhaps he had not wanted to mention the charity event, as it would only lead to conversation about Georgina. I imagined the whole thing must be very awkward for the Holloways, given the circumstances.

I glanced again at the odious bit of gossip beneath the gala notice. No doubt the snide remark about Mr Holloway had been purposefully placed there. I felt another twinge of sympathy for Georgina. She would see her charity event through to the end, but I could only imagine how embarrassing this was for her.

My mind began turning, wondering how I could possibly be of some help.

I picked up my cup and had just drained the last of my coffee when there was a knock at the door. I glanced at the clock. It was very early. I wasn’t sure who could be calling at this time of day.

A moment later, I heard the door open and the murmur of voices, and then my maid, Winnelda, hurried into the room.

‘Your mother’s here!’ she whispered, her eyes wide. Winnelda served as my lady’s maid, but she had never been properly trained for the position and was thus wont to make her emotions and opinions plain. Not that I blamed her in this instance. My mother could no doubt find a way to rattle the king himself. ‘She went right to the sitting room.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and speak with her.’

I didn’t know what my mother was doing here at this hour. What was more, I didn’t know what she was doing in London. She and my father spent the majority of their time in the country, and when they did come to town we did not spend much time together. It was not that there was any animosity between us, but they had always treated me as they treated each other: with polite reserve tempered by the occasional hint of vague affection. Over the years, we had fallen into a comfortably distant relationship that seemed to work well for all concerned.

I walked to the sitting room and found my mother standing before the mirror, checking her lipstick. With the reflection of my face beside hers, I had to admit that we looked a good bit alike. We had the same dark hair, the same grey eyes, and the same mouth. She caught sight of me in the glass then and turned to face me. She was dressed in a black suit accented with rows of pearls and an ermine stole.

‘Hello, Mother,’ I said.

‘Hello, dearest,’ she said, holding out her fur-draped arms. I obediently went to her, and she embraced me, brushing kisses across my cheeks. She smelt, as she always had, of vanilla and rosewater.

The formalities thus observed, she stepped back and ran her eyes over me. ‘It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. Capri, Como, and then Paris and not a single letter to your dear mother. You’re looking well, perhaps a bit too thin. And you’ve been in the sun. You’ll ruin your complexion that way.’

‘Can I offer you some breakfast?’ I asked.

‘Thank you, no. You know I take only tea in the morning. It’s much too early for eating.’

‘Yes, I was rather surprised you called so early.’

‘I’ve a busy day scheduled, and I wanted to see you first thing.’ She moved to a chair near the fireplace and took a seat.

I followed her lead and sat on the sofa. ‘How is Father?’

‘He’s much the same as always, I suppose,’ she said absently, shifting her fur on her shoulders. ‘But I haven’t come for pleasantries. I’ve come to enlist your aid.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lady Honoria is holding a charity event, and I told her that I would speak to you about taking part in it.’

‘What sort of charity event?’ I asked warily. I knew Lady Honoria and her lavish charity events, and I wondered what this one might entail.

‘It’s an auction. A great many items will be listed, and she wants society ladies to model the items to make them more attractive to buyers.’

Under different circumstances, it might have been the type of thing that I would have enjoyed. As it was, I felt certain that, with my mother involved, it would prove to be a taxing experience. I would certainly donate to benefit the cause, but I did not care to model items at the auction.

‘I don’t think I’ll have the time,’ I said. ‘I’m so busy as of late.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘It’s for a good cause. Surely it’s a much more worthwhile use of your time than your recent – and frankly vulgar – hobbies.’ She waved a hand, and I knew she was dismissing my distasteful forays into the world of detection.

‘All the same,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘Surely you don’t mean to disappoint Lady Honoria.’

Inwardly, I sighed. I could feel myself weakening. While I hated to give in to my mother, it was, after all, for a good cause. Besides, I could not hold it against Lady Honoria that my mother had commandeered her charity event.

‘When is it?’ I asked resignedly.

‘Saturday evening.’

I seized suddenly upon an idea as one in danger of drowning seizes upon a life preserver. ‘I’m afraid we’ve somewhere else to be on Saturday.’

‘Some nightclub, no doubt. Surely you can put that off. You will be in rather good company. Lady Margaret Allworth, Mrs Camden …’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m going to the Holloways’ charity gala,’ I interrupted. I had no idea, of course, if I could procure tickets, but my mother didn’t need to know that.

She looked up suddenly. ‘Gerard and Georgina Holloway?’

‘Yes, there is the premier performance of Mr Holloway’s new play and a party to follow,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it will be a very nice event.’

‘Hmm. I suppose,’ she said grudgingly. Though I was sure my mother would have liked nothing better than to disparage my plans when they conflicted with hers, the Holloway name held too much sway for her to do so.

‘Perhaps next time I may be of assistance to Lady Honoria,’ I offered.

‘I shall count on it.’ My mother’s objective effectively thwarted, she had no further use for me. She rose from her seat and I rose with her.

‘Where is your husband?’ she asked as she pulled on her gloves. ‘Still abed? Or has he run off again?’ There was no malice in the words. It was simply the delightful way she had of saying things that were probably better left unsaid.

‘Good morning, Mrs Ames,’ said Milo dryly from the doorway. My maiden name having been, by coincidence, the same as my married name, it was always a bit unnerving to hear my mother referred to as ‘Mrs Ames’ by my husband.

She turned to him, unabashed. ‘Oh, you are here. Well, what a nice surprise.’

‘I might say the same thing,’ he said, moving to her side and brushing a kiss across her cheek.

Her eyes swept over him. He had not yet dressed and was wearing a black dressing gown over his nightclothes.

‘You seem to be handsomer every time I see you.’ The way she said it left doubt as to whether it was a compliment, and her next words confirmed this impression. ‘Rather flies in the face of the idea that blameless living keeps one young.’

‘It’s love that keeps one young,’ he replied, unflustered. ‘So, with Amory at my side, I shall probably never age.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, her favourite means of expressing nonverbal disapproval.

I had always been somewhat amused by the relationship between Milo and my mother. I had been engaged to another man when I had met Milo, but my mother had not baulked at the idea of my marrying Milo instead. It was not that she was a romantic woman, not by any means. Indeed, I had never seen much more than an average regard between her and my father, and any of my adolescent infatuations with boys she deemed unsuitable had been met with stern reminders that I was to marry well. Frankly, I would have expected the potential scandal of a broken engagement to outweigh my long-term happiness on her scale of importance, but Milo had managed to charm her quite easily, his good looks and winning manner supplemented by extensive wealth and excellent connections.

He might have gone on charming her, despite his numerous transgressions, had he been a bit more discreet. But indiscretion was the one thing my mother could not abide, and I suspected it would take many years of very good behaviour before she would be willing to accept that his reformation was legitimate.

Milo, for his part, had given up trying to impress her long ago. He was not one to waste effort when it didn’t benefit him, and, now that he had won me, there was very little reason for him to care whether my mother liked him or not.

It all made things very interesting for me when they were in a room together.

My mother turned back to me. ‘I’ll come to see you again before I leave town if I find the time.’

‘Very well, Mother.’

‘I’ll show myself out. So nice to have seen you, dear,’ she said as she walked towards the door.

‘And you. Send my regards to Father.’

She went out without further comment and, hearing the front door close behind her, I sat down on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

‘Well. She remains as charming as ever,’ Milo observed.

I smiled wryly. ‘You might have stayed in the bedroom and avoided her.’

‘I heard her voice and thought I should rally to your defence,’ he replied. ‘What did she want?’

‘She wants me to take part in a charity event.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve accepted?’

‘No, I said I was too busy.’ I debated confessing my developing plans to Milo. It was sometimes better to let him know when everything was accomplished than to try to win his approval ahead of time.

‘Well, thank heavens for that,’ he said. ‘One thing I can say for your mother: there’s nothing like a visit from her to clear one’s head early in the morning.’

‘She’s had the opposite effect on me,’ I said, rubbing my temple. ‘I’ve now got a roaring headache.’

‘I think some coffee would serve us both well.’ He turned his head ever so slightly towards the door. ‘Winnelda.’

She came instantly into the room. No doubt she had been hovering just outside, probably trying to be certain that my mother had gone.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Bring us some coffee, will you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

She went out again, and Milo came to sit across from me.

‘What are your plans today?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got to see Ludlow about a few business matters. I’ll probably eat lunch out. And old Felix Hill is selling a horse I might want to have a look at. Do you have anything scheduled today?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ I said absently. His plans would give me plenty of time to implement my own.

Winnelda brought in a tray with the coffee things, and I poured a cup for Milo.

‘You’re not forgetting drinks with Gerard Holloway?’ I asked, stirring milk and sugar into the coffee.

‘No,’ he said, taking the cup. ‘I suppose I’ll go round to his club this afternoon and see him.’

‘He seemed very eager to speak with you,’ I said. ‘What do you suppose he wants to talk to you about?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ he said, bringing his cup to his lips. ‘Perhaps he’s looking for investors in his play or some such thing, though he ought to know that I have no interest in the theatre.’

‘I wonder if you might have the opportunity to talk to him about his marriage,’ I said casually.

Milo looked up from his coffee. ‘Amory …’ He somehow managed to convey both wariness and a warning in the simple utterance of my name, and I knew that I had been correct in my assumption that he would not endorse my plan to help the Holloways mend their broken relationship.

‘Oh, I don’t mean anything invasive, of course, but you might find a way to remind him what a lovely woman Georgina is.’

‘No, Amory.’

‘You know how happy they have always been together,’ I said. ‘It seems a shame that he should throw it all away for an actress.’

‘That may well be, darling, but it’s really none of our concern, and I have no intention of expressing any opinions on the matter.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll broach the subject,’ I said. ‘Gentlemen like to brag about their conquests.’

‘Do they?’ he replied.

‘Don’t they?’ I challenged.

‘I’m afraid I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘It has been far too long since I made any conquests.’

‘Hmm,’ I said sceptically.

He set his cup down in the saucer. ‘I hesitate to point this out, darling, but you’re starting to sound like your mother.’

He was quite lucky he escaped the sitting room unscathed.

CHAPTER THREE

As soon as Milo had gone, I rang up Georgina Holloway. I telephoned on the pretext of discussing the charity gala, but I also wondered if she might need someone to talk to. Georgina Holloway had a great many friends, but I knew many of the women in our circle would enjoy nothing more than feigning sympathy only to relate all the sordid details to others when the opportunity arose. If Georgina needed a confidante who could keep secrets, I was more than happy to oblige.

‘It’s good to hear from you, Amory. It’s been a long time.’

She sounded glad enough to speak with me, though it is difficult to read a person’s feelings on the telephone. Emotions, it seemed, did not travel well across the wires.

‘I’m afraid I have rather an ulterior motive for phoning you,’ I said. ‘I’ve just seen the notice about your charity gala, and I was wondering if, perchance, you still have any tickets available.’

It seemed she hesitated ever so slightly. ‘Well, yes, I believe we do, in fact. The Langstons purchased a box but got called away to Brussels. You could have their box, if you like.’

‘That would be perfect,’ I said. ‘Where may I collect the tickets?’

Again, there was a hesitation before she spoke, almost as though she was trying to decide something. ‘Why don’t you come for tea on Friday?’ she said at last. ‘We could chat a bit, and I could give you the tickets then.’

‘That would be lovely.’ I knew she had a very busy social schedule, and I thought she must indeed be in need of a sympathetic ear if she had invited me at such short notice, especially the afternoon before the gala.

We rang off then, and a feeling of satisfaction stole over me. My plans were falling into place.

Milo did not come home before dinner, nor did he telephone. It seemed he and Gerard Holloway must be getting on famously.

I had learnt over the years that it was never any good waiting around for him, so I went out for dinner alone, returning home to find our flat still empty.

I had given Winnelda the night off and Milo’s valet Parks was away for the week visiting family after our extended travels, so I had only Emile, our pet monkey, for company.

Milo had acquired the mischievous little thing in some sort of reckless wager while we were in Paris, and we had been unable to bring ourselves to part with him.

We hoped, at some point, to send him to Thornecrest, our country home, to live a life of ease, but for now he lived with us at the flat, where he spent the better part of every day following Winnelda from room to room and tipping things over. Thus far we had lost two vases, a clock face, and a porcelain bird.

Tonight, however, he seemed to be content to sit with me as I read. I fed him bits of fruit, which he nibbled quietly as I flipped the pages, and he further occupied himself by cracking open some nuts which I purchased for just such a purpose.

‘At least I know I shall always have you to keep me company when your papa neglects to come home,’ I told him in French. Though I felt ridiculous explaining it to people, Emile did not speak English. At least not yet. Winnelda was making strides in teaching him our native tongue, a task she had devoted herself to with great zeal.

He tittered something at me, which I felt sure was a concurrence, and then we went back to our mutual pursuits until ten o’clock. This was Emile’s bedtime, and he went readily to his cage to sleep.

I decided to retire for the evening as well and had just reached the door to our bedroom when I heard Milo’s key in the lock.

I stopped, hand on the door frame, and waited for him to come in.

‘Did it ever occur to you that you might ring me up if you don’t plan on coming home at the appointed time?’ I asked when he entered.

‘I didn’t know there was an appointed time,’ he said lightly. ‘Anyway, you won’t be cross when you hear what Holloway wanted to talk to me about.’

It was very typical of him to dismiss my concerns out of hand, but I pressed onward. ‘I should still like to know if you don’t plan on coming home for dinner. For all I know, you might very well be dead in the street.’

‘Oh, hardly in the street, darling. When my end comes, it’s much more likely to be in a gambling club or at the racetrack.’

I could tell that he did not mean to take my objections seriously, so I let the matter drop for the time being. We had come a long way in our marriage, but that didn’t mean that we had quite reached the goal. One step at a time.

I turned and went into the bedroom without comment. He followed me, loosening his necktie. ‘Did you have a nice day, darling?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said as I took off my silk robe, tossing it across the back of a chair, and moved to the bed. ‘It was very pleasant. Emile is excellent company.’

‘Well, you’re fortunate,’ he said, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘That’s more than might be said of Gerard Holloway. He was in a morose mood, and, in consequence, the night was less than amusing.’

I knew from long experience that Milo liked to pretend as though nights spent drinking and gambling were a great inconvenience, and I had no pity for him.

I pulled back the bedding and slid beneath it, leaning back against the pillows that lined the tufted black velvet headboard. ‘Did you spend the entire evening with Gerard Holloway?’

‘Yes, we had drinks at the club this afternoon and then went to dinner. It took Holloway a great deal of beating about the bush and an even greater deal of brandy before he was ready to tell me why he really wanted to see me. It’s rather a delicate matter.’

‘What sort of delicate matter?’

‘I think you can guess.’

I looked up at him, an alarming thought occurring to me. ‘Don’t tell me he means to do something drastic? He’s not going to abandon Georgina?’

‘Oh, as far as that goes, I wouldn’t think so. We didn’t talk much about Georgina. It had to do with Flora Bell.’

I suddenly wasn’t sure that I cared for Milo keeping company with Gerard Holloway. As much as I had always liked the man in the past, I couldn’t help but feel that he was treating his lovely wife very shabbily.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said absently, suddenly focused on smoothing out the wrinkles in the bedspread. I was beginning to lose interest in whatever plight might be befalling Milo’s wayward friend. Truth be told, the scandal of infidelity was a sore topic with me, and I was not sure I wanted to know the details.

Milo took no notice of my sudden lack of enthusiasm for the topic and went on talking as he undressed.

‘Holloway’s concerned. Apparently, someone has been writing rather nasty letters to Flora Bell.’

I looked up. ‘What sort of letters?’

‘Threats.’

‘Threats to harm her?’

‘It seems so. He showed me one of them. It was vague, but clear enough. “Your time is coming. You’ll be sorry.” That sort of thing.’

‘Sorry for what?’ Despite myself, I was growing interested.

‘That’s just it. The letters don’t say. If they did, I expect it would be easier to narrow down the sender.’

‘And Miss Bell doesn’t know to what they refer?’

‘If she does, she hasn’t told Holloway about it. I find it a bit difficult to believe she doesn’t have at least an inkling of who might want to do her harm. Then again, she may have made several enemies on her road to success.’

‘Gerard Holloway has no idea who might be sending them?’

‘Apparently not. I put it to him, delicately, of course, that it was possible his wife had decided to try to get Flora Bell out of the way.’

‘Georgina wouldn’t do something like that,’ I said immediately.

‘That’s what Holloway said,’ Milo replied. ‘He defended her staunchly, in fact.’

‘How gallant of him,’ I said, unable to keep the acidic edge from my tone.

Milo glanced at me, but didn’t respond to my comment. ‘I know Georgina Holloway is a fine woman, but I maintain that one never knows what a desperate person is capable of.’

‘Oh, I agree that desperation can lead to questionable decisions,’ I said. ‘Even uncharacteristic actions. But I don’t think anonymous letters are the way in which Georgina would act. If she wanted to chase the girl off, there are other ways to do it.’

‘Perhaps,’ he conceded.

‘How many letters have there been?’

‘Three so far. The first one came the week they began rehearsals, but Miss Bell apparently kept it to herself. Holloway was with her when she received the second letter and was forced to confide in him. The third came only a few days ago. It’s been weighing on his mind, and he said when he saw us in the street he remembered we had had some experience solving mysteries as of late and decided to take me into his confidence.’

‘Surely there are potential suspects?’ I asked.

‘There are, in fact. Miss Bell has a brother who’s something of a disreputable chap. He’s always coming to her for money, gambling it away, that sort of thing. They recently quarrelled when she refused to indulge him any further.’

‘I don’t see how an anonymous threat would change her mind on that score.’

Milo shrugged. ‘Maybe she knows he’s behind the letters but hasn’t told Holloway.’

I considered this. ‘Yes, that’s possible. Perhaps she doesn’t want him to know that her brother would threaten her. Maybe that’s why she was reluctant to tell him about the letters to begin with.’

‘There has also been some trouble on the set of the play, I understand. There have been difficulties with Flora Bell’s understudy, and some of the actors have been known to be temperamental.’

‘A full cast of possible culprits,’ I said, beginning to turn the matter over in my mind.

‘So it seems. Holloway’s worried sick about it, though he tried at first to seem offhanded about his concern. Despite his love for the theatre, the fellow’s not much of an actor.’

‘It would be interesting to talk to Flora Bell, to see how she truly feels about the letters,’ I said. ‘I mean, if they are really puzzling her or if she seems to know from whom they might be coming.’

‘Well, you’re going to have your chance,’ Milo said. ‘Holloway said he would like us to come to the theatre and see the dress rehearsal tomorrow night. He said he would introduce us to some of the actors. I believe that, after some of our recent experiences, he feels we may be able to offer some insight into the situation.’

I realised suddenly what Milo was telling me. We had once again been called upon to assist in a mystery. I felt that familiar sensation of excitement that came with the prospect of another puzzle before us.

He went into the bathroom to wash and dress for bed, and I sat thinking of ways we might discover the identity of the mysterious letter writer. It seemed the best place to start would be to determine how the letters had arrived.

‘Have they been posted to her?’ I called, when he had turned off the water.

‘No,’ he said, coming out of the bathroom. ‘They were slipped under her dressing room door at the theatre.’

‘That seems to narrow it down,’ I said.

‘Yes, somewhat. Of course, people are always coming and going. There are the stagehands and those working on building the set. It would be fairly easy for any of them to have done it. Or even for a stranger to have slipped in unnoticed.’

‘It seems to rule out Georgina,’ I said. ‘I don’t imagine she would care to be anywhere near Gerard Holloway and Flora Bell.’

‘Unless she came to the theatre or paid someone else to deliver the letters.’

He did have a point.

I pondered this information. Was it possible that the letter writer was serious? Could Flora Bell really be in danger?

‘I see from the gleam in your eyes at the potential mystery I’ve laid at your feet that I am forgiven my late evening,’ Milo said, walking to the bed.

‘I’m surprised you’ve told me about it,’ I said. ‘Normally, you’d try to keep me from finding out.’

He leant to drop a kiss on my lips. ‘You’d only find out anyway.’

I couldn’t help but smile. He was right about that.

‘Besides,’ he said, going around to his side of the bed and sliding in beside me, ‘this seems a minor matter. After all, if someone meant to do Flora Bell harm, I doubt they would warn her about it beforehand. I don’t suppose there will be much danger involved.’

Milo’s reasoning made sense, and I couldn’t help but agree with him. Unfortunately, we were very wrong.

CHAPTER FOUR

I found myself very much looking forward to the dress rehearsal. For one thing, it was going to be interesting to be the first audience to see the play. Gerard Holloway might be perceived as only a dabbler by the serious theatre set, but I knew he was the type of man who threw himself into ventures wholeheartedly and I expected the play would be very well done.

Of course, more than that, I was anxious to meet Flora Bell and to learn more about the mysterious letters she had been receiving. Now that mystery was in my blood, I was finding it harder and harder to resist its pull. It was a rather unsettling addiction.

Milo glanced at me as Markham, our driver, drove us towards the theatre.

‘I hope you won’t be disappointed if there’s no sinister undertone to the evening. It may be nothing more than a harmless prank.’

‘Of course I won’t be disappointed if nothing’s wrong,’ I said. ‘I may heartily disapprove of Flora Bell – and Gerard Holloway – but that doesn’t mean I wish her ill.’

‘I don’t think it’s serious between them. It’s an infatuation on Holloway’s part, nothing more,’ Milo said, as though that made everything all right. I felt that little twinge of sadness, but I pushed it away. This was not a discussion I wished to have in front of Markham.

‘I’m also interested to see the play,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know Mr Holloway was a writer.’

‘Yes, well, you know he likes to throw himself into all sorts of projects. I believe he tried his hand at acting and wasn’t much of a success. I suppose playwriting and directing appeal to him more.’

The Penworth Theatre was a lovely old building that had seen better days. The paint was faded and the red velvet seats were worn, but there was an air of quiet dignity about the place, as though it knew its own worth and was unashamed of its somewhat shabby appearance. In fact, I suspected that was exactly the reason Gerard Holloway had not had the building renovated.

We had walked in through the open front doors and into the auditorium without seeing anyone, but a moment later Gerard Holloway came out onto the stage and spotted us.

‘Oh, good. You’re here,’ he said in what seemed to be an artificially jovial tone as he came down the little flight of steps off to one side of the stage.

‘Thank you for having us, Mr Holloway,’ I said when he reached us.

He smiled, a bit tightly, I thought, and I wondered suddenly if the invitation had been extended more to Milo than to the pair of us. ‘I do hope you like the play. We’ve worked very hard on it.’

‘Gerry! Gerry, where are you?’ The voice came from somewhere backstage, rising as the speaker came nearer. ‘Gerry?’

‘Yes, Flora, I’m here,’ Mr Holloway called. His voice sounded slightly strained, and his posture seemed tense, as though he was bracing himself for something unpleasant.

There were footsteps on the stage. Then she stepped into the light, and I got my first glimpse of Miss Flora Bell.

She was beautiful, I would admit that much. A halo of golden curls surrounded a cherubic face that managed to convey both sweetness and sensuality. With her wide blue eyes and pink cheeks and full lips, she would not have been out of place in a Botticelli painting.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said when she saw us. She came across the stage and down the steps, in graceful, measured movements. She wore a pale blue satin gown in the high-waisted Regency style, which clung to her figure and swirled about her feet as she moved towards us. She was certainly aware of how to make an entrance.

I glanced at Milo to see what sort of impression she might be making on him, but, though he was watching her as I was, it was impossible to tell anything from his features. It was always difficult to tell what went on behind those blue eyes of his, but, in this instance, I could guess. No doubt he thought her stunning.

She came to Gerard Holloway and clasped his arm, pressing against his side. ‘These are your friends, I assume? Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said stiffly. He didn’t seem at all comfortable to have her on his arm. I assumed it was because I, a close friend of Georgina’s, was present. If he felt uneasy, I could only think that he deserved it.

‘Mr and Mrs Ames, allow me to introduce Miss Flora Bell. Flora, these are my old friends Milo and Amory Ames.’

She smiled up at us. More specifically, she smiled at Milo. I had not been able to tell what he thought of her, but it was very apparent what she thought of him. Her blue eyes glittered with interest as they scanned his face. Not that I could blame her for that; his dark good looks and vivid blue eyes had the same effect on most women.

‘How do you do?’ she said. To her credit, she pulled her eyes from Milo and gave me a smile as well. ‘It’s so nice to meet some friends of Gerry’s. We’ve been rehearsing so often, I feel as though I’m beginning to lose touch with the real world.’

Though I didn’t want to admit it, I could see why men might find her difficult to resist. She had a charm that was not typical, an airy warmth that apparently encompassed everyone with whom she came in contact. That didn’t excuse Gerard Holloway’s behaviour, of course, but it made it a bit easier to understand.

‘Speaking of the rehearsal, we’d better get the show started,’ Gerard Holloway said, disentangling her from his arm in a movement that was not entirely subtle.

She looked at us with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Always the show. Well, I do hope you enjoy it, Mr and Mrs Ames. Perhaps we can speak again afterwards. Or go to dinner? Gerry, might we all go to dinner?’

‘We’ll discuss it later,’ Gerard Holloway said. There was the faintest tinge of impatience in his tone now, and even Flora Bell seemed to realise that she shouldn’t press the topic further.

With one last smile in our direction, she turned and walked back up the stairs onto the stage and disappeared from sight.

‘Sit anywhere you like,’ Mr Holloway said quickly, as though he was avoiding having to say anything about Miss Bell.

‘Thank you,’ I said, equally glad to avoid the topic. ‘I’m very much looking forward to seeing the play.’

He smiled at me, a bit of relief evident on his features. Milo was right; Gerard Holloway was no actor. It was painfully obvious that he was embarrassed about his liaison with Flora Bell and was trying to keep from making it evident. Well, he had no one to blame but himself.

He left us, and Milo and I moved to seats in the centre of the theatre, a few rows from the front. It seemed like it would give us the best view of the stage.

It was a new experience for me, to have an entire theatre to myself. It was going to be an interesting way to watch the performance.

I was especially intrigued now that I had been introduced to Flora Bell. I wondered if that pleasant energy she had presented would translate well to the stage.

‘What did you think of Miss Bell?’ I asked Milo in a low voice as we settled into our seats.

‘She’s a pretty girl, if you like that sort of thing,’ he replied without any particular enthusiasm.

‘Blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties, you mean?’ I said dryly. ‘You don’t like that sort of thing, I suppose.’ He could not convince me for a moment that he had not been impressed by her. Even I had had a favourable impression, despite my determination to dislike her.

He slid his arm across the back of my seat and leant close, his breath whispering down my neck. ‘You know perfectly well what I like.’

The lights dimmed just then, and I turned my attention to the stage, though I was suddenly very aware of the warmth of Milo beside me.

The red velvet curtains parted, revealing an elaborately decorated drawing room. Though the theatre was not new, Gerard Holloway had clearly spared no expense on the sets.

Flora Bell stood alone on the stage, her blue evening gown gleaming in the footlights.

‘“There’s a ball tonight, but there is no celebration in my heart,”’ she said.

The play was set during the Napoleonic Wars. Flora Bell played Victoire, a young woman whose lover must choose between his love for her and his loyalty to France.

I was not exactly sure what I had been expecting of Flora Bell. Perhaps, given the circumstances of her sudden rise to fame, I had thought that she would be nothing more than a beautiful girl who had been in the right place at the right time. It was a surprise to me, then, to discover that she was a superb actress.

When she first walked out onto the stage, I could think of nothing but her relationship with Mr Holloway and the mysterious letters. Only a few moments into the performance, however, I ceased to remember that she was anyone other than the character she was portraying. Every word, every expression, every subtle gesture, served to convey the essence of Victoire, a woman who struggles to deal with her personal heartache as well as the defeat of her nation’s armies.

There was something mesmerising about Flora Bell when she was onstage. It wasn’t just the bright lights shining on her fair skin and golden hair, nor was it the warm, clear tone of her voice that carried her words out across the auditorium. It was some unnameable quality, a talent that surpassed mere words or gestures.

‘She’s wonderful,’ I leant to whisper to Milo.

He nodded.

Though Flora Bell’s character was the undisputed focus of the play, she was not the only one who gave a noteworthy performance. The lover, Armand, an officer in Napoleon’s army, was played by Christopher Landon. Mr Landon was very handsome and there was an easiness to his performance, as though he was so comfortable with his dashing and heroic character that it was no great effort to portray him.

The best of the supporting actors was Balthazar Lebeau, who played Durant, a wicked nobleman also vying for Victoire’s hand. I remembered Mr Lebeau’s name from when I was a girl, as he had once been a matinee idol and acclaimed Shakespearean actor. I hadn’t heard much of him in the past several years, but I could see why he had enthralled audiences.

His deep, rich tones were mesmerising, his every move calculated to enhance his speech. Whether it was due to natural talent or years of experience, he was clearly a master of his craft, and I found myself wishing that he had more time on the stage.

The play, though framed in the somewhat melodramatic context of a young woman’s tragic war time romance, served to illustrate the struggle between love and loyalty, the need for self-preservation, and the desire to follow one’s heart no matter what the odds. In the end, Victoire found that happiness is an ending we are often denied. Armand killed in battle, her prospects vanishing before her as her country faces defeat, she was forced to consider the unthinkable: that she must ally herself with Durant.

As the play drew to a close, she stood alone on the stage. Instead of the blue dress, she now wore one of scarlet that emphasised her pale skin and flaxen curls. Stepping forward, she was bathed in light, Victoire’s mingled grief and strength, the agony of conflict, etched into every line of her beautiful face.

‘“Life holds light and darkness, and sometimes one must step into the shadows to see which will prevail.”’

The curtain fell, and I blinked, suddenly remembering where we were. So entranced had I been by the story and the actors’ power to tell it that I felt vaguely as though I had just awoken abruptly from a dream. I was struck by the fact that Victoire had not made her choice. It was left to the viewer to decide what she would do, an interesting concept.

‘What do you think?’ Milo leant in to ask me.

‘She’s brilliant,’ I said, my eyes still on the stage.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It certainly wasn’t what I expected.’

It was not what I had expected either, and I found that Miss Bell’s talent was somehow more disturbing to me than if she had been a mediocre actress.

The curtain rose, but the actors did not come to take their bows. Instead, Mr Holloway stepped out on the stage. I had almost forgotten that we were at a dress rehearsal and not an actual performance.

‘Well, what did you think?’ he asked. Something in the way he asked it made me think our answers were important to him.

‘It was excellent,’ I said sincerely. As much as I had wanted to dislike Flora Bell and the play out of loyalty to Georgina, I couldn’t deny that it was good and that Miss Bell’s performance had been something special. ‘I think you’re going to have a great success.’

He smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear you say so. There are always a few things that seem to go wrong at a dress rehearsal, but I thought tonight went well. Come backstage, will you? I’ll introduce you to the others.’

We rose from our seats and went down the aisle to the front of the theatre, where we took the steps up onto the stage. From there we followed him backstage and through a tangle of twisted ropes, props, and stagehands, until we found ourselves in a long, dim corridor. There were several doors along the walls, and I saw that all of them were unmarked, except for one that had a star on it and the name ‘Flora Bell’ written in dark letters.

‘Most of the actors have gone to change,’ Mr Holloway said. ‘The uniforms are uncomfortable. But they should be out fairly soon.’

As if on cue, the door nearest us opened and Christopher Landon, the male lead in the play, came out into the corridor. He was tall and handsome, with dark blonde hair and an appealingly angular face. Dark eyes came up and saw us standing there, and it seemed as though impatience flickered across his expression before he suppressed it.