Murder at the Mikado (23 page)

“No, sir,” Grady said.

“Excellent.” Drew handed the note back to Nick. “You have your notebook, don’t you, old man? Mind seeing to that?”

“Not at all.” Nick settled himself at the corner of the table and started writing.

“You didn’t happen on anything else, did you, Grady? Sworn confessions or anything? Photographic evidence?”

“No. Just the thimble and the pins. Miss Tess, she was kind enough to let me call her that, she kept this wardrobe room neat as you please. But there’s always something goes astray here and there, especially, you know, after . . .”

Drew gave him a grave nod. “Why do you suppose the police didn’t find it? They searched the room, you said?”

“They did, sir.”

“Might I have a quick look about the room?”

“If you like.” The stageman opened the bottom drawer in a well-used sewing table in the corner. “It was this one.”

Drew examined the drawer. The table itself wasn’t very well made. The drawers were no more than wooden boxes that fit into cubbyholes. There was still a bit of adhesive tape stuck to the back of the one he was looking at.

“I suppose they missed it,” Grady said. “It wasn’t much of anything, mind you. After I swept up those things and was putting them away, I felt a little bit of a scrape or something when I tried to close the drawer. Didn’t feel anything out of place in the drawer itself, so I figured it must have been behind it or under it. And there it was. I could see how it might be missed by a constable in a hurry, especially as the . . . uh, means of death was readily seen.”

Drew nodded, then turned to Nick. “Got it all down, old man?”

“Just done.” Nick handed the note back to the stageman. “There you are.”

“Remember, no need to mention our little visit when you ring the police,” Drew said. “Not if it doesn’t come naturally into the conversation.”

Grady winked. “Right you are, sir.”

Drew paused. “One last thing, Grady.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What sort of actor is Mr. Benton? I mean, what’s he especially good at?”

Grady frowned a bit. “I dunno, sir. He’s a fine singer. Far as I’ve heard, he always knows his lines and his cues and the bits of business he’s got.”

“Did you ever see him do any character roles? You know, silly walks, funny voices, impersonations?”

“No, sir. Mostly juvenile lead roles, though now he’s taken on Mr. Ravenswood’s parts of course. He does like to devil Miss Cullimore with imitating her when they argue. It would make Mr. Ravenswood laugh till he cried, and I wasn’t sure if it was due to the imitation or just because it riled her so.”

“Did her well, did he?”

“Oh, spot on, sir. Tone of voice, walk, everything. I think that’s mostly what riled her.”

Drew chuckled. “Very likely so. Well, thanks awfully for all the help.”

“Sorry it didn’t amount to much, sir, but if there’s anything else I come across, I’ll make sure you hear about it straight off.”

“We’ll be much obliged.”

Drew tossed the man a half crown, and then he and Nick went on their way.

Madeline stood staring into the wardrobe in the room she and her aunt had been sharing. Drew’s mother’s old room, stylish and expensive and still very much belonging to Constance Farthering, despite its living occupants.

It was odd, since Madeline had come here planning to spend only a few days, how her things managed to end up
everywhere. Of course, since her stay had stretched longer and longer, she had bought several outfits, not to mention shoes and hats and underthings and all the rest. And she did tend to amass books. Even with the large library downstairs and the smaller one on this floor and even the rather substantial one in Drew’s study, she had managed to collect quite a few books of her own.

She sighed. Perhaps she should leave them here. Or perhaps she could hand them out in the village. Surely some of Drew’s neighbors who couldn’t afford much in the way of reading material would enjoy them. Perhaps the church could take them and use them to raise money in their next rummage sale. No, what did they call it? A jumble sale. Yes, that might be best.

She began ferreting out the books she had stashed all over the room. The ones on lace making, she would keep. There were only two or three of those, and they would fit easily in her luggage. The others, mostly mysteries, she would leave behind. She felt a familiar tightness in her throat as she gathered them up. Agatha Christie’s
Peril at End House
. Maybe she’d hold on to that one. A memento. She remembered vexing Drew by snatching that one out of his mail and reading it before he had a chance to. But he’d really been very sweet about it and let her keep it.

She put a few more books into the pile she planned on leaving behind, and then she found another one that made her pause.
Have His Carcase
by Dorothy L. Sayers. Drew had brought her that one the day Aunt Ruth had come to stay. He had told her later that he meant to keep that one to himself and not even let her have a peep at it until he had read it through. But, seeing how miserable she was with
Aunt Ruth so insistent she return to Chicago right away and accusing Drew of all kinds of misconduct, he had given her the book then and there. She wasn’t sure if he’d ever gotten a chance to read it.

Perhaps she ought to give it to him now. No, he could get another copy. Perhaps she’d even buy one and send it to him or give it to him before she left. But this one was special. She didn’t want to leave it behind.

The telephone rang downstairs, and she couldn’t help wondering if it was Fleur again. With a little hissing breath, she put the Sayers book with the Christie one into the pile with the rest. She wouldn’t keep them. Best to leave everything behind. He was very sweet and so much fun to be with, but that was precious little on which to build a marriage. She was twenty-two. Still a child, if her aunt was to be believed. What business did she have making so serious a decision as marriage when anything could happen?

Drew was twenty-four, only two years older than she. Certainly he hadn’t been as sheltered from the world as she had, but did he truly know what he wanted? What he wanted for all the rest of his life? What if one day he changed his mind? What if one day he ran into another Fleur? What if? What if? What if?

She’d ask Anna to find a box for the books and then send them all to the church. At least there would be some good come of them. These old churches always seemed to need something done to them to keep them from falling over. Little wonder they were forever having these jumble sales. Well, this would help and be no loss to her.

She touched her fingers to the paper cover of the Sayers book, thinking back. Remembering the bookstore in the vil
lage where he had bought it, remembering things that had happened afterward.
“
I’d marry you right here, this minute and in
my bathrobe if I had to,”
she’d told him then when, by God’s mercy, he had come back to her after she thought him dead. She remembered him then, warm and alive in her arms when she had feared he would never be again, and she’d promised to marry him. Silly, emotional, childish thing to do—to promise to marry a man just because he wasn’t dead.

Still, people failed. They left. They died. How could she promise tomorrow when nothing was certain?

She tossed the book on the stack with the others and turned her back on it. It was done. It was all done.

She turned back to the wardrobe, staring at it for a long moment before, with equal parts care and reluctance, pulling out the long white box that was on the top shelf. She laid it on the bed and in a swift motion removed the lid. It was her mother’s wedding veil. It was to have been her own.

She stroked the frothy bundle. It was nearly eight yards of handmade Irish lace, delicate and airy, carefully put away for her all these years, waiting for her own special day. It would just have to wait longer.

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought. How much longer? She had never met anyone like Drew. There
was
no one like him. Not for her. Would she end up just like Miss Winston? Like Aunt Ruth?

A tear slipped down her cheek and fell onto the veil. She gathered the lace into her arms, holding it against her, cradling it as if it were her groom, her lover, her—

She spun around at the knock on the half-open door.

“Drew . . .”

D
rew gave Madeline the tiniest hint of a smile. “Hello. Are you terribly busy just now?”

She stuffed the veil into the box, not wanting him to see it.
No, I suppose that doesn’t matter now.
There is no tradition about the ex-groom seeing his
ex-bride’s wedding finery.
Still, she put the lid on the box and swiftly wiped her eyes before she turned to him again.

“No, not busy.” She managed a faint smile, too. “Just packing up a few things. Did you want something?”

“No. Uh, yes, in point of fact.” His expression turned apologetic. “With . . . well, with everything that’s happened between us, I’m having a deuced time thinking straight. I thought perhaps you might help me go over the case once more, just to see if there’s anything I’ve missed. I’d say you’re a sight more clearheaded than I am just now.”

“I am?” Her laugh was miserably thin. “I’m not exactly ready to swear to that in court.”

“I, for one, have been
quite
ready to swear,” he said, and
there was a glimmer of humor in his expression. “But I try to suppress it. Wouldn’t be at all gentlemanly, now, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t. And it wouldn’t be like you at all.”

“But then again, as you say, perhaps we don’t know each other as well as we think.”

She looked down. “No, I’m sure of that much. I think Fleur was right. Death before dishonor, utterly devoted, isn’t that what she said?” She looked up at him again. “Quietly and deeply passionate.”

There was more than a touch of rue in his soft laugh. “Perhaps she should have added ‘practical enough to know when his attentions are no longer welcome.’ ”

Tears stung behind her eyes, but she refused to let them out. She smiled instead. “Yes, we ought to be practical now. Just because we aren’t getting married, that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Quite right. And infinitely practical. That’s why I thought you wouldn’t mind helping me with the case. If you’d still like to.”

“I told you I would.” Still she forced that smile. “Now, what did you want to discuss?”

“The chief inspector just rang up. He wanted me to know what he found out about that syringe in Mrs. Landis’s sitting room.”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid it was one of Miss Winston’s.”

Madeline felt faintly ill. “Oh, Drew, no. I didn’t want it to be her. I really didn’t.”

“I know. I rather like her myself and can’t imagine she could be behind any of this, but we have to remember that just because it was hers, that doesn’t mean someone in the
house couldn’t have taken it from the medical kit she keeps.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m wondering if maybe we aren’t looking at this all the wrong way round.”

“What do you mean?”

He glanced around the room. “Perhaps it would be best if we adjourned to more neutral ground. The library? I still like to consider myself a gentleman, and this is a lady’s boudoir after all.”

She took the arm he offered, and in another moment they were settled on the sofa before the library fire. It was a lovely room, filled with books and things of grace and beauty. She loved this room. She loved this house. She loved—

“Now,” Drew said, “back to what I was saying. What if we have been looking at this the wrong way round? Suppose the problem isn’t that Landis didn’t notice Mrs. Landis going out the nights Ravenswood and Tess were murdered.”

Madeline nodded rapidly. “Yes, I’ve had a nagging thought about that. Suppose it was her being too drugged to notice
him
going out that’s the problem.”

Drew took a deep breath. “I haven’t wanted to think it of him. I haven’t at all, but suppose that it’s true. If she was asleep, if she was drugged, she’d never know whether or not he was there.”

“But whoever it was Mr. Benton saw running away the night Mr. Ravenswood was killed, he said it couldn’t have been a man. Mr. Landis is definitely not slight enough to be mistaken for Fleur or any other woman. And he wasn’t home when those chocolates were delivered, so even if he took the syringe, he couldn’t have put the poison in them.”

“Right,” Drew said. “But, again, maybe we’re thinking of things the wrong way round. Suppose it’s not a man
or
a woman.”

Madeline wrinkled her forehead.

“No,” Drew said. “Suppose it’s a man
and
a woman.”

Her eyes were wary. “All right.”

“Now tell me again, Madeline. When we were all in Zuraw’s office and you heard that clatter in the storeroom, what exactly did you see?”

“Not much at all, as I told you. Really just someone in a black cloak running across the hall to the alley exit.”

“Right. And you’re absolutely certain you couldn’t say if it was a man or a woman.”

“That’s right.”

Drew frowned, thinking. “And Benton claims he saw Mrs. Landis, or at least someone in her cloak, running away after the Ravenswood murder, but nobody else saw anything.”

“You don’t suppose he killed Ravenswood, after all?”

“No, he was with Grady from the time they both left Ravenswood alive in his dressing room until they broke down the door and found him dead. But suppose he’s so adamant about it being Mrs. Landis because he wants to deflect suspicion from the real killer.”

“That’s certainly possible.”

“Here’s the other thing. The chief inspector told me the coroner believes Zuraw was dead by at least seven the day he was killed. I got that phone call about nine. You remember Grady, right?”

She nodded.

“He told me Benton has been known to imitate Simone and that he does it quite well. What if she weren’t the only one?”

“Oh, Drew, you don’t think—”

“We spoke to Zuraw only that once and only for a few minutes. An older man with a faint accent? I never thought it
might not be him, but I can’t swear now that it was. Benton’s an actor. He played the part of the bereaved lover well enough. Why couldn’t he play the part of Lew Zuraw, as well?”

“But who would he have been diverting suspicion from?” Madeline asked. “If he didn’t kill Ravenswood . . .”

“His lover.”

Madeline raised her eyebrows. “Do you think Tess killed Ravenswood?”

“No, not Tess.” He fished in his pocket and brought out the copy of the note Grady had found. “Tess had the original of this hidden behind one of the drawers in her sewing table. I think she knew something was up. Read it.”

Madeline took the note and looked it over. “This isn’t to Tess?”

“Couldn’t be. She had never been to Winchester until August of this year. Benton hardly spoke to her until a week or two ago. Why would he lie? Why would he say he was desperately in love with her unless he was protecting the woman he wrote that note to? The woman who murdered Ravenswood.”

“But Tess . . .” Madeline tightened her hold on the paper. “She was in love with Benton. Or thought she was. If she found this note, this note to his lover who was not herself, she must have meant to tell someone. Us or the police or I don’t know who.”

Drew nodded. “After her rough go with Ravenswood, I would think she’d be especially sensitive about being deceived. A woman scorned, as they say.”

“Oh, Drew, it must have been why she was killed.”

“It seems very likely. Very likely indeed. Now, who is this mystery lover of Benton’s? Ravenswood’s murder did him no
appreciable good. He had to have thought he would benefit by helping his sweetheart somehow.”

“You don’t think it might have been Simone after all, do you? Ravenswood was a pretty terrible husband to her. Maybe the theater wasn’t what she was after as much as repaying him for years of infidelity.”

“And Benton, desperately in love with her, would do anything to keep her from hanging.”

“But, no, she couldn’t have killed Ravenswood. She was home. She called from there.”

Drew frowned. “Might have. Might not. She says she was at home, but she might have just as easily called from a nearby phone box, claiming to be at home. Rather convenient she rang up just in time to give herself an alibi, eh? But let’s look at it the other way round. Benton might have been willing to kill Mrs. Landis. They disliked each other enough, but who might have helped him do it?”

“We’re back to the candy again,” Madeline said. “If Mr. Landis had it sent straight to their house, I don’t know how Mr. Benton could have gotten to it to tamper with it.”

“Right. That leaves only his partner in crime. The only one at the house who would have knowledge of cyanide and know how to inject it into those chocolates.”

Madeline shook her head. “No. Not Miss Winston. She loves Mr. Landis, I’m certain of it. And she loves Peter. She couldn’t have—”

“Couldn’t she? If she and Benton both wanted Mrs. Landis to hang?”

“Even if they each wanted Fleur out of the way for their own separate reasons, that doesn’t explain why either of them
would kill Ravenswood. Just to frame Fleur? That seems a little extreme.”

Drew sighed. “It does, doesn’t it? And if the connection between Benton and this mystery woman isn’t a romantic one, then this letter doesn’t make sense. And Tess keeping it doesn’t make sense, either. Oh, I wish I’d never gotten involved in the whole stupid mess.”

Madeline gave him a small smile. “I do too.”

He felt a breath of hope at the soft regret on her face. Was she reconsidering?

That hope died when her expression again took on the cheerful determination to which he had grown far too accustomed.

“But, no, not really. If it helped us see things clearly and kept us from making a mistake, I suppose it was a good thing after all.”

He moved closer to her, hesitated, and then took her hand. “Are you certain
this
isn’t the mistake?”

Though tears filled her eyes, she still forced herself to look cheerful. “You make it awfully hard to be mad at you, Drew. You really do.”

“Mad at me? Here now, why should you be mad at me? Even if you won’t marry me, I thought we were still to be friends.”

She shrugged, looking down, but she didn’t take her hand away. “I’m mad at you for making it so hard to be mad at you.”

He couldn’t help a bitter laugh from escaping. “I don’t even know how to reply to that particular revelation.”

“Maybe you’d just better not try,” she said, taking her hand
away at last. “I think I’d better go. I can’t have you thinking I’m more flighty and indecisive than you do already.”

He forced a smile. “Just as you say.”
Darling
, he wanted to add, but he didn’t. She didn’t particularly want to be his darling just now. “But don’t go. Please.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know. There has to be something. Think back again to what you saw the night Zuraw was murdered.”

She sighed and sat down again. “I’ve told you before, I didn’t really see anything. Just a glimpse of someone in a black cloak running across the hallway and toward the exit.”

“Right. Right. But think really hard. Close your eyes and imagine.”

Madeline complied.

“Now,” Drew said, “think about height. Tall or short?”

“Mmmm, I don’t know. Kind of medium, I think, but it’s hard to tell with someone hunched over like that.”

“Hunched over? You didn’t mention that before.”

Her eyes popped open. “Well, I didn’t think of it before. And I don’t know if
hunched
is quite the right word. You know how it is if someone is hurrying and he leans forward.”

“Yes, exactly. All right, eyes closed again. Now what about girth? Heavy? Thin?”

She squeezed her eyes tight. “I just don’t know. It was so fast. Definitely not heavy. Not at all. Lithe, I’d say, rather than thin. And fast.”

“Good,” Drew said. “No, don’t open your eyes. Now, you couldn’t see a face at all, yes?”

“That’s right. Whoever it was had a hood on.”

“And the cloak, as well?”

“Yes.”

“How far down did the cloak come?”

Madeline considered, still with her eyes closed. “Almost to the floor, I think.”

“Almost to the floor. So you couldn’t see the legs?”

“Not really. Not that I remember.”

“Shoes?”

“I do remember seeing the feet move under the cloak. They were black. Or at least very dark.”

“So dark shoes likely,” Drew said.

Madeline nodded. “Probably.”

“Ladies’ shoes?”

She opened her eyes with an exasperated huff. “You act like I had all day to stand there and take notes.”

He held up one hand. “My error. Forgive me.”

Her expression softened. “I just didn’t see very much. I’m sorry.”

He sat thinking for a moment and then gave her a hopeful smile. “Care to engage in a bit of an experiment with me?”

“What do you have in mind?”

He stood and offered her his hand. “I thought perhaps you and I and Nick could pop round to the Tivoli and test out some of our theories.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I thought we could gather up all of our candidates for the mystery woman and have them, one by one, dash across the hall wearing Mrs. Landis’s cloak. Perhaps that would stir something in your memory.”

“But we know Fleur couldn’t have been there.”

“Yes, but we’ll have each of them run across without you knowing which is which. That way, if you happen to think
Mrs. Landis looks to be the most likely, we’ll know it’s all a bust and have a good laugh at my expense, eh?”

“And if it’s not any of them? If it’s someone we haven’t even considered yet?”

He looked into her eyes. “Had you rather not come? After all, you’re the only one besides Benton who claims to have seen anything at all.” He searched her face for the slightest bit of yielding. “It might be the difference between catching the killers and letting them off scot-free.”

She exhaled. “All right, I’ll go. You make whatever arrangements you have to make, and I’ll go with you. I suppose Chief Inspector Birdsong would want to be present.”

“I imagine he will,” Drew said. “It’s fairly likely he’ll have to be the one to summon all the guests to our little party. They may not be willing to come at my humble invitation.”