Murder at the Mikado (3 page)

“What are you thinking?” he asked finally.

She shook her head, still staring at her ring.

“Come on, darling.” He pushed a stray lock of her hair back behind her ear. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Nothing really. Nothing important.”

“It must be important to put that look on your face.” He looked at the ring and then into her eyes. “Regrets?”

Again she shook her head, and he bit his lip. What was he to say to her?

“Darling, I have no excuses for you. I was foolish. I hope you can forgive me.”

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Madeline smoothed the cream-colored tulle of her dress. “And very . . . dramatic. It’s no wonder you were taken with her.”

“One always knows when she’s in the room,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “I daresay she was born to be on the stage.”

Madeline looked at him, her gaze piercing. “Are you sorry you couldn’t marry her? I mean, if she hadn’t already been married, would you have truly wanted to marry her?”

“I did at the time, certainly. I’m sure after . . . after that night, I would have. As wrong as it was, I thank God now
that she was married already. I can only think it would be torment to be her husband.”

“Mr. Landis seems taken with her.”

“He does, poor chap. Perhaps, and I hope so sincerely, she has changed her ways. Sometimes motherhood has a settling effect.”

Madeline shrugged. “And sometimes people merely grow up.”

He was silent for a long moment, and then he put his arm around her. “Do forgive me, darling. If there were any way I could change the past, I swear I would. I wouldn’t hurt or disappoint you for all the world.”

Her fingers were light and gentle in his hair. “You were still just a boy. You made a mistake.”

He looked away from her. “It was cheap. It was tawdry. Good heavens, I was looking for something grand and glorious and real, and she was only playing.”

She turned his face back to her. “It’s been six years, darling. I think it’s time you forgave her and yourself.”

He searched her eyes. “And will you forgive me, as well? For not being the paragon you were looking for?”

“I was looking for a man, darling. You’re already nearly too perfect anyway. And if you were any better, what would you want with me?”

He chuckled. “Not perfect, my love, as you well know, but perfectly happy and perfectly in love.”

The sparkle came back into her periwinkle eyes. “I don’t suppose I could ask for more than that, could I?”

“Not and reasonably expect to be satisfied, no.”

She looked into his eyes for a moment more. Then her lashes fell to her cheeks. “Will you do something for me, Drew?”

“If I am able, yes. What is it you want? Buckingham Palace? The Taj Mahal?”

She shook her head, completely somber. “I would like it very much, though, if we didn’t have to have the Landises to dinner again.”

He winced. “That would be rather awkward at this point, wouldn’t it? Consider it done. If I need to socialize with Landis, I’ll have him round to my club. How would that be?”

She put her arms around his neck and smiled into his eyes once more. “That would be perfectly perfect.”

T
hree mornings later, Drew was sitting at the breakfast table. Along with Mr. Padgett, Nick was up in the master suite seeing to the workmen who were remodeling it for Drew and Madeline to occupy once they were Mr. and Mrs. Farthering.

Madeline and her aunt had been staying in his mother’s old suite of rooms in the west wing ever since Madeline had accepted his proposal. Drew had not himself moved into the master suite after his stepfather’s death, but once Madeline had agreed to marry him, he had begun to have the rooms redone to suit them both.

They had agreed to keep the furniture. Old and heavy and steadfast, it had served the Farthering men for decades, and Madeline liked it. But the murky browns and greens of the carpet, curtains, and bedding had to go. They decided instead on a buttery tone of ivory with dark sage, plum, and a bronzy gold. It was rich without being heavy, breezy and fresh but not girlish.

Evidently there had been difficulties today with the wallpaper Madeline had chosen, but Drew and Nick had agreed it would be best to simply see to the matter and not worry Madeline with it. Madeline herself had hurried off to see to the caterer with Aunt Ruth. So with Nick attending to the workmen, Drew was left to linger over his newspaper and the last of his liberally honeyed tea.

“A Mrs. Mallowan to see you, sir.”

Drew looked up at Dennison and chuckled softly. “Mrs. Mallowan or Mrs. Christie?”

Denny’s face was as impassive as ever. “I was given the name Mallowan, sir. Shall I enquire again?”

“No, no, that’s all right. Did she give you her card?”

“No, sir. Do you wish me to tell her you are not at home to visitors?”

“Nonsense,” Drew said. “Send her in, if you would, please. I think I’m up for an adventure this morning.”

“Very good, sir.”

“But, uh, I say, Denny?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What does this Mrs. Mallowan look like? Anyone we know?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. The lady is wearing a veil and seems rather determined to remain unknown.”

Drew grinned. “Not Miss Parker in disguise, is it?”

“No, sir. Unless I am much mistaken.”

“Well, that’s too bad, I suppose. All right. Ah, please show her into the drawing room on second thought. I’ll be right there. And ask Miss Parker if she would do me the favor of coming down too, eh?”

Denny made a slight bow. “At once, sir.”

He disappeared into the hallway, and Drew folded his newspaper. Agatha Christie’s married name was Mallowan. So unless it truly was the celebrated Mrs. Mallowan herself, surely someone was having him on. Well, that was all right. It was as much tradition to harry the groom-to-be as it was to fête the bride.

He swallowed down the last of his tea and then straightened his tie. “Whoever you are, dear Mrs. Mallowan, I hope to give you as good as you send.”

The lady was sitting on the sofa when Drew came into the drawing room. She was tall and slender and, as Denny had said, draped in a heavy veil. And she was dressed all in black as if she were in mourning. Drew’s expression sobered. Best not treat this as a joke until he was certain it was one.

“Good morning,” he said, making his voice pleasant but not too cheerful, just in case.

She extended one black-gloved hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Her voice was a husky whisper, but he was certain he had heard it before.

“Mrs. . . . Mallowan?”

She nodded once. “Will you shut the door so we may speak in private?”

He inclined his head. “Forgive me, but I’ve asked my fiancée to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

She made a petulant little huffing sound that he recognized at once.

“Fleur?”

She used both graceful hands to lift her veil just enough so she could peep out from under it. “Must she, Drew? I’d much prefer—”

“I do hope you’ll pardon me, but, yes, she must. If you wish to speak to me, she absolutely must.”

“But Drew—”

“Otherwise I really have to bid you good morning.”

She pouted and let the veil fall over her face again. “Can she at least be trusted not to let anyone know I’ve come to see you?”

“If that’s necessary, I’m certain she can. Madeline is always very—”

“Always very what, darling?”

Madeline stood in the doorway, smiling and spring fresh in a flowered frock and pink jumper.

Drew held out his hand to her. “Come in, Madeline, and shut the door if you would.”

She lifted an eyebrow, but did as she was asked and then came to stand at Drew’s side. “Won’t you introduce us?” she asked.

Fleur put back her veil again and discarded her hat altogether. “I’m sure you remember me, Miss Parker.”

Madeline glanced at Drew, her expression suddenly cool. “Yes, Mrs. Landis, I do. Forgive me, but I wasn’t expecting—”

“No, forgive
me
.” Fleur’s dark eyes were pleading and helpless. “Both of you, please, I really can’t have anyone know I’ve come to you today. Will you promise not to say anything?”

Drew settled Madeline on the love seat and then sat next to her, putting her arm through his.

“Say anything?” he asked. “To whom?”

“To anyone. Please, Drew. I know we didn’t part the best of friends back in Oxford.”

She turned those eyes up to his, shining with unshed tears,
and he remembered now why his eighteen-year-old self had been so easily smitten. He wouldn’t again be such a fool.

“I daresay.”

His voice was coolly polite, and no one said anything for a moment. Madeline looked at him, her delicate eyebrows lifted just the slightest bit.

He turned again to their guest. “I take it there’s a reason you’ve come? Why go through the pretense of saying you were Mrs. Mallowan?”

“I know you like mystery novels, and I thought the name might pique your interest. I couldn’t risk your not seeing me. I . . .” Fleur had a lace handkerchief crumpled in one hand, and now she touched it to her trembling lips. “I’m in the most awful trouble, Drew, and I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“Perhaps you ought to be talking to the police. I know a Chief Inspector Birdsong who—”

“No.” She shook her head, again pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. “Oh, Drew, no. You don’t understand. The police are the ones I’m going to be in trouble with!”

Madeline gave Drew a subtle glance, one he knew meant she didn’t want him to get involved with anything that would interfere with their wedding plans. He squeezed her arm in acknowledgment.

“Perhaps a solicitor then. I could give you the name of the firm we use. Or if you had rather keep the matter separate, I’m certain they could give you a referral to someone who specializes in whatever sort of case you have.”

“No, no.” Fleur’s voice was nearly a sob now. “I need someone unofficial, someone who can keep my name out of it.”

“A private investigator perhaps.”

“I couldn’t possibly go to someone like that. Poor Brent, the scandal would kill him.”

Drew narrowed his eyes at her. “Just what are you afraid you’ll be accused of?”

“Haven’t you seen the morning paper?”

He shook his head. “At least not all of it. I was reading it over breakfast, but I always start at the back and work my way to the front. Save the headlines for last, as it were. Shall I have it brought in?”

She sniffed and then nodded. “I couldn’t . . . Oh, Drew, I couldn’t possibly tell you the awful details.”

He tried to figure out how much of her fright was real and how much of it was put on to sway him. But it didn’t matter. Whatever this was, it wasn’t his place to help her. She had a husband, and he seemed a very good man. Surely he would stand by her whatever the problem was.

He rang for Denny, and in just another moment Drew had that morning’s paper in hand. One bold headline caught his eye.

ACTOR RAVENSWOOD MURDERED

Drew looked up at Fleur. “Ravenswood? It was his troupe you were in back in Oxford, wasn’t it? What happened?”

“Read it.” A single tear traced down her porcelain cheek, and she immediately blotted it away, forcing herself to sit up straighter. “You’ll want just the facts, and that will tell you better than I would be able to.”

Madeline was already reading over his shoulder, and he hurried to catch up.

Local celebrity, actor John Sutherland Ravenswood, born Henry Percival Sutherland, was found at two o’clock this
morning in his dressing room at the Tivoli Theater, bludgeoned to death with an empty champagne bottle. Ravenswood’s wife and leading lady, Miss Simone Cullimore, already having gone home after last night’s performance, called the theater to speak to Ravenswood before he left for the evening. Conor Benton, another of the actors, and one of the workmen found the star’s dressing room locked, and receiving no reply to repeated knocks and calls, they forced the door open.

“He was lying there with his head bashed in, mind you, and fair wallowing in his blood,” said Grady Hibbert, the Tivoli’s longtime stageman. “I never had nobody killed in my theater, barring onstage of course, nor seen a dead body since I was at Ypres in the Great War.”

“We had all been drinking champagne,” Miss Cullimore said. “It was the fifth anniversary of our opening night at the Tivoli, and everyone was in a jolly mood. Johnnie said he had a few things to see to before he went home, so I went on alone. Now I’ll never see him again.”

Chief Inspector James Birdsong of the Hampshire Police declined comment except to say his men were investigating the matter and that they were not prepared to name any suspects.

Again Drew looked up at Fleur, skipping the remainder of the article. “What does this have to do with you? Did you kill him?”

“Drew!” Tears sprang to her eyes, and once more she pressed the frothy bit of lace to her mouth, her body shaking. “I know what you think of me after . . . after Oxford, but you can’t believe that of me. Not murder. Please tell me you don’t.”

“I haven’t seen you in six years, Mrs. Landis,” he told her.
“And even back then, I can’t say I really knew you. How would I know what you’re capable of?”

“Drew,” Madeline murmured.

He pressed his lips into a tight line. “Sorry, darling.”

Fleur studied them for a moment, then looked away. “I just thought you might be able to help me.”

“Is there some reason in particular you think the police will suspect you?”

“Well, I . . . I knew Johnnie Ravenswood. We were . . . we used to be an item, but that was years ago. When we were in that repertory company in Oxford.”

Drew glanced at Madeline. “Was that before or after you and I met?”

Fleur looked down and somehow had the grace to look ashamed. “Before and after. I know. I know. It was insane. I was sowing my wild oats, and now I suppose I get to reap the harvest.”

“That’s hardly any reason for you to be a suspect now, is it?” Drew asked, his voice cold. “There must be more.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I still kept in touch with him. Well, with all of them. That’s often how it is in the theater. Sometimes, especially with small companies that have the same players in them for years at a time, it’s like a little family. I was friends with his wife, believe it or not, and with several of the others. I missed it, being onstage, and I liked chatting with them about old times. Sometimes I’d sit in and read a part when they were rehearsing or trying out some new bit of business. Johnnie would sometimes use one of my suggestions, especially if it was one of the women’s roles. Brent never understood, so I never told him that’s what I was doing. But there wasn’t any harm in it. It was just . . . fun.”

Drew exchanged a look with Madeline. She looked no more convinced than he.

“And this ‘fun’ is enough to make you a suspect?” he pressed.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes filled with tears once more. “The police came to talk to me this morning. Evidently someone claims he saw me at the theater last night after everyone else had gone, but I tell you I wasn’t there! I was at home all night—you can ask Brent.”

“The police haven’t talked to him yet?”

“He had already gone to the office, but I suppose they’ve gone there to question him. I don’t know.”

“And who is it that says you were at the theater last night?”

Fleur pursed her lips. “A perfectly odious man. Conor Benton. He plays all the juvenile leads, and
juvenile
is the perfect word for him. He and Johnnie were always at it hammer and tongs over blocking and stage business and how lines ought to be delivered.” She frowned. “I suspect too they had a bit of not-so-friendly competition over the girls in the chorus and any stagestruck young things who threw themselves at the two of them. I mean, fair’s fair. Johnnie was more handsome than any man ought to be. More than that, he knew how to charm anyone out of anything. Benton’s not much better. He fancies himself something of an Adonis, though I think he’s got a bit of a weak chin. Still, he draws the ladies, and that’s what he was engaged to do.”

“I see,” Drew said. “But why would he claim to have seen you at the theater if you weren’t there?”

She glanced at Madeline, and a blush touched her cheek. “A few months ago he tried to seduce me. I told him I wasn’t interested, that I loved my husband. He called me all sorts of filthy names and said I was a hypocrite. He couldn’t believe
I was different now, that I wasn’t who I used to be.” Again there were tears. “You have to believe me, Drew. I’m not who I was. I’m not that thoughtless girl you once knew. I love my husband and my son. I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to ruin them. Please help me.”

Drew sighed and again looked at Madeline, knowing her grim expression was a mirror of his own. This was bad. Very bad.

“And you want me to do what exactly?” he asked at last.

She squirmed in her chair, dark eyes pleading. “I merely thought that you could investigate the case yourself. If you could find out who really killed Johnnie, then they couldn’t suspect me, could they?”

“I suppose not. But I’m not—”

“If you could start work right away, and work very quickly, then Brent doesn’t have to deal with all this.” She clasped her hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer, and there was more than a touch of desperation in her expression. “And nobody has to know.”