Vital Secrets (19 page)

“I think Mr. Spooner would like a word,” he said.

“Ah, there you are, Edwards. Why didn't you reveal your position at once?”

“It seemed to me that I might actually be observable,” Marc replied.

“Constable, please leave this room. What I have to say to the lieutenant is strictly confidential.”

“I'll stand out here by the bar an' watch the doors,” Cobb said with a helpless shrug in Marc's direction.

Spooner waited until he thought Cobb was out of earshot, then sat ramrod straight opposite Marc.

“I gather that Cobb has shown the note to the governor and mentioned our discovery of the contraband weapons?”

“Don't patronize me, Edwards. You could be court-martialled for revealing that note to an illiterate bobby who may be sympathetic to the enemies of Queen Victoria himself. But the milk has been spilt, and Sir Francis is extremely agitated.”

“Has his agitation prompted a plan for us to deal with the situation?”

Spooner appeared momentarily flummoxed, both eyebrows in a regular tantrum of indecision. Then he managed to snarl, “The governor does not have enough information to formulate a response, as you know perfectly well.”

“Well, then, Lieutenant, let me lay out the situation as I see it—for you and the governor.”

“The guns must be secured before anything else is considered.”

“They are secure, sir. You have my word as an officer on that score. I'll have Cobb show you their location, if you like, but my advice is to leave them where they sit.”

“To what end, sir? Leaving them open to unlawful appropriation by Cobb or one of his cronies?”

“I am assuming that Sir Francis, being an astute gentleman, is more concerned with tracking down the rebels to whom the rifles were heading than he is in impounding the guns themselves.”

Spooner's face went as scarlet as his coat.

“Am I right?” Marc asked casually.

“Yes, damn you. He decided not to accept my advice that the weapons be seized and every known radical be rounded up and interrogated until the last dram of truth was squeezed out of him.”

“Please inform Sir Francis, then, that my preliminary investigation into Jason Merriwether's untimely death has pretty much excluded assassination by any political fanatic. The killer is almost certainly one of the other actors. Whether more than one was involved or why there was a falling-out, I don't yet know. But I intend to find out.”

Spooner was first astonished; then mocking. “Have you gone mad? The assassin is safely locked away at Government House. Sir Francis wants a full written report on the matter from you before noon tomorrow, after which Hilliard will be charged with murder and thrown into military prison to await trial. You are under direct orders from your supreme commander to concentrate all your efforts upon the business of discovering whom these guns are meant for.”

Marc took a deep breath. It appeared he had about twenty-four hours to find the real killer and save Rick from the noose. But there was a way in which he might be able to buy more
time and simultaneously ingratiate himself with Sir Francis: a plan to flush out the seditionists was forming in his mind.

“Have you gone catatonic, sir?”

“Not yet, Lieutenant. But I want you to take a proposition back to Sir Francis for his approval.”

“I'd refuse if I could,” Spooner sighed.

“Explain to Sir Francis that if the news of Merriwether's death can be contained within these walls until Wednesday night—and so far you've been successful in doing that—then the final contact for the guns may still be made, and the identity and whereabouts of the traitors disclosed.”

“But Merriwether was an actor and—”

“And this is what I have in mind,” Marc smiled, and outlined his proposal to a speechless aide-de-camp.

When Spooner had left on his mission to the governor, Marc went over to Cobb. “Did you get all that?”

“Every
silli-babble,
Major.”

C
OBB, WHO MADE NO COMMENT ON
the audacity of the proposal, now joined Marc for the interview with Thea Clarkson. Of all those questioned so far, Thea appeared to be the most personally devastated. It could have been the consequence of her recent ill health, but if Ogden Frank had been telling the truth, it was almost certainly due to her relationship with the victim.

She really did appear physically ill: haggard, pale, and
loose-fleshed, her hair unkempt, her eyes swollen from weeping. Could she have killed Merriwether in a fit of jealous rage upon discovering him with Tessa, then regretted it? But how could she have managed it? Marc mulled over these questions as he sought the best and least cruel way to approach her. Last night she had been asleep in the Franks' quarters, where no sound from the floor above the theatre could be heard. Hence, if she had somehow slipped by Jeremiah Jefferson, awake with a toothache, and stumbled upon Merriwether at the very moment of the rape, would she have had the strength to strike him unconscious with the ashtray and the wherewithal to drive Hilliard's sword through him? Moreover, Armstrong now claimed to have seen Beasley answer Tessa's cry several minutes after it pierced the night, but he had not seen Thea. Further, Armstrong had seemed sure that no mad-eyed assassin had come running out of Tessa's room and down the hall to the only exit. Could both Jeremiah and Armstrong be lying? If so, to what end?

At any rate, one glance at Thea's devastated face and fragile composure caused Marc to begin obliquely and gently. “Miss Clarkson, we have been told that you were in love with Jason Merriwether.”

She surprised them with a smile, and for a fleeting second they were privy to the beauty and warmth that had made her attractive to playgoers and suitors alike. “Not everyone has been kind enough to put it like that,” she said in a low but steady voice. “But yes, Jason and I were lovers.”

“For how long?”

“Our liaison began last winter when I joined the Bowery Company after a year away in Boston. We tried to keep it secret—Mrs. Thedford does not approve of affairs among her actors while they're sharing a stage—but I'm sure everybody in the company knew of it. I think Annemarie realized how much Jason and I needed each other.”

“Everyone so far has spoken highly of Mrs. Thedford.”

“Everyone will—she's the finest human being I've ever met.”

Marc cleared his throat. “And yet Mr. Merriwether was found in Miss Guildersleeve's room—in compromising circumstances,” Marc said quietly.

“Jason was attracted to young women,
very
young women, probably because they were attracted to him. And I've found most men cannot resist sustained flattery.” There was no coyness or the least irony in her remark: it was simply a statement of what was and is.

“But you quarrelled loudly with Mr. Merriwether yesterday morning? Over Tessa, I presume?”

For a moment Marc was certain she was going to deny this, but all she said was “yes.”

“When did you learn that something dreadful had happened upstairs?”

“I was awakened by the commotion in our quarters. Mr. Frank ordered me to stay put, but I did hear them bringing Tessa downstairs and placing her in Mrs. Frank's bed next door. Mrs. Frank told me what had happened. Then the police came.”

“Thank you for being so candid, Miss Clarkson. If it is any consolation to you, I intend to find Jason Merriwether's killer and bring him to justice.”

“Are we going to be allowed to carry on tonight?”

W
HILE THEY WERE WAITING FOR
W
ILKIE
to bring Clarence Beasley down, Marc said to Cobb, “Miss Clarkson certainly had motive enough to brain him and passion enough—even in her weakened condition—to put a sword through his body. But there's no way she could have got up there and, even if she had, her timely arrival takes coincidence beyond credibility.”

“Ya mean it's too good to be true.”

“Precisely. Unless, of course, they're all lying and in this thing together.”

“Well, Major, we gotta remember these folks are actors.”

Marc sighed. “And I can't see Thea Clarkson being a gunrunner or fire-breathing republican.”

“But she might've been jealous enough to've helped somebody else do him in.”

“Like Beasley, who also had his eye on Tessa, I'm sure.”

At this point the latest potential suspect arrived, and the last of the interviews began.

S
INCE
B
EASLEY HAD ALREADY GIVEN
C
OBB,
Sturges, and Spooner an account of his actions and reactions last night,
Marc saw his task as having Beasley go over the narrative and flesh it out with details, details that might indicate a lie or an uncertainty. If Beasley's account and corroboration of it by Jeremiah and Armstrong went unchallenged, Rick Hilliard would hang.

Beasley was maddeningly co-operative, forthright, ingenuous almost. He listened to each question with the care he would have offered a director giving notes, paused to take it in, then answered in plain and unambiguous language, keeping eye contact throughout. If this were acting, then Beasley was destined for stardom.

“The number of minutes between Tessa's cry wakening you and your reaching her room are critical to our understanding of what happened,” Marc said. “Tell me exactly what you did when you awoke.”

“I sat upright. I recognized Tessa's voice, and there was terror in it. That's the first thought I had, and then that I must go to her as quickly as possible.”

“And did you?”

“No. My bed is partly under the roof-line and, in my panic, when I went to jump out of bed, I bumped my head against a rafter. I did not black out, for I was aware of falling back onto the bed and then onto the cold floor. But I was dizzy and momentarily confused.”

“You heard no further cry or other sounds from Tessa's room?”

“No. And I remember being very worried that I did not.
‘Has she been murdered?' was my thought, and I staggered to my feet into the pitch dark, feeling about for my tinderbox and not able to remember where I had left it. I was cursing myself all the time and knocking things over.”

“But you found it?”

“Yes, where it was supposed to be: on my night-table. My hands were shaking so badly, it took twenty or thirty seconds for me to get it working and light a candle. By then, my head was throbbing—right here—but I was no longer dizzy.”

Cobb put his pipe down, came around, and dutifully inspected the lesion and modest bump on the top of Beasley's head.

“I half ran and half staggered out into the dark hall, but I could see a tiny wedge of light coming out of Tessa's doorway at the far end. I hurried up, and stubbed my toe on that spittoon near Armstrong's door—I think it was ajar, but I can't be sure—righted myself, and crashed into Tessa's room. What I intended to do I do not know. I am not a brave man. I had no weapon except the saucer holding the stub of candle. But its glow and the candle near Tessa's bed were enough light to show me the situation.”

“So, if you did not black out when you bumped your head, the time between your hearing Tessa's cry and your arrival could not have been less than, say, a minute, and not more than, say, two minutes?”

“That is my own estimate, yes.”

Beasley then repeated the description of the scene that was
now depressingly familiar to Marc: Hilliard standing over the victim with both hands on the haft of the bloodied sword.

“Why didn't you go to Tessa immediately? You ran out of the room like a madman, hollering and banging on doors.”

“I did not see Tessa, or if I did, the horror of Jason's body stuck like a pig, and blood everywhere, and this soldier standing over him—all that blotted her out. I ran, like a coward, to get help.”

“Leaving Tessa, to whom I believe you are strongly attached, with a vicious killer?”

Beasley coloured. “Yes,” he whispered. “I am ashamed to say I did. But I will not lie to you. I stumbled back into the hallway and headed across to Dawson's door. It was already open and I saw him lying inside in a pool of his own vomit, still drunk or hopelessly hungover, and I just carried on to Mrs. Thedford's door, and pounded on it like a child trying to waken its mother. The racket alerted Jeremiah, who joined me, and we went in there together.”

And the rest they already knew.

Beasley was about to get up when Marc stopped him with another question: “Do you know any reason why Mr. Merriwether would be in need of money? Desperately in need, perhaps?”

Beasley sat back down and thought about the question, giving no sign that it might have some malign purpose or raise matters that could implicate him personally. “Yes, now that I think back on it, he did.”

Cobb removed his pipe and leaned forward.

“Please, go on,” Marc said. “Strange as it may seem, your response to the question could be vital to this investigation.”

“As you wish. I don't want to speak ill of the dead—even though I did not like Jason or his arrogance, he gave me professional advice and was not unkind in his way—but just before we set out on this tour, I overheard him talking with a theatre manager named Mitchell, a rival if you will, and they were discussing the possibility of opening a new theatre on Canal Street as joint owners. But it was obvious that, at that time anyway, Jason did not have the kind of capital required. Nor would he ever, I thought, if he stuck to acting for his livelihood.”

“Was this not a betrayal of Mrs. Thedford, who had given him a second chance when nobody else would?”

Beasley was amazed. “You don't know the theatre world in New York, sir. Mrs. Thedford might have been disappointed in him, but in the end she would have wished him well. When it comes to the crunch, every actor, director, and manager is ambitious for himself. In that regard, Mrs. Thedford is the miraculous exception. But she understands the world she's lived and survived in now for twenty-five years.”