Monday came soon enough. Frances found herself fidgeting and going over every last detail of the show. If nothing else, she thought, this was giving her a greater appreciation of actors and all the work involved in creating even a short and simple play. She’d never look at a performance the same way again.
Mallow was looking forward to the event as well. She had taken a certain pride in organizing the show but had had her fill of actors for a while.
“Miss Forbes keeps entering later than you ordered, my lady,” said Mallow on their way to the theatre. “I have had to remind her of this twice. I can only think of what any good housekeeper would do with a maid who had to be told twice to clean the grates. Not that I am complaining, my lady. It has been a most interesting experience. But I think I’d go mad if I had to live my life in their world.”
“The reverse is also true. Most of them would go mad if they had to live in ours.”
The actors were waiting for them, and Mallow quickly took charge of Susan. She was a nervous and awkward actress but had endeared herself to Mallow by taking her role seriously and following her ladyship’s directions as best she could.
“This afternoon, for the performance, I’m to do your hair up proper,” Mallow explained and brought the girl into a dressing room, where she quickly stripped off her plain dress. They had found a pale dress that set off her black hair nicely. Then Mallow sat her on a chair in the dressing room in front of a mirror. She opened the folder her ladyship had given her and looked at the photograph. It was an old-fashioned hairstyle. Mallow had seen a similar style in a portrait of one of her ladyship’s aunts at Seaforth Manor. She had never done hair up like that herself but felt confident she could copy the photograph.
“No one has ever done my hair, except my mother when I was a little girl. We have a maid at home, of course, but mother always said she had real work to do besides pampering me.”
“Ladies of quality always have maids to do their hair,” said Mallow. Even if they don’t always cooperate.
“Miss Mallow . . . can you tell me now what this is all about?”
“Don’t move your head,” said Mallow. “All I can say is that her ladyship feels it is very important for justice to be done.”
“Isn’t that what constables and barristers are for?”
“Her ladyship believes they need assistance every now and then.”
“It’s something to do with my mother, isn’t it?” Susan said it in a tentative, small voice, as if she was afraid of the answer. “I know Lady Frances has been talking to her. She’s seemed a little nervous.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.” Mallow’s nimble fingers quickly did up her hair, and when she was done, Susan stared at herself in the mirror.
“I look like a proper lady,” she said with a giggle.
“Yes, you do, miss.”
The girl smirked. “I wonder what the Reverend Halliday would think if he saw me like this.”
Mallow sighed. “If I may make a suggestion, I would not hang my hopes on the vicar.” And then, overriding Susan’s protests, “Just be still for a moment. A little powder to take the shine off your face.”
There was time for one more run-through before the audience came. It was what her ladyship said was a “dress rehearsal,” which meant everyone was in their costumes. With a grim determination, Mallow made sure Miss Forbes made her entrance on time. When the show reached its successful conclusion, she ensured that the props were put back where they should be.
Frances meanwhile was up in the rafters again with the lighting man.
“If you think this is impressive, my lady, I’ve heard the Metropolitan Opera House in New York has some of the latest and most impressive electric lights of any theatre. I’d love to see it.”
“I attended a performance there when I was living in America, but it never occurred to me to look at the lights. The next time I’m there I will.” Her brother had mentioned an upcoming family trip to New York to visit to the diplomatic community in Washington. It would simplify everything if she and Hal were married by then. Could she be a married lady by then and still have Mallow dress her up for the opera, just so she could spend the evening observing the opera’s lighting system?
A stagehand called from below, “Mr. Rusk wants to know if he and the audience can enter now, my lady.”
“Have you checked with Miss Mallow?” she shouted down.
“Yes, and she said everything is ready backstage.”
“Very good then. Let them in. I’m coming down.” As part of the deal with Mr. Rusk, he and all the members of the Green Players had been banned from the theatre for the dress rehearsal. Frances and Mallow had made sure all the doors were firmly closed.
“You might want to keep an eye on the back doors,” Rusk had advised before he left the theatre that afternoon. “We’re still concerned about securing the building in the wake of Mr. Mattins’s death.”
“I’m not worried,” Frances had said with a faint smile. Mr. Rusk had looked like he was going to argue the point but then had just shrugged and left.
They all came in now, the members of the Green Players. Rusk appeared concerned and behaved like he was expecting a disaster at any moment. Prescott had a look of amusement. Everyone else seemed curious. There weren’t many who had known Helen, but everyone had heard of her, the legendary beauty who had married for a “normal” life overseas.
There were no tickets for that afternoon’s performance. Everyone found their seats. Frances peered out from behind the stage. Where was Mrs. Lockton? But then she entered after the initial rush, wearing the same good dress she had put on when visiting Frances at Miss Plimsoll’s. Frances had wondered if she would bring a friend for support—but no, she had brought the Reverend Samuel Halliday. Frances smiled—she had not expected that, but it was of no matter. In fact, it would make things easier in the end. Mrs. Lockton leaned on his arm, and he looked down at her with great kindness.
Just as well, thought Frances. Emma Lockton would need the comfort of a vicar before the afternoon was over. The comfort of this vicar in particular.
And finally, in came Inspector Eastley. Even from a distance, Frances could see his hard eyes sweeping over the other audience members. The huge Constable Smith, however, looked over the theatre itself. Had he ever been in a place like this? Or maybe his assessment was just professional, as he considered all the nooks and crannies a theatre contained, so many corners where miscreants could hide in the shadows. A few actors regarded the two men curiously, but no one spoke with them. They took two seats on the aisle, by themselves.
Very well. All was set. “Did you give the letters to the messengers?” Frances asked Mallow.
Including one to Lady Torrence, boldly promising that she would meet Louisa later that afternoon. Will my own arrogance finally be my undoing? wondered Frances. Old nannies and governesses will be laughing at me all over London.
“Yes, my lady. I sent them all with strict instructions to Lady Torrence, Lord and Lady Freemantle, and the Reverend Halliday.”
“The Reverend Halliday is here anyway. He’ll miss his letter, but he will just find out earlier.”
“Very good, my lady.”
At one minute past two, Frances nodded to Mallow, who told a stagehand to raise the curtain for Death at the Emerald.
A baby lens spotlight poured down on Marie, wearing a simple yet elegant dress. She stood behind a podium, and her voice, rich with of strength and music, filled the theatre as Frances grabbed Mallow’s hand and gave a squeeze.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful actress named Helen, and six men loved her most deeply.” Six men, from young to old, filed onto the stage. Frances heard a ripple in the audience as the Green Players recognized the signatories of the Oath of Tyndareus. There was Rusk, not quite as round, dressed a little better than the rest to show his ambitions toward management; Prescott, lean with his sardonic smile; the boyish Alexander Braceley, dressed like a dandy; and the rest of them.
And then a woman danced onto the stage—but she wore a mask, like an ancient Greek actor. The men surrounded her, entreating her to love them.
“But poor Helen was overwhelmed by their attentions, and feeling distraught at causing the object of their desire so much distress, they signed an oath—a fierce and terrible oath based on ancient words—swearing to uphold Helen’s choice of spouse. And so she made her choice. But he wasn’t one of the six.”
A man in a sober business suit entered: Douglas MacKenzie, the Emerald Theatre accountant. He danced with Helen and swept her away into the darkness upstage.
“Thus Helen’s brief career on the stage ended.” The mask was tossed away into the light. “Those who signed the Oath of Tyndareus went on with their lives. They resumed their careers, and some found other worthy partners to marry. But one couldn’t resume his life. He loved her so much, he was driven to a frenzy. If he couldn’t have her, no man would. This man broke the oath and killed Helen’s chosen husband.” MacKenzie, stumbling now from a mortal wound, collapsed in the pool of light on the stage.
Frances was watching from backstage. At this point, the actors in the audience were looking stricken. Rusk and Prescott were looking stunned, and Emma Lockton had gone pale.
“But who did it? Which faithless suitor broke the oath, broke the laws of God and man, to kill Helen’s husband? Which man—”
“Enough!” A cry came from offstage. Marie looked startled at the interruption, and everyone turned to see who had broken into the play. Into the dim light walked a man dressed in a soldier’s uniform, the old uniform of those who had fought and died in the Sudan. A helmet shadowed his eyes, and he carried a rifle. He could’ve easily slipped in. After all, Frances had dismissed Rusk’s warning about securing all the doors.
“Enough,” he said again, lower this time but more menacing. “Lady Frances Ffolkes, I know you’re backstage. I know you’re behind this. And I want this mockery, this foolishness, stopped. You and I will have a reckoning later. For now, I’m here for the man who broke our oath, who destroyed Helen’s chance for happiness. For all I disagreed with her choice, I was not faithless. I can tell myself that much. There was only one thing that kept me from dying in the Sudan, one thing that let me hold onto a spark of life: the thought that I had kept my oath. I made it back to London, prepared to start a new life, only to find out what none of you apparently knew—that Helen’s husband had been killed, and she had fled in terror.”
Frances couldn’t fully see the shaded face, but there was no doubt all knew who he was. Alexander Braceley. He had survived the Sudan, and he had come home. Frances switched her attention back to the audience. Rusk and Mrs. Lockton continued to look dumbfounded, but Prescott looked absolutely terrified.
Braceley walked downstage, right to the edge of the stage. “Gil Rusk. My God, you filled out nicely. I always thought you were the smart one here, but you never knew what happened to Helen. Still, I don’t blame you.” Then his voice got harder. “I blame you, Quentin Prescott. You pretended to be me, didn’t you, chasing poor Lady Frances around London?” Braceley laughed without humor. “Well, she got the best of you, she and that precious maid of hers. Still, she had it coming, considering all she did.”
Frances and Mallow remained where they were, watching this new drama unfold.
“But that’s all by the way, Quentin Prescott. That’s nothing compared with what else you did, stabbing Douglas MacKenzie in the back like that. I ought to turn you over to the constables. But we swore an oath, a sacred oath. Do you know what happened in ancient Greece to those who broke their oaths? They faced the wrath of the Furies. And today, Mr. Prescott, I am one of their number.”
From his shirt pocket, Braceley produced a cartridge and loaded it into his rifle with a sharp snap. He took aim at Prescott.
“No!” cried Prescott. “For God’s sake, mercy!”
“Why should I have mercy?” demanded Braceley, sighting over his rifle.
“It was an accident. I just wanted to talk to him, and we had words. I swear, I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“Oh, really?” He didn’t sound convinced. “And Tony Mattins? He was one of us. How could you?”
“I didn’t kill Mattins!”
“Liar. If there is to be any hope of mercy, you will tell the truth.”
“Again, it was just an accident. We had words. He was going to tell—” Prescott sounded desperate now. “He was going to break the oath, not me. He was going to tell Lady Frances everything, violate Helen’s trust.”
“And reveal your crime,” said Braceley. “I bet he always suspected. You have two murders on your conscience. Two violations of your oath. And you will pay. You will pay now. Say your prayers.”
“For God’s sake, mercy!” screamed Prescott again.
Braceley pulled the trigger—but nothing happened. Nothing except the fall of the curtain, as ordered by Mallow, indicating the end of act one. Only Braceley was left visible, standing on the apron in front the curtain. He shouldered his rifle and took off his helmet. In the full light, he really didn’t look much like Braceley, as Lady Frances had heard him described, but it had been good enough.
He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “My God, these helmets are hot. How the soldiers managed is beyond me.” He called out to the wings. “Lady Frances, did I do all right? I had to improvise, as you said I would. I hope I performed correctly.”
Lady Frances, followed by Mallow, strode onto the stage. “You were splendid, Mr. Archibald. I almost believed you were Alexander Braceley himself. Very nicely played.”
The actor, Mr. Archibald, specially recommended by Marie Studholme, bowed low. “Thank you, my lady,” he said and walked off stage.
It took everyone a few long moments to figure out what had happened. Frances had fooled all of them, ending act one of her play with what seemed to be an interruption but was really just a trick of the eye. An illusion.
And Quentin Prescott, suddenly realizing he wasn’t going to be shot in the Emerald Theatre, had come to the conclusion that he had given himself away. That Lady Frances had fooled him.
Enraged, he prepared to jump onto the stage. “You bitch, you hellcat—” But the only place Prescott was going was up, thanks to Constable Smith, who had moved surprisingly quickly for such a large man. He lifted Prescott by the collar and pushed him back down into his chair.
Inspector Eastley, hiding a smile behind his mustache, approached the seated man.
“My goodness, Mr. Prescott. I never would’ve thought such an experienced actor as you would be fooled like this. But then again, Lady Frances set a very impressive trap for you. She sent me a note explaining what was going to happen, and even so, I almost believed Mr. Braceley had come back.”
Lady Frances smiled grimly down at Prescott as the rest of the audience was still trying to take it all in. Mallow glared with absolute disdain. Emma Lockton looked like she might faint. But no. She was strong. Frances knew that much.
“Thank you for the compliment, Inspector,” Frances said. “Yes, Mr. Prescott killed Helen’s husband, Douglas MacKenzie, in a jealous rage. I think that Mattins always suspected and was going to help me when I came asking about Helen, but then Prescott killed him to keep him quiet. It was a bayonet—an old prop, perhaps—that had the advantage of throwing blame on Braceley. I thought it was Braceley myself for a while, but that poor man died with the rest of his company in the Sudan. You had a cloak, Mr. Prescott, but it was a cheap costume, not heavy army quality. Illusion. Nothing but illusion. And by the way, you played Mercutio, not Romeo. Fortunately, Mallow and I found the program before you broke into his room looking for any mementos.”
“How the hell . . . ?” said Prescott.
“Please, Mr. Prescott. Watch your language in front the ladies,” said Inspector Eastley.
“Oh, let him speak, Inspector, for all the good it will do him now. You know, I thought that he was insisting he was Romeo just out of vanity. But no—he didn’t want me to think he was Mercutio for another reason. Mercutio dies halfway through the play, giving Prescott enough time to run out and kill MacKenzie. If he had been Romeo, he’d have had an alibi. He was furious when another actor acknowledged him as a master with a blade when he should’ve been flattered, but he had killed two men with a blade.”
“It’s all talk,” said Prescott sullenly.
“Oh, but there’s more proof. Mallow and I left serious marks on him. There should be a bruise on his right shin from where I tripped him and another on his back between his shoulder blades.”
“Is that true?” asked Inspector Eastley. “Lady Frances, I would love to hear that story later. But for now, Mr. Prescott, could you raise your pant leg and then give us a chance to peer down your shirt? If you want, I could have Constable Smith help you, but you’ll find him much less gentle than your usual dresser.”
Looking very unhappy but seeing no other choice, Prescott obliged with his leg. Inspector Eastley raised an eyebrow at the results.
“Lady Frances. Did you leave this bruise on him? My goodness.” He shook his head and turned back to Prescott. “You are under arrest for the murders of Douglas MacKenzie and Anthony Mattins and for the attempted murder of Lady Frances Ffolkes. Constable Smith, please turn over Mr. Prescott to the two uniformed constables outside. Take care of the details, and see that Mr. Prescott speaks to no one until we return.”
Mr. Prescott tried to grab onto some final dignity, walking as if he were making a grand exit instead of being arrested. The company was still speechless, but as he was marched down the aisle, the place exploded in whispers. Rusk, however, looked absolutely broken as he tried to take in that a man he had known for most of his life had killed another friend and his great love’s husband. He buried his face in his hands.
And Emma Lockton? She was still upset, but there was something else there. Was it relief? Even triumph? Reverend Halliday, like everyone else, seemed a little stunned, and Frances could see him gently reassure his Aunt Em.
Well, we shall see, Mrs. Lockton, thought Frances. This is just beginning.