| |
By the time Roderick began to stir and yawn the next morning, I had already bathed, dressed, and breakfasted. When he looked around for me, I brought the breakfast tray over to him and perched on the bed.
“How are you?” were his first words as he sat up. He was still blinking himself awake as I handed him his tea, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him: hair tumbled, his broad chest bare, his chin dark with stubble, looking as rakishly dangerous as a pirate... holding a cup of tea.
“I’m much better,” I told him. “I know just what I need to do. First, at ten o’clock we have an appointment with a detective.”
“When did that happen?”
“I sent a letter to police headquarters by the first post and told them we would see the detective who has been assigned to the case then. I’ve reserved one of the smaller coffee rooms downstairs for us so that we may talk in private. The detective will take down our account of last night. And, more important, he will give me as much information as I am able to winkle out of him.”
His smile was drowsy. “You have the air of a woman on a mission.” Setting aside his teacup, he leaned forward to kiss me. I loved the warmth of his skin when he was newly awakened like this, and the roughness of his stubbled jaw was stimulating against my face. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” he said softly. “Last night I was afraid your heart was broken.”
“It was,” I admitted. “Or at least a little. But I’m going to find out what happened and who is to blame. I must see him—or her—brought to justice.” I also had an idea to present to Treherne and Narcissa that might establish my bona fides and do all of us a bit of good, including Polly, but I saw no need to spring that on a man just waking.
He gave me a long look. I think he was uncertain whether my resolve was wise. “Are you certain you wish to involve yourself in the investigation? It may not be easy... and it may also turn up things that you won’t wish to know.”
“I’ve given it a great deal of thought.” When he raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, I explained, “I didn’t sleep much, and I’ve been mulling it over. The fact is, even though Atherton failed me at the end, for years he was nothing but good to me. He was more a father to me than my real father. I wouldn’t be living the life I am now were it not for him.”
“Were it not for his practically forcing you to move to America and marry my stepfather, you mean,” Roderick said dryly. “You’ll have your work cut out for you to convince me that he ever put your welfare ahead of his.”
“Darling, I’m not saying he was ever a paragon. But he was my family. And who’s to say he might not have improved had he had the opportunity—which now he never will have. I must know who robbed him of that.”
Roderick leaned forward and took my face in his hands. “He didn’t deserve you,” he said. “Are you certain you’re up to this? You don’t need more time to rest and... ?”
The meaningful lift of his eyebrows made me smile, and I permitted myself one more kiss—but only one. On any other morning I might have taken him up on the suggestion, but today I had work to do.
“My ‘rest and’ was wonderfully therapeutic,” I said. “You are dear to worry about me, but you needn’t. Worry about whoever stands between me and the truth.”
* * *
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Strack had a weakness for the fair sex. It was clear as soon as he entered and caught sight of me, for in what looked like an automatic reflex he smoothed down his drooping moustache with one knuckle, first one side, then the other.
I had dressed for the occasion in a charming but relatively demure gown of lilac glazed cotton trimmed with gauzy flounces of robin’s-egg blue, more appropriate for springtime but not incompatible with this mild autumn. More important, it might remind him of the innocent bloom of English womanhood and awaken any chivalrous impulses that might reside within him.
The inspector himself was no fashion plate. His dark suit was certainly not modish, and it showed wear at the edges of the sleeves and trouser hems. Perhaps he liked to stretch his pennies—or was forced to do so. His hair and moustache were iron gray, and he squinted a bit as we introduced ourselves, as if he needed spectacles... or as if he wished to give the impression of being shrewd and observant.
He certainly was observant of me. He scarcely glanced at Roderick after greeting him. Well, that was all to the good. A bit of flirtation and flattery from me, and soon he would be revealing every useful thing he knew.
“I come with excellent news,” he announced as he took his seat. “The case is closed.”
“What?” I exclaimed, thrown off balance.
His smile, perhaps understandably, had a touch of self-satisfaction. “I made the arrest myself early this morning.”
“Well, that’s a relief, to be sure,” Roderick said. “Who is it?”
“Why, Mr. Ivor Treherne, of course.” Seeing the surprise on our faces, he explained with a touch of condescension, “It’s as clear as daylight that he’s our man. He and Mr. Atherton had been fighting for weeks over money troubles, the Crystal Palace engagement, the casting of Miss Holm—practically everything two business partners could wrangle over. Then came that final argument, overheard by practically everyone. When you showed up, Miss Ingram—looking quite lovely, by all accounts—and forced Treherne to realize that Atherton was entirely to blame for the troupe’s financial woes... well, he simply snapped.”
Somehow that felt wrong to me. “Treherne certainly was angry,” I said, “and taken aback when I challenged Atherton’s story, but I wouldn’t have thought he would resort to violence.”
“It’s true he had no history of violent behavior,” the detective conceded. “Unlike your husband here.”
I wondered if that was a reference to the duel in Roderick’s past. That might put my husband in a difficult position if the case against Treherne fell through, since it could be argued that Roderick did have a motive for the murder.
Fortunately, as Strack continued, I realized he meant something much less serious. “It’s the meek ones you have to watch,” he told me. “After a lifetime of reining themselves in, when they reach the breaking point, it’s quite an explosion. Whereas someone like Mr. Brooke finds a vent for his anger by simply punching the man in the nose and being done with it, someone like Treherne would be unable to stop there once he got started.”
“You’ve seen such cases before?” Roderick asked.
Waving airily, Strack leaned back in his chair. “Countless times, Mr. Brooke. Add that to the shock and dismay of seeing his protégée’s performance go off so wretchedly, and you have enough motive for five murders. And the method of murder itself—I beg your pardon, Miss Ingram. Such matters are unsuited to a lady’s ears.”
“Pray go on,” I said. “I’m perfectly well. It was a violent assault, was it not?”
He hesitated, but a closer look at my composed demeanor must have convinced him that I was not the type of woman to shriek and faint at a description of violence. “It was indeed,” he said. “The marks around the throat indicate that he was throttled, but that wasn’t what killed him.”
“It was a blow to the head,” said Roderick.
Strack’s eyebrows rose, and I guessed he was displeased at having this revelation taken away from him. “As a matter of fact, it was. How did you know?”
“There was blood on the dinosaur at roughly head height. That was what first told me something was wrong.”
The detective gave a grudging nod. “Observant of you. Evidently what happened is that the assailant overpowered Mr. Atherton, seizing him by the throat and driving him back until the back of his head struck the statue with some force.” He stole another glance at me. “Everything about the crime speaks of overpowering emotion—blind, unreasoning fury.”
“That does make sense,” I said slowly. “Especially since...”
“Yes, Miss Ingram? Please don’t hold back if you have any additional information, no matter how minor it may seem.”
I was already regretting having revealed that I knew anything further, but if the man was guilty, it could do no harm. “I don’t know it for a fact,” I said, “and please consider it nothing more than speculation, for that’s truly all it is. But I have an idea that Mr. Treherne may have more than a professional interest in Miss Holm’s welfare and career.”
Roderick took up the thought. “So when he saw the woman he loves give a disastrous performance, he would be infuriated not just because of the potential earnings lost but because it hurt him to see her humiliated.”
I had to admit that Mr. Treherne was looking more and more like the guilty party. “Did anyone see him leave the reception?” I asked. “I imagine you wouldn’t be so secure in the arrest if you didn’t have witnesses to place him with Atherton.”
“We have a witness, yes. Naturally we hope that others will come forward. Unfortunately, scarcely anyone’s whereabouts last night are clear. When most everyone moved out of the building and onto the terraces, the darkness and the open area make it almost impossible to pinpoint anyone’s comings and goings. Some stayed on the upper terrace, while some ventured to the lower. Some wandered off to the rose garden, it seems, or even the hedge maze.” He shrugged. “The Crystal Palace grounds are so extensive that it’s very unlikely we shall find anyone else who can confirm that Treherne left the reception with the victim.”
“Under those circumstances, I’m impressed that you found even one witness,” I said, smiling to show my dimples. “May I ask who it is?”
With an answering smile, he said, “I wish I could oblige so charming a lady, but the witness has requested confidentiality.”
If even my considerable charm would not persuade him to divulge that information, I might as well abandon that line of inquiry. “And Atherton?” I asked. “What was he doing on the dinosaur island? Have you learned that?”
The detective must have thought I was criticizing his abilities, or perhaps he was tiring of my curiosity, for his manner grew defensive. “You must remember, my dear Miss Ingram, that this case is not yet twenty-four hours old. We’ve much still to do. But at least we know for certain that we have the murderer. The case will be easy to construct since we have that knowledge to build upon.”
“I’m certain you’ll have no difficulty in uncovering the entire story,” I said to soothe his fragile masculine pride. “Perhaps Mr. Treherne will confess.”
“I feel certain of it,” said Strack, with a return of his confident—not to say arrogant—manner. “He made no attempt to resist arrest, and indeed seemed almost resigned when we took him away.”
That was an interesting morsel of information. “Does this mean you won’t need to interview my sister? I’d like to spare her that if at all possible. She is so young, not yet eighteen.”
“She was with Mr. Maudsley at the time, I believe?”
“Yes. I’m sure he can vouch for her whereabouts.”
“Then I see no reason to distress the young lady.” He rose, and I could have sworn he puffed his chest out a trifle as he stated, “After all, we have our man.”
Somehow, hearing this did not give me a feeling of relief. Perhaps I wouldn’t be satisfied until the culprit had confessed. Or perhaps it was simply that, not having been involved in identifying him or seeing him being arrested, it did not feel quite real. It was difficult to comprehend that the entire matter had been concluded already.
Roderick seemed to notice my feeling of dissatisfaction. When the detective had left us, he said, “It may take some time to sink in, especially since Treherne is practically a stranger.”
“I suppose,” I said. “Perhaps that’s why I don’t take much comfort in his having been arrested. The main thing I feel...”
“Yes?”
“I feel sorry for Narcissa Holm.” It might have sounded ridiculous under the circumstances, but remembering her strained performance and her tear-filled conversation with Gertrude Fox, I couldn’t help but wonder how she was bearing up. She might be completely at sea with both her managers gone, and with more nights of Macbeth ahead of her, it would not have surprised me if she was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
Roderick cocked an eyebrow. “She might have been in on it, you know.”
“I suppose she could have put Treherne up to it,” I conceded. “But if she isn’t complicit, she must be in a dreadful state. You can be sure that others will be suspecting her of involvement.” She might be in need of friends just now... and a means of rescuing herself from the Macbeth disaster.
And if she had in fact conspired with her manager in Atherton’s death, I would not rest until I could prove it. I sprang up and was almost out of the room before Roderick realized I was going.
“Where are you off to now with that determined look?” he asked, overtaking me in a few long strides.
“I’m going to the theater,” I said. “I must find out whether Narcissa is a Lady Macbeth in reality as well as onstage.”
That brought a wry smile from Roderick. “She was an ineffectual villainess onstage,” he said. “Let’s hope that she is just as unsuccessful at bloodthirsty deeds in her own persona. But what makes you think she’ll be at the theater?”
“There is no one at the helm now. If I were her, the first thing I would do is to search Atherton and Treherne’s offices to look for any papers relating to how the troupe is to be run and what its current financial state is.”
“Dire, I should think.”
“No doubt. But I believe I can help them.”
He pulled a doubtful face. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “giving them money may not be the best idea.”
“Goodness, I’ve no intention of doing that. I have a far better idea.”
“You don’t owe them a thing, you know.”
He sounded worried, and I put my hand to his face to reassure him. “I know I don’t, but all the same I feel that I have something to prove.”
“Thanks to Atherton.”
“Yes, thanks to Atherton. But I know I can show them that I’m not what they thought me.” The prospect made me smile. “It is the perfect opportunity for me to be the heroine who swoops in to save the day. I shall be their Sybil ex machina!”
* * *
WHEN I REACHED THE theater and was admitted by Blenkins, I went straight to Atherton’s office. Even before I turned into the corridor I could hear the voices raised in agitation and argument: a brusque masculine voice that must have been Mr. Richmond and a young, emotional feminine one, Narcissa Holm.
With my hand raised to knock, I went still for a moment as I remembered the last occasion on which I had rapped at this door. It was the day that Atherton had waylaid me with his infamous plan: that to make way for a popular new leading lady and lure her manager to go into business together I should retire and take the blame for my mentor’s misadventures with the troupe’s income.
Inwardly I squirmed. Even at the time I had had deep misgivings about the scheme, but my gratitude toward Atherton, along with his skillful manipulation of my loyalty, had at last persuaded me. And here I was, all these many months later, still feeling the consequences of my rash decision.
I might find that no one would trust me, even now. But I had to make the attempt. I had the means of proving myself, if only I had enough shreds of credibility to make myself heard.
Straightening my shoulders, I took a deep breath and rapped briskly. “Come in, Griffiths,” said a masculine voice.
Ignoring the fact that I wasn’t who they were expecting, I went in. At once I noticed the ledgers and papers strewn higgledy-piggledy across Atherton’s desk. It was strange not to see Atherton there in his favorite place, beaming at me with his fingers laced across the expanse of his waistcoat. Everything in the office spoke to me of him, and he was almost literally present in the form of the mannequin dressed in his old costume as Orlando from a long-ago production of As You Like It.
For a second I was in danger of welling up with tears at the sight of his familiar domain, but I knew I must take hold of myself to carry out my mission with Mr. Richmond and Narcissa Holm, who now stood gazing at me in surprise.
“Miss Ingram,” exclaimed Narcissa. Her eyes were red, and her dark hair was pinned up so untidily that a few wisps had slipped loose, giving her a waifish appearance. She was wearing a dark blue dress that made her look older than her years—or perhaps it was her obvious grief. She looked an entirely different person from the gorgeously arrayed young star who had swept onto my stage on our first meeting. “This is a surprise,” she said. “We expected Mr. Griffiths.”
There was no hostility in her voice, which was encouraging. “Clement is notorious for oversleeping,” I said. Since Clement Griffiths was the troupe’s leading man, I could understand why they would wish for him to be part of whatever plans they were making.
Mr. Richmond was not welcoming, but it didn’t seem to be personal. “We’re busy here, Miss Ingram,” he said brusquely.
“I’ve no doubt. I gather you have taken up the mantle of manager?”
He heaved a sigh that ruffled some of the papers on the desk. “My stepmother is in no state to set her mind to matters of commerce, even if she were not in mourning. I promised her I would do my best—though I fear that’s little enough.”
“She is fortunate in having you to rely upon,” I said, but this was mere tact; he looked completely at sea, and his hair was mussed as if he had been dragging his fingers through it in frustration. “Have you determined how to move forward from here?” I asked.
He gave a humorless bark of a laugh. “If only! It could take me weeks to get to grips with how this troupe operates. Why are you so interested?” He brightened. “Would you like to buy us out?”
“No, indeed! I do I believe I have a solution, though.” But I was getting ahead of myself. I approached Narcissa and took her hand. “You must be in terrible distress,” I said. “I am so sorry that you are in such a difficult position.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Miss Ingram,” she said with great dignity, and then ruined the effect by bursting out, “It’s all so horrid. I know that Ivor must be innocent, but they burst in and dragged him away as if he were some common criminal.”
That bit of information made it sound as if she had been present at the arrest early that morning, which combined with everything else convinced me that she and her manager were lovers. No wonder she was so distraught. The man she relied on not only to guide her career but also to give her love and companionship had been torn from her... perhaps forever, if he proved to be guilty.
Of course, she might be complicit herself. As a successful actress, she might be putting on a performance of innocent distress, though if it was feigned, it was well done indeed. Fresh tears welled in her eyes even now, and even though I reminded myself that an experienced actress could summon tears at will—I myself had mastered the technique years before—the effect was moving.
“And in the meantime,” she continued, “we have no idea how to proceed without him. The show is a disaster—and I fear must remain so without Ivor here to put things to rights.”
“I tried to visit him in jail,” Mr. Richmond added glumly. “They wouldn’t admit me. And even if they had, what good would it have done us? How could any man possibly bring his mind to bear on a theatrical entertainment when he has been arrested for murder?”
“Indeed, it is an unfortunate situation,” I said. Not as unfortunate as lying dead beneath a concrete dinosaur, but I put that thought out of my mind. “Please don’t despair, either of you. I have some experience in managing the troupe, since Atherton and I shared the responsibilities toward the end of my time here. Mind you, I know my credibility is in tatters because of his nonsensical fiction, but—”
“That’s as may be,” Mr. Richmond interrupted with an eager note in his voice. “If you have a head on your shoulders and can help us out of this coil, that’s what matters at the moment. You said you could rescue us. How exactly would you go about such a thing?”
“First of all, is there any possibility of canceling the rest of the run?”
He shook his head. “I inquired about that very thing. The penalty would be ruinous.”
“The cost will be every bit as ruinous when audiences desert us,” Narcissa cried. “As they surely will as soon as word gets out about how dreadful my performance was last night.”
“All is not yet lost,” I said soothingly. “There are other ways of reducing the toll on the budget. You could reduce the running costs by switching off the electricity wherever possible, moving in lanterns for footlights, and bringing back the quicklime spotlight. You could also cut back on the absurd proliferation of torchieres on the grounds.”
“We could,” Mr. Richmond said. “That isn’t nearly enough to make up the lost revenue, though.”
“What about a hiatus?” I asked. “If asked sweetly enough, might the management grant us a few days’ grace in view of the tragedy?”
“I suppose it’s a possibility, but to what end? What good will a few days do?”
“All the good in the world,” I said, “when we are to present a different version of the Scottish Play.” After all my years in the theater, it was second nature to use euphemisms instead of speaking the word Macbeth. “A few days’ retrenching and rehearsing, and”—here I had to brazen it out and pretend to more confidence than I possessed—“Narcissa will change roles from the Scottish Lady to Lady Macduff, and Gertrude Fox will take over the part of the Scottish Lady.”
A silence followed my shocking suggestion. Mr. Richmond looked puzzled, as if he was not familiar enough with the play to understand the ramifications of such a change, which might have been the case. He might not even have understood that “the Scottish Lady” was a euphemism for Lady Macbeth.
Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t seem outraged, but she was suspicious... and with some cause. “You don’t find me believable as the Scottish Lady?” she said coolly.
She had evidently forgotten that not two minutes ago she had admitted her performance was poor. “Under other circumstances, I’m sure your interpretation would be a triumph,” I said. Diplomacy prevented me from adding that the other circumstances would include pigs flying. “But considering all of the strikes against this production, I think it would be wise to give audiences the Narcissa Holm they want—a heroine they can adore. And that is Lady Macduff.”
“That’s a very small role,” she pointed out. “She is only in one scene, though I grant it’s an effective one. It will look as if I’m no longer the leading lady.”
“Ah, but we won’t be limited to the material that Shakespeare gave her,” I said triumphantly, and produced my figurative rabbit from my metaphorical hat. “Somewhere in Atherton’s shelves, here in this very room, there is a 17th-century version of the Scottish Play that has additional scenes for Lady Macduff. We performed it several years ago, albeit with some changes.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” But she sounded as if I had piqued her interest.
“The editor—D’Avenant, if I recall correctly—expanded her role and made her into a foil for the Scottish Lady, a symbol of goodness and innocence to contrast with the other woman’s evil ambition,” I explained. “The role has the kind of sweet, gentle pathos that you are so well suited for and that audiences can’t fail to respond to. It’s an ingénue role, as the Scottish Lady emphatically is not.”
It was, if I said so myself, a very clever plan. Alas, the full extent of its brilliance was lost on Mr. Richmond. He had been showing signs of impatience, and now faced me with his hands on his hips.
“I’m not a man of the theater, so I don’t understand any of this business about characters and foils,” he announced. “But isn’t it unwise to make drastic changes to the play at this point?”
“Not if they will display Miss Holm to better advantage and win the audience over,” I said. “Besides, the play as a whole needn’t be changed. There will be new material for the Scottish Lady and Macduff in the added scenes, but it won’t amount to much.”
“Then my only question is whether the play can be altered in what little time we have available to us.”
“Gertrude already knows the role of the Scottish Lady,” I said. “She has played it before, and learning the new material won’t pose a challenge for her. I can’t speak for the actor playing Macduff. As for Miss Holm... do you feel up to the challenge?”
Narcissa’s eyes were thoughtful. “I should like to at least see the script before committing to it,” she said.
“Naturally! We can make a search of the shelves right now. And if it meets with your satisfaction?”
“Well... it’s worth trying, I suppose.”
Mr. Richmond clapped his hands together as if the matter was settled. “Excellent. I shall leave the matter of the script changes to you ladies and the stage manager. If Mrs. Fox is agreeable, of course. I must go make our appeal to the palace manager for a few days’ grace in which to prepare.”
When the door had shut behind him, I said, “I like him. He leaves theatrical matters to us instead of trying to manage what he has no understanding of. His stepmother is fortunate to have him looking after her interests.”
“Someone must,” Narcissa said soberly. “Considering how wretchedly money has been mismanaged here. Miss Ingram?”
I was already examining the volumes in the nearest bookcase. If memory served, the one I sought was bound in green calfskin. “Yes?”
“Are you hoping to take the role of the Scottish Lady for yourself?”
I turned to stare at her. “Heavens, no. Why would I?”
She was watching me with the kind of calculation that did, in fact, put me in mind of the Scottish Lady. “You were once leading lady here, after all,” she said. “It would make all the sense in the world for you to want to regain that position.”
“Miss Holm, that isn’t why I’m here,” I said. “I loved my years with this troupe, but I’ve moved on. My life is quite different now. I’m no longer forced to work by financial need, and if I want to perform again I don’t have to resort to underhanded schemes to do so. My husband and I can even mount a production of our own if I desire.”
She seemed only partially satisfied. “But it might be a point of pride to you to reclaim your place here after the circumstances under which you left.”
That was surprisingly insightful. I mustn’t underestimate her because of her youth. “My pride is involved,” I acknowledged. “I didn’t want to leave things on such ill terms with my old friends. But I have no intention of taking the stage again with this troupe. You have nothing to fear from me, Narcissa. You are the leading lady now. You are the one audiences come to see.”
Dropping her eyes, she stood twisting her handkerchief in her hands, and color began to creep into her pale cheeks. “I think I misjudged you,” she said. “I’ve suspected for some time that you were innocent of what Atherton claimed. Last night I felt certain.”
I was surprised by how pleased I was to hear this. “What convinced you?”
“I saw your face when he denied you, and what I saw was honest pain and righteous indignation. A guilty woman wouldn’t have looked that way. But it goes back further than that,” she admitted. “In the time I’ve known Mr. Atherton I’ve seen how loose he is with the truth—was, I mean—when it suited his ends. Whereas I’d heard nothing but good of you until he unfolded the story to Ivor when the idea of partnering was first broached.” She dropped her eyes. “To be perfectly honest,” she said in a subdued tone, “it was convenient for me to believe Mr. Atherton’s stories about you because it meant I didn’t have to feel guilty for taking your place.” She raised her eyes to meet mine once more, and I saw conviction in them. “I believe I can trust you,” she said.
This seemed like a genuinely friendly overture, and I wanted to receive it as such. Perhaps after all she was not the conniving minx I had thought her. But the terrible thought came to me that this might all be a performance. If she was involved with Atherton’s death, this might be an attempt to blind me to it by winning my trust.
For now, I resolved to accept her offered friendship—but not to dismiss the possibility of hidden motives.
“Thank you for believing in me, Miss Holm,” I said, wondering if in fact she did. “I promise you, I have your welfare at heart as well as that of the rest of the troupe. We can make a success of this production—I’m certain of it.”
Joining me at the bookcase, she sighed. “I wish I were as certain. And my understudy may not be pleased at suddenly having to learn an expanded role.”
As simply as that, I had my opportunity. “Who is your understudy?”
“Maggie Rhodes. She is playing the third witch.”
As I recalled, Maggie was a competent performer but hardly an inspired one. Possibly her chief virtue as understudy was a figure that was similar enough to the leading lady’s that the costumes would fit her.
“I doubt she anticipates having to go on for me,” Narcissa continued. “I’ve not missed a performance since joining the troupe.”
“Perhaps a new understudy is in order,” I said, careful not to let my eagerness show. “I wonder if you would consider giving my sister Polly a trial. She thinks she wants to be an actress, and this would be a perfect opportunity for her to get a closer look at what that life would be like.”
I could see from her face that she was taken aback, and I could hardly blame her. For me to propose such a thing hard on the heels of her declaring her trust in me probably struck her as audacious at best and opportunistic at worst.
“Is she any good?” she asked.
“She may be, if she applies herself. Understudying you might give her the incentive she needs to keep working hard.”
“You are working with her, I gather? Training her?”
“Yes, every day,” I reassured her. “She isn’t a complete neophyte, I promise. She is also about your height, so wearing your costumes shouldn’t pose much of a problem—not that it will come to that, I’m sure.”
From her expression I couldn’t tell whether she was in favor of the plan. She took her time replying, and I conquered the impulse to offer more persuasions.
“Speaking of my costumes,” she said at last, “My dresser fled this morning after learning the news about Mr. Atherton. She was convinced that we were none of us safe in our beds with a murderer running about.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be frightening for her if this is the closest she has been to such a dreadful crime.”
She shrugged that away. “She was a silly girl and no great loss. But I do need a new dresser. If your sister will perform that office for me, she may be my understudy.”
That would be an excellent way for Polly to see more of the life of a trouper, without even setting foot onstage. “I can’t imagine she’d object to that,” I said. “It’s very generous of you.”
She put out her hand. “Then we have an agreement.”
As I shook her hand to seal our bargain, however, I wondered what I was getting myself—and Polly—into. When I looked at Narcissa now I saw no trace of the tearful, vulnerable girl from just minutes before. Maybe Polly and I both needed to be on our guard around Narcissa Holm.