A Respectable Actress (21 page)

“The Southern Claims Commission is handling most of that,” Philip said. “And most
of the claims are for only a few hundred dollars. But now that more citizens have
legal status, more will seek justice for all kinds of things through the courts.
And that will benefit all of us who practice law.”

Lucinda, the maid, arrived to serve coffee. When she withdrew, Mrs. Mackay passed
sugar and cream. “Are you all right, Miss Hartley? You're awfully quiet.”

“I'm all right. A bit tired.”

“Your room is ready whenever you wish to retire.” Mrs. Mackay placed a hand on India's
arm. “I can only imagine how terrifying this whole thing is for you. If there is
anything else at all that we can do for you, promise you'll let me know.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Philip stood. “I should go and let India rest. We're going to the theater tomorrow
to have a look around.”

“I thought you did that the last time you were in the city.” Mrs. Mackay rang the
little silver bell beside her plate, summoning the maid.

“I did, but India wasn't with me. It will help to have her take me through the events
of the evening in question.” Philip caught India's eye. “I'll come for you once the
police escort arrives.”

India looked up, alarmed. She had forgotten this detail.

“Don't let his presence rattle you. I want you to take your time and walk me through
your movements that evening, just as we discussed.”

“All right.”

Philip clasped both of Mrs. Mackay's hands. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Celia.”

“My pleasure. Our house is always open to you.”

On his way to the front door, he stopped and placed a hand on India's shoulder. “Try
to get some rest.”

When he had gone, India thanked her hostess, and Lucinda arrived to show India to
her room on the second floor. A fire had been laid in the black marble fireplace.
The room glowed with golden light.

It was well appointed, with a view to the back gardens and to an old carriage house
that seemed long abandoned, barely visible in the glow of gaslights lining the street.
But India was too exhausted to take much notice of the fine linens, the elegant dressing
table, and the matching escritoire. She could think only of sleep.

She changed into her nightdress, washed her face and hands, and brushed her hair.

“Miss Hartley?” Mrs. Mackay tapped softly on the bedroom door. “Are you still up?”

In her bare feet, India padded across the room and opened the door.

“You left your reticule in the parlor,” Mrs. Mackay said, handing it over. “I thought
you might want it.”

“Thank you. I hadn't even missed it.”

Mrs. Mackay's violet eyes swept the room. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I can't think of a single thing. It's been a long time since I slept in such a lovely
place.”

“Sleep as long as you want to in the morning. Frannie and
I will be up early to attend
morning prayers, but Lucinda will give you breakfast whenever you want it.” Mrs.
Mackay paused. “How are you getting on with Mr. Sinclair?”

“He has been most kind. And I have the greatest confidence in his abilities.” Even
if he hadn't taken seriously her theory about the burned chapel.

“He seems quite taken with you,” Mrs. Mackay said. “I noticed at supper tonight he
hardly took his eyes off you. That's quite unusual for Philip.” Mrs. Mackay leaned
against the door frame, seemingly in no hurry to leave. “He has been widowed for
some time, but I think he is afraid that loving someone else would somehow diminish
the affection he felt for Laura.”

India was tempted to ask Mrs. Mackay about Laura Sinclair. Had she been a woman capable
of deceit? But somehow, even thinking of such a question felt disloyal to Philip.

“Of course this is not the time to think of romantic possibilities,” Mrs. Mackay
went on. “But I do wish that dear man would fall in love again.” She smiled. “Maybe
you are just the woman to dismantle the fortress he has built around that big heart
of his. Once this dreadful court business is behind you.”

“Mama?” Frannie Mackay appeared in the hallway, her dark curls falling into her eyes,
a doll tucked under her arm. “You were 'sposed to read to me tonight 'cause Papa
isn't home.”

“I'll be right there, darling.” Mrs. Mackay clasped her daughter's hand. “Good night,
Miss Hartley. Sleep well.”

C
HAPTER
17

J
ANUARY
29

B
ULL
S
TREET WAS CROWDED WITH PEOPLE TAKING
advantage of the mild Sunday afternoon
weather. On the corner a mother bent to speak to the little boy holding onto her skirts. A group of men dressed in their Sunday best stood beneath the ancient trees, smoking pipes and chatting. In the square, a young couple sat on a bench while a small black dog romped at their feet.

Philip offered India an encouraging smile as they headed down the sandy street, but
a familiar and persistent shadow of unease had entered the carriage with them. India
feared that she would never again enjoy the luxury of an ordinary life.

They drew up at the back entrance to the Southern Palace, where a red-bearded policeman
in uniform waited. He wrenched open the door. “Better get her inside, Mr. Sinclair.
I just chased off a reporter from the
Georgia Enterprise
who wanted to know why I
was standin' here when the theater's been closed ever since—”

“Thank you.” Philip got out and helped India down.

The policeman unlocked the door and ushered them inside. India stood motionless in
the dim hallway that led to her dressing
room, and beyond to the spiral staircase
and the stage. She was overcome with sadness and fear, and yet strangely peaceful
too. The hours spent on the stage were a refuge from her grief over her father's
passing. Disappearing into her stage role, pretending to be someone else, had allowed
a respite, however brief. She led them to her dressing room and pointed out where
she had been sitting when Mr. Sterling had stopped at her open doorway to discuss
the night's performance. Where his new companion, Miss Bryson, had stood. Where the
mysterious woman in the dark cloak had waited none too patiently.

“So this is where you stopped first, when you arrived that night?” Philip turned
away from the policeman and spoke in low tones.

“No. I had just come in when I heard a noise on the stage, and I went up there to
see what had happened. That was when I saw Mr. Quinn. He had fallen off a ladder,
but luckily he wasn't hurt.”

“Show me.”

India led him and the policeman up the staircase to the stage and pointed out the
corner where she had seen the young stagehand.

“How long were you up here?”

“I don't know. Five minutes? Maybe ten. Mr. Quinn told me he'd noticed that Mr. Sterling
had upstaged me on opening night. He was hoping to remedy the situation by installing
an additional mirror that would cast more of the limelight onto the stage.”

Philip moved about the stage, his golden eyes taking in every detail. “Did you talk
to anyone else while you were up here?”

“No. I returned to my dressing room and waited for Fabienne to arrive.”

He paced the perimeter of the stage, his footfalls echoing in the cavernous space.
Reaching the slightly raised area near the footlights, he knelt and ran his fingers
along the wooden floor. “This is the trapdoor?”

“Yes. The room directly below is where Mr. Philbrick allowed me to keep my father's
things.”

“Where the gun was kept.”

“Yes.”

He got to his feet. “Where were you standing when the gun discharged?”

She walked him through the stage set, pointing out the settee that was positioned
upstage, facing the audience, and the small table downstage where she expected to
find the prop weapon.

“And when Mr. Sterling fell?”

“I dropped the weapon then, and I ran to Mr. Sterling. Everything afterward is muddled.
But last night, when I couldn't sleep, I kept going over it in my mind, and I remembered
thinking at the time that I might have heard a second shot.”

He put a hand on her arm. “Wait a minute. A second shot? Are you sure?”

“I think so. Just after the gun went off. But it was most likely the delayed sound
effect. Perhaps an echo. Or the sound of something being dropped backstage.”

“This could be important.” Impatience tinged his words. “Why didn't you tell me this
before?”

“Everything was in chaos. People were screaming, running every direction, shouting.
The police arrived almost at once. I
was shocked and scared. It's hard to remember
everything that happened, and when. But—”

“You about done here, Mr. Sinclair?” The red-bearded policeman jangled the set of
keys on a chain at his waist. “I'm missin' my Sunday dinner.”

“Just a minute, Officer.” Philip turned back to India, one brow raised in question.

She glanced at the darkened circle where Mr. Sterling's blood had seeped onto the
stage. “I think I must have screamed. Someone turned the lights up. You know the
rest.”

Philip stood in her place on the stage and raised one arm, as if sighting a weapon.
He dropped onto the floor in the same spot where Mr. Sterling had fallen, then rose
to run his fingers over the boards and along the wall at the back of the stage, like
a physician palpating a patient's skin. He paused. “Officer.”

The policeman hurried over and heaved an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

Philip handed the officer a small round ball. “I want this marked as evidence.”

India's heart sped up. “What is it?”

“It looks like a lead ball from a revolver.”

“But how could—”

Philip stopped her with a quick shake of his head. “I think we're finished here.
Let's lock up, officer, and you can go home to your Sunday dinner.”

On the way out of the theater, Philip paused for another quick sweep of India's dressing
room, then peered into the empty trap room and slid open the trapdoor. “I've always
wondered how those things work.”

“Trapdoors can be tricky,” India said.

They reached the door that opened onto the street.

“Once, during a performance of
Macbeth
in Baltimore, I stepped backward and nearly
fell into the trap room below. One of the stagehands literally shoved me back onto
my feet.” India pulled on her gloves. “He was eating an apple at the time, and it
flew out of his hand and landed beside the witches' cauldron. Everyone had to step
around it for the remainder of the first act.” Philip laughed, and she joined in.
India heard a muted oath as a newspaper reporter lurking at the end of the alley
regarded her through narrowed eyes.

JANUARY 30

“All rise.”

Philip took India's hand and drew her to her feet as the judge entered the packed
courtroom. Noise from the courthouse filtered in—footsteps on the stairs, the closing
of doors, the buzz of conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter. Shards of sunlight
poured through the windows, stabbing her eyes. The trees lining the street still
dripped water from last night's rain.

Dimly, India heard the recitation of the charges against her and the judge's quick
greeting to the men seated in the jury box. Behind her, spectators jostled for seating
on the polished wooden benches, their excited whispers mingling with the rustling
of fabrics as they settled in.

In the front row, newspaper reporters juggled bulky cameras, notebooks, and their
winter coats, some of them clearly
taking an unseemly delight in her misfortune.
The morning's edition of the
Savannah Morning Herald
had featured a drawing of her
and Philip laughing as they exited the theater under a headline that read “Murder
No Laughing Matter.”

Philip told her not to worry about it, but her mind filled with the heavy, relentless
beat of doubt: she was an outsider. The gun was hers. Everyone knew Arthur Sterling
had upstaged her the night before and that she had upbraided him for it.

Though Philip was feeling even more confident after finding the ammunition lodged
in the wall, perhaps it would prove to be unrelated to her case. She pressed her
hands to her midsection and tried to breathe.

Judge Bartlett, a brittle old man with a head of cotton-fluff hair, paged through
a stack of documents and cleared his throat. “Mr. McLendon, are you ready to proceed?”

The prosecutor, whose appearance and demeanor oozed Southern charm, stood. “We are,
Your Honor.”

“Mr. Sinclair?”

Philip nodded.

“Very well, Mr. McLendon, call your first witness.”