Vital Secrets (18 page)

As he motioned Armstrong to a chair across the table from him, Marc noticed, behind the crumpled features and depleted
expression of the veteran actor, Madge Frank walking slowly across the taproom with Tessa on one arm. They shuffled into the theatre, en route to Mrs. Thedford no doubt.

“You were drunk when all the fuss broke out?” Marc asked, hoping to get this part of the interrogation over with quickly.

“You won't believe this after what you saw yesterday afternoon on the stage, but I've been sober most of the time since we left New York last month,” Armstrong said wearily, as if he were beyond caring about anything anymore.

“Yet, according to what I heard Mrs. Thedford say, you managed to bring along a contraband supply of booze.”

Armstrong's posture stiffened, and the creases in his face did their best to express umbrage at the accusation. “I did nothing of the sort.”

“Then how did bottles of whiskey mysteriously appear whenever required?”

Armstrong blinked. “I've begun asking myself that very same question. At first when I found a half-drunk bottle in the bottom of my trunk, I thought it was left over from a trip I took to Philadelphia last fall. But yesterday after lunch, when I began pulling out my Lear and Prospero outfits, I found another part-bottle in one of the pockets, and I've been so upset lately with Merriwether's putdowns and insinuations, well, I just started in on it. And you saw what happened after that. Annemarie was furious.”

“Could Merriwether have planted those whiskey bottles deliberately?”

“That bastard would do anything to destroy my career!” Lear's anger flashed in the tragedian's eyes.

“Did you hate him enough to kill him?” Marc asked quietly.

Armstrong was not surprised by the question. “Of course I did. But after the fiasco of the afternoon, I went up to my room and thought mightily about finishing the bottle I'd hidden well. We had a play to put on, and I managed to resist. But after the play, I came straight up here and started in on it. I took it down in three or four swigs and passed out. When I woke up, it was pitch dark. I felt like hell. I puked all over the rug.”

Marc knew he had to ask the next question: “Did you hear Tessa cry out?”

Armstrong did not answer right away. He looked down at the table, and when he raised his eyes again to face Marc, they were brimming with tears. “Yes, I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I am ashamed to say I did nothing. My door was ajar. So was Tessa's. I heard her shriek, like she'd been stabbed. I knew she was in some sort of danger. But I was sick, I was woozy, my head was pounding, I was filled with self-loathing.”

“Did you see Clarence Beasley come running towards Tessa's room?”

“Yes. And I felt a wave of relief.”

Marc hated himself for continuing, but he did his duty: “Do you remember how long it was after the cry that you saw Beasley pass your doorway?”

“It wasn't right away, I know that, because I started
crawling towards the hall. Then I heard Beasley's door open and saw him coming to help.”

“Isn't it possible that Beasley may have come out of Tessa's room, slipped quietly back to his own room, and then pretended to be the rescuer by running noisily past your door?”

Armstrong was genuinely puzzled by the question. He gave it due consideration before answering. “I see what you're driving at but, no, that's not the way it happened. I heard Tessa scream. My door was open about a foot, and from where I was lying in my puke I could see Tessa's doorway across the hall. Nobody came out after the scream. Then, maybe a minute or two later, I saw Beasley come past.”

Marc tried to suppress the discouraging implications of Armstrong's testimony and concentrate on his next task. “While I have you here, Mr. Armstrong, I'd like to learn a bit more about Merriwether. I assume you've known him for some years, as both of you have starred on the New York stage, as rivals and colleagues.”

“What do you need to know other than the fact that the man was a monster with an ego the size of Manhattan Island?”

“Was he interested in politics?”

Armstrong snorted derisively. “That would have meant giving some thought to the welfare of others or the future of America, and Merriwether was obsessed with only his own appetites and satisfying them as often as possible.”

“He belonged to no political party or organization that you know of?”

“He didn't vote and even bragged about it.”

“He was attracted to women?”

“And they to him. But Annemarie kept him in his place. I'll give him his due there: he seemed to sense, like any cunning beast will, that his recovery and his progress in the world were bound up with Mrs. Thedford and her good grace. He was pathetically afraid of her, though he tried not to show it.”

“And yet he raped her ward?”

Armstrong winced at the word
raped.
“The son-of-a-bitch stepped over the line, didn't he? And got what he deserved. I hope they hang a medal around young Hilliard's neck.”

A noose was more likely, Marc thought.

“H
OW IS
T
ESSA DOING?”
M
ARC ASKED
Mrs. Thedford, who now sat across from him—fatigued, concerned, but with no loss of poise or inherent authority.

“She is recovering remarkably well. The drug that knocked her out kept her from seeing any of the horrors perpetrated in that room. The loss of her virginity appears to have been a physical trauma only. Nevertheless, I have insisted she rest in my room with Thea until this afternoon's rehearsal.”

“The show must go on,” Marc said, recalling that phrase from five years ago in his brief flirtation with summer theatre in London.

“If it is allowed to,” she said simply, holding his gaze in hers.

“But you've already rehearsed the Shakespeare program.”

“Yes, as you observed yesterday. But one of our characters has played his death-scene too well, and cannot be replaced.” Despite the natural beauty of her deep blue eyes, lustrous skin, honeyed tresses, and regal carriage, a profound sadness enveloped her. “Jason was a troubled and difficult man. Few people liked him. I made the effort to find the best part of him and have it take possession of the whole person. I thought I was succeeding.”

“I hate to be so blunt, but the man betrayed you by ravishing your ward.”

“I know,” she said angrily, “and I'd've picked up the nearest heavy object and brained him with it if I'd caught him at it—or clawed his eyes out as Cornwall did Gloucester's, and with as little remorse.”

“But you didn't?”

“Someone beat me to it.”

“You believe Ensign Hilliard did it?”

“All I know is that Clarence and Jeremiah shook me awake and dragged me in my nightdress down to that room, and your ensign was still standing over the body, clutching the sword. Everything else is a blur, because once I saw Tessa lifeless on the bed, I seemed to go blind with panic. Somehow I got her out of there, and I don't know what I was thinking of, but I didn't feel she would be safe till I got her as far away from there as I could. Madge Frank calmed me down, and I was persuaded to leave Tessa in her hands.”

“But why would Hilliard drive his sword through a man he had already disabled?”

Mrs. Thedford seemed to find the question disingenuous. “Surely you know the young man was in love?”

“But you loved her, too, in your way. Would you have driven that sword through Merriwether's chest as he lay, in all probability, dying?”

“That's very difficult to answer, Mr. Edwards. Each of us has the capacity to love and hate, and either quality has the potential to incite us to actions we would normally consider beyond us. But you saw what Tessa was up to during her scene with Lear? The girl is young and ambitious and feeling the urgency of her desires. What happened to her was almost inevitable, though I've done everything I could to forestall it. But to answer your question: I think that in the fury of seeing the deed being done, I'd've cracked the villain on the skull. But why would I then, with forethought and in cold blood, kill a man I admired and whose loss to the Bowery Company will likely prove ruinous?”

“Thank you for your candour, ma'am. I'm trying to understand the degree of hatred and moral outrage that must have propelled that sword through a man's torso into the floor underneath it. According to statements already made by Mr. Beasley and Mr. Armstrong, no one entered that room after Tessa's cry at the moment of the …”

“Penetration?”

Marc flushed. “Yes. And no one came out who hadn't been in there already.”

“Well, I'm relieved to hear that.”

“There is one other important matter you can help me with.”

“Please, name it.”

“Who arranges for the disposition and delivery of your many steamer-trunks?”

“An odd question, but one easily answered. I looked after all the financial aspects of the company, Jason and I shared the artistic responsibilities, and Jason alone handled the travel arrangements for us and the disposition of the baggage. Jeremiah does most of the actual lifting. Why do you ask?” She seemed more amused than anxious by this turn in the conversation.

“You have six trunks in Frank's storage-shed.”

“Probably. Only Jason and Jeremiah would know for sure. Have you counted them personally?”

“Humour me for a while longer, please. I take it that the contents of these trunks are not required here in Toronto?”

“Jason told me that he had put all the materials we no longer needed into three trunks and was arranging to have them shipped to New York City.”

The three with the rifles in them, Marc thought, and they would have been mysteriously “lost” en route. But exactly where would they have been “lost” if Merriwether had not been prematurely murdered? And who would have “found” them?

“Did anyone other than Mr. Merriwether have keys to those trunks?”

“No. We each have our own trunks, but only Jason had keys for the others.” Suddenly she lost her composure for the first time, and with a breaking voice said, “He kept them in a secret pocket inside his King Claudius robe. He thought I didn't know where they were, and I went along with it.”

“Please, don't upset yourself over the matter, Mrs. Thedford. I only asked because it might be necessary at some point in the investigation to have access to anything which might have belonged to him.”

If she were puzzled by this lame explanation, she had the good manners not to show it.

“Do you know if Mr. Merriwether had any money troubles?”

“Not really,” she said, back in control of herself once more. “No actor ever has enough money, but Jason had no one to support but himself, and I was the one risking my meagre capital in the quixotic venture of owning and operating a theatre in New York.”

“And you were counting on his return to star status?”

“Yes. That was the main reason we were trying out so many different plays and playbills. I had hoped that Jason would also do some directing at the new Bowery, but now …”

“Thank you for your co-operation. I'll let you know after the noon-hour whether you'll be able to carry on this evening.”

“Thank you. As I started to say earlier, if we can, we will substitute our musical and recitation program for the Shakespeare. It's something we have done on rare occasions when one of us is too ill to go on: it's a simple series of ‘acts' we can mount and adapt with an hour's notice.”

“I am amazed at the resilience of actors.”

“Would you do
me
a favour?” she said, getting up to leave.

“Of course.”

“I promised your friend Mr. Jenkin that I would have luncheon with him today in the dining-room at one o'clock. He's riding in from the fort. I know you want to keep the news from getting out—”

“Yes, but we also need to do nothing out of the ordinary to arouse suspicions. I'm sure you and Mr. Jenkin will find many more pleasant things to talk about.”

And, Marc thought, it'll give me a chance to make up a cover story for being in town and for Rick's unexplained disappearance—and have Owen take it back to the garrison.

“Thank you. Whatever we might say in our anger and our grief over the next few hours, please believe me when I say that we appreciate your kindness and courtesy.” With that she walked across the taproom and into the theatre.

Marc was about to send Wilkie to fetch Thea Clarkson when he heard the front door to the tavern slam open, and turned to see Lieutenant Spooner strut in and put an end to both kindness and courtesy.

L
ieutenant Spooner marched to the middle of the barroom with epaulets bristling, executed a teetering two-footed halt, and, regaining the perpendicular, whipped his shako-hat down to his thigh with an intimidating strop. Then he swivelled his head like a horned owl with a fixed stare, as if he expected to discover a cache of Yankee rifles under every table. Constable Cobb followed close behind but walked towards Marc.