An Act of Villainy by Ashley Weaver

Author:Ashley Weaver
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

16

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I had my first opportunity to put Mrs. Roland’s theory to the test.

I sat alone at the breakfast table, Milo still abed, and looked at the paper. As I had suspected, the society columns had devoted a great deal of space to discussing Flora Bell’s funeral the previous day, complete with a photograph taken as the mourners left the church.

I looked closely at the photograph, hoping Mrs. Roland’s words about a mask slipping might prove true at such a solemn event.

I had never been to an actress’s funeral, but the photograph looked as though it was a perfect representation of what one might expect from the attendees. They all stood on the steps of the church, dressed in black, a striking collection of characters. There was Dahlia Dearborn in a tailored black suit, pressing a handkerchief to the corner of her eye beneath the black tulle veil on her hat, her profile turned, just so, to the camera. Her grief, I was certain, was not genuine, but that did not mean she was a killer.

Christopher Landon was there as well, his handsome face taut and expressionless. He was a difficult man to read, though there was something tense in his posture that seemed to speak of some emotion he was trying to quell. Sorrow, perhaps, or something else?

I was surprised to see that Balthazar Lebeau was also in attendance. I had thought, somewhat cynically, that, though he was the sort of man who enjoyed the fanfare of a public event, he would not be tempted to attend the funeral of someone he had not liked for mere secondhand attention. There was a certain sadness in his expression, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was feigned.

Of those involved in the theatrical production, only Mr. Holloway looked as though he was truly grief-stricken, though he appeared to be doing his best to hide it. He stood at the center of the group, his head slightly bowed, as if he had not noticed the cameras. Despite his obvious efforts to control his expression, his face was grim and tight, and there was that same defeated slump to his shoulders that had been present at the meeting at our flat.

I skimmed the article and found that there were several snide references to his relationship with Miss Bell, and I could not help but feel terrible for poor Georgina. I didn’t think she was the type to read society columns, and I was fairly certain she would be making an effort to avoid them now. Sometimes it was better not to know.

I looked again at the photograph, willing something to jump out at me. The only problem with attempting to read people’s emotions was that guilt was so easily masked as something else: sorrow, regret, pain. My gaze went last to Frederick Bell, Flora’s brother, who stood at one side of the group. He looked like an outsider, almost as though he did not quite belong with them, though his claim to mourning Flora was stronger than any of theirs.

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