A Respectable Actress (4 page)

The wagon halted before a large two-story building situated on a corner of Wright
Square. White columns graced porticoes on two sides. Deep porches sheltered wide
entry doors. In the yard stood a couple of handsome rigs pulled by sleek horses that
stood patiently cropping grass.

“Here we are,” the policeman said. “Chatham County Courthouse.”

He escorted her across the yard and into a wood-paneled courtroom on the first floor. He motioned India to a chair, crossed the room, and knocked on a door. “Judge?
I've got Miss Hartley out here.”

India suddenly felt faint. She hadn't done anything wrong. But could she convince
the judge? And would she be permitted to speak to a lawyer? She was sick with nerves,
fatigue, and terror. She licked her lips. “May I have some water?”

“When His Honor gets in here. I can't leave you unattended.”

“No, I suppose not.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Is there any word on Mr.
Sterling?”

“I'm not allowed to say, miss.”

The door opened and two men came in. The first, clad in a black robe, took his seat
on the bench. He was thin and light haired and younger than India had expected. His
pale eyes behind thick gold-rimmed spectacles blinked owlishly. “Miss Hartley.”

“Yes.” She studied the other man, who was everything the judge was not. Tall and
broad shouldered, he was impeccably dressed in a gray woolen suit, white shirt, and
dark blue cravat. Thick curly hair the color of molasses framed a perfectly proportioned
face. His tawny eyes held hers.

“Miss Hartley,” said the bespectacled man, “I'm Judge Russell. Now, I know you must
be frightened and I want to assure you, we are here only to get to the bottom of
the tragic events of last evening. We aim to determine whether a crime has been committed.
If so, there will be a trial later on to determine by whom.”

“I understand.” She cast a pleading look at the policeman, who hurried from the room.

“The gentleman to my left is Mr. Sinclair,” the judge continued. “He is a member
of the Georgia Bar, and even though in my opinion it's too soon for you to need his
services, he is here at
the insistence of Mrs. Sutton Mackay to see to your interests.
I believe you know the lady.”

“I have never met her, but I know of her.”

The officer returned with a glass of water. She drank half of it before setting it
down.

“Very well.” The judge signaled to the policeman, who opened the door and ushered
in a half-dozen men, most of them bleary-eyed but well dressed and wearing expressions
as somber as the judge's. The judge cleared his throat. “I've sworn these men as
an inquest jury, Miss Hartley. Now.” He opened a leather binder and took out a sheaf
of papers. “From what I understand, Mr. Arthur Sterling suffered a gunshot wound
last night during a performance at the Southern Palace. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“All right. What happened?”

India took another sip of water and tried to marshal her wits. What if she said the
wrong thing? She could not bear another moment inside the bedlam that was the Chatham
County Jail. She had to make the judge see that what had happened was an accident
not of her making. “The theater manager came to my dressing room before last evening's
performance and told me he wanted to make a change in the play. I didn't want to
do it because I knew the playwright, Mr. Morgan, would be upset, and I wanted at
least one chance to rehearse it first. But Mr. Philbrick refused. He told me to do
it his way or he would send the understudy onstage in my place.”

Mr. Sinclair crossed the room and pulled up a chair next to India's. Something about
his solid presence and his kind expression calmed her. He motioned for her to continue.

From his bench, Judge Russell peered down at her. “What kind of a change?”

“Well, the script calls for my character, Viola, to throw a vase at Mr. Sterling's
character. But Mr. Philbrick thought it wasn't sensational enough. He told me I
was to pretend to shoot Mr. Sterling instead, but of course I would miss. Otherwise
there could be no second act.”

The judge's thin lips formed a slight smile. “I suppose not. Go on.”

“I told Mr. Philbrick I was uneasy about pretending to shoot a gun without a rehearsal,
but he insisted.”

“Surely you didn't intend to fire an actual gun in a crowded theater.”

“No, sir. Mr. Philbrick showed me the prop. He said the firing pin was missing and
it was perfectly safe. During the argument between Mr. Sterling's character and
mine, I was to grab the gun and level it at Mr. Sterling. The prop man would simulate
the sound of gunfire by clapping two pieces of wood together from behind the stage.”

“Fascinating. So the play began. Then what?”

“We got to the scene near the end of the first act where I was to fire at Mr. Sterling.
I was working in the semidarkness, because despite the addition of extra mirrors
to reflect more light, Mr. Sterling had once again usurped my place on the stage.”

“And you were angry at him for doing so.”

Mr. Sinclair touched India's sleeve. “Don't answer that.”

Judge Russell frowned. “So, Miss Hartley. You were standing in the dark?”

“Yes, sir. And I felt around for the gun Mr. Philbrick was supposed to have put there.”

“And was it there?”

“At first I couldn't find it, and I was nervous because the timing of the scene depended
on the sound of gunfire. When I finally located it, I picked it up, and the next
thing I knew Mr. Sterling fell and—” India started to cry.

“We need a break, Judge.” Mr. Sinclair handed India his handkerchief.

“Almost finished, Mr. Sinclair.” Judge Russell paged through his report. “When did
you realize the gun was not disabled after all?”

“When Mr. Sterling collapsed and the house lights came on.” India shuddered at the
recollection of what happened then: the audience in an uproar, police whistles blaring,
two men carrying Mr. Sterling from the stage. The hem of her costume soaked in blood.

The courtroom door opened. Another policeman entered, crossed the room, and whispered
to the judge.

“When the house lights came up, and you could see more clearly, Miss Hartley—then
did you recognize the weapon?”

Dizzy with terror, she whispered, “Yes.”

“So even though it obviously was not the gun Mr. Philbrick had supplied for the scene,
you had seen it before?”

“Yes.”

“And how is that?”

“The gun is mine.”

C
HAPTER
3

M
R
. S
INCLAIR BOLTED FROM HIS CHAIR
. “Y
OUR
H
ONOR
, I insist on a break to consult with my client.”

“You'll have plenty of time for that, sir.”

The judge turned to the men seated in the jury box. “I have just been informed that
Mr. Sterling has succumbed to his injury. Do you gentlemen wish to retire to consider
an indictment?”

The men murmured among themselves. One of them rose, thumbs hooked into his suspenders.
“No need, Judge Russell. We are in agreement that enough evidence exists to hold
a trial.” India swayed in her chair and barely heard the judge's next words. “India
Hartley, you are charged with the murder of Arthur Sterling and are hereby bound
over for trial at a date to be determined.”

She went numb. Yes, the gun was hers, but she had no idea how it had wound up on
the stage. And hadn't she just explained that what happened was an accident? Surely
she would not be condemned to the gallows because of an unfortunate mistake. The
officers were already moving toward her, preparing to take her back to the stench
and racket of the county jail. With Christmas
coming, who knew how long she would
languish there before a trial could be arranged?

“Your Honor.” Mr. Sinclair approached the judge's bench. “I have not even been properly
introduced to my client. I cannot possibly prepare her defense without time to uncover
the facts and discuss them with her. You cannot remand her into custody.”

The judge frowned. “Mr. Sinclair, I remand criminals into custody every day of the
year. Other lawyers manage to mount a defense while their clients are behind bars.
I don't see why this case ought to be any different.”

“Let's speak privately and I'll tell you why.”

The judge pulled out his watch. “I've got a case starting in fifteen minutes.”

“I won't need that long.”

India studied the lawyer's face. Could she trust him? She had never laid eyes on
him before today, and now her future, perhaps her very life, rested in his hands.

The judge rose, and Mr. Sinclair followed him out of the courtroom. The two policemen
flanked India, arms folded across their chests. The older of the two, the one who
had brought her here from the jail, handed her the half-empty water glass. She drank
the rest of it and then stood with her eyes cast down so they wouldn't see her tears.
She fumbled in her pocket for the handkerchief Mr. Sinclair had given her. If only
Father were alive. If only her touring company had not been stolen from her. If only
Mr. Philbrick hadn't insisted on changing the script. How quickly a life could be
destroyed.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her burning eyes.
Mr. Sterling was dead. How
had her own gun found its way onto the stage?

The door opened, and Mr. Sinclair came out alone. He flashed a paper at the two policemen
and offered India his arm. “Come with me.”

She blotted her tears. “I don't want to go back to jail.”

“You aren't going to jail. You're going to St. Simons. With me.”

“St. Simons?”

“It's an island about a day's journey by steamer from here. I've a plantation there.
Or I did have, before the war. It's mostly a ruin now.”

She followed him out of the courthouse and into the bright December sunlight. He
helped her into his rig and sent her a reassuring smile. “Indigo Point is slightly
better than the Chatham County Jail. The house is still standing, and it's quiet
there. We'll have time to prepare your defense away from the prying eyes of this
city. I love Savannah, but I must admit folks here find it hard to ignore a juicy
scandal.”

He flicked the reins and turned the rig. “Did you leave anything at the jail?”

“They wouldn't let me bring anything. Not even a comb.”

“We'll go by the theater and collect your things.”

“Most of my clothes are at the hotel.”

He nodded.

“Mr. Sinclair, I am beyond grateful for your help, but I confess I don't understand
why you are going to such lengths to assist a total stranger. Especially since I
haven't the means to pay you.”

“As the judge said, Miss Hartley, you have an ardent patron.
Mrs. Sutton Mackay happened
to be in the theater last night. She was quite incensed by the way you were hauled
off to the jailhouse like some common thief. She has some experience in dealing with
scandal and wanted to spare you the same unhappiness.” He slowed the rig as they
turned onto Bull Street. “She and her late father, Mr. Browning, were very protective
of this city. She hasn't said so, but I suspect she offered to help you in part to
save Savannah's face. It wouldn't do to have such a distinguished guest treated
so poorly.”

“I would like to call on her, to thank her for her generosity.”

“There isn't time. Captain Mooreland's boat leaves for the island in an hour. We've
barely time to collect your belongings and get to the wharf.”

India hesitated as another thought hit her. Was she to be alone on this remote island
with a strange gentleman? Was there a Mrs. Sinclair in residence?

He turned to her, and the look in his eyes told her that he understood her unspoken
question. “My sister, Amelia, lives with me at the Point. As does our housekeeper,
Mrs. Catchpole. Since the war, several of my former bondsmen have taken up sharecropping
with me. And Fan Butler has just returned to St. Simon's to check on her father's
holdings. My house is a big house. There's plenty of room. Plenty of people about.
We'll be well chaperoned, if that's what's bothering you.”

“I . . . I don't know how to thank you.”

“Just tell me everything you can remember so we can win your case.” He sent her a
rueful smile. “Now that my plantation is falling into ruin, all I have is my law
practice.”

“And winning my case would cement your reputation.”

Something flashed in his eyes. “Perhaps. But that isn't why I chose to defend you.”
He halted the rig at the hotel then helped her down. “Let's get your things.”

“I need to speak to my dresser. And Mr. Philbrick,” she said as they made their way
into the hotel's spacious lobby.

“No time, I'm afraid. I'll go by the theater while you're packing. You can leave
a note for your dresser. The hotel manager will see that it's delivered.”

“But Fabienne is—”

“Miss Hartley, I do sympathize. But you do not want to be here when the news of Mr.
Sterling's demise hits the streets. Please hurry and pack. I'll be back in half an
hour.”

He left her there. Aware of the curious stares of the hotel staff, India went up
to her room and collapsed on her bed, dizzy with hunger and paralyzed with disbelief.
Alone. Nearly broke. Accused of murder. How had her life come so unraveled?

The little French mantel clock chimed, reminding her of Mr. Sinclair's imminent return.
She rose and began packing her things, folding petticoats and chemises, stockings
and dressing gowns into one of her two large trunks. Day dresses and her one still-stylish
evening dress went into the other, along with a fine woolen cloak, a pair of buff-colored
half boots, and three pairs of kid gloves. She had brought along only three hats
for this Southern theater tour, and now she carefully packed two of them into pink-and-white-striped
hatboxes.