Page 27

“Good. The show is about to begin,” Inspector Drake said, offering his arm to Beatrice as the sound of bells chimed somewhere in the distance.

“We should take our seats.” He ushered Beatrice away, so Sir Huxley was forced to trail behind them with Miss Bolton, who had to walk slowly so as not to disturb the dollhouse contents of her hat.

“I discovered something which might be relevant to our case,” Beatrice murmured. “Did you know that Mr. Horace Vane owns The London Babbler ?”

“What?” Drake looked down at her with interest. “The Babbler publishes negative reviews of the Sweet Majestic. I would consider that further proof that Mr. Vane does not support local art, in spite of his claims.”

“The face he presents to one person is different than what he wears for the next,” Beatrice agreed.

“For a man who secretly hates the arts, he wears many masks,” Drake replied.

“Was that a quip?” Beatrice asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I fear I am giddy,” he said seriously. “You must forgive me—this is how I get just before an opera begins.”

Drake expertly pulled Beatrice through the crowd of theater attendees and down another hallway, and then drew back a curtain to reveal their box.

“I have never sat in such a prime spot,” he said, taking it in with reverence. “This box is wasted on Sir Huxley.”

He sank into one of the plush velvet chairs of the box, and she positioned herself next to him. The swell of chatter from the audience echoed below. Drake’s eye was alight with anticipation as he observed everything from high above in the stage-left box.

She realized, suddenly, that he was still holding her hand.

“Look there,” he said, pointing with his free hand to the wings.

“We will be able to see the actors just before they go onstage! And here,” he added, indicating the flies.

“We are so close to the backdrops. Perhaps we can tell something about the setting of the show….” He craned his neck, trying to get a closer look.

As much as Beatrice wanted to share in his excitement, she felt an impatience entirely unrelated to the impending performance. They were growing close to the truth about the case at hand—she could senseit.

On the other side of the theater, at the box above stage right, Diana and Horace Vane entered the small compartment.

Beatrice watched as Mr. Vane ushered his wife inside, the two taking seats on plush chairs identical to the ones upon which Drake and Beatrice sat.

It would be hours before they would all be reunited, arias and arias before Beatrice could pursue the course of investigation to which Caroline’s words led.

Like so many before her, Beatrice already could not wait for the opera to end.

The curtain to their own box opened, and Sir Huxley and Miss Bolton stepped inside. Beatrice immediately dropped Drake’s grasp.

She felt a strange pang akin to guilt when she saw Drake ball his hand into a fist.

“The extravaganza,” Miss Bolton said excitedly, “is about to begin!”

Indeed, boys in velvet uniforms began to race around the theater, snuffing out candles.

Miss Bolton and Sir Huxley took the seats behind Beatrice and Drake—Huxley looking irritated by the arrangement—and all four of them turned toward the stage just as the audience was cast into darkness. Two stagehands tugged on ropes to draw the curtains open.

“I only wish it weren’t a sequel,” Miss Bolton murmured as a hush fell over the crowd. “They’re never as good.”

But then Percival Nash stepped onto the stage, and the room broke into applause.

The actor had been commanding in their previous meetings, but Beatrice could see, now, exactly why he was so beloved.

Onstage, Percival seemed larger than life.

His chiseled features and roguish ponytail (which looked shinier than it had moments before.

Was it fake? She simply could not tell ) were perfectly accentuated by the stage lights, but it was his confident demeanor—his energy—that drew in the audience.

Percival paused at center stage, noticing a candle in the audience that the boys had yet to extinguish. He held up a finger to the audience, inhaled, and then let out a gust of air. Even from a distance, it was strong enough to put out the candle.

“The power of breath support!” he said, and the room broke into fresh applause.

Percival inhaled again, as if he were about to begin singing, but there was movement at the edge of the stage. He turned, and Beatrice traced his gaze.

A squirrel clambered up one of the curtains, its claws scratching into the velvet. Percival’s eyes narrowed.

He did a fanciful spin, aiming a kick at the bottom of the curtain. The fabric rippled, and the squirrel came loose and tumbled downward. A stagehand dressed in black appeared. He caught it, perfectly, in a little basket and then disappeared offstage.

The audience broke out into applause again, and Percival bowed.

“ Now we can begin!”

“Percival, I love you!” someone shouted, and Percival shook his head, grinning.

“I am not Percival,” he said in a booming voice. “My name is…” He broke into song: “Figaroooo!”

A crowd of actresses danced onto the stage, joining the fast-paced opening number. They sang so quickly that Beatrice could not make out the words, much less the plot; she was already completely lost. (It did not help that the opera was in Italian.)

Beatrice leaned back to whisper to Miss Bolton.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” she asked helplessly.

“There is a synopsis in the program,” Miss Bolton whispered back. She handed the pamphlet to Beatrice, who took it and strained to see by the reflection of the stage lights. Unfortunately, it was also in Italian, so she soon cast it aside.

“I cannot believe that we are seeing the Percival Nash,” Miss Bolton went on as the audience burst into applause, the opening number complete. “The most important performer of our generation!”

“I want to see more clearly. Let me use your lorgnette,” Beatrice whispered to Drake. “You must have one.”

He held a finger to his lips to shush her. She crossed her arms, and he relented, producing a pair of opera glasses from his pocket. She snatched them from his grasp, lifted them to her eyes, and focused on the stage.

Percival was stepping aside, exiting just as Caroline Wynn—or Felicity, as she insisted upon calling herself—stepped onto the stage in a sparkling gown.

The audience broke into fresh cheers, and she waved a hand as if to say, Stop!

You’re too kind. She drew in a breath and then began to sing a devastating aria.

(Devastating not because of its subject matter, which Beatrice did not understand, but because it was so annoyingly on pitch.)

Losing interest in the plot—which she had never grasped to begin with—Beatrice looked through the lorgnette at the crowd instead. This was where the real show was, she thought. She glanced over rows of rapt faces, many dabbing at teary eyes while Caroline sang.

“She is so talented. And she doesn’t even know it,” Sir Huxley murmured behind Beatrice.

Beatrice thought that Caroline definitely knew the degree of her talent but resisted a reply. Instead, she turned the lorgnette to the box directly across from them, where Mr. and Mrs. Vane sat.

While Mr. Vane looked adoringly at his wife, Mrs. Vane watched the stage, her face set in a dreamlike expression.

They were a strange match, Beatrice thought, but they shared one trait: Neither could be pinned down.

Mr. Vane leaned over and said something to Diana. She stiffened and then nodded. She stood up and, with a swish of the curtain, exited the box.

Now Mr. Vane was alone in the small compartment, his face aglow by the light of the stage. Beatrice regarded him.

He seemed tense. Had he and Mrs. Vane been arguing? Seconds before, he had gazed at her adoringly—so why had she left?

Something moved in the shadows behind Mr. Vane. Beatrice leaned forward, trying to make it out.

It happened before she could fully comprehend what was going on: A figure—she could not make out face or form—stepped out of the corner of the box and grabbed Mr. Vane, shoving him against the wall. He opened his mouth to yell, but the noise was drowned out by Caroline’s ridiculously perfect belt.

“Drake!” Beatrice grabbed his arm and pulled him along as she rushed from her seat. She shoved aside the curtains of their own box, dragging Drake into the hallway beyond. Upon their exit, Beatrice broke out into a run.

“What’s wrong? Is it the play?” Drake called from behind her. “It is much funnier if you understand Italian, I’m told—”

“Horace Vane is being attacked!” Beatrice cried.

At that, Drake asked no more questions; they ran side by side down the hallway, crossed the now-quiet lobby, and then raced down yet another hallway toward the stage-right box. Thank goodness she had worn her running boots, Beatrice thought—the distance between the two boxes was significant.

She feared they would not be fast enough.

They reached the box just as the aria ended and the auditorium erupted into applause. Drake pushed aside the curtain and Beatrice burst inside.

Onstage, Caroline Wynn curtsied and blew kisses, while in the box, there was a scene nearly as horrifying.

Mr. Horace Vane was splayed out in his plush seat, his face battered, a knife protruding from his chest.

Beatrice rushed to kneel next to him. She could see the slightest rise and fall of his chest, in spite of the knife plunged into his heart. He was still alive.

“We will help you,” she vowed. “Just hold on, Mr. Vane.”

He made a gurgling noise, and Beatrice leaned closer. He was trying to say something, the words strangled.

“The…actor,” he choked.

And then he collapsed in the chair, and it was over. The show could not go on—for Horace Vane was dead.