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Chapter Fifteen

An Interruption

“What did he say?” Drake demanded, sinking down next to Beatrice.

“?‘The actor,’?” she whispered. At this Drake’s expression grew, somehow, even more serious.

They turned in tandem to examine Mr. Vane’s bloodied face.

The attacker had beaten him in the same manner as Mr. Nightingale and Mr. Shrewsbury, and then stabbed him, Beatrice could see.

It was a gory sight, and she deliberately looked away from Mr. Vane’s mangled visage, focusing instead on the knife protruding from his chest. She withdrew the weapon, blood welling from the wound as she extracted it.

The metallic scent filled her nostrils as she held it close to examine the blade.

Engraved upon it were the words THE SWEET MAJESTIC .

“Someone had to have custom-made this, to direct suspicion onto the actors,” Beatrice surmised. “Once again, it is not retractable, like the prop knives you described.”

Drake examined it. “Indeed. An obvious attempt at a frame job. A mark in Nash’s favor.”

They looked at each other, not voicing what they were both clearly thinking: The victim croaking out the phrase “the actor,” just after being attacked, was a mark against Nash. And a fairly big one.

“Percival was offstage while this occurred,” Beatrice told Drake. “He has never given any alibis for his whereabouts during any of the other murders. A killer could have taken advantage of his absence and planned the timing of the death accordingly. Or…”

“Or, Huxley is right, and Nash is the true murderer,” he said, finishing her thought.

Beatrice looked toward the stage. Caroline still stood there alone, curtsying to ongoing, thunderous applause. Roses rained down upon her, and she lifted her arms, beaming at her admirers, oblivious to what had just occurred offstage.

She was a star—just like Percival. Had he grown addicted to fame? Beatrice wondered. Had his mind been addled by constant veneration, countless standing ovations, causing him to kill in order to protect his livelihood?

Could Horace Vane have been correct in his suspicions?

There was movement in the wings.

“Look,” Beatrice hissed, pointing.

They could just make it out from their perch: Percival Nash had appeared, lingering offstage.

He wore a serious expression as he watched Caroline bow.

His hair looked pristine, though Beatrice noted that his signature ribbon was missing, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his brow.

Was this from the exertion of performance—or had he just run from backstage to this box and then back again?

Once the cheers for Caroline waned, Percival plastered on a smile and strode onstage to fresh waves of applause. The music began again, and Caroline and Percival struck up a chipper duet.

The attacker had beaten the victims’ faces, indicating a tremendous amount of anger. And, Beatrice thought as she watched him harmonize expressively, Percival Nash was a passionate man…

No, Beatrice thought. She mustn’t fall prey to the real killer’s clumsy attempts to cast suspicion upon Nash. He was innocent, and it was her job to proveit.

She began to rifle through Mr. Vane’s jacket pocket. Her thoughts were turning too vivid, too dark, and she needed to focus on gathering evidence instead of grim theories.

“Here is his wallet,” she murmured, withdrawing it from his pocket. “And his pocket watch…but no sweetbriar encased in glass.”

“What?” Drake inquired.

“Just something of sentimental value to Mr. Vane,” Beatrice explained. “He showed it to me on the carriage ride here. If the attacker took it, this is definitely personal.”

“We know the killer stole a statue from the previous murder scene. Perhaps there is a connection,” Drake suggested.

“The other theft seemed a ploy to frame Caroline Wynn.”

“You mean Felicity Lore.”

“Do you think someone intends to plant another ‘clue’?” Beatrice asked, not bothering to correct him. Caroline’s identity did not matter now; they had more serious matters at hand than stage names.

“We will keep an eye out. It seems probable,” Drake said, nodding.

“Wait. There is something in here,” Beatrice said, withdrawing another item from Mr. Vane’s pocket: a familiar silver necklace in the shape of a heart. “My locket,” she gasped, popping it open to confirm.

Sure enough, there were the painted faces of Louisa and baby Bee Bee, staring back at her in miniature.

“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said. “How… why …would Mr. Vane have this?”

She turned back to the body.

Mr. Vane’s arm was splayed out at an odd angle, and a shiver ran down Beatrice’s spine as she saw his wrist.

Sure enough, he possessed the same tattoo that had appeared on Cecil Nightingale’s wrist—and on the threatening notes that Mr. Nightingale and Mr. Shrewsbury had both received. She withdrew Elle’s quizzing glass from around her neck and examined it more closely.

Miss Equiano had been correct: When it came to clues, the necklace was useful. Under the magnifier, Beatrice could see that the skin around the tattoo was puffy and irritated.

Had he tried to remove it? Had he thought it was the reason he was being targeted and planned to save himself somehow?

“Beatrice,” Drake said urgently, and she dropped the quizzing glass. He had picked something up from the floor of the box and held it up for her to see.

It was a green ribbon—just like the one Percival Nash always wore.

At that moment, someone flung open the box’s curtains.

“Really, Drake,” said Sir Huxley. “Miss Steele came here with me, and I will not have you trying to—Good heavens.” He broke off as he took in the scene: Horace Vane, beaten and stabbed; Beatrice on the floor next to the corpse; and Drake, holding the possibly incriminating green ribbon.

Before Beatrice could process what was happening, Sir Huxley tore the ribbon from Drake’s grasp and rushed to the edge of the box. He leaned out to the audience and waved it in the air.

“Percival Nash is a murderer!” he cried.

His roar cut through the tinkling duet onstage.

The orchestra broke off, violinists and cellists and a baton-wielding conductor all looking from one another to Sir Huxley in obvious confusion.

A beat later, Percival and Caroline halted their song, both looking shocked and vexed by the interruption.

A hush swept over the audience as Sir Huxley spoke again, his voice ringing clearly throughout the theater.

“Horace Vane has been murdered, and I have evidence that Percival Nash killed him. You are all witnesses to his crime, and now, his arrest. Surrender yourself at once, sir!”

There were gasps and screams as audience members took in Sir Huxley’s words.

“Sir Huxley, please—” Beatrice began, grabbing his arm. “We cannot jump to such conclusions—”

Even if the jump seemed like more of a hop, at this point…

But Sir Huxley did not turn to her. Instead he growled in frustration, and Beatrice traced his gaze.

Caroline Wynn stood onstage, now alone. Percival Nash had fled.

“The stage door,” Sir Huxley said, whirling around. “I must apprehend him. Move, ” he insisted.

Drake was blocking the exit to the box.

“I cannot let you arrest another innocent person with no solid evidence,” he said firmly.

“And what is this ?” Sir Huxley asked, shaking the ribbon in Drake’s face. He tried to push past, but Drake blocked him once again.

“The ribbon is circumstantial,” Beatrice insisted. “Evidence does not always indicate what you think it does.”

“Exactly,” Drake agreed. “We must have better evidence—”

“You have claimed that my weakness is my bias,” Sir Huxley interrupted, addressing Drake. “But in this instance, you are the one with the bias.”

“I love the opera, yes, but I also recognize that Percival Nash has no real motive to—” Drake began, but Sir Huxley interrupted.

“The NAGS have threatened Mr. Nash’s career and community. I would call that a real motive. Everything that Percival Nash has ever worked for—fame, this theater, Figaro —could have been taken away by the three men he killed.”

“The same could be said for any of these performers—” Drake began, but Sir Huxley interrupted yet again.

“Besides, the bias you possess has nothing to do with the opera. If you had not inserted yourself into this evening—”

“You asked me to come. I hardly inserted myself,” Drake snapped.

“—then Miss Steele and I might have prevented such a thing from occurring. We would have been sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Vane, and the killer would never have dared attack with me there,” Sir Huxley wenton.

“We do not know that the killer would have been stopped,” Beatrice cut in. “They could have attacked at any point. You can hardly blame Drake for—”

“He is distracted,” Sir Huxley said, shaking his head. “And you have very strong opinions about how a case suffers when someone is distracted, don’t you, Inspector?”

Drake’s entire body stiffened, a muscle in his jaw visible. For a moment he was still, the words washing over him.

There seemed to be some understanding, something unspoken, between the two men, and Beatrice looked back and forth between them, trying to glean what it was.

“Step aside,” Sir Huxley said, his voice softening. “Else a murderer will go free, and the blood of his victims shall be on your hands.”

Beatrice expected Drake to push back, to force Huxley to stand down. But instead he pulled aside the curtain, making room for Huxley to pass through. Sir Huxley gave a nod of farewell and then disappeared from the box.

The theater below was in chaos, still. The audience had erupted in terrified chatter peppered with shrieks, and they were scrambling from their seats, falling over one another as they tried to leave the Sweet Majestic.

Onstage, Caroline Wynn had finally exited.

The empty set—a charming pasture scene—now looked foreboding, the fabric flowers and painted backdrop a haunting contrast to the murder that had just occurred.

Stagehands rushed to blow out the candles lining the stage, and others cleared away the set pieces.

One drew the curtain closed, casting the theater into shadow.

Candle boys finally came around, relighting candles so the audience could find their way out.

“What are you doing? We must go!” Beatrice exclaimed to Drake, who had frozen. “We might be able to determine where Percival—”

“No. Sir Huxley is right,” Drake said. His voice was low and tense, and Beatrice stared at him, shocked. Had he really just uttered those words? “I am…I have been…distracted.” Drake went on, “I should recuse myself from the investigation, or else it will be ruined. I…I must go.”

“But, Drake—” Beatrice began, completely confused.

But he did not wait to hear what she had to say. In the blink of an eye, Inspector Vivek Drake was gone.

For a moment Beatrice was alone in the box, apart from Horace Vane’s body. She was unnerved.

Why had Drake been so affected by Huxley’s words?

Beatrice had come all the way to London to partner with Drake, and he had just abandoned her…again. This time with a note of finality. Now she had to either deal with everything herself or simply allow Huxley to arrest the (potentially) wrong person.

A rustle of skirts sounded behind her, and Beatrice whirled around just as Diana Vane stepped into the box. She held up two glasses of champagne, her hands shaking.

“He…he sent me to fetch a drink,” she whispered, her face pale as mime’s makeup. “He said he didn’t want to…miss anything.”

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vane,” Beatrice said, taking Diana’s arm. “This is not a sight you will wish to see—”

But Diana shook her off. She dropped the champagne, glasses shattering on the floor, and rushed to her husband’s side.

“I don’t understand. How could this have happened?” She trembled violently as she examined Mr. Vane.

“We will find the culprit,” Beatrice assured her, though she had no idea if she could even make such a claim now. With Drake off the case, her own involvement was unclear.

And even if she found justice, it was not really enough. In a moment, Mrs. Vane’s entire life had been forever altered.

The silver-haired woman suddenly recoiled.

“What is it?” Beatrice stepped forward. Mrs. Vane rushed to her feet.

“It’s…it’s just too much,” she choked out. “Please. Will you take me away from here? Take me home.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

Beatrice realized her opportunity. Drake had recused himself, but she had done nothing of the sort, and now she was alone with a woman at the very center of the case.

She held out an arm, and Mrs. Vane took it, allowing Beatrice to lead her out of the box.

Sir Huxley may have forgotten about the wife left behind, focused only on the man he wanted to pursue—but Beatrice would make no such oversight.