Page 34 of The Amsterdam Enigma (The Continental Capers of Melody Chesterton #3)

I t seemed Melody’s disguise was convincing enough; no one challenged her as she walked through the theatre, carrying the pile of clothes.

At one point, she glimpsed herself in a mirror propped up in a corridor, waiting to be taken on stage.

In her plain dress and apron, with her hair pulled back and the clothes in her arms, she genuinely looked like she worked in the costume department.

As much as Alessandro had initially opposed her joining them that afternoon, he was eventually persuaded, though reluctantly, that a wardrobe mistress could access different parts of a theatre than propmen could. However, now that she was actually in the theatre, Melody wasn’t sure where to begin.

They suspected they weren’t the only ones pretending to be part of the crew, and that at least one German in the theatre was assembling the bomb and executing the rest of the plan. If Rat and Alessandro were searching for the bomb parts, perhaps she should try to identify this individual. But how?

Melody considered their plan to blend in while doing something other than working on the sets and costumes.

Perhaps she should look for someone similarly pretending to work.

This was easier said than done. There was also only so long she could wander around holding the same pile of clothes before someone questioned what she was doing!

Finally, she spotted a chair to the side of the stage and decided to sit and watch while pretending to sew.

Neither Granny nor Tabby Cat had ever suggested that Melody gain proficiency in any of the usual skills that refined young ladies were expected to know.

She couldn’t play an instrument, hadn’t painted anything since she was in the nursery, and had no idea how to do needlepoint.

Instead, she had played chess with Uncle Maxi, learned to fence, and was an excellent shot.

In fact, the dowager had insisted that Melody take self-defence lessons.

Until that moment, Melody had questioned no aspect of her education.

However, sitting on a chair with a needle and thread in her hand, she hoped no one could actually see what she was doing with it, because her disguise would be utterly unbelievable as soon as they saw the mess she’d made of the chemise.

As she sewed - or rather jabbed her needle into the fabric in a poor imitation of sewing - Melody watched the comings and goings backstage.

She wondered if anyone would ask why she was sitting where she was, sewing instead of occupying the usual spot of a wardrobe mistress, but no one did.

Perhaps she was benefiting from the convergence of two theatre companies from different countries, each assuming she belonged to the other, who did things a little differently.

After thirty minutes, Melody wondered whether this plan was a waste of time; she had no clue what she was looking for.

She hoped Rat and Alessandro were having more luck than she was.

Just as she thought this, she saw a woman cross the stage with a pile of clothes; that must be the actual wardrobe mistress.

Suddenly, Melody worried that if anyone was going to question who she was or what she was doing, it would be this woman.

The wardrobe mistress stopped to talk to someone, and Melody was just about to stand and move away to a place where she wouldn’t be seen, when something about the woman caught her eye.

The wardrobe mistress looked very familiar, but why on earth would that be?

Melody stood and moved into the shadows, gaining a better view of the other woman’s face.

The woman had red hair, which, for some reason, didn’t seem right to Melody.

She tried to imagine the woman with a different hair colour.

As soon as she pictured that face with much darker hair, she realised who the woman was: she was Mevrouw Brenner, Karl Brenner’s wife.

Of course, the woman might have a job as a wardrobe mistress, but why was her hair a different colour?

She stepped forward slightly to try to hear the conversation and realised that the so-called Widow Brenner was speaking German. Again, there was nothing inherently suspicious about that. Melody assumed many Dutch could speak the language of the neighbouring country.

Melody’s German wasn’t perfect, but even she could understand what the woman had said: “The materials are here. Get ready for assembly.” Get ready for assembly? What did that mean?

The wardrobe mistress began walking away, and Melody decided to follow her. It wasn’t easy keeping sight of the woman as she navigated the maze of dark backstage corridors while maintaining a careful distance to avoid being noticed, and more importantly, recognised.

Finally, the woman turned a corner, and by the time Melody had followed at a safe distance, she saw her enter a room.

What should she do next? Every instinct told her something was unusual about this situation, but she wasn’t sure how to act.

That was her last clear thought before she felt a sharp pain in her head and blacked out.

When she woke, she was lying on the floor with her hands and feet bound.

Melody could hear voices speaking German.

German! Perhaps the woman wasn’t Dutch after all.

She lay still, keeping her eyes closed, pretending to still be unconscious.

The voices were low, and she strained to listen and understand what they were saying.

One word she didn’t need to translate was “bomb.” Melody was sure the female voice, speaking as she heard that word, was Widow Brenner, and the other was a man.

Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what this meant.

Was Vermeer not just an informant but working for Germany all along?

Is that what was implied? But if that was true, why was he killed?

Melody thought back to what Alessandro had said about Karl Brenner’s wife.

He’d said that when Brenner didn’t return home for two nights, she’d gone to her local police station to report him missing.

At that point, they’d had her identify the body.

Melody assumed that was how Alessandro’s journalist had discovered her address.

Would the police have questioned whether the woman was who she claimed to be?

Why would they bother? They’d pulled a body out of a canal, and she had conveniently come along and identified it.

Melody couldn’t imagine the police in London caring much beyond that if the man wasn’t someone of significance.

Yet, if she wasn’t Brenner’s common-law wife, why provide a real address?

And when they visited, she was dressed in widow’s weeds and appeared quite genuine.

Melody even recalled Alessandro remarking on how guileless and honest the woman seemed.

Even amidst her fear and confusion, Melody was amused by how ironic it would be if Alessandro, the seasoned operative, turned out to have been so completely mistaken in that judgement.

One thing was certain: Melody had to escape and take this information to Alessandro and Rat.

First, these people needed to leave. Trying to make as little noise as possible, Melody tested how well her hands and feet were bound.

The rope didn’t seem overly tight, and she believed she had a chance of freeing herself.

For now, though, she had to lie there and pretend she hadn’t woken up.

Soon, the woman left, but the man remained.

Melody had nothing to do but review everything they knew, or thought they knew.

She kept returning to what William had told her: “I became worried that Vermeer had been compromised. I was concerned about the authenticity of the false flag information; some of it seemed too perfect.”

Melody vividly remembered his words. He’d suspected Vermeer had been compromised and had warned the Foreign Office, who not only ignored the warning but also dismissed him.

Was this how the informant had been compromised, through his wife?

Or was the woman even that? Melody considered again that there was no reason to believe that was who she was, except that she’d told the police that story.

A story she’d repeated to Melody and Alessandro.

If the woman wasn’t his wife, why had she stayed in that house as his widow?

Melody’s eyes opened with a start. If she could have sat upright with surprise, she would have.

What if she’d stayed in that house waiting for them?

What if she’d known they would come? Even if Brenner, the man they’d known as Vermeer, was who he claimed to be, William worried he’d been compromised.

Perhaps that was why he’d been killed. Maybe this woman had killed him and then gone to the police pretending to be his wife.

She’d given an address and then waited, somehow knowing that Alessandro would discover it and visit.

Then, Melody thought about the story the woman had told about Vermeer.

It had been so convincing. Perhaps it was even true.

Certainly, it made the informant credible and kept them all following the trail he had left.

Then, she reconsidered William’s words that the information seemed too perfect.

She thought about how easily Rat had found the crates at the docks.

Not too easily to be immediately suspicious, but easily enough.

He’d assumed it was luck, but what if it wasn’t?

Melody realised she needed to escape and find Rat and Alessandro. As if answering her prayer, at that moment, the man rose and left the room. Finally, she had the opportunity she needed.

As soon as Melody began wriggling her hands, she realised how badly they were bound.

She pushed herself towards a wall and managed to get upright.

Then, she leaned down to her hands and started using her teeth to unravel the knot.

It was lucky they hadn’t bound them behind her back.

It took some time, but eventually, she was able to undo the knot and free her hands.

From there, it didn’t take long to free her equally badly bound feet.

Standing up, she checked her pocket, hoping her lockpicks hadn’t been taken.

Relieved, she found they were still in one pocket and her revolver was still in the other.

The door was locked, as expected, but easy to pick.

It only took a few minutes for Melody to free herself.

Now, she had to find Alessandro and Rat without running into the man and woman who had tied her up.

She knew what the woman looked like but hadn’t been able to see much of the man from where she’d been lying, pretending not to be conscious.

The only thing she had seen was that his boots looked new and not at all the kind of footwear she’d expect stagehands to own or certainly not to wear to work.

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.