Page 35 of The Amsterdam Enigma (The Continental Capers of Melody Chesterton #3)

R at and Alessandro discovered they could move around the theatre freely, with no challenge.

Carrying the rope and tools, it was credible that they’d been sent by someone to fix something.

Certainly, it was believable enough that other busy workers had no interest in looking up from their labours and asking questions.

They made their way through the backstage area, weaving past crates of set pieces and stacks of painted props.

Their plan was straightforward: search the theatre from top to bottom for evidence of bomb materials, false compartments, or anything that looked out of place.

The German plan might depend on hiding something in plain sight.

“Should we split up?” Rat asked.

Although doubling the area they might otherwise search if they stayed together seemed logical, there was the language barrier if Rat was challenged, and also the concern about what one of them would do alone if he encountered something suspicious.

While time was critical, they risked wasting a lot of time searching for each other if they separated, so they decided to search together.

“I know that we have a working hypothesis that the Germans won’t be prepared to blow up the entire theatre because of the German theatre company, but I don’t think we should let that stop us from searching the stage thoroughly,” Alessandro said carefully.

“What do you suggest?” Rat asked.

Alessandro looked upwards at the rafters above the stage.

Rat followed his gaze upwards. From the stage floor of the Stadsschouwburg, looking up into the fly loft of the theatre, it appeared like a chaotic jumble of rafters, ropes, and pulleys.

Thick hemp lines hung in ordered rows, stretching from the beams overhead down to the stage floor, each connected to backdrops, curtains, or pieces of suspended scenery.

Some quivered with tension, others hung slack, swaying ever so slightly with the draft.

If Rat squinted, he could see the narrow wooden catwalks that stretched across the fly loft like rickety bridges.

Standing on those catwalks, stagehands moved silently along narrow planks, checking rigging or preparing the next cue.

A few thin beams of daylight filtered through rigging windows up high near the roof, catching the dust and creating a haze that made the space feel dreamlike and vast.

“Do you really think that’s where they’re planning to put the bomb?

” Rat asked sceptically. “Apart from anything else, there are quite a few people up there working. I can’t imagine it would be simple for someone to get up there and set something up without being noticed and challenged.

” While Rat genuinely felt this, he also had little desire to climb up to and then balance on those rafters.

He wouldn’t have said he had a fear of great heights so much as a sensible awareness of his balance and coordination skills.

Of course, Rat thought, Alessandro might have been offering to be the one to climb up to the fly loft. However, it seemed that was not the case. Instead, Alessandro said, “Perhaps you’re right. Let us start with the areas around the royal box. You can always go up if we don’t find something.”

Both men looked out towards where the audience would be seated later that day.

As was usually the case, it looked as if the royal box was centred in the first balcony tier, directly opposite the stage, offering the best view in the house.

Like most of the theatres in London’s West End, this box was easily distinguishable by its decorative elements, grander design, and gilt trim .

Rat looked around them. Everywhere, workers were busy. The entire stage and what they could see of backstage were a hive of activity. Men were hammering, moving props, and yelling from the rafters. It was as good a time as any to move.

They walked down from the stage, skirted the edge of the stalls, and exited through the door.

Once out in the hall, they glanced around to ensure no one was nearby, then slipped into the grand stairwell that led to the tiers above.

Gas wall lamps hissed faintly, unlit but ready, their mantles waiting for the theatre’s gas master to pass with his taper before that evening’s performance.

The theatre was very ornate; polished marble, grand and wide, swept upward in elegant curves. At the first landing, a massive mirror reflected the two of them in their disguises, with their caps pulled low on their heads. They didn’t look any different from the many other men working.

“How are we going to manage this?” Rat asked as they passed gilt-framed portraits of long-dead impresarios. “Won’t the royal box be locked? And guarded, tonight of all nights?”

“Exactly,” Alessandro said. “If I were hiding something explosive meant to cause a scandal, I’d put it somewhere symbolic.

Somewhere guaranteed to draw attention. And what’s better than blowing up the queen’s box?

But the bomb doesn’t have to be in the box itself to cause damage.

So we need to look out for anywhere nearby. ”

Rat didn’t argue. They reached the first balcony tier, its wide hallway carpeted in deep blue with gold trim.

Here, the theatre’s grandeur was most evident: double doors lined the inner wall, each leading to private boxes.

Floral plasterwork curled across the ceiling like vines.

A pair of golden sconces flanked the central royal box, its door larger, with a subtle crown motif carved above.

Rat slowed down. The corridor was empty, but a faint humming echoed from somewhere nearby. Someone was humming a tune, however badly.

Alessandro held up a hand. “Someone’s here.”

They pressed against the wall, creeping forward.

The humming grew louder, until they finally saw their singer: a porter in a waistcoat too tight for his belly, holding a feather duster in one hand and a tin of polish in the other.

He was swaying on his feet as he wiped down the balustrade outside the royal box, unaware of the intruders.

They faced a choice: wait for him to move on, or stroll in as if they had been given a task to do.

Making a decision, Alessandro stepped out.

He began speaking in German to indicate that he wasn’t one of the Dutch workers.

Then, quickly apologised in Dutch and switched his language.

He hoped that anything that didn’t sound like a typical worker’s accent when he spoke German would be explained in this way.

The porter was startled by his words, nearly dropping his tin. “What…? Who…?” he said in Dutch.

“Stage crew,” Alessandro replied. “Special inspection. They’re worried the structure beneath the royal box might be…” For a moment, he couldn’t think what the right word was in Dutch. Then it came to him, “that it might be compromised.”

The man frowned. “No one told me anything about that.”

“Course not,” Alessandro said smoothly. “They’re trying to be discreet because no one wants to take the blame that this hasn’t been dealt with until tonight. They’re concerned about vibrations from the new drop curtain system. Apparently, the foundation underneath this side isn’t quite level.”

This seemed to persuade him.

“I always said it didn’t feel right,” the porter muttered, nodding. “Feels like it sways when people laugh too hard. Can’t have that when the royals are here tonight, can we?”

He turned and waddled away towards the stairwell, humming again. They waited until he was out of sight before moving to the royal box door.

Unsurprisingly, it was locked. “Of course it is,” Rat muttered, pulling a thin roll from his coat pocket. He selected two narrow tools and crouched. “Keep an ear out.”

“That it’s locked makes it even less likely they are planning to assemble a bomb in the box itself,” Alessandro pointed out. “But we need to be thorough, just in case.”

The lock was old, well-made, but finicky.

Rat’s fingers carefully worked the tumblers, persuading rather than forcing.

The stakes were higher than usual: if they were caught breaking into the royal box, they’d find it difficult to explain themselves convincingly.

And Alessandro wasn’t certain Sir Alan would vouch for them .

Finally, Rat heard a soft click, followed by another.

He turned the handle, and the door creaked open slightly.

Rat slipped in first, and Alessandro followed, gently shutting the door behind them.

Fortunately, the entire audience section was in darkness; there was no need to light it until closer to the time when the doors opened.

It was a luxurious private chamber decorated in cream and gold, with a thick carpet and velvet banquette seating.

A single chaise longue stood at the back, beneath an oil painting of Queen Wilhelmina as a girl.

Gilded railings overlooked the stage directly.

The view was perfectly centred on the stage.

Although it was quite dark, the men worried about being seen and tried to stay as low to the ground as possible.

Rat pulled out his torch, but hesitated to use it.

They moved swiftly, checking by feel where possible beneath seats, behind wall panels, and along the skirting boards.

Then Alessandro frowned. He crouched beside the side wall and ran his fingers along a small air vent just above the floor. He pulled, and the vent came loose.

“Give me your torch,” he said to Rat. Then, he crouched as far as he could and shone it into the air vent that had made him suspicious.

“Anything there?” Rat asked eagerly.

“Nothing,” Alessandro sighed.