Edison had waylaid the cleaning crew on their way into the theater and paid them a goodly sum to take the day off. Happy with their newfound riches, the janitor and his charwomen agreed to leave their brooms and buckets for a few hours.
Edison’s group had been at the theater for hours now, although she and Nelly had only joined them at half past three. Meena and Briar stood watch in the alley behind, outfitted as gin-soaked street walkers. Meena’s husband, Spencer, had taken on the appearance of a jack-of-all trades. His face streaked with soot, a large set of old trousers tied around his waist with a scrap of rope, he looked nothing like the well-dressed jewel thief he was.
“You’re the murderer! I see it now!” The lead actor bellowed across the stage.
“Fairmont, how could you?” a woman asked. “I loved you.”
Below the stage, Ada and Nelly scrubbed away, sloshing gray water over the floor.
Ada strained to hear anything over the sound of the actors. The snick of a door opening, soft footfalls, anything to indicate their prey had entered the theater.
She glanced up at the clock hanging above the main entrance from the lobby. Three-forty five. She had imagined the man would want to be early.
“No, no, no. That won’t work,” the lead actor complained. The whine in his tone was mitigated somewhat by his delicious baritone. “My character’s a hero. He’d never shoot anyone in the back. My fans will be outraged.”
“You mean the ladies don’t fancy a cad.” An anonymous voice yelled out from the wings.
Sniggers floated down from the stage as other players joined in the merriment.
The older gent standing in the wings supervising the rehearsal ran his hand through his hair and swore silently. Ada thought it was a wonder he didn’t strangle the conceited boar himself.
She waited, dripping brush poised above the floor, to see how the manager would handle things, when the doors at the back of the theater opened, flooding the space with sunlight from the lobby.
Edison poked his head through the doorway as if afraid to proceed. Then, with jerky, hesitant steps quite unlike his normal gait, he entered the theater.
He was a far better actor than the puffed up stoat on the stage. If Ada didn’t know better, she’d suspect he was frightened half out of his wits.
“Right then, here we go,” Nelly whispered over the sound of her stiff brush. “Don’t seem like it’s any of the players, but keep an eye out just the same.”
The slight girl circled her brush over the floor surface with practiced ease, all the while keeping her attention focussed on her surroundings.
Ada nodded.
Spencer had swept through the lower levels of the theater first thing, checking the dressing rooms and storage closets. If their quarry wasn’t already in the building, Meena and Briar would notice him coming in the back, while she or Nelly or Spencer would see anyone entering through the main doors.
A mouse couldn’t make an entrance now without one of the league taking note.
Which did nothing to ease the sick tension squeezing the back of her neck.
Like as not, the man who’d ordered her death would be feet away from her before the clock struck the hour.
Her hands shook on the wooden handle of the scrub brush. She was almost grateful for the way her knees ached from contact with the cold, wet floor. At least it gave her something else to think about.
Edison slipped into a seat in the back of the theater and caught her eye. One quick, brilliant smile told her he appreciated the irony of her latest transformation.
She grinned back. The shared humor lightened her, dulling the pain in her knees.
As quickly as he’d slipped out of character, he slipped back in. He hunkered down in the seat, the set of his shoulders and the quick, awkward movements suggesting a fearful man brimming with nervous energy.
Ada marveled at the transformation. Strong, confident, controlled Edison had disappeared. In his place waited a man straining to project those same qualities, but failing badly.
She was too far away to know, but so complete was his character, she imagined she could smell the sweat of fear on him.
Dissembling, she was coming to learn, was an art.
An art she had no predilection for.
She understood chemicals far better than people. Liked them better, most of the time.
She yanked the water bucket closer, sloshing more dirty water across the floor. How long was this going to take?
Still on her knees, Nelly stopped to arch her back. “Won’t be long now.”
“Tell me again, sweetheart, tell me again how much you love me,” the leading man urged, his voice deep and unctuous as clotted cream. “I would die for you, you know. I would tear down—”
A ladder crashed to the floor just behind the troupe, making everyone in the theater jump.
“That is it!” The lead slammed his script down onto the stage. “I’ve played the Royal Opera House. I’ve done The Bard. I can’t work in these conditions.” He stalked into the wings.
The manager lumbered back on stage and clapped his hands for attention. “Thirty minutes, everyone.”
As the troupe scattered, Spencer appeared. He pulled an over-sized rag from his back pocket and began polishing the lamps covering the gas stage lights. “Nothing yet,” he murmured.
Backstage, the door to the alley slammed shut, making Ada start.
“That’ll be the actors heading across to the pub,” Nelly said. “I’d knock back a pint or two if I had to work with that ape’s head.”
Edison remained seated, drumming his fingers on the seat in front of him as if his nerves were getting the better of him.
Out of nowhere, she imagined the feel of his hands cupping her, teasing her, stoking a wild hot passion. She bit her lip and dragged her gaze away from those wicked fingers. Now was not the time to indulge in such thoughts.
She made her self focus on the stage, peering deep into the shadows, trying for the hundredth time to locate her tormentor.
“We best move on.” Nelly murmured. “That set of stairs could use some sweeping.” She jutted her chin toward one of the aisles running along the wall of the theater. “I’ll take a dust mop up to the stage, in case our bloke is hanging about in the curtains.”
Ada tossed her brush back into the water pail and sat back on her heels. The scar on her cheek itched. She dug her fingers into the threadbare fabric of her skirts so she wouldn’t accidentally scratch it off.
Legs stiff from so much kneeling, she had to struggle to her feet. Just as she grabbed her broom, Edison stood. He squinted up at the clock, then plunged a finger down the back of his high collar, as if nervous energy choked him. He pushed through the swinging doors to the lobby with such force that they slammed back into the walls.
Now that the great space was silent, Ada could hear him stalking back and forth across the empty lobby as she swept.
It was taking too long. Anyone serious about finding her would have shown up by now.
What if he had?
The thought froze her. When it came to the art of deception and disguise, Edison and his league possessed the most amazing skills, but what if they’d missed one small detail?