Wouldn't It Be Deadly (35 page)

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“No, you're not. I was, though. Especially when Verena announced their engagement at the garden party. I almost stabbed him right there on the lawn. There was no way I could let Nepommuck become her husband. Where would that leave me? Out of her will, for one. And I didn't spend five bleeding years devoting myself to that white-haired witch just to watch some puffed-up foreigner take it all away.”

Eliza eyed the narrow space between them. She wondered if she could throw something at him. The dress dummy, maybe? A heavy costume?

“The Maestro knew he had enemies, but I bet he never figured you for one of them.”

“No, he didn't.” Harrison nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Not until I stuck the knife in his back.”

He reached for a silk scarf on the dressing room table, and started to wrap it around his hands. She had to do something. Harrison blocked her escape out the door. But there was another door to her left that led to the water closet. If she could get in there, she might be able to lock it behind her, assuming the water closet had a lock.

What she really needed was a weapon. Her gaze swept over the small dressing room. She looked at the jumble of jars and brushes on Rosalind's mirrored table and mentally checked off the items: makeup, cigarettes, greasepaint, combs, razor. Razor! When she visited Rosalind the other day, she remembered seeing the razor buried beneath the jars. At the time she thought it belonged to one of her male lovers. Now she realized that Miss Page used it to shave her own morning whiskers.

“They'll trace the knife back to you,” Eliza said, trying to distract him.

“Impossible. It's a common kitchen knife. Nothing special to point to—”

Eliza threw herself onto the dressing room table. A dozen jars crashed to the ground. As she frantically searched for the razor, Harrison slipped the scarf around her neck. It wrapped about her like a noose. Eliza fought against it even as she choked. Just when she thought her breath would stop, her fingers felt the sharp blade. In one swift motion, she slashed at Harrison's hand. He cried out in pain, and the noose loosened. Eliza reached one hand under the scarf, and cut herself free.

She slashed at him again, but he grabbed her arm. He banged her hand against the mirror until she dropped the razor. Together they fell backward onto the dressing table, scattering its remaining items to the floor.

A deep male voice suddenly boomed. “Who said either of you could come into my dressing room?”

Harrison and Eliza froze. Standing in the doorway of the water closet was Rosalind Page—naked. Eliza wanted to kiss her. The butler fell back in shock at the sight of a totally nude Rosalind in full makeup and with her long hair flowing down her back.

He pointed. “You're … you're … you're a man!”

“More of a man than you are for sure!” Rosalind replied again in that low voice. “Best run for it, Eliza. I'll take care of him.”

In a flash, Eliza was out the dressing room door. She raced toward the costume racks. Maybe she could hide among the thick velvet or brocade cloaks. But clattering footsteps followed close behind. Harrison had recovered from his shock sooner than expected. Eliza almost dodged into the same prop room where Redstone had dragged her, but changed her mind. That would be a dead end. She'd never escape Harrison. She kept running, weaving through the narrow spaces, always on the move. Eliza rushed downstairs.

Lucky she had that tour of the backstage and knew her way around the theater. She needed to get to the front of the house where she could wave down Jack or Higgins. Her heart pounded in her ears and she panted for breath. Suddenly she spotted Major Redstone coming toward her from the opposite direction. His eyes widened when he caught sight of her.

“Eliza, wait!”

She plunged sideways. Blimey. How the devil was she to avoid both of them? Eliza shoved her way into a crowd of actors in the wings. They must be waiting for the final curtain call. She heard the sound of clanging swords from onstage.

“Who the blazes are you?” One of the actors did a double take at her formal gown and jewels. He pulled her away from the stage area. “Audience members aren't allowed in the wings.”

“Get your mitts off me!” she cried.

Eliza ducked as Harrison lunged for her. He overshot and crashed into the armor-suited actor who played the ghost of Hamlet's father. Both men tumbled to the floor, making an awful din. Every actor and stagehand hissed at them to keep quiet.

Redstone pushed aside a sandbag a few feet away, and she jumped back. “Eliza, stop running. We have to talk!”

“Ah-ah-oh-ow-ow-oh-ow!” She shoved one of the grave-digging actors at him.

“Are you mad, lass?” The actor waved his shovel.

She snatched it out of his hand. “Get the police up here now!”

Harrison scrambled to his feet. Redstone fought past the actors trying to keep him back.

“Bloody hell!” Eliza dodged around the fire curtain and ran behind the stage. The actors in front of the scenery flat continued with the performance, unaware of the uproar in the wings.

“Eliza, stop!” Redstone called from behind her.

She threw the shovel at Redstone with all her strength. It missed and hit the scenery flat instead. The stage wall wobbled several times, then fell backward. Redstone jumped aside as it crashed to the floor, but Harrison was knocked off his feet. Were the two of them in cahoots? How else to explain why they were both after her?

The lights from the stage spilled through the space where the wrecked wall once stood. “Where's Collins?” an actor cried from the wings. “Someone get the manager over here!”

After a moment of stunned silence, she heard the actors onstage resume sword fighting. Sounds from the audience grew louder as well. They were no doubt amazed that part of the set had fallen down. At least she had gotten everyone's attention. If only Jack would get his blooming arse backstage.

Harrison began to crawl out from beneath the scenery. Meanwhile Redstone circled around her and stood in the wings to her right. She couldn't afford to wait any longer for Scotland Yard.

Without thinking, Eliza ran right through the space where a moment before a castle wall had stood. The audience let out a collective gasp when Eliza burst onto the stage.

She stopped short. The hot lights along the stage's edge half blinded her. Beyond the glare, she discerned a sea of faces staring at her out front. It took another moment of adjustment before she became aware of the two dozen actors in robes and tights clustered about. Everyone wore a stunned expression. Hamlet and Laertes gaped at her from center stage, their swords upraised but motionless.

Claudius leaned toward Eliza from his throne and said in a loud whisper, “Get off the stage.”

Near Eliza's feet, Queen Gertrude lay on the floor beside a table where the poisoned goblet sat. Looking still as death in her regal robes, Miss Terry suddenly opened her eyes. “Are you mad?” she hissed.

Eliza jumped back and fell onto Gertrude's empty throne. With Redstone lurking in the wings, she figured the stage was the safest place to be just now. “I am Lady Eliza Doolittle come to Elsinore,” she announced.

The theater went dead silent. If only one of the actors would say their lines.

Growing nervous, Eliza said, “‘I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.'”

Titters of laughter rippled through the audience. When no one moved onstage, she clapped her hands at the actors. “C'mon, mates. Let's get on with the show!”

If they'd start saying their lines, she would sit here quiet as a mouse until the play ended. Jack was sure to have seen her run onto the stage. With luck, he'd get to her before either Redstone or Harrison.

Suddenly thirsty, Eliza caught sight of wine goblets on a nearby table. She signaled to one of the court attendants. “Stay, give me drink.” No one could say she didn't know her Shakespeare.

The audience's laughter grew louder. The attendant looked at his fellow players for help, then shrugged. “Here you are, miss,” he said, handing her a goblet.

She tipped it back, only to spit the wine all over Queen Gertrude. The poor woman sputtered in protest. Some of the actors began laughing along with the audience. Blimey, that stuff wasn't wine at all. Whatever it was tasted right sour.

Eliza gestured for Hamlet to continue. “Go on, say your line.”

His face red with anger, he pointed his weapon at her.

“Get that sword away from me.” She shrank back on the throne.

“It's a rapier,” he hissed. “Now get off the stage.”

“Actually it's a foil.” This came from the fellow Eliza remembered as the Osric character. He sat on the steps to the king's throne, his face creased in a silly grin.

“In your cups again, are you?” Hamlet's ire now focused on Osric.

The actor playing Laertes cleared his throat. “The girl's right. Say your line.”

With a scowl, Hamlet stuck his poison-tipped rapier at King Claudius. “‘Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? Follow my mother.'”

The dying Claudius slumped to one side on his throne, but not without a last bewildered look at Eliza.

A loud bang erupted from behind them. Eliza peeked around the throne and saw Harrison pushing the last of the fake castle wall off him.

Eliza shot to her feet. “It isn't Hamlet who's to blame for the king's death!” Every actor onstage stared at her in shock. “I know who did the poor queen in, too. It was the same fellow who killed Maestro Nepommuck. The murderer's backstage right now! And his name is—ah-ah-oh-ow-ow-oh-ow!”

An enraged Harrison burst onstage, his dark hair covered in plaster. The blood that ran down his hand made him appear even more dangerous. If only she'd managed to cut his whole hand off with that razor.

“Gimme that sword!” Eliza grabbed it from Hamlet.

“It's a rapier!” he cried, ignoring the loud buzz from the audience.

Harrison reached for her, but she skittered away at the last moment. Eliza waved her sword—or whatever it was—at his face.

The butler yanked Laertes by the collar. “Give me yours!” After snatching his weapon, Harrison shoved the actor away.

In response, Laertes scooped up a handful of goblets from a velvet-covered table. He flung them, one after another, at Harrison. All of them missed, although the last one hit the dead Claudius right in his face.

Claudius sat bolt upright. “What in hell are you doing?”

Another goblet landed in the wings, eliciting a yelp of pain. While crossing swords with Harrison, Eliza saw one of the gravediggers dart onstage. With a muttered curse, he hurled the goblet back at Laertes. But his throw fell short, and smacked poor dead Queen Gertrude in the head. Miss Terry sat up with a shriek.

Harrison and Eliza squared off. Neither of them knew what to do with the weapons. They dodged and weaved, smacking each other with the sides of the swords. But they quickly learned the blunt-tipped weapons were as fake as the castle wall that fell on Harrison.

Eliza spied an actor in the wings, waving wildly. “Get the manager! He's the only one who can ring down the curtain!”

Someone grabbed Eliza from behind. She thought it was Redstone and kicked him hard. Didn't seem fair for both men to gang up on her. But she recognized the answering curse as belonging to Hamlet. Cor, if only his character had died earlier in the play. He was giving her far too much trouble.

A new figure ran onstage. He pulled Harrison backward, and both men went down hard on the wooden floor. Surprised, Eliza realized Major Redstone had just attacked Harrison.

Someone yanked her backward by the hair. “Ow, what are you doing, mate?”

Once Eliza fought free, she whirled around on Hamlet. Blimey, he looked angrier than Harrison. “You've ruined everything, you miserable chit,” he spat. “Get off the stage.”

“I got a killer—maybe two—to take care of!” She smacked him with her sword. “I ain't got time to worry about you!”

“I'd like to kill you myself!”

“Here now, we can't have you harming this nice young lady,” one of the gravediggers said. Hamlet turned and knocked the smaller fellow to the ground.

“We can't have you harming the gravediggers, either.” Eliza stuck the tip of her fake rapier into the back of Hamlet's tights and gave it a yank. His tights ripped all the way up.

Covering his now bare buttocks as best he could, Hamlet ran offstage. Waves of laughter filled the theater. Eliza grinned and gave a small bow. The audience was certainly enjoying the performance.

She needed to get to the front of the stage and wave down Jack or Higgins. But on the way there, she tripped over Claudius and Laertes wrestling with each other on the floor.

“This is insufferable!” announced Miss Terry, who was now as completely out of character as the rest of the performers.

The recently deceased Queen Gertrude got to her feet with a flourish. Swirling her cloak about her, she tried to make a grand exit. But Harrison punched Redstone, which sent him flying right into the actress. She and Redstone fell back against the set, and yet another castle wall came tumbling down. Eliza ducked as broken plaster showered the stage.

“‘A hit, a very palpable hit.'” The actor who played Osric clapped his hands.

Eliza looked in wonder at the young actor. He sprawled over Queen Gertrude's throne, a brandy flask tucked into his tights. She shrugged. At least the fellow was still quoting lines from the play.

Laughter roared out again from the audience. Eliza could only make out those people sitting by the far edge of the stage. And they were bobbing up and down, holding their stomachs and wiping their eyes. The play's a success, she thought.

Now was the time to yell for Jack and his detectives. Redstone was all tangled up in Gertrude's cloak, the other actors were distracted—or fighting with each other. And somewhere out front was Jack and Higgins. But so was Harrison. And he was a lot closer.