by George Mann
The girl had attended the performance of "The Mysterious Alfonso" the previous evening, where, with her fiancé, she had taken a seat in the stalls and enjoyed the ensuing show. The last anyone had seen of her was when she had volunteered for the disappearing act at the end of the show, when she had made her way up onto the stage before the large, gathered audience, and been vanished away by the illusionist. The pattern was exactly the same as that witnessed by Veronica and Newbury earlier in the week. Yet something was fundamentally different. This time the girl had not made it home at the end of the performance. Her family and fiancé had searched frantically for her in the hours that followed, but there was no sign of her whatsoever. The police had been called and Alfonso had been taken away for questioning, but a cursory search of the theatre had thrown up no leads. Alfonso himself had assured the men at the Yard that he had seen the girl into a hansom cab — much as he had assured Veronica and Newbury earlier in the week — and without evidence he could not be held accountable.
Veronica, however, felt differently about the matter. For some time now she had suspected that there was a connection between the events at the theatre, and not only the disappearance of Miss Rebecca Irlam, but a string of girls throughout the whole of the Home Counties where Alfonso had toured with his illusionist show.
Veronica had come to Soho alone, expressly against the wishes of Sir Maurice. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, that she risked exposing the truth about her situation. She found herself wishing — as she did most days — that she were able to reveal the truth to Sir Maurice: that she, herself, was also an agent of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and that she was quite capable of managing a case of her own. She was fully aware of the risks, and saw nothing unduly dangerous about her choosing to tackle Alfonso on her own. If he proved difficult, she had the wherewithal to incapacitate him and call for the police.
Telling all of this to Sir Maurice, of course, was out of the question. Her Majesty had specifically forbidden it, and besides, she was already abusing her duty to the Crown. She could hardly claim that she had fulfilled her primary mission, of late: to keep a watchful eye on Sir Maurice. She had been entirely absorbed in the case of the missing girls. Something about the case, something about the manner in which the girls had been plucked from their daily lives, seemed to strike a chord with her. It made her blood boil.
Perhaps, in some way, it reminded her of her sister, Amelia, who had been wrenched away from the family home at a crucial age, only to be deposited in a series of increasingly bleak sanatoriums, where she had been left to suffer in isolation. Perhaps that was the root of her obsession with the case. Nevertheless, Veronica knew that the police were getting nowhere, and whilst Sir Charles was tied up with the Winthrop situation, Sir Maurice aiding him, all she could do was press on. She hoped to bring the matter to a conclusion before any more girls found themselves "disappeared away" by the errant magician. It pained her to lie to Newbury, of course, and she recognised that it drove a wedge between them, a barrier that prevented them from ever being truly honest with one another, but she could see no other satisfactory recourse. One day, she knew, the truth would come out, and she only hoped that it would not result in Sir Maurice losing all trust in her, or pushing her away. She couldn't bear that. She cared for him too much. She was, she reminded herself, only acting in his best interest — in the best interest of the Empire, no less — but in the back of her mind she knew, honestly, that Sir Maurice would not see it that way. It was a betrayal. A betrayal of the most gentle kind, but a betrayal nonetheless. She tried to put it out of mind.
She arrived at the theatre. It was clear immediately that the place was closed. A number of bills had been pasted on the windows, informing any potential theatregoers that the evening performance had been cancelled. Inside, the lights in the lobby appeared to have been extinguished. Frowning, Veronica tested the door. To her surprise, it was open. Glancing from side to side, Veronica crossed into the dimness of the foyer. There was no sign of the commissionaire. No sign, either, of any people manning the kiosks or ticket booths that ran around the edges of the lobby. Like the rest of the now- dilapidated theatre, the lobby had once been grand, a reception hall worthy of receiving even the most auspicious of visitors. The floor was a stunning white marble, although it was now covered in a patina of dust and dirt, caused by the tread of innumerable boots. Tall Corinthian-style columns stood proud on either side of the archways that led through to the theatre proper. The ticket booths on Veronica's left were now cast in darkness, with shutters pulled low to obscure the glass partitions. To her right, a number of small kiosks had been set up to sell food and drinks to the hungry patrons, but were presently silent, like small, abandoned islands in the murky light.
Veronica drew a deep breath. She almost turned on her heel and left, assuming the theatre to be empty, but then, from somewhere inside the auditorium, she heard a number of faint clanging sounds. She still hoped to find and confront Alfonso before the day was out for, if he too had somehow disappeared, the trail would grow cold.
Quietly, so as not to disturb whoever was at work in the main theatre, Veronica approached the entrance to the stalls, sweeping aside the heavy velvet drape and peering into the dimly lit arena on the other side. The darkness, Veronica thought, had a kind of texture to it, an oppressive air. The empty stalls and seats were like a sea that stretched out before her, unmoving. She gave an involuntary shiver. The only sign of life in the entire auditorium was a man — Alfonso — who stood on the stage, spot-lit by the harsh glow of an electric lamp. He had a frustrated look on his face, as he tried, over and over, to insert a sword blade into his upturned hat. Clearly, he was practising a new illusion for his act.
Veronica stood in the shadows at the back of the hall, observing what was happening on the stage. She realised she was holding her breath. She studied Alfonso as he made another attempt. His top hat had been upended on a small, round table that rested on the stage. She could see clearly between the three wooden legs. There appeared to be nothing underneath it, although Veronica fully expected the table to be rigged in some way. Alfonso raised a sword, placed the point of it inside the brim of the hat, and gave a sharp thrust, downwards. This time it appeared to work. The blade slipped down inside the hat until only the hilt was standing proud, still held firmly in Alfonso's right hand. The blade itself, however, was nowhere to be seen. As far as Veronica could see, it had not pierced the tabletop. She could see nothing between the legs of the small table. It was rather a marvellous illusion, Veronica considered, and whether it was effected with a collapsible blade, or, as she had at first suspected, a simple trick of the light, she could not say. Most likely, the blade had passed through a notch in the table, and was simply not visible from the angle in which the audience were able to view the stage.
Alfonso stepped back and rubbed his hand across his chin, thoughtfully regarding his handiwork. He smiled. Veronica took this as her cue to approach. Making no attempt to hide her presence, she descended the stairs at the back of the hall and passed along one of the aisles, her boots echoing loudly on the wooden steps. Alfonso turned to watch her approach, a surprised look on his face. He clearly wasn't expecting any visitors. Veronica was a picture of professionalism. "Good afternoon, Mr. Alfonso. My name is Miss Veronica Hobbes. You may recall we met earlier in the week?"
Alfonso narrowed his eyes and offered her a disdainful look. "Indeed. I recall your visit. But Miss Hobbes, unfortunately it seems that this evening you have wasted a trip. The theatre is closed. I fear I must ask you to leave."
Veronica smiled. "Ah, well. I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as all that. I have some further questions for you, regarding Miss Rebecca Irlam."
"Who?" Alfonso furrowed his brow. Then, as if realisation had suddenly dawned on him, he nodded in acknowledgement. "Ah, yes, the girl who went missing from the theatre on her way home last night. A sad affair. I've already given all the information I have to the police." He waved his hand dismiss
ively. "Now, I'm sure you'll understand that I'm a busy man. If I can ask you to be on your way..." He turned away from her, examining the hilt of the sword, which was still protruding from the brim of the hat on the table.
Veronica stepped closer to the stage. Her eyes were hard, and they gleamed in the harsh electric light, as she mounted the small set of steps that led to the platform where Alfonso was standing. She hadn't noticed on her previous visit how high the stage itself was raised from the floor. She regarded the magician. The set of her jaw was firm and unyielding. Her blood was up. "Mr. Alfonso. For what reason has the show been cancelled this evening? I should have imagined it represents a great deal of lost revenue. Surely you are not ending your run at the Archibald prematurely? It appears to have been a magnificent success."
Alfonso looked sheepish. "Something like that," he muttered under his breath. Veronica stepped forward, closer to him now. "Look, Miss Hobbes, I assure you that the disappearance of this woman has nothing to do with me!" He was flustered now.
"Ah, so you didn't make her vanish on stage last night, then?"
He was growing increasingly agitated. "Not that disappearance. The one that happened later, after she had already left the theatre."
"It sounds like you're splitting hairs to me." Veronica put her hand on her hip. "Mr. Alfonso — or whatever your real name is — I suggest that quite the opposite is true. That you had everything to do with the disappearance of Miss Rebecca Irlam, as well as any number of other young women, such as Miss Cordelia Fletcher, Miss Jane Eyles, or, indeed, Miss Sophia Caithness. Girls you spirited away from towns all over the Home Counties before bringing your illusionist show to the capital. Can we forgo the pretence now, Mr. Alfonso?"
Alfonso looked shaken. He stepped back, edging away from Veronica. "Look, I really must ask you to leave now. I'm afraid I cannot help you with your enquiries." It was clear to Veronica that she had him cornered. The guilt was evident in his eyes, written in the signs of panic that had suddenly gripped him. "But surely, you were here just the other evening, Miss Hobbes? You saw a young lady disappear on stage and enquired of her wellbeing after the performance. Did she not make it home safe and well?"
Veronica smiled. "Yes, and that's the clever part, isn't it? They don't all disappear. That would be far too obvious, and you are much cleverer than that. Any number of young women have taken part in your disappearing act, whisked away before a large audience. And many of them you set free, to minimise suspicion." She paused. "What is it that you are looking for? What makes you choose one girl as a victim, over another?"
Alfonso glanced nervously from side to side, unsure how to respond. He stepped backwards, stumbling as the back of his knee encountered the large wooden rack of swords that had been placed on the stage as part of his act. He jumped as the rack clattered noisily to the floor. He glanced down at the mess around his feet. Then, realising that his options were swiftly diminishing, he reached down for one of the swords and came up again in a crouching position. Without hesitation, he swung the sword deftly in Veronica's direction.
Veronica moved quickly. She'd been trained for this sort of situation. She leapt backwards, away from the tip of the blade, as it swept past her in a wide arc, narrowly missing her breast. Alfonso grinned. He stabbed forward, and Veronica twisted away, causing his thrust to fall short. It was immediately clear to her that Alfonso was no brawler. He was lacking the finesse, the confidence. She stepped forward, grasping hold of Alfonso's outstretched wrist with her right hand, twisting it hard and causing him to yelp and release the sword, which clattered loudly to the floor. With her left hand, she jabbed out, striking him sharply on the chin. He staggered backwards, but Veronica, still retaining a grip on his sword arm, did not allow him to push away, returning for another quick jab to his face. By now, panic had entirely gripped the magician, and he must have realised he was fighting for his life. If Veronica was able to prove his connection to the missing girls — of which she had no doubt — Alfonso would surely swing from a taut noose.
Alfonso kicked out hard at Veronica's ankles, attempting to unbalance her. The blow struck home, but Veronica was too deft on her feet to tumble. She danced away, releasing her grip on his arm and wincing at the smiting pain of the blow. She kept her eye on Alfonso, trying to judge his next move. A change had come over him. He looked desperate, animalistic, even. His mouth was set in a grim sneer, his dark eyes seemingly boring holes right to the back of her skull as they met each other's glare. Shuddering, Veronica skipped forward and aimed a blow at the man's chin. She was fast, and she struck home, not giving him any chance to respond. His head twisted awkwardly to one side with the force of the impact. Blood was trickling down his chin from a split lip.
Veronica stepped back. She knew she needed to bring him down quickly, incapacitate him so that she could call for the police. Alfonso, however, was not giving up easily. He was like a cornered bear, and he lashed out, his bony fingers clawing at her face. She felt his nails biting painfully into her cheek, and she gasped as he raked them across her face, drawing bloody welts. Drawing ragged breath, she battered his arms away and kicked out at him in an attempt to maintain some distance. If she let him in too close, she feared he may manage to overbear her. She caught him forcefully in the upper thigh and he fell back, stooping low and cursing loudly. "You filthy whore!"
Veronica rushed him as he was still bent low from the blow to his leg. She drove her fist hard into his gut. He creased, choking as the wind was driven out of him, doubling over at the waist. He clutched at his belly. Veronica saw her chance. She clutched at the straggly hair at the back of his head and brought her knee up, connecting resoundingly with his face. His nose burst with a sickening crunch, spreading a fountain of dark, red blood into the air and staining her culottes. Alfonso gave a pitiful wail and sank to the floor. He was panting, spitting blood, pawing at his broken face. Veronica stepped back, looking down at the sorrowful wretch. Alfonso looked up at her. He was giggling like a lunatic.
"What? What is it?" Veronica was disconcerted by the sudden outburst. There was no reply, other than more of the insane laughter. She could only conclude that his mind had finally broken under the strain. She cast around, looking for a length of rope or fabric she could use to bind him whilst she fetched the police. She stepped towards the round table at the centre of the stage, where Alfonso's upturned hat and sword were still in situ. The pitch of the man's bizarre giggling increased. The noise was like insects crawling up and down her spine; like nails being dragged across a dry blackboard. She gave an involuntary shudder. Still, she had him, finally, and as soon as she had bound him and arranged for the police to detain him, it would be over. No more missing girls.
She examined the hat, glancing back at Alfonso to ensure that he hadn't decided to risk his chance to escape whilst her back was turned. He was still clutching at his bleeding face, but he glowered back at her, almost expectantly. She had the feeling she was somehow missing something. Then, with one sudden, unexpected movement, he flung himself to the right, slamming the heel of his hand down hard against the wooden stage. He must have hit a pressure paddle, for, to Veronica's astonishment, the ground beneath her feet suddenly gave way, and before she could react — before she could even fling her arms out to brace herself — she was falling.
She landed — hard — feeling her legs give way beneath her. The hatch in the stage through which she had fallen clicked tightly shut above her, throwing her into impenetrable darkness. She could still hear Alfonso's mad laughter echoing in the auditorium above. Veronica tested the space around her. She was encased within some kind of casket or coffin-shaped box. It was made of rough, untreated wood, and it splintered against her palms as she slapped at the sides of it, frustrated and scared. She thrashed out in every direction, trying to find some means of escape. But the box would not give.
She kicked, testing the floor, and she noticed that there was something at her feet. She reached down, as best she could in the confined space. C
loth. Bundles of heavy cloth. She frowned in the darkness. And then, with rising panic, she realised what they were: the rags had been soaked with chloroform. There was no mistaking the sickly-sweet perfume of the drug. She didn't have long before the fumes would overwhelm her.
Something creaked beneath the box, and Veronica felt it judder. She fell awkwardly to one side. The box began to move.
She could feel it rolling downwards, further underground. It must have been on castors, triggered by the introduction of her weight. This was clearly the mechanism that Alfonso had used to cause the women to disappear during his act. The chloroform explained why the girls who were later freed were left dazed and disorientated. And the girls who weren't freed... Veronica tried not to think of that.
She had no idea what to do. She was trapped beneath the stage, trapped in a narrow wooden box that was creeping inexorably towards an unknown destination, where Alfonso was likely waiting for her, his motives still unclear. This time, there was no one to save her. She cursed herself for not listening to Sir Maurice. Nobody knew she was there. She had to face facts. Her time was running out. If she didn't find a way out soon, she'd likely die in the casket, or worse. She called out, knowing it was a useless endeavour. The only person there to hear her was her captor.
The floral scent of the chloroform became overbearing. Veronica felt her senses fogging. She knew she had to fight it, knew that whatever happened, she couldn't allow herself to be overcome. She had no idea what Alfonso may have in store for her if she did. She gasped for breath. But her fate, under the circumstances, was inevitable. The casket continued its slow descent.
