by P. Creeden
“Will you be all right here a moment?” Caleb asked, lightly touching her elbow.
She nodded and watched him go. Then she sat down in one of the auditorium chairs and pulled out her small notebook. The paper of her notebook had been cleaned thoroughly in whiskey, but remained lightly speckled, just like the paper from the notes the arsonist left behind. But both items—newspaper and whiskey were easily accessible by the masses. She flipped through the pages of the book she’d stitched together. Some of the old words and type were almost readable, the impression from the former use of the product still echoing through. What if the arsonist hadn’t cleaned the paper as meticulously? Would there be a clue among the impressions left by the former letters. It might tell them which articles in the paper the culprit had been reading or had interest it. That is, if he’d use one of the more interesting, to himself, sections of the paper. If they knew the arsonist’s likes and dislikes, they might even find clues that could help them discern what kind of person the villain might be.
Mr. Turner and Caleb stood next to each other, very near to the stage’s middle section. Slowly she stood, giving them time to wrap up their discussion so she could talk with Caleb alone after his talk with the theater owner. She sauntered over afterward. When Caleb met eyes with her, she offered him a soft smile. “Would I be able to take a second look at the ransom note, you think?”
They both turned toward Mr. Turner to await his answer. He nodded. “Of course.”
Opal and Caleb followed Mr. Turner back to his office. When they got there, they looked over the ransom note again. Opal held it up to the light of the candle while Caleb peered over her shoulder. “What are we looking for?” he asked.
“I’m trying to see if any of the type from the newspaper is clearly readable and if we’d be able to ascertain what section of the paper this came from.” She pointed to a line of type that she could read. “Does this say something about Suzette Smith and Elaine Prescott?”
“May I see that?” Mr. Turner asked as he stepped closer.
Opal gave him the paper which he held up to the firelight. “Yes, I believe this is the list of actors that we had listed in the society papers before our last play. Miss Smith was the lead actress that time and Miss Prescott played the second role.”
“So, both of the ladies were part of the last play you had before the fire?” Caleb asked, his brow furrowing.
Mr. Turner nodded. “They are part of the troop of actors that we tend to hire the most.”
“The play that you’re putting on now, is it the same one that you were intending to put on next before the fire?” Opal asked.
Mr. Turner scratched his chin. “Yes, it was.”
Caleb picked up the paper and held it to the light again. “Did they print who the actors and actresses were in the paper for the present play?”
“When we announced which play we’d be doing last year, we presented the cast then. This year, the press has been more interested in the renovations of the theater, calling it a rising phoenix and interviewing the patrons as well as some of the board members in the theater itself.”
“Regardless,” Opal said, handing Mr. Turner back the ransom paper. “It seems the person who sent this ransom note is either a part of the theater or has some other vested interest. They kept the article from last year and cleaned the paper specifically to put this ransom note upon.”
Mr. Turner’s eyes widened. “I’d hope that no one in the theater or who has a love for the arts would burn this building down.”
“I’d hope not,” Caleb said as he stepped toward the door to open it. “But we cannot rule out the possibility. And Mrs. Wade is right, it seems that this clue points in that direction.”
The paleness in Mr. Turner’s cheeks was highlighted by the firelight from the sconce he held in his hand as they slipped out of the office door and back into the foyer. He replaced the sconce in the recessed socket in the foyer before the threesome began heading back to the main auditorium. The man frowned. “I hope that you both are mistaken in that interpretation of evidence. I’d rather not believe it.”
Ruckus laughter came from the direction of the auditorium. Caleb tilted his head. “What’s happening in there?”
Mr. Turner offered them both a smile. “It seems that the troop has finished their rehearsal. Often, they release the seriousness and tension of the play through comedic acts among each other. It helps build comradeship.”
As they entered the theater, the main actor stood on the stage, juggling wigs. Hair flew through the air and floated back down much more slowly as the air caught under them. The actors stood in a semicircle around the juggler, laughing uproariously. Opal smiled. She had to admit it was comical. Then one of the other actors came forward and sang a limerick with a heavy Irish accent while dancing a jig. The words barely rhymed, but the actor would purposefully mispronounce some of them to make them suitable. Each time he did that, it caused a fit of laughter among the others in the semicircle.
Mr. Turner led Caleb and Opal toward the front row and gestured toward the seats there. The three of them sat together and enjoyed the comedy. Miss Smith stepped forward with exaggerated stage makeup on her face and a piled up white wig. She had a loaf of French bread in her hands and went around the circle, shoving bits of it into her fellow actors’ mouths while yelling, “Let them eat cake!”
Afterward, Miss Prescott came to the center and sang a song that was set several pitches higher than it usually should have been. She held one hand to her chest and the other to her stomach while she belted out the notes. Her neck muscles strained, and her mouth grew wide as she tilted her head back with her eyes closed. When she opened them again, they grew wide. She let out a scream and she jumped to the side just before a large sandbag landed precisely where she’d been standing.
Chapter Twelve
Caleb leapt to his feet. Miss Prescott’s scream echoed throughout the theater and several of the actresses on the stage screamed as well as sand puffed in a cloud around them out of the burlap bag that sat on the stage, busted open from the fall. He darted a glance toward Opal who had both her hands covering her mouth as she gasped, but she was also on her feet. At the precise moment he looked in the direction where the ropes for the sandbags were tied, she was already looking and heading the same direction. Caleb made the quick decision to let her check out that clue while he scanned the stage. He shouted in the actors’ direction. “No one move! Look about you. Who is missing? Is everyone present?”
First the actors looked at him with eyes wide and mouths agape. Then they seemed to calm themselves and did as he ordered. One of them called out, “Miss Smith isn’t among us, but she went to clean off her make up.”
He took a quick peek at his pocket watch. It was six-forty. The bag had fallen scant minutes ago, no more than three.
One of the crew members answered, “Mr. McFly isn’t here, but he left as soon as the rehearsal ended, and the comedy roundabout began. He often does so.”
Mr. Turner frowned. “I hadn’t realized that Mr. McFly often took his leave so early.”
The crew member who spoke up looked chagrined. “I didn’t realize... maybe I shouldn’t have...”
Opal stepped out from past the curtain and shook her head toward Caleb before saying to the crew member, “No. You’re right to have told us he’s missing. Mr. Turner will deal with him kindly and discreetly.”
Mr. Turner nodded. “Mr. McFly won’t be punished, but I need to have a discussion with him about his duties.”
Caleb had understood what the head shake that Opal offered him had meant. How could they already be in tune with each other enough that they both understood unspoken conversations at this juncture? She had told him that there were no clues by the ropes to point to who had done it. Hoping to call her attention, he asked, “Could someone please see to Miss Smith, we need to make sure she’s all right.”
He nodded toward Opal, and she nodded back, following the actress who headed to the si
de of the stage. Mr. Turner clapped his hands together twice. “All right everyone! The mood has been spoiled, so let’s make the best of it. Shall we sing a song whilst we clean up this mess?” And then he began singing a popular tune.
The others joined in, but in low, barely motivated voices. It seemed that they followed Mr. Turner’s orders, albeit, begrudgingly. Some of the members went over and began pulling burlap from the sand while others grabbed dustpans and brooms. All the while they sang their song. Caleb surveyed them while he had the chance. Had they really all been in place when the accident occurred. Was it possible that someone loosened the rope just enough to then step back onto the stage and watch their handiwork while the comedic acts were on display? Then the fall of the sandbag would have been random. It could have hit anyone. Was Miss Prescott the actual target, or was it a random act of violence that could have made anyone a victim?
Because of the arson committed last year, it would seem the violence would be more random. The fire affected everyone in the theater, not a specific actor. As he mulled these thoughts over, Opal appeared behind the two actresses. They both headed toward the stage to join the others while Opal came down and back toward him. “It seemed that she was telling the truth about removing the makeup. She claimed that she got too much water and makeup on the costume as well and was cleaning it when we found her. She seemed quite busy, and time-wise, it doesn’t entirely make sense that she could untie the rope, dash backstage while everyone was distracted and then remove her makeup and clean the dress.”
“Unless, perhaps, she was in such a hurry while cleaning the makeup that she splashed it all over the dress. That if she’d been doing it slowly and carefully, the soiling of the garment wouldn’t have happened?” Caleb shrugged. He really didn’t know much about the removal of makeup or other female matters.
Opal’s frown deepened. “That is possible, I suppose. So, Miss Smith’s alibi is tenuous at best. I think we need to pay Mr. McFly a visit.”
Caleb nodded. “I agree,” he said and then stepped up toward the Mr. Turner and rested a hand upon the man’s shoulder. “Pardon me, Mr. Turner?”
The theater owner stopped his singing and turned about to face the two of them. “I think we’ve got everything under control here. Do you two believe this to be just an accident? A coincidence, perhaps?”
Caleb frowned and shook his head. “In our line of work, it’s best to treat nothing as a coincidence or just an accident. We need to treat this as part of the investigation. Would it be possible for you to escort us to Mr. McFly’s domicile? We need to check his alibi for this incident.”
Mr. Turner nodded. “Of course. Allow me speak to my crew, and I will return directly.”
Caleb nodded and watched the theater owner head over toward the side of the stage. He leaned in toward Opal. “Although our prime suspects at this time are the two who were not present when the sandbag fell, the culprit could truly be anyone on or near the stage at the time.”
She nodded. “Right. The rope hadn’t been cut, so it may have just been tied loosely. It could even have been done that way hours ago, and just now fallen, if the crew didn’t notice the knot was loose.”
“That is what I was thinking as well.”
Mr. Turner returned and led the two of them out of the building. As they stepped outside, Caleb checked his pocket watch again. Two minutes until seven. Noting time was an important task for the Pinkerton agent. He needed to remember to tell Opal such and be sure that she had a pocket watch. Though it was unusual for a lady to carry one, women agents had to do things outside of societal standards at times. Mr Turner then turned to the east and headed down the main street away from the hotel where the agents had been staying, and Caleb skipped a step to follow. The older gentleman kept muttering to himself, and since Caleb couldn’t catch what he was saying with his keen ears, he decided to ask outright, “Mr. Turner, is something the matter? You are mumbling to yourself.”
The older gentleman blinked and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. How rude of me. It’s just that I haven’t left the theater since we received the last note of warning. My worries are getting the best of me. I feel as if things will happen just because I’m not there to see them or stop them. I understand that it’s a silly fear, since I don’t know how I might see or stop something from happening, but it’s more of a comfort to stay in the building than it is to leave it.” After a long sigh, he said, “I’ve asked the crew to do some busy work for the next hour or so to keep them there until I return. If I cannot be there to watch the building myself, it’s a comfort for me that someone is there, at least.”
“Ah,” Caleb said as he nodded. “How far does Mr. McFly live from the theater?”
“Not terribly far. Maybe a ten-minute walk?”
Caleb frowned as he did the math. The bag had fallen at approximately six thirty-five. They were just leaving the theater at nearly seven o’clock. That would mean that if Mr. McFly had untied the ropes and then snuck around to the front entrance without anyone noticing, he still would have had more than twenty minutes to make it home. And would there be an alibi there to corroborate how long he’d been home down to the minute?
Lamp lighters walked along the path ahead of them, casting shadows to the side as they lit each lamp post. They reached Mr. McFly’s apartment building in precisely eleven minutes. It took two more minutes to reach his door on the third floor of the building. Mr. Turner knocked upon the door.
A crying could be heard from within and a gruff voice saying. “Just a minute.”
After another moment’s wait, Mr. McFly yanked open the door to the apartment with a newborn baby cradled in his arms. His face went ashen, and his eyes wide as he met gazes with his employer. He gasped. “Mr. Turner.”
Mr. Turner lifted a brow and peered toward the child in Mr. McFly’s arms. “Mr. McFly, it was brought to my attention that you have been leaving a bit early of late. May I ask the reason for this lack of work ethic?”
“Please forgive me, Mr. Turner.” Mr. McFly’s eyes became watery as his brow furrowed. “My wife and I just had a son. Please, meet Charles,” the man said as he lifted the child up toward Mr. Turner. “He’s the apple of my eye. Unfortunately, he arrived a little over a week before we were ready for him. My wife’s mother is coming presently to help us care for the infant and should arrive in two days. But because the theater has only just been finished, I’ve been out of work through the whole time my wife was expecting. She had to get a job as a seamstress at night, even though she was with child. And now, she continues to work so we can pay back our debts and must report for the night shift by seven. It’s the reason I’ve been leaving early when I can, to take care of our son. Please forgive me, Mr. Turner.”
“Of course, all is forgiven...” Mr. Turner’s brow crinkled as he peered at the babe in Mr. McFly’s arms. “There is nothing to forgive you for. Forgive me for not taking better care of my theater and preventing this from ever becoming a matter like this. Let me see what I can do to help your family. Perhaps an advance. And yes, feel free to leave the theater early. You don’t need to stay until we close it, henceforth.”
Mr. McFly’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you so much, Mr. Turner. Your generosity is greater than I deserve.”
After inviting the three of them inside, Mr. McFly offered everyone tea. But they declined and spent a short time with the baby and gave the man heart-felt congratulations. When the child grew fussy in his father’s arms, Opal offered to hold him. She stood and bounced the child lightly while walking around and singing to him softly. Caleb’s gaze followed her as she paced, the smile on her face looking particularly sweet. She was going to make an excellent mother. The thought of it caused his heart to flip again. He frowned in response, pulled his gaze away and joined the men to talk for a short bit about what had happened at the theater after Mr. McFly had left.
“No, sir,” Mr. McFly said, shaking his head. “I checked all those ropes, myself, not long before I left the b
uilding. They were not tied loosely.”
Caleb’s brown deepened. That took away much of the theories they had about someone setting the bag to fall randomly during the show. This meant it was possible that Miss Prescott had been the culprit’s target. The only problem was that both of their suspects had alibis. But maybe Miss Smith’s alibi wasn’t as solid as it seemed.
Chapter Thirteen
Opal
The next day Opal and Caleb returned to the theater at noon, just as Mr. Turner had asked them to. Caleb opened the door for Opal, and she gave him a nod and a smile in return. The bright sunlight played in Caleb’s wavy hair, making it seem more golden than it usually did. Even though he smiled back at her, his eyes looked a bit tired. She hated that he slept on the floor overnight while she took the bed. It would be better if they dropped the married couple pretense and got separate rooms. She frowned to herself at the thought. Rooms at hotels costed money. She couldn’t justify spending money on an extra room when one was as large as it was. Somehow she’d find a way to convince Caleb she could sleep on the floor just as well as he could, that way, she could at least stay on the floor that night and let him get some genuine sleep that wasn’t in the bench seat of a train or on the hardwood floor on a blanket.
While she was deep in thought, she ran into a younger gentleman who was coming out the door at the same time as she was attempting to enter. The man had dark hair curling slightly from under his cap, his deep-set brown eyes fixed on Opal as she cried out and said, “Oh. Pardon me.”
