Steadfast (31 page)

“It’s very difficult to sneak up on an Elemental Magician, Katie,” Lionel reminded
her, as he drove another sword home.

She was trying not to cry and not succeeding very well; tears burned down her cheeks.
Why was it men had so much trouble believing that another man could harm them? Why
did they dismiss a warning from a woman as if it didn’t matter, or was some sort of
challenge they had to meet? She turned her arm to take her position for the next sword.
“Please
listen
to me, Lionel! Even if he doesn’t manage to catch you by surprise, he
will
catch you alone, and you’ll be just as dead!”

Silence, the third sword, then “You have a point.”

She rubbed her tears off on the shoulder of her shirt. Thank God. He was being sensible. . . .

“He won’t kill me as long as I bring him pay packets,” she said, despair leaking over
into her words as she peered up through the slit. It seemed hideously appropriate
that she was trying to tell him all this while contorted around the blades of swords.
“He won’t hurt me where it will interfere with my dancing. Just—don’t do anything.
I’ll be all right,” she added flatly. “I’ll manage. I did before and I can do it again.”

There was a long silence. “I don’t believe that, and neither do you.” Lionel said
just as flatly. “You know as well as I do there’s no ‘managing’ about this situation.
Sooner or later his temper is going to get the better of his greed, and then you’ll
be hurt or worse. So no more gammon. We’ll find a way to get you away from him without
anybody’s neck getting broken.” The fourth sword slid in.

“Just remember he has a man watching!” she reminded him frantically. Damn the man!
Why did he keep trying to put himself into danger for
her?
Didn’t he even think that if he got hurt because of her, she’d want to die? “Warn
Jack! We can’t be seen talking outside of what’s needed for the act!”

“We’ll be careful,” Lionel promised as the fifth sword slid home. “But don’t you give
up hope.”

A nice sentiment, but that was all it was. Katie’s only real hope was that the craze
that had put her on the top of the bill would continue. As long as she could bring
home a fat pay packet, Dick would regard her as his golden goose. And that was the
best
she dared hope for. Anything else was fairy dust and rainbows, and nothing would
ever come of the hope.

A fat pay packet for him to spend on drink and whores; that was what he needed. That
was what
she
needed.

And someone else for him to take his rage out on . . .

There was no other opportunity for her to talk to Lionel, though now she found herself
watching every one of the stagehands covertly, trying to see if any of them was paying
more attention to her than was needed by his job. Who was the confederate? If only
she knew! If she knew, then she wouldn’t have to guard herself every single moment!

When rehearsals were over and everyone else had gone off for luncheon, she retreated
to her dressing room in a state of drained, nervous exhaustion. All she was expecting
was her slightly drying sandwich, and perhaps a chance to sponge off a little of the
sweat from the little pitcher of water she kept in there to drink.

Instead, she found a surprise.

Someone had wedged a big basin in here, sticking out from under the lounge, and had
left two buckets full of cool water. That same someone had left a packet of fresh
cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of lemonade.

It had to be Jack or Lionel, or both. On the face of it, such special treatment could
cause more trouble than it was worth, and for a moment, she was terrified by the sight.
But then, she realized that they could arrange it all without incurring any suspicion
just by saying Charlie had ordered it for her. They might even have
gone
to Charlie and got him to order it. Certainly Peggy had gotten heaps of special considerations
because of all the money she brought into the hall—champagne in buckets of ice, boxes
of bonbons, and meals brought in for her from outside so she never had to leave the
hall except when her taxi came to take her to her lodgings. By those standards, a
few sandwiches, some lemonade and a sponge bath was very modest.

It wasn’t as good as the big tubs at Mrs. Baird’s, or the shallower cabinet bath in
the cottage—but standing in the basin, she could get a cool sponge bath without finding
herself yanked out of it by her hair, beaten because she was “trying to make herself
pretty, and for who?” If she hurried, she could probably even manage a bit of a second
bath, getting off the makeup, before she ran to catch the ’bus after the last show.

She locked her door for privacy, sponged herself down, then redressed in her special
performing underthings, which were light and tight enough not to show under the tights.
Then she ate her luncheon, saving the sandwiches she had brought with her for dinner,
and as she heard the rest hurrying back to their dressing rooms, changed into the
rest of her costume for the statue dance.

And all the time, she repeated, like a prayer, over and over, what she needed, absolutely
needed.
A fat pay packet. Keep him happy. Don’t do anything to provoke him . . .

•   •   •

Lionel had gone to Charlie and told him that Katie was feeling poorly because of the
heat. That was all it had taken; the music-hall owner had ordered a big basin, cool
water and sponges left in her dressing room from this point on, all on his own. And
bottles of lemonade. After all, Charlie had promised everyone could drink beer free
at the bar for helping him come up with his substitute ballerina, and since Katie
didn’t drink beer, a couple of bottles of lemonade seemed only fair. Then, as an afterthought,
he sent one of his errand boys for cucumber sandwiches from the tearoom down the street.
“That way she don’t have to rush out. She can cool down right and tight.” He looked
very pleased with himself for thinking of it all.

Lionel went to his dressing room in a state of mixed emotions, all of them negative.
When he got there, his sylphs buzzed about like restless dragonflies, unable to settle
for a single moment. Lionel’s sylphs were agitated and unhappy. He didn’t blame them.
He was pretty agitated and unhappy himself. He’d woken with a knot in his stomach,
posted off his letters immediately, and got to the theater half afraid Katie wouldn’t
be there—and entirely unsure what he was going to do about it if she wasn’t. His mood
hadn’t been improved by what she had whispered to him.

He didn’t doubt her, when she whispered the threats her husband had made against him
if she didn’t do what the strongman wanted. His encounter with Dick Langford had left
him convinced that the circus strongman was a dangerous man; a bully, yes, but cunning.
And very probably with blood on his hands; he didn’t doubt that, either. So far as
the law of the “good” people of the Kingdom was concerned, there were other people,
not “good” people, who were disposable, and if something happened to one of them,
well, that was one less troublemaker to worry about. Circus people came under that
category.

There was no way that Langford would get away with killing him—there were too many
eyes in the city, and someone would squeal even if Langford thought he was doing it
in secret. Police would be involved, and they would look first at people Lionel worked
with—and the insanely jealous husband of his magic assistant would be the first suspect
on their list. But that would be cold comfort to Lionel, who would be dead. And he
had every intention of living to an age where he was a nuisance to those around him
with his endless stories and cackling.

So, no. He was not going to provoke this man. He was going to do everything in his
power to convince this man that it would be a monumentally bad idea to cross
him.

The information that Dick Langford had a cohort in the hall was equally unwelcome.
That was something he had not even considered as a possibility.

So there was a lot that needed to be discussed, urgently, and once he’d gotten Katie
sorted out as to the little comfort he could get for her, he went straight to Jack.

Jack had left the arrangement in place for someone to relieve him at luncheon on the
door. Lionel dragged him down to the workroom, and bluntly laid out for him everything
that that Katie had told him.

Predictably, Jack had not taken it well. But rather than breaking into a fit of angry
cursing, as Lionel himself would very much have liked to have done, he drummed his
fingers on the arm of his chair for a very long time. Instead of going hot with anger . . .
he seemed to have gone cold.

Or perhaps—perhaps the anger was so white-hot by now that it was searing away everything
but calculation and logic.

“I don’t imagine he’s lived in a city before,” Jack said, finally.

“Probably not, no,” Lionel agreed, wondering where on earth
that
train of thought was going.

“So this morning, dairy and eggs turned up at the door. He won’t be surprised if other
things turn up too.” Jack chewed his lip ferociously. “In fact, I don’t think
he
would think twice about it. Look, here is where I am going. A drunk man—drunk past
a certain point, that is—is nothing like as dangerous as a sober one. That business
about delivering a jeroboam of gin to Katie’s door might not be such a bad idea . . .
especially if he’s asked to pay for it, and it’s cheaper than he expects.”

“Oh now . . . that’s a good thought.” Lionel thought furiously, running through all
the possible ways he could get liquor into the hands of the strongman. “I have an
idea. Stay here, and think. Let me run over to the pub.”

There was, of course, a pub right across from the music hall. This was Brighton, and
there was a pub or a chophouse, or both in every block of the entertainment district.
After so many years of performing here, the publican knew him very well, so much so
that his request to buy the cheapest possible gin in case-lots took him by surprise.

“Cheapest possible Blue Ruin?” The man shook his balding head in disbelief, and polished
the bar top with his rag. “I can’t do that for you! Master Hawkins, you’ll like to
kill yourself if you drink that—”

“It’s not for me,” he said, and laughed. “Or rather, it
is
for me, but I’m working up a new act for winter, and I want a steady alcohol fire
for it. We’re looking at an Arabian Nights theme, which I can adapt for the panto
at Christmas. I fancy the blue flames; they’ll look smashing on stage. I tried it
today and I reckon I’ll need half a bottle for each show, so a bottle a day.”

The publican’s face cleared immediately. “Well, I can get it by the case, and I can
give you a very good deal on it. I can have a case here, waiting for you, tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to put that kind of temptation in the path of the stagehands,” Lionel
said. “I don’t suppose you’d mind storing it for me?”

“It’s not a bit of a problem, and that way I can keep track and order a new case when
it’s needed,” the man replied, and pulled a pint. “Your usual for luncheon?”

Lionel returned feeling as if he had finally accomplished something. Jack was still
waiting for him.

“I’m getting cheap gin by the case from Hobson across the street,” he explained, as
Jack listened intently. “Hobson thinks it’s for a new act I’m working out that needs
an alcohol fire. I’ll have Katie tell the bastard she can get hold of a bottle of
gin a night for sixpence.”

Jack let out a sigh. “Brilliant. She can build up some money hidden here, and he’ll
have plenty to get drunk on every night. Let’s hope he’s a sodden drunk.”

At that point, Jack had to return to his post, and Lionel headed for his dressing
room, well pleased. Now he just had to work out how to tell Katie what he’d done,
get her to understand what her part would be, and then work out how to get the bottle
of gin into her dressing room before she left for the night without anyone noticing.

Then he chided himself for being such an ass.
Are you a magician, or not?
he scolded himself.

And it wasn’t an Elemental Magician that he meant, either.

Half of being an illusionist was being aware of what other people ignored. And what
other people ignored was routine. They got used to how something happened, and as
long as nothing occurred to break that routine with something wildly unexpected, they
drifted through their routine in a haze of preoccupation, and never saw what was right
in front of them.

He knew the routine of this music hall as if he had choreographed it as a trick himself.
How hard would it be to make someone disappear and reappear without anyone noticing?
And even if he didn’t know who the watcher was, he knew who it
couldn’t
be.

He waited in his dressing room, listening for the musical cues, until he heard the
one that told him Katie’s statue dance was over. She would have to make her way through
the chorus girls heading for the stage. The next act was putting the finishing touches
on his makeup and costume. Every stagehand would be busy with the set change and Charlie
supervised backstage like a drill sergeant; if Charlie missed one, or saw one lurking
in the corridor to the dressing rooms at this point, he’d fire the man on the spot—and
Dick had specified to Katie that he had a
man
as a confederate in the hall. So Lionel listened for the frantic rush to the stage,
opened his door as soon as it was past, spotted Katie, and yanked her into his dressing
room before she even knew he was there.

“Look—” he said, before she could get out a word. Her face was a mask of terror at
being in his room. “You’re safe. Right now every man in this hall is doing set-change
or in his dressing room. We’ve got a few minutes of safety. We’ve had an idea. You
tell Dick that one of the bartenders said he’ll sell you a bottle of gin for sixpence,
but he can only get you one a night without getting in trouble.”