“You stupid, stupid—”
Sokolov’s eyes went wide as he looked at the crowbar in Stilton’s hand. Stilton dropped it and it hit the stage with a thud.
The hall was half-empty, but those audience members who remained had turned back to the stage. With the danger apparently over, they were now curious to witness the aftermath of the disastrous performance.
Yes… a performance. Stilton nodded to himself. A performance. That’s what it was. Parlor tricks in the guise of a lecture. Yes, it was perfect. All he needed to do was pay for the story to run in the newspaper the following morning, celebrating the audacious, nay, scandalous spectacular at the Royal Conservatory. That would cover the real story, and the editor was not only a greedy little man, but he also owed Stilton a favor.
Stilton glanced at the royal box, and with some relief saw it was empty. The Duke and his entourage had left.
He moved to the front of the stage—stepping over Sokolov—to address the remnants of the crowd.
“Of course,” he said, “full refunds will be issued. Please retain your tickets and present them to the box office at your earliest convenience. Thank you!”
He gave a bow, finishing with a flourish of the arm. When he stood up, he found the crowd just staring at him.
And then, a single person started clapping. Stilton squinted, standing on his toes as he peered into the back of the hall. A young man, rail-thin with a pencil moustache, was sitting in the center block, a grin plastered on his face. He clapped, either unaware or unconcerned that he was the only one.
Stilton thought he recognized him, but he wasn’t sure. Was he one of the special invitations? Perhaps. He would have it checked.
From the Royal Conservatory’s main doors, new arrivals began pushing their way past the exiting crowd. Stilton caught sight of their tall white helmets and blue-green tunics and sighed. The Grand Guard. Precisely what he needed. His pockets were deep, but not limitless, and to avoid any scandal he would have to pay them off. The expense account of the Stilton Mining Corporation was going to need some very creative accounting this month.
“You, Aramis Stilton, are a fatuous ignoramus.”
Stilton glanced down at Sokolov, who had propped himself up on his elbow.
“Oh, do shut up,” said Stilton, as he headed to the wings. He had to gather the Grand Guard up and move them away from the stage. As he passed Toberman, the assistant grabbed his sleeve.
“The subjects, sir!”
Stilton hissed in annoyance. “Blast it all, lad, can’t you see I’m busy? I have one of several crises to avert. Now, if you would kindly unhand me—”
“No, sir, listen! They’re dead. That bloody machine of Sokolov’s has killed them.”
Stilton felt himself deflate. “Dead? What, both of them?”
“Dead, sir!” Toberman shivered and swept the cap off his head. “And them things they were saying. Horrible things, sir! Heretical, I’ll wager.”
Stilton twisted his arm out of Toberman’s grip and pushed the young man against the wall, sliding his arm up under Toberman’s chin and pinning his head back.
“Now you look here, my young lad, whatever you think you’ve seen, you just forget it now. This was a marvelous evening of supernatural entertainment, nothing more. Ashow, my young lad, a show. Now, do you understand me?”
“Please, Mr. Stilton, you’re hurting me.”
Stilton hissed and leaned harder against Toberman. He wasn’t a strong man and Toberman was a good deal younger, but he had sheer bulk on his side. “Take fifty coin from my office and get rid of the bodies.”
“I… what?”
Stilton glanced back toward the stage. “And don’t worry about our friend Sokolov, I’ll handle him. Now go, get a move on.”
He released Toberman, who collapsed, gasping for breath.
That was when two red-jacketed officers of the Grand Guard appeared. Seeing Stilton and the puffing Toberman, they immediately headed toward them.
“Good lad,” said Stilton, patting Toberman’s back. “Off you go.”
Toberman shook his head, then headed off, squeezing past the guard officers as he ducked down a corridor.
Stilton thrust his chest out and looped his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. As the guards got closer, he felt his hands shaking and his heart pounding in his chest. Sokolov’s experiment was a disaster. Two men were dead—and it was all his fault. If he hadn’t organized the event in the first place, hadn’t been so preoccupied with raising his standing among the elite of the city, none of this would have happened.
He only hoped that one day he would be able to forgive himself.
* * *
Sitting at the back of the auditorium, the young man with the pencil moustache leaned back. He lifted his feet and placed them on the back of the chair in frontof him, then leaned forward and brushed a speck of dirt from his brilliant white spats. In front of him, the empty seats had been thrown into disarray as the crowd had scampered for escape, while on the stage the curtain was now down, with a couple of stagehands standing in front of it as they spoke to a member of the Grand Guard.
The man leaned back and placed his hands behind his head as he thought back over the evening’s events. Sokolov’s machine was remarkable, even seen from afar—the man was glad to have brought his telescopic opera glasses, a little invention of his own that improved upon those commonly available. As he had sat and watched the theatrics of the performance, he had begun to sketch a schematic of the machine on the back of an old envelope. Or, at least as much of it as he had been
