A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  His final trick was to run a sword through Maggie’s neck. I asked her once if he ever poked her by accident, and she gave her sly smile. “That sword bends right through the metal collar. I made him show me ’afore I let him get anywhere near me with it—or with any other part of him that pokes, neither.” She laughed out loud, and I felt my cheeks grow warm.

  “Well, ain’t you the innocent,” she teased me, winking.

  “I’m not innocent,” I muttered. But she was right: I’d flushed again the following night, when I came upon Maggie and Gallius in the murky gloom of the back hallway, him with his hands inside her skirts and her with her arms wrapped hard around his neck.

  Gallius and Maggie left the stage, and I played some interlude music, a medley of popular tunes, all the while keeping my eye out for Amalie, or for whoever might appear next. It turned out to be the new violinist, entering from stage right, and I wound up hastily so he didn’t have to stand there waiting to begin.

  He was handsome as anything—tall and slender, with silvery blond hair combed back from his forehead, a well-cut mouth, and bones that showed fine yet strong under the stage lights. I put his age at a year or two over twenty. He was dressed in a tailored coat and pants that bore no sheen from wear at the knees or cuffs, which made me wonder what he was doing playing here—or busking in Covent Garden, for that matter.

  There was an air about him that made even this audience give him something approximating real attention. He offered a small, formal bow to the crowd; then he set his bow on the strings and began.

  It was a piece I’d never heard, beautiful and haunting—and he could play. His bow stroked smoothly and powerfully across the strings, bringing forth the instrument’s sweetness with none of the shrillness produced by a mediocre violinist.

  But it was the wrong piece for this audience. These men didn’t want beautiful and haunting. They wanted fast and loud, bright and bawdy, or downright silly. I felt their indifference flare to irritation, even before the grumbling began, and I prayed they’d give him a chance to finish.

  Something small and white—a dinner roll—flew past his ear. He looked out at the audience, and I could tell he was surprised. Clearly, he wasn’t used to this sort of reception, but he played on until a turnip hit him square in the stomach. His bow popped off the strings, and across his face flashed a look of uncertainty, followed by a hot flush of shame and anger as the groans and hisses turned to catcalls and laughter.

  The sounds made me flinch, and he turned to me, glaring, as if he expected I’d join in the abuse. Once, I would’ve sat there, feeling as helpless as he. But a few weeks ago, when one of the dancing dogs had gone missing and I’d had to fill the time between acts, I’d played “Libiamo ne’ lieti calici,” the drinking song from the first act of La Traviata. The popular opera by Verdi had just returned to London, so the melody was on everyone’s lips, and the audience had cheered lustily for a full minute afterward.

  I riffled through my portfolio quickly, hoping that he knew it.

  I couldn’t see his expression as I played the opening chords, but by the fourth measure, he was with me, his bow flying across the strings. The words in their English translation ran through my head: Let’s drink for the ecstatic feeling / that love arouses . . . / Let’s drink, my love, and the love among the chalices / Will make the kisses hotter . . .

  It was a fine piece of music for a violin, and I softened my playing so that his could be heard, falling completely silent as he drew out the last brilliant chords.

  Above the sound of stamping feet came cries of “Bravo! Bravo!” The violinist pointed his bow toward me and inclined his head toward the audience. They roared their approval, and he bowed again and left the stage.

  With a small feeling of triumph, I found myself smiling as I played some interlude music to fill the time until the next act—

  And then Amalie fluttered in from stage left, wearing a costume that seemed composed entirely of dyed feathers floating at her bosom and around her waist and thighs.

  It was outrageous, even for her.

  Like every man in the theater, I caught my breath. My fingers fumbled her introduction, even missed a few notes. But the audience couldn’t have cared less. They went wild for her, cheering and shouting. She sang four songs in French, and as usual, dozens of men hurled roses at her, which she gathered up as she exited stage left, amid a rain of pink paper petals dropped from above.

  THE SHOW FINISHED at a quarter past ten, and I put the music into my portfolio and started down the stairs, hoping it wasn’t raining, as I’d left my umbrella at home.

  Mrs. Wregge was on her way up. “I say, have you seen Felix?”

  “No. Has he escaped again?”

  “I had the door open for not half a second, and he dashed out!” She shook her head so vigorously that her chin wobbled. “If Mr. Williams sees him, he’s going to wring his neck—and mine, too.”

  “I would think he’d be grateful that Felix catches the mice.”

  “And so he should!” she said in a stage whisper. “He has the benefit of a fine mouser, while I have all the worry of keeping the two of them apart.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s your own version of cat and mouse, isn’t it?”

  She chuckled ruefully and pointed up the stairs. “He’s not up there, is he? Mr. Williams?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  With a huff, she moved to continue her climb, but I put a hand on her arm. “Do you know what happened to Marceline and Sebastian? They weren’t here tonight.”

  “No.” Her kindly brown eyes sobered. “And it isn’t like them to miss a show.”

  “No, it’s not,” I agreed, my feeling of misgiving growing. “Well, good night.”

  Turning away, I hurried down the stairs—and caught my heel on one of the treacherous nails near the bottom. With a cry, I pitched forward, nearly tumbling to the ground.

  “Are you all right?” came a male voice.

  Startled, I peered into the dark corridor.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s Stephen Gagnon. The violinist.” He came out of the shadows, his pale hair gleaming in the dim light. “And you’re Ed Nell, the pianist.”

  My heart began to fall back into its normal rhythm. I cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Two stagehands approached carrying a load of bulky wooden planks, and Stephen and I squeezed back against the wall. “We should move,” I said. “They have to bring all the properties through here.”

  He motioned for me to lead the way, so I walked toward the ramp that led out to the yard. This part of the corridor was hung with metal lanterns, and by their light I could see him clearly. He was taller than I; his face was clean-shaven, his eyes a rich hazel. He stood with an easy elegance that spoke of time spent in drawing rooms.

  “Thank you for what you did,” he said. “I’d have been turned into mincemeat out there.”

  “I’m just glad you knew the song,” I said.

  “You play very well. I must say I was surprised.” He glanced around us and tapped a few fingers against the water-stained plaster. “This isn’t exactly—”

  “Yes, well, I’m here for the money.”

  He grimaced. “So am I.”

  There was a story there, evidently, but I could hardly ask directly. So instead, I said, “Mr. Williams mentioned that he found you in Covent Garden. Have you studied somewhere?”

  “At the Royal Academy, here in London.”

  I felt a stab of envy. “You’re lucky.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was.” There was a slight emphasis on the last word. “Where do you study?”

  “Just—just privately, until last year.” The thought of Mr. Moehler’s passing still pained me.

  “Do you play here every night?”

  I shook my head. “Mondays, Wednesdays, and every other Thursday. Carl Dwigen, the other pianist, plays the rest.”

  His eyes lit up. “Will you be here tomorro
w, then?”

  I nodded. “I take it Mr. Williams asked you back?”

  “Thanks to you. Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays for now.” He shifted his violin case under his arm. “Say, I don’t suppose you could help me pick a few other songs that the audience would like.”

  “Of course.” As I looked at him, a thought occurred to me. “You don’t happen to know how to tune a piano, do you?”

  “No. I noticed some of the notes were off. Bad luck.” He flashed a consoling smile.

  “It gets worse every week. Jack Drummond is supposed to take a look at it, but—”

  “Jack Drummond?” he interrupted. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the owner’s son. He does all sorts of work around here. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point.”

  Stephen’s face wore an odd expression.

  “Do you know him?” I ventured.

  “No, not at all. But I—well, Mr. Williams led me to believe the music hall was his.”

  “In a way, it is,” I said with a shrug. “Mr. Drummond is the owner of the building, but he doesn’t have anything to do with the performances. Mr. Williams manages all of us.”

  The back door opened, and a uniformed police constable hurried in, leaving the door ajar behind him. He passed us without a glance and headed down the corridor.

  “Wonder what he’s here for,” Stephen said.

  We leaned around the corner and watched as the constable entered Drummond’s office without knocking.

  No one ever did that, so far as I’d seen.

  “Could you meet me here tomorrow, before the show?” Stephen asked. “At seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll try. I should go now, though.”

  “Well, good night, then.” He held out his hand for mine.

  I stared at it. Until now, I’d managed to avoid shaking hands in my disguise. But if I ignored his gesture, what would he think? My hands weren’t small, and they were strong with practice, so I took his hand firmly, trying to perform the act as a man would. However, surprise flashed over his face, and he trapped my hand between both of his, turning it over so he could study my palm. My heart sank. I pulled away, sharply regretting that I’d stopped to talk to him.

  His teasing grin faded. “What on earth’s the matter? I’m hardly going to snitch on you, seeing as I need your help.”

  I recognized the truth of his words. “I’m sorry. It’s just—they’d only pay me half as much if they knew.”

  “If they even kept you on,” he added bluntly. “From what I know, there’s a distinct prejudice against lady pianists. How long have you been here?”

  “Nearly two months.”

  His expression became admiring. “Well, I hope I’m that lucky.” He bent his head toward me. “What’s your name? Your real name, I mean?”

  I kept silent.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “I can’t call you ‘Ed’ now.”

  “It’s Nell,” I said reluctantly. Marceline was the only other person who knew the truth. But admitting it to her had been a relief, for we had commiserated over the ways young female performers were at a disadvantage. With Stephen, I only felt a new inequality, a disadvantage that existed on my side alone.

  “Short for Ellen?” he guessed.

  “Elinor.” I paused. “I go by Ed Nell here.”

  “Ed Nell,” he said, trying it out with a grin. “It’s perfect. I could even call you Nelly in front of people, and no one would suspect.”

  I gave him a look that made him instantly turn penitent.

  “I won’t say a word,” he promised. “I think you were clever to come here looking for a job.” And then, sincerely, “I’m certainly glad you did.”

  He intended his words to reassure me, and I managed a smile.

  “Well”—he shifted his violin case again—“I’m told I have to find the wardrobe mistress for a proper costume. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Good night,” I replied and started up the ramp.

  The constable had left the back door cracked open, and as I crossed the yard, the church bells chiming three-quarters made me start.

  How had it gotten so late? And what if this were the one night Matthew came home early?

  I quickened my pace along Hawley Mews, trotting past the Crown and Thorn, where jangling piano music and masculine laughter spilled out the open windows. At the corner, a prostitute called out from below the awning of the chandler’s shop. I had already passed her before I realized that her invitation was meant for me. I moved faster, dodging around a pile of refuse before halting at the corner of Grafton Lane.

  Usually I went home by way of Wickley Street because it was lit by gas lamps. Grafton Lane was narrow and poorly lit, but a good bit shorter.

  Dare I risk it?

  A night-soil man, his cart pulled by a nag with heaving flanks, came out of the alley, and after he passed, I peered in. The passage was eerily empty of people, but the clouds from earlier in the evening had mostly dispersed, and the moon, nearly full, cast a generous silvery light. I thought again of Matthew coming home, checking my bedroom, and not finding me there—and I turned in. Following a series of narrow streets, I worked my way roughly westward until I reached quiet Brewer Street, where all the inhabitants’ windows and doors were closed to the night air and its miasmas. With only another few hundred steps, I’d reach Regent Street. There, gritty Soho ended and fashionable Mayfair began, the boundary marked by Mr. Nash’s famous pillars, the ones that looked like something out of ancient Greece but were only stucco painted to look like rare white marble.

  I was almost there when a low cry, quavering and full of pain, sounded from a dark pocket between the buildings to my left. My steps slowed. Wary of lingering—I knew enough from Matthew about the tricks that cutpurses could play—I strained to see who had called out. It could be a prostitute, or a beggar, or some unfortunate drunken soul who had fallen on the way home from a pub.

  But the next cry was pitched high, like that of a woman or even a child, and it held a note of fear as well as pain.

  The moon had edged behind a cloud, but I could just make out a small still form huddled beside a drainpipe. “Who’s there?” I said softly. “Are you all right?”

  The only answer was a ragged breath.

  I moved forward cautiously, and when the figure remained motionless, I bent down and reached out. My hand touched what felt like a shoulder, muscled but small. A moment later, the moon reemerged, and I could see that the shoulder belonged to a young woman who’d been beaten badly. Her eyes were closed, her face was dark with bruises and blood, and her thick black hair was a matted tangle. I recoiled in horror, pulling my hand back.

  Simultaneously I realized who it was.

  “Marceline!” I sank to my knees and groped for her wrist. Her skin was cold and her pulse weak, and as I drew my hand away I felt the stickiness of blood and noticed that her arm lay at an odd angle. “My God, what happened?” I whispered.

  She didn’t make a sound.

  Fearful of hurting her, my hands hovered, not knowing where I might touch. What could I do? Though she was smaller than I, I didn’t think I could carry her.

  And where could I take her? How would I get her there? My thoughts leaped and scattered uselessly, and I took a deep breath to tamp down my panic. Think, I told myself sharply. Hysteria isn’t going to help either of you.

  Could I take her home? No, that was impossible. How could I explain her presence to Matthew and Peggy?

  Marceline gave another low groan, as if she were in agonizing pain, both mental and physical. That decided me. I’d take her to Dr. Everett.

  I had rested my hand lightly on her back to reassure her of my presence. She moved convulsively as I bent over and spoke in her ear. “Marceline, I’m going to get help.”

  I raced to Regent Street and raised my arm. Two cabs, occupied, clattered by, and I despaired of finding one that was free at this hour. But at last another appeared and slowed.

  “My fr
iend is hurt and needs to go to hospital,” I called up to the driver. “She’s just at the corner, but I need help fetching her.”

  He tilted his head back and looked at me suspiciously. “What’d’you mean, she’s ’urt? I ain’t takin’ ’er if’n she’s drunk, or just been roughed up by a customer—”

  “She’s not a prostitute!” I retorted, my mind quick to assemble a story that would bend his sympathies toward us. “It’s her brute of a husband that’s to blame, when he drinks up every bit of money she earns taking in washing! I’ll give you an extra two shillings for the fare.” Still he seemed undecided. “Please. If she stays out all night, she’ll be dead by morning.”

  He grunted and began to climb down from his box. “Where is she?”

  I pointed. “At the corner, just there. On the ground. But be careful—her arm may be broken.”

  His eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw a glimmer of curiosity, or perhaps disgust at the thought of a man who would do such a thing. “You stay ’ere with my ’orse.”

  I nodded and caught the reins he tossed me. The mare took not the slightest notice, and I stared at the entrance to the alley until my eyes burned.

  Finally, he emerged, carrying Marceline, and together we put her inside the cab.

  “Which ’ospital?” he asked.

  “Charing Cross, please, in Agar Street, off the Strand.”

  We rolled forward, with me cradling Marceline close, trying to absorb the jolts of the ride. But as we drew up to the tall iron gates of the hospital, I realized my own predicament.

  I knew there would be a guard to receive her, for as Dr. Everett often said, disease pays no heed to regular hours. But if I took Marceline inside, I’d have to answer questions, and I wouldn’t be able to keep up my disguise around people who knew me. I had been here too many times to help the doctor with his books and play the piano for patients.

  The cab halted, and I dismounted on the right side and remained in the shadows, close to the wheel.

  “I don’t want to be seen,” I said to the cabdriver. “Can you tell the guard that you found her?”

  He snorted and muttered something under his breath but went silent as I handed him the fare plus the extra I’d promised.