‘Dear lady,’ called a wavering voice. ‘I was making some notes, but I’m stuck. My trousers are caught on something.’ His arrogant tone had vanished. As more torch beams pinpointed him, they could see the goateed critic splayed above the stage like a Savile Row–suited barrage balloon.
‘Sidney, see if you can get him free,’ directed May.
‘Maybe we should just leave him there.’
‘Don’t tempt me. What are you doing here, Mr Riley? You know it’s off-limits.’
‘That’s the problem,’ whined Riley. ‘No one will talk to me about what’s going on. I’m trying to do a feature and no one will tell me the truth. I’m doing your show a favour, bringing it the oxygen of publicity. The least anyone could do is return my calls.’
‘So you thought you’d break in and nose around.’
‘It’s hardly breaking in. I know the boys on the stage door.’
‘You mean you bribed them. And you nearly killed someone.’
The critic raised his hands in a gesture of horror. ‘I leaned on one of the lights to get a better view and it came loose. Everything is held together with clips and ropes up here.’
‘You’re not supposed to be here at all, Riley,’ said Biddle, reaching over and tugging at his trousers. ‘There you go.’ There was a tearing sound, and the critic fell forward with a yelp. The officers helped him back onto the balcony.
‘For this I thank you, dear fellow,’ said Riley shakily. He dusted down the knees of his trousers, regaining his composure. ‘It was ghastly. There was someone else back there with me, breathing heavily through his nose. It sounded like he was wearing a gas mask. I could hear him moving around, jumping between the gantries. He stopped right in front of me, watching, then moved away.’
‘You didn’t get a good look at him?’ asked May.
‘Only enough to see that he was barely human, hulking and hunched over, a giant dwarf or some kind of large animal, great big teeth. I’m sure he meant to do me harm.’
‘He’s not alone there,’ muttered Parole. ‘And I’m not sure what you mean by a giant dwarf.’
‘I think you should go down to the stalls and apologize to the cast for nearly wiping out the star of the show,’ Biddle told him. ‘Then we’ll go and write up your report while Mr May decides what to charge you with.’
‘Charge me?’ Riley looked shocked.
‘Unlawful entry and trespass,’ agreed May, taking his cue from Biddle, ‘circumstances of actus reus, some broken by-laws because this is a public building, several causation and situational offences, and anything else the lads can think of, the precedent of the Crown v. Woolmington nineteen thirty-five springs to mind. Then Miss Noriac will probably want to press charges for invasion of privacy and attempted assault, and sue you and your paper, assuming you were acting under its auspices, for causing her undue distress.’
‘Please, no! Think of the publicity!’ Riley wheezed.
‘I imagine her attitude could be mitigated by the level of contrition you show her.’
‘And you might want to pin yourself up, seeing as your arse is hanging out of your trousers and there are ladies below,’ added Biddle, leading the horrified critic downstairs. Parole and May followed at a polite distance.
‘Are you really going to press all those charges?’ asked Helena as they descended to the stalls.
‘No, I was talking absolute rubbish. So, another false alarm.’
‘It’s wearing down my cast. They’re seeing things in every dark corner. We’re all spooked, but of course nobody wants the show to close. I think I preferred it when there was just a murderer loose. Now all they talk about is this—creature.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ said May.
‘No, other people have seen things. Corinne says she glimpsed it again in the upper circle. Says it was running on its hands like a monkey. Madeline, my ASM, was understage and heard something hooting, or crying, near the orchestra. She reckons it sounded like an animal in pain. Your Betty still hasn’t got over her nasty turn.’
That’s a point, thought May. We were supposed to see each other at the weekend. He suddenly realized that he had been too preoccupied by the investigation to call her.
‘They can’t all be imagining things,’ Helena continued, ‘but what on earth could it be? It’s not like anybody’s keeping a noisy pet tucked away backstage. Stan Lowe was the only one in last night, and said he was just about to lock up when he saw the shadow of something swinging back and forth on the underside of the dress circle. I know they’re very artistic people but this is a kind of collective madness. It’s a dilemma: do we stay open for business and hope to catch this thing, or close and never discover the truth? Have you heard anything from the council?’