Lithe dancers began to filter in, uncharacteristically silent and somber, slipping into silk robes and taking off their thick makeup. Sarah was pulling off spidery false eyelashes when there was a sharp knock on the dressing room door. “Open up!”
The dancer closest, huddled into a robe, opened it. “Nobody leaves!” a tall policeman shouted in a thick Scottish burr. “This is a crime scene!
“You!” he said, jabbing a finger at the dancer who’d opened the door, one of the youngest of the corps.
“Yes?” she whispered, shrinking back. “Sir?”
“We’re looking for a Miss Mildred Petrie. And a Miss Sarah Sanderson. Are they here?”
Sarah stood. “I’m Sarah Sanderson.”
The witch rose, too. “And I’m Mildred Petrie.” She still had on her prosthetic warty nose and green makeup, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. Sarah’s eyes were large and frightened. Mildred looked to be in shock as well—although her small eyes were far less expressive.
“I’m afraid, ladies, that we’re taking you in for questioning.”
“May I at least put on some clothes?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, of course,” said the shorter officer, recoiling from Mildred and her nose. “Please do.”
Maggie went outside with the police officers. “What sort of questioning?” she demanded, stepping forward.
“Sorry, Miss. Police business.”
“Well then, which station are you taking them to?”
“St. Leonard’s.”
Sarah and Mildred both emerged a few minutes later, their faces pale without makeup, wearing street clothes. Maggie trotted alongside as they exited the theater by the stage door. The dancers were guided into the backseat of a shiny black police car. “Why do you need to question them?” Maggie insisted.
“I can’t say anything, Miss,” answered the shorter police officer. “I’m sorry.”
Sarah and Mildred settled into the seat. “Maggie …” Sarah put her fingers against the glass.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this, I swear,” Maggie promised.
She turned to the taller officer. “Are you charging them with a crime?” Maggie wasn’t an expert in the laws of Britain, but she was pretty sure people had to be informed. “You do have to tell them!”
The bobby looked Maggie straight in the eye. “We’re bringing them both in for questioning—regarding the murder of Miss Estelle Crawford.”
St. Leonard’s Police Station, on St. Leonard’s Lane, was a yellow-brick building dwarfed by the cliffs of Castle Rock and then the imposing fortress itself. Maggie entered and took a seat in the waiting room, watching the clock and worrying at an unraveling seam at the fingertips of her gloves. “Cuppa tea, Miss?” the woman at the reception desk asked.
“No,” Maggie managed. “No, thank you.”
Sarah was in another room, being questioned. The taller police officer, Herbert Craig, sat down in a battered metal chair across the small wooden table from Sarah. The legs scraped at the worn gray linoleum. “I want to reiterate, for the record, Miss Sanderson, that you’ve waived your right to a solicitor.”
“Yes,” Sarah said softly. “I have nothing to hide.”
“All right.” Craig uncapped his pen and scribbled on the margin of his notepad, to encourage the ink flowing. “You’re Miss Estelle Crawford’s understudy?” He was youngish, maybe in his late twenties, with a long, thin face that matched his long, thin body. An empty pinned-up left sleeve explained why he wasn’t serving in the military.
“Yes,” Sarah answered. She was pale from shock.
“So, if she didn’t go on, you would dance the leading role in her place.”
“Yes.”
Craig made a note on his pad. “And that would mean extra money?”
“Well … yes. But you can’t imagine …”
“Just answer the questions, please, Miss Sanderson.”
“Yes.”
“And I understand this was a special night? Opening night? And there would be critics in attendance?”
“Yes.” Sarah blinked back tears. “But I adored Estelle—we all did—you can’t imagine I’d ever—”
“Again, please just answer the questions, Miss,” he commanded, but he took out a cambric handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
She dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, it was opening night, and yes, there were several critics in attendance.”
He made another note. “Do you know a Mr. Richard Atholl?”
“Of course. He’s our conductor.”