The Wondermark Gazette

I entered the theatre amid a standing ovation — clapping and demure whooping served nicely to mask my impertinent ingress. I had to exercise a certain measure of discretion with my investigation; if I simply announced that there was a murderer in the building, chaos would result and the vile plotter could easily escape. To that end, I decided against making any loud cries of alarm or shrieks of “Fire,” but don’t think I wasn’t tempted, just for the adrenalin rush.

I surveyed the geography of the room: above and to each side were balconies and private viewing-boxes; presumably the target — one Field-Admiral Richey, of considerable esteem and renown from his exploits in the African Crown colonies — was in one of them. But which? I had no way of knowing. I could yell “Zulu attack!” and listen for a disturbed yelp, but that still had the potential to cause more problems than it would solve.

As the applause died down and the audience began to re-take their seats, exhausted from the exertion of lavishing one another with praise, I espied Police Detective Ameson not far down the aisle. He’d chosen a seat near the back with easy access to the exit, presumably in case of trouble — and, well, there was going to be trouble. He was a gawker, though, always interested in gossip and tabloid trivia; I knew how keenly he yearned to be a part of the capital-S Society goings-on, so it would be no easy task to divert his attention from the ceremony.

Added to this challenge was the creeping dread that seized me as I approached a man of the law. Amoson had never wronged me personally, or at least not yet — too eager to fit in with the noble classes, he turned a convenient blind eye to some of our more, er, storied excesses. But his acquiescence did nothing to erase the mis-treatment I had suffered at the hands of that villain Peapoddy, now thankfully dead but once deputised and bebadged as a Special Investigator back in Easthillshireborough-upon-Flats — that riot-besieged city to which I would certainly have to return if tonight’s assassin succeeded in killing Field-Admiral Richey.

“Our next presenter was last year’s honoree for Best Quip or Zinger in the Context of Church,” someone announced from the stage — a quick glance confirmed that they’d hired that tiresome suck-up Carlton Rube to host the event this year. Never at a loss for a pun or cheesy riddle, he was the sort of nuisance that everyone thought they were too sophisticated for but that surely their less-cultured peers would simply love. This pluralistic ignorance had sustained Carlton’s career for some decades now — any moment, he was going to whip out his shop-worn impression of George III.

Ah, there it was! The audience tittered politely and condescendingly. Police Detective Amoson laughed, seemingly mostly because he thought he should. On this very sentiment of obligation had Carlton’s many grubby children long been fed.

“Detective,” I whispered, “would you come with me, please?” Amoson looked surprised, then put-out, then reluctant, then guilty, but finally agreed. Soon we were whispering in a secluded alcove near a rear door.

“There is a murderer in the theatre tonight,” I hissed. “His target is Field-Admiral Richey. Do you know where the admiral is seated?”

“I, er…” Amoson stammered, clearly feeling pressured to rise to the level of repartée expected of attendants of tonight’s occasion. “I don’t know the admiral, I’m afraid. Haven’t had the pleasure of shaking his sailing-hand.” Amoson was bad at banter.

But no matter. “We’ve got to find him, or flush the murderer out some-how,” I said. “What if you search the East wing of view-boxes, and I’ll start on the West –”

“Better yet,” Amoson beamed, face alighting like a waif who’s been told he’ll be entered into a lottery for the chance to eat unspoilt food one night this week. “I’ll make an announcement to the crowd. Something witty — asking the Field Admiral to take a bow, or something. Get it? Bow? Like a ship? With such attention focused on the admiral, there’s no way the killer would strike.”

It was a dumb plan, but it was one he was already on board with, and we were running out of time. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll wait on the mezzanine — maybe the killer will beat a hasty retreat from the balcony and I’ll be able to catch him.”

“Capital,” Amoson nodded, already clearly running through all the clever remarks and wit he could bring to bear. As I headed up the stairs to the mezzanine, I hoped that he would simply say whatever he’d landed on by the time he reached the stage, and not dally about in the wings, trying to come up with the perfect, clever phrase. Because if he did, I’d be waiting here all night.

I surveyed the doors leading to each private balcony-box — behind one of which which lurked the Field-Admiral and, presumably, his would-be killer? Were I to enter any of them, I might miss a fleeting figure across the way — so I sat tight, held my position, and waited for Amoson to make his announcement.

Ten minutes passed, and still the ceremony had yet to be interrupted. Frantically, I cursed my decision to stay put, cursed my enlistment of a dilettante like Amoson in the first place, and fierily cursed my fiber-rich supper.

Finally, I could take no more waiting, and simply entered the nearest balcony-box, opening the door softly and only wide enough to make out the figures within.

It was Lord Dunburton, Earl of Tostada, and his wife the Lady Tostada. On stage beyond them, Carlton was riffing on how peasants walked like this, but the bourgeois walked like this.

“Someone really should get rid of that Carlton Rube,” the Lady Tostada sighed. “What a tire-some bore.”

“A canker on the crust of the Earth,” her husband agreed. “Simply intolerable. The man should be put to death at once.” Peering closer, I was just able to make out Amoson down by the stage steps, pacing and muttering to himself. Come on, man!

And then — the terrible explosion of a pistol-shot. Lady Tostada sat upright and craned her neck to see what was happening, fumbling with a pair of ornate opera glasses, while the Earl dove under his chair in an instant — “It’s the Zulus come to Britain for revenge,” he choked. “Why did no one listen to my many rambling warnings?” The audience shrieked. Carlton stopped mid-joke to dive for cover. Amoson was lost from view, absorbed into a mob at once.

I ducked back out of the balcony-box and onto the mezzanine, running in the direction from which the shot had originated — only to catch the barest glimpse of a shadow disappear down a far-off stair-well. I made to give chase, but suddenly the Lady Richey was in my path, covered in blood –

“He’s dead,” she sobbed, “he’s dead.”

My stomach sank. It was small consolation, but the first thought that landed in my head was that she certainly won’t be winning any Bon Mot awards next year with that one.

Next: The Hunt for Clues

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