Chapter Fifty-Five

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

S harps was leaning up against the wall at the entrance to the yard, paring his nails with a long knife. The yard did not look like a fairytale bower anymore.

‘I know you,’ Tom said as he left the stage door and approached cautiously. ‘You’re Kelly’s man, who comes to hear Sally sing.’

Sharps straightened up and returned his knife to the pocket of his waistcoat.

‘I am. Is it true she’s singing here tonight, in your show?’

‘She is.’

Sharps sniffed. ‘You’re soft on her, aren’t you?’

Tom wondered – briefly – about lying, but some instinct told him the best way to survive an encounter with a man like Sharps was to be honest.

‘I am. Very.’ Sharps nodded, but offered no further comment. ‘Is that why you asked for me? To talk about Sally?’

Sharps shook his head. ‘No, I’m here to tell you you’ve got a bomb on the premises.’

Jack was clutching the clipboard so hard, he suspected he’d carry the scar of it for days. The fisherman was on stage now, head back, arms out, filling the auditorium with his powerful baritone. From where he stood, Jack could see the royal box. The Prince of Wales and Crown Prince Stefan were at the front, both watching with pleasant smiles on their faces as the fisherman’s song swelled to a climax.

Jack risked a glance over his shoulder in the direction of dressing room four. He was not a religious man, but he began to pray anyway.

‘What in God’s name do you mean, a bomb? Are you blackmailing us?’

‘We are not. I’ve had information certain items have gone missing from Lassiter shed number three, where your mother cooks up military items. A pair of shells, to be exact. I’ve spent the day in conversation with a gentleman, not part of our organisation, who we discovered in town, and he might make use of such things.’

‘And he just told you he’d planted a bomb?’

Sharps raised an eyebrow and Tom blushed. He wondered, feeling suddenly a little ill, what Sharps had been cleaning out of his nails.

‘Mr Kelly has his faults, but he’s fond of the royal family.’ Sharps shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t have bothered stopping anyone just trying to shoot that Marakovian, but there’s limits.’

‘Do you know where it is? We must evacuate.’

‘Under the royal box. And it’s too late for that. It’s on an electrical switch. If whoever paid for it to be put in there sees you evacuating, they’ll flick it and . . . boom . Got to do it quiet, like.’

‘Was it . . .? Mr Sharps, is my mother behind this?’

He sniffed. ‘Someone asked her for a pair of shells, Lassiter, and she handed them over quick, like, and without consulting us. What the person who bought them from Mrs Lassiter told her, I couldn’t say.’

‘What a pair of lungs!’ Harold declared. ‘Though, I must say, I’d wanted a song that was a wee bit saltier.’

The audience laughed.

‘He can cast his nets in my direction any day!’ Josie said. ‘But we have two more acts for you. First, a husband and wife duet, and after them, our very own Stella Stanmore will be performing her hit from one of her early successes, some years ago – Riviera Nights —’

‘Cat,’ Stella said, keeping the smile on her face, while Lance snorted with laughter.

‘Then our last contender! Mrs Sally Blow.’

As the violinist and his wife entered to warm applause, Tom grabbed Jack’s arm, pulled him further into the darkness of the wings, and told him what he’d just heard from Sharps.

‘Might it be another trick of your mother’s?’ Jack asked. ‘Have us evacuate the theatre in the middle of a performance attended by the Prince of Wales? It would dwarf the rest of the mischief she’s achieved.’

‘No, Jack. I honestly believe this is real.’

Jack reached for the fire alarm, but Tom shot out a hand and gripped his wrist. ‘Stop, Jack, it’s on a switch. Any sign of an evacuation and it will be triggered at once. We need to deal with it in secret.’

Jack swallowed and breathed in slowly.

‘Who arranged this, Tom? Who got the shells from your mother and planted them here?’

‘I didn’t stop to ask,’ Tom admitted.

‘Understood. Get up to the follow spot, Tom. Tell Ruben to keep as much light as possible off the royal box and I’ll go in myself. Stella’s on next, so most of the audience will be looking at her. Have you seen Dixon? I’d give my right arm for someone who really understands wiring at this moment.’

‘Not since the interval. Mr Poole waylaid him as we were about to come back in.’

‘We’ll have to rely on what I can remember of basic training, then. Now go. Send Danny up here to run the show till I’m done.’ Tom turned away. ‘Tom! If something goes wrong, if I don’t make it . . .’ Jack looked towards dressing room four.

‘I’ll look after them, Jack.’

Jack walked up the staircase as casually as he could: just a theatre manager keeping an eye on things during a very important performance. He approached the door to the royal box and rested his fingers on it for a moment, then turned the handle. He slipped through the door and crouched down, just behind the chairs in which the Crown Prince and the Prince of Wales were sitting, amid a crowd of equerries and exactly over the spot he believed the bomb to be.

‘Good evening, Your Highnesses, gentlemen. Please keep your attention on the stage, and try not to react to what I’m about to say. A man has just turned up at the theatre with a warning a bomb has been planted under your feet.’

There was a moment of silence, and the prince asked in a quiet drawl, ‘What manner of man? Is it likely to be a prank?’

‘A known criminal, sir. Who has a patriotic streak. Perhaps while the lights are directed away from you, we could ask you to step out?’

‘Did the gentleman say the bomb is on a switch, or a timer?’

‘A switch, sir.’

The prince gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Even if Stefan and I made it out before it was blown, there would be casualties.’

‘That is a possibility, sir.’

‘Army man, aren’t you, Treadwell?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then find it and disarm it, while Stefan and I stay exactly where we are at the front of the box and enjoy Miss Stanmore’s performance.’

Jack could see the beads of sweat starting out on Stefan’s collar. The Prince of Wales slung his arm casually around the back of his chair.

‘Calmly does it, Stefan,’ the prince said. ‘Let Treadwell do what he’s doing and concentrate on this lovely girl. Did you meet her at dinner yesterday?’

‘I need room to open the trapdoor,’ Jack said.

One of the Prince of Wales’s party slid quietly off his chair and knelt by Jack. ‘I’m Osman, and an army man, too,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Torstein, if you and the others could leave as discreetly as possible . . . I’ll assist you, Treadwell.’

‘Enchanted,’ Jack said between gritted teeth, ‘but the rest of you – hop it.’

‘That’s hop it by royal command,’ the prince added.

Opening the door as little as possible, the royal entourage – all bar Osman – slipped silently into the corridor.

Jack’s muscles contracted. He rolled back the carpet and gently lifted the trapdoor. The Prince of Wales moved his chair closer to Stefan and leant forward, trying to give Jack cover.

It was real. Horribly, unquestionably real. Jack found himself staring at a pair of metal cylinders with wires spiralling down into the darkness from a firing cap fitted into the snub nose of one cylinder.

‘Anything interesting?’ the prince asked.

‘A pair of shells, sir.’

Jack closed his fingers around the wires.

‘Steady, even pressure,’ Osman said, taking off his jacket and laying it on the floor. ‘Pull the wires out and hand the shells to me, and don’t let the exposed ends touch as they come free. That’s important.’

‘All going well, Treadwell?’ the prince asked. ‘Because I’m pretty sure we should be dead by now.’

‘Just one moment, sir.’

Jack pulled, very gently. As he felt the sucking resistance, he wondered, vaguely, if the theme to Riviera Nights Stella was singing on stage would be the last song he heard on Earth. He wished his wife and child a blessed life. Then pulled a little harder.

The wires popped out and Jack caught them in the palm of his hand, his fingers separating the wires, then set them down carefully, back in the hole, away from the shells.

The song, and life with it, carried on.

Jack lifted the first of the shells out, passing it sideways to Osman, who placed it onto his coat, then the second.

‘Clear,’ Jack murmured. The Crown Prince seemed to slump a little.

Good show,’ the prince said clearly.

‘Why aren’t we dead, Treadwell?’ Osman whispered. ‘Miss Stanmore is an excellent singer, but anyone who cared to look this way must have seen there was something up. Why didn’t they blow it?’

Jack peered into the void. Moving the shells had dislodged the wires a little. Just beyond where they had disappeared into the darkness, they had been gnawed through.

‘Harry,’ Jack said very softly.

‘What’s that?’ the prince asked out of the side of his mouth.

‘The wires, sir. They’ve been chewed through. Possibly by a rat who likes to torment me, but appears to have his tiny heart in the right place.’

‘A royalist rat and a patriotic hoodlum on the same night? How utterly marvellous. May we return to enjoying your excellent show again, Treadwell?’

‘Please do,’ Jack replied. He stood up and Osman passed him the shells, wrapped in his jacket. ‘I’ll lock these in the safe in my office.’

‘I’m happy to watch the rest of the show in my shirtsleeves,’ Osman replied, quietly retaking his seat. Jack cradled the shells very carefully in his arms, then looked towards the follow spot, from where, he was quite sure, Tom would be watching in an agony of fear, and gave a thumbs up.

When Ruben’s spotlight swung up to highlight their enthusiastic applause for Stella, the royal box was packed with equerries and uniforms and royalty, just as it should be.

Jack carried the shells into his office and placed them in the safe, closing the heavy door on them and spinning the dials, then walked out into the corridor again. He tried to lean against the wall, but his legs went out from under him, and he found himself sitting untidily at the top of the stairs.

Mr Poole appeared at the bottom of the flight and jogged up a few steps. ‘What on earth is happening, Mr Treadwell?’

Jack held up his hand and lifted his head. ‘Mr Poole, I will tell you all, but not now. Would you do me a very great favour? Could you check how Grace is?’

‘I only saw her a moment ago. Mrs Cook says she’s doing nicely. We have visitors. The Marakovian ambassador has turned up with a bloke from the Foreign Office, Sir Gideon Wells! He’s Dixon’s father. They flew up from London in an aeroplane and you’ll never believe it, but from what I overheard . . .’ Mr Poole looked at Jack – his exhaustion and pallor – and decided not to add to it immediately. ‘I shall enquire backstage. And our new guests are in the shop. They’d like to see the princes as soon as the show ends.’