This wasn't what I'd hoped for when I reluctantly agreed to attend George's debut. No one had anticipated that a performance would be abruptly interrupted by such a ghastly, unforgettable sight. I can still feel the collective shock, the stunned silence that had fallen over the theatre, and the icy realization that Victoria, the star of the show, lay dead at centre stage. The vivid details seemed to blur as if the scene itself had been some feverish illusion.
For a few beats, no one moved. The murmurs, which had been quiet whispers of annoyance during the blackout, were suddenly stunned gasps and frightened whispers. Chairs creaked as people leaned forward, trying to make sense of the dreadful tableau. At that moment, there was something chillingly unreal about the scene—almost as if the play had taken on a twisted life of its own, dragging the audience into its macabre grasp.
And then, a commanding voice cut through the murmurs.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm."
A man from the front row rose to his feet, flashing a badge to those who could see it. "Detective Inspector Morgan, Metropolitan Police." His voice carried authority, and a ripple of recognition spread through the crowd as he made his way up onto the stage, a silhouette against the glaring lights. He knelt beside Victoria, checked her pulse, and, without a word, turned to his officers.
"No one is to leave the premises," he announced. "Everyone will be questioned."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, each syllable adding to the uneasy hush that had fallen over the theatre. The audience exchanged glances, a mix of shock and fear flickering across their faces. And somewhere amid that anxious crowd, my thoughts kept returning to George. It was his debut, and the poor lad was white as a sheet, sitting stiffly in his chair, looking as though he'd wandered into a nightmare.
I caught his eye, gave him a nod, and did my best to look reassuring. Not that it helped, of course, but one can always try.
As officers spread out, their questions rang out softly among the seats. When it was my turn, I introduced myself, explaining my line of work in the hopes that my experience might be of some assistance. But the Inspector was having none of it. "Thank you, Mr. Knight, but we've got it handled," he said in a tone that suggested I might as well go home and leave the policing to the professionals.
Fine, I thought, though I made a mental note of the details. The detective seemed determined to control every element of the situation, which in itself piqued my curiosity.
It was an excruciatingly long process, watching people file out one by one, each interview seeming to stretch on forever. The questions, the tense whispers, and the heavy silence that would fall whenever anyone spoke too loudly—altogether it created an atmosphere more suited to a funeral than a theatre. My gaze wandered to the stage, and I felt a strange, almost electric thrill in the air, as though the room itself were holding its breath, still haunted by the remnants of that awful scene.
Eventually, George and I were allowed to leave. He shot me a look—one of mingled horror and exhaustion—and I patted him on the shoulder. "Let's go backstage. Get your things, and we'll make our way out of this madhouse."
We moved quietly, like intruders, the walls looming larger in the dim corridor as we stepped backstage. All the life and energy that had been buzzing before the performance was now sucked out, replaced by an oppressive, watchful silence. Every sound seemed amplified, every shadow suspicious.
I followed George as he gathered his things—a worn script, his old theatre shoes, and the bundle of notes he'd been studying relentlessly over the past weeks. He stuffed them into his bag, casting occasional glances at me, as if trying to gauge whether I'd offer some comforting words or break the silence with a quip. But the weight of the evening hung too heavily for easy words.
It was then that a sharp click of heels echoed through the silence, and we turned to see her.
Standing just a few paces away was a woman I'd only ever seen in passing, yet even here, in the shadows, her presence commanded attention. Her posture was ramrod straight, her features sharp and refined—qualities that seemed almost unnervingly enhanced by the cold gleam in her eyes.
She looked at us, her gaze settling on me with an intensity that was almost… predatory.
"You must be William Knight," she said, her voice low and precise.
And in that single, carefully measured sentence, I knew who she must be. Eleanor—Victoria's sister.