Chapter 12
CURTAIN CALL
Anya rose through the air with ethereal grace, her crimson and gold costume catching the stage lights as she ascended toward what the audience believed was her triumphant transformation.
From my position in the fly gallery, I could see both the beauty of her performance and the deadly truth.
The sabotaged cable was already beginning to fray under the strain.
Twenty feet. Twenty-five. The music swelled toward its climax as Anya reached the height where she would hover in seeming flight before her final ascension to freedom. I watched the cable with desperate intensity, seeing the individual strands beginning to snap one by one.
Cooper stood ready at the emergency release, his face pale with terror for both Anya and his own daughter. The timing would have to be perfect. Too early, and the emergency rigging would interfere with the performance and alert Volkov that his plan had been discovered. Too late and . . .
Thirty feet. The cable was holding, but barely. I could see it stretching under Anya's weight, the cut strands separating farther with each subtle movement of her performance.
Then I saw movement in the wings below. Volkov had stepped forward where he could see the rigging clearly, and his expression had changed from anticipation to suspicion. He'd noticed something. Perhaps the way Cooper was positioned, or some detail of the rigging that wasn't quite right.
The music reached the moment for Anya's final ascension to freedom. As she rose higher, I saw the exact moment when the cable reached its breaking point.
"Now!" I shouted to Cooper, bringing the police whistle to my lips.
But even as Cooper lunged for the emergency release, I saw Volkov pull a revolver from beneath his evening jacket. He wasn't going to wait for the rigging to fail. He was going to shoot Anya himself.
The police whistle's shrill blast echoed through the theatre just as the main cable snapped with a sound like a gunshot. Cooper triggered the emergency release, and the backup rigging deployed with a mechanical clatter that was audible even over the orchestra.
But Volkov had already taken aim.
Anya dropped suddenly as the main cable failed. But rather than plummet to her death, she was caught by the emergency harness. Even as Volkov's shot went wide as his target moved unexpectedly, the audience gasped, thinking it was part of the performance.
Chaos erupted in the wings as Robert's constables moved to apprehend Volkov, but the former Okhrana colonel was far from finished. He fired again, this time at the emergency rigging itself, trying to complete his murderous plan even as the police closed in.
From my position high above, I could see everything: Anya suspended between safety and death by the backup rigging, Volkov fighting his way toward the stage with his remaining men, and Robert leading the charge to reach him before he could fire again.
But I also saw something else—Cooper's anguished face as he realized that saving Anya might have doomed his own daughter. Volkov's network would certainly kill the child now that their plan had failed.
"Cooper!" I called out. "Where is she? Where is your daughter?"
"The basement!" he shouted back. “In a room beneath the stage, kept a prisoner by Volkov’s men."
Of course. Volkov had kept his insurance policy close at hand, hidden in the very theatre where his plan would unfold. While the police battled his men in the wings, his associates would eliminate the evidence of his coercion.
I scrambled along the fly gallery toward the ladder, knowing I had to reach the basement before Volkov's men silenced Cooper's daughter forever. Behind me, I could hear the sounds of gunfire echoing through the theatre as the performance collapsed into chaos.
The basement beneath the King’s Theatre was a maze of storage rooms, workshops, and forgotten spaces dating back to the building's construction. I'd never been down here before, but Cooper's directions had been clear—a room near the old furnace, accessible through the scene dock.
I found the narrow staircase and descended into darkness, using the small electric torch Robert had given me to navigate the cramped corridors. The sounds of the battle above were muffled here, replaced by the drip of water and the scurrying of unseen creatures.
Then I heard it. A muffled sobbing coming from somewhere ahead.
The door to that room was locked, but the wood was old and the frame was loose. A few sharp kicks with my heel, and it splintered open to reveal a small girl, perhaps eight years old, tied to a chair with tears streaming down her face. Thankfully, she was alone.
"Are you Mr. Cooper's daughter?" I whispered, kneeling to untie her bonds.
She nodded, too frightened to speak.
"It's all right. Your father sent me to get you. We're going to take you somewhere safe."
But even as I freed her from the ropes, I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. Volkov's men coming to finish what their boss had started.
I looked around desperately for another exit, but the room had only one door. We were trapped, with armed killers approaching and nowhere to run.
Then I remembered the torch in my hand. The old basement was full of stored scenery, costumes, and props—all highly flammable. If I could create enough smoke and confusion . . .
I grabbed a pile of old fabric and held the electric torch's bulb against it until it began to smolder. The smoke was immediate and thick, creating the diversion we needed.
"Fire!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Fire in the basement!"
The effect was immediate. Heavy footsteps turned to running as Volkov's men realized they might be trapped in a burning building. In the confusion, I grabbed Cooper's daughter and led her through the smoke toward what I hoped was another staircase.
We emerged into the scene dock just as theatre staff came running, buckets of water in their hands. Not far behind them, Cooper himself appeared. His face streaked with tears as he gathered his daughter into his arms.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Miss Worthington, thank you."
But our reunion was brief. I needed to know what had happened to Anya, to Robert, to Volkov himself.
We climbed back to stage level to find the theatre in controlled chaos. The audience was being evacuated while the fire brigade was making its way into the theatre.
But most importantly, Anya was alive and unharmed.
“Thank goodness you’re safe,” I said, embracing her. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”
Anya stiffened slightly, then pulled back, her brow furrowed. “I . . . I saw you at my dressing room door. I remember your face, but I don’t know who you are.”
Before I could reply, Monsieur LeClair stepped forward, his voice gentle. “This is Miss Worthington, Anya. She’s the one who found your letters and the photographs. She’s the reason you’re safe now.”
Anya’s gaze found mine, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know who to trust,” she whispered. “I was so afraid . . . I felt completely alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore,” I said softly. “You have many friends who care about you, Anya—including me.” I took a close look at her face, seeing the exhaustion and fear she'd endured. Still, I had to ask. “Where is Volkov?"
Her expression showed a mixture of relief and lingering fear. "I don't know. When the shooting started, the stage turned into a madhouse. One moment he was there, and then . . .” She shuddered. "I was so frightened, I could barely think."
I looked around for Robert and found him coordinating with the fire brigade and his constables. When he saw me, relief flooded his face.
"Catherine! When I heard the fire alarm, and you were nowhere to be found . . .”
"I'm fine," I said quietly. "Is it really over?"
“Completely,” Robert replied. “We have Volkov in custody. He tried to escape through the basement but ran straight into my men. We also arrested four of his associates. But we still need to locate where Miss Petrova hid the original evidence. Everything we’ve recovered so far are duplicates.”
“Well,” I said, glancing toward the figure huddled nearby, “she’s right here now. Why don’t we ask her?”
Together we approached Anya. She was still sitting to the side, wrapped in a theatre blanket, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but alert.
“Miss Petrova,” I said gently, “this is Chief Detective Inspector Crawford Sinclair from Scotland Yard. He’s been leading the investigation into your uncle’s activities.
We found the envelope you gave to Mr. Pemberton and the items hidden in your dressing room.
But they’re copies. We need to know where you placed the originals. ”
She nodded slowly. “In a trunk, here in the theatre. The one where they store the costumes from The Pharaoh’s Daughter. Ask the costume mistress. She’ll know which one I mean.”
“Thank you,” Robert said. “You were very brave to have done this.”
Anya looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t the brave one. A friend from the émigré community helped gather that evidence. He paid for that act of bravery with his life.”
A hush settled between Robert and me as the weight of what had been lost lingered in the silence. But even in that stillness, questions remained—unanswered and urgent.
Taking Robert aside, I asked, “What about Cooper? He tampered with the rigging. Anya could have been killed.”
His jaw tightened. “He’ll face charges—attempted murder, most likely. But the Crown Prosecution Service will take everything into account. His daughter’s kidnapping and any testimony he provides against Volkov.”
I nodded slowly. The law would do what it must. But in the end, so much of this had come down to fear, desperation, and choices made in the dark.
At least now,” I said quietly, “Volkov will finally face justice.”
Robert gave a grim nod. “Enough to put a rope around his neck. No one at the Yard will lose sleep over it.”
"And Anya?"
"Free to start a new life wherever she chooses. The evidence she preserved will give us everything we need to protect the Russian émigré community from this kind of predation."
As the first light of dawn filtered through the theatre's tall windows, I felt the exhaustion of the past week finally catching up with me. The case was closed, justice had been served, and most importantly, a brave young woman was free to live her life without fear.
"The company will continue with The Firebird," Monsieur LeClair said, appearing beside us with renewed energy despite the night's chaos.
“Not tonight, of course, but next week. Anya has agreed to remain with us now that the danger is past." He beamed at his star performer.
"London audiences will finally see the performance they deserve. "
Anya nodded, still wrapped in her blanket but looking hopeful.
"I think I would like to stay in London," she said softly.
"This city has given me a new friend who has risked her life for mine.” She gazed at me as she said that.
“And as you have reminded me, I have many friends who care for me.
That is worth more than any escape to America. "
Robert, standing beside me, looked worn but quietly satisfied. “Darling, I think it’s time to get you home. You’ve had quite enough excitement for one case.”
I didn't argue. As he took my arm, I leaned gratefully against his solid presence.
After bidding goodnight to LeClair and Anya, we walked out of the theatre into the crisp London morning. "Thank you," I said quietly as we reached his automobile.
"For what?"
"For trusting me to see this through. For not demanding I stay safe when someone else's life was at stake."
He stopped and turned to face me, his hands gentle on my shoulders. "Catherine Worthington, you are the most remarkable woman I've ever known. I wouldn't dream of demanding such a thing. I’d rather stand beside you and face whatever comes."
And with that, he kissed me softly in the morning light, sealing not just the end of our most dangerous case, but the promise of whatever adventures lay ahead.
Did you enjoy The Case of the Missing Dancer? Perhaps you’d like to read the next Kitty Worthington chronological mystery?
Murder at the Jazz Club
Kitty Worthington is thrilled to celebrate her birthday at London’s swankiest club. Dinner and dancing to the city’s hottest jazz band make for an unforgettable evening. And that’s before a body drops.
London 1924. After solving a difficult murder and a missing person case, Kitty Worthington has become all the rage.
A victim of her own success, she’s eagerly looking forward to her birthday celebration at Gennaro’s, London’s swankiest jazz club.
Dinner with friends and dancing with her intended to the music of the band and chanteuse who’ve taken the city by storm.
But as the singer’s smoky voice commands everyone’s attention, an argument erupts between the songbird’s brother and a marquis. Before long, the aristocrat winds up dead, and the brother’s arrested. Wrongfully, his sister claims as she begs Kitty to investigate.
The last thing Kitty needs is yet another investigation.
But there’s something about the arrest that doesn’t sit right with her.
Determined to get to the truth, Kitty and her band of sleuths start searching for answers.
Soon, they discover an intrigue that implicates a high-ranking noble and a royal personage as well.
In no time at all, that scoop finds its way to the press, and threats start to mount against Kitty and her friends. Can they divine a solution before someone else ends up dead?
Murder at the Jazz Club, Book 7 in The Kitty Worthington Mysteries. A 1920s historical cozy mystery set in the London jazz scene and the highest echelon of British society is sure to please lovers of Agatha Christie and Downton Abbey. Available exclusively at .