Enter Stage Left

"So, there's the Pavilion on Mile End Road," Artie said, ticking off on his fingers. "Does music hall mostly, but sometimes plays. Then there's the Paragon over on Whitechapel High Street —bigger place, proper theater. And the Effingham on Whitechapel Road itself, though I 'eard they're closing down soon. Money troubles."

Bernie adjusted the false beard and checked her reflection in the small mirror propped on the studio worktable. The Van Dyke sat straight, the spirit gum held firm despite the October damp. The binding corset compressed her ribs into submission. The men's suit hung properly, baggy enough to hide curves, fitted enough not to look slovenly.

Bernard Abrams, photographer. Legitimate businessman.

"Any of them known for... unusual productions?" Violet asked, still examining Bernie's face for flaws. "Horror shows, French companies, that sort of thing?"

"The Paragon does Shakespeare and melodrama mostly. Respectable stuff." Artie consulted the notes he'd scribbled during his morning rounds through Whitechapel's markets and alleyways. "Pavilion's all music hall—jugglers and singers and such. But the Effingham..." He paused. "One of the flower girls said they did darker stuff. Gothic romances. Murder plays. That sort."

"The Effingham then." Bernie turned from the mirror. "We'll start there."

"You sure about this?" Artie's expression was troubled. "I mean, what if we find the bastard? What if he realizes you're asking questions?"

"Then I'll be Bernie, asking about theater photography for his business." Violet pulled on the heavy wool coat, feeling its familiar weight settle across her shoulders. "Nothing suspicious about that. Half the photographers in London do theater work."

"Yeah, but—"

"Artie." Violet met his eyes. "Three women are dead. Three more might die if we don't find whoever's doing this. The police are working the case, but they don't have what I have. They can't talk to the victims."

"The police have Detective Flanahan," Artie pointed out. "He seemed right competent yesterday, from what you said. Maybe we should just let him—"

"He's working blind." Violet checked that the forged papers were in Bernie's inner coat pocket, just in case. "He's got the bodies, the patterns, but no real leads. The victims can't tell him what happened. But they can tell me."

Artie still looked dubious, but he grabbed his own coat and followed Bernie out into the gray October morning.

The Effingham Theatre sat on Whitechapel Road between a gin palace and a tobacconist's shop; its facade painted a peeling shade of dark green that might once have been elegant. A placard outside announced the current production in faded letters: The Mysteries of Udolpho - Gothic Romance in Three Acts.

"Gothic romance," Artie muttered. "Proper grim stuff, that."

"Mm." Bernie studied the building. Three stories, narrow windows on the upper floors, the ground floor entrance propped open to let in air. Through the doorway, she could see a dim lobby with tattered velvet curtains and a ticket booth that looked unmanned. "But let's ask anyway."

Inside, the theater smelled of dust and old perfume and something vaguely moldy. The lobby was small, cramped, with playbills pasted haphazardly on the walls advertising past productions—The String of Pearls, Sweeney Todd, The Phantom of the Opera. All gothic, all melodramatic, all decidedly English rather than French.

"Hello?" Bernie called. Her voice echoed in the empty space. "Anyone here?"

Footsteps from deeper in the building, and a woman emerged from a side door. She was perhaps fifty, with graying hair pinned in a severe bun and a dress that had been expensive ten years ago but was now carefully mended at the seams. She looked tired.

"We're closed," she said, her accent solidly East London. "Don't open until evening."

"My apologies for the intrusion, ma'am." Bernie touched the brim of her hat politely. "Bernard Abrams, photographer. This is my associate, Mr. Sands. I'm looking to discuss theater photography—promotional work, production stills. I heard the Effingham does gothic productions."

The woman's expression didn't change. "We do. Not much money in it these days, though. Don't know that we could afford a photographer."

"Oh, I'd be willing to negotiate terms." Bernie stepped closer, adopting what she hoped was a professional but eager tone. "I'm just starting out on my own, you see. Looking to build a portfolio. Theater work would be quite valuable for that."

Something softened slightly in the woman's face—not warmth, exactly, but perhaps a recognition of shared struggle. "You're young to be on your own. What happened to your master?"

"My father. He passed recently. Left me the studio."

"Ah." The woman nodded slowly. "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm Mrs. Pemberton. I run the Effingham. Or what's left of it." She gestured to the shabby lobby with a rueful expression. "Not much to photograph, I'm afraid. We're barely keeping the doors open."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Bernie glanced at the playbills on the walls. "You've had quite a history, though. These productions look impressive."

"We do our best with what we have—local actors, English plays. Gothic romance for those who like a good scare." Mrs. Pemberton's tone mixed pride with defensiveness. "Can't compete with some of the fancier places, but we've got our regulars."

"Are there many other theaters in Whitechapel?" Bernie asked. "I'm trying to get a sense of the area. Building connections, you know. For future work."

Mrs. Pemberton sniffed. "A few. Most are music halls or penny gaffs—low entertainments. There's the Grand Guignol over on Fournier Street if you want something more... elaborate." Her tone suggested both envy and disdain. "French company, imported actors, proper horror shows that make the ladies faint. They've got money behind them, too. Wealthy patron from somewhere. Not like us scraping by.

"Fournier Street. Violet filed that away. "The Grand Guignol. I'll make a note of that. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Mrs. Pemberton was already turning away; back toward whatever work ran a failing theater. "Good luck with your photography, Mr. Abrams. And again, sorry about your father."

Outside, Artie grabbed Bernie's sleeve the moment they were out of earshot.

"Fournier Street," he said. "That's just off Whitechapel Road. Maybe five minutes' walk from Dead Man's Hole."

"I know." Violet's pulse had picked up. A French theater. Horror shows. Wealthy patron. Five minutes from where the third victim was found. "Let's go."

The Grand Guignol Theatre sat on Fournier Street like something transplanted from another world entirely.

Where the Effingham had been shabby-genteel, peeling paint and fading grandeur, the Grand Guignol was maintained. The facade was painted a deep burgundy red, the garish sign above the door gilded in fresh gold leaf. The windows on the upper floors gleamed clean, and the ground floor entrance—though currently closed—had polished brass fixtures that caught the weak October sunlight.

A placard by the door announced the current production in elegant script: Mademoiselle Isabella: A Tale of Beauty and Horror.

"Blimey," Artie breathed. "That's a right nice place for Whitechapel."

"Too nice," Bernie agreed quietly. She studied the building, the photographer's eye cataloging details. The fresh paint. The expensive sign. The quality of the poster's printing. "Mrs. Pemberton said wealthy patron. She wasn't exaggerating."

"Think this is it? The theater the spirit mentioned?"

"Maybe." Violet felt that familiar pull in her chest—intuition, or the gift stirring, or just the photographer's instinct that said this is important, pay attention. "Let's find out."

The front door was locked, but Bernie could see light through the windows on the ground floor. Someone was inside. She knocked—firm, businesslike raps that echoed in the quiet street.

For a moment, nothing. Then footsteps, and the door opened.

The man who stood in the doorway was perhaps forty, tall and handsome in a severe, continental way. Dark hair going distinguished gray at the temples. Well-tailored suit despite the early hour. Manicured hands that suggested he'd never done manual labor in his life.

And his expression—when he saw Bernie and Artie standing on his doorstep—was warm. Welcoming. The kind of smile that made you want to trust him immediately.

"Bonjour," he said, his French accent thick and musical. "Good morning. May I help you, gentlemen?"

Bernie extended her hand. "Bernard Abrams, photographer. This is my associate, Mr. Sands. I apologize for disturbing you—I know you're not open yet. But I'm interested in discussing theater photography. Promotional work, production stills. Mrs. Pemberton at the Effingham suggested I speak with you."

"Ah, dear Mrs. Pemberton." The man took Bernie's hand, his grip warm and firm. "Always so kind with her referrals. I am Étienne Moreau, artistic director of the Grand Guignol." He stepped back, gesturing them inside with genuine hospitality. "Please, come in. I would be delighted to discuss photography."

The interior of the Grand Guignol was as impressive as the exterior. The lobby was small but beautifully appointed—red velvet curtains, gilt-framed mirrors, gas lamps with etched glass shades. Beyond, Bernie could see the theater proper: rows of upholstered seats, a stage with elaborate painted backdrops, everything clean and well-maintained.

"You have a beautiful theater," Bernie said, meaning it.

"Thank you." Moreau's smile widened with genuine pleasure. "It has been my life's work to create a space worthy of the art we perform. Please—" He gestured toward the theater seats. "Sit, if you like. Tell me about your photography."

They settled in the front row, and Bernie launched into her prepared explanation. Independent photographer, recently inherited father's studio, looking to build portfolio with theater work, specializes in dramatic compositions, interested in horror and gothic productions...

Moreau listened with flattering attention, his dark eyes focused on Bernie's face, nodding at appropriate moments. When Bernie finished, he leaned back in his seat with a thoughtful expression.

"Your father taught you the craft?" he asked gently.

"Aye. Since I was twelve."

"And he passed recently? My condolences." Moreau's sympathy seemed genuine. "It is difficult to lose a parent. To lose a mentor. You have my deepest sympathies, Mr. Abrams."

"Thank you." Bernie felt oddly touched by the sincerity in his voice.

"As for photography—" Moreau spread his hands expressively. "I would be honored to have you document our work. The Grand Guignol specializes in Théâtre d'horreur—theater of horror. We show audiences what they fear to see. Violence, madness, death rendered in dramatic form." He paused, studying Bernie's reaction. "Some find it disturbing. Does that trouble you?"

"I photograph the dead for a living," Bernie said evenly. "Post-mortem portraits. Disturbing doesn't trouble me much."

"Ah!" Moreau's expression lit with interest. "A post-mortem photographer. How fascinating. That is an art in itself, yes? Preserving memory of those who have passed. Giving families something to hold onto."

"That's the idea."

"We have much in common, then." Moreau leaned forward, his enthusiasm genuine and infectious. "You preserve the moment of death with your camera. I dramatize it on stage. Both of us seek to transform death into something meaningful. To give it... purpose. Beauty, even."

It was a strange way to put it, but Violet found herself nodding. There was something similar between post-mortem photography and horror theater—both acknowledged death rather than hiding from it, both gave shape to the formless fear everyone carried.

"Our current production," Moreau continued, "tells the story of a young woman obsessed with perfection. She seeks transformation, improvement. The story asks—what price beauty? What would you sacrifice to become what you wish to be?" He smiled. "It is quite shocking. Audiences faint sometimes, though that is part of the appeal."

"Sounds dramatic," Bernie said.

"Très dramatic. Perhaps too dramatic for English tastes, but the theater is quite full most evenings." Moreau stood, gesturing toward the stage. "Come, let me show you. You can see if our productions would suit your artistic vision."

He led them backstage, chatting amiably about the theater's history—imported from Paris five years ago, funded by a wealthy patron interested in bringing continental culture to London's East End, small but dedicated company of French actors...

The backstage area was as well-maintained as the front of house. Dressing rooms with proper mirrors and gas lighting. Storage for costumes and props. A workshop area where scenery was painted and constructed.

And on one workbench, arranged with almost obsessive neatness, a collection of theatrical props. Daggers with retractable blades. Bottles of stage blood made from glycerin and food coloring. And—

Surgical instruments.

Violet's breath caught.

Scalpels, bone saws, forceps. All clean, polished, arranged in precise rows.

Moreau noticed her stare and laughed—a warm, self-deprecating sound. "Ah, yes. Those cause quite a reaction. They are for our surgical scenes—we use them to simulate medical procedures onstage." He picked up one of the scalpels, turned it in his hands. "I trained briefly as a surgeon in Paris before discovering my true calling in theater. Found I much preferred the drama of pretend operations to real ones. Cleaner, you understand. And no risk of killing the patient."

He smiled when he said it. A self-aware, slightly rueful smile that invited Bernie to share the joke.

"Must be useful, though," Bernie managed. "The medical training. For making the scenes realistic."

"Très useful. Audiences appreciate authenticity. They want to believe they are watching something real, even as they know it is illusion." Moreau set down the scalpel with careful precision. "The surgeon's knife and the photographer's lens—both seek to capture truth, yes? To reveal what is hidden beneath the surface."

"I suppose," Bernie said slowly.

"You said you do post-mortem work." Moreau's expression was curious, engaged. "Tell me—what do you see when you photograph the dead? The truth of it, I mean."

It felt like a genuine question. Like Moreau was actually interested in Bernie's perspective, not just making conversation.

"I see that death strips away everything but the body," Bernie said carefully. "Whatever made them who they were—that's gone. What's left is just... matter. Meat and bone. My job is to make that look peaceful. Presentable. So the family can remember them as they were, not as they are."

"Exactly!" Moreau's enthusiasm seemed genuine. "You transform death through your art. You give it dignity, meaning. This is what we do in theater as well—we take the raw material of human fear and suffering and transform it into something audiences can bear to witness. We make death bearable by making it beautiful."

Violet thought about silk ribbon tied in bows. About eyes sewn shut and tongues removed and hands severed at the wrists.

About a woman's spirit saying he told me he'd make me beautiful forever.

But Moreau's voice held only passion for his craft. His expression was open, friendly. There was nothing threatening in his demeanor, nothing suspicious beyond the surgical instruments—which he'd explained reasonably enough.

Maybe she was seeing shadows where there were none. Maybe the gift was making her paranoid, searching for connections that didn't exist.

"It's an interesting philosophy," Bernie said neutrally.

"I hope I have not disturbed you with such talk." Moreau smiled apologetically. "I become passionate about theater and forget not everyone shares my enthusiasm. Forgive me—you came to discuss photography, not listen to me philosophize."

"Not at all," Bernie assured him. And meant it, oddly. Despite everything, Moreau was... engaging. Intelligent. The kind of person you could have a fascinating conversation with, even if you disagreed with their premises.

"Then let us discuss terms." Moreau led them back toward the lobby. "Opening night for Mademoiselle Fifi is Friday evening. Come at eight o'clock, photograph what you like—the production, the audience reactions, backstage if you wish. Afterward, we can discuss payment and future work. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly." Violet extended her hand. "Thank you, Monsieur Moreau. I appreciate your time."

"Je vous en prie." Moreau shook her hand warmly. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Abrams. I look forward to seeing your work. And again—my condolences for your father. I know what it is to lose someone who taught you everything."

There was real sympathy in his voice. Real understanding.

Violet felt oddly guilty for suspecting him.

Outside, Artie waited until they were two streets away before grabbing Bernie's arm.

"That was him," Artie said quietly, once they were well away from the theater. "Had to be. Surgeon, talks about making death beautiful, has surgical tools just lying about—"

"He explained the tools," Violet said. "They're for stage effects. He was a surgeon before becoming a theater director. That's not suspicious, that's just... a career change."

"A career change that gives him exactly the skills needed to—" Artie caught himself, lowered his voice. "Violet, all that talk about making death beautiful, transforming suffering into art. Don't that sound familiar? Like what Jane's spirit said?"

Violet felt a chill. He was right. The language was eerily similar.

"Lots of people talk about death and art," she said, though her own certainty was wavering. "That doesn't make them killers. He was nice, Artie. Friendly. Sympathetic about Poppa. Genuinely interested in photography. That's not how killers act."

"Maybe that's exactly how they act." Artie's voice was worried, not challenging. "Maybe that's how they get close to people. Being nice."

That was fair. Violet had photographed murder victims, yes. But she'd never actually met a murderer. Had no idea what they were supposed to act like.

"We don't have proof," she said finally. "Just... coincidence. Medical training, French theater, talk about beauty and death. It's not enough."

"So, what do we do?"

Violet thought about Friday's opening night. About having access to the theater, to backstage, to wherever Moreau kept his workshop and props.

"We go Friday," she said. "Photograph the production like we promised. And while we're there, we look around. See if there's anything that connects Moreau to the murders beyond circumstantial evidence."

"And if there is?"

"Then we tell Flanahan." Violet adjusted the false beard, suddenly aware of how exposed Bernie was, standing on a Whitechapel street corner discussing murder. "But we need proof first. Real proof. Otherwise, we're just two young men making wild accusations against a respected theater director."

Artie looked dubious, but he nodded. "Friday, then. But Violet—be careful. If it is him, if he realizes you're investigating..."

"He won't." Violet forced confidence into her voice. "I'm Bernie. A photographer looking for work. Nothing suspicious about that."

But as they walked back toward Carter Square, Violet couldn't stop thinking about Moreau's warm smile. His genuine sympathy. The way he'd spoken about transforming death into beauty with what seemed like real passion for his craft.

If he was the killer, he was good. Charming. Disarming.

The kind of person you'd never suspect until it was far too late.

He said he'd make me beautiful forever.

Violet touched the hidden pocket where Bernie's forged papers rested.

Three days until Friday. Three days to prepare, to plan, to decide whether Étienne Moreau was a murderer or just an eccentric artist who happened to fit a suspicious pattern.

Three days before she walked back into his theater and put herself exactly where a killer might want her.

She just had to hope three days would be enough.