The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(69)

The devil went from one chest to the next, unlocking each and examining the contents. At last he found what he wanted. Coby's heart skipped a beat. It was the chest containing the actors' sides. Master Naismith did not trust the hired men with even a fraction of his new play, and insisted that all copies were returned to the chest after each rehearsal. Pieced together, they could be made into a complete manuscript.

"Lodge," she muttered under her breath and got to her feet. The playwright was probably drunk again.

"Who's there?" the man growled.

He set his lantern down on the nearest chest, reached under his cloak and brought out a snaplock pistol. Never take on a man armed with a blade, Master Catlyn had told her. Or a gun, she added mentally. On the other hand, unless she fancied jumping over the balcony, there was nowhere to run from this particular devil.

After a moment she let the cudgel fall. The noise was loud as a pistol shot in the empty theatre, and in the long silence that followed, Coby realised no one would hear them and come to her aid. The intruder apparently came to the same conclusion.

"Make one more move and I shoot." He cocked the pistol with his free hand, then thumbed the flash pan open.

She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. If this was Lodge, he had grown a pair since Coby last saw him. Come to think of it, this man was too tall to be Lodge, and his mask could not quite hide the bald patch gleaming above a circle of mousy brown hair.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she asked.

"That's none of your business, Hendricks."

So, he was an acquaintance, just not the one she had supposed. An actor, perhaps, or one of the workmen? His voice was familiar but, distorted as it was by the mask, she could not immediately identify him.

"Open the chest," the intruder said, stepping back slightly and gesturing with the pistol.

She crossed the room slowly, not wanting to come within arm's reach of the man. Most of all she had to keep from getting between him and the lantern, lest the transparency of her shirt betray her. Reaching the chest, she crouched and raised the lid. Neat stacks of pages lay where she had left them earlier that day, bound into sets with string. The handwritten lines seemed to blur before her gaze.

"Now, take out all the sides for The Queen of Faerieland."

She had been afraid the masked man intended to burn the contents of the chest, and perhaps the entire theatre, but if he were interested only in the new play, that suggested his motivation was monetary. The question was, what would he do with her once she had done everything he asked?

"If you are going to take these away with you," Coby said, trying to keep her voice steady, "it would be easier if I rolled them up into a document case."

She stood slowly and gestured towards the desk behind them, where there was indeed a cylindrical leather case. As she had hoped, the masked man turned without thinking, and she snatched up a nearby stool and hit him across the back of the head. He went sprawling across the floor, dropping the pistol. Coby stood over him, trembling with relief, but he did not move. She prodded him with the toe of her shoe. Out cold – or dead. Right now she was not sure she cared which.

There was no rope in the box-office, but a foray to the attic produced some offcuts from the fitting of the trapdoor and hoist mechanism. She bound the intruder hand and foot, and only then did she dare roll him over and remove the mask.

It was John Wheeler, the new hireling. Planning to sell them out to the Admiral's Men, no doubt. Well he could await Master Naismith's wrath. Grunting with effort she dragged the unconscious man over to a supporting timber and secured him with a further length of rope. She examined the back of his head, but his skull seemed unbroken and there was only a little bruising where she had hit him. He also had a lump on his forehead where he had hit the floor. At least he was not dead, though this knocking men out was getting to be a bad habit.

She got dressed, feeling vastly safer in the reassuring embrace of canvas and lacings, and settled down with a flagon of small ale to watch over her captive. Much as she wanted to run back to Thames Street and alert Master Naismith, there was nothing for it but to wait here. The wherrymen went home at curfew, and the city gates wouldn't open again until dawn.

The thought came to her that if the villain was the man hired to replace Catchpenny, he might have killed Catchpenny to gain a place in their company. She shivered despite the heat. If she had known she was taking on a murderer, she might have been more cautious, and that in itself could have got her killed. She picked up Wheeler's pistol and examined the intricate mechanism. She didn't know much about guns, but surely a pistol needed to be primed with powder and loaded with shot? This one looked as clean as the day it was made. An empty threat, then; Wheeler had not had any murderous intent this time. That was a relief of sorts. But she had acted on impulse, risking her life for what? A few sheets of paper, and those a mere copy of the original that Master Naismith kept safe at his home. The actor-manager might praise her bravery in capturing their would-be thief, but she did not think Master Catlyn would agree. She sighed, and put the pistol down on the desk.

After about an hour Wheeler regained consciousness and began to struggle against his bonds.

"Wha–? Where am I?" he slurred.

"You don't remember?"

Wheeler shook his head, and winced.

"You're at the Mirror," she told him. "I caught you breaking into the box-office and trying to steal the sides for the new play."