The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(38)
“There’s got to be another way in,” he said to Hob, cocking his head to the right, where a narrow alley cut between buildings. The imp jumped out of one of the wrought-iron urns flanking the front door, still pouting. “She’ll have got home fine,” Ian said, seeing his companion out of sorts.
“You shouldn’t have let her leave like that.”
Silently he agreed, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “We’ll talk about it later. Come on, help me find a side door.”
Hob reluctantly followed him around the corner of the building into the alley, where they found the stage door used by the performers. There was also a basement delivery door a few feet away at the bottom of a stairwell, but a quick glance confirmed it was occupied by a homeless man curled up at the bottom. It wasn’t worth the ruckus of getting past him, so Ian returned to the stage entrance. Out of an abundance of caution, he took out his watch to take a quick reading. If Elvanfoot’s son had worked the theater, then it was possible other magical folk did too. As he suspected, a spectral glow indicated the presence of—he tilted his watch to get a better view—a witch and possibly a pixie, judging by the hue and frequency displayed on the spectrometer.
“Hmm, one of yours and one of mine nearby,” he stated with one brow raised.
Hob shook himself, then smoothed the hair back from his face. His eyes shone bright and curious as he pressed an ear to the door. “Do I go in with you?”
Ian’s inclination was always to say no at this point. He was better off doing this sort of work alone, but as he put his watch away, he wondered what he might encounter on the other side and had second thoughts. “Stay in the shadows if you can,” he said and tried the door. Finding it unlocked, they entered, only to be met by an older man sitting on a stool hunched over a tall clerk’s desk with an oil lamp that emitted a curlicue of malodorous black smoke. The gentleman wore a flatcap and frizzy gray sideburns that came halfway down his cheeks, neither of which elicited any recognition whatsoever for Ian. Apparently, the ignorance was mutual.
“Auditioning for the new act, are you?” The man studied Ian over the top of a pair of spectacles. “You’re late. They already started.” His gaze dropped down to Hob, who hadn’t quite managed to get out of sight yet. “So what are you? A ventriloquist?”
“What’s a ven trill o kissed?” Hob asked, clasping his hands together in front of him before Ian nudged him with his knee.
The manager stared and chuckled. “Not bad. We haven’t had a good dummy in the lineup for six months or more. Hope you’ve got some fresh material. People around here’re too savvy for the same old slop. What’s the puppet’s name?”
“Er, Hob.”
“’Course it is. All right, then. Off you go. Down the hall. Auditorium’s on your right. Mind you stay clear of the liquor at the bar until after you’ve done your bit. Then you can buy as many spirits as you like until the crowds show up.”
“Much obliged.” Ian nodded at the man, then lifted Hob up in his arms to reinforce the illusion, whispering, “Quiet.”
Embracing his new disguise, Ian explored the brick-lined hallway, hoping to pry loose some recognition. As he ducked around a set of wooden stairs that led to the balcony seating, he spotted the area across the lobby the doorman had mentioned. It was an okay setup with a six-stool mahogany bar and a back-wall shelf filled with enough spirits to empty the pockets of the entertainment-seeking East Enders and keep the West Enders happily drunk while out for a night of slumming. Still, his stomach lurched at the thought of a drink. It might not have been his memory dictating his actions the night before, but it most certainly was his body that was paying the price today. It agitated him that he could remember another man’s thoughts yet not all his own. He must have been inside the music hall before. It would have been the first place he’d have checked for the missing son. Yet nothing felt familiar.
Behind the bar, a man in a black waistcoat and white shirt polished a whisky glass with a brown rag. Ian donned a look-of-the-lost as he casually approached the man.
“Keep moving that way,” the bartender said with a nod of his head toward the auditorium door when he caught Ian eyeing the goods.
“Right, only I was wondering if I could ask you a question first.”
The bartender eyed him suspiciously as he set the glass down and picked up another. “Can’t run a tab for you. No buying on tick while you wait to get paid. Management will have you tossed out quicker than you can put words in that dummy’s mouth.”
Hob glared.
“Actually, I’m curious if you know George Elvanfoot. Supposedly does an act here as a magician.”
“Who?” the man answered with a double take. “Ah, hang on, do you mean Georgie? George Fey?”
Fey? An alias? Stage name? Ian made a mental note, wishing he had his notebook.
“That’s right. We did a gig together last year. Thought I’d look him up again. Heard he ran into a little trouble.”
“Yeah, odd story, that. Supposedly went missing about three weeks ago. Lizzie’s been broken up about it ever since.”
“Lizzie?”
Lizzie. Short for Elizabeth? Elvanfoot Senior never mentioned a woman. Mental note number two.
The bartender pointed toward a poster on the opposite wall. It showed a sepia-toned photo of an attractive Black woman in a lacy dress perched on a swing embellished with gardenias. The tagline called Lizzie Stanfield “a mesmerizing chanteuse of unequal measure from across the pond.”