Free Tell Me, Pretty Maiden by Rhys Bowen

will be the bathing number. You can tell by the shrieks. If you go through now, you’ll have a chance to see Miss Lovejoy in her dressing room between acts.”
    “Thank you.” I gave him my brightest smile.
    “And what did you say your name was, young lady? You have to sign in before I let you go any farther.”
    “It’s Kitty Kelly,” I said, coming up with the first Irish name that popped into my head. I scribbled it on a sign-in sheet. “And how do I find Miss Lovejoy’s dressing room?”
    “Follow this passage to the end. Go left. Up some stairs. Round the corner and then down the hall. You’ll see her name on the door with the star on it. But don’t go anywhere near the stage or you’ll get me in trouble. Miss Lovejoy don’t like outsiders watching until it’s all just so. Thinks it brings bad luck. Very superstitious theater folk are, you know.”
    I was about to leave when something struck me. “Henry,” I asked, “does this theater have a reputation for being haunted?”
    His expression changed instantly. “Hold on. You better not be tricking me, young lady. If you’re one of them lady newspaper reporters . . .”
    “No, why would I be?” I said.
    “Then why did you ask that about the place being haunted?”
    “Because I’m sensitive to these things. You know that we Irish have the second sight—and I got a definite feeling of a hostile presence.”
    He leaned out of his booth. “For pete’s sake, don’t go saying that to Miss Lovejoy. She’s in a bad enough state as it is.”
    “Why? What happened?”
    “Silly little accidents, really, but she thinks there’s more to it. A scenery flat falling over when she was singing, and a breeze almost starting a fire when it knocked over one of the candles onstage. Theaters are big drafty places. Accidents do happen. But she’s scared it’s something more. There, I’ve said more than I should. You can ask her yourself, if you want to hear more.”
    “I will,” I said. “You can be sure I will.”
    I set off down a narrow passageway that became darker and darker until, by the time I reached the steep iron stairs, I had to almost feel my way upward. The stone wall felt cold to my touch and unseen breezes wafted around me. I could hear more jolly music coming from what sounded like far below me now, but up here it was chill and quite deserted. I told myself firmly that I didn’t believe in ghosts, but my heart was beating rather faster. When I saw a billowing white shape out of the corner of my eye, I almost tumbled back down the stairs until I realized it was a curtain, hiding some kind of doorway.
    Then I was angry with myself for being so stupid. I who had taken on my brothers in a dare to sit in the churchyard all night after old Dan O’Haggerty had been buried. I came out to an iron platform from which a spiral staircase dropped straight down into a cavernous backstage area. A backdrop and pieces of scenery blocked the brightly lit stage from my view, but I could hear the echo of voices, although I couldn’t make out the words. Then, just as I left the platform to take the passage to Miss Lovejoy’s dressing room, a horrible scream filled the theater. I told myself that it was only part of the play, but it made my blood run cold.
    Almost immediately afterward there came the pounding of running feet and the iron stairway vibrated as a bevy of chorus girls came running up.
    “Did you see it?” one of them was whispering.
    “I didn’t see anything, myself, but Clara swears she felt it moving behind her. She said it made her go all cold and shivery all over.”
    “Poor Blanche. This will be the end of her if it goes on.”
    They were coming toward me. I hadn’t yet found Blanche Lovejoy’s dressing room and there was nowhere to hide, so I flattened myself against the wall for them to run by me. This turned out to be a mistake. The first girls saw me moving in the darkness and started in fear. One of them gave a little