The London Deception Read Free

exclaimed, turning angrily to Mr. Paul. “Are your people incompetent? The sparks from those lamps could have set fire to my theater!”
    â€œI beg your pardon, Mr. Jeffries,” Mr. Paul replied. “There must have been a power surge.”
    â€œBut none of the other lights got brighter,” Joe pointed out.
    â€œPerhaps the computerized light board is on the fritz,” Mr. Paul suggested.
    â€œI had taken lights nine, fourteen, and seventeen out of the lighting plot all together,” Jennifer countered. “They would have had to be turned on manually.”
    â€œMaybe they were,” Frank offered. “I thought I saw someone in the lighting booth.”
    â€œLet’s have a look,” Jeffries suggested.
    The Hardys and an entourage of cast and crew members followed Jeffries through the lobby and up the stairs to the balcony. Jeffries strode up the aisle steps to the lighting booth and threw open the door. “There’s no one here.”
    â€œI know,” Frank said, stepping up behind Jeffries. “The person must have gone out the door at the back.”
    Jeffries tried the door, then pointed to the dead bolt. “The door is locked, as it always is.”
    â€œSomeone could have unlocked it with the key,” Chris suggested. “Where does it lead?”
    â€œTo the back stairway,” Jennifer replied.
    â€œOnly myself, Mr. Paul, and Miss Mulhall have the key to that door,” Jeffries explained. “I was in the theater office downstairs.”
    â€œMr. Paul was directing, and you know where I was,” Jennifer added.
    â€œSo who did Frank see?” Joe asked.
    â€œThe Ghost of Quill Garden,” Emily Anderson stated, her resonant voice carrying up to them from the stage, where she was seated at the defense table.
    â€œOh, not again,” Jeffries grumbled.
    â€œWas it a figure in white?” Emily asked.
    â€œYes!” Frank called back, his voice echoing.
    â€œThe acoustics are quite fine in this theater,” Emily said in a normal speaking voice. “There’s no need to shout, young man.”
    â€œMs. Anderson, this is Frank Hardy and his brother, Joe,” Chris told her.
    â€œOh, yes, the American exchange students,” Emily recalled. “Welcome to our haunted theater.”
    â€œYou saw Lady Quill, I’d wager,” Corey Lista said to Frank.
    â€œWho’s Lady Quill?” Frank asked.
    â€œShe’s no one,” Jeffries said curtly. “She was the wife of the original owner.”
    â€œLord Horatio Quill,” Mr. Paul told the Hardys. “He owned most of the neighborhood a hundred years ago. Not an altogether sound gentleman. He caused quite a scandal among the nobility by allowing his wife to perform onstage.”
    â€œWhy?” Joe wondered.
    â€œThe acting profession was considered beneath the dignity of a noblewoman,” Emily Anderson replied with a wry smile.
    â€œLord Quill secretly planned to leave Lady Quill for another woman,” Mr. Paul went on. “So as a final gift to ease her inevitable disappointment—”
    â€œYou mean, to relieve his guilt for being such a cad,” Emily interjected from the stage.
    â€œYes, just so,” Mr. Paul agreed. “In any case, in 1909, Lord Quill produced a revival of an Oscar Wilde play—”
    â€œA Woman of No Importance,” Emily inserted.
    â€œYes, so it was,” Mr. Paul said. “In any case—”
    â€œA vanity production,” Emily interrupted again.
    Frank noticed Mr. Paul’s face flush. He looked suddenly embarrassed.
    â€œEmily, if you’d like to tell the story, please join us in the balcony,” Mr. Paul said, his mouth tightening in a straight line.
    â€œWhat’s a vanity production?” Joe asked.
    â€œIt’s a show that is mounted not because of the merit of the play or the talent of the actors, but because someone has money and wants to