The woman inside stopped singing. “Who is it?”
“Ian Cameron. I’m a private detective. I wondered if we could have a word, Miss Stanfield.”
The door swung open and he found himself temporarily dumbstruck. A woman in a lacy white evening gown stood before him, her deep brown eyes filled with an intoxicating mix of hope and fear. A common-enough expression in his line of work, but her photo had entirely underestimated how beautiful she was in person. He’d been too slow to hide his surprise and had to close his mouth as she invited him into her dressing room.
Hand on hip, Lizzie asked, “Well, have you found him?”
He understood by the way she spoke he’d already had this conversation with her once. “Nae, Miss, I canna confirm I’ve found him yet. And I’m afraid there’s been a complication.”
No correction on the “miss,” so they weren’t married. Mental note number three.
She motioned for him to sit on the velvet love seat while she reached for a newspaper on the side table. “Have you seen this?” It was a copy of the City Journal with the headline screaming about murder.
Ian took the paper from her eager hands and read the paragraph she pointed to about the lone man who’d survived being attacked. Edwina had mentioned the name Elvanfoot was listed in the paper, but he’d been too distracted to understand the implication of what she’d said. His heart plunged into ice water at the thought of what he must tell Lizzie.
“It’s him,” she insisted. “It has to be. Look at the name.” She bit her nail as she waited for Ian to come to the same conclusion. “That’s his real name. Fey is his stage name. But why hasn’t anyone from the police come by the theater to check? Or come tell me what happened or where he is?” The name in the paper listed Henry Elvanfoot as the lone victim to have survived an attack. “They got the first name mixed up, is all.” She began to pace. “The papers get things wrong all the time, right? Which means he’s alive.”
“Nae, Lizzie, listen to me. That’s what I need to tell you. The man listed in the paper is me. I’m the one they found on the foreshore. I’m the one who was hit on the head and left for dead. I had a sort of amnesia when I woke up in hospital,” he said, not yet knowing how much he could confide about magic to this woman. “Couldn’t remember anything. The police found Henry Elvanfoot’s card in my pocket and thought that’s who I was. A wee muddle. I’m sorry, lass. It isn’t him.”
She sank onto the stool in front of her makeup mirror. “Then where is he?”
“I’m sorry I canna tell you yet. I still dinna remember everything that’s happened over the last four days. But I believe I was very close to finding him. I must have been, to earn that clout on the head.”
“Four days? Didn’t take you for a drinker, Mr. Cameron.” Her eyes gave him the once-over, from his unshaven face to his wrinkled clothes that reeked of the foreshore and city soot. “I’ve seen men black out for days at a time before.”
“Nae, ’tisn’t that. I promise you. Just a hit on the head.” He struggled with the notion of explaining the truth, but it was clear she was a mortal, and there was no way of knowing how much George Elvanfoot had confided in her. “All I know is I was sent here to find George, and I will. With your help, if you’ll give it.”
Ian swore she sniffed the air to see if she smelled alcohol on him, then gave a vague nod of her head. “That’s what you said the other day when you were here. That you’d find him. But it’s already been near three weeks since he disappeared. Why wouldn’t he come home unless something terrible has happened? And with that maniac roaming the streets out there attacking people. I’ve checked the hospitals and the police station, but the cops don’t know nothing. Or more like don’t want to talk to me.”
He was certain more than ever there was a connection between George’s disappearance and the recent string of murders. He wouldn’t have spent time drawing crime scenes in his hotel room if he hadn’t thought the events were related. He didn’t get distracted from a case. He charged forward, following one lead after another until he came to the end of the line, working out the details with notes, drawings, and interviews. The same way he’d worked a case when he was a detective with the Witches’ Constabulary. Whatever happened to George Elvanfoot, or George Fey, was inexplicably tied up in the city’s latest drama.