Author's note: Thank you, monstercurl, for leaving feedback for chapter 10. I appreciate the time you took, as well as the positive comments! ~ MG

Chapter 11

It was forty-five minutes to curtain, and no one could locate Aubrey St. Mark.

Remington and Laura were already in costume and nearby in the wings when the assistant stage manager, Thea, broke the news to Hogarth. "I knocked and knocked on his door," she said. "But he won't answer."

Hogarth swore. "Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I saw him around earlier, so I thought he had to be here somewhere."

Another explosive oath from Hogarth. "Find Paige and tell him I need to see him. Now," he barked.

Thea scampered off. Seemingly unaware that he wasn't alone, Hogarth was striding back and forth, his resonant bass rumbling with imprecations against St. Mark. "I'll kill him. I'll kill him! That bastard—I knew he'd pull something like this. Wait til I get my hands on him-"

Laura said sotto voce to Remington: "Good thing we're not investigating St. Mark's murder. By Hogarth's own admission he's prime suspect material." She waited a little nervously, for reasons unrelated to her comment, to see how—and if—her husband would respond to her.

His eyes flicked to Hogarth. "Too transparent by half," he said, shaking his head. "Although…it could be a strategy to throw a would-be accuser off the scent. Not entirely outside the realm of possibility, eh, Mrs. Steele?" And he smiled down at her without a trace of stiffness or chilliness.

It was amazing, the comfort she derived from that smile.

Ever since that afternoon and their conversation about not having children, she'd been bracing herself for…well, she wasn't sure what, exactly. Some sort of backlash from him, the logical consequence of having hurt him. For she had hurt him; he couldn't fool her into believing otherwise. His faked nonchalance gave him away. It was the air he'd worn in Dublin when his search for Patrick O'Rourke turned out to be a dead end and a year later in London when the Duke of Claridge declared he was afraid Remington couldn't be his long-lost son. She'd recognized it then for what it was: a defense against pain that might've done a lot of damage if he allowed it the slightest headway. That he was shielding himself with it now was a stark commentary on how high he'd raised his hopes for a baby—and a reminder that she was the one who'd shot them down.

Not only did that grieve her, it scared her a little, too. Mostly it was because she couldn't predict his reaction. Would he push her away, as he'd done in the first hours after Daniel died? Or would he regress even further into past behavior and simply run, emotionally if not physically? And what would she do without him if he chose either of those options?

So far her fears had proven unjustified. He'd been the same old Remington during lunch: warm, funny, companionable. But she'd sensed the effort it was costing him to maintain the pose. The look in his eyes when he thought she wasn't watching had made her want to cry.

She didn't, of course. It was a weakness she couldn't afford to indulge in, not when she needed to marshal every scintilla of smarts, guts and energy to combat the evil genius who was passing himself off as Remington Steele. That meant employing a certain amount of ruthlessness in relegating other issues to the back burner, no matter how close to her heart they were. Everything, she amended, except the job she and Remington were in the middle of tonight.

With the help of one of the stagehands, they'd long since completed a security sweep that was as painstaking as possible. Lighting cables, electric wiring and outlets were checked; the joints of set pieces were tested and pronounced sound; trash cans and dim corners were cleared of combustible material. Short of frisking each actor for a weapon as he or she arrived on stage, the Steeles felt confident they could guarantee the Garrick was secure.

Remington's jerkin and breeches, like Laura's long-sleeved peasant gown, were intended only to further the illusion that they were standing by as extras. In reality they were on the watch for any questionable activity. Until that point the interval before the curtain went up had been uneventful. But maybe that was because the prime suspect was missing in action.

Thea returned pretty quickly with Denis Paige in tow. "You'll have to double The Ghost tonight," Hogarth said to Paige. "Get over to costuming and ask Bishop to fix you up, and look sharp about it."

"What about St. Mark's costume?" asked Paige.

Hogarth glanced at Thea, who shook her head and spread her hands wide.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Hogarth. "Tell Bishop I said a cloak and some kind of helmet. There's no time to fuss with it."

The atmosphere cleared after that, with Hogarth regaining some measure of self-command. Gerry Kelleher came up to him and they bent their heads together over last-minute notes. The light and sound men made adjustments to their equipment. From beyond the drawn curtain, a wave of noise was building from every corner of the auditorium, a combination of low-voiced conversations, the creak of seats, the riffling of the pages of myriad programs. The audience was arriving and settling in.

By seven-fifteen, most of the actors who were performing in the first scenes of Act One had assembled with Hogarth and the Steeles in the wings at stage right: Jeremy Thorpe, Lachlan Ford, Simon Glasslough, Baird Kennicot, Diana Bell, Judd Owen, various bit players.

At twenty past, Hambeth's newly minted star, Cledwyn Rhys, looking a little nervous in Hamlet's mourning robes, joined them.

At twenty-four past, Denis Paige arrived in the opposite wing, wearing hastily assembled, but more or less suitable, kingly attire over his Osric costume. Thorpe and Glasslough took their places on stage. An expectant hush fell on the audience as it waited in the darkening auditorium.

Seven-thirty. The curtain rose smoothly, right on schedule; the first moments of the play started to unfold. And, from their vantage point just offstage, the Steeles exchanged a glance that communicated their mutual relief.

They were far from relaxing their vigilance. There was over an hour to go, and anything could happen, as they were both well aware. But neither had forgotten Laura's theory that the unknown conspirators might choose an important performance for their most spectacular act of sabotage yet. This unremarkable beginning seemed to prove her wrong.

Meanwhile the cast was reaching the point in the scene where Hogarth had so abruptly suspended the action two days ago in dress rehearsal. Remington and Laura had learned then on which line The Ghost was to make his entrance. It was as Glasslough's Bernardo said, "Last night of all, when yon same star that's westward from the pole had made his course to illumine that part of heaven where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, the bell then beating one-" Paige, the veteran, was preparing to move; they could see him poised to take a step forward.

But a cloaked and helmeted figure beat him to it.

Stalking from out of the shadows behind him, it glided past him onto the stage, towards Elsinore's battlements. For an instant there hung about it an air so eerie, so truly reminiscent of a visitant from beyond the grave, that Laura couldn't suppress a shiver. Stifled gasps from the cast members around the Steeles were evidence that the chill had struck them, too.

Then reality re-asserted itself, altering their perception. It was only St. Mark, who had, of course, taken care to manage his appearance for maximum effect. It was second nature to him, that kind of calculated grab for attention. Yet, strange to say, he deserved to have every eye focused on him. Though his progress from left to right lasted a few short minutes, without a single line of dialogue, his face two-thirds hidden, The Ghost commanded the stage. Laura in particular felt a surge of new respect for St. Mark. His many personal failings aside, he truly was an artist, possibly a great one.

A measure of the otherworldly dignity with which he'd invested his character continued to cling to him as he exited stage right. There he stood aloof from his colleagues in the darkest corner, arms crossed beneath his cloak, speaking to no one. His silence intimidated even Hogarth, who made no attempt to approach his enemy or to call him on the carpet for his tardiness.

For her part, Laura found her gaze drawn to him again and again. Something about him was off; she couldn't quite put her finger on what. Currently he had the upper hand in his decades-long feud with Hogarth. If his past actions were any yardstick, he should've been rubbing in his advantage for all he was worth. Instead he leaned against the wall as if indifferent to his surroundings, let alone the man he'd hated for thirty years. He seemed physically diminished, too, smaller than normal in the bulky cloak. Was it maybe a delayed reaction to the ugliness he'd set in motion the other day? Contrition over the damage he'd caused? Self-reproach for having gone too far? She would've given anything for a glimpse of his face, but he never removed the helmet.

Whatever was going through his mind, he remained attentive to the play's progress; he hit his mark perfectly for The Ghost's scene with Hamlet. And it was clear before many minutes elapsed that he was the driving force in it, inspiring Cledwyn Rhys to raise his own performance to the next level. Not that Rhys wasn't good. Unlike Lizbeth Lyons, he'd earned his promotion to top billing. But it was St. Mark who set the standard for them both.

He did it with his voice. Like a virtuoso with the finest instrument, he used its pitch and tones and cadence to convey the emotion he was prevented by the helmet from communicating through his expressions. Profound quiet reigned in the theater, as if the audience were determined not to miss a single word of his dialogue. How gratified he must've been, to know he held them so completely in the palm of his hand!

If he was, he concealed it well. He concluded his final speech; The Ghost drifted away from Hamlet. St. Mark's shining moment was drawing to a close.

It was then that the entire Garrick burst into applause. It swelled and swelled into a standing ovation, urging St. Mark to emerge from backstage to take a bow.

He ignored it. His last line of Act One consisted of one word—"Swear", uttered twice—and he delivered it from behind the backdrop at the proper time. With his work in Act One finished, he turned and headed in the direction of the dressing rooms.

"Should I follow him?" Denis Paige, who'd long since rejoined the rest of the cast, which now included Andy Treacher, Morwenna Pascoe and Lizbeth Lyons, was questioning Hogarth.

Hogarth shook his head. "I'll deal with him at intermission. Stay close in the meantime. I may need you to fill in for him in Act Three."

Remington raised an eyebrow at Laura, but neither of them commented.

The second act was as uneventful from their standpoint as the first had been, apart from St. Mark's odd behavior. But that wasn't really their concern, Laura reflected. Not unless it posed a danger to his colleagues or the paying customers.

Did it pose a danger to the actors and spectators?

The longer she thought it over, the more uncomfortable she became. Because it was the explanation that made sense, she'd assumed his distance and reserve during his brief backstage break stemmed from the role he'd played in Hogarth's humiliation. But what if it arose from more sinister motives? Was it unreasonable to theorize that he was contemplating another unpleasant surprise—or even a lethal one?

As the curtain fell on Act Three, she nudged Remington. "I think we ought to check on St. Mark."

Hogarth was already headed that way, and made no objection to their accompanying him. But suspicion clouded the glance he shot them. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he demanded.

"Not that we're aware of," Remington replied. "Simply making sure all's still well."

At the door of St. Mark's dressing room, Hogarth imitated Thea's earlier strategy: rapped, called St. Mark's name, got no response, and rapped harder. Finally he resorted to pounding with a heavy fist and an ear-splitting roar. "Open the door, you bastard, or I'll knock it down!"

Laura laid a restraining hand on his arm. "That's really not necessary. Mr. Steele?"

His trustiest pick already selected and out of its leather case, Remington bent to the task. Predictably, the lock was no match for his nimble fingers. The door swung inward to reveal an unlit, empty room.

Remington was right behind Laura as she went in and flicked the light switch. Removing the pick from between his teeth, where he'd inserted it for safekeeping, he pointed out, "Costume's not here."

She'd noticed that and something else. "Or his street clothes."

It could've been an innocent situation. But she didn't believe it was. The skin crawling at the back of her neck confirmed the impression. She met her husband's eyes, and knew the same thoughts were going through his head. They'd allowed themselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. While they were imagining St. Mark here, safely tucked away, he was in reality off setting another trap. Somewhere in the depths of the Garrick lurked a catastrophe waiting to happen.

"We'd better find him, and fast," she said to Remington.

Hogarth was in the middle of a tirade similar to the one St. Mark had provoked from him before the play started, but she managed to quiet him down long enough to enlist his help. "If you'll check the rehearsal hall, Mr. Steele and I'll start on the other dressing rooms."

Between them she and Remington rapidly worked the corridor. Some of the doors were locked; since they had no time to lose, he breached them as he had St. Mark's so they could glance inside. Other rooms they found occupied, which gave them an opportunity to question the actors. Nobody had any information to offer. Except for his turn on stage, none of them had seen St. Mark that day.

At Wycliffe's door there was no response to their knock. After a perceptible hesitation and with a grimace Remington knelt and reached for his pick. Laura read his reluctance to invade the private space of the old man who had befriended him, even in a good cause, and sympathized.

She was just as surprised as Remington was when the open door revealed Wycliflfe seated in front of his mirror.

That made three of them. Wycliffe started, clapping a towel to the lower part of his face. On his dressing table were arranged the implements for transforming his appearance: containers of spirit of gum and spirit of gum remover, brushes and a large quantity of false hair.

For a moment his voice and Remington's overlapped each other:

"John-! Laura-! What's the matter?"

"Excuse us—terribly sorry."

Wycliffe waved off their apologies and listened as they explained their errand. "No, Aubrey hasn't been here," he replied through the towel. "But I'll tell him you're looking for him if he should turn up."

The likelihood of that happening was decreasing in inverse proportion to the number of minutes they invested in the search. That wasn't a frustration they could vent to Wycliffe, though. Thanking him for his patience, they left him to his preparations.

Hogarth had had as little success as they; as their paths intersected outside the rehearsal hall, Laura decided to lay the cards on the table in terms of hers and Remington's suspicions. "We don't have any solid proof yet," she told Hogarth. "But from what we've been able to reconstruct of St. Mark's movements, there's a good chance he's the one who left the weapons in the props department Wednesday night…and the brains behind the so-called accidents. We're worried that his absence now means he's got another scheme in mind, one he plans to pull off tonight."

For once Hogarth managed to keep the lid on his temper, but only just. "We'll find him if I have to take this building apart brick by brick with my bare hands."

If their pace was quick before, now it became almost feverish. Together they hurried to the props department, where Hogarth used his master key to gain access to the office. No St. Mark there, or in the center room, or the weapons collection.

Costuming department. No St. Mark.

Scenery department.

No St. Mark.

Meanwhile a scrap of conversation that had been nibbling at the edge of Remington's memory finally settled into place. "Could he have made it into the cellars again?" he asked Hogarth. "As I recall, he's been down within the last twenty-four hours. Hiding the costume you chose for him, wasn't it?"

"Childish," Hogarth replied. "I would've had to be a fool to fall for it."

"Nevertheless," said Remington, leading the way.

The cellars were a long shot at best, given the distance between them and the hub of the Garrick as well as their lack of regular traffic. But the fact that the oak door was ajar improved the odds considerably. So did the overhead light illuminating the stairwell.

The sight of Aubrey St. Mark sprawled at the bottom of the flight amid the wreckage of a portion of the railing, his head torqued at an unnatural angle, was the gruesome jackpot.

"But how can he be a victim?" objected Remington as he and Laura clattered down the steps with Hogarth at their heels. "He's our number one suspect!"

"Try telling him that," Laura said dryly.

The Steeles knelt beside the body. There was no question that St. Mark was dead; his fixed, glazed eyes and rigid features told the tale. Touching his wrist, Laura recoiled at the temperature of its skin and gestured to Remington. "That's strange."

He, too, winced and pulled back his hand. "He shouldn't be that cold, should he? He can't have been down here more than half an hour."

"I know. It is awfully cold down here, but-"

"Is he dead?" interrupted Hogarth.

They'd all but forgotten his presence, and no wonder. He was hovering a few feet away as if he didn't dare come any nearer to his old enemy. He also looked like a man on the verge of losing his most recent meal.

"Unmistakably," Remington said.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God. There are over seven hundred people in that auditorium—intermission's almost over-what am I going to do-?"

"That's up to you." Alert to the incipient hysteria in Hogarth's voice, Laura made sure to pitch her own so that it was level and reassuring. She got to her feet. "Announce it or keep it under wraps; Mr. Steele and I will abide by your decision. It would help, though, to find out if there's a doctor in the house. Someone ought to examine the body in case the authorities call for an autopsy later."

"Autopsy? You aren't suggesting"—Hogarth glanced from her to Remington and back—"murder?"

"Too early for that. We'll need a chance to take a look at the physical evidence before we draw any conclusion. But right now our top priority is dealing with this quietly and discreetly, and seeing that no one else gets hurt."

Her professionalism seemed to have calmed Hogarth; he turned towards the staircase and made as if to ascend it. Silently Remington signaled Laura that he would escort the other man upstairs. But with his foot on the lowest stair, Hogarth halted and, for some reason known only to him, directed his next words over his shoulder to Laura.

"I…never meant this to happen. I know what I said up there before…hell, it's no secret I wanted to be rid of him in the worst way…but I never meant for him to die. I was just…talking. You know how it is."

It was Remington who answered him. "We do, actually. More than you might imagine."

Alone with the dead man, Laura swiftly plotted the goals she had to achieve. It wasn't often she and Remington had first crack at a potential crime scene; she wanted to make maximum use of the opportunity before the police arrived and exercised their jurisdiction, bumping the Steeles to a lower rung in the hierarchy. If it were a murder case they had on their hands, it was bound to be high-profile and well-reported. Solving it in advance of official law enforcement would balance, if not thoroughly cancel out, the harm the impostor was doing the agency's reputation throughout the rest of the country.

And so to step one: the body.

Lying on its back with its arms flung out, as if St. Mark had felt himself falling and tried in vain to regain his balance. Still clad in his costume, with the helmet a few feet away. Laura's first impulse was to draw the cloak up and decently cover his face, but she withstood it. The last thing she needed was a reprimand for messing with the corpse's effects.

One oddity struck her. St. Mark was in his stocking feet. A careful circuit of the area within ten feet of him failed to yield either the boots he'd donned for his role or his street shoes.

On to step two: the scene.

Unchanged from when she and Remington had toured it with Max Yarborough, with the exception of the broken section of railing and a screwdriver at the foot of the staircase. Mulling it over, she came up with two plausible scenarios to explain it. St. Mark had been in the process of setting a trap for the next unwary visitor—Hogarth, maybe?—loosening the railing so that it would collapse under that person's weight, but had lost his footing, broken through said railing himself and tumbled to his death.

Or someone had made it appear as if he had.

On the upstairs landing she surveyed the broken railing as closely as she could without touching it and then ran the logistics through her head. Certainly the break in the wrought iron was consistent with either theory. So were the position of the body and the location of the screwdriver. But proving that someone had pushed St. Mark was a more difficult proposition. Were his fingerprints on the screwdriver? The railing? Where were his boots? And why, only thirty minutes after his death, tops, were his remains already so cold?

Her investigation had taken ten minutes by the clock, and by the end of it Remington had returned with a man he introduced as Dr. Diaz in tow. While the doctor began his examination, the Steeles leaned in towards one another. "Hogarth's put the stage manager in the picture, and he's called the police," Remington said, keeping his voice low. "They should be here any minute. Hogarth's asked us to liaison with them when they do."

"Where's he going to be?"

"On stage. Made the announcement about the doctor, apologized for the length of the intermission and went on as Claudius as if nothing was wrong. The man has bloody nerves of steel. What about you?"

"My nerves are fine, but thanks for asking."

"Hardly a newsflash. I meant, come up with anything?"

In a few pithy sentences she fed him the highlights. "Think you could nip up to St. Mark's dressing room and check for the boots before the police get here? I don't want to tip them off any sooner than we have to."

With a look that said don't be ridiculous, Laura, it's as good as done, he slipped away. In a few moments he was back. And once again the expression on his face was sufficient for her to understand that St. Mark's boots were nowhere to be found.

That was when Dr. Diaz said: "I've never seen anything like this."

They had withdrawn a respectful distance from him, but now Remington and Laura edged up beside him and the body. "I'm sorry, doctor, but could you be more specific?" Laura asked.

He was shaking at his head, not at her, but at whatever anomaly had provoked his statement in the first place. Closing his bag, he gazed up at them. "I've never seen anything like it. And I've been in practice twenty-eight years." He indicated St. Mark. "Here it is in layman's terms. The body temperature is way off, and I can't explain why."

"Too cold," said Remington. "My wife noticed it straightaway."

"Did you? Good for you, young lady. Are you a doctor?"

"Private investigator."

"Then maybe you can unravel the mystery. Because if I hadn't seen this man on stage with my own eyes forty-five minutes ago, I would've said he's been dead a good four hours."

Upon the Steeles' return to the Hamlet that night, Remington flopped down on the bed and immediately began to scan the cable channels for something that appealed to him. Clearly another round with his sketchbook didn't figure into his plans, Laura thought. Sure enough, before too long he'd submerged himself in a succession of Marx Brothers movies.

He was still at it when she slipped under the sheet beside him. Snuggling close, she laid her hand on his chest. He patted it and covered it with his own, his eyes never leaving the screen.

She waited a long time. But he made no other move to touch her.

TO BE CONTINUED