Page 1 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
CHAPTER 1
LONDON 1924
THE DISTRESS CALL
"We'll need to tread carefully with the Windmere case," Emma said, tapping her pen against her leather notebook. "It's always awkward when the suspect is a relative."
I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, savoring the warmth as I sat across from her mahogany desk. Lady Emma Carlyle, my partner at the Ladies of Distinction Detective Agency, preferred Earl Grey, while I preferred the much stronger brew.
"You mean Roger, the grasping cousin?" I smiled. "I'm certain he's behind the missing pearls."
Emma lifted a brow. "You sound confident."
"I'm engaged to a Scotland Yard chief detective inspector. It rubs off."
Her laughter rang out just as Betsy, our agency receptionist, appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed with urgency.
"Miss Worthington," she said breathlessly, "there's a Monsieur LeClair on the telephone. He says it's urgent and asked for you specifically."
My pulse quickened. Monsieur LeClair was the ballet master at the King’s Theatre. What could he possibly want with me?
"Thank you, Betsy. I'll take it in my office." After I arrived there, I set my coffee aside and lifted the receiver. "This is Kitty Worthington speaking."
A torrent of French-accented English poured into my ear.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Worthington! Thank heavens! This is Monsieur LeClair. I am in desperate need of your help! Our star dancer, Anya Petrova, has vanished! Gone without a trace!"
I reached for my notepad. "When did you last see her?"
"Last night, after rehearsal! She was to be here this morning for costume fittings, but she never arrived! No word, no note, nothing! We openFirebirdon Saturday—only three days away! If the press learns of this?—"
"Have you checked her lodgings?"
"Yes! Her rooms are empty! Her landlady hasn't seen her since yesterday when she left for the theatre. You must come quickly, mademoiselle, before everything collapses!"
I tapped the pencil against my lips. Anya Petrova, the ethereal Russian dancer who had London society captivated. Had she fled? Been taken? Or was something more sinister at play behind those velvet curtains?
"I'll be there within the hour," I promised.
After gathering my handbag and gloves, I stopped at Emma's office. "I'm off to the King’s Theatre. It seems they've misplaced their prima ballerina."
Emma's brows shot up. "Anya Petrova? TheSwan Lakestar?"
"The very one."
"Don't forget to collect a retainer, Kitty. Theatre people aren't always reliable when it comes to paying bills."
I smiled, fastening my gloves. That was Emma—practical as always, with one eye on our agency's finances. Meanwhile, my pulse was already quickening with the thrill of a fresh mystery.
I could never resist a puzzle—especially one wrapped in satin slippers and stage lights.
The April airwas crisp as I hailed a cab, the scent of damp stone and budding flowers mixing with London's familiar odors. As the motorcar rattled through the streets, I leaned back, mind already racing. Something in LeClair's voice—that tremor of genuine fear—told me this wasn't simply stage nerves or cold feet.
Whatever had happened to Anya Petrova, I intended to discover the truth.
The King’s Theatre's grand facade glowed softly under the morning light as my cab pulled up. I adjusted my hat and took a steadying breath before pushing through the tall double doors.
Inside, the usual pre-performance energy was replaced by tense whispers and worried glances. Stagehands, dancers, and costumers moved about with the same tight expression of barely controlled panic. The air carried the familiar scents of rosin, sawdust, and fresh paint, but underneath lay an undercurrent of anxiety that made my skin prickle.
