The monocled choker nodded, released the chokee, frowned at the poker in my hand, and then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a dog-eared sheaf of papers.

“I thought I got hit with the poker in Act Three,” he said, rifling through the pages. “They haven’t changed it again, have they?”

I lowered my poker.

The woman being choked produced a similar document and, frowning, began to leaf through it.

“You’re not Robert,” repeated the blonde. She finally lowered her hands, and looked confused rather than terrified. “You’re not even in the cast, are you?”

“My name is Markhat,” I replied. Confused glances were exchanged all around. “I heard what sounded like a woman being murdered, so I let myself in.”

The blonde raised an eyebrow. “So when you lifted that poker…”

“I was about to enact Act Three a bit too early and a bit too hard,” I said. I leaned the poker carefully back where I’d found it. “I apologize for barging in. Are you Mrs. Hemp?”

“He thought we were real,” said the brunette, beaming. “He thought you were really about to kill us.”

The man grinned. “Not bad for a stand-in, huh? I haven’t rehearsed Robert’s role.”

I stuck out my hand. It was the least I could do, after nearly braining the man.

“You had me thoroughly convinced,” I said. Then I turned again to the woman while we shook hands.

“Mrs. Hemp?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m Mrs. Hemp,” she replied, smiling. “I’m sorry. I should have closed the door, but I didn’t want to leave Robert out on the stoop.” She stepped forward, laughed again, and offered me her hand to shake. “We’re rehearsing,” she said, as we shook hands. “Of course we rehearse at the theatre as well, but this scene is so sticky we wanted to work on it here.” She brightened suddenly. “Are you with the theatre, Mister Markhat?”

I grinned back. “I’m not, Mrs. Hemp,” I said, while the brunette and her murderous male friend sat down on the couch and began a whispered exchange punctuated by numerous stabs at the script. “Actually, a friend sent me by with a parcel for you. She knows I’m interested in art, and I understand you have a new piece by-”

I trailed off as Mrs. Hemp flew into a silent but furious flurry of shushing signs at me. She glanced at the pair on the couch, sighed in relief when she decided they hadn’t been listening, and ushered me out of the room, through the foyer, and out the door, which she closed with a solid bang.

“That’s a secret, Mr. Markhat,” she said. “I’m not even going to hang it until the evening of our cast party for Three Murders by Midnight. It’s a Werewilk,” she whispered. “The best I’ve ever seen.”

I winced. Darla’s linen clad gown lay crumpled on the stoop, so I bent and picked it up and handed it ruefully to Mrs. Hemp.

“It’s from Darla’s,” I said. “I dropped it when I thought your friend was being throttled.”

She brushed it off and smiled. “Well, I can hardly blame you for that,” she said. “I doubt it’s hurt. Darla always double-wraps.”

“I’ll make it good if a stitch is out of place,” I said. “Now, about the you-know-what.”

“You can’t see it,” said the blonde. “Not unless you come to the cast party.” She grinned a sly grin. “It’s two weeks from Saturday,” she said, looking up at me with an ever-widening smile. “If you’re interested?”

I smiled back. I’m a generous fellow, with my smiles.

“Oh, I’m interested,” I said, with commendable accuracy. “Do you know Lady Werewilk? Personally, I mean.”

Mrs. Hemp nodded a happy yes. I began to wonder where Mr. Hemp might be, and if he himself had access to any wrought iron fireplace pokers.

“Erlorne? Oh yes, I know her quite well,” said Mrs. Hemp, with an unwifely gleam in her eye. “Very well indeed.”

Mrs. Hemp’s hand had made its way to my collar, and was adjusting it. Ordinarily, I’d have made mention of Darla and her collar-straightening duties, but in the interest of keeping Mrs. Hemp talking I let her correct whatever imperceptible flaw had crept into my shirt.

Inspiration struck. “Let’s say I wanted to get my hands on a Werewilk right now, Mrs. Hemp,” I said. “You know the art community. How would an outsider go about that?”

“Well, Mr. Markhat, if you’re so eager to get your hands on something, I suppose you could just go visit the woman herself,” she cooed. “You know, like you did with me. Just show up at the door.”

Now it appeared my neck needed attention. I’d run out of stoop on which to back up. She knew it, and grinned, showing teeth that were white and straight.

“Oh, bugger,” she said. “At least have the kindness to tell me I almost had you.”

I frowned before I could stop myself.

Mrs. Hemp pouted. “That was my best femme fatale,” she said, stepping back. “Or are you in love?”

I stared and she laughed. “You are in love,” she said. “That’s all right, then. No wonder you didn’t succumb to my wiles.”

“I was succumbing, really I was. Another minute, I’d have been in a swoon, proposing marriage, assuming your husband wouldn’t mind.”

“Mr. Hemp did me the courtesy of dying on our wedding night,” said Mrs. Hemp. “But I’d have said no, in any case, Mr. Markhat. I know all about you and Darla Tomas, you see, and I simply couldn’t lose access to Rannit’s best dressmaker’s for any mere man.”

I grinned and wiped sweat I hadn’t known was there off my brow. “Good show, Mrs. Hemp,” I said. “And all that without a script.”

She bowed. “Now then,” she said. “What is it you want to know about Lady Werewilk?”

“Anything you can tell me,” I replied. “I’m not out to hurt her. The opposite, in fact. But the art scene isn’t one I know, Mrs. Hemp. And I don’t have much time to learn it.”

“All right,” she said. She paused to let a gaggle of pedestrians pass. “I’ll tell you what I know. But only because you came charging to my rescue, you understand?”

I nodded.

“Erlorne Werewilk wanted to be an artist, Mr. Markhat,” she began. “But she had an accident as a child. You’ll never see her with her gloves off, but if you do, you’ll see she’s missing three fingers on her right hand.” Mrs. Hemp shook her head sadly. “She’s had a lot of bad luck, now that I think about it,” she added. “That. Her poor addled brother. The Regent’s Council of Arts refusing her admittance, bad-mouthing her artists. And the rumors too…”

She shut up, realizing she’d said something she hadn’t intended.

“Oh, the rumors,” I said, with an air of dismissal. “I’m not interested in those. Nonsense, every word.”

She nodded assent. “I never believed them,” she said. “Her fiance had no business being on that horse in the first place.”

“He certainly didn’t. And Lady Werewilk certainly had nothing to do with that accident.”

“She couldn’t have,” agreed the helpful Mrs. Hemp. “Even the stable-boy agreed she was never anywhere near the saddle.”

I nodded, hoping more was forthcoming, but the brunette called out to Mrs. Hemp from inside the house and that was all I was going to get.

“I have to get back to rehearsal,” she said. She flashed me another big toothy smile. “But I meant what I said about the party. Bring your Miss Tomas. I’m sure she’d enjoy herself too.”

“Thank you. Tell your strangler he needs to grit his teeth more, and keep his elbows down.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Markhat.” She suddenly stood on tiptoe and planted a none too chaste kiss right on my lips. “See you soon.”

And then she was gone, gown swirling around her back as her door slammed shut.

I found a handkerchief and mopped away any trace of foreign lipstick as I headed back toward the freshly painted red house by the cabstand and the labyrinth of streets beyond it. I figured Darla and Gertriss would be back by the time I got to the dress shop, which would leave me about three hours to deposit Gertriss back with Mama and get ready for dinner with Darla.