The City of No Name - Part One

Part One - Is there a Doctor in the House?

In which someone dies and everyone does nothing.

It promised to be a night they wouldn’t forget. Needless to say, they probably wouldn’t.

The curtain fell and he took a step forward to take his final bow. Applause congratulated him, echoing from around the room and from the balconies, taking care not to leave a single chair empty or silent. And as he swept a low bow the ovation increased tenfold – accompanied by a number of cheers which were taken up by the braver and younger members of the spectators.
One hand held his top hat and as he straightened up with a flourish he pulled several bunches of flowers from it. These were then tossed into the audience, who scrabbled for the souvenirs like high-class magpies in flurries of silk, pearls and expensive perfume.

Some would say afterwards, boasting to each other on account of their perceptive nature, that there had been a sort of nervousness in his disposition (like he knew what was going to happen next). Some claimed to also have known what was going to happen, apparently being gripped by a sudden vision or contacted via a message in their teacups that morning. Naturally, none of them thought to tell the police about this beforehand.
Despite how much they claimed they still clapped, clapped and clapped some more until their hands were raw with delight. That would be, presumably, why none of them noticed the curtains swelling out suddenly as if a gust of wind had blown in from behind them. Equally, no one seemed to notice them part around a tall figure dressed in black. One or two, the brighter ones of the bunch, noticed as he stepped forward but it wasn’t until the magician himself turned that they saw him.
Of course, they thought it part of the act, not even starting to worry as the intruder pulled out a small revolver. It was all frightfully exciting, they murmured to each other in varying regurgitations of the Government issued Dictionary, edition VI.

The applause died down to a low hum, all eyes rooted on the scene unfolding before them.
“Y-you…” stammered the magician, several people leaning over to comment to their neighbour on how awfully well acted it all was.
They were soon hushed by the enthralled audience, who shifted forwards to perch on the edge of their seats. Ears strained to hear what passed between the two, which, it had to be said, was not a lot since the only reply was the trigger being pulled and a dull thud as the bullet buried itself in his chest.

There was only one shot, he was so close that he would have been hard pushed to miss. Perhaps the magician thought this was all an act too, for he didn’t move. Then slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, as if you almost could hear the very air creaking around him, the magician took one step back before teetering on the edge of the stage.
A unified intake of air – not quite a gasp – followed this. Several of the more delicate participants in that evening’s events found themselves quite overcome and swooned dramatically in their chairs. Largely, however, they were still waiting for the punch line, still under the impression this was all an act. But it never came. Instead he continued to sway on the edge of the stage, suspended in time.

Eventually though, gravity took its course and, with a backward tumble, he fell. And then, all hell broke lose.
“That was for Eleanor,” the shooter spat before disappearing back through the curtains. Obviously, no one thought to stop him.

“Give him some space.”
“Keep him warm.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“…a nurse.”
“…a physician.”
“I’m a…”
“a…”
They all clamoured round, trying to help whilst he just lay there in a crumpled heap. They tried so hard to help that they didn’t get round to doing anything in particular. They argued over whether or not to move him as he might have a broken neck. They argued over who should call an ambulance. Mostly, though, they argued over who was best suited to treat him.
“I studied at Knights.” (Despite what the name might imply it was the top University for medicine here, and to study there was generally considered an honour.)
“…at Laire.” (A foreign University, should you trust such a place.)
“I’ve treated the Queen.” (Here, you have to realise that the Queen had been dead for over a century and the Government had been in power for longer still. It has to be added that the speaker didn’t look as if they were over a hundred.)
“…the King.” (Their neighbour tried to out-do them, both forgetting in their ardour that neither patient existed.)
“I was recommended by Lord-”
“I…”
Evidently it was rather a prestigious affair - the crème de la crème of society and all of them mad with it. Mad with self-importance or just mad was yet to be seen. Only those with invitations were allowed past the doors, which were heavily guarded to make sure no uninvited guests tried to slip in. (Or out, for that matter.)
The event was huge. No, wait, that wasn’t quite true. All in all, it was quite a private affair. A few hundred seats or so, but it was exclusive. The Magnificent, the Marvellous, the Splendiferous, as well as any further adjectives you wished to add, Marco the Great was coming out of retirement for one night only and the invited had been bragging about the assured unforgettable night for months.

On and on it went, all of them too wrapped up in the argument to notice the body lying there in a gradually growing pool of blood; his blood. The best physicians in the country and they seemed not to care. On second thoughts, they cared too much, and in that they got nothing done. By the time the ambulance screeched up to the door they looked down and the poor man was dead.
After which followed an argument over whose fault it was.
“I told you we should have moved him.”
“Shh, I’m trying to communicate with his spirit.”
“Aromatherapy…” And then transpired another stream of different methods they should have treated him with.

They were arguing so much – with the rest of the audience trying to get in on the action and peer at the dead body – that they completely missed the conversation behind the heavy drapes, which went rather like this:
“Who’s Eleanor?”
“No idea, but I thought it sounded more dramatic.”
After which there was silence. One must presume that the mysterious duo had vanished, since no one was paying enough attention to investigate. It did seem to be the case when some bright soul from the police department checked and found it empty. However, this took place much later, and that being the case the police decided that it stood to reason the murderer had fled. And in retaliation they posted officials at all the airports and docks should he try to flee the country.

No one thought to look under the stage, and the psychic teacups only saw so far.