I follow her finger, and sure enough, there’s a pale white shape bobbing around high up in the galleries. I wave desperately, and it stops. We feel its cold scrutiny for a moment, and then it vanishes into the gloom, merging into the velvet and gilt of the theatre’s public face.
I shrug. “Whoever it is, they’re no use. Let’s get back to the dressing room. If he was trying to warn me, perhaps Jim left some clue. Maybe on that phone of his.”
Back in the dressing room, we mute the television showing the live feed from the stage, even more unable to bear that whining voice now that we know it belongs to a crazed murderer. I take a deep breath, and prepare to rifle a dead man’s pockets.
Effie, bless her, reaches for Jim’s jacket, to straighten out his arm, uncover his face, and I suppose to close the poor man’s eyes for him.
The trouser pockets are empty, as I suppose you’d expect from a theatre costume. With a sigh, I remember he threw it on another table, and it’s still sitting there. I rush over and pick it up.
A gasp from Effie makes me turn round. “Brenda love, he’s still alive.”
She’d taken his wrist to try and unclasp his hand from the jacket covering his face. I rush over, and at least there’s a feeble pulse. His arm falls down, and we can see his eyes are closed, but he’s just about breathing.
“He’s not long for the world, but James is even worse at murdering than he is at acting,” I say. And then I think... Macbeth. We might even be able to have a bit of fun here. I switch the telly back on, and James is haranguing the actor playing Banquo. “Fail not our feast,” he says, and Banquo bows.
“Effie, I need you to buy me some time. Can you do some magic, dear?”
Her eyes are also fixed on the television image, staring at the three witches who are lurking around the arches at the back. “I rather think I can,” she says thoughtfully. “What are you going to do?”
I sigh, and look down at the mortally wounded Jim. ‘Let’s just say I’ve got a wardrobe malfunction to put right.”
As Effie bustles out, I bend over Jim to inspect the worst of his wounds. As I suspected, he’s lost too much blood to keep going much longer, but I can patch him up for the moment. God knows, I’ve had enough practice with running repairs on myself over the decades.
I wash my hands, and reach for the smallest needle I can find on the wardrobe table. As I start to work, Jim’s eyes flutter open and his lips part with a smile.
‘Don’t try to talk,” I advise him.
People always ignore that tip. “I sought you out for this show,” he whispers faintly. “I knew there was no one better with a needle and thread than you... Forgive me, Brenda.”
I shake my head. “You were a foolish young man, Jim.”
“Most young men are...”
He falls quiet after that, and I set to work. He’s in too much pain to mind jabs with a needle, and he barely flinches. After a bit, it strikes me that Effie’s been gone a while. I’m about to holler for her, when I hear her voice from the screen.
‘Saucy and over-bold, how did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth”
Clever old girl! She’s only gone and put herself in the play! They’d cut Hecate’s scene because of the old ‘Scottish play curse”, not wanting to anger the theatre ghost or some nonsense, and Effie’s put it back in a bit earlier than it’s supposed to come, but this ought to buy me a crucial five minutes or so. I can see James scowling at her from his bit of the stage where he’s supposed to be frozen between scenes, and then I see Effie.
She’s not had time to do much with her costume, but she’s got a big grey cloak over her frock, and it covers most of her head. It looks pretty creepy as she ducks and bobs around haranguing the three witches. Even though they’re still in their trance, they’re going along with it. I suppose because the scene is part of the play. Ooh, I bet she’s loving this.
“He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
His hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace, and fear;
And you all know security
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.”
I pause in my work for a moment. Who’d have thought it, but our Effie is pretty good. She’s sailing through the verse like an old professional, streets ahead of James with his mannered delivery and reedy voice. The Brotherhood of Thespia backed the wrong actor!
Finally, the scene is done, and Effie beats a hasty retreat from the stage. She’s played a blinder, and I’m finished. I smile down at Jim.
‘Time for my... swansong?” he whispers.
“We’re beyond swansongs, pet. I think this is your encore.”
We make our way back to the wings, and I’m having to support Jim every step of the way. The stubborn old fool won’t allow me to carry him, though. He’s having none of that.
The mesmerised stagehands have set up the big table on stage for the banquet scene, and the actors are clustered around it. Effie tugs at my sleeve, and points to the sound desk. Banquo’s feet are sticking out from under it, and she must have fetched him a clout with the microphone stand she’s brandishing. She’s on form tonight, and I count my blessings I drag her along to help me out.
Again, I step on stage, this time weighed down by Jim, who’s sweating buckets and wheezing something chronic, but has a grim look on his face, determined to see the thing through. I lead him to Banquo’s chair, and then nip back to the wings. All the time I’m keeping a close eye on James, who’s standing with his back to us as Ross invites him to join the feast.
“His absence, sir,
Lays blame upon his promise. Please’t your highness
To grace us with your royal company?”
‘The table’s full,” says James, even before he turns, which the director kept telling him not to do. But then he does turn, and sees Jim staring back at him with fury in his eyes, and he staggers.
“Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves your highness?” the entranced actor playing Lennox is unaware of the irony, but James fixes him with a suspicious glower.
‘Thou canst not say I did it,” he rages at Jim. “Never shake thy gory locks at me!”
Jim simply smiles back at him. And, slowly, there’s a growing murmur from the audience. James looks out over the auditorium in fright, as the crowd starts to stir and fidget, the Brotherhood’s spell weakening. Some of the actors start to twitch as well, Lennox and Ross casting confused looks at Jim and the bloody dreadful state he’s in.
“What, quite unmanned in folly?” It’s Lady Macbeth now, and the little madam’s got this cruel little smile on her face. They’re snapping out of it all right, and enjoying James’s discomfort, thinking the jumped-up actor has just forgotten his lines or something.
Then James actually stamps his foot, and points... at me. “You did this!” he rages. “You and the other old woman. How did you know? How could you learn Hecate’s lines so fast?”
“I’m a witch, young man,” says Effie, carroty as you like. “We all know that speech. It’s practically our bat mitzvah.”
The audience are grumbling now, still a bit sleepy as the trance wears off, but starting to realise something’s not right. James rounds on them, and the resonant timbre comes back to his voice.
“I am an initiate of the Brotherhood of Thespia, and I command you to be silent!” he roars.
That gets a huge laugh from the school trip, and he starts to look panicked.
“Actually, you’re not,” says a faint voice that still manages to carry to every corner of the house. Jim is hoisting himself from his seat, pulling himself up with the help of Lennox and Ross on either side. “Not while I’m hanging on. Your power is ebbing. And you’re making yourself look a proper tit in the process. You know what the Brotherhood makes of a poor performance.”
That threat sends the blood draining from James’s face. He scowls, and throws up his hands.
‘Then let’s end the performance!” he snaps. He draws his sword with a flourish, and the audience gasps.
/>
“You ruined my initiation, you freakish hag, so now I’ll ruin you. You and this old wreck of an actor watch as I kill darling Robert.”
“Excuse me?” says Robert, as Gila squeals from the audience.
‘Lay on, Macduff!” shouts James with the Brotherhood’s timbre back in his voice for one last dose. Robert’s knees buckle as he fights the compulsion, but then his eyes glaze over, and he draws his sword.
I remember this fight from rehearsals. They go at it for a good couple of minutes, before running off stage. But this is different. James charges in at Robert with his sword for a vicious sideways swipe instead of the overhead blow from the choreography. Robert’s own blade is there to block him in any case, but it’s a close thing. My blood runs cold as I realise that Robert in his mesmerised state is doing the original choreography, while James is free to make his own moves, and strike. How sharp are those swords, anyway? They’re supposed to be stage props, but then the dagger that stabbed Jim was real enough.
I grab Ross’s sword, and test the edge, only to feel blood on my fingers. “Careful, Robert,” I shout, uselessly.
The audience start to cheer and whoop, probably assuming they’re watching an ordinary meltdown performance of an amateur show. I stare out at them, at their uncomprehending smiling faces. Unable to meet Gila’s anguished eyes, I look up to the galleries, and that’s when I see that little white face again.
And then I realise.
“Macbeth,” I say, quietly.
“Yes?” James looks over his shoulder as he steps back from the fight and Robert slashes at empty air like an automaton.
“Macbeth,” I repeat.
“Brenda, are you quite well? Oh,” I see understanding dawn on Effie’s face. “Macbeth.”
James frowns, then turns back to attacking Robert. “Why do you keep saying Macbeth?”
Jim tries to chuckle, but blood bubbles from his mouth. He has just moments left, but he joins in. “Macbeth.”
I start to chant, waving to the audience to join in. They’re used to seeing pantos at the Pavilion, so they’re game enough, and in seconds we’re raising the roof. “Macbeth. Macbeth. Macbeth!”
And the translucent face in the gallery grows. The hazy shape launches itself into the air, and streaks across the ceiling of the auditorium, screaming in rage.
“Macbeth. Macbeth. Macbeth.”
The theatre’s ghost, whatever it once was, is angry. It powers straight down to the stage, where the terrified actors jump out of the way, though the audience don’t seem to see it at all.
“Macbeth. Macbeth. Macbeth.”
The shape wavers in the air over the stage, then rushes Robert. It vanishes into him, and his whole body is suffused by its hazy glow for a moment. His eyes clear, and then burn with a savage light.
“I know which end of a sword to hold,” he snarls, and swings his sword up, ignoring James’s panicky lunge.
The audience gasp as Robert’s blade connects with James’s neck. At the same moment, whoever’s on the lighting desk finally has the presence of mind to shut the lights off.
I move fast, knowing we have to keep the audience believing this was just an am-dram show that got a bit rowdy.
A minute later, and the lights come up. I hold up my battered old shopping bag, with a lumpy bulge in it. The audience falls silent, and I look around. The other actors are standing in front of James where he fell. All except Effie and Robert, who are with Jim. Jim catches my eye, smiles slightly, and dies. I feel my heart clench at the sound of his final weak little gasp, but his dignity gives me the strength to speak even in front of all these people.
“Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands
Th’ usurper’s cursèd head,” I nod at Robert, to carry on the speech to Malcolm.
Robert picks up the cue smoothly. ‘The time is free. I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl...”
I relax. It’s a mess, a bloody awful, evil mess, and the Brotherhood of Thespia will get what’s coming to them if it’s the last thing I do, but we saved the theatre-going public of Whitby, and Effie’s found a new vocation. I can go home to my B&B and sleep until Tuesday.
And then the bag twitches. I drop it with a cry, and then jump back as James’s head rolls out and across the stage, nose over bloody stump.
Eventually it rolls to a standstill at Effie’s feet, just as Malcolm starts winding down his speech.
You could hear a pin drop as James’s head opens its eyes, spots me, winks, and then, incredibly, speaks.
“Hello, mother.”
The Ragged School
Matthew Bright
Effie is always going on at me to trust my 'women's intuition'. “When you've banished as many fearful and nefarious characters as we have, Brenda, you learn a thing or two,” she says. “Why, between us, we've got the intuition of ten women!” Perhaps she's right. Whenever I get that feeling in my waters, there's always some horror just over the horizon. And so when I pick up the pile of morning copy of the Whitby Whisperer from the doormat and feel that familiar shudder run through me, I don't immediately discount it even if there's nothing particularly fearful or nefarious rearing its head just yet.
There's nothing too alarming on the first few pages—a child rescued from the harbour after falling overboard, an unusual number of whales spotted, the Walrus and Carpenter going gluten-nut-dairy-protein-and-calorie-free, and a new school opening.
Or should I say re-opening? I looked closer at that last item. The front of the newspaper carried a photograph of a grand old pile, out on the edge of the Moors. Ivy covered its huge front, and a wide gravel driveway led right up to the doors. “The Wildthyme Ragged School For Girls Reopens!” read the headline.
All of a sudden a strange whoosh of dizziness came over me, and I steadied myself on the table. A queer feeling of unsteadiness went right to my very bones. Was it the picture? Was my women's intuition warning me of something mysterious in the offing? I was more than accustomed to those sorts of adventures, but the fourth paragraph seemed awfully early for things to be getting going.
Perhaps it was just ordinary run-of-the mill dizziness. Go see a doctor, Robert would tell me. But what doctor would know what do with a body like mine? I shook myself. What a silly old fool I was being. Pull yourself together, Brenda! I told myself.
I read the article beneath the picture. The Wildthyme Ragged School was an old Victorian school for orphans and unfortunates up on the Moors, looking after children from Whitby, Scarborough and Robin Hood's Bay. I could dimly remember Ragged Schools of the like in London, though the details of them were lost somewhere in the dusty library of my memories, and all I had was a vague image of austere windows, wet floors and lumpy porridge. Only a step from the workhouse, from what I could recall, though it seemed from the article that over the years the school had evolved from a poorhouse to something a little more prestigious.
According to the Whisperer, the Wildthyme Ragged School for Girls had shut its doors at the start of the Second World War, and had remained closed and boarded up ever since, lonely and proud up there on the edge of the hills. As I read, I realized I'd heard its name before. Every now and then people in Whitby would mutter that the place was haunted, and in the news article it mentioned that that ghastly show Manifest Yourself had once broadcast a Hallowe'en special there.
And now there were reopening it's doors and twang goes my nethers with that foreboding warning again. But I was having none of that nonsense, not on a Monday when there were beds to turn down. I busied myself washing the breakfast things, cleaning the rooms and scrubbing the kitchen floors.
Later that evening, Effie appeared at my door in a flurry of excitement, bearing news.
“Well fancy them asking me!” she said. “'Whitby's premier antiques expert!' they said.” She pronounced 'premier' with a French accent. “Asked me to do a series of talks about the school's history, back when it was open.”
“Are you an expert on history?” I en
quired, as kindly as I felt able with her tracking mud across my gleaming floor.
“Well—I picked up quite a bit from Alucard, of course,” she said. “First-hand history, so to speak. But I'm sure there's all sorts of bits and pieces hanging about the shop I can use to keep them interested. They're only children. When was a lass at school we were happy when they showed us a book with pictures.”
“I think times have moved on since then,” I told her, popping a lid on the teapot. “It's all iThingummies and whatnot these days.”
Effie sniffed disparagingly. “Well, I'm sure I shall be magnificent.” She removed her shawl and dropped it sharply on the table. I'd known her long enough to recognise when she was piqued. “I am, after all, Whitby's premier antiques expert.”
I took my seat beside her. For a wise woman with a whole host of ancient ancestors mired in the magical arts, she could be quite silly sometimes. You might have thought her brushes with Alucard would teach her a lesson—fancy falling for such obvious flattery.
“Really Brenda,” Effie admonished me. “You might show a little excitement for me.”
“Oh, I'm sorry, Effie, I just can't. That place gives me the shivers. I've got a feeling.”
Effie sniffed. “Oh, one of your feelings, ay? Well, then... all the more exciting.”
I sipped my spicy tea, and wondered privately when her definition of 'exciting' had changed so drastically. That daft vampire beau of hers had a lot to answer for, in my opinion. Tired and dishevelled from my day's work, I might have been inclined to say something that would put her into even more of a snit, but thankfully at that moment the doorbell rang and interrupted the glowering atmosphere.
“Robert!” I exclaimed in delight, opening the door. “Penny! Oh, it's wonderful to see the pair of you! Come in, come in. Would you like anything to eat? Sandwich? Tea?”
And so we whiled away a pleasant night with spicy tea, thick leftovers sandwiches and sultana loaf. Penny told us all about the investigations she'd been conducting (quite caught the supernatural detective bug, she has). “She followed Mrs Grivet home,” Robert said. “Convinced she was communing with the spirits.”
[Brenda & Effie 00] - A Treasury of Brenda and Effie Page 10