‘Blimey, you’re good at that,’ Jake whispered, once the door was closed.
‘There’s a bloody key on the inside,’ Silas hissed, taking it from a nail hammered into the frame. ‘What’s the point of that?’
Jake put his finger to his lips while he took the key and relocked the door.
‘Just in case,’ he said, replacing the key on its hook. Holding the lantern over his head, he revealed a space no bigger than Silas’ dressing room. A few paces ahead of them, another pair of doors barred their way, and Silas’ heart sank when he realised there was no keyhole and no visible hinges. He shrugged helplessly at Jake, but Jake grinned, stepped over to the wall and took hold of a rusty lantern hook jutting from the plaster. He pulled it downwards, and the doors slowly parted to reveal a void, black and uninviting. The smell of sewage seeped out, and Silas wished he’d brought a scarf to cover his nose.
The lamp lit stone steps leading down to an arched opening, and beyond that was nothing but darkness.
‘Welcome to the world of the theatre,’ Jake said. ‘We’re okay to talk from here on, but still, keep your voice down.’
‘Why the secret mechanism?’ Silas asked, impressed but confused. ‘And why a key on the inside?
‘They say that necessity is the mother of invention,’ Jake replied, taking a lantern from the wall. ‘But really it’s the theatre. This way.’
He descended the steps as he lit a lamp, and with two lights, the way ahead became clearer.
‘You remember those clouds for Aeneas?’ Jake asked, referring to the gala night the previous October. ‘Well, they were made for the original production. The script called for descending angels on clouds, so someone had to invent it. The smoke that came up through the stage? Invented for something unpronounceable by Wagner. There’s men work in the building above us who come up with all manner of clever stuff like hidden doors, traps and the like. And then there’s this…’
The lamps threw light into a tunnel. High enough for them to stand, it was tiled in a perfect arch, with parallel tracks on the floor and candle sconces tapering off as far as the light would let them see.
‘A spare key’s on the inside,’ Jake continued, walking ahead. ‘In case anyone gets locked in by accident. There’s the same arrangement at the other end. You’ve always got to have safety in mind when you’re around a theatre. Especially as so many of them burn down.’
‘Makes sense,’ Silas said. His voice echoed briefly, but strangely the sound seemed to travel only as far as the light. It was an eerie effect. ‘What are the tracks for?’
‘Ah, now that’s just laziness. Oh, mind where you walk, there’s rats. There are some side tunnels ahead. Inspection ways into the sewer, and some of their doors are rotten. I used to play down here with the kids from the stables until one got rat-bitten and nearly died from the spirally fever. Anyhow, the tracks… The House was rebuilt after burning down eighty years ago. As they were designing the new one, the owners did a deal with a place called Casby’s Worldwide Emporium in Wellington Street. That place provided everything for the new House from the booze to the canvas, including stuff for the restaurant, material for the costumes, the gas, the plush, you name it. So, rather than trundle all this expensive stuff up Bow Street in all weathers, they dug this tunnel and ran carts on these tracks from the warehouse to the opera house. Simple.’
‘Blimey, Jake, you know some shit.’ Silas was happy to let Jake prattle on, it took his mind off disease-carrying vermin and the thousands of tons of buildings and roads above their heads.
‘You know me and theatres, Brother,’ Jake said, ‘You mind me calling you that?’
‘I don’t.’ Silas answered with a smile that was impossible to see in the gloom. ‘But where does this come out? What’s on Wellington Street?’
‘Ah, now that’s the thing, see.’ Jake was off again, his words bouncing back to him a second after he spoke. ‘Casby’s was right next to a performance hall what it did business with, but like loads of other places with gas stage lighting, it caught fire in eighteen thirty. The fire damaged a lot of Casby’s too, so they had to stop trading and went bust. So, the theatre bought the Casby building and moved there, right next door.’
‘The Lyceum?’
‘You’re getting it. The tunnel was left, and these days only gets used by Mr Bursnal the house manager when he wants to sneak his mistress about, and maybe Mr Irving and his mates, when they want to do the same. Dirty lot, these actors. We’ll be there in a moment. Best go quiet, as I don’t know if they’ve got a nightwatchman or not.’
The tunnel, having sloped down and levelled out, now rose beneath their feet, and several paces further on, a second set of steps came into view.
‘It comes out behind the kitchens of the Beef Steak room, Jake said. ‘Mr Irving’s posh dinner club. Theatre’s dark while they’re on tour, there won’t be anyone working, so we should be okay.’
‘That’s good to hear. And how do we get from there to the offices?’
They reached the steps, and Jake hung his lamp on a hook. Turning to Silas, he said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been inside. Ain’t you got a plan or nothing?’
Silas had taken it for granted that Jake knew everything about every theatre in the city, but his concerned expression told a different story.
‘No. But the doorman said the office is six floors up. I was hoping you’d know the rest.’
Jake thought for a second and shrugged. ‘Well, I do know that theatre managers like their offices facing back, away from the noise of the street, but I don’t know Irving, so who can tell? Anyway, before we go and find out, ain’t it about time you told me what we’re looking for?’
‘Information.’
‘Yeah, you said that, but being honest, Brother, if I’m going to get done for breaking and entering, I’d like to know why I was doing it. Are you thieving?’
‘Only information.’ Silas sighed. He’d known he would have to explain his purpose to Jake at some point, but hadn’t yet found a way of doing so. He decided it would be best to tell him the whole dubious story.
‘Look, Jake, if I told you that the butler you dressed up in royal livery thinks that a Romanian assassin is planning to kill Henry Irving because of a play he wrote about the Szekely people, and we think we can prevent the murder if I can find out how he plans to do it, and then get that information to Tom and Jimmy by tomorrow evening before Lord Clearwater’s got a scandal on his hands… would you believe me?’
Jake’s eyes glinted in the lamp spill as he looked Silas up and down. He took off his bowler ran his gloved hand through his new haircut, replaced his hat and said, ‘Yeah, wouldn’t surprise me in the least, mate.’ Shaking his head, he collected his lantern. ‘Better whisper from here on,’ he said, and mounted the stairs.
The door into the Lyceum was the same as the one out of the Opera House, and beside it hung a similar key, making their entry easier. Jake led the way, listening intently before signalling for Silas to follow. Silas stopped him by putting his hand on his shoulder, and pointed to his shoes. Having taken them off and left them inside the tunnel entrance, they found themselves in a storeroom among crates and boxes. It led to a kitchen fitted with stoves and plate racks, tables and utensils. The lantern light threw shadows that loomed and fell as they scanned the walls searching for the way forward. It was a kitchen Mrs Flintwich would have been proud to work in with its immaculately ordered shelves, dressers and perfectly polished, hanging pans. It even boasted an ice room and a dumb waiter, or as she called it when Barnaby was dithering with service, a ‘dumb footman.’
Jake moved the lantern around the walls until he located an opening leading to a brick staircase, and looking up, Silas nodded. They climbed in silence, their stockinged feet making no sound until they had risen two storeys and Silas was beginning to sweat beneath his ju
mper. He was wishing he had left his coat in the tunnel when Jake yanked him down by the collar. Covering his lamp, he held his ear before pointing towards an open doorway beyond which a dull light glowed as keys jangled. The sound and light faded as it ascended stairs, and crouched on their haunches, they scuttled upwards until, out of breath, they arrived at the top floor.
‘Right,’ Jake breathed. ‘If the watchman is doing a proper round, it will take him ages to get up here, but still, we got to be quick.’
Through another door which creaked as it closed and caused them to wince, they found themselves in a corridor. Carpeted and smelling faintly of old cigar smoke and wood polish, a window at the opposite end let in a vague amount of diffused streetlight, as did one at the end of a passage to their left. Once their eyes had adjusted, they made out dark recesses of office doorways, and hearing no noise apart from a distant clatter of hooves on the Strand, they set about examining each one. Although the rooms had nameplates, none of them was Irving’s. Doubling back, they took the other passage and here, at the far end, two oak doors, larger and grander than the others, stood facing each other. They also displayed far more important nameplates.
‘Mr Stoker.’ Jake read the one at the rear of the building.
‘Here.’
Opposite, the streetlight picked out a brass plate announcing ‘Mr Irving’, and Silas dropped to his knees. He had taken out his kit, examined the keyhole, and was preparing his picks when the door opened.
‘Didn’t think so,’ Jake said, shining the light into the room. ‘No point locking it if there’s a watchman and the house is dark.’
The room was large and dominated by a desk piled high with books and manuscripts. Shelves were lined with more, and plush leather armchairs sagged beneath the weight of the actor’s reading material.
‘We’ll never find anything in this,’ Silas whispered.
‘What we looking for?’
‘Anything about that play, “The Blood of the….” whatever it was.’
Jake put his lantern on a cabinet pointing away from the windows in case anyone in the street happened to look up, and it gave them just enough illumination to see by. White papers were picked out well enough, but Silas had to bring darker documents to the lamp to read.
‘It’s all bloody Shakespeare and stuff,’ he muttered, toing and froing from the desk to the lamp while Jake squinted at the bookshelves.
Flicking through handwritten manuscripts and finding nothing, he was wondering if Thomas’ reasoning had for once been off the mark, when he came across a piece of paper that gave him an idea. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than scribbled notes, but the words ‘The Blood’ and ‘Stoker’s cabinet 2’ leapt out. Calling Jake, he showed him, and they looked across to the opposite office.
A minute later, having left Irving’s room as they had found it, they crossed the passage.
This time, Silas tried the door but found it locked. As he set about picking the lock, Jake tiptoed back to the stairs to listen, and returned just in time to find Silas packing his tools with the door open.
‘He’s three floors below,’ Jake whispered. ‘Got to hurry.’
In stark contrast to Irving’s study, his manager’s was organised and tidy. There was only one window, high up and round so the lantern would be no problem, and Jake left the door open. By way of explanation, he cupped his ear and pointed to the corridor.
‘Good idea,’ Silas mouthed. ‘Cabinet two.’
One wall was lined with wooden filing cabinets, their uniform row interrupted by a square-framed, sliding door, possibly concealing a large safe, another was a mass of bookcases. The third displayed framed posters, one of which was the billboard for ‘The Blood of the Dead’, and it hung in the place of honour over a dining table and chairs.
None of the cabinets were numbered, but instinctively, as if they had worked together before, Silas started at one end and Jake at the other. Taking the most logical approach, they counted two cabinets in and began their search. Lifting files and papers to the light, they worked quickly and silently. Having found nothing, Jake closed the top drawer and returned to the passage to listen. Giving Silas a thumbs up, he resumed his task.
Silas had no luck with the first three drawers, but in the fourth, he finally found what he was looking for. He beckoned Jake with a hiss before laying the folder on the desk.
‘Szekelys, Transylvania and the Lore of the Undead,’ was handwritten across the top in bold lettering and beneath it was the title of the play. Inside a stack of papers was arranged in seemingly random order. There were far too many to read through, and all Silas could do was look for certain words as he scanned the titles. ‘History of the Region’ was followed by ‘Character Outlines.’ The next set of pages were to do with ‘Plot, Synopsis and Intent’, whatever that meant.
These weren’t papers about an order of Romanian assassins, they were to do with Irving’s play, he thought, but what he read on the next page made his heart stop beating.
‘Got it!’ The words were out of his mouth before he realised, he’d said them aloud.
Jake gripped his arm urgently, and looking up from the page, Silas saw lamplight growing stronger beyond the door.
‘Close it,’ Silas hissed, sending Jake scuttling across the room to silently shut them in.
Silas took the section of pages, rolled them and shoved them into his coat, dashed to the cabinet, replaced the folder and thought frantically.
There was only one place to hide, and that was beneath the desk. Silas dragged Jake into the well, and cramped and balled, they extinguished the lamp and held their breath.
The turn of the door handle was followed by the brush of wood on carpet. Light swung around the room in an arc raising and dropping shadows, a man coughed, and the light faded as the door closed.
‘Bloody close,’ Jake whispered. ‘We’ll have to wait a while before we go.’
‘No,’ Silas said. ‘We have to leave now. He’ll be back in about thirty seconds.’
Egerton Sandfield hadn’t been born to be a nightwatchman, he had been born to act. His father always said he had the name for it, so why not try the profession. Encouraged by an over-ambitious mother and a father with ideas above his son’s ability, Egerton followed the dramatic arts from an early age. By the time he was nine, he could recite Shakespeare sonnets, and monologues by the time he was ten. Marlow held no mysteries for him, and he had even dabbled with ‘The Duchess of Malfi’ in his early teens.
Sadly, the closest he had ever come to the stage was pacing the corridors of the Lyceum nightly since the age of eighteen. The manager then had promised him auditions and had even heard him recite in his study, the room he now stood in aged fifty-two with nothing to look forward to but a low wage and a few more years of humiliation before he shuffled off the mortal coil.
He shone his lantern on the poster of Mr Irving’s Hamlet as he did every night, and sighed.
‘That could have been you, Egerton,’ he said. ‘Hear that, Mr Irving? That could have been me if they’d given me a chance.’
The windows were locked just as he expected, not that anyone would climb six storeys and crawl the parapet to break into an actor’s office, but men had done more dangerous things in the name of burglary. No-one had been in or around the theatre for weeks now. The company was away enjoying the high life, first on a steamer, then touring America and now heading back on the Britannic no less, pumped with success and no doubt looking forward to the new season. He imagined the fine dining, the cast and managers enjoying camaraderie at the first-class tables while the crew sweated out the voyage in steerage. He would have been happy with even that, but his potential had been ignored.
‘Should have been me,’ he sighed, scanning the desk and shelves. ‘What you heard was a rat.’ Bending beneath the desk, he looked for s
igns of vermin.
His was a pointless job when the theatre was dark, it was one of the most secure buildings on the street. There wasn’t much worth stealing apart from Mr Irving’s personal effects, there had been no takings, so there was no cash. Irving knew this and never bothered locking his door.
‘All the same, Sir,’ Egerton said as he returned to the passage. ‘I do think you should be more secure-minded like…’
He stopped in his tracks before he completed the sentence.
Mr Stoker always locked his office. He insisted on it. Even when the room had been decorated last spring, it had to be kept locked when he wasn’t in there.
His adrenaline was suddenly pumping. Egerton had just checked that room, and the door had been unlocked.
‘That was no rat.’
Throwing the door wide, he shouted, ‘Oi! Who’s there?’ and braced himself for a burglar’s swipe.
None came.
Window? Unbroken and closed. Behind the coat stand? Empty space. Beneath the desk? No-one.
Egerton stood scratching his head. ‘You’re getting too old for this,’ he said. ‘Your mind’s going.’ Locking Mr Stoker’s study, he wondered if it was time he retired.
Six flights below, Silas and Jake tumbled from the dumb waiter, their hands sore from lowering themselves with the ropes.
‘Good job it wasn’t a safe,’ Silas snorted as they hurried back to the tunnel.
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