‘Bloody hell I am sure,’ I cried with blind obstinacy, and then I stood up and stretched a hand. ‘Let us shake on it. It will be the easiest winnings of my life.’
I instantly regretted my impulse, for McGray squeezed my hand so mightily I heard my phalanges crack.
Nine-Nails did not have time to mock me though. McNair knocked at the half-open door and came in like a gust of wind.
‘Sirs, some o’ the lads found this thing near Regent Bridge.’ He held up a large leather bag, the material old and cracked, covered in all manner of dirt. What caught our eyes, however, was a filthy rag sticking out and soaked in something dark red. ‘It was in a ditch on the side of Calton Hill. Not a hundred yards from the scene.’
I let out my most earnest ‘Ha!’ and headed to the door. ‘I am already savouring that whisky, Nine-Nails.’
He had snatched the bag and was inspecting the bloodstained cloth but an inch from his face. ‘This proves nothing yet. This could’ve been – Where the hell are ye going? This needs examination!’
‘To the theatre, of course.’
‘I thought ye’d be running with this to our mortician.’
‘To what purpose? I already know there is blood there. Dr Reed will not be able to tell you much more.’
‘We might find out where the rags and bag came –’
I did not hear the rest. I was already rushing through the corridor, where Bram Stoker cast me a befuddled look.
‘Will you keep me informed, Inspector?’ he pleaded after I babbled where I was heading to.
‘Of course. If I find anything conclusive you shall be’ – I glanced at McGray’s door – ‘the second person to know.’
Bram Stoker’s Journal
10 July, 2 p.m. – Can finally get brief rest and record this morning’s events.
Found Mr Wheatstone at the breakfast parlour, where he told me all that took place last night. Immediately rushed to the police headquarters […]
Note by I. P. Frey: I have omitted Mr Stoker’s account of our first meeting in order to avoid repetition (and some unnecessarily punitive remarks he may have penned about my character).
[…]
After Frey left, Insp. McGray allowed me to follow to the morgue. Of great interest to me; I had pressing business at the theatre, but thought I could spare an hour or two. I took copious notes – might be useful for future story.
The inspector asked me what we use in the theatre to resemble blood (have spent the best part of my life attempting to modulate my regional lilt, yet this man appeared to show it off with pride). Told him we use lightly diluted corn syrup for consistency, dyed with cochineal powder – washes very easily from the costumes. Old trick; otherwise we’d have to buy new garments for each performance.
The inspector at once dabbed some of the horrible substance on his fingertip and quite nonchalantly had a taste of it. Said he was absolutely sure that it was not syrup.
I noticed his missing finger. Decided not to ask.
A few notes on the morgue: air cold, with a chemical scent and the disturbingly acrid whiff one might find at a butcher’s. Tiled walls were jaded, the general feeling the room inspired was bleakness.
A very, very young doctor attended on us – blond, childish features, ungainly. Inspector McGray introduced me. The young pathologist said plainly he was glad Inspector Frey wasn’t around – I agreed and the young man smiled at me.
Young chap, very accommodating; took a smear from the cloth and examined it under a small brass microscope. I remember his remark: ‘This is definitely blood, sir; I can see the cells clearly. But I’d need to be God to tell you whether it’s animal or human.’
Told them I knew it had to be real blood, just like the puddle we found on the London stage – we couldn’t wash it off the scenery.
Told them how efficient Mr Harker had been at repainting the canvases just in time for our tour.
Doctor and inspector were a little surprised when I asked if I could have a look at the microscope, but they obliged. I spent a couple of minutes marvelling at the little globules of blood cells floating under the lens. Blood itself is a yellowish liquid. It is the millions of little cells that give it its red colour!
Inspector McGray asked to spread the bag’s contents. Dr Reed did so, on a clean mortuary table. The splatter of the wet material when the two men stretched it out – repulsive.
The cloth was a long, rectangular sheet, only a little larger than the table itself.
Inspector McGray ventured it might be bed linen, and began looking meticulously at the weaving and the turn-up stitches.
I asked him what he might be looking for. He said there might be some initials embroidered, or a merchant’s name. He said it was good linen. Expensive.
Unfortunately, there were no revealing marks at all. He asked for scissors and cut out a small snippet from a corner. Put it in his pocket, blood and all.
He also looked at the inside of the bag – thoroughly soaked in blood. Said it looked like someone had used it to carry the blood to do the writing. ‘Like a wine boot. Then they had to get rid of the thing. Nobody wants to be caught with such damning evidence.’
I asked him if he now thought it was all faux. His response made me laugh:
‘Can’t rule it out. But don’t you dare tell that [censored by I. P. Frey] Londoner I ever said that.’
The Insp. scrutinized the bag. Found a little merchant’s stamp in a corner. It seemed very ‘upper-class-wifey’ acc. to him. The young doctor said his fiancée was a keen shopper and might know the manufacturer.
The Insp. also asked the doctor to find something to wrap the bag and sheet, something that could withstand a trip across the city. Said he was taking it to the premises of some ‘madam’. I asked him where he was going and he grinned.
‘Have you ever met a gypsy clairvoyant?’
Side note by I. P. Frey:
Dear, oh dear …
6
The day being so bright and warm, I’d headed to the theatre by foot, utterly enjoying the walk along the southern cliffs of Castle Rock. Looking up to its jagged stones covered in moss and ivy, and the ancient castle walls rising higher above, I fancied myself promenading along the same heaths once trodden by Macbeth. The illusion was broken by the rumble of a steam engine; I looked down and saw the locomotive disappear into the tunnel that ran under the graveyard of St Cuthbert’s Church. I could not help picturing the dust inside the buried coffins, disturbed every time a train passed underneath the tombs. How could the dead find rest in such a rickety place? I shook my head – the day was far too nice for such morbid thoughts – and taking the next turn I reached my destination.
The Royal Lyceum Theatre – named after Henry Irving’s own venue in London – was a very pleasing, sumptuous building on Grindlay Street, just one street south-west of Edinburgh’s Castle and a few steps from the enduring eyesore that was the provisional Caledonian Station. The theatre had opened only six years ago, so the smut of Edinburgh’s countless chimneys had not yet stained its stucco walls, and the snow-white façade even hurt my eyes under the summer sun. The place was already a bedlam.
There must have been at least a hundred people clustering around the ticket windows, shouting, elbowing and shoving each other, all in a frantic attempt to reach the two poor cashiers. I saw Scottish banknotes being waved in the air, hats flying off heads and being trampled on, as well as jackets and shawls being pulled and torn. A lady pushed her way out of the crowd, clutching her precious tickets to her chest; her face was flushed and her hat dangled by a half-undone lace. She grinned at me. ‘Och, ye better hurry, sir! They only have some gallery tickets left! My lady’s goin’ to be thrilled I got her the last circle seats.’
I nodded politely and marched ahead, thinking that the banshees were certainly serving the theatre well.
I saw a young man standing just a few yards apart from the crowd, scribbling frantically in a small notebook. He had sunken cheeks, his neck was as thin as
a pencil, his head slightly too big for his narrow shoulders, and his black moustache was so stiff with grease it looked like two solid spikes. Our eyes met for an instant, and I immediately realized he was a blasted reporter.
I looked away at once, suddenly irritated by the puerile scandal, and stepped briskly into the silence of the main foyer.
A very polite porter came by. I showed my credentials and he rushed to fetch one of the two theatre managers, a Mr Howard.
As I waited I was surprised to see Elgie, coming from one of the back doors and holding a kitchen cloth. His already pale skin seemed even whiter, except for his neck, which was quite chafed from playing the violin too hard.
‘Ian! Have you heard about …?’
‘The banshee? Of course. That is why I am here.’
‘People were showing around the newspapers,’ he whispered. ‘There have been threats. Blood messages saying someone will die, but not telling who. It is quite frightening.’
It was only natural he’d be so alarmed. I will not delve into the detail here, but my poor brother had already witnessed horrible things in Edinburgh. I thought I’d better not mention the bundle of brains.
‘Elgie, I am here to demonstrate it is all nonsense, and it will all become clear very soon. This will be by far the quickest case in my entire career.’ I now cringe at my own foolishness. To change the subject, I asked, ‘Have you been playing without your cloth? Your neck looks ghastly.’
‘Yes. I left my neckerchief at home. I had to borrow this from Mr Howard’s cook.’
Catherine, his mother, still protested about Elgie’s chosen instrument. She had allowed him to take lessons only under the strict condition that he always protected his skin, horrified that the violin could mark her little son’s neck.
‘I have to go back,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Will I see you for dinner?’
‘Certainly,’ I said, trusting the entire investigation would be over by then, and Elgie rushed away.
He crossed paths with a man whom, unlike Mr Stoker, I instantly recognized as the theatre manager. Short, medium-built and on the last brink of his forties, he looked quite the businessman: cleanly shaven and sporting an impeccable three-piece suit. He carried pronounced bags under his eyes, surely after countless nights looking over his ledgers.
‘Inspector, thank you for coming! Mr John Howard, at your service.’ He spoke in a sprightly manner, although I could tell the man conducted himself with calculated, well-rehearsed joviality. As Stoker had mentioned, Mr Howard was Irish, but with a much softer accent than his countryman. ‘I assume you’re here to investigate the – erm, the sightings?’
‘Quite correct, Mr Howard. I am Inspector Frey.’
He led me through a delightful rotunda with polished marble floors, which a young girl was mopping at the time, and then on to the first floor. Mr Howard opened an oaken door that led to his wide, elegant office.
I saw that the adjacent door had a little plaque that read W. P. WYNDHAM. I remembered Elgie mentioning that name. ‘Is that your associate’s office?’
‘Indeed, but I’m afraid you’ll not see him. He is attending some urgent business’ – lunching with Miss Terry, I thought, remembering Elgie’s words last night – ‘and tonight he is to travel.’
‘Is he? I would expect him to be keen to oversee the play.’
‘You see, the theatre was not supposed to be open. We had to rearrange the entire month’s schedule to accommodate this staging. Last week was supposed to be the beginning of our summer holiday.’
Mr Howard did not sit behind his large desk, but invited me to a couple of very comfortable leather armchairs by a generous hearth – surely used to entertain his most important clients and associates.
There was a thick photograph album open on the low table, which Mr Howard leafed through distractedly. The black card pages were crammed with very artistic portraits of old theatre productions.
‘I want to show this to Mr Irving and Mr Stoker,’ he said proudly. ‘I found this very old photograph of the good Irving dressed as Hamlet – from the first time he played him, back when he still worked for the Theatre Royale in Manchester. He has hardly aged at all in the past twenty years! Look, sir.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said mechanically, hardly even looking at the image. ‘Mr Howard, I am afraid I need to question a number of people, and the sooner the better.’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he said, putting the album aside. ‘I understand. We are also quite keen on solving this matter; our most impressionable employees are extremely frightened by these ludicrous threats.’
I nodded, pressing my fingertips together and scrutinizing the man’s posture.
‘It has, however, given you quite a surge of sales,’ I said. ‘You must be very glad.’
He was not, I could tell. ‘I wish it was art instead of morbidity that brought people in.’
I arched an eyebrow. ‘Do you not care for the attractive profits?’
‘Oh, Inspector, those profits are of no consequence to the theatre. Unless it’s our own production, we merely rent out our premises for a fixed fee. The profits from ticket sales, or the lack thereof, go straight to Irving’s company.’
‘I see,’ I said, discreetly pulling my small notepad from my breast pocket. I spoke as I took note of that detail. ‘Mr Howard, I am a man of reason. I do not believe for one minute that there is something otherworldly involved here. What I do believe is that this production of Mac–’
Mr Howard hushed me at once; then he cleared his throat, blushing.
‘I – I do apologize, Inspector, but we do not speak that name in the theatre; only the actors on the stage. I hope you understand.’
‘Why, of course. The curse of “The Scottish Play”.’
‘Indeed. It’s one of the oldest legends in this business. Some say Shakespeare inserted real witches’ spells into his text, and they became angry and cast a curse on the play. Horrible things are said to happen to the production companies when the name is spoken. I can remember that terrible incident in New York, back in the forties: two rival companies staged The Scottish Play simultaneously. There was such animosity between them and their respective followers that it all ended in a riot; over twenty people died.’
‘I see,’ I mumbled, starting off one of the lengthiest reports of my recent career. ‘Mr Howard, would you consider yourself superstitious?’
He smiled. ‘I am Irish, Inspector. I cannot pretend I’ve gotten rid of all my lucky charms.’
And according to McGray he might need them, if those banshees had come to announce the death of an Irish person. I opted not to mention that.
‘I believe the curse also has a more mundane explanation, does it not? It is Shakespeare’s shortest play and therefore attractive for a theatre manager to fill a vacancy quickly. I would imagine that the haste would increase the risk of accidents, particularly since the play ends in a swordfight.’
Mr Howard assented. ‘Indeed, that is sometimes given as the rational explanation.’
‘And speaking of mundane,’ I continued, ‘there are more mundane interests involved here, which should not take long to prove. Would you mind guiding me to a few people I need to question?’
‘Of course. Do you have any names in mind?’
‘A Mr Wheatstone,’ I said at once.
‘Oh, yes, the effects manager,’ said Mr Howard, quite surprised that I knew that name. Apparently Mr Wheatstone had not yet told anyone it had been he who saw last night’s banshee. ‘A very eccentric man. Who else?’
I pondered on Stoker’s words and what Mr Howard had just told me. ‘Well, I would like to see the two people who claim to have been closest to the first banshee; apparently, a seamstress and Henry Irving himself.’
‘The lady would be Mrs Harwood. I can show you to the workshop we’ve allocated for her. She has been stitching since very early, I believe. As to Wheatstone and Irving, well …’ he cleared his throat, ‘I’m afraid they are at today’s rehearsal. Mr Irving str
essed most emphatically that he is not to be interrupted.’
‘Mr Howard, this is a police investigation.’
‘Of course, Inspector, but Mr Irving is very particular …’
‘Very well, take me to Mrs Harwood first, and then show me the way to Mr Irving. If they are not done by then I shall persuade him and his effects man to talk to me.’
‘Very well, though I must warn you: I don’t know the lady well, but people have been whispering odd things about her.’
‘Odd things? How?’
‘Well … of how she went missing for about half an hour. Just before the “banshee” was heard.’
I am now glad I questioned Mrs Harwood first. Her story would add a shocking line of inquiry to my investigations.
Bram Stoker’s Journal (continued)
Was so compelled to follow Inspector McGray on his visit to that mysterious fortune-teller. I offered my cab to make it a quick trip, which in the end took us no more than a few minutes.
Must again describe the events in some detail.
Mem – Short story about a gypsy prophecy.
Madame Katerina has her establishment overlooking a long empty square. From the smell and the animal droppings must be the site of the city’s cattle market. Edinburgh Castle can be seen above the humble dwellings surrounding the square, so it’s but a few blocks from the theatre.
Insp. McGray told the driver to stop in front of a quite rustic beer stall, set on the windows of a two-storey terrace. Reminded me of one of the taverns I frequented while at Trinity College.
I asked with some incredulity whether this was the right place. The inspector sneered in reply. He grabbed the jute sack in which he had wrapped the bloodstained leather and sheet, and enquired for Madame Katerina at the stall. The large, rough man that sold the beer told him with some familiarity to make his way upstairs.
The inspector asked whether I was joining him or not, and I followed him across a dimly lit storage room which smelled strongly of yeast. They brew nice beer there. Inspector McGray led me upstairs to a most bizarre little room. All its walls lined with old tapestries. No smell of yeast, but incense and herbs. Even the one window was covered, and instead of sun the room was lit by countless small candles. The flames cast bright reflections on a multitude of crystal balls.
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 6