10
Just as McGray disappeared I told Mr Howard I needed to question everyone who claimed to have heard the banshee.
My request, as expected, proved most unpopular. Everyone thought they had gained a free afternoon (and on the sunniest day in Scottish history too) but I had just ruined their prospect.
I was lucky to find a quiet and well-appointed office to carry out my inquiries, and I summoned the Weird Sisters first.
As I waited for them I found a box full of freshly printed theatre programmes sitting on the desk. The little booklets were made of very fine paper, with beautiful illustrations of the various scenes, and on the first page there was a list of the entire cast. I thought it would be useful when organizing my notes, so I placed a copy in my pocket.
Just then I heard the persistent laughter of the witches coming from the corridor. The three women, all of them in their sixties, had high-pitched voices, and giggled with the volume and energy of fifteen-year-old girls, colonizing the office’s sofa like three unwise monkeys.
I saw they had changed out of their costumes, but that was not really an improvement. With their fake jewellery, their bright red lips and their thick mascara, they clung desperately to a youth long gone.
‘Oh, such a handsome gentleman!’ cried the first witch, Miss Marriott, and I let out the weariest sigh.
‘They must think we’re the banshee!’ cried the second witch, Miss Desborough, amongst frenzied cackles.
‘Ladies, would you please let me ask the questions –’
‘Well, we’re ugly enough!’ said the third witch – Miss Seaman, I think. I would struggle to memorize their names.
A deep voice came from the door then. ‘Are you honestly this silly or are you just pretending?’
It was the woman who played Hecate – Miss Ivor. She would have been just a little younger than her comrades, but without the vulgar make-up and wearing sensible clothes, she looked at least ten years their junior. I could tell why she’d been selected to play a dark deity and not a witch: there was an elegant poise about her, and she conducted herself like a lady at court. Visibly annoyed, she too sat on the long leather sofa, but keeping her distance from the other women.
They were mumbling simultaneously: ‘We were only joking’ – ‘what a bore’ – ‘no wonder she never married, the Southampton witch …’
‘Ladies, please,’ I insisted. ‘Your whereabouts last night?’
The first witch, who happened to have a long nose that would not need any retouching for her performance, spoke. ‘We were all at the hotel. Where else?’
‘Can anyone vouch for you four?’ I asked.
‘I don’t like where this is going,’ said one of them.
‘We just went to bed,’ said Miss Desborough. ‘We’re not in the habit of announcing it like a fox hunt. Gone are the days when anyone would be interested.’
Hecate – Miss Ivor – stepped in. ‘We can all vouch for each other; our rooms are adjacent and the walls are paper thin. Because we play witches, people think we like to be together all the time.’
I assented. ‘So there is nobody but yourselves to verify your whereabouts?’
‘I really don’t like where this is –’
‘Then, for my own sake,’ I said curtly, ‘I will get to the point. Has Mr Irving asked you to play any parts other than witches of Macbeth?’
The women shrieked at the word, and this time even Miss Ivor opened her eyes wide. The third witch jumped to her feet, ran out of the office and came back within the minute, bringing a saltshaker that they all used to sprinkle their shoulders. Even Hecate.
‘It’s The Scottish Play!’ the first witch spluttered. ‘Call it The Scottish Play!’
I was tempted to say it again, simply to see if the repetition might wreak just the same havoc; however, I could not bear that infernal racket a second time. I snatched the saltshaker and banged it on the desk.
‘Ladies, I want you to answer my question, and think carefully. It would not be a crime if Mr Irving asked you to play the part of a banshee and create a scandal to help his sales. If, however, I find that you have lied to me – then everything changes.’
All four women raised their chins, suddenly as dignified as the dark messengers they played on the stage. None of them spoke.
‘I need an answer,’ I insisted. ‘And you are not free to go until I hear it from your lips. Did you or did you not act as the banshee under Regent Bridge?’
One by one, they all denied it. There was no artifice left in their faces.
‘I hope for your own sakes that you are telling the truth,’ I murmured, and then let them go.
Miss Ivor, however, lingered by the doorframe, waiting for the witches’ outrage to fade in the distance.
‘Do you have anything to add?’ I asked her.
Miss Ivor hesitated, but then came back to the sofa and whispered. ‘I do, Inspector, but I did not want them to hear this.’ She leaned closer to me and lowered her voice even more. ‘Do you know about Miss Terry’s … finding?’
I did not want to reveal too much. ‘Could you be more specific?’
‘Yes. The bundle of … oh, I shudder just to think of it!’
‘Very well, we are speaking of the same thing. What about it?’
‘Well, sir, I have reason to believe … Please, do not tell anyone you heard this from me. If Mr Irving hears this I might lose my job. And I’m an ageing actress – old women are usually played by men!’
‘You can trust me, Miss Ivor.’
The woman took a deep breath. ‘I have reason to believe … that Miss Terry placed that there herself.’
11
‘Herself! Miss Ivor, that is a bold accusation.’
‘I know! And I would not even mention it if my suspicions were unfounded.’
‘Pray, explain.’
‘Well, I saw Miss Terry come in that night carrying a large handbag. I remember it very well because it was a very expensive one – blue silk, beaded in black, with beautiful drawstrings. It looked full.’
‘Continue.’
‘Well, Miss Terry had just finished her sleepwalking scene and came back to her dressing room. I was there because we share some cosmetics, and we usually chat before the end of the play. I am her understudy, you see. But that night Miss Terry asked me to fetch her a jug and basin to wash her hands. She said she still had stains of fake blood, from the scene in which she wields the dagger.
‘When I came back she wasn’t in her dressing room, but in the corridor just around the corner. And she insisted on washing there and then, in everybody’s sight. And she was very agitated.’
I sat back, pressing my fingertips together. ‘I see … What happened then?’
‘She went back to her dressing room, asked me to get rid of the dirty water – she does treat me like her maid sometimes, I must tell you – and it was right then that we heard the cry. I was close enough to hear Miss Terry screaming at the exact same time. I rushed back and I found her with that – horrible mess on her vanity table.
‘Mr Stoker came very soon. He was also very frightened. Miss Terry made us swear we’d tell no one, and Mr Stoker later on made me swear again, in private.’
‘And you think that she carried it in that blue bag?’
‘Yes. I saw her leave the theatre with it, but by then it was empty. It was one of those pouch-style bags, so it was easy to tell.’
I sighed. ‘You do realize she could have been carrying anything.’
‘Yes, sir, but … is it not too much of a coincidence?’
I took comprehensive notes, realizing I’d need to question Ellen Terry herself very soon.
‘Miss Ivor,’ I said, ‘why do you think Miss Terry would do something like that?’
She only smirked.
‘Oh, I could not even guess, sir. That woman is a mystery – to everybody.’
It was very difficult to focus after that revelation, but I forced myself to do so.
I qu
estioned the entire cast, letting them go home as I took their statements. Most of them gave me useless or repeated information, and even though I kept my inquiries as succinct as possible, people unavoidably volunteered their own theories and suspicions.
From Mr Black and Mr Carter, the two beefy young men who played Macbeth’s assassins: ‘Poor Mrs Harwood. Her husband died only a couple of years ago. Left her with vast debts, we’ve heard. Not even a place to live, and two little mouths to feed.’
From Mr Wenman, the weather-beaten man who played Banquo: ‘Mr Stoker would do anything to help Irving. And I mean anything. He even named his eldest son Irving!’
From Mr Haviland, the ancient and regal-looking gentleman who played King Duncan, and who seemed to have a particular taste for prurient gossip: ‘Miss Terry and Mr Irving have not been … well, I should only say that their idyll has gone cold of late. Irving will never divorce his wife, no matter how much Miss Terry would have liked that …’
Mr Haviland gossiped on and on, and just before I kindly asked him to leave he was saying: ‘Irving’s been very helpful to Miss Terry’s children. She has a son and a daughter, you must have heard, both out of wedlock! The girl, Edith, joined the company last year, and now she is training as a pianist and costume designer in Germany. The boy, Ted, is to spend the rest of the summer with Irving in Ramsgate, preparing for this autumn’s season. Both schemes were instigated by Irving himself! He’s not shown that much devotion for his own sons!’
I took copious notes, half my notebook full of compact writing by the time I was done.
I was tired beyond belief, and just as hungry. Thank goodness Elgie burst into the office with a large loaf of bread, cheese, cold beef and apples. I could have told him I loved him, but I’d better save that for the day he actually saves my life.
‘I saw your boss Nine-Nails leave the theatre,’ he said as we indulged in the food. ‘I could swear he was reciting Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day whilst counting with his fingers. The ones he has got left, that is.’
‘The man is a little insane, had you not noticed?’
‘And I assume he has some strange theories for this case?’
‘He believes someone will die,’ I said with some scorn.
‘And you are certain he is wrong?’ I could not possibly reply to that, and Elgie frowned. ‘Could not someone – a real person, I mean – be acting the banshee whilst planning a murder?’
I shook my head. ‘Elgie, if you wanted to kill someone, would you tell them beforehand? Would you make a spectacle of it? Or, rather, would you attack stealthily and by surprise?’
My young brother pondered. He looked sideways for a moment and then spoke with a cool, analytical tone I rarely saw in him.
‘That depends, Ian. What if I were trying to implicate someone? Or just throw the scent away from me?’
My hand halted before I could bring my cigar to my lips, and I considered his words. There was some sinister sense to that statement.
‘That is why you would not give an actual name,’ I murmured, nodding, ‘but only vague hints … so you would still have the element of surprise …’
The torrent of names and statements flooded my head, in particular the stern eyes of Miss Ivor as she told me about Ellen Terry’s empty bag. I drew some breath. ‘What if –’
I did not have a chance to finish, for we heard a woman’s desperate shriek coming from the street.
Elgie jumped towards the window much faster than me, and pressed his hands against the glass.
‘Ian, look at that!’ he cried, as I peered over his shoulder.
Mrs Harwood was running along Grindlay Street, her hands still clenching some piece of stage costume, which she jerked madly as she yelled ‘There he goes! There he goes!’
I looked to the end of the road, but managed to see only the folds of a dark overcoat turn around the corner. Mr Stoker came out from the main entrance, but I barely caught a glimpse of him. I was already running to the door, telling Elgie to stay put, and then ran down the wide stairs and into the foyer.
By the time I’d reached the street Mr Howard and Mr Wheatstone had joined the crying seamstress. Thankfully, the crowd had dissipated – the red sign SOLD OUT now prominent across the ticket office window – for the woman was throwing a mighty tantrum.
‘Are you sure?’ Mr Wheatstone asked her, but the woman’s reaction was utterly unexpected: she pushed Mr Wheatstone with all her strength, tossed the garment she’d been holding at his face and then hit him repeatedly on the chest, shouting, ‘Don’t even talk to me, you swine!’
Mr Stoker held her by the shoulders and pulled her back easily. ‘There, there, Mrs Harwood, this is not the time for that.’
I was about to ask what was afoot, but Stoker saw me and spoke at once.
‘Mrs Harwood just saw a man trying to get into Miss Terry’s dressing room.’
‘Good Lord, is that true?’ I asked, but the woman was still glaring at Mr Wheatstone. Stoker told him he had better leave and the man agreed.
‘What did he look like?’ I asked, thinking I might still have a chance to catch him – if she gave me a good enough description.
It took Mrs Harwood a seemingly endless moment to catch her breath, and I had to exert all my self-control not to shake her by the arms.
‘Very thin,’ she finally panted. Her eyes, for some reason, were shedding tears of fury. ‘Very, very thin. Young. Dark hair. Stank … and he had this silly, very stiff little moustache all greased up.’
‘Darn!’ I hissed. I instantly recalled the moustached man with sunken cheeks who had looked at me as I approached the theatre. ‘I saw him too,’ I told Stoker. ‘He looked like a journalist.’
The box-office clerk approached us then, wearing a quizzical brow. ‘Aye, boss, the lad was a reporter. I saw his stupid tash too. Came asking me questions as soon as we opened this morning. Stood here on the road taking notes for hours.’
‘Did he mention which newspaper he works for?’
‘Not to me, but I heard him boasting in front of a very pretty lassie that he wrote for The Scotsman.’
Saying no more, I turned on my heels and darted north.
12
Instead of running aimlessly on the surrounding roads I went directly to the offices of The Scotsman, on Cockburn Street.
The most winding lane in the Old Town – both horizontally and vertically – it ran as an S shape, ascending from Waverley Station towards the Royal Mile, and it was a good compromise between the Old and the New Towns: full of trade and bustle, but not yet subject to the offensive odours that surrounded the police headquarters.
The paper’s name, written in large gilded letters, along with the gothic façade, spoke of a thriving business. Its busy reception room, however, was not glamorous, with plain wooden flooring, people hurrying in every direction and the persistent, chemical smells of inks and glue.
It was not difficult to find the man. I simply enquired for the reporter responsible for the Henry Irving story, not needing to mention a name at all – only the fact that I was a CID inspector – and a young assistant guided me to the second floor.
Along the narrow corridor there were many doors to small offices, separated by flimsy-looking wooden partitions. The sound of typewriters and shouting nearly overwhelmed me.
‘That’s his office,’ the young man said, pointing at one of the furthest doors. I saw that the name of its occupant was not written on a plaque, but scribbled on a yellowed piece of paper inserted in the slot.
Alan Dyer.
The door opened and I instantly recognized the overly greased moustache I’d seen at the Lyceum. The skinny man’s face went ghastly pale, his mouth opened wide and the cigarette he’d been chewing fell from his lips. He then slammed the door wide and sprinted down the corridor.
‘Stop!’ I howled, but right then someone pushed me sideways. I crashed against the wall, just as I saw the ghastly brown overcoat that could only belong to Nine-Nails.
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br /> It took him two strides to reach the sleazy hack. McGray grabbed him by the neck and arm, which he twisted behind the man’s back.
‘This the rascal ye’ve been looking for?’ he asked, dragging him back, Dyer grunting and screaming all manner of insults. The hammering of typewriters had stopped all of a sudden, and the heads of curious reporters popped out from their office doors.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But – how did you know I was here?’
‘Went back to the theatre, Frey, looking for ye. Stoker was still trying to calm down his seamstress. He told me everything.’ He pulled Dyer’s arm up, making the man squeak in pain. ‘This lanky piece o’ shite has a lot of explaining to do.’
‘You must have run like the wind to get here so quickly,’ I said as Nine-Nails pushed the reporter back into his office. ‘What were you up to?’
‘Tell ye as soon as we’re done with this heap o’ dung,’ he said with a mysterious grin, and then barked at all the onlookers. ‘None o’ yer fuckin’ business!’
He closed the door behind our backs and threw Dyer on to the chair behind a messy desk. A copy of the day’s paper lay amongst the disarray of crumpled sheets and shorthand notes; I picked it up and confirmed that Mr Dyer had penned the grim headline.
‘Well, well,’ I said, sniffing uncomfortably – added to the smell of ink, this cubicle also stank of cheap tobacco. ‘So you have been in charge of the whole story.’
Mr Dyer grinned, his teeth stained by relentless smoking. ‘I’ll take your visit as a compliment. Nice to know I’m being read!’ he glanced at Nine-Nails’ hand. ‘And it’s always nice to have a local celebrity visit my workplace. Nine-Nails McGray! No one better to work on a case like this.’
McGray pounded the desk. ‘Why were ye sneaking into the theatre?’
‘I wanted an interview with Miss Terry. I assumed she’d be at the rehearsals. I saw all the cast leave, except her, so I thought she’d be easy to find.’
‘Were you planning to leave anything for her?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean? Flowers? I am not the sentimental type.’
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 9