A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray)

by Oscar de Muriel

  I could not tell whether she was being coquettish or simply very kind. Whichever the case, she managed to bring an earnest laugh out of him.

  ‘I like ye already, hen!’

  They smiled at each other one second too long, until I cleared my throat.

  ‘Miss Terry, I am glad you found us. We need to ask you a few questions; about the banshee affair and – that unwelcome present you received.’

  There was a flash of apprehension in her eyes, which I would have missed had I blinked. She recollected herself just as quickly and smiled warmly. ‘Oh, of course, gentlemen. It might be best to talk in a more private place, don’t you think? I will call for some tea.’

  The lady was staying in a large suite with its own sitting room, all tastefully decorated in bright creams and ochres, and all the rooms had a rather heavy scent of camellias. When we arrived a chambermaid was already displaying the cups and plates, in anticipation of the tea.

  ‘What a speedy service,’ I remarked as Miss Terry and I sat on cushioned mahogany chairs.

  ‘Oh, it’s been the best,’ Miss Terry said, smiling at the young woman. ‘Bring us some of those delicious lemon tartlets, darling. I’d like the gentlemen to try them.’

  McGray was pacing, his threadbare clothes and unkempt stubble completely at odds with the marble mantelpiece and the brocade curtains.

  ‘Will you not have a seat, Inspector?’ offered Miss Terry.

  ‘Nae, I’m all right.’

  ‘Oh, I do insist,’ Miss Terry said, standing up and, rather too forwardly to my taste, taking McGray’s arm. ‘Do it for me, sir.’

  McGray was shepherded towards a seat and at least some of his uneasiness seemed lifted. Miss Terry noticed his mutilated hand, and again I could not see a trace of discomfort in her.

  ‘What a terrible accident that must have been,’ she said with what seemed genuine interest.

  McGray looked at his stump and waved his hand dismissively. ‘Meh, it’s all right. I always say I can still give people the two fingers.’

  I blushed, thinking what a shocking thing that was to say in front of a lady, but Miss Terry seemed most entertained.

  She smoothed the folds of her dress. ‘Perhaps one day you might be able to tell me about all your adventures.’

  ‘Och, this was no adventure,’ said Nine-Nails, looking down.

  ‘And there is no time for such stories right now,’ I said before the woman distracted us further with her niceties. ‘Miss Terry, can you tell us, in as much detail as possible, what happened around the time you found those brains?’

  I was expecting Miss Terry to recount the ordeal with tears, yelps and beating her chest with all the abandonment of a professional tragedienne. Quite the contrary: she told the facts clearly and succinctly. She was obviously affected, but in perfect control of herself. And her version matched those of Stoker and Miss Ivor.

  ‘So whoever placed that bundle in your dressing room must have done it while you were washing your hands,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, Inspector. It must have been a matter of minutes.’

  ‘And neither you nor Miss Ivor could see anything.’

  ‘No. We were standing just around a corner from the door.’

  McGray shifted in his seat, stroking his stubble. He’d initially looked at Miss Terry with some lasciviousness, but now he was back to his brooding self. ‘Miss Terry, how come ye were washing yer hands in the middle of the corridor? Sounds a wee bit unusual.’

  The tea came in right then and Miss Terry turned her face to the waiters, so I could not gauge her initial reaction.

  ‘Well – I had just gone out to look for Miss Ivor. She was taking her time and I needed to change for the final ovation. Shall I be mother?’

  ‘Miss Terry,’ I said, pushing my cup to welcome the brew, ‘I understand you were in a hurry, but how long would it have taken you to go back to your dressing room and wash your hands there? Seconds, perhaps?’

  She put the silver teapot down with a rattle. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, I am sorry to put this out so forwardly, but washing in plain sight seems to me a very unladylike thing to do – for a woman of your refinement, I mean.’

  Her eyes narrowed a little, fixed on mine, and I felt as though she were reading into my mind. ‘The things that are seen behind the stage would shock you, Mr Frey. But I understand how a woman scrubbing her hands in a corridor might be scandalous in your mansion at Gloucester Square.’

  I raised my eyebrows at her curtness, but in a blink Miss Terry was all smiles again.

  ‘Oh, do excuse me, Inspector; that was quite uncalled for. You must understand how distressing this has been. Pray, try these lemon tartlets. They’re a menace to my figure!’

  I did so, initially to feign I did not mind her remark, but the blasted things were so delicious it annoyed me. I still wanted to ask a few more questions, but with my mouth full I could not keep Nine-Nails from moving swiftly on to the banshee issue.

  He mentioned the legends, his ‘reliable’ source telling him there might be a real threat, and the possibility of it all being about Irish blood. While he spoke I savoured the tartlets and the excellent Darjeeling. Surprisingly, Miss Terry listened to him with undivided attention.

  ‘I have trouble believing it was something supernatural,’ I said as soon as the sweet treats allowed. ‘Miss Terry, would you say that was a cry worthy of a banshee?’

  She shook her head. ‘I myself was screaming right then. I could not possibly tell you.’

  I looked through my notes. ‘I understand the first person to find the writings was your seamstress, Mrs Harwood … and that Mr Irving found her with her fingers covered in –’

  ‘Mrs Harwood could not have done it,’ Miss Terry jumped in, her eyes wide open. This time she was not apologetic about her agitation. ‘I know you might find it all very suspicious, but I’d put my hands in the fire for her. I’ve known her for four – no, five years, and she would never do anything of the kind.’

  McGray sighed deeply. ‘I’ve met people who’ve done terrible things … Things nobody would’ve thought them capable of.’

  I had not intended to ask much about the dressmaker, but Miss Terry’s reaction piqued my curiosity.

  ‘Miss Terry, it would not be such a dreadful thing if Mrs Harwood turned out to have done it,’ I said, being as conciliatory as possible. ‘She has not committed any crime …’ I stopped myself before saying yet. ‘But from my brief conversation with her, and seeing the way she attacked Mr Wheatstone on the street, I do believe she might be … unwell. Perhaps this is a cry for help. She might be in need of treatment.’

  ‘She’s had her tribulations, certainly, but from that to insanity! I cannot believe it. I refuse to believe it.’ Miss Terry drank her tea slowly, once again covering part of her face, but I saw it had been difficult for her to swallow. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you any more information about her,’ she said in the end, ‘neither to absolve her, nor otherwise.’

  She put her cup down and said no more, perhaps expecting the silence to invite us to leave. I wanted to ask her about the green dress alibi, but it was clear her statement would be biased.

  ‘Miss Terry, if we assume that Mrs Harwood can be ruled out, there is only one alternative –’

  ‘There’s a real banshee announcing someone’s death,’ McGray interrupted, and I could only roll my eyes.

  ‘That is not what I was about to offer. Miss Terry, how is Mr Irving handling the situation?’

  I realized too late how keenly I’d spoken.

  ‘Is he your other suspect?’ asked Miss Terry, now with a hint of derision in her tone.

  There was no point in denying it. ‘I suspect he has orchestrated all this, yes. You had difficulties with ticket sales in Scotland, did you not?’

  ‘Why, yes, but Henry would never –’

  ‘Is Mr Irving not the most passionate actor of our times, miss? Would he not be willing to do anything for the suc
cess of his plays?’

  She looked sharply at me, her pale irises buoyant with outrage. Those eyes were definitely fit for Lady Macbeth.

  ‘Why do you ask me? You seem to have reached your own conclusions already.’

  Her defensive attitude did not come as a surprise. Everyone in the land – even I, who consciously avoided paying much attention to gossip from the stage – knew that Ellen Terry and Henry Irving had had an on-going love affair from the very start of their joint careers. Theirs was a torrid romance that sparked and died out several times a year, even more scandalous since Irving had always been a married man.

  That thought was rather premonitory, considering what McGray’s next question unleashed. ‘Was Irving very upset about the banshee?’

  Miss Terry was about to bite a tartlet, but Nine-Nails’ words put her off eating.

  ‘He was very upset, yes, but not so much because of the banshee.’

  McGray leaned forward. ‘Oh! Why, then? Did anything scarier happen that night?’

  Miss Terry’s perfect smile was now twisted with bitterness.

  ‘Far scarier, Inspector. His wife was there! Uninvited.’

  15

  McGray and I were astounded, to say the least, and Miss Terry was now keen to tell us more.

  ‘You may be aware – it has been common knowledge for quite a while – that Irving is estranged from his wife. He hasn’t seen his two sons for years. However, on the night of our last performance, she was there.’

  ‘There where?’

  ‘In the audience. Seated with the pittites!’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Oh, in the pit, the cheap area, surrounded by the middle-class tradesmen she despises so much. Irving saw her and was petrified. It was at the same time as the banshee episode.’

  ‘No one had mentioned that wee detail,’ McGray said. ‘Not even Mr Stoker.’

  ‘Do you know, erm …’ I cleared my throat, ‘the reason for the estrangement?’

  Miss Terry threw her head back and laughed hard. ‘Something in your tone,’ she said, all sarcasm, ‘tells me you already have a theory!’

  I blushed profusely. Fortunately, Miss Terry showed some mercy. ‘Their marriage was never meant to succeed, and not because of me. Mrs Irving dug her own grave long before my time.’

  McGray spoke. ‘So that was before ye and Irving …’

  ‘Years before,’ Miss Terry went on. ‘The poor lady could never come to terms with Irving’s passion for the theatre. Irving does as he wishes; he always has, and responds to nobody. That silly Florence, with her whims and her demands of attention, could never compete with that, and Irving was wise enough to walk away from her.

  ‘It was on the opening night of The Bells, gosh, ages ago … How old is young Sydney these days? Seventeen or eighteen years ago. Florence was pregnant with Sydney, their second son, you see. She saw the play, was not terribly impressed, and I was told she waited for Irving in their brougham carriage for quite a while after the performance, in the cold of November, being seven or eight months into her pregnancy. But it was Irving’s opening night and the play had been a roaring success – people still write to him evoking his rendering of Mathias. Irving could not detach himself from the crowd.’ Miss Terry chuckled. ‘I can easily imagine Florence, her anger rising as she heard the adulation; she must have thought that her husband had completely forgotten her, and forgotten that she was with child and exhausted.

  ‘Despite her protests Irving dragged her on to a supper in his honour, where even more people praised and praised him. When they finally went home she broke her silence. Irving himself told me that it happened as they crossed Hyde Park Corner, the very spot where he had proposed to her.’

  I looked up, for that was not too far from my childhood home.

  ‘Apparently,’ Miss Terry said, ‘Florence’s very words were: Are you going to make a fool of yourself like this all your life?’

  Her smile then was scornful. She would not hide how much she revelled in that story.

  ‘What a thing to say on such a night,’ she continued. ‘Irving was at the peak of his career. The Bells was his big breakthrough, and it had taken him twelve years to get there – twelve years of struggle, of constant training, fighting his old speech impediment, knocking at doors, being criticized and sometimes laughed at, living in the cheapest lodgings and surviving thanks to moneylenders. And when he finally succeeded, when he had his moment of greatest personal glory, his own wife called him a fool! What an irony: he got respect and recognition from colleagues and strangers everywhere, yet he could not find them in his own home, from the very person who claimed to love him the most!’ Miss Terry sighed, a sideways smile creeping up her face. ‘They have never lived together again. Sydney was born within a month, but Irving was drinking a lot and didn’t even go to his christening.’

  ‘Sounds like she’d hate Irving’s plays,’ McGray said.

  ‘She abhors the theatre. But she still demands to have the royal box for every opening night – only because those are the nights we have the most illustrious guests and she loves to be seen. She considers our profession useless and shameful, yet she has no scruples to enjoy the perquisites – or to live extravagantly on Irving’s wealth.’

  ‘So what was she doing there?’ McGray asked.

  ‘We have no idea, Inspector, and there was no chance to confront her. The banshee was heard just as Irving spotted her. When he looked again the woman was gone.’

  I nodded. ‘That closing performance was last week, was it not? Has there been any communication between Irving and his wife since then?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But Irving never tells me much about his dealings with that woman …’ again she chuckled, ‘for reasons you two can imagine. I only overheard him mumble that she looked sickly thin, as if she’d just gone through some ravaging disease. Her own bitterness consuming her, I would say.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I believe Mr Stoker would be in a better position to answer that.’

  Indeed, I would like to know why Stoker had omitted that piece of information.

  As I took a note on that, there was a soft knock on the door, in an irregular rhythm. Miss Terry seemed to recognize the petitioner immediately, for her frown softened and her lips relaxed into a wide smile.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her voice as warm and charming as it had been at first.

  A juvenile voice came back. ‘May I come in? Mr Clarke says you’re mighty busy.’

  ‘Of course you can, don’t be a goose.’

  The door opened slowly, and I first saw the small hand of a young girl, bejewelled with three golden rings with very shiny stones. Then, as shy as the knocking, a clump of blonde curls emerged, and I saw the right-hand side of a very sweet girl’s face – the young girl I’d seen on the stage, playing the apparition.

  ‘Don’t be timid, Susy,’ said Miss Terry. ‘Come and greet these handsome gentlemen.’

  The girl Susy did hesitate, and when she took her final step in my heart skipped a beat. I first thought she’d not washed off the make-up, and was about to comment on how realistic it was, but all too soon I realized my mistake. The ghastly scarring, those reddened, horrible blemishes, shining and bulging like molten wax, showing where the tissue had at some point burned … that was her face.

  A shudder crept all over me. It was not the shock of the face itself (sadly, I have seen many a defaced youngster in the London slums) but the surprise of her disfigurement being real.

  ‘Susy, meet Mr McGray and Mr Frey,’ said Miss Terry, but the girl was rather paralysed by shyness. She was around twelve, and it saddened me to think that she would have to carry such a burden for the rest of her life.

  McGray kissed the girl’s hand, as if saluting a very grand lady. ‘Nice to meet ye, lassie. First time in Scotland?’

  Susy smiled with endearing shyness, and covered her face with a little book she’d been carrying. I managed to read the golden letters on the cover: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderl
and.

  ‘I read that same book when I was about your age,’ I told her. ‘Do you like it?’

  The girl nodded but again remained silent.

  ‘I assume you have finished it?’ asked Miss Terry, and Susy nodded again and handed her the small book. ‘That was very quick! I have just discovered a collection of fairy limericks you’re going to love. I’ll leave it out on this table for you; come and take it whenever you want.’

  The girl smiled, still quite flushed, and immediately curtsied and left.

  ‘She was one o’ the spirits,’ said McGray. ‘It’s quite cruel to parade her on stage, don’t ye think? No wonder the poor lassie’s so shy.’

  Miss Terry sighed deeply, staring at the book. ‘It was Irving’s decision to cast her. At least the girl has a good income.’

  An uncomfortable silence followed, which I tried to break with what I thought was an innocuous sentence.

  ‘A rather unusual choice of literature,’ I said, and I pointed at the children’s book. ‘For a grown-up, I mean.’

  Miss Terry’s mouth twisted in a melancholic grimace, and I knew I’d somehow made matters worse.

  ‘I used to be very good friends with Mr Carroll. He sent me this a few years ago.’

  She opened it on the first pages and I saw a long dedication written in a beautiful hand, followed by a flourished signature and an exquisite sketch of the White Rabbit.

  Miss Terry’s expression was that of someone who’d been slapped in the face.

  Used to be, I repeated in my head.

  I imagined that a gentleman as respectable as Lewis Carroll, renowned academic, author and mathematician, had considered it impossible to maintain any kind of connection with a woman such as Miss Terry. She might be wealthy, beautiful and adored by the public, but she was still a divorcee with two children born out of wedlock. And those were just the tip of the iceberg of secrets I’d soon learn about her.