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

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Thanks for coming so quickly,’ McGray said as we guided her. ‘I couldnae think of anyone better.’

  ‘Oh, that theatre clerk told me everything,’ said Miss Smith. ‘You did well. I’m glad I can help you, but I’m afraid I can spare only an hour or so.’

  ‘Aye, that should be fine,’ McGray said. In Dr Clouston’s absence (he’d still be ensuring that Pansy made it safely to the Orkneys) Miss Smith had been left in charge of the asylum – later I’d hear that she did so with an iron fist, and that even the arrogant Oxford graduates turned to her for advice.

  I knocked gently at Mrs Harwood’s door, and it was the soft voice of her daughter that bid us in.

  We saw that Mrs Harwood shared the lodgings with Susy, for whom a tattered chaise longue had been adapted as a bed. They were not enjoying the opulence we’d seen at Miss Terry’s apartments, but their place was clean, tidy and spacious enough.

  Susy was sitting on the floor, her back against the foot of her mother’s bed. The girl’s pale blue dress was spread around her and her hands were busy turning the pages of a book. I heard Mrs Harwood mumble in her troubled sleep, and I felt a pang of sorrow for the child.

  ‘Good day,’ she said, quite shyly, never looking up from the pages.

  ‘What happened to the maids?’ McGray asked.

  ‘I asked them to leave,’ said Susy in such a low whisper I had to guess the words. ‘Mama was sleeping already and they made me uncomfortable … they were looking at her like –’

  She could not finish, her lips trembling.

  Miss Smith had all the motherly delicacy that the situation demanded. She kneeled by Susy, asked her name and age, and complimented her beautiful eyes. The girl eventually replied with more than monosyllables.

  ‘Mr Frey tells me he’s seen you on the stage,’ Miss Smith said then. ‘Do you like doing that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miss Smith smiled, expertly concealing her doubts. ‘That’s very good. What do you like best about it?’

  Susy drew a hand to her scarred skin. Her fine fingers followed the shiny bumps and rosy furrows; the fire marks carved all across her cheek and around her right eye. However, she did so rather distractedly, as if the whole matter did not really mean that much to her.

  ‘People think it’s a mask,’ she said. ‘They don’t point at me like they do on the streets.’

  I thought that was a harrowing statement, only worsened by the dreamy way in which she had said it.

  Miss Smith asked a few other questions at random, but then threw in: ‘Do you miss your father?’

  Susy looked at her straight in the eye. ‘No, miss.’

  We were all staggered by how natural, how matter-of-factly the girl had spoken. Miss Smith again asked for her reasons, but just as Susy was about to speak the door was flung open and we all started.

  ‘Where’s that lazy –?’ It was Freddie, eating a large slice of melon – an expensive treat – pulp smeared across his face. His eyes fixed on Miss Smith. ‘Oh, who’s the ugly wench? Looks like a scarecrow with that hair.’

  ‘Out!’ McGray bellowed, pushing him away with one hand and shutting the door with the other. Freddie began to yell something, but McGray banged the door with an irate fist and we only heard the boy run across the corridor.

  The noise awoke Mrs Harwood, who instantly sat up and stared at us in confusion. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here? What –?’

  ‘Shhh, it’s all right,’ Miss Smith said soothingly. ‘I’m the one who’s come to see you. I’m worried about you.’ She looked at the girl. ‘Susy, could you bring us some fresh water?’

  Susy looked uneasy – perhaps fearing she’d stumble across her brother in the halls.

  ‘Here, I’ll go with ye,’ McGray offered, which made her only a little less anxious. As they left the room he cast me a look that undoubtedly meant pay attention to everything they say.

  The first thing Miss Smith did was take one of Mrs Harwood’s chapped hands.

  ‘What happened here?’ Again she spoke in a motherly tone, as if addressing a child. ‘Have you been biting your nails?’

  Mrs Harwood nodded. ‘Can’t help it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you can. Let me help you with those.’

  I whispered in Miss Smith’s ear. ‘Could you please ask her why she did –’

  The nurse cleared her throat, commanding me quite unambiguously to step back. She then produced bandages, a little bottle of ethanol and some cotton wool, and began cleaning Mrs Harwood’s fingers.

  ‘Many people do this,’ Miss Smith said, ‘when they’re very worried or afraid … Are you?’

  In response, Mrs Harwood began weeping and covered her mouth with the hand Miss Smith was not treating.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Miss Smith. ‘We all have our mishaps. Some more difficult than others, but such is life. Tell me, what worries you?’

  Mrs Harwood sobbed, looking at me with distrust.

  ‘Mr Frey is a friend,’ said Miss Smith. ‘He’s worried about you too.’

  I was so glad Miss Smith was here. I would not have been able to set Mrs Harwood at ease with such kindness.

  ‘Tell me about your husband,’ Miss Smith encouraged. ‘I know he’s not with you any more. Did you love him very much?’

  Not a very difficult question, yet Mrs Harwood vacillated. Miss Smith waited patiently for a reply.

  ‘I … well, yes,’ Mrs Harwood said at last, conscious of her hesitation. It took only an inquisitive look from Miss Smith to make her go on. ‘My late husband was … very difficult to live with – God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead. But he liked to mock me in front of the children – told me I was ugly, stupid, that the house was neglected, that I couldn’t control the servants … I’m not perfect, of course, sometimes I deserved his scolding, but … I only wish he hadn’t done it in front of the children every time. He used me as an example; told them he didn’t want them to grow into daft geese like their silly mother.’

  Miss Smith could not conceal her anger at those words, yet she spoke kindly. ‘Nobody deserves to be disparaged like that, my dear, especially not by those who are supposed to love us.’

  Mrs Harwood began chewing on her knuckles, but Miss Smith swiftly pulled her hand away.

  ‘I’ve never told this to anyone,’ Mrs Harwood continued, her eyes now flickering in distress, and spitting the words out as if she’d repressed them for years. ‘But part of me was a little – relieved when he was gone.’

  And Freddie had taken after the father, I now could see, abusing the family’s women.

  ‘When did it happen?’ asked Miss Smith.

  ‘It will be exactly three years next month,’ was the instant reply. I wondered if the poor woman kept count of the days. ‘It’s good the theatre company won’t be working by then. Susy and I are going to take some flowers to his grave on the anniversary.’

  Miss Smith asked the next question as if standing on eggshells. ‘He didn’t leave you in a very good position, did he?’

  Mrs Harwood frowned and blinked away a renewed wave of tears, but when she spoke there was more spite than sorrow. ‘No. He liked to gamble. A lot. He left us in debt, and after selling the house and the carriages we still owed money. We are paying to this day, my children and me. With our combined wages we barely have enough to maintain ourselves and pay the interest.’

  ‘Don’t you have any family you might appeal to?’ I asked this time.

  ‘Not in England. I have a couple of distant cousins in New Zealand, wherever that is. I would have had to send my children to them, if Miss Terry hadn’t managed to get us work.’

  Miss Smith was now applying some unguent. ‘I want you to try and stop doing that biting and chewing. Your hands are precious. You need them to work. Look after them.’ Then she began bandaging each finger.

  ‘Yes, nurse, miss,’ said Mrs Harwood, although she probably did not believe her own words.

  ‘Can I ask you …’ Mi
ss Smith added, still quite cautiously, ‘how your husband died?’

  ‘He fell down the stairs,’ Mrs Harwood said soon enough, but with a tremble in her voice that grew steadily with each word. ‘We had just been arguing – I can’t even remember why. He was seething! He gave me a smack and left the room. Next thing I heard was him rolling down the steps and my Susy shouting. My poor Susy saw it all –’

  Mrs Harwood could not say more. She pouted, suddenly looking like a scolded child, and then buried her face in her bandaged hands, abandoning herself to misery.

  I was going to speak, but Miss Smith shook her head, patting her patient’s back as the poor woman wept.

  The talking was over.

  Third letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill

  Sheet almost torn into quarters, as if folded and unfolded compulsively. – I. P. Frey.

  My dear,

  Large black dogs can be a dark omen, did you know that? They foretell death, just like banshees do, and they follow you, and if you but look at them in the eye you are condemned.

  Still, I’d rather see a dog when my time comes. The soft fur and the glassy eyes and the friendly bark of a playful hound, to take me gently to the realms of heaven. Not a shriek to curdle my blood, or the ghastly sight of a tormented soul from purgatory.

  You might have seen one these days. A massive, beastly hound. Have you, my dear?

  If you do, I beg you, if you do –

  Shut your eyes to it

  Look not upon it

  Turn away and run, even if you doubt what your eyes see

  Escape from it

  Don’t leave me

  Love,

  X

  24

  We found McGray in the corridor – he’d asked Susy to go and order us some tea at the hotel’s breakfast parlour – and we told him all that we’d heard from Mrs Harwood as we headed there.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s at the brink of collapse,’ Miss Smith said in a whisper. ‘She’s obviously been through years of strain.’

  ‘So ye think she needs proper help, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes, Mr McGray, and the sooner the better. Do you mind if I arrange it with the doctors?’

  ‘By all means,’ McGray said. ‘Do what ye think is necessary. We can discuss the bills later.’

  Miss Smith assented. ‘Thank you, sir. And it might be good to look at the child too.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ I asked. ‘The girl seems quite composed to me … all things considered.’

  Miss Smith winced. ‘I meant the boy. He’s driving them both insane.’

  ‘He’s just a bully,’ said McGray. ‘Cannae abide the stupid brat.’

  ‘Mr McGray, bullies usually are the most fragile people you could think of. They simply use bravado to hide their own anxieties. I’m afraid that boy’s head might be the most disturbed of all.’

  That would give me food for thought for a good while.

  Miss Smith, unfortunately, said she had to leave very soon after that – she’d already devoted plenty of her time to us. All the same, she took a moment to bid goodbye to Susy and assure her she’d be back soon. Just as we saw her leave the hotel, Miss Terry herself was coming in, led by the arm by Henry Irving.

  They were whispering to each other, for once ignoring all the greetings and the waving from everyone they stumbled across. It was as though they were locked in a bubble nobody around could possibly burst.

  McGray, however, approached them with huge strides, the stomping of his boots resounding throughout the lobby, and he planted himself right in front of the celebrated couple. I will never forget the way Irving glared at him.

  Miss Terry jumped a little, but her coquettish eyes and radiant smile immediately concealed whatever emotion she might be feeling.

  ‘Inspectors!’ she said warmly. ‘What a delight to see you again so soon.’

  ‘So youse finished yer rehearsals,’ McGray said, smiling at Miss Terry but casting mocking looks at Mr Irving. ‘I thought it would keep youse busy well into the evening. What changed? Did ye tear yer tights?’

  Irving snorted like an angry bull. ‘I do not talk to vulgar clowns.’ And saying no more he let go of Miss Terry’s arm and walked away. Just before he disappeared into the corridors I saw him push a footman so hard the unlucky chap nearly fell.

  Even Miss Terry realized her smile would be out of place now. ‘Gentlemen, I must apologize for him. Irving has been under a lot of stress and he’s always been a very driven man. If you needed to talk to him I might be able to persuade –’

  ‘Actually,’ McGray interrupted, ‘it is ye we want to question now.’

  Her lips parted in genuine surprise. ‘Me? Well, of course, if you think I could be of help. Would you like to come to my suite?’

  ‘Nae, it’s just a very quick question, Miss Terry.’ McGray leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. ‘Can ye remember losing, within the past few days – a wee leather bag?’

  Not a muscle, not an eyelash, nothing moved in Ellen Terry’s face. And I studied her reaction without blinking once. I remember the dark blue specks in her pale eyes, her curly blonde hair moving because of the draught that came from the open doors, her soft neck that never gulped, and the fine golden locket that rested on her perfectly calm chest.

  Calm she was, but perhaps just a little too much.

  ‘A leather bag?’ she echoed.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’m afraid I … I don’t know. I don’t think I have. Why? Have you found something?’

  ‘No idea,’ McGray said swiftly. ‘We were expecting ye could tell us more.’

  Miss Terry brought a hand to her locket and fidgeted with it. The piece was encrusted with exquisite rubies that caught the light from the chandeliers.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘Are ye sure?’ McGray pressed.

  ‘I am sure I don’t understand,’ she retorted, now quite uncomfortable.

  McGray lowered his voice a little more, leaning closer to Miss Terry. ‘Has anyone given ye a leather bag as a present?’

  She laughed, but it was a nervous sound this time. ‘I often receive gifts. From all sorts of people. This locket came from Her Majesty herself.’

  ‘D’ye ken Miss Ivor?’ McGray asked. ‘She plays one o’ the witches.’

  Hecate, I nearly said, but that was no moment to correct McGray.

  Miss Terry looked blankly at him. ‘Yes, of course I do. She is a very charming la–’ and then she looked sideways, her eyes widening. When she glanced back at Nine-Nails her expression was an entirely new one. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘So the penny dropped,’ McGray said with a grin.

  ‘She did give me a leather – purse. It was a drawstring purse. But that must have been nearly a year ago!’

  ‘Where is that purse now?’ I asked this time.

  Miss Terry shook her head. ‘I … I don’t know. London, perhaps … I’m sorry to say this, but it was a dreadful, cheap little thing. I only accepted it to be polite, and I don’t even remember what I did with it afterwards.’

  Miss Terry sounded completely honest, and she was wearing jewellery presented to her by Queen Victoria. It was no wonder she saw the gifts from a minor actress as mere tat.

  ‘Can you remember the last time you saw it?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, no! But it must have been months ago.’ She bit her lip. ‘Have you found it?’

  She asked that question with a hint of desperation, and I purposely avoided answering.

  ‘What do you think might have happened to it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well … From time to time Mr Stoker clears out the presents from my dressing room. He has to; otherwise I’d be flooded with bric-a-brac. But he would have asked me before disposing of something like that.’

  ‘And did he?’ Nine-Nails jumped in.

  ‘I honestly cannot remember, Inspectors.’

  ‘Could anyone have taken it?’

  Her
cheeks lost a shade of colour, and her voice a little of its brightness.

  ‘May– maybe. But I need to think about it … It’s been a long … long time …’

  She went on fidgeting with the locket. For once, the actress was out of words.

  ‘Aye, ye try and freshen yer memory,’ McGray said. ‘And make sure it happens before the opening ni–’

  He did not get to finish the word.

  A shriek – a horrible, drilling holler – came to our ears, and everyone’s attention went to the other side of the building.

  ‘Another banshee!’ somebody shouted, unchaining a general gasp, and then there was frantic shouting and people running about like ants.

  I saw McGray’s eyes searching desperately for the source of the noise, his legs ready to sprint and his hand on his gun. I feared that his predictions were finally becoming true.

  I would, however, have preferred to see a hundred banshees than what was really happening.

  One of the waiters came running from the tearooms, carrying in his arms the distraught creature responsible for the anguished cries: Susy Harwood, the girl screaming and kicking about.

  My heart jumped when I realized that her small hands and her blue dress were splattered with blood.

  25

  I felt for the young Susy more than I can tell. We very soon realized she was experiencing … well, her first rags week, but as it so commonly happens, nobody had ever told her about the tribulations that puberty had in store. I cannot imagine what might have passed through her mind, finding herself in that situation just as everyone around her had been talking about dark omens, curses and horrendous messages spelled in red. No wonder she’d howled like that.

  Fortunately, Miss Smith had been waiting for a cab by the entrance, from where she heard the commotion and immediately returned. She was thus able to explain to the distraught child what was truly going on, but we had no occasion to see Susy again. Miss Terry offered her lodgings, a bath and a change of clothes, and the women locked the doors behind their backs.