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

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘Aye. That’s a possibility. And that would explain why she wanted to burn them precisely now.’

  I sat on my desk, looking at the headline for the hundredth time. ‘I suppose the woman was not identified.’

  ‘Nae. None of the witnesses saw her face. At least not close enough.’

  I let out a tired sigh. ‘And there is no way to prove it was Terry. If we confront her she will just deny everything.’

  ‘Indeedy.’

  ‘I do not like this, Nine-Nails. Not at all … And the bloody play opens tonight!’

  We remained in silence for a brief moment, but then there came a tapping from the stairs. I thought it would be Superintendent Campbell, coming to scold us for some ludicrous transgression, but I was wrong. The door opened and I saw Bram Stoker himself, looking as if he were on the verge of death: the poor man was supporting himself on crutches, his left leg wrapped in a heavy cast. His skin was dry and pale, he had bags under his eyes (which were almost as orange as his hair and beard), and as soon as he walked in he also brought a powerful waft of laudanum (which he probably needed to withstand the pains of the beating and the nasty fracture).

  ‘Mr Stoker, I hope you are not overdosed again!’ I said, wrinkling my nose.

  ‘Why would you care?’ he snapped. ‘Do you want to question me against my will again?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Without the laudanum you would have never told us you thought you’d seen Miss Terry after the ball – or after our midnight meeting at Calton Hill.’

  ‘It transpired that it was Mrs Harwood after all, did it not?’

  ‘That is still debatable,’ I quickly said. ‘And if you had not kept it quiet we could have questioned Miss Terry about it much sooner. Our line of investigation could have been completely different and God only knows what we might have already found –’

  ‘There, there, Frey,’ McGray intervened, ‘yer sounding all screechy again. And Mr Stoker’s clearly come to ask for some help. Haven’t ye?’

  He assented, rather nervously.

  ‘I cannot understand Irving’s attitude,’ he finally admitted. ‘He is adamant the play goes on as scheduled. I have never seen him this obsessed – and I’ve seen him at his lowest, believe me! It’s as if his life depended on it.’ He saw The Scotsman in my hands. ‘And now that sighting makes me fear the worst.’

  McGray sat back, his fingertips pressed together, the fourth finger on his left hand without a partner.

  Since he said nothing, I sighed again. ‘What do you want us to do, Mr Stoker? We were just discussing we have not solved much to speak of.’

  ‘Be at the Lyceum tonight,’ he asked most keenly. He looked at Nine-Nails. ‘You know about these things – otherworldly things. You have followed this case since the beginning; you know us and what’s going on at the theatre. If something were to happen, you two would know how to act better than anybody else.’

  McGray leaned forward. ‘In that yer right, laddie, but what if Campbell doesnae want us there?’

  ‘Oh,’ Stoker looked down, ‘I know for fact he definitely doesn’t want you around. But you’d be there as my guests and Mr Howard’s. The police cannot ban anybody from our premises without a warrant.’

  I grunted. ‘Do you want us to defy the wishes of the head of police? As ridiculous as that man can be, I would not like to … Nine-Nails, why are you grinning like that?’

  ‘This lad’s very well versed in law. I like him.’

  ‘Inspector McGray,’ said Stoker, now rather gravely, ‘I am already indebted to you. I wouldn’t have been found so promptly had you not redoubled your efforts. Do us this favour and you will have my gratitude for ever.’

  McGray nodded, a hint of enthusiasm glowing in his eyes. It was impressive what a good night’s sleep had done for him. ‘Say no more, laddie. But Percy here might be harder to convince.’

  I immediately looked at the brighter side.

  ‘As long as this keeps me away from the Freys’ theatre box …’

  43

  Grindlay Street was all abuzz.

  Undaunted by the unexpected drizzle and fog, enthusiastic pittites began to gather outside the Lyceum irrationally early. At about four o’clock the crowd was so large and the weather so bad, that Henry Irving arranged for hot tea to be sent out to warm the masses.

  Later in the evening, a glittering assembly of personages descended from their carriages into the torch-lit portico, passing through the great doors to be greeted, as was customary, by the well-rehearsed charm of Bram Stoker. I do not know how he managed, but his countenance was completely different from that of the morning, and he welcomed people with such amiability some did not even notice the crutches under his arms. Mr Howard stood by his side, albeit looking dwarfed and monochromatic next to the tall, grinning, ginger Irishman.

  Edinburgh’s most notable audience had gathered that night. The cream of the social, artistic and literary classes were all there. Again I saw the Lord Provost, and even Lady Glass herself, the white plumes of her hat rising up well above the average head. Fortunately I managed to avoid her gaze.

  They all claimed to be there for the play; swore they adored their Shakespearean tragedies, and unanimously and most condescendingly dismissed the morbid, baseless scandal that had brought all those smelly bourgeois to the theatre. Stoker told me he knew better.

  The press, of course, was out in unusual force, and not only for the Scottish papers. Stoker told me he recognized reporters from the Herald, The Times and the Tribune, all come up from London, surely, to report the accuracy of the banshee’s prophecy. They would all be wiring reports of the performance, whether the spirits appeared or not. Until that moment I had not quite appreciated how precious, how potent, a supernatural scandal could be.

  All the security had been discussed the previous night at Campbell’s dinner table, over that bottle of fine Merlot, sadly wasted on the man’s rough and vulgar taste buds. No one but him and Irving had been heard or even consulted on the matter of safety, and it showed: there was a good number of officers (McNair amongst them) guarding both sides of the entrance and several key points of the vestibule and the auditorium. Instead of uniforms they were all wearing medieval soldiers’ costumes and fake beards, and some of them sported smug faces, fancying themselves Cids or Lancelots.

  Looking less than comfortable was Nine-Nails, who’d been forced not only to shave again, but also to wear another suit from Stoker’s wardrobe. I found him standing awkwardly in a corner of the crowded vestibule, pulling at his collar as if it were made of poison ivy. A trio of young ladies were staring lasciviously at him, but were utterly disenchanted as soon as he spoke.

  ‘Once wearing this dandy shite was bad enough. Twice is a bloody bad joke!’

  ‘At least you are not wearing orange facial hair,’ I whispered, looking at the poor McNair. ‘I cannot believe that this city’s police is commanded by a dim-witted buffoon who can be smitten with a glass of liquor and a box at the theatre.’

  ‘Och, it’s as if ye called the bastard,’ said McGray, pointing at the entrance, at a sight I would have never expected to behold: Superintendent Campbell’s wife. She was a chubby, rubicund lady of around fifty, with a hairstyle and a sour expression that both very much reminded me of Queen Victoria’s.

  ‘Let’s get in,’ McGray mumbled. ‘The longer it takes him to see us the better.’

  I welcomed the suggestion, as right then I also saw the wide figure of the old Mr Frey, and recognized the receding hairline of my brother Laurence sticking out above the crowd. Next to him there was a bunch of pink feathers; surely the flamboyant hat worn by Eugenia, although the people around her blocked my view of her face.

  We rushed into the auditorium, where the bustling spectators were taking their places in the half light. The place made me think of an enormous mine, its darkened walls encrusted with glittering gems from the magnificent chandelier, and also from the raised boxes and galleries, where the beautifully dressed and bejewelled
ladies could see and be seen.

  I looked around and my attention fell on the royal box, raised and right next to the proscenium’s gilded frame. There, looking utterly put out, sat Irving’s sons, Harry and Sydney. There was an empty seat next to them, and the next place was occupied by the pudgy Oscar Wilde. Harry’s eyes met mine, and the boy started and looked away.

  ‘All normal,’ said McGray, with an unashamed note of exhaustion. Except for a brief pause to shave and change clothes, he had been around the theatre almost all day, along with a few other officers. They’d patrolled every corridor and entrance, along with the back and the understage. Nothing suspicious had occurred as yet.

  ‘So it seems,’ I answered, spanning one last look. I saw that under the red velvet curtains the orchestra were tuning their instruments. ‘Give me a second,’ I told McGray, making my way to the pit. I waved at Elgie, who frowned as soon as he saw me. He was angry at me (apparently everyone knew we’d attempted to have the play cancelled), but he came to greet me nonetheless.

  ‘Nervous?’ I asked. He only shrugged, so I patted him on the shoulder. ‘You will be fantastic, I am sure.’

  ‘Ian,’ he said just as I had turned away. ‘Look after yourself,’ he mumbled, and I managed to smile at him.

  McGray was clicking his tongue. ‘What a lovely scene. Let’s get to work now.’

  The orchestra burst forth with a powerful chord, so loud and so sudden it made me jump, even though McGray and I were descending the creaking stairs that led to the understage, and the sound was muffled. Three stabbing chords, and then the dark, foreboding melody I’d heard at the rehearsals.

  The understage was boiling hot, and no wonder, for the initial scene with the witches required a lot of fog. In Mr Wheatstone’s absence, the man in charge was the foul-smelling cockney chap I’d seen assisting him during rehearsals. He looked far from comfortable in the role: his face was contorted in a panicked grimace that would last throughout the play, and he stank mightily of perspiration, which dripped on to everything as he jumped to and fro.

  There were piles of lycopodium powder all around him, and he jumped over them to reach the crank of the rheostat. He turned it with one hand, slowly increasing the light on the stage; with his other hand he poured water on to an enormous bucket of red-hot coals. The embers sizzled as rolling clouds of steam ascended towards the actors.

  He was not the only one having a bad time. The three witches stood by the wooden steps that led to the proscenium, and it astounded me that they looked less ugly with their frayed rags and their facial prostheses than they did in their evening dresses. The music was raging out there, but instead of going ahead to begin their act, they faltered.

  ‘What’s going on?’ McGray asked, and I then noticed that Miss Ivor was amongst them, attired as another witch. Not as her usual character, Hecate.

  ‘We can’t find Miss Desborough!’ she cried.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Miss Marriott, the first witch, stepped forward. ‘She came with us from the hotel. We shared a cab. But now we can’t find her.’

  ‘I’ll have to take her place,’ said Miss Ivor.

  ‘Isn’t Desborough the one who kept that wee gun under her pillow?’ McGray asked, and I nodded.

  Stoker came by just then, along with Mr Howard, whom he used as a human crutch.

  ‘I just heard! Have you found her?’

  ‘No, Mr Stoker,’ replied Miss Ivor. ‘But I’m ready. Shall we go up?’

  Irving, in full medieval attire, arrived just as the woman said this. There was panic in his eyes. ‘What are you waiting for? Get out there! You’re already ten bars late!’

  The ladies ran up the steps, tripping on their rags, and in no time I heard Miss Marriott quickly recite ‘When shall we three meet again?’, trying to get back in synchrony with the music.

  ‘What will we do if she doesn’t appear before the fourth act?’ Stoker asked, sweat trickling down his temples. ‘Miss Ivor has to play Hecate then, in front of the three wi–’

  ‘I know the damn play, Bram!’ Irving hollered, exactly as a deafening thunder resounded above the stage. ‘If it comes to the worst we’ll have to do with two witches. Now you better try to find that old crow!’

  So engrossed was Irving, he did not even notice McGray and me. He stormed away swiftly, for it was barely minutes before his first appearance.

  Stoker stumbled, as if he’d forgotten his injury and wanted to sprint forward. Mr Howard’s face now looked blue under the Irishman’s weight, and McGray had to help support him.

  ‘Is Miss Desborough the one with Irish blood?’

  Stoker went white for an instant, but he soon breathed out. ‘No, no. That is Miss Seaman.’

  ‘Good,’ McGray assented. ‘Were the witches the last to see her?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Stoker. ‘I know no more than you.’

  ‘All right, ye stay here and wait for the hags to get their hurly burly done and make them tell ye all they can. In the meantime we’ll get our chaps searching; I don’t like that auld hag disappearing just now. Frey, go tell the men in the front doors and the hall. I’ll organize the ones backstage.’

  I nodded and ran back towards the auditorium. The quickest way was through the orchestra pit (where Elgie cast me a puzzled look), and then through the crowded lower seats.

  The witches, I heard, were just telling Macbeth their damning prophecies.

  As I trotted across the rows of people, now in almost complete darkness, I felt dwarfed by the task. There were more than nine hundred spectators, dozens of actors and just as many theatre staff, all gathered in a labyrinthine building of colossal proportions. We would never find the woman.

  Katerina’s words, written down by Stoker, appeared in my head: ‘At least one will die on the thirteenth, my son. There’s nothing you can do about it.’

  The light, already scarce, became dimmer and dimmer. I turned to the stage and caught a last glimpse of the Weird Sisters as they seemed to vanish into a cloud of mist.

  Irving and his Banquo were about to speak, but their voices would be overpowered.

  My heart went cold as everyone at the theatre heard the otherworldly sound we had feared all along.

  The banshee’s final cry.

  44

  That was the sound of terror itself.

  I instinctively stooped and covered my ears, finally believing the statements of all the people I’d mocked. It was a drilling, shrilling sound; a hysterical voice that stabbed at the body as it did the soul.

  Panic took hold of the entire building, and anguished screams from the audience joined the already unbearable shriek. The lights went on and Irving pleaded for people to stay in their seats. His deep, commanding voice at least had some effect on me. I had to focus.

  It is not omnipresent, I told myself. The voice had a source. And I must find it.

  Painful as it was, I forced myself to uncover my ears, squinting at the horrible sound, and just as I did so the voice faded away, as if the banshee’s lungs had run out of air. I’d had only a split second to work out where it came from, but it had been enough: it had come from behind my back, from the front area of the theatre.

  I dashed in that direction, whilst Irving laughed nervously on the stage, raising both arms.

  ‘My dearest friends, I hope our little joke has not scared you out of your wits!’

  ‘Preposterous!’ I grunted, but let him work his charm. A panicked mob was the last thing we needed.

  I crashed against someone, nearly knocking the man over, and recognized the voice of Sergeant Millar.

  ‘Inspector, I think I saw her!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the rotunda, sir. And she left another message.’

  Millar guided me there, an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu taking hold of me. My heart pounded as we arrived: the polished marble floor was the perfect frame for a smear of thick blood, the horrendous red letters standing out like an open wound on magnolia ski
n. As McGray had predicted, this was the final part of the sonnet:

  The dead that travel fast, the opening door,

  The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,

  The murdered idol rising through the floor,

  The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,

  All hail! These tragic marks await Macbeth

  All hail! The Scottish stage shall see your death

  I was speechless. Never had any words made me feel so cold, so confused. All I could think of doing was to kneel down, touch the viscous liquid where it spelled death, and put it to my tongue.

  Again, it was genuine blood.

  ‘They repeated the final couplet,’ I mumbled, my mind an uncontrollable swirl. ‘As if to confirm the order of things …’

  Young Millar said nothing, but he was almost panting with fear.

  ‘Let no one come here,’ I said gravely. ‘And bring Inspector McGray, right away.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  A very tall man in a black suit came by. I had to blink to recognize him as Nine-Nails.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Is there a trail?’ he asked, trotting around and looking in all directions. There was none; not even a little red spot to tell us where the banshee had gone to or come from, and on the marble floor it would have been impossible to miss.

  ‘Somebody must have seen something!’ I spat. ‘This is the main bloody entrance!’

  ‘Everyone’s watching the play,’ said McGray, ‘our lads are searching for Desborough everywhere and all the crew are backstage … Makes sense – this spot was deserted.’ He came back to the sonnet and saw my stained fingertip. ‘Real?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He read it intently, his eyes scanning each and every letter. ‘That makes nae sense!’

  ‘The murdered idol,’ I mumbled. ‘It will be an actor … or actress.’

  McGray was frowning. ‘The whole stanza feels wrong … as if written by someone else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The style is different. The others had a narrative or gave a clear warning … This one’s vague, almost amateurish; loose sentences only tenuously connected … Yet the rhymes are still perfect.’ He knelt and hovered his fingers over the third and fourth lines. ‘Rising through the floor … The ghost’s white fingers … That has to mean something.’