Just as their words began to settle in my mind, a dark, threatening logic began to emerge from all the noise.
‘We must –’ I began to say, but then saw the expectant faces of the boys and Mr Wilde, and restrained myself. ‘You all stay here, do you understand? Stay here until we come back.’
I bid McGray to follow me. By then the corridors were deserted, all the people enjoying themselves in the rotunda, and as soon as Mr Wilde and the Irving boys were back to their seats, I was free to speak at ease.
‘We really do need to keep an eye on Miss Terry.’
‘Are ye thinking the same I’m thinking?’ McGray’s expression was enough for me to tell we were formulating the same theory.
‘Miss Terry tries to blackmail Mrs Irving,’ I whispered. ‘The lady, who has abhorred her husband’s lover for years, finds it a trifle too much. Mrs Irving puts together the banshee act as a distraction. She sends out all these omens … to ultimately get rid of the nuisance Miss Terry has become – before having to pay her a penny. Perhaps she even implicated Mrs Harwood along the way.’
McGray looked down for a moment, and then, so suddenly he startled me, he growled and stomped angrily.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘D’ye have any idea of all the damned whisky I’ve just lost to ye?’
‘Lewis Carroll my arse!’ McGray mumbled grumpily as we rushed downstairs. We had to fight our way against the crowds, everyone walking and pushing us in the opposite direction, going back to their seats for the play’s finale.
We dashed into the stage wing, where I saw half a dozen men arranging the rocks of the witches’ cave, and up in the rafters was the sweaty effects assistant, positioning sacks of lycopodium.
The instant I looked down my heart stopped, the blood supply to my face became blocked and my brains froze: I found myself clashing against none other than my eldest brother – and the woman who’d jilted me last November.
‘Damn!’ I shouted, more affected than upon seeing Dyer’s mangled body at the foot of Castle Rock. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
McGray whistled. ‘Yer brother, is it? Och, youse two do look alike!’
Indeed we do, but Laurence seemed a good deal wider around the waist, and showed off his arrogant, ever smug expression. Eugenia, as annoyingly beautiful as ever, was smirking.
‘Oh, Ian,’ cried Laurence, more pompous than Mr Wilde, ‘how very good to see you! – I do have manners, you see …’
‘I have no time for this!’ I snapped.
‘We have just met Mr Irving,’ Eugenia boasted, tucking an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear, if only to show off the garishly large diamond of her engagement ring.
‘I owe the introduction to one of my wealthiest clients,’ said Laurence. ‘Mr de Whittaker manages the textile company that supplies the canvases for –’
I walked on, but Laurence held me by the arm. ‘Oh, please, little brother, will you not introduce us? Are you still working under this … Nine-Fingers Malone, or whatever his name is?’
I was about to unsheathe my gun in pure Nine-Nails style, but I did not need to. Right then, as if sent from the heavens, a thick cloud of white powder landed on them.
‘Sorry!’ the effects man yelled from the flies high above, some of the powder still falling from a torn sack.
The powder expanded in a cloud so thick that for a moment I could not even see Eugenia and Laurence. As the lycopodium began to settle their faces emerged, but as white as London’s newest stucco walls. The fine powder had stuck to everything like charcoal, and I shall never forget how it clung to Eugenia’s eyelashes in thick clumps, the young woman coughing and shrieking like a mouse in a trap.
I regret not having laughed as earnestly as McGray, whose cackle must have been heard all the way to Arthur’s Seat.
‘Oi, youse better wash yerselves soon! That stuff’s highly flammable!’
‘This is my best suit!’ Laurence hollered, oblivious to his fiancée’s sobbing – her angry tears rolling on the hydrophobic powder like flour-coated dewdrops.
McGray’s laughter stopped abruptly. So much so that even the distraught Eugenia lifted her chin to look at him. Nine-Nails had a doomed expression as he stared at the powder. He prodded Laurence’s shoulder, where the stuff had formed a small mound, and then looked at the thin layer that stuck to his fingertips.
‘The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid …’ he muttered.
I was about to say something, but then a young officer came running to us, stumbling and panting.
‘Inspectors! We just found a woman hiding in the storerooms! Come quick!’
‘Mrs Irving?’ I said aloud, but McGray was already running after the policeman, and I had to follow. Desperate as the situation was, I indulged in one last glance at the floured Laurence and Eugenia, wishing one could carry Gandolfi cameras in one’s pocket.
The shortest way was through the understage, where the two remaining witches – the scene would have to do with two – and the horde of apparitions waited to be lifted up to the proscenium. McGray nearly tripped on the young Susy, who looked at us with confusion.
Miss Terry was also there, already changed into Lady Macbeth’s nightgown, and perhaps looking for someone to fix the wig she had in her hands.
McGray pointed harshly at her. ‘Go to yer dressing room! Now! And wait for us there!’
‘Excuse me! I need to –’
‘Shush! This lad will escort ye there,’ Nine-Nails turned to the young officer. ‘At gunpoint if ye need, laddie. We ken where to go from here.’
Just as we left, the trapdoor let in the red glow of the hellish witches’ cave.
We could hear the woman’s cries long before we reached the stores. As we ran along the lines of costume rails the voice became eerily familiar.
‘That is not Mrs Irving,’ I said.
Four officers, McNair amongst them, were struggling to contain the punches and kicks of a rather short lady, dressed in a white nightgown and wrapped up in a dirty overcoat.
Mrs Harwood.
‘I want to see my children!’ she yelped, again and again. ‘I want to see them!’
‘How did she manage to escape?’ McGray asked to the air. ‘Wasn’t she s’posed to be locked in the asylum?’
She saw us – or rather, she saw me – and her rage instantly turned into misery. Her limbs fell passively, except for her right arm, which she stretched pleadingly in my direction.
‘Please, good sir, please! Let me see them!’
How distorted, how terribly sad her countenance was, her cheeks already drenched in tears.
I gulped painfully, and McGray, seeing my affected face, leaned closer to the poor woman.
‘We can bring them to ye,’ he said softly, surely remembering Dr Clouston’s approach. ‘But they’re on the stage right now. Ye don’t want to ruin their performance, do ye?’
Mrs Harwood’s face trembled, her gaze still manic, but she seemed to accept his argument.
‘And ye don’t want them to see ye in this state,’ Nine-Nails went on. ‘It would worry them sick. Do me a favour; let these gentlemen make ye a cup o’ tea while ye compose yerself. All right?’
Mrs Harwood did not appear to acknowledge those last words, but she did not protest either, which was enough for us.
Two of the officers gingerly led her to a nearby seat, while we and McNair stepped a few yards away.
‘Brilliantly handled,’ I whispered to McGray.
‘Let’s hope it lasts,’ he answered, his brave façade crumbling for an instant. He let out a long sigh before addressing McNair. ‘Go to the asylum and tell them where she is. They might be looking for her already. And be quick; she might become unhinged again at any time.’
McNair bowed and we left the officers with the poor woman, who was now keenly biting her nails.
‘She could have been the banshee,’ I said in a low voice. ‘Only her hands are clean …’
McGray rubbed his e
yes, perhaps to wipe pooling tears. It was so unfortunate he’d had to deal with madness at such close quarters these last few days. ‘Perhaps, but now let’s focus on Miss Terry. She might have something to say about it.’
Young Constable Cooper was guarding Miss Terry’s door with concerned eyes.
‘She didnae want me in, sirs,’ he told us as soon as we appeared. ‘Nearly slapped me with one o’ those wooden swords!’
‘That’s all right, laddie,’ said McGray. ‘We’ll take it from here, but stay close in case we need ye.’ Then McGray knocked at the dressing-room door.
‘I told you to go away!’ Miss Terry shouted.
‘It’s us,’ McGray answered. A long pause. ‘If ye don’t –’
‘Oh, come in if you must!’
So we did, and we found her in front of a large mirror, painting dark rings under her eyes. She did not turn, but looked at us through the glass, all her former charm gone. ‘What do you want now? Have you come to incarcerate me, perhaps?’
McGray chuckled. ‘Well, that depends on ye. Why did ye send this to Irving’s sons?’
He produced the message and passed it over Miss Terry’s shoulder.
There was a slight frown on her face as she took the note, but nothing compared to the sheer alarm as she read its contents. I could not tell whether she was immensely concerned, or if it was the effective make-up augmenting her dismay.
‘I never wrote this!’ she hissed.
‘Is that not your hand?’ I asked her.
She finally turned to face us. ‘It seems so, but I have never –’ she struggled for words. ‘Who – who gave this to you? Harry and Sydney?’
‘Yes.’
Miss Terry threw her head back and laughed. ‘Are you two so gullible? Those little brats lied to you!’
‘Madam, they gave us a very convincing account of your correspondence with Mrs Irving.’
‘What are you talking about?’ She was outraged, standing up and wrapping herself more tightly in her white costume. ‘Why would I contact that horrendous woman? And even if I wanted to – she thinks herself so high and mighty she wouldn’t even bother to open my letters!’
I did not wish to volunteer more of what we had been told, but rather gauge her reactions.
‘Are you planning to stay in this company for long?’ I asked.
The question threw her off balance. ‘Why? Why would you ask me that? Of course! I shall stay with Irving until they have to drag me off the stage in a stretcher.’
‘Did ye ken Mrs Irving has been in Edinburgh all these days?’
Miss Terry bit her lip. ‘Well – no, but …’
‘Well?’
She spat the words. ‘I suspected she was! The smothering harpy never lets her babies go anywhere on their own. She writes to their boarding school daily!’
There was an unusual thump on the door, soon followed by commanding knocks.
‘That’s my call,’ said Miss Terry. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a final scene to play.’
McGray planted himself in front of her. ‘Ye’ll go nowhere ’til ye tell us what’s going on.’
Miss Terry again laughed. ‘Why should I have to speak? You two have concocted a brew the Bard himself would have envied. Now let me through!’
Again the frantic knocking.
‘Sod off!’ McGray shouted.
‘These people are counting on me,’ Miss Terry snarled. ‘And I have no idea what you want me to say. Pray, let me out!’
Nine-Nails and Ellen Terry exchanged irate looks; a silent battle of wills, whilst the knocking got more and more insistent, until it became a constant clatter.
Irritated, I pulled the door open, and as I did so I received a mighty blow on my head that left me sprawled on the floor.
48
I caught just a glimpse of an elongated figure sprinting down the corridor, and upon hitting the floor I saw the motionless body of Constable Cooper. He’d been struck with even greater force and we were now lying side by side.
‘Ye all right?’ I heard McGray ask. I saw him leaning over me, but neither my voice nor my limbs would obey me. The entire world spun madly, and I believe I managed to mumble a ‘yes’, but only because McGray assented and jumped up to chase the attacker.
With splitting pains all over my head, I managed to roll on my back, only to see Miss Terry step out of her dressing room, looking in all directions.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sneering at me, ‘this is my call,’ and she ran off to the stage.
I pressed a hand on the top of my head, trying desperately to stand, and a moment later felt two pairs of arms lifting me up.
‘Inspector Frey!’ said McNair’s familiar voice, as a second officer helped the now semi-conscious Cooper sit up. ‘Miss Terry just told us that you allowed her to go and –’
‘Forget about her!’ I snapped, fighting to regain control over my senses. ‘The attacker … That way …’
I must have pointed in the right direction, for McNair dashed there immediately. I had to lean on the wall, taking clumsy steps forward at a frustratingly slow pace. I heard McGray shouting in the distance, along with some other scared voices, but I failed to make any sense out of it. All I could do was move towards the racket, feeling utterly useless, but then a white figure bumped against me and nearly knocked me over.
‘Mrs Harwood!’ I shouted, for it was she, running like the wind, her arms and legs flailing about like a disturbing spider.
A black hound, larger than any hunting beast I’d ever seen, came behind her, but it was not chasing her. The dog turned in a different track, perhaps down the corridor McGray and the others had followed.
That image suddenly brought me back to my senses.
‘Stop!’ I shouted, turning in her direction, my trembling legs barely allowing me to keep up after her.
‘He said he’ll help me!’ the woman cried as we ran through the maze of corridors, taking turns and rushing through doors I had not seen before. ‘He told me the banshee’s here!’
‘Madam, stop!’ I cried, as her voice receded further and further away. ‘We can help you too!’
I heard her steps descending through a narrow, steep staircase, barely lit by sparsely placed lamps, before I lost her.
I was lost myself, and still slightly stunned, as I emerged from the stairwell into what I thought must be the lower painting room. Line after line of gigantic canvases hung from the ceiling, a section of which was open to the upper storeys, and countless ropes dangled vertically like vines in a rainforest.
Mrs Harwood could be heard no more; neither her steps nor her voice. I grunted in frustration, looking between the paintings as I unsheathed my gun.
I then heard other voices, screaming, and a man howling. It all came from the adjacent room and I rushed in that direction, not even knowing if there would be a connecting door.
‘Everybody out!’
The voice came loud and clear, and in the darkened basement it was my only guide to a small wooden door. I crossed it, but halted immediately, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would break free of my chest.
I was facing the understage, and saw all the effects assistants sprinting away from their equipment like scared pigeons.
Tarvin was there, standing in the middle of the room, between the rheostat and the bucket of glowing embers. His back was towards me, and he was sweeping a gun from left to right. The black hound was now next to him: enormous, filthy, its eyes savage and baring its fangs at everyone it saw. No wonder Stoker had thought it an apparition.
‘Everybody out, I say!’
The sweaty cockney tried to strike Tarvin, but the wolfhound instantly darted ahead. It caught the man’s left arm in its jaws, biting with all its might. The man threw a swift punch to the dog’s head, making it release its grip and fall back on all fours, and then he ran to one of the adjacent corridors. After a brief whimper, the dog went after him.
The only figure that remained still was McGray, standing defian
tly by one of the side doors, pointing at Tarvin with his gun. He must have become separated from the officers, for he stood on his own. Somehow he saw me, even if the only light came from the central trapdoor open to the back of the stage.
I drew a finger to my lips, getting myself ready to shoot. Everyone had left by then, the place now so silent we could hear Miss Terry’s monologue from above.
‘Gimme that, lad,’ McGray commanded, if only to keep Tarvin’s eyes on him.
I would have shot then, but, still feeling dizzy, I feared I’d miss. I had to get closer.
I took a step ahead, afraid to breathe, afraid of the rustle of my clothes, and rested my weight on the floorboards as if treading on eggshells, fearing the wood would creak under my weight.
It did not, but I could not exhale yet. The only other sound was the soft sizzle of the embers that had been used to produce the stage steam.
‘We don’t want any bloodshed,’ McGray pleaded, stretching his hand. ‘Gimme that.’
‘Oh, there will be bloodshed tonight,’ Tarvin said, savouring each word. Were they all mad in this theatre? ‘Get away or I’ll blow your brains out!’
I used his voice to cover the sound of my steps. I could smell the laudanum already: he perspired it, along with the hint of other drugs.
It must have been a creak on the floor, or my breathing, or the man simply felt my presence somehow, for he turned on his heels in my direction, and all I could do was point down and shoot at his legs. I missed, Tarvin shot too, and I hurled myself towards him, yelling and reaching for his weapon.
The world became a blur of shouting and struggling, McGray joining us, until somehow I was pushed and fell on my back.
Still struggling with McGray, Tarvin managed to throw a kick at my ribs and my gun slipped from my fingers. I curled up on the floor and then rolled about, trying to avoid the stomping feet of either man.
I heard the thump of a gun against the floor, but could not tell whose. Right then I saw Tarvin reach for the embers, pick up a handful of red-hot chunks with his bare hand and throw them at McGray’s face. Nine-Nails had to bend sideways, protecting himself with nothing but his forearms. Some of the embers fell on the rheostat’s uncovered wires, showering the whole area with sparks. Some landed on my clothes and I had to roll again to smother them. Suddenly I pictured the entire building burning to its foundations with every one of us inside.
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 32