Act of Murder

by Alan J. Wright

  ‘Nothing.’

  Georgina frowned and placed a hand on his arm. Now was not the time for him to perform below par. Audiences were notoriously fickle, and the platitudinous saying still held true: you were only as good as your last performance.

  ‘You surely don’t think those ruffians will be in the audience, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘If they were, as you say, card sharps, well it would do them no good to pursue you simply because you accused them. It would draw unwarranted attention to themselves. Besides, look at the number of witnesses we can call upon.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Richard, whose eyes were looking for someone else entirely. If that brute of a father, who didn’t seem to be the sort of chap who would baulk at the presence of a thousand witnesses, should barge his way into the auditorium and launch his accusations before launching his fists . . . He could still hear the clang of heavy iron against the metal frame of the tram window as the vile beast had hurled his poker in a final, frustrated attempt to injure him.

  But he could see no such person. Perhaps hiding behind the bedroom door as the cretin burst into Violet’s bedroom hadn’t been such a bad idea. He couldn’t have had a very good look at him. Might only have seen his retreating back, for he had certainly kept his head down. And he felt sure young Violet would have kept his name firmly from her lips. Oh, if only he had shown some restraint and spurned his baser instincts! It was only another romp, and she had warned him of the imminence of her father’s return. But he knew what his baser instincts were like: impossible to refuse, impossible to satisfy. They would get him into serious trouble one day, he had no doubt.

  Georgina watched as the assistants made the final checks on the lanterns. The biunial projector, a masterpiece of mahogany and brass, was their most expensive and effective piece. It was already lit, but she went over to ensure the supply of oxygen and hydrogen, controlled by two small valves within the frame, was correct. Once the combined force of the gases became lit, it produced a powerful jet that illuminated the block of limelight, which in turn gave off the brightest of lights, the equivalent of a thousand candles, more than enough illumination to enable both the photographic slides and the hand-painted images to fill the screen with a crystal clarity.

  ‘It’s time!’ urged his wife. ‘No more delay!’

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Suitably ghoulish, Richard. Just the right amount of white powder to bring out the evil in your cheekbones.’

  Richard Throstle took a deep breath and walked slowly, with his usual funereal gait, to the raised dais at the front of the hall to face his audience. Behind him, a chromatrope display of kaleidoscopic images in sombre reds and blacks was slowly rotating, creating an almost mesmeric backdrop to what he was about to say.

  The applause had barely died down when he raised his hands and pointed to the large screened area behind him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in sonorous, heavy tones, ‘there are forces at work in this world of ours that we have no control over. Death is with us always, and the shadows that pursue us beyond the grave are the very stuff of our nightmares. Tonight, we are going to see a display of evil, a display of such terrifying vividness that I urge – nay, I beg – each and every one of you to remain firmly seated in your places and grasp the hands of your loved ones. For it is only by the love we feel for each other, that strength of Christian fellowship that burns so strongly inside us all, that we can defeat the wild and savage spirits that we will see displayed all around us this night.’

  He paused, as he always did. Now he had them. He looked into their eyes, wide and sparkling, saw the clandestine way even the largest of fellows held on to his wife’s hand in a show of manly support. He held the silence for a further minute before walking slowly to the rear of the hall, where the first of his machines – the praxinoscope – would lull the audience into a false sense of well-being, with its early slides of dancing dervishes rapidly flashing through the drum to give the appearance of movement. Then, the rising skeleton would be next, after which he would move to the centrepiece of his show, the Phantasmagoria and the unearthly visions it cast all around the room, rendered even more sinister by his ghoulishly compelling narrative. He patted the triunial lantern resting nearby, with its stack of three lenses and its brass and mahogany outlines displaying something far more polished, far more powerful than anything these people had ever seen before. Soon it would be used to its full potential, dissolving and mixing those special effects that would align themselves with the other wheeled lanterns to create a spine-tingling spectacle they would talk about for years.

  *

  ‘I shall reach Bristol tonight. Wilfred Denver is dead! Tomorrow I begin a new life!’

  James Shorton’s voice resonated throughout the theatre with its seductive blend of hope and despair, and the audience, who had listened with great interest and rising emotion as poor Will Denver found himself innocently accused of murder, stood as one as the curtains drew to a temporary close and the house lights slowly came up. They had seen the destruction of his family harmony and the shame he had brought upon his beloved Nelly by his reckless gambling and surrender to drink; they had seethed with anger at the wiles of the wicked Coombe and Cripps and Corkett, and had actually hissed with fierce venom when the evil Captain Skinner (also known as The Spider) had shot Geoffrey Ware and planted the revolver near the insensible Denver. They had subsequently shared his despair as he awoke to discover the corpse, mistakenly thinking he was guilty of vile murder, and was pursued by Detective Samuel Baxter; they had gasped with astonishment at the hand of the Divine when the train he was travelling on crashed and he was believed killed. And finally, by the close of act two, they all shared his desperate hopes for the future, and they wandered off to the refreshment area talking with great animation as to what that future might be and if he would ever see his darling wife and children again.

  Meanwhile, things were not quite so harmonious behind the curtain. No sooner had the curtain fallen than Benjamin stormed off stage, refusing to say a single word of congratulation or encouragement to anyone, and locking himself inside his dressing-room with a dire warning not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever.

  The cause of his dissatisfaction wasn’t immediately clear.

  ‘I thought we carried the audience well,’ was James Shorton’s opinion.

  ‘You were magnificent!’ was Susan Coupe’s slightly less impartial view as they walked down the narrow corridor with Belle Greave between them. The latter had yet to appear on stage and had been watching from the wings.

  ‘Why is Benjamin so angry?’ asked Belle in a whisper as they passed his locked door.

  ‘He seemed a little wooden to me,’ Shorton replied, refusing to follow her example and lower his voice. ‘Especially when . . .’

  Herbert Koller came bounding down the small flight of steps and gave the three of them a cheery wave. ‘Quite a benign gathering out there, eh?’

  ‘Indeed they are, Herbert. The best is yet to come, isn’t that so, Miss Coupe?’

  ‘One would hope so, Mr Shorton.’ She gave a curtsey and the two women retired to their dressing-rooms, leaving the two men facing each other.

  Herbert seemed anxious for the leading man to leave. ‘I need to speak to Benjamin. Do you mind, old chap?’

  Shorton shrugged and moved farther down the corridor. Something had obviously occurred between the two of them. As Detective Baxter, Benjamin was supposed to warn the impetuous Corkett (played by Herbert) to put away the pound notes he had been displaying to all and sundry in the Wheatsheaf. There had been nothing either in the script or at rehearsal about the detective physically grabbing hold of Corkett’s hand and twisting it so violently that he winced, rendering the young cove’s response of ‘Shan’t! Who are you?’ somewhat feeble and incongruous. The look that was exchanged between them in full view of the audience was far more poisonous than anything the dramatist Henry Jones had imagined. Perhaps Herbert Koller
had come to remonstrate with his close friend for the unscripted encounter? If so, it was hardly the time. The interval lasted a mere fifteen minutes, and Herbert was on stage almost immediately afterwards.

  Just before he entered his own dressing-room, Shorton could hear a series of impatient raps echoing down the corridor, immediately followed by Herbert’s angry voice.

  ‘Benjamin! Benjamin, open the door! Open the bloody door!’

  Shorton shook his head and smiled to himself, although the smile faded when he stepped into his own dressing-room and saw what was propped against his looking-glass.

  It was a telegram from his wife.

  3

  There were many in Richard Throstle’s audience who felt that they would never smile again. The vast majority of those seated in that dark and forbidding place were a far cry from those enjoying the trials and torments of The Silver King. Here were men from the coalfields and the foundries, accustomed to the grit and earthy stench of dust and heat, men who prided themselves on their toughness, who scorned the metaphysical and shied away from any display that could be construed as sentimental. Many of them – the miners certainly – spent most of their days deep underground experiencing at first hand the dangers, the close proximity of death.

  Yet every one of them sat in rigid silence, heads erect and eyes narrowed, as high above them the projected images of three witches glared down, appearing to shower them with the vilest curses. All around, the sound of thunder and the startling flashes of lightning filled the hall, swiftly followed by the horrid sight of a graveyard, where mounds of earth slowly grew and grew until the white skeletal hands came forth and corpses rose from the earth.

  And through it all, the deep, sonorous tones of Richard Throstle.

  ‘Imagine that final day, my friends, that Day of Judgement, when we shall all be judged by what we have done, for isn’t it written that death and hell were cast into the lake of fire . . .’

  Suddenly the whole scene around and above them was transformed into a mighty flame-filled lake with the roar of an all-devouring conflagration that burned until all the corpses and the skeletons, and the evil-cursing witches, shrivelled and screamed for the last time and darkness returned to the land.

  Behind the screen, Richard held his hand above his head, an instruction to one of his assistants to refrain from raising the lighting for a few more tremulous seconds. Beside him, the other helpers slowly put down their instruments – the trumpets and the drums that had created all the cacophony of horror – while Georgina herself depressed the main valves linking the oxygen and hydrogen cylinders to the lanterns, their low hiss immediately silenced. He smiled as he could hear the gasps and the whimperings from the audience. Then, finally, he turned to his assistant and whispered, ‘Let there be light!’

  As the lights slowly came up there was an audible gasp and a scattering of nervous laughter that could be heard over the sound of rapturous applause. Some of the men coughed and nodded to each other, and raised their eyes to the heavens in a signal of manly understanding and amused compassion towards their skittish wives.

  Later, when the hall was empty and Richard’s assistants were securing the lanterns for the next performance, Georgina beckoned her husband to sit beside her in the front row.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, taking his place beside her. ‘A tryst?’

  But the expression on her face precluded any thought of dalliance. ‘I want you to be honest with me,’ she said.

  ‘My dearest, I am invariably honest.’

  With a wry smile, she gazed down at his hand, which had intertwined itself with hers. She spoke quietly, as if conscious of the assistants scurrying around at the rear of the hall.

  ‘I must confess I am a little . . . confused. Wouldn’t it be better to speak at the hotel? Less public?’

  She lifted her head and he was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘My dearest – have I offended you?’

  ‘Offended?’ She uttered the word with a heavy emphasis, and appeared to be on the verge of elaborating when she stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Have I been a disappointment to you, Richard?’

  He held her hand tightly. ‘Of course not. But why should you think . . .’

  ‘Haven’t I done everything – and more, much more – that a wife can reasonably be expected to do?’

  ‘You have been my rock, my darling wife.’

  She looked him fully in the face. ‘Yes, I believe I have. I have even done things of which I am now deeply ashamed.’

  Richard sighed and looked around. There was no one within earshot. ‘You have done nothing whatsoever to be ashamed of. I know the thing to which you refer. To which you always refer. And it is of no consequence, I assure you.’

  ‘No consequence!’ Georgina gave a hollow laugh.

  Richard looked blank. ‘I think you’re tired. Tonight’s performance must have been more fatiguing than we expected.’

  ‘I am not fatigued, you stupid man!’

  Two of the assistants stopped what they were doing and looked down the row of seats at their employers.

  ‘Get on with your work!’ Richard snapped, twisting his head around quickly. ‘Or there’ll be no work tomorrow, I assure you all of that!’

  Chastened, they resumed their tasks.

  ‘So please tell me, Georgina, what this is all about.’ His voice now was tinged with a growing exasperation.

  ‘This afternoon,’ she said. ‘You lied to me.’

  He gave a nervous smile. ‘I did not lie, dearest. Those card sharps were the very stuff of nightmares, I can assure you.’

  ‘If by that you mean they were not real, then I accept what you say.’

  Before he could respond, she went on. ‘But I am not referring to these mythical card sharps, nor to the alleycat you must have been tomming. No. I refer to something else entirely.’

  Richard, his face a picture of relief and confusion, begged her to continue.

  ‘The man you spoke to, the one you say asked you to present a show of touching morality to his Sunday School children.’

  Richard averted his gaze.

  ‘I knew it!’ she said with a note of triumph in her voice. ‘You promised me that sort of thing was done with. If Edward were to find out –’

  Richard laughed. ‘So what if he were to find out?’

  ‘Well, I should like to remind you of his promise to provide his backing. His considerable financial backing.’

  ‘Georgina, my dearest. Have you ever considered the possibility that I might be able to secure other, shall we say, more worldly backers? Backers who would be a little less squeamish than your sainted brother?’

  ‘But you promised that things would change.’

  ‘Oh, change is very much what I have in mind, my sweet. It simply may be necessary to effect it without the involvement of dear anointed Edward.’

  *

  Violet Cowburn sat up in her hospital bed and placed her hands gingerly on her chest. ‘Three broken ribs!’ she said. ‘How can I do anythin’ wi’ three broken ribs?’

  Constable Bowery, who was sitting beside the bed, slowly shook his head. It was a conundrum, he seemed to be saying.

  ‘It hurts me when I breathe.’

  ‘It would.’ Jimmy Bowery glanced down the long stretch of beds in the female ward.

  Why wouldn’t she answer his question? Didn’t take much breath to give a simple bloody nod. So he tried again. ‘It was your dad did this, wasn’t it, Violet?’I mean, did your dad throw you down the stairs?’

  ‘Me dad? Did ’e ’eck as like!’ She turned away and began to cough, which caused her to wince in agony and clutch at her chest once more.

  It was no more than he expected. If Ding Dong Bell had thought he would come away from the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary with a statement confirming Billy Cowburn’s guilt, then he couldn’t have been more wrong. This lot stick together like feathers to a duck’s arse, he reflected ruefully as he stepped out of the bui
lding and contemplated the prospect, at last, of a strong, thick-headed pint of stout. And if she refused to squeal on her brute of a father, that left them with bugger all to charge him with.

  He walked quickly through the gates and turned right, lifting the collar of his greatcoat around his face to ward off the freezing fog. Although he could barely see a yard in front of him, he trod purposefully forward. If he got a move on, he could be in the Royal Oak in ten minutes, and the brisk trek down Wigan Lane would give him a thirst that would need some quenching.

  *

  Detective Samuel Baxter grabbed hold of the swaggering young Cockney Henry Corkett by the collar and hustled him off stage. Or so the stage directions instructed. There was nothing to suggest anything more forceful than that, certainly no mention of ramming the young ex-convict’s arm halfway up his back and almost snapping his neck back as they made their final exits.

  Fortunately, audiences never get to see stage directions, and the viciousness of the arrest only served to satisfy the desire for retribution against all those involved in the framing of poor Will Denver for murder.

  When James Shorton stepped forward as a Will Denver newly restored to the bosom of his family, he spoke the play’s closing lines with great passion and an extravagant display of arm-waving and heart-clutching:

  ‘Come! Let us kneel and give thanks on our own hearth in the dear old home where I wooed you, and won you in the happy, happy days of long ago! Come Jaikes, Cissy, Ned, Nell – come in. Home at last!’

  It drew a standing ovation. The company stood before their opening-night audience in a hand-holding display of solidarity, and the audience cheered and booed as the heroes and villains took their final bows. But the most rapturous reception of all came when Will Denver and his wife Nelly stepped forward. There was a particularly vocal display of appreciation for Susan Coupe – the entire company applauded along with the audience, for her performance that night had truly been masterful, combining the pathos of a wife bereft of her dearest love with the resilience of a mother determined to survive and protect her children in spite of everything Fate could throw at her.