by David Haynes
The first part of the evening had been carefully constructed to create tension and unease but was not graphic in any way. It made the comedy which came next refreshing and a relief. The ease with which Eve made the transition from despair to joy and back again to the very depths of darkness was testament to her great skill as an actress.
As the final part of the show started, Victor remained under the shadow of the balcony, unmoving; for he too desired to see what his writers had created.
Eve had been rendered unconscious by the first blow from the madman’s fist; the second was merely for pleasure. Her body was draped as a carcass awaiting the butcher’s saw, across the arm of his chair. He rained blows upon her torso and her body flinched with each cruel strike, yet she did not scream.
Again and again he clawed at her body until her dress was a dirty tattered cloth.
“The baby is not mine!” he roared at the angels above.
A small pump had been concealed within the chair and as his hands broke through her flesh, it sprayed warm, thick blood into his face.
Victor watched in excited expectation as the first stifled scream echoed in the hall. Once more the cuckold wrenched at his wife’s flesh, pulling and twisting, flinging this way and that, the offal from Boucherie François.
The warm pigs’ blood plumed above the stage and coated the madman until his face was a bloody mask. The madman collapsed to his knees sending a ripple through the blood.
The lady seated beneath the stage could not afford the fine knit silk stockings she desired. Instead she wore the less lavish knitted stockings her husband’s wealth dictated. A single drop of blood collected on the lip of the wooden stage and hung for a moment as if contemplating where it should fall. The matter was settled and it fell on her ankle. The wool of her stockings held it in check for just a moment until the fibres could hold it no longer. The warm droplet soaked in and tickled her skin.
The scream shocked her husband who stood to protect his wife, but she had already stumbled into the aisle and fainted. Victor rushed forward; his cue already forgotten in the shrill beauty of her cry. More ladies rushed for the door, their screams were shrill and piercing. It was a riotous cacophony and the clatter of feet lurching for the door added the percussion to their departure. It was not the sweet song of a choir in worship for which the room was intended, but to Victor, Bishop and Metier it was far sweeter and glorious.
As the last one departed, a breeze blew into the hall and sent the wooden angels into an idle spin. The aged wood on their wings would soon absorb the warm pig’s blood they had been splashed with, but they would not scream as the lady had done, for they had seen far worse.
Bishop mopped the last of the blood that had not soaked into the boards while Metier threw the last of the entrails into the bucket.
“We have gone too far,” Metier mumbled.
Bishop nodded. Perhaps they had, perhaps they all had. But at least now it was done, there would be no need to wonder. It had been a strange feeling to see the words he had written acted out in glorious barbarity. The same images he had seen in his dreams since he could remember, all there for Paris to see. Only in his dreams, the madman was his father and the faceless figure of his mother lay destroyed beneath his hands. And he, the unborn baby inside her womb.
“Do you think we shall be allowed to show it again?” Metier asked.
“It may be our last performance, gentlemen!” Victor walked along the aisle toward the stage. “But, oh what a glorious way to bow out!” He had not been seen since tending to the stricken woman and escorting her and the husband from the theatre.
“I am afraid Monsieur Bonfils is unable to fulfil his role as lead man again. It would appear the site of so much blood made him quite nauseous. He has left with my blessing.”
“Then I am to blame,” said Bishop, “for it was my idea to make the play quite so drenched in blood.” He walked to the front of the stage. “I shall of course return your money and absolve you of any obligation toward me.”
A drop of water-diluted blood clung to the lip of the stage. Victor touched it with his finger and teased it from its perch. The blood ran along his finger and into his palm where it was immediately absorbed into his aristocratic skin.
“You shall do nothing of the sort. We will simply place a card in every café from here to the Seine requesting an actor. Montmartre is full to the brim with leading men in search of a job. We shall continue as long as they allow us; as long as they come to watch.”
He walked off toward his office; his cheerful whistles echoed gently around the theatre.
“I do not think we can ever go too far for that man.” Metier spoke quietly and carried the bucket from the stage.
The air was strong with the iron rich stench of blood. Bishop stopped mopping and looked to the angels above with a smile across his face. He did not feel the need to vomit.
Before they left Victor found them again and instructed them to deliver his request for an actor to the cafés close by. They strode along Boulevard Clichy toward Montmartre and before either of them had realised, they had passed the spot where the thief had lain with his head split open. After the show tonight, Victor’s actions seemed unreal somehow, as if they too were part of the performance.
They reached Café d’Harcourt and stepped inside. It was as lively as two nights previously; it was likely this was always the case.
Metier handed Victor’s paper to the man behind the bar and they exchanged words in rapid fashion. The students gathered in one corner, the lovers in the other and all about were the sounds of a Parisian night. Never had it sounded so sweet as it did tonight to Bishop.
“Should we stay a while and drink some wine?” he asked Metier.
“Are you not exhausted? I can scare keep my feet below me,” he walked toward the door.
“Very well but if we are still in business tomorrow, it will surely be a cause of celebration!” He followed Metier back onto the street.
In truth, Bishop was exhausted and the nervous excitement he had felt all day was finally giving way to a contented weariness.
“Gentlemen! Wait for me!” both men turned quickly to see a tall and well-dressed man hurrying toward them.
“I think you have found your leading man!” he announced and bowed with great theatrical flourish.
“I am afraid we are looking for a Frenchman, sir.” Metier responded.
The actor thrust Victor’s request forward, “It says no such thing on here. Besides, Je parle un français parfait!”
“Do you know what variety of theatre we produce?” Bishop asked.
“Le Grand Guignol? Of course! Who is not aware of the dark beauty you purvey. Why, only this evening as I sat in the café, the performance was on everyone’s lips. It sounds utterly remarkable.”
Again Metier was struck with pride. “What good fortune, Robert! He seems perfect for the role.”
“We shall see. You must come to the theatre at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We will see how perfect you are.” Bishop remained unmoved in the face of praise.
“Very good, thank you!” he offered his hand to them, “My name is Heath, Andrew Heath, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintances.”
He turned and walked back toward the café, “I shall see you at eight on the dot!” he called over his shoulder and disappeared into the smoky café from whence he had appeared.
“What a stroke of good luck. We have no need to deliver the rest of these,” Metier flung them high into the air and walked away leaving them fluttering through the night sky like disembodied doves’ wings.
“What good fortune indeed,” whispered Bishop.
*
Cunningham’s Surgery
London
1880
Cunningham loosened the collar on his stiff shirt, “You too have seen war, sir?”
The patient nodded, subdued by the unfamiliar environment.
“I must say it is a delight to meet you. Your comrades, I trust
, recommended you to me?”
He nodded again, “I am not sure I will obtain equal benefit.”
“Well I shall endeavour to bring clarity to your situation. You may find my methods unorthodox, but I can assure you they are at the forefront of scholarly thinking on the matter.”
He nodded again. The dreams had been terrible of late. The sights, the sounds and the smells of the battlefield were re-lived over and over again. Night after cold sweating night had he woken to find his fingers stretched in rigorous spasm around the throat of a shadowy foe. He yearned to escape them, to flee from London and all its savage reminders. To rest in the tranquil drunkenness of a Parisian café. But the dreams would follow him, of that he was sure. Besides, Walter Bishop was sending his son to this man and he claimed to be cured.
“Shall we begin?”
He nodded again.
“Good. Now Mr Blair, tell me what it is like to feel a man’s pulse slow to a stop under the pressure from your fingers? How do you feel?”
*
“Andrew, I am delighted to meet you. We have indeed been blessed with good fortune. Come, I shall show you around and introduce you to the others. We must leave these two maestros to their work!” Victor led Heath toward his office leaving Metier and Bishop together on the stage.
Bishop had become used to working with Metier and it was clear he was not the cold fish he had initially appeared.
“May I ask you how old you are?” he asked.
“Of course, I am nineteen.”
Bishop was shocked, “Nineteen!” he exclaimed, “Why, I assumed you were the same age as myself.”
“And that is?”
“Thirty! You are ten years my junior and yet you possess the assurance of a man twice your age.”
“More than ten years.”
“What?”
“More than ten years your junior,” he raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Quite.”
“What do you make of him then?” Metier changed the subject.
“He appears to know what he is doing, and remarkably, the blood did not concern him in the slightest.”
“Let us see what my father makes of him.”
“Monsieur Bishop and Monsieur Metier. Good morning.”
Bishop’s first thought when he heard Inspector Devaux’s voice was that he had come to close the theatre after the previous evening’s performance.
“Inspector, have you come to close us down?” the same thought had obviously shot through Metier’s mind.
“Close you down? Why ever would do such a thing? No I am afraid I must speak with Monsieur Bishop, alone.”
Bishop felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “Me, Inspector?” he turned to Metier. “I am quite sure Alexander will leave us for a few moments.”
Metier walked away slowly. He clearly wished to stay and listen to their conversation.
Bishop walked to the edge of the stage and looked down on Devaux.
“There is blood on the floor here,” Devaux pointed to a spot by his feet.
“Yes, we took some of your advice and made the show more, shall we say, visceral. You should pay us another visit, when you can spare the time,” he scrutinised Devaux, looking for a hint of his intentions. “What can I do for you inspector? If it concerns the girl in the morgue then…”
Devaux held his hands aloft, “Monsieur Bishop. May we go somewhere more private for what I need to say may be of some distress to you.”
“Inspector, contrary to what you might think, I possess a fortitude which has served me well. Now please, I ask, speak your mind.”
“Very well. Monsieur Blair is dead. He has been murdered.”
It was a simple statement. Not embellished or softened in any way. Bishop doubted whether Devaux was capable of speaking in any other way. He felt unable to move or to speak for although the statement was of fact it possessed a power in its simplicity.
“Monsieur? Do you understand?”
“What happened?” Bishop felt as if he were hearing somebody else utter the words.
“I cannot say for sure but he suffered the same injury as those you have met before.”
“His throat was ripped apart? Who has done this to him?” He sat on the lip of the stage caring not that blood was beneath him.
“By whose hands I cannot say but you must come with me.”
Was the inspector arresting him? “You cannot suspect me of murdering him, Inspector. You simply cannot.”
“No Monsieur you misunderstand me. I require you to formally identify him. Although it is not usual practice I have requested his body be taken to the morgue with the others.”
“Others?” asked Bishop, “There are only two surely.”
“Including the female from Cabaret Du Neant there are three and I think there will be more before his work is done.”
“I should speak to Lord Cresswell first and tell him this news. Blair was his close friend.”
“Very well. I shall meet you and Lord Cresswell, if he so chooses, at the morgue,” he checked his pocket watch, “at eleven o’clock.”
*
“Yes, this is Blair,” Victor closed his eyes as if the sight was too much. “Where was he found?”
“He was found slumped against Basilique du Sacre Coeur. Are you aware of any man who held bad feeling toward him, either of you?”
Blair’s body was naked save for the square of grey linen which had been draped across his crotch. Bishop was shocked to see so many scars scratched across his torso.
“How could any man feel anything but love toward him? My comrade, my friend.” Victor removed his glove and placed his hand upon Blair’s cheek. His body had not yet been subjected to the preserving process but the pallor of his skin was as lifeless as one of the morgue’s alabaster busts.
“What of his other friends and associates?”
“There are no others, at least not here in Paris,” he looked to Bishop, “Did he mention anyone else to you?”
Bishop shook his head, “He was friends with my father, but he resides in London. I have known him but a short time and in that time I have never heard him mention another man or woman.”
“And his family? Where are they?” Devaux continued, dismissive of Victor’s show of affection.
“He has no family,” Victor replied quickly, removing his hand and replacing his glove, “he is the only Blair remaining. I shall make the arrangements for his funeral.” He turned to Devaux, “I will offer reward to any man who finds his killer. No man, least of all Blair, deserves to be slaughtered in such a way.”
Bishop looked down on the corpse. He had not been acquainted with Blair for very long but he had grown fond of the man.
“He was so full of life, yet gentle and kind,” Victor spoke softly in almost a whisper.
“He was not always so gentle,” Devaux answered.
“What do you know?” Victor roared. “You attempt to discredit him even in death? You are not worthy of looking upon his body, Devaux. He was an honourable man and he saved my life.” He approached Devaux with his fists clenched. “You will not say another word about him or I will drag you to the street and beat you like a dog.”
Devaux remained impassive and did not move. “You may find me more than capable of resisting you, Lord Cresswell.”
They stared at each other for several moments until Victor turned away. “Pah! Your attempt to provoke me reveals the creature you really are. Just do your job, Devaux. Find this animal and allow me the time to deal with him as I wish.”
“He shall be dealt with by French law, Monsieur and that is all.”
“Come Robert, we shall leave the inspector to his inspecting.” He strode from the room.
“It is the same killer.” Bishop turned to Devaux before following Victor.
“Undoubtedly so. Be careful. Monsieur Blair’s death brings the killer closer to your door and whether Lord Cresswell cares to admit or not, closer to his too. I repeat, be careful.”
Bish
op walked through the door without further comment.
Devaux turned away and looked down at the corpse again, “And not just of the killer either. Lord Cresswell has quite a temper, as did you, Monsieur Blair.”
*
The company were in the doldrums for the remainder of the day and Victor’s disappearance into his office did little to alleviate the problem. Not even Eve was able to coax him from his exile.