by David Haynes
“Of course. I shall make sure they both get home safely,” he pointed at Heath who had collapsed in an undignified heap on the floor. He was laughing raucously whilst Eve stood by, trying her utmost not to look upset. “Particularly him. He is our leading man!”
Bishop drank the remainder of the champagne and put his coat on, “Until tomorrow, Alexander. Good night.”
Metier stood and offered his hand, “I am lucky to have such a friend as you, Robert. I may yet be writing letters myself tonight.”
Bishop lit the lamp and settled at his desk beneath the grubby window. He was tired but he knew delaying writing the letter any longer would be poor judgement. Why had he put it off for so long? He had intended to write as soon as he had settled, and while it was true that events had taken several unexpected turns, he had still had ample opportunity.
He dipped his pen and straightened the paper, ‘Dear Father,’ and then what? How could he deliver the news of Blair’s murder and then talk blithely of his own insignificant trials.
He wanted to write and tell his father that at last he was cured. He wanted to say that the dreams had stopped; the visions of death and mutilation were no more and that the theatre had settled his mind. But that would be to admit they had never gone away and Cunningham had failed; that he had failed.
It was better not to do it that way. No, he would speak with his father face to face when he arrived for the funeral; which he would surely make the journey for. He would hand the letter to one of the theatre runners and ask them to ensure the letter was taken immediately to Calais to await the next ship. In London, it was not unusual for a body to lie rotting in one’s house for weeks until arrangements had been made and mourners satisfied. Paris was no different, although Blair’s body had yet to be released from the frozen confines of the morgue under instruction from Devaux.
He continued with the letter, ‘I take no pleasure in informing you that your good friend, Mr Blair is deceased. I am not in possession of the full facts but the police in Paris are treating the matter as murder. Preparations are underway for internment here in Paris which be as soon as the police release his body. If you wish to come, I urge you to make speedy travel arrangements.
I am staying at the address at the foot of the paper or can be contacted during the day at Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol in Pigalle. It is known throughout the city and any cab will take you there.’
Bishop signed his name. The letter was unsatisfactory and his skills in delivering such a message inadequate yet it would have to do. He sealed the envelope and wrote his father’s address on the front.
He thought back to his departure from London. There had been no cloud when he left. No dark or threatening gestures of defiance from either side. Just a grudging acceptance of fate by his father; a man who had felt the cruel sting of a departing loved one before. He loved his father and they had much in common. When he had told him that he no longer wished to be a physician, his father had not bemoaned the fact or tried to persuade him otherwise. He had just accepted it and asked him what he intended to do instead.
His father had read each and every one of his books and clapped his back upon completing each one. “Extraordinary, Robert, quite extraordinary!” was how he had described them. Other than that comment, he had offered no opinion.
They had never discussed Rose’s departure from their lives. Bishop had long forgotten a time when he desired to know what had happened but that had not always been the case. There had been times when he had strolled through the city and felt watched, as if someone were scrutinising his every move. But of course, there had been nobody there, at least nobody he could see. He imagined the unknown person to be his mother, watching him and keeping him safe. But he never spoke of that notion to his father for it would be too painful for them both.
*
For the following week the theatre was full each and every night and every night, screams and wails resounded throughout the auditorium. Victor and Alexander spent more and more time together which left Bishop to take the reins. Not that there was much to do. The show was in no need of refinement or alteration and the only time any attention was needed was to address Heath. His ideas for new additions to the show were occasionally so grotesque that they became feasible. Eventually the show would need to evolve, when the shock value was lost, but for now, Bishop was happy to maintain the equilibrium. If only to afford Victor and Alexander the time to develop their relationship.
As the relationship between father and son developed Eve became less visible within the theatre. She was often too tired to participate in the after show visit to Café D’Harcourt and too ill to engage with the cast the following day. She would spend hours locked in her changing room with no company save for her own. When news reached her of the imminent arrival of Alexander’s mother and Victor’s lifelong love, she shrank further away from them all. It was as if the realisation that she would never possess what she so desired had taken her spirit and beaten her into a corner. It was indeed a miracle that the power of her performance was undiminished, and her chemistry with Heath remained magnificent.
“You have spoken with Mademoiselle Bissette today, Robert?” Victor stood in the doorway of Bishop’s office.
Bishop looked up. He had seen as little of Victor as he had Eve and he looked somewhat frayed. “Briefly, when she arrived this morning. I believe she is in her dressing room.”
Victor stepped forward, “And her disposition?”
“I really could not say. I have barely seen her this week but she appears to be suffering a malaise of some kind.”
Victor winced, “Have you written to your father?”
“Nearly a week ago.”
“And has he replied?” Victor responded. He appeared agitated and was unable to hold Bishop’s gaze.
“No, but a week is barely any time at all.”
“I have made arrangements for Blair to be buried in Père Lachaise the day after tomorrow. It is unfortunate your father and I must meet again in such circumstances, but it is unavoidable. I hope he arrives in time for there are matters to discuss and not all of them will be pleasant.”
Bishop wanted to ask what he meant but Victor had already turned away and was walking toward Eve’s dressing room.
He was not aware of how deep the friendship between Blair and his father went. But it was clear his father held him in some regard; he had entrusted his son’s safety to the man after all. He would be angry if he missed the funeral, Bishop was sure.
The cortege left Le Grand Guignol at precisely eleven o’clock. The hearse was resplendent in black lacquered wood and shiny gold brass. The horses which led it wore feathers fastened between their ears; both the horses and the feathers were the colour of Lucifer’s soul. They snorted and pulled and fought their impatience to be away to Père Lachaise and rid of their cargo. Blair’s last stroll through Paris was not to be merrily tapping his cane along the boulevards of Pigalle. No, it was in the confines of a deep and dark mahogany coffin perched upon the carriage back.
Bishop, Metier, Cresswell and Eve rode in a cab behind the hearse. Eve had not wanted to come but Victor’s insistence had eventually won out. She had barely been out of her room except to perform in over a week. Although Blair’s body had never been inside the theatre, Victor insisted on adorning the large double doors in a laurel wreath. It was tied with a black silken ribbon which fluttered like the wings of a demon in the morning breeze.
The trunk Bishop had bought to Paris with him did not contain a sufficient number of suits to retain one solely for funerals. In fact the trunk contained only one suit and that was the one he wore everyday. Victor did not consider it entirely suitable for Blair’s burial and so insisted he visit a tailor and have a suit made up. He might have expected to wait a number of weeks for such a suit but the influence of Lord Cresswell extended beyond the realms of the theatre. Both he and Metier wore identical black suits, black leather gloves and a black silk hatband.
Even though Eve
had barely met Blair, she was dressed for full mourning as one might expect to dress for a father or mother. The parramatta silk was as dull as could be and no ornaments decorated the gown. The fathomless folds and pleats absorbed all the morning light like a deep well and her weeping veil concealed her expression, entirely.
“Regrettably, it does not appear my father was able to make the journey.” It was a bright, clear morning, and in the fine spring weather, the delicate scent of cherry blossom drifted about the streets like a lover’s kiss.
There was no reply to Bishop’s remark; there was no need, it was simply a statement of fact. He looked across at Eve and Victor. Victor was ashen faced and tired. Even though it was a fine spring morning, their appearance and countenance was as dark and portentous as a gloomy cold night in dead winter London.
The carriage moved slowly along Rue La Fayette until they were forced to stop. A carriage had overturned in the road ahead, killing stone dead the poor horse who pulled it. A frenzied group of men attempted to clear the beast and right the carriage. Bishop turned away from the grisly spectacle and gazed upon a church set back form the road. The giant colonnades reminded him of the Greek temples from the plates in his books.
“It is the church of Saint Vincent De Paul,” began Eve. “It was formerly a prison for lunatics. Now the lunatics go there to worship.”
The carriage moved off again, rattling, shaking and jolting them against each other. Each mile of road was decorated with staring eyes and superstitious gestures of respect. And as they travelled further away from the bustle of the city, the sounds of humanity drifted away and were replaced instead by birdsong and the whisper of a breeze on the tips of the leaves.
A great wall opened up before them; white and achingly bright; its high walls protected those within. As the hearse slowed and turned, it disappeared out of view until they too turned and passed beneath two granite flames carved into the gateway. Pere Lachaise had swallowed them all.
The hearse rattled along, deeper into the cemetery and the carriage followed. It was not the city any longer for the trees which lined the lanes were like those from an estate in Suffolk. The chestnut trees were in full blossom and were it not for the hearse in front Bishop might have thought himself in a park, ready to enjoy a gentle promenade.
Before long the track became too narrow for the carriages to pass and they all disembarked. The driver and his three bearers unlocked the case in which Blair’s coffin was secured and slid it out. Victor and Bishop stepped forward and the coffin was hoisted onto their shoulders.
They stepped slowly along the path, past the chapels, tombs, mausoleums and weeping angels in supplication. The lavish, the elegant and the timeworn beauty of moss covered virgins all stood on parade as they passed. Here and there, garish flowers with their trembling petals, drew the eye to pin-hole vistas far away through the tombs. Views of lands where the grim reaper’s scythe was decorated with lichen blooms of golden light. Where the scent of wisteria fell upon the marble angels and brought them to their knees. This was not the forlorn grey landscape of Brookwood where wind and rain toyed with bitterness and regret. This was the undulating grace of Elysium; the land of milk and honey and an elegant departure.
“Here!” Victor shouted.
Bishop was delighted to stop; he was unsure how much further he could walk. The procession came to a halt beside a simple grey tomb with a simple black iron gate across the entrance.
The driver kicked the gate open and they slid the coffin inside a granite box atop a trestle inside the tomb. One inside the other, like a Russian Doll, Bishop thought absently.
The tomb was barely large enough to accommodate them all and as they shuffled back out, the sound of cheerful whistling filled the sombre air. Up on one of the many hills, the portly and gowned figure of a priest wobbled toward them. None of them spoke for they were all transfixed by his rotund silhouette.
When finally he arrived, his face was flushed and his breath came in short rasping gasps. He spoke to the director briefly and peered inside the tomb.
“D’accord.”
Bishop’s grasp on the French language was abysmal but he doubted whether either Victor or Alexander would understand what the priest was saying, so rapidly spoken were his words. There could be no doubting his enthusiasm though, for he threw his arms in the air and bounced about as if he were a lunatic invoking his demons.
When at last the tirade had ended, Victor entered the tomb once more, and with the aid of the director, pulled the stone lid over the coffin.
He stepped backward and locked the gate, “Fare thee well, brother,” he whispered.
“Fare thee well, indeed!” A voice roared behind them. “He shall fare better than you, Cresswell!”
They all turned to see what manner of man would speak in such a way and at such a time.
Bishop’s mouth dropped and his eyes widened. The sight of his father marching toward them was not what he had expected, “Father?” he stuttered, “you made it barely in time.”
His father did not break stride; he did not even look at his son. His eyes were set on Victor and they blazed with fury.
“We could wait no longer…” Bishop said as his father passed him.
“Walter…” Victor only had time to say the name before Walter Bishop’s meaty fist connected with Victor’s mouth and knocked him off his feet.
Bishop watched, horrified. Such a display of violence from his father was so foreign as to be utterly inconceivable. The others too were dumbstruck. The only sound was that of the whistling priest disappearing over the brow of the hill.
Victor sat dazed beside the tomb of his friend but before he had chance to stand, Walter Bishop was on him again and had delivered three more blows to his face.
“Stop!” cried Metier rushing to his father’s side.
Walter brushed him aside as if he were swatting a bothersome fly and continued with the assault. Victor’s head bounced off the grey granite stone of Blair’s tomb and daubed it red.
“You bastard!” Walter roared and flung Victor’s battered body to the floor.
Eve shrieked and flew toward Walter who raised his hand to strike her. Instead he gripped her arm and pushed her away, “I will not strike you woman but by God do not come for me again.” Bishop was unable to move for a moment. The voice was not that of his father but some maniac with murder on his mind.
Bishop finally took a step toward his father. Was his anger due to missing the funeral? If so, it was without defence. “Father? What is this? What has come over you. We could not wait any longer for you to…”
His father raised a bloodied hand, “You do not know this man as I do.” Bloody and foaming spit gathered at the corners of his mouth. “He is a vile deceiver!”
Metier crawled to Victor and with Eve, supported his head. Victor had fallen unconscious and a deep wound had opened on his brow. Blood pooled in the recess and threatened to flood over the edge.
“I do not understand. There has been no deception. We waited for you as long as we could, but now you are here, can you not mourn him as we do?
“You know nothing, son. It is not Blair’s funeral I have come to endure. I have come to set matters straight. This man has deceived you.”
Bishop was still in the dark. What wrongs had been done? “But he has given me everything, father. He has given me work and happiness. I have never felt so soothed.”
“You work for this man?” His father’s voice was deformed by the twisted snarl upon his face.
“I create beauty in his theatre. I am writing plays and the nightmares have stopped, they are like dust in the breeze.” He suddenly felt the weight of everything crashing down around him. “You have ruined everything!”
Bishop fell to his knees and felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, “Had I known you had fallen under his spell I would have come sooner. Blair will be damned in hell for this!”
The pallbearers had crept silently away with the priest when the first blow w
as struck. Now they gathered beneath a giant chestnut tree as if waiting for another body to bury.
“We must leave now, Robert. You will return to London and resume your career in medicine.” His father’s voice had softened a little.
“Why have you done this?” Bishop implored.
“Because he cannot let go.” A female voice drifted gently into his ears.
Bishop looked up at his father in confusion. Where rage had bled fire into his eyes now lived only confusion. His mouth opened with an intake of breath and then closed with no further sound.
“Mother!” Metier shouted.
Bishop rose from his knees and watched the woman come toward him. She smiled warmly as the morning sun fell on her face. Her gown was white, pure, vivid and in contrast to the dark attire of everyone else. He thought her an angel at first.
She reached out and touched his cheek, “You are handsome like your father.”