Cursed in the Act (15 page)

“Do you have an address for the last time she used your services?”

“Of course. We do need to get paid, you know.”

I was not sure if he was referring to Daisy having to pay him for the listing or if he was implying that I should pay him for the information. I decided to play it safe and I placed a half sovereign on a small, uncovered section of his desk. He put his hand over it but did not pick it up.

“New Kent Road, at the number one hundred and forty-two.” With his free hand he snapped the book closed. It seemed that was all the information I was to get from
Theatre World.

* * *

O
n the south side of the River Thames, in the county of Surrey, is an area known as the Elephant and Castle. The name comes from an old coaching inn that once stood on that site. The ancient Worshipful Company of Cutlers, who once met there, have a coat of arms featuring an elephant with a howdah—looking somewhat like a miniature castle—on its back. In Shakespeare's
Twelfth Night
Antonio speaks of “the Elephant” lodgings. The present Elephant and Castle tavern was rebuilt sixty-five years ago and is now used as the terminal for several of the omnibuses.

I took one of the light green omnibuses to the Elephant and Castle hostelry, paying the fourpence fare. The vehicle was crowded, so despite the cold weather, I was forced to ride on the top, in one of the garden seats. In the summer that can be a delightful experience, but with snowflakes floating about as though considering ganging together and starting a storm, I had to bundle up, pull my topcoat about me, and tug my bowler hat tightly down over my ears. I was thankful to descend to the street when we reached our destination.

It seemed a long walk along New Kent Road, but it was not unenjoyable after riding the omnibus. I soon reached number 142, which turned out to be a rooming house, where I rapped sharply on the door three times before anyone appeared. Then it was an older woman dressed in a well-worn black frock with a faded brown shawl clutched about her bony shoulders. Her once-white cap was dirty, and scraggly steel gray strings of hair escaped it. Her face was painfully thin with her mouth a small, tight line. World-weary eyes looked at me as she enquired my business.

“Good afternoon to you,” I said. “I was led to believe that a Miss Daisy Middleton resides here? Is that correct?”

“'Oo wants to know?”

“My name is Harry Rivers,” I replied, not wanting to get into a lengthy explanation with this woman. “Is Miss Middleton at home?”

“Maybe she is and maybe she ain't.”

“I see.” I held a shilling in my hand though didn't pass it to her. This tracking of Daisy was starting to cost money, I thought. “Would you care to see if she is receiving?”

She unashamedly stuck out her gnarled hand and so I dropped the coin into it.

“Nah! She ain't receivin',” she said. “Fact is, she ain't 'ere no more. You just missed 'er. Left larst week . . . owing me money!”

She went to close the door but I was too quick. I was determined to get my shillingsworth. I stuck my foot in the door.

“Where did she go? It's important I see her.”

“She owe you money, too?”

I shook my head. She seemed to think for a moment.

“You might try at the Elephant. They may know.”

“The tavern?” I asked.

“Nah!” She sounded disgusted at my ignorance. “The bleedin' theatre, o' course. That's where she played.”

I had eased back on my foot and she took advantage of it to stamp on my toe. I didn't cry out but I did remove my foot just before she slammed the door. Somehow I knew she would not be reopening it.

By the time I got back to the Elephant and Castle omnibus station, I had stopped hobbling and my toes felt almost normal again. I rounded the corner and saw the Elephant and Castle Theatre before me. It was in a poor state of repair and I recalled reading somewhere—probably in
Theatre World
—that it was to be reconstructed. It certainly needed it. It was built on the site of the old Theatre Royal, which had been destroyed by fire. The new theatre was then itself partially damaged by fire just two years ago. Refusing to close, it had struggled on with blackened walls and boarded windows. From a legitimate theatre it had become a home for concert parties and variety shows. I peered at a faded poster on the wall beside the entrance. It advertised:

A NEW AUTUMN PRODUCTION

A drama written for this theatre by

Fredk. Melville

THE BAD GIRL OF THE FAMILY

Featuring Miss Daisy Middleton

and her popular song

“Daisy! Don't Eat the Daisies!”

REFRESHMENTS

OF THE BEST QUALITY

Supplied at Tavern Prices

by

J.C. RING

White Hart, Walworth Rd.

GRAND SMOKING SALOON
,

BOX PROMENADE.

No Re-admission after 9 o'clock.

It took me a while to locate the manager. I found him on a stepladder holding up the end of a batten while another man tied the upper end to a longer batten that stretched across the front of the stage. I introduced myself.

“You got an act, Mr. Rivers?” he asked.

“No. No, I'm here enquiring after your Miss Daisy Middleton.”

He gave a short, somewhat bitter laugh. “Oh, she ain't mine, Mr. Rivers. Not by a long chalk. Don't know that she's anyone's . . . nor that anyone would want her.”

“Is she still playing here?” I persisted.

He looked up at the man above him. “Bit more to your left, Frank. No,
your
left. That's it.” Then back to me. “Yes. We're still bumbling along. Not much in the way of houses, I admit, but enough to keep the curtain going up and down. What you want with her?”

“It's a personal matter,” I said.

“Ain't it always? Okay, Frank. That looks good.” He turned and slowly climbed down the steps. Dusting his hands, he studied me from under lowered eyebrows.

He was a small man, even shorter than myself. He wore no jacket and had his shirtsleeves tucked up in garters. His waistcoat sported a large regulator watch too large for the pocket. A Freemasonry fob hung from the watch chain. Despite being without a jacket, he wore a bowler hat, I would guess, to give himself extra height.

“Daisy Middleton,” he said, thoughtfully. “Now there's a woman to be wary of, and no mistake.”

“Oh?”

“You a friend, or a relation?”

“No. Nothing like that,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to her. We—the Lyceum management—have some questions regarding her past stage experience.”

“You're not looking to cast her in anything?” He looked surprised, and hopeful.

“No,” I said quickly. His face relaxed. “Just a few questions. Is she about?”

“I doubt it. Never shows up till just before curtain, and sometimes not even then. Unreliable cow! But you takes what you can get these days. The audiences seem to like her. Leastwise the pit does, and that's what counts. Right?”

“Right,” I agreed. The people in the pit at any theatre were the heart of the audience. They've been referred to as the true playgoers. A mix of upper and lower class—though I doubt that the Elephant and Castle, as a transpontine house, saw much of the upper class—they did not hesitate to display their enthusiasm or displeasure during the performance of any play or other entertainment.

“Have you any idea where Miss Middleton might be?” I enquired.

“You could look along Georges Road, if'n she's not in the public bar at the Elephant. That's where she does a lot of her business.”

It took me a moment to realize that he was implying that Daisy was supplementing her theatre income by being a dolly-mop, selling her services on the street or in the tavern. Sad as it was as a commentary on the woman's life, it came as a relief to me to know that her word would count as nothing against that of England's premier Shakespearean actor. With a sigh, I thanked the manager and set out back to the Lyceum Theatre.

Chapter Sixteen

S
unday was wet and windy. I attended the small service for Mr. Turnbull, at the Actors' Church. We had been unable to locate any family, so the Guv'nor said a few words declaring that we—the Lyceum Theatre—were all the family he had needed for many years. One or two of the backstage staff took the opportunity to say a few kind words. Mr. Turnbull had been known, if only by sight, to most of us. Mr. Stoker also spoke, relating incidents of thoughtfulness on Mr. Turnbull's part that had seemed to go unnoticed at the time. I saw a few of the ladies brush tears from their eyes. It was a moving ceremony, if brief because of the inclement weather. I admit to leaving the churchyard as soon as I decently could, in order to get over to Mayfair and to Miss Jenny Cartwright.

Jenny was bundled up in a Paramatta waterproof cape, which she confided she had borrowed from Susan, one of the other maids at Mr. Irving's residence. I carried a large umbrella that demanded my full attention in the wind in order to keep it over the two of us. Once again Jenny's bright face and sparkling eyes set my heart aflutter. She looked up at me from under curling dark lashes, driving all thoughts of the weather from my mind. Diamonds of raindrops gave her dark brown hair, peeping out from under her hat, an air of refinement, and I felt proud to be accompanying her, be it in rain, snow, or sleet.

By mutual consent, we hurried off to the ABC tearoom on Regent Street, where we had exchanged confidentialities the week before. We shook off our outer garments and took a table in a corner far from the door, so as not to be disturbed by the comings and goings of other patrons.

“How has the week been for you, Jenny?” I asked, gazing into her eyes and failing to notice the waitress who had appeared at our elbows. “Oh! So sorry,” I said, as menus were placed in front of us. “What would you like, Jenny?”

I sensed that Jenny was as distant from our surroundings as was I. She glanced at the menu but seemed unable to focus on the items it advertised.

“May I suggest a pot of tea for two and some petit fours or sandwiches?” asked the waitress, who had obviously encountered such self-absorbed couples before.

“Yes. Yes, please,” I said, and Jenny nodded.

“Is that the petit fours or the sandwiches?”

“What? Oh! Some of each, please,” I said, feeling my face redden.

With a smile and a nod, the waitress took back the menus and made off toward the kitchen.

“Is the play going well?” Jenny asked.

“Very well, thank you,” I said, jogging my chair just a fraction closer to her. “Oh! I just remembered.” I turned and dug into the pocket of my mackintosh hanging from the coat-tree close by the table. I pulled out a brown-paper-wrapped package that I handed to her. “Here are the letters you borrowed for us, Jenny. Mr. Stoker sends his most grateful thanks. They were certainly an eye-opener. I know we have all done a great service to Mr. Irving with this. Thank you.”

She blushed prettily and slipped the package into her reticule.

When the tea arrived, we busied ourselves with eating and drinking before I brought Jenny up to date with the events of the past week. The time passed quickly as I amazed her with stories of Voudon rituals under the stage of the Lyceum and of bare-knuckle fighting and chasing Herbert Willis across London. I played down the incident of being caught eavesdropping by Ogoon and Bateman, telling myself that I did so simply to avoid making Jenny feel at all distressed.

Her own week had been uneventful, she said. “You lead such an exciting life, Harry. It must be very exhausting.”

“I wouldn't change it,” I replied, and I meant it.

* * *

E
very morning, on first getting to the Lyceum, I would take a walk through the theatre just to satisfy myself that all was well. I would cover the stage itself, the wings, backstage, dressing rooms, greenroom, wardrobe, properties, lighting, and Mr. Stoker's office. I'd leave the checking of the front of house to Herbert Gardner. Everything was usually in order—other than the occasional misplacement of objects—and I was always telling myself that I was being overly conscientious. My job, as stage manager, really concerned the actual production itself. However, Mr. Stoker had instilled in me a sense of pride that could not be sloughed off for convenience sake. I made my routine inspection at the start of my every day.

This particular morning, fresh from my excursion to the Elephant and Castle and the investigation of Miss Daisy Middleton, I varied my routine slightly by checking on dressing rooms, backstage, and the wings before looking at the main stage. The
Hamlet
set was up, of course, and all seemed prepared for that evening's performance. The play opens with a scene at a guard platform at the Castle of Elsinore. Mr. Irving has that take place downstage, with only that apron section lit, so that for the following scene—a room of state in the castle—the lighting is brought up to include the full stage with all of the inner castle scenery and furnishings. I crossed the downstage area, from one side to the other, and just happened to glance upstage in passing. I came to a sudden stop. Something lay center stage; a bundle of rags or a pile of costumes. As I moved forward to examine it, my blood ran cold. It was a body.

* * *

S
ergeant Bellamy stood with his feet apart and a frown on his brow, scribbling into his notebook. Mr. Stoker and I stared down at the figure lying on the stage.

“You say you don't know this person?” The policeman looked up briefly, first at Mr. Stoker and then, more briefly, at myself.

We both shook our heads.

“He was most certainly not known to me, Sergeant, and Mr. Rivers has told you he was not conversant with the man,” said my boss. He was a little testy, having been interrupted in the middle of his Indian club exercise regimen. “Mr. Rivers is more in touch to the point of facial recognition. If and when we establish a name for the man, I can look through our list of employees. We do have close to four hundred persons in our employ here at the Lyceum.”

Sergeant Bellamy did not appear impressed but maintained a steady scribble in his little book.

“I do have to say that there is a certain familiarity to the man's face,” I said, stooping to get a closer look. “Not a stagehand or anything like that, but I'm almost certain I have seen him before, outside the theatre.”

The dead man was short and had a pinched, malnourished look. His hair was thin and dirty brown, with a prominent bald spot. He had an unnaturally black mustache and beard. As I studied the face I gasped. I reached forward and tugged at the beard. It came away, along with the mustache.

“Well I'm . . .” The sergeant nearly dropped his notebook. I hadn't realized that he was watching my actions.

“Charlie Vickers!” said Stoker.

“Of course!” I recalled the figure I had seen, some weeks before, talking to Ralph Bateman and Ogoon on the Embankment. The man my boss had later described to me as a regular scoundrel. More to the point, perhaps, he had been the one asking Bateman to be paid for climbing high above a stage and then complaining when Bateman refused. Had he been climbing above
our
stage and fallen? I wondered what he was doing there, if so.

“I can let you have some details of the man, Sergeant,” offered Stoker. “I keep records of such malcontents we have encountered, in my office.”

“What do you think he was doing, sir?” I asked. “He was obviously up to no good or he wouldn't have been here at all. I wonder how he came to fall? I understood him to be quite agile and familiar with the flies.”

“And why the makeup, the false beard?” said Stoker.

“He hadn't put it on very well,” I said, leaning down again. “Somewhat lopsided, I think. He wasn't in any sort of costume and there is no performance until this evening, so what was the point?”

“Hmm. I wonder.” Stoker had his thoughtful look, with his finger alongside his nose.

“Broken neck, by the looks of it,” volunteered Bellamy. He prodded the corpse with his toe. “Not surprised if he fell from up there.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the area above the stage.

“Would you like to climb up and have a look from up there, Sergeant?” I asked, knowing full well the reply I would get.

In fact I didn't get a reply, leastwise not a verbal one. The policeman merely fixed me with his beady brown eyes, squinting at me as though to make a point. He gave a sniff and then turned away. I noticed a slight smile on my boss's face.

“We will have our men take care of this, Mr. Stoker. Just as soon as convenient.”

“Convenient to you or to me?” asked my boss.

Bellamy did not reply and Stoker gave me a nod and strode from the stage. I trotted after him.

In his office, Mr. Stoker put away his Indian clubs and then sat down at his desk with a sigh. I took my usual seat on the wooden chair in front of the desk.

“Several questions that need answering, Harry, and I don't think we are going to get the answers from the Metropolitan Police.”

“Sir?”

“Number one, of course, what was Mr. Vickers doing here in the Lyceum after hours? I had instigated a search of the theatre after every final curtain, before the last person leaving and locking up for the night, with a team going through above stage and below. Do we have a second secret entry from outside, d'you think?”

“I doubt it, sir,” I said. “Though we can't be certain. How long was that opening from the Lyceum Tavern in operation before we happened upon it the other night? But I just don't feel that there's another one.”

Stoker grunted. “I agree.”

“Vickers must have broken in somehow. Either that or he gained entrance before last night's final curtain and managed to hide until everyone had left.”

The big man nodded. “That is my thinking. Yet the question remains, why?”

It was my turn to nod. “I suppose Bateman is still trying to bring down our production. And I'm still very uneasy about Willis's urging Bateman to kidnap the Guv'nor, or even Miss Terry.”

“I can't see Vickers achieving that, and especially not from the flies above the stage. No, Harry, there is more here than meets the eye.”

“But you have an idea, sir?” I felt I knew my boss by now.

“Yes, and no,” he said. “No to exactly why he was here, but yes to why we found him here.”

“I'm not sure I follow you, sir.”

“Think, Harry. You said yourself that Vickers was agile in the space above stage. It was almost certainly he who led you on that merry chase across our rooftop. How, then, did he come to fall? . . . If indeed he did fall.”

A flash went off inside my head. “You're saying he didn't fall; he was pushed?” I cried.

“Pushed. Dropped. Placed. I suspect his neck may have been broken before his body met our stage. And did you notice the fingernails?”

“Fingernails?” I realized I had dropped into my frequent and annoying—even to myself—habit of repeating what Mr. Stoker said. But then he so often caught me by surprise.

“The fingernails had traces of blood under them. Evidence, perhaps, of the man fighting off his attacker and trying to escape. Just another indication that he may not have fallen accidentally.” He paused a moment before continuing. “You had spoken of hearing him complaining to Mr. Ralph Bateman. Perhaps he complained too much?”

“Why the fake beard, sir?”

“That I have not yet resolved. You said it was badly placed so I suspect that, too, was added to the body after it was in situ. Some sort of allusion to this being part of our seemingly ongoing feud with Sadler's Wells, perhaps?”

I had to agree. Bateman—or more probably his boss—must have decided they had no further use for Charlie Vickers. Perhaps because of his complaining or for some other reason. Whatever it was, they must have thought it expedient to drop off his body on our stage, with no real agenda for the action. Hopefully the police would remove it long before curtain time. Stoker interrupted my thoughts.

“I would surmise that the Bateman-Ogoon group is not entirely harmonious. Some sort of rivalry, perhaps, in the ranks?”

“Between Vickers and Willis?” I hazarded.

“What is the name of that scene painter at Sadler's Wells that you know, Harry?”

“You mean Jack Parsons? Yes, I think he may be the only honest man at that theatre. Why do you ask, sir?”

My boss ran a finger around his shirt collar and straightened his cuffs. “I don't think we can safely send you off there again, Harry, even in makeup, excellent as your excursions have been. But it would be nice if we could get some sort of information as to what is truly going on there. Do you think Mr. Parsons might be willing to give us that information? Perhaps you might buy him a lunch, or something of that sort? What do you think, Harry?”

* * *

B
efore Sergeant Bellamy left the theatre he cornered me. It was unusual for him to speak to me for any length of time, here at the Lyceum. He had, that once, stopped by my rooms and addressed me directly, but other than that, if I was with Mr. Stoker then Bellamy always addressed everything to my boss and virtually ignored me. Now, however, he spoke to me directly.

“A work of caution, young man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It would seem to us that you are more closely tied in to what goes on here than you are willing to admit, Mr. Rivers.”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about? I am the theatre's stage manager so of course I'm tied in, as you put it, to what goes on here. I've never made any pretense otherwise.”

“That's not what we are saying, sir. It's all these murders and things. Bodies freshly dead and bodies missing. Severed heads. People being run down by cabs.”

“What are you talking about?” I repeated. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “Are you saying that I'm responsible for Peter Richland being run down? I wasn't even there when it happened. Also, I was not onstage when the head came flying out of the scenery. And now this body of Mr. Charles Vickers . . . why would I be associated with that?”