Cursed in the Act (7 page)

“Get him, Harry!” shouted Stoker.

I was too out of breath to reply but hurried on upward. Above me I heard someone curse as they hit against an obstacle, then there was a loud, rasping noise and a clang. I looked up as I climbed. I saw what looked like a bright light shining down from the fly tower, though with little in the way of actual illumination. I only glimpsed it through the slats of the gridiron, so I couldn't really make it out. Then something seemed to cover the light before moving off it again. I gritted my teeth and climbed till my heart was thumping in my chest.

I reached the fly gallery and dashed across the bridge to continue on upward on the central rear ladder. Across the top of the wall stretched the old gas table. This is where the gas used to be regulated, with a complicated system of valves, for the stage lighting. The stage area had been converted to the new electricity, but the gas table had not yet been removed. It was my guess that the intruder had bumped into it as he moved around.

I eventually reached the gridiron and stepped onto the slatted floor. My eyes were drawn back to the circle of light from above. I realized that a roof vent had been pried open—the sound I had heard—and that what I was seeing was the moon, just three days past full. Our intruder had blocked the light momentarily as he climbed up onto the shaft of the drum and exited through the vent, out onto the roof. I followed.

Chapter Six

B
y the time I had got up to the fly floor inside the theatre, my eyes had adjusted to the low light. It, therefore, took only a moment, when I broke out on the rooftop, to be able to focus on the figure I was chasing. The moon, sliding in and out from behind the clouds, helped. The intruder was dressed all in black—which didn't help me—and had a good start, but I spotted him disappearing over the ridge of the roof on the north side toward Exeter Street. The front of the theatre was on Wellington Street, and I didn't think he would attempt to get down that façade with its big Gothic columns. But on the north side there was a variety of possibilities, with gutters and rainspouts, sloping gables, mansards, and dormers. Crestings, decorative eaves, and embellishments could afford handholds for a desperate man. I rushed after him, slipping and sliding on the ice-covered roof. I part fell and part threw myself down at the corner where I had last seen him, and peered over the edge. There was no sign of the man. He had either fallen to the street below or he had somehow managed to hang on and claw his way to freedom.

I struggled upright, which turned out to be a very bad move. My feet suddenly slid out from under me and I pitched over the side. Instinctively I reached out and managed to grab hold of the decorative cresting along the edge of the roof, quickly bringing up my other hand and hanging there, swinging like a pendulum. My feet scrambled to make purchase on the slope of the curved mansard roof below me, but there was nothing to give support. I have no idea what the temperature was, but it was icy cold and I was not wearing gloves. My fingers protested as I hung there, frantically trying to pull myself up.

I don't know how long it took, but my fingers finally gave out. I dropped from the top ledge and slid down the outward sloping mansard roof to suddenly come up short against the same decorative cresting on the lower edge. I was facedown, flat against the cold curve of the roof, my shoes hard against the wrought ironwork. I prayed that the decorative edge was not so old that it would give way.

I slowly turned my head first one way and then the other. To my left I saw a dormer projecting from the mansard. I vaguely recalled that there were some attic storage rooms, where spare ropes, pulleys, and the like were kept. If I could manage to edge along to that, I might be able to break the window and get inside. Slowly and very carefully I eased myself along toward the dormer, carefully placing my feet against the decorative spikes and whirls and sliding my body and face along the roof.

After what seemed an eternity I reached the protruding window. How, now, to break the glass? What did I have with which to hit it? The obvious thing was one of my shoes. Very, very slowly and carefully I took my weight on one leg and slid my other leg up until I could get to my shoe. After a struggle I got it off. The next issue was that it was in my left hand, with the window to my left, and I am right-handed. That should not be a problem, I told myself. Glass is fragile; windows are easily broken.

My first attempt somehow turned out to be not much more than a tap. I was cold. My hand was cold. My shoeless foot was now becoming extremely cold. I tried again, hitting as forcefully as I was able. The shoe bounced back off the glass, out of my hand, and disappeared over the edge of the roof.

I lay for several minutes flat against the roof, my head twisted to the side, my left foot not only cold but suffering from the pressure against the pointed iron of the cresting. I am not a religious man, but it did occur to me to pray. However, I could not see the hand of God reaching down and plucking me off the side of the building, so I tried to be practical. I very carefully eased myself around, turning over so that my back was now against the roof and my good right hand was closest to the defiant window. I struggled and contorted myself to remove my other shoe, realizing that this would be my last chance. I got it off and held it as securely as I possibly could. I reached out and smashed it into the glass.

The window exploded and jagged pieces flew in all directions. Happily, since I was flat against the roof and out of the line of fire, none of them struck me. I used the shoe to hit the glass several times more and removed the dangerous shards still attached to the window frame. Then I worked on getting myself inside the dormer, through the hole.

* * *

C
olonel Cornell sat in a seat in the front row of the stalls, a doctor tending his smashed shoulder. His winged collar had broken free of its stud and stood out from his bruised face while his silk cravat was dragged to one side. The silk lapels of his jacket were severely creased. He had screwed his monocle back into his eye and now fixed me with a fierce stare as though it was all my fault that he had been so dishonored.

“No luck, Harry?” My boss stood to one side of the visitor and, happily, seemed more concerned about me than he was about the American. I told him what had happened, as one of the stagehands wrapped a blanket around my shivering form.

“Luck was a large part of it, sir, I'm sure,” I said ruefully. “But it was all on the side of our visitor—our would-be assassin. There was no sign of him on the street, when I finally got down there. And no one standing around in the snow to be witness to anything. Not that I think they would have seen our man. He seemed to know what he was doing.”

“Any sign of your shoe?”

I thought I caught the hint of a smile on my boss's face. “I'm sure it is now a welcome cover on the foot of some street arab,” I said.

“D'you know this—this assassin?” spluttered the colonel.

I noticed that the Guv'nor had departed and left our visitor for Mr. Stoker to handle.

“There's the rub, as the Bard would say. We have been plagued by this miscreant before but have yet to detain him,” said Stoker.

“Mr. Booth would not be willing . . .”

“Mr. Booth must make his own decisions.” Stoker towered over the seated, disheveled figure. He could be very forceful when necessary. “I can only add my own apologies to those already expressed by Mr. Irving for this unfortunate occurrence. As he explained, we are working with the police to detain the person responsible. I am sure the matter will be resolved long before Mr. Booth might set foot on our stage, so he may have no qualms on that score.”

* * *

“I
would rather we had kept this in-house, Harry,” said Stoker the next morning, frowning at the open newspaper laid out on the desk in front of him. “But these damned Americans are always looking for publicity—good or bad.”

The
Morning Herald
had published a report of last evening's events with the bold caption
Mysterious Intruder Attempts to Kill American Actor's Manager
. Happily—as I pointed out to my boss—it appeared on page three rather than the front page, being displaced by a lengthy report from Dungannon, Ireland, about a continuation of riots in the Catholic village of Listamlaght brought about by a party of Orangemen. The description of the breaking of windows and doors in Listamlaght, along with the frightening and beating of villagers and the setting on fire of one of the cottages, took pride of place over a falling light in a London theatre.

“How did the newspaper get hold of the story, sir?” I asked.

“Our Colonel Cornell himself, I'd wager, Harry. None of our people would have spoken to any newspaperman.”

I nodded. “It will be interesting to see if the colonel's philosophy is valid,” I said. “If we get a full house tonight, it could conceivably be because of the story.”

“Hrmph! I think—and I'm sure the Guv'nor would agree—that we would far rather depend upon more positive publicity.” He crumpled up the newspaper and tossed it into the wastebasket. “What are your plans for the day, Harry?”

I got up from my seat, ready to go back to work. “First is to get Sam Green's crew checking ropes and pulleys again. The closing of the vent onto the roof I personally supervised before going home last night. I'm doubling theatre security for tonight's performance and we'll especially keep our eyes open for Saturday.”

“If you can fit it in, Harry, it might not be a bad idea to get together with that police sergeant. I'd feel a bit more comfortable if he has a couple of his constables keeping an eye on the place as well.”

“Yes, sir. Good idea. I'll make a point of seeing him this morning.”

“Oh! And the Guv'nor wondered if you'd mind running around to his rooms again? His friend Mr. Barker, who shares the rooms with him, apparently came up with an old recipe his mother used to use that has helped the Guv'nor settle his stomach since the poisoning. It seems he forgot to bring the bottle with him this morning. He doesn't think he'll have time to go back home again before this evening's performance.”

“He wants me to pick it up for him?” Suddenly the day brightened.

“If you have time, Harry. I told him I could send any one of the lads around, since you are so busy . . .”

“Oh no, sir! No, I'll be happy to do it. I could do it on my way to see Sergeant Bellamy, in fact.”

Stoker smiled and gave me a knowing look. I swore that he knew my thoughts before I knew them myself! I left the room before he might change his mind.

* * *

I
stood outside 15a Grafton Street, brushed the light sprinkling of snow off my shoulders, and straightened my tie. I felt a little like a giddy schoolboy infatuated by a girl in his class. I mentally shook my head and stood up straighter. Not the time to get carried away! I was there simply to pick up the Guv'nor's medicine. I lifted the polished brass knocker and let it fall.

Mrs. Cooke answered the door. She wore what appeared to be the same black dress she had been wearing on my previous visit, though perhaps she just had a number of such garments, much like a uniform. I explained my errand and hoped that she would not simply ask me to wait and then bring me the bottle. I was in luck.

“Do please come up, sir. I'm sure I don't know what bottle you are talking about but mayhap one of the girls will know.”

“The young lady who assisted me in finding Mr. Irving's book last time I was here,” I said as I climbed the stairs. “She seemed a bright young person.”

“Young Betsy, are you meaning, sir?”

“No!” I said quickly. Then added, more calmly, “I think her name was Jenny.”

I was left standing on the landing but it was only a moment before Jenny appeared. She looked pleased to see me, with a slight blush to her cheek. I grinned broadly, like a fool, and then tried to look serious.

“I'm on another errand for Mr. Irving,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Harry. Remember?”

I swear her blush deepened. “Yes . . . Harry.” Her voice was little above a whisper.

I told her what I needed. “I hope I'm not being a bother,” I said.

“Oh no, Harry. Not at all.” She gave me a quick smile. “I think I know the bottle you mean. Mr. Irving keeps it on the table beside his bed. I'll go and get it.”

While she was gone I racked my brains to think of an excuse to linger. I'm sure I could have suggested I be offered a cup of tea, but there would be no reason for Jenny to join me or even linger while I drank it. Suddenly she was back, holding a small stone bottle in her hands.

“That was quick,” I said.

We stood a long moment just looking at each other. Suddenly she seemed to realize that she was still holding the bottle. She reached out her hand as I did the same, and we touched. She almost dropped the bottle but I quickly caught it. We both smiled.

“I—I suppose I must be on my way,” I said. “I, er, I hope Mr. Irving thinks of other things for me to come for. Oh! By the way, I did speak to Mr. Stoker about you and your fellow employees visiting the theatre one of these days. He said he thought it a good idea.”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” She looked deep into my eyes, and it was my turn to almost drop the bottle. “Thank you so much, Harry.”

I had a sudden thought that perhaps I could somehow get another look at the mysterious letters from Richland to the Guv'nor. They were right there in the room next to where I was standing. But on what pretext could I again invade Mr. Irving's desk? No. It was not to be on this visit.

I caught Jenny studying me from under lowered eyelashes. I blurted out: “If I may be so bold, do you receive a day off during the week?”

“Yes, I do.” She nodded her head vigorously. “Sunday, after ten of the clock.”

“Sunday at ten?” I said. “I'd like . . . I mean . . . if I may . . . ?”

“Yes, Harry.”

I have no recollection of leaving the house nor of hailing a cab. I suppose I must have done so, for I found myself bowling along the Strand, smiling into the blowing snow and clutching the medicine bottle as though my life depended upon it. I raised my stick and tapped on the trapdoor. It was opened and the driver looked down.

“What was the address I gave you?” I asked.

“Lyceum Theatre, sir. We're nearly there.”

“Drop me at the Little Vine Street police station instead, would you?” I remembered that I had to catch up with Sergeant Bellamy.

It was actually lunchtime before I did get to see him. At the station I learned that he usually took a liquid lunch at the Stag's Head on Sackville Street, and I made my way there for my own repast. I found the sergeant sitting at a corner table consulting the
Sporting Times
as he downed a pint of the black Whitbread porter that was the speciality of the public house and nibbled on a wedge of Cheshire cheese.

“I'll have the same,” I called to the barman as I dropped into the chair opposite Bellamy.

“The bread's stale,” observed the policeman, indicating the thickly sliced hunk of homemade brown bread he'd left on the side of his platter.

“Doesn't look it,” I observed, peering down at it.