Contents
Author’s Note
Map
OVERTURE
Bram Stoker’s Journal, 1889
London, 29 June 1889
Edinburgh, 17 July 1889
Act I
Bram Stoker’s Journal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Original note handed over by William A. Wheatstone
Chapter 4
First letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill
Chapter 5
Bram Stoker’s Journal
Chapter 6
Bram Stoker’s Journal (continued)
Chapter 7
Act II
Second letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Bram Stoker’s Journal (continued)
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Bram Stoker’s Journal
Chapter 18
Bram Stoker’s Journal
Act III
Bram Stoker’s family tree
Bram Stoker’s Journal (continued)
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Cast as listed in the 1889 Edinburgh souvenir
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Third letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Fourth letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill
Chapter 27
Fifth letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Bram Stoker’s Journal
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Act IV
Bram Stoker’s Journal
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Final letter from the partially burned stack found at Calton Hill
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Act V
From The Scotsman, 13 July 1889
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Preliminary Report by Inspector I.P. Frey
Epilogue
Historical Note
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PENGUIN BOOKS
A MASK OF SHADOWS
Oscar de Muriel was born in Mexico City and moved to the UK to complete his PhD. He is a chemist, translator and violinist who has worked all over England and Scotland, and now lives in Cheshire. A Mask of Shadows is his third novel, following A Fever of the Blood and The Strings of Murder.
The third one is for the Hanburians and Mr Akhtar,
who gave Frey & McGray a fighting chance
Author’s Note
The real lives of Bram Stoker, Sir Henry Irving and Dame Ellen Terry – the darlings of Victorian theatre – were far more intriguing and complex than any of their plays.
As I will detail in my final note, nearly all the backstories, love affairs, family disputes and on-going tribulations mentioned in this book, no matter how anachronistic they might seem, are historical fact – and an irresistible treat for the crime writer.
OVERTURE
* * *
BANQUO
The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them. Whither are they vanished?
MACBETH
Into the air, and what seemed corporal
Melted, as breath into the wind.
Bram Stoker’s Journal, 1889
Fragment filed by Inspector Ian P. Frey
30 June. London – The Lyceum Theatre is still in turmoil. Nobody can tell for certain what happened last night, and there is little I can deduce from the morbid accounts. Mrs Harwood is still a wreck and Irving will not tell me much.
The police arrived timely but refused to investigate any further. The officers told us we were all insane and left without even looking at the desecrated set. Irving had to snarl, curse and threaten before the cleaners agreed to mop up the ghastly mess.
I will have to call Mr Harker, as a matter of urgency, before we set off for Scotland. I would not trust this deed to anybody else: he will have to patch and repaint the entire lower section of the castle scenery. The canvas cannot be salvaged. It is drenched in blood.
London, 29 June 1889
Thunder struck, startling the crowd, and the hazy stage glowed under blinding lightning. Then a spear emerged from the thick mist, bearing the severed head of King Macbeth.
The ladies gasped, covered their mouths with lace handkerchiefs or clutched their feathery fans to their chests. Some of them were moved, but most were sickened by the sight of dark, viscous blood dripping from the dead king’s neck.
Sharp voices were heard among the high notes of strings and trumpets, just as three shadows ascended, spiralling like scavengers around the ghastly stake. These were no vultures but three black ravens, flapping their wings and cawing in mockery, as their sinister call became mixed with the choir.
‘All hail Macbeth! All hail! All hail!’
It all ended in horror, tragedy and death. Their eyes were wet and their hearts were heavy. They all assumed there was no redemption, but then a slender, shy figure emerged through the thick fog. The swirls seemed to retreat and the spectators saw the golden hair and the wide blue eyes of a teenage boy. The darkness gathered around him, his frame lit only by a little taper he’d brought with him – but then a single, sharp ray of light appeared, cutting right through the haze. The beam grew and widened, bouncing off the bejewelled crown that the boy carried in his other hand.
‘Fleance,’ a gentleman murmured.
Future father of kings. The seed of justice, peace and glory. The promise of a kingdom restored.
The boy looked up, and the choir instantly shifted into a sweet, angelic note, which faded as the curtain gently began to drop. Long before the velvet touched the floor an explosion of applause and cheering flooded the theatre, so loud Henry Irving thought he could feel the sound vibrating in his chest.
He clenched the canvas, peering on one side of the painted scenery. He knew people might see him but he did not care now. London’s Lyceum Theatre reverberated to the deafening cries of acclaim, and he lived for these moments. His eyes panned the auditorium as the people began to clap on their feet. In a moment the main cast would join him. He’d hold Ellen’s soft, beautiful hand and raise it in the air, and …
His heart skipped a beat, all the joy vanishing in a blink.
Well into the rows of seats there was a pair of piercing eyes, fixed on him. He knew whose they were, even before he could make out the features of the face.
‘Florence!’ he cried, but amongst all the clamour nobody heard his voice.
Irving wondered how he could have missed her until then: the woman’s skin, vinegar-bleached, was so pale she glowed amidst the rows of seats like a ghost with a deep frown that was visible despite the distance. And she looked much thinne
r, as if recently ravaged by a consuming disease.
The actor fancied himself in full command of his features, his breath and eyes the very tools of his craft; however, at that instant three decades of acting served him only to realize his utter loss of self-control. Florence lifted her chin, defiantly, and her eerie smile grew wider when she saw Irving’s expression.
‘What are you doing here?’ Irving mouthed, livid, just as the curtains blocked his vision, but the woman’s ominous stare seemed to have scarred into his retinae.
And then they all heard the banshee’s cry.
Ellen Terry rubbed her hands again and again.
It was strange that the syrup and cochineal dye concoction, which vanished from clothes with a little rinse, would cling to her nails and cuticles so stubbornly.
‘A little water clears us of this deed,’ she’d say on the stage, only to spend the rest of the evening trying to clean her own skin.
Miss Ivor, her sour understudy, held the porcelain basin in the middle of the corridor and watched as the grand Miss Terry spruced herself up.
The ageing actress had good reason to be upset: Ellen Terry had not missed a single performance since December, and with the London season ending tonight, poor Miss Ivor had not had a chance to play her Lady Macbeth.
‘I hear the battle’s lost and won,’ she said. ‘You should change now, Miss Terry.’
‘I’d better do,’ said Ellen, drying her forearms and handing the towel to Miss Ivor. ‘Thanks, darling. And sorry again. You do know I hate to treat you like a servant!’
Miss Ivor concealed her resentment very poorly, but Ellen Terry had no head to worry too much: she was still wearing the white nightgown from her sleepwalking scene, which was utterly inappropriate for thanking the public. She liked to change back into her main outfit: the majestic green gown, bejewelled and embroidered with real beetle wings, which had been the talk of London throughout the year.
The door to her dressing room was ajar, but Ellen thought nothing of it. It could have been one of the seamstresses, or little Susy, coming to borrow a book and read herself to sleep after her performance, or Bram bringing flowers or presents from one of her avid admirers.
‘Fussie!’ she exclaimed as soon as she saw Irving’s beloved fox terrier on top of her dressing table, wagging its tail. The dog had once been hers, but Irving had stolen its affections with courses of lamb chops, strawberries, ladies’ fingers soaked in champagne, and a beautiful fur rug of his very own. ‘What are you doing here?’
Fussie did not hear. He was facing the mirror, his head half buried into a bundle of wrapping paper, munching loudly.
‘What is that, dear?’ Ellen asked. The dog was a glutton, always sniffing the air for treats he could steal. ‘Your little stomach will be the end of you, you know that?’
Ellen reached for her dress, too busy to even glance at the bundle, but then she perceived an odd smell. Meaty and slightly sickening.
She looked back, and the eagerness with which the dog was devouring it suddenly repelled her.
‘Oh, Fussie, what are you eating?’
Many sheets of brown paper were crumpled all around the dog. Ellen held a corner with her now quivering fingers and gingerly pulled the wrapping aside.
At first she thought it was a pile of slugs, their slimy grey skins sodden in a ghastly red fluid. Then she blinked and felt as if life itself slipped from her body, leaving only an icy hollow in her chest. Fussie had been chewing on blood-soaked brains.
And just as Ellen Terry rose to scream, the banshee’s cry was heard.
‘My God, who turned all the lights off?’ Bram Stoker asked, looking into the darkened corridor.
‘Mr Wheatstone,’ the first witch prompted.
Her weird sister added, ‘He was bringing in that white powder and said a little spark could kill us all. He cut the gas himself.’
Bram peered into the thick blackness. ‘And this is where you last saw her?’
‘Indeed. We asked her where she was going but she said nothing. She was having one of her – moments.’
Bram felt a draught of cold wind. Mr Wheatstone must have left the back door open. Anyone could have come in – or gone out.
‘Here,’ said the third witch, bringing a small oil lamp. Its amber flame projected sharp shadows on the crones’ faces.
For the first time in history the Weird Sisters were being played by women, and these ladies looked the part, still wearing their dark rags and with their twisted face prostheses still in place. As Bram took the lamp he thought they looked like monsters in a cave, as eerie as on the stage.
‘We need to go now,’ said the first witch. ‘Get our ovation.’
Indeed, since the opening night they’d received acclaims dangerously close to those for Terry and Irving.
‘Do you want us to help?’ asked the third witch.
‘No,’ Bram answered, a little too keenly. ‘No, it is all right. You go and thank the public. You deserve your moment of triumph.’
It did not take much to convince them. Bram saw them rush back into the theatre, just as a second draught made him shiver.
He turned on his heels very slowly, wielding the lamp like a weapon as he stepped into the darkness.
He had never liked dark places. Bram had spent the first seven years of his life bedridden, with a lamp or candle always within reach, and Mother in the next room. Now, even though he’d grown into a six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered theatre manager, Bram could not walk into a shady room without taking a deep breath first.
‘Mrs Harwood?’ he called, too conscious of the slight tremble in his voice, and baffled by his groundless anxiety.
He clenched the cool brass of his lamp more tightly and forced himself to move on.
Bram took a turn, approaching the Lyceum’s back door, but just as he saw the silver moonlight delineating its frame, he heard a revolting squash, felt his shoe slide on something, and his heartbeat quickened.
He looked down and spotted something dark on the floor. He squatted down to have a closer look, but just as he recognized the intense red of blood, the wind came again – this time stronger, directly from the back alley, and it swirled into the lamp’s glass chimney, extinguishing the flame.
A howling began somewhere far down the road. As his eyes adjusted Bram saw a dark trail emerge: a nasty dripping, running from underneath his feet and all the way to the door, ending in a puddle on the street’s flagstones.
Then a black shape came into view.
It dragged itself slowly, creeping towards the puddle as if to drink from it. It was a dog, enormous, dark and foul smelling: a massive black wolfhound with matted fur, veiny eyes and a long muzzle that dripped blood. The animal still licked it noisily.
Bram dropped the lamp, the chimney shattered on the floor and he fell backwards from the fright. The dog started, and its long, white fangs glowed under the moonlight.
And then the banshee’s cry was heard.
It was a horrible wail, rising quickly until it became a drilling, unbearable blast that injured the ears and curdled the blood.
Irving released the canvas, covered his ears and closed his eyes in agony. He noticed the sudden silence from the crowd, and pictured the shocked faces of the audience, aghast at the infernal cry.
The terrified screams of the cast were like whispers compared with that otherworldly shriek, which held itself on and on, as if drawing air from the most powerful lungs.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but Irving could not react for a moment. Still stunned, he groped through the scenery. Whoever had made the noise must be standing behind another two canvases.
It was like crawling through lines of bed sheets left to dry, only these were gigantic pieces: twenty feet tall and thirty feet wide. The glow of the stage lights did not reach the full depth of those canvas passages, and the narrow gap ahead of Irving blurred into blackness.
The last canvas was heavier, with thick layers of paint depicting Dunsinane C
astle. Irving had to kneel down and crawl to pass through. He placed his hand on the floor, only to plunge it into something viscous and repulsive.
His heart nearly stopped as the dim lights silhouetted a crouching woman.
‘Mrs Harwood!’ he exclaimed, not believing his eyes. The usually gentle seamstress was on her knees, her hands stretched forwards and her nails scratching the floorboards. She looked up, so suddenly that Irving thought her neck had snapped.
‘You heard her too!’ she babbled, trembling from head to toes. There were dark stains all over her skirt.
Irving drew a hand to his face, but before he covered his mouth he saw that his fingers were tainted too, the same colour as Mrs Harwood’s.
‘Tell me you heard her!’ she implored, reaching for him with her red hands, ‘Tell me you heard her too!’
‘We all heard!’ Irving shouted, just as someone came through the canvases, bringing a heavy oil lamp.
On the floor, surrounded by scratches on the wooden boards, there was a smear of blood – red letters as crooked as the words they spelled:
All hail! These tragic marks await Macbeth
All hail! The Scottish stage shall see your death
Edinburgh, 17 July 1889
[…]
We were all warned that murder would take place, and whilst particulars such as the date and the place were accurately foretold, the one detail that was purposely omitted was the name of the eventual victim(s).
As they developed, the events that led to the ghastly deaths at Edinburgh’s Lyceum Theatre appeared utterly disjointed and incoherent […]
The murderer’s actions became evident only once the accounts of various unconnected participants were put side by side. I have endeavoured to collect all the relevant documents and testimonials that support this statement.
How these papers have been gathered and placed in sequence will be made manifest in the reading of them.
[…]
Inspector Ian P. Frey
(Fragments of his foreword to the documentation
presented at the Irving–Terry inquiry)
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 1
