A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray)

by Oscar de Muriel

  16

  Miss Terry showed us the way out herself, the actress in her quickly taking over with wide smiles and soft laughter.

  ‘We are holding a little soirée tomorrow night, here at the hotel’s ballroom. Would you care to join us?’

  McGray frowned. ‘Black tie ’n’ so forth?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Inspector.’

  ‘Nae, but thanks for the thought, hen.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Miss Terry insisted, squeezing McGray’s arm in a scandalously forward way. ‘The most illustrious names in Scotland will be there.’

  ‘Och, that’s what I’m trying to avoid! I’m not exactly popular in those circles.’

  Miss Terry nodded. ‘Very well, but I will keep you on the guest list in case you change your mind.’ She looked at me, still very kindly but not even nearly as coquettishly as she’d addressed Nine-Nails. ‘Inspector Frey, you will surely enjoy the evening. And you can bring Mrs Frey, if you wish.’

  McGray cackled. ‘Mrs Frey! This virginal English rose got left at the altar.’

  Miss Terry laughed as well, and it was only my utterly mortified face that made her realize Nine-Nails was not joking. She covered her mouth in embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, I am so, so sorry. I had no idea …’ But then she looked back at McGray and resumed her shameless flirting. ‘My, oh my! How can you tease your colleague so?’ and she playfully smacked his shoulder.

  I, however, had the perfect revenge at hand.

  ‘I will most likely be busy,’ I lied, ‘but would it be terribly improper of me to forward your invitation to my father and his good wife?’

  ‘Oh, by all means!’ Miss Terry said at once, if only to compensate for her laughing at my disgrace. ‘In fact, I will only list you as the Freys, in case you find yourself free as well.’

  I smiled. Poor Miss Terry had no idea of the curse I’d just unleashed upon her.

  And since we were talking frivolities, I found the perfect chance to bring up the dress matter as casually as I ever could.

  ‘I had the opportunity to see your Lady Macbeth costume,’ I said, choosing my words very carefully.

  Miss Terry smiled. ‘Why, the green one with the beetles?’

  ‘That very one; it is a remarkable piece of craftsmanship. I wonder – how long did it take to make it?’

  ‘Well, the dress itself took no time; it’s very simple crochet in yarn and tinsel, but I tried it on stage and Irving thought it didn’t look regal enough, despite the jewels on all the hems. My friend, Miss Comyns Carr, came up with the idea of the beetles. She’s a genius. I would never have even thought about them. Poor Mrs Harwood was not that impressed, I’m afraid. The dress needed more than a thousand wings – it took her three full days to have the darling ready.’

  I nodded, exchanging looks with McGray. To my frustration, Mrs Harwood’s alibi did ring true. I would need to look for other suspects.

  I followed McGray to the City Chambers, where Philippa was still tethered.

  ‘You should get yourself a horse,’ I said as we reached the front courtyard.

  ‘What for? That Bavarian beauty will be mine before Monday.’

  I did not comment further. Before leaving I saw McGray heading straight to the narrow corridor that led to the Dumping Ground.

  ‘Are you not going home?’ I asked, looking at my pocket watch. It was well past six, yet the sun was still high in the clear sky.

  ‘Nah. I’ll stay in the office. I could use a wee bit more reading on Irish spectres. And I want to be available in case there’s another sighting.’

  I was too tired to even mock him. ‘Do you think it might happen again tonight?’

  ‘Could well be. It’s just three nights before the opening.’

  I only sighed. I also could have gone to the office to review my notes, but I remembered that my dear father and his even dearer wife were to arrive tomorrow, thus leaving me one last night of peace and quiet. A tranquil supper, followed by a couple of relaxing hours with a book and a brandy sounded most tempting.

  Sadly, I was not so lucky, and it was all Elgie’s fault. The little rascal had invited the entire bloody orchestra for drinks, which I would not have minded, had they not brought along at least another twenty drunken musicians and a handful of young trollops I had never seen in my life.

  Layton, whose face looked as if someone had bleached it, received me with a quivering voice. ‘Sir, Master Elgie has … organized a little gathering.’

  ‘Little!’ I could hear the frantic notes of Orpheus in the Underworld, so loud it was as if the entire house had become a dingy ballroom in Montparnasse. And then roaring laughter. And then I saw a trio of young men, cackling and waving fat glasses of whisky, spilling it on the carpets as they swayed across the corridor and on into the dining room, where yet another little noisy group had gathered.

  Layton’s voice came out as if the poor man were constipated. ‘The young master said you would not mind, sir.’

  I pushed my hat into his hands. ‘I am sure he did …’ and I stormed into the main parlour, where two cellos, a viola and three violins shrilled merrily. Elgie stood at the centre, one of his colleagues feeding him red wine as he played on.

  I elbowed my way forward, and when my brother saw me he dropped his bow, which fell at the foot of a fat dancing man, who tripped on it and fell on to a lady, who in turn fell and pushed another guest, who spilled half his drink on me.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ I roared, but even though the music stopped, the chatter and laughter went on. Elgie appeared to be the only one who recognized the extent of my anger.

  ‘Ian!’ he said, as he approached me with a nervous smile. ‘I hope your investigations have gone –’

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  Elgie tried to pull me away, not to be embarrassed in front of his friends. I repeated my question nonetheless.

  ‘We have been working to death in the past few days,’ he whispered, ‘and it will only get worse before Saturday –’

  A swaying middle-aged man, whom I recognized as the conductor of the orchestra, pushed both of us as he chased a giggling woman.

  I snorted. ‘What kind of scoundrels have you invited, all of them drunk by six? And who are those – ladies? Are you turning the house into a bloody brothel?’

  A young woman heard me and began to give me abuse, first telling me I’d not been invited. I had no patience to deal with that, and without even glancing at her I dragged Elgie out of the room.

  ‘I simply told them they could bring company,’ Elgie said. ‘It never occurred to me they’d bring ladies! Mr Horrax just arrived with two –’

  ‘I want all your drunken friends out! I will have my dinner in my room and will come downstairs within the hour. And if a single one of them is still here –’

  By then I was already climbing the stairs, and I locked my door thanking providence for the thick walls and ceilings of Lady Anne’s house.

  Layton must have heard me or divined my intentions – or simply wanted to escape the mayhem himself – for he soon came by, bringing me a bowl of steaming oyster soup and a fresh-baked loaf.

  ‘I cannot apologize enough for the infernal rattle, sir,’ he said, cutting thick slices of crusty bread. ‘I could do little to stop them.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ I assured him. ‘I doubt this will happen again while our parents are visiting.’

  He searched his pockets. ‘Sir, that brings to mind this correspondence, which arrived this afternoon.’

  He handed me an envelope: a telegram from London, for Elgie. The sender’s address, though close to Hyde Park Gate, was not that of my father.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Layton asked. I realized I’d clenched my fist around a slice of bread and the crumbs were making a mess on the tray.

  I put the telegram on the table, face down, for I could not stand the sight of that address while eating.

  I have explored McGray’s turbulent past in detail, so it is only fair
that I devote some paragraphs to mine.

  The telegram had come from Laurence, my elder and only whole brother. Just thinking of his name brings fire to my gut, a discomfort that only seems to worsen as life goes on: I have disliked him since we were children, but our boyhood scuffles are nothing compared to the loathing that now exists between us.

  Our exacerbated enmity was caused by Eugenia Ferrars, my erstwhile fiancée. Contrary to the gossip that Nine-Nails loves to drop around so casually whenever he has the chance, she did not leave me at the altar. There is no need to embellish the tale, for it was bad enough in reality: she summoned me one day – the same day I’d been dismissed from my post in Scotland Yard – and with no forewarning announced that she wished to end the engagement.

  Not much later, on that very night, I’d been dispatched to Scotland to end up under the authority of the disgraced McGray. It was only weeks later that I found out the reason she’d jilted me: Laurence had proposed to her … and she had accepted on the spot! And as none of my family members had dared give me the news, I’d first heard it from Sir Charles Warren, the CID’s former commissioner. The news had obviously travelled faster than the plague, and that was the main reason I’d not been to London since. I would never admit it, but the mere prospect of people’s mockery infuriated me – my brother’s most of all.

  He and Eugenia were having one of those long, fashionable courtships, parading themselves and their chaperones at every possible social occasion, where my name was surely whispered as soon as they were in sight. The peak of my humiliation would come on their wedding day – the date had not been suggested yet – but even after that, the entire affair would remain there, forever floating around us like a foul smell.

  While I am not sure I’d really loved Eugenia, I had certainly loved the idea of our future together. Our flawed personas would have complemented each other, and we had definitely enjoyed a plethora of sweet moments. Sadly, even the happy memories were tarnished now, for I could no longer think of her without bitterness, disappointment and unbridled anger.

  The months had passed and I’d forced myself to keep the matter out of my head, but occasional reminders, like that telegram sitting on my table right now, were impossible to avoid.

  The door opened slowly after a meek knock, and I saw Elgie’s face peeking in. He did not dare enter, but just smiled nervously.

  I closed my book with a thump that made him jump. ‘Come in, for goodness’ sake.’ So he did, his hands folded behind him. ‘Are they gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. How ruined is the house?’

  Elgie bit his lip. ‘Do … do you think Lady Anne would have been very attached to that Imperial Ming vase that was on the –?’

  I raised a hand. ‘On second thought, I do not want to know right now.’ I handed him the telegram. ‘This is for you.’

  Elgie’s already wine-blushed face became a ripened currant when he saw who the sender was. He opened the envelope with nervous hands, nearly tearing the message itself.

  ‘What does he want?’ I grunted after a moment.

  ‘Well … he is coming for the play.’

  ‘Laurence and that woman will not set foot in this house,’ I said promptly. ‘And you’d better bloody tell them so.’

  ‘Laurence assumed as much,’ said Elgie. ‘Says here they will probably go to the Palace Hotel, and Eugenia asks if I know in which suite Henry Irving is staying.’

  ‘The trollop,’ I muttered.

  ‘Ian!’

  ‘What? Even father calls her that!’

  Elgie had to cover his mouth to conceal a hint of a laugh, surely remembering our last Christmas at our uncle’s.

  ‘Tell me as soon as you know their plans,’ I said. ‘I’d rather a real banshee appeared and painted messages with my own blood than see them.’

  ‘Do not tempt fate,’ said Elgie. ‘What would Mr McGray say of your disbelief?’

  I believe I threw something at him before locking myself in my bedroom, where I distracted myself by reviewing my notes from the day – incredible that the possibility of a mortal curse was preferable to the idea of seeing my stepmother and my former sweetheart.

  I thought it would be a quiet night, but at twenty minutes past twelve, just as I was finally beginning to drift, there came a frantic knocking on my front door.

  17

  Layton was somehow fully dressed when he opened the door. I could not tell whether he’d been sleeping in his clothes or had not yet gone to bed, but there was no chance to ask him: my attention was caught by the shadows of what could have been two towering, broad-shouldered twins.

  ‘Nine-Nails!’ I said, and then had to rub my eyes to believe who stood next to him. ‘Mr Stoker?’

  ‘Would the gentlemen like to come in?’ asked Layton.

  ‘This yer dad?’ McGray said, albeit not giving a chance for an answer. ‘We’ve no time for formalities. Irving wants to see us.’

  ‘Irving … at this hour … Why?’

  ‘Told ye he wisnae too smart at night,’ McGray muttered for Stoker, who looked ghastly pale.

  ‘You need to talk to him,’ the Irishman pleaded to me. His accent was stronger than ever and his brow was wrinkled in apprehension. ‘Please, I know it’s the most inconvenient hour, but –’

  ‘Inconvenient! That is not even close to –’

  ‘I beg you!’

  Stoker’s anguished voice echoed throughout the deserted street. As he took a step forwards I saw the ghastly, dark rings under his eyes. He’d probably not slept more than a few hours in the past two days.

  ‘Very well, I will come,’ I said, and less than ten seconds later Layton was handing me a change of clothes. Not five minutes after the initial knocking, I was sharing a cab with Nine-Nails and Bram Stoker.

  We must have looked like overgrown sardines: three men taller than average, two of them rather generously built, all crammed up shoulder to shoulder in that little carriage. Fortunately, the streets were deserted, and even though the clean sky glowed in the eternal midsummer dusk and the almost full moon, there was nobody around to laugh at us.

  The driver took us east, and for a moment I thought our destination was the now infamous Regent Bridge. Indeed, we rode across it, but the horses moved on without slowing down. The cab ascended the steep slopes of Calton Hill, towards the towering shapes of the Royal Observatory, the Nelson Monument and the Greek-style columns of Scotland’s forever unfinished National Monument.

  The moon came and went behind the blackened pillars as we rode round them, the wheels leaving the road and now rolling on damp grass.

  I had not realized how tall and imposing the structure really was: each column must be six feet in diameter, and the foundation stones on which they stood were taller than McGray standing on Stoker’s shoulders. No wonder the monument had never been completed, and now it stood atop the hill looking as ominous as any ancient ruin.

  There, in between the thick pillars and perfectly delineated against the dark blue sky, was the figure of Henry Irving, swathed in a black cloak that waved with the soft wind. He looked down at us, as if from a gigantic stage.

  I heard the soft neighing of a horse, and saw a second carriage – Irving’s luxurious landau – parked nearby.

  Stoker jumped down as soon as we halted, and we followed him to a promontory and then the unfinished steps that ascended to the columns.

  Irving waited patiently, and as we approached the moonlight played a macabre transfiguration on him: his pasty skin glowed in almost silver tones, and his sharp cheekbones and his deep brow were outlined by clean, straight shadows, making him look like a spectre.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said as a sudden wind made me shiver, his voice as clear and penetrating as ever.

  ‘I think ye’ve heard we’re looking for ye,’ said McGray.

  ‘Mr Stoker has advised me to see you,’ Irving hissed, and Stoker held his breath, a rather pathetic expression on his face. ‘Here I am. Ask wha
tever you intended to.’

  ‘Did you divulge the story of the banshee under Regent Bridge to the newspapers?’ I asked at once. I did not want to spend much time in front of such a man.

  Irving clasped the lapels of his cloak and raised his chin even further.

  ‘Yes.’

  Another sudden breeze, and this time I had to wrap up more tightly in my overcoat.

  ‘Why, that was much easier than I thought,’ I said, instantly turning to McGray. ‘Nine-Nails, you owe me some drink.’

  ‘Hold yer horses, lassie! Irving, did ye mount up the banshee spectacle?’

  Irving smiled a sardonic, arrogant smile, his wet, sharp teeth so white they seemed to shine.

  ‘No. I did not.’

  My shoulders fell an inch. ‘Dear Lord! And I thought this was going to be easy. Could you please stop telling lies, Mr Irving? You have already confessed –’

  ‘I have confessed to telling the tale!’ he roared, pointing at me with a long, gloved index finger, his imperious voice bouncing across the hill. ‘I have not said that I took any part in its creation!’

  ‘I find that a little hard to believe,’ I said, standing my ground. ‘Your company is already benefiting from the scandal. Your play was not doing as well as it did in London and now it is sold out. You employ several well-trained actresses who could have been instructed to play the part. You yourself were one of the prime witnesses of the first so-called apparition. Shall I continue?’

  Irving sighed. ‘If someone is playing the apparition it is not my doing. Yes, I saw the advantages of the scandal. I did, and I used it. As soon as that clown Wheatstone told me everything, I saw the possibilities.’

  ‘So you wrote this?’ I asked, unfolding the letter that Mr Dyer had given us.

  Irving was only slightly impressed. ‘Yes, disguising my hand a little. And I sent one of my footmen to deliver it. He found the one man still working at that hour. I did use the story, but, as I said, fashioning such a farce for the sake of selling a few more seats is beneath me.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to declare everything you have just said under oath?’