McG: So you think the banshee could be announcing Miss Terry’s death?
BS: Well, as I said, she is one of the two possibilities.
McG: And who’s the other?
BS: Me.
Act III
* * *
DOCTOR
Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
Bram Stoker’s family tree
Sketch found amongst Mr Stoker’s possessions at a later date; identical copy to the one shown to Insp. McGray. Inserted here given its relevance. – I. P. Frey.
Bram Stoker’s Journal (continued)
McG: What the ———! You’re ———!
BS: I’ve also made you a sketch. You can see my direct connection to Colonel Manus O’Donnell. His grandfather, another Manus O’Donnell, was a true war hero, killed in action during the Irish Confederate Wars. And his grandfather was Niall O’Donnell, the very last chieftain of the O’Donnell clan. From him you can trace the lineage back to the eleventh century.
McG: Are you telling me that …?
BS: My documented lineage goes back more than a thousand years. I’m not simply a member of the O’Donnell clan; I’m a direct descendant of its chieftains.
McG: You are ——— joking!
BS: I wish I was! The O’Donnell banshee is a very old family legend. My mother told me about it when I was a child, and said she heard her shortly before my grandfather died.
McG: How long have you thought the theatre banshee is your family’s?
BS: It’s been in the back of my mind from the very start, but I didn’t consider it seriously – until last night. I believe I saw a black dog. Red-eyed. And it’s not the first time. Do you know that in Nordic folklore that is a sign of –
(It was then that we were interrupted by the English Inspector)
19
As soon as McNair and a couple of other officers headed off to the local butchers and the cattle market, I headed to the Dumping Ground. There I found McGray and Mr Stoker in deep conversation, and they both cast me the kind of stare that I’d find on Joan whenever I caught her drinking the cooking sherry. I managed to see McGray folding two sheets of paper and shoving them into his breast pocket.
‘Good morning, Mr Stoker,’ I said. ‘I see last night’s activity has not stopped you from an early rise.’
He said nothing in reply. In fact, he looked ghostly pale. I noticed that his fingernails were blackened, as if he’d plunged his hands in ink and had failed to wash it away.
‘Are you here to give us another confession?’ I asked.
‘Nae,’ Nine-Nails said promptly. ‘He came just to ask if we were making any progress.’
I could tell McGray lied, but I also knew I’d get nowhere if I asked further questions.
‘I also need to give these to your superintendent,’ said Stoker, showing us two tickets and a theatre programme. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’
He left quickly, and I saw a flinch in McGray’s face. I had no chance to speak, though, for he flattened a piece of fine paper on his desk. It was embossed on the top with the emblem of the Palace Hotel.
‘That Mr Clarke worked quickly,’ said McGray. ‘Says they did lose a few bedsheets, but not from a room; they came out o’ the laundry.’
‘That is a dead end,’ I said, looking at the message myself. ‘Did anyone see anything?’
‘Nae, sadly. But the sheets did go missing on the evening o’ the ninth, so two to three hours before the banshee appeared.’
I chuckled. ‘So we know for fact that the banshee is lodging at the Palace Hotel. Expensive taste for an apparition.’
Right then I heard boisterous steps and saw the young Dr Reed storming in.
‘Sirs, I’ve just found that –!’
He bumped his face against McGray’s ugly Peruvian totem, and the voluminous relic knocked over a pile of books that rained on the poor doctor. We had to help him to the hard chair.
McGray patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ye all right, laddie?’
‘Yes, sir, it was just a wee –’ He blinked hard and shook his head, still slightly stunned.
‘You have to stop hoarding trinkets,’ I told McGray. ‘This place is a landslide waiting to happen.’
‘Aye, I’ll start with ye, Frey. Reed, what was it ye came to tell us?’
‘Oh … right! I think I know where that leather bag comes from.’
Nine-Nails almost did a little dance, and for once I could have joined him.
‘Really? Did yer lass tell ye?’
‘His lass?’ I echoed.
‘My fiancée, sir,’ Reed told me with a certain acrimony. He knew I had requested his dismissal merely hours after I first met him, and it would take more than time for him to forgive me. ‘Inspector McGray found a tradesman’s seal on the leather bag found in –’
‘I know which bag, go on.’
‘I thought my Sophie might know the manufacturer. She directed me to the manager of her favourite shop, a Mr McRye. I’ve just been to his place on the High Street.’
‘And?’
‘He has a very long directory of leather merchants from all over the British Isles. He half recognized the emblem and went through his catalogues. He found that the bag came from a chap who sells very fine custom-made pieces. The establishment is called Richmond & Sons. Good news is, they only have the one shop.’
‘Where?’ McGray prompted.
‘Southampton.’
I raised my head like a hound after a scent, and repeated the word a couple of times.
‘What is it, Frey?’
‘I – I think I heard that town yesterday …’ I mumbled, producing my little notebook with increasing excitement. ‘No, I am sure I did, but I cannot remember when, or the context.’ I began turning pages at full speed. ‘I only hope I wrote it down …’
McGray looked over my shoulder, wrinkling his nose. ‘Ye take too many notes.’
‘That is nonsense, you can never take too many notes,’ I said stubbornly, though while going through pages and pages of endless scribble I could see his point.
Luckily, the word caught my eye sooner than I expected.
‘Of course! Miss Ivor. Plays Hecate, the witches’ dark goddess, and I believe she is also Miss Terry’s understudy. It was mentioned she comes from Southampton!’
‘I assume she denied being involved at all,’ said McGray.
‘As did they all, but now we have a trace to follow. We should go to the theatre and confront her.’
McGray again patted Reed, almost sending him off the seat. ‘Good job, laddie. I’ll get ye a dram as soon as this is over.’
‘By the way, there were three alleged banshee sightings last night,’ McGray was saying as he led us through narrow, malodorous closes; a very twisted shortcut to the Lyceum Theatre.
‘Alleged!’ I laughed. ‘I thought that word was not in your vocabulary. What makes even you admit they were false?’
‘One was a very drunk –’
‘Mr Wheatstone again?’
‘Och, shut it! A very drunk male lowlife that frequents the Ensign Ewart, shouting nonsense. The other one was “seen” by this fat lass that asked if she could get free tickets – in case she recognized the banshee at the bloody theatre. The third one was just some stupid inscription in red ink someone left a couple o’ blocks from the theatre. Atrocious spelling, no metrics, no rhymes. Clearly a hoax.’
We made it to Grindlay Street in no time. The theatre was mayhem, since nearly every single actor and actress was on call. We went to the auditorium and as we approached the stage I saw, with certain satisfaction, that most of the musicians were bleary-eyed – they had surely continued their drinking spree somewhere else after wrecking my place.
On the stage there were two horses, stomping their hooves on the wooden floor amidst a painted Scottish landscape. Macbeth’s assassins stood
around the beasts.
‘We need Fleance!’ one of the two burly actors yelled as soon as he saw Stoker. ‘We’ve been calling him for the past ten minutes!’
Stoker had no chance to reply, for right then we heard a voice resounding throughout the theatre like a gunshot.
‘Leave me alone, you stupid cow! I’ve been called.’
The voice came from a rangy adolescent, who strode crossly towards the stage. He must have been around thirteen or fourteen, but his features were already very handsome: strong chin, high cheekbones, fiery blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Within a couple of years he’d be one of those young men so attractive they are in fact annoying to behold. And he already sported his good looks with unmitigated arrogance.
Mrs Harwood came running behind him clenching her sewing kit, holding pins in her mouth.
‘I know, I know, dear. But I’m almost done. Just a couple of stitches and –’
‘You had plenty of time!’ the boy interrupted, and I saw the thread and needle that still dangled from his medieval doublet (of the wrong period, if I may say). He tore them off, taking with them a good piece of material, and threw the small bundle at Mrs Harwood’s face. ‘There! That’ll teach you to have my clothes ready on time.’
His insolence angered me as much as if he’d directed it at me.
McGray stepped in front of ‘Fleance’ before the boy climbed on to the stage. ‘Och, treat the missus with some respect!’
The boy smirked. ‘What do you care? Stupid Scotch.’
‘Oh, dear Lord …’ I murmured to myself. Thankfully, McGray’s reaction was quite mild for his standards. He simply smacked the boy around the face – only once on each side. His very white skin swelled instantly and he looked around in as much pain as disbelief.
‘Stoker!’ he shrieked, rubbing one of his cheeks. ‘Do something!’
McGray slapped him again. ‘He’s Mr Stoker to ye, wee maggot. Now apologize to the missus.’
Mrs Harwood’s cheeks looked redder than if she’d been slapped herself. When she spoke the pins fell from her mouth. ‘Oh, sir, I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary. I had all night to –’
McGray raised an assuaging hand and she went quiet.
‘Apologize, laddie!’ he snapped.
The boy glared at McGray, defiant beyond good sense.
‘These gentlemen are CID, Freddie,’ Stoker grumbled. ‘You are going to have to.’
‘Freddie!’ McGray laughed and then looked at me. ‘The laddie’s called Freddie! Just out o’ yer nappies, boy?’
I could see more than one man in the orchestra covering their mouths to contain their giggles.
Nine-Nails grabbed the boy by the arm and planted him in front of Mrs Harwood, who seemed about to burst into tears. ‘I won’t wait for long,’ McGray grunted.
Freddie bit his lip, trembling with rage. He looked at all the mocking faces around him before he finally spoke.
‘I’m sorry – you lazy baggage.’
And he ran away before McGray could strike him again.
Mrs Harwood ran in the opposite direction, pressing the torn piece of costume against her face.
Wasting no time, the actors began the scene where Fleance, son of the murdered Banquo and future father of kings, manages to escape Macbeth’s assassins.
‘Will she be all right?’ McGray said, his eyes looking at the side door through which Mrs Harwood had disappeared.
Stoker nodded. ‘Yes. Sadly, this is not the first time something like this has happened.’
‘Who is the spoiled brat?’ I asked, just as Freddie mounted one of the horses with regal movements, shed real tears, and made his dramatic escape.
‘Never mind him,’ replied Stoker. ‘Irving’s promised him Romeo when he turns sixteen. A hollow promise, I think, but may the Lord have mercy if that time comes.’
‘I’ll still talk to her before we leave,’ said McGray, his face a little sombre.
Fortunately, Miss Ivor was at the theatre and happy to talk to us. Again we used Mr Wyndham’s office, since the man was now out of town.
‘Didnae recognize ye without the wee halo,’ said McGray.
Miss Ivor smiled. ‘It’s a nice effect. Tiny electric lights. Mr Wheatstone designed it himself for our production of Faust.’
‘Oh, that is how it works,’ I said. ‘I was curious.’
Thinking those pleasantries were enough, I asked the pressing question. ‘Miss Ivor, yesterday one of your fellow actresses implied that you have a connection with Southampton. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. I spent a good part of my life there. I was well known in the local theatres.’
‘I see. I need to ask you – have you recently lost a leather bag?’
Neither McGray nor I blinked, studying the woman’s reaction. She arched her eyebrows; puzzled, certainly, but not exceedingly so. ‘No, not that I recall … Is this related to –’
‘I’m afraid we cannae give you more details,’ McGray interrupted, ‘but we do need ye to tell us if yer familiar with the company Richmond & Sons.’
Miss Ivor actually gasped. ‘Why, yes! I am astonished you know of Mr Richmond! He’s very skilled, but he has only the one premises – a little shop in –’
She halted then, slowly lifting a hand to cover her mouth.
‘What’s the matter?’ McGray asked.
Miss Ivor’s eyes had opened wide. ‘I did buy a leather bag from him … but it was almost a year ago. And I gave it away – as a present.’
‘To whom?’ I asked, leaning forward and almost falling from the seat.
I could not help notice a hint of a bitter smile on her face.
‘Miss Terry.’
20
‘I was originally cast to play Lady Macduff,’ Miss Ivor was saying, ‘but Mr Irving decided to omit her scene altogether.’
‘Did he?’ I asked, producing my copy of the programme and looking at the cast list.
Lady Macduff – the woman Macbeth has savagely murdered, along with her children and entire household – was not there.
‘Intriguing choice,’ I said. ‘Her murder is one of the cruellest scenes in the entire play; one the theatre directors like to make the most of.’
‘Mr Irving didn’t want anyone to eclipse Miss Terry’s performance,’ Miss Ivor said, and from then on she was unable to repress her bitterness. ‘Although it was all Miss Terry’s idea. I heard her when she requested the change. She told Mr Irving that my scene came right before her sleepwalking monologue; that people would be thinking of my death instead of paying attention to the nuances of her lines; that she had worked on that soliloquy for months and the gore would overshadow her.’ Her voice came down a tone. ‘And the mighty Miss Terry demanded yet more glory.’
‘I can see that made ye really mad,’ said Nine-Nails.
‘Of course, sirs. You must forgive my bluntness, but that was my only scene. Perhaps the last important scene I’d ever get to play before I’m ditched for being too old – I am two years younger than Mr Irving, yet my career is effectively over. How is that fair?’
Miss Ivor forced a deep breath, followed by a very uncomfortable silence. I could understand her perfectly, but this frustrated side of her was intriguing to say the least.
‘I did not know you felt such – animosity towards Miss Terry.’
The woman looked up at once. ‘Oh, I try not to, sir. I try hard. She’s forty-two. She’ll be in my same situation very soon, and she must know it. No wonder she is squeezing her last years in the theatre as much as she can.’ Miss Ivor attempted a smile. ‘And she did put in a good word for me afterwards. She probably felt guilty and persuaded Irving to recast me as Hecate. It was then that I gave her the leather bag.’
McGray shifted in his seat. ‘Ye gave her a pressie after she cut yer scene out?’
Miss Ivor nodded. ‘It’s curious, isn’t it? I was the aggravated one, yet I had to be the one reassuring her everything was all right. Just in case they ever need an old crone
for another play …’
‘Did ye see Miss Terry use that bag lately?’ McGray asked, making Miss Ivor laugh.
‘No, Inspector. Not lately, not ever.’ Again she could not conceal her resentment. ‘Well, she can afford much nicer things, I suppose. And she gets presents all the time. What is to her a cheap trinket given by a nobody like me?’
We lingered in the office after we let Miss Ivor go, McGray pacing restlessly next to the marble fireplace.
‘So they carried the blood in a bag that belonged to Miss Terry,’ I said.
‘It still belongs to her,’ McGray pointed out.
I looked at my notes from Miss Ivor’s first statement. ‘I must say her statements ring true to me … It simply makes sense: Miss Terry either puts the bundle of brains in her dressing room, or has someone bring them in –’
‘While she keeps an eye on the corridor pretending to wash her hands.’
‘Exactly. And then, a week later, she uses a “cheap” leather bag to carry blood to Regent Bridge – or again she gives it to someone to do the deed for her. Miss Terry creates it all; Miss Terry “squeezes her last years in the theatre as much as she can”. It is a simple answer; and the simplest answers tend to be the correct ones.’
Nevertheless, I could not pronounce those words without a hint of disbelief. And McGray was thinking exactly the same:
‘Aye, but the two statements that incriminate Terry come from the same source – a woman with a clear grudge against her. That’s all a wee bit too convenient. And I saw Miss Ivor rehearsing; as ye said, she could have played a convincing banshee.’
I could not help grinning. ‘My oh my, you are suspecting a real person now. How many years’ worth of whisky did you say you’d –?’
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 14
