Forgive me, my love, if I falter. I shan’t fail you. I swear. I shall see you tonight, with the ghouls and the dark spirits. I shall fetch them all, as I said I would.
Do not worry. Your message will be sent. Even if it means your doom. And my own ruin.
Love,
X
27
I felt surprisingly rejuvenated after a good shave and putting on my finest suit – the impact that a nicely starched shirt, some cologne, a bow tie and a pair of gold cufflinks can have on the mood is unbelievable. Even Father, who had lately relaxed his etiquette, seemed quite pleased in his finery. After our argument he had been set on not going, but the combined pressure from Elgie and Catherine proved too much for him.
The rain had receded a little and become a light yet still persistent drizzle; the clouds, partly gone, were black patches on an indigo sky. I did not remember whether the moon was supposed to be full, but it certainly looked so: white and shimmering, and casting a persistent silver light that competed with the street lamps.
The ride was quite short, but our carriage had to join a slow-moving queue in front of the Palace Hotel, since all other guests were arriving at the same time. It seemed as though Irving had invited half the city to this reception.
I had time to see the officers guarding the main entrance and the corners of the building. There were five that I could see, and perhaps there would be more inside. I could not find McNair, whom I assumed would be visiting all the butchers in the Old Town.
I recognized Millar, one of the men who’d been sent to investigate the first sighting under Regent Bridge. I approached him and asked discreetly, ‘How many of you have come?’
‘Eight, sir.’
‘That many?’
‘Aye. Superintendent Campbell overheard McNair and he sent us all.’
‘What about Inspector McGray?’
‘He came round to tell us to be vigilant, and then a couple o’ times to get updates, but we’ve not seen him for the past half hour.’
‘Very well. Keep up the good work.’
And I headed back to my relatives, feeling sorry for the officers who had to patrol the building under cold drizzle, while I shared drinks and canapés surrounded by the city’s elite. I would follow McGray’s example and get them all a dram after this ordeal was over.
As the Frey family walked en masse into the Palace Hotel, its ballroom welcomed us with a parade of black suits, glittering dresses and clinking glasses. The kitchens had done an impressive job, boasting multicoloured fruit jellies and piles of seafood so splendid they looked like offerings to Neptune. Their pièce de résistance, nevertheless, was an enormous replica of Dunsinane Castle entirely made of marzipan, the rocky hill carved from chunks of dark chocolate and its hills covered with green icing. I saw Miss Ivor pinching out a little piece of parapet, a mischievous look on her face.
I recognized most of the people I’d interrogated so recently: the three Weird Sisters with their wide, utterly unfashionable skirts from the sixties, moving around in a tight pack and holding large glasses of red wine – the assassins, Mr Black and Mr Carter, one on each side of the room, wooing the young females – Mr Howard, the Lyceum’s manager, by the wide staircase, staring at the general splendour, his chest swollen with pride – Freddie Harwood whispering something in some girl’s ear, the poor creature instantly running away from him – and Mr Stoker, whose ginger head stuck out above everyone else’s. It was he who first approached us, smiling yet unable to conceal his fatigue.
‘Inspector Frey, thank you for coming. Won’t you introduce me to your good family?’
So I did, yet Mr and Mrs Frey did not seem too impressed, squinting at Stoker’s thick Irish brogue. As soon as the most basic formalities were met, they both disappeared amongst the crowd.
‘I had not realized you two were related,’ said Stoker, looking at Elgie. ‘Your brother is very talented.’
Elgie blushed ever so slightly. ‘We have had a lot of time to practise.’
‘He is quite talented,’ I said, ‘but try not to flatter Elgie too much, Mr Stoker. It tends to go to his head.’
Stoker smiled. ‘Elgie, would you be interested in working in London? Mr Sullivan is always looking for new musicians.’
Completely at odds with my young brother’s usual character, he went speechless.
I had to pat him on the back and answer for him. ‘That might work. He is apparently going back to London after this play, whether he wants it or not.’
‘Well, at least you will have something to look forward to back in the city,’ said Stoker, producing a card he offered to Elgie. ‘Make sure you contact me when you are there. I shall make the proper introductions.’
I waited until Elgie was beyond hearing distance. ‘Mr Stoker, I hope you have not given him your card simply to get rid of him.’
‘Of course not, Inspector. I meant my words. But I do need to talk to you …’
One of the Weird Sisters, Miss Desborough, happened to be walking nearby, and she recognized the concern in Stoker’s voice, her eyes suddenly widening in expectation. Stoker gently pulled my arm and we went to a quieter corner.
‘I’ve seen the officers outside,’ he whispered. ‘Are you and Inspector McGray expecting … trouble tonight?’
‘I cannot lie to you. We are not sure, but if something were to happen –’
‘Does it have anything to do with Miss Harwood?’
I arched an eyebrow. He too had made the connection between the girl and the prophecy.
‘It might,’ I said. ‘But as I told you, we are not sure.’
Stoker pressed his back against the wall, stroking his beard as if kneading hard dough.
‘Is something the matter?’
He gulped, his forehead shining with perspiration. ‘I … I am just worried about the people around.’
I cast Stoker an inquisitive stare, but whatever was troubling the man, he had buried it deep in the back of his mind.
‘That nurse from the asylum – I hear she had a good chance to assess Mrs Harwood’s mental state.’
‘Indeed.’
‘There is something wrong with her, is there not?’ To that I nodded, but I had no time to explain the details before Stoker blurted out: ‘I do hope it’s her.’
‘Excuse me?’
Stoker looked intently at me, his mind in turmoil, and very slowly – so slowly I could not tell when it happened – his eyes switched to somewhere behind my back.
‘Your colleague is here,’ he said as if out of breath, pointing towards the entrance.
I thought he’d just said it to change the subject, for I could not find McGray amidst the crowd. But Elgie came around to confirm it.
‘Ian, I hardly recognized your boss.’
I had to blink thrice to believe it. Indeed there he was: Nine-Nails McGray, perfectly shaven, his dark hair cut and combed neatly, sporting a black suit of the finest cut. It secretly annoyed me that the garments should fit him so well. Still, he frowned as if the world’s most expensive wools were tar and feathers, and he kept pulling the collar of his shirt.
Catherine, my stepmother, came behind Elgie, looking rather flushed and fanning herself vehemently. ‘Ian, is that the madman Elgie told us you work for? He looks – quite dashing.’
‘A monkey dressed in silk is still a monkey,’ I grunted, my words oozing bitterness. ‘Catherine,’ I said with a raised voice, so that my father – who was nearby, helping himself to a liberal amount of canapés – heard clearly, ‘you should sit down. You look as red as a beetroot. We do not want you to faint.’
Father turned and found her even redder. ‘Gosh, Ian is right. Let’s find you a seat.’
‘Elgie,’ I pleaded like never before, ‘keep those two away. The last thing I need is Catherine and Nine-Nails teaming up against me!’
So he did, and just in time.
‘I hate this fuckin’ penguin jacket,’ Nine-Nails grumbled as a greeting, ‘and the fifty-five sodding p
ieces o’ shite ye have to assemble just to keep the top together.’
‘Oh, I do appreciate your efforts,’ said Stoker, shaking McGray’s hand most effusively. ‘My barber told me you didn’t quite enjoy the shave, but surely you’ll understand. We have la crème de la crème here tonight. Investors and – even Edinburgh’s Lord Provost is over there!’
I saw the old Mr Boyd in the distance, his expression and his wife’s soured by the conversation of the three Weird Sisters. McGray, however, was not impressed.
‘Where’s Miss Terry?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been looking for her for a while. We couldnae finish our questioning after Susy’s incident.’
‘Oh, I mustn’t tell,’ said Stoker. ‘She is preparing a spectacular entrance. You will see her soon enough.’
McGray hardened his tone. ‘D’ye ken where she is or no?’
Stoker had to snatch a napkin from the arm of a passing waiter, and used it to wipe the sweat from his temple.
‘But of course I do. It’s just a little trifle she’s putting together …’
‘Och, for goodness’ sake …’ McGray interrupted, exasperated, but not because of Stoker’s words. He was not looking at him, but somewhere behind me. ‘See, Frey. There’s the man we need to question!’
Stoker and I followed his eyes, and we saw a short, thick figure lurching about, crossing the ballroom in a zigzagging route. I recognized the bushy hair and beard of Mr Wheatstone, his golden spectacles now hanging precariously from a single ear. His legs were as flimsy as a garment sent from the wash without being starched; he had to grab people’s arms and shoulders for support, and more than once did he place his hands on unmentionable spots of ladies’ bodies. One of such affronted ladies was a Weird Sister, the one with the hooked nose, and she was pounding him on the back with her feathery fan when we approached.
‘Mr Wheatstone!’ cried Stoker. ‘You left the theatre but an hour ago! Look at yourself now!’
The man groped about for another supporting point, but people by now strove to avoid him, and he nearly fell on his face. McGray leaped forward and managed to catch him.
‘We needed a statement from him,’ I grunted. ‘Now it will be hours before he can put two sensible words together!’
‘Not necessarily,’ said McGray, snatching a large champagne cooler – bottle, ice and all – that stood on a nearby table. ‘But we need some privacy for this.’
Mr Stoker led us to a small side chamber, perhaps a private meeting room, furnished with a small table and a few velvet-upholstered chairs. McGray threw Mr Wheatstone on one of those, banged the silver cooler on the table, took the bottle out, and in its place plunged Mr Wheatstone’s head right into the icy water.
Nine-Nails had a leisurely swig of champagne directly from the bottle, while holding Mr Wheatstone’s head in place with his other hand. The poor man thrashed and kicked about, grunting with a desperation that tore the nerves, but McGray remained as collected as if reading the morning news.
‘This bubbling brew is nae bad,’ he admitted.
Stoker winced. ‘Is this really necessary?’
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps not, but I dare you to stop my colleague.’
McGray let go of Mr Wheatstone, whose face had gone blue. His spectacles, surprisingly, were still on his face.
‘Ready for a chat?’ asked McGray, but Mr Wheatstone was only partially aware of his surroundings. McGray had to repeat the operation twice, each time asking the same question. ‘All right, lad, ye better speak now. My own hand’s getting numb.’
Mr Wheatstone rubbed his face, dropping his spectacles and spilling cold water all around. His eyes were red and he looked at McGray with loathing.
‘You’re a beast!’
‘And ye, my lad, are a bloody drunk! Were ye drinking like this when that lassie got her face all burned? I bet ye were.’
Mr Wheatstone leaned one way and I thought he was going to fall from the chair, but he grabbed the edge of the table. It was impossible to tell whether it was the impact of McGray’s words or the remnants of intoxication. The man sniffed and then let out the loudest, most roaring sneeze.
‘What does that have to do with you?’ he hissed.
‘Does Mrs Harwood see you as responsible for it?’ I asked directly.
Mr Wheatstone shook his head, unable to meet our gazes. ‘Of course she does! Alas, she’s mad.’
McGray took a small step forwards; very small, but he looked like a dark cloud looming over Mr Wheatstone.
‘I ken plenty about madness, lad. The seamstress is unwell, o’ course, but it cannae be without reason …’ He bit his lip at this point, unable to keep his eyes from the void where his ring finger had once been. ‘Madness … almost always … can be explained’ – he allowed himself a deep sigh. ‘In this case, it can. She blames ye; that’s clear. She thinks ye’ll burn everyone on stage. Would ye say she has any reasons to think so? However faint – or even imaginary?’
Mr Wheatstone stared into McGray’s eyes – a sad, doomed look in him. It was the kind of stare I have seen in convicts who have been cornered into confession; when they realize there is no point in hiding things any more. He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked hard, then rubbed tears from his eyes with his sleeve. I had to offer him my handkerchief, and he blew his nose stridently.
‘It was my fault,’ he said at last, his eyes flickering around the room, again unable to meet anybody else’s. ‘Of course it was my fault. I designed the blasted ladder of angels! Mr Irving wanted the most spectacular ending for Faust. He knew exactly what he wanted, and I had to deliver!’
Stoker cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.
‘It was a challenging production,’ Wheatstone continued. ‘Full of experimental effects – it was the first time anyone used electric flashes on the stage. And then there was this sword scene where electric sparks burst whenever the blades clashed – I even worked with one of Edison’s partners to design the mechanism. It was all so spectacular, and we had word that the Prince and Princess of Wales meant to attend the premiere, which only added more pressure. Mr Irving wanted something almighty for the final scene, when his lead lady lay dead at the foot of the cross. He wanted the most ethereal illusion: a line of angels descending from heaven, floating in the air. I worked very hard on it, and in the end it did look the part. I have created sea storms, battlefields, herds of faeries … but people have never reacted like they did for that effect. People bought tickets for Faust just to see those angels hovering above the stage with their plumed wings.
‘It was all very simple, in fact: a black steel frame against a black starry background, which became virtually invisible under the proper lighting. And I designed it to avoid any redundant support: a single steel backbone, hung from the flies with steel rope. It had to be strong enough to bear the weight of twelve souls, between little girls and young women – the daintiest Irving could find, with the prettiest one on top, of course – and using steel the entire structure could be very thin. Attached to this backbone there were thin rungs to support the angels, and their robes and wings were made to cover most of the steel. One of my technicians would strap the girls with either rope or leather belts. I added pegs in the back of the main structure, pointing backwards, so that they couldn’t be seen, and the girls used these as steps to climb up to their positions. That all helped create the illusion, but it also meant there was only one way up or down … Only one girl could descend at a time …’
Mr Wheatstone covered his brow with a shaking hand, his voice breaking.
‘The top angel …’ he resumed after a couple of long, deep breaths, ‘had to be the first one to climb up and the last one to come down.
‘And the lighting … the – the lighting had to be very strong; not only to show the angels glimmering in pure white, but also to use that shining to obscure the black steel support. Electric lights would not do; they’re not contrasting – well, white enough. We had to use limelight.’
I raised my ey
ebrows. ‘Dear Lord!’
‘I was going to use electric light, but on the night before the opening Irving suggested we try limelight. Once he saw the effect he would not look back. I did protest against it, but Irving was adamant –’
‘Remind me how that works,’ said McGray.
‘You direct a flame to a block of quicklime – calcium hydroxide – until it becomes incandescent. It is a beautiful effect, but …’
‘Terribly dangerous,’ I added. ‘Quicklime only ignites at thousands of degrees.’
Nine-Nails whistled.
Mr Wheatstone struggled to breathe in. ‘I know! And with the wooden rafters and rope … and the girls sitting so high up, so close to the ceilings … Still, Irving insisted –’
‘Don’t try to blame it on Irving!’ Stoker hissed.
‘Oh, but I should,’ said Wheatstone, in a coarse, poisonous growl. ‘He bursts into rage, hollers and punches people whenever he pleases. George Alexander came out of the Faust production with bruises all over him. And before him, Irving ruined John Tarvin’s career – Tarvin broke his hip after Irving pushed him into the orchestra pit, just because the poor fool always forgot his lines; the man was in such pain he became addicted to his medications. Mr Stoker, your great Henry Irving loves to be feared.’
Stoker turned away, his chest heaving. By then I was taking comprehensive notes of everything being said.
‘And yet,’ sighed Mr Wheatstone, ‘I am guilty. I should have prevailed. Do you believe I don’t feel terrible about –’ he swallowed ‘– about what happened? I do! I know what people whisper behind my back and I deserve it. But people also forget it was I who rescued the little girl from the fire. It was on the last performance, when we were all relieved and thought the whole thing would be over; the flies and the rafters caught fire just as the curtains were closing down, and I climbed to the girls and cut their belts, but we weren’t fast enough. Poor Susan was fastened at the top, screaming her lungs out. She was held so firmly she could not jump even if she’d wanted to. I climbed up to her and cut the ties. No one but me had a closer sight of her face as … it burned … I saw it. I smothered the flames on her little face with my bare hand. I felt the –’
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 18
