Nine-Nails whispered in my ear, ‘I quite like to abuse that auld crook whenever there’s a chance, but why d’ye want to question Stoker right now? He’s in no state –’
‘He is overdosed with opiates. He will never be more cooperative.’
McGray looked alternately at Stoker and me. ‘Good lad! Yer starting to think like me.’
‘That is rather worrying.’
I pulled up a chair and sat by the side of the bed. McGray remained afar to avoid crowding the man.
‘Mr Stoker,’ I said, ‘we know you are in pain.’ I recognized he was not, but it felt like a good first line. ‘However, there are vital questions we need you to answer.’
Stoker sighed. From his eyes I could tell he was quite aware of my words, even if his speech seemed unconnected.
‘Flo – Florence …’
‘Mrs Irving?’ McGray asked, quite shocked.
‘No,’ I told him. ‘Mr Stoker’s wife, curiously enough, is also named Florence. He must be calling for her.’ I turned to Stoker. ‘I promise to telegram your wife and tell her you are quite all right; I will give her no reason to worry.’
Stoker exhaled loudly. ‘I once knew a little boy … he put so many flies into a bottle that they didn’t have room to die.’
‘He’s bloody well drugged,’ McGray said through his teeth.
‘Mr Stoker, we need to know what happened to you last night. Who did this to you? Did someone attack you in your room?’
Stoker tried to raise a hand, but then dropped it, as if not sufficiently bothered to move. ‘I saw nothing. I was writing my journal, minding my own business. Knock on the door … I opened and there’s no one … Someone hit my leg – from the side – and I dropped on my face. I felt a blow to my head. After that … nothing. Nothing until I woke up here.’
‘Are you certain you saw nothing? Could you perhaps have heard a voice … smelled someone’s perfume … anything?’
Stoker wrinkled his nose. ‘Smell? I think … I think …’ he gathered breath. ‘There are funny smells in the theatre. I once met a young actress who only washed her hair with –’
‘Mr Stoker, I need you to remember.’
He groaned again, turning his face away. ‘I was … I think I was lying on the ground … already beaten, and saw a thin man walk away. He walked queerly.’
‘Queerly?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean? A limp?’
‘Ye– yes, maybe.’
I pressed for more details, but that was all he could tell us.
‘Just what Freddie said,’ McGray mumbled.
I asked Mr Stoker a couple of questions but he did not reply, as if his thoughts had drifted for good. Fortunately, I knew how to get his attention back.
‘I took the liberty of reading your journal,’ I said, and Stoker turned his face to me so quickly I feared for his neck. ‘I do apologize if I invaded your privacy,’ I added promptly. ‘You were missing and we feared the worst. I thought that your writings might give us clues – and they did.’
Stoker’s eyes fixed on his journal, which I had just pulled from my pocket.
‘You saw something,’ I insisted, opening the book at the relevant page. ‘Or should I say – someone.’
Nine-Nails took a small step forward. ‘Was it the banshee?’
Stoker groaned again, as if his own writing and the smudged ink were the words of the Devil himself.
‘Why did you do this?’ I asked, pointing at the obscured lines. ‘What is this you wrote that you decided it was best to conceal? And why did you tear these pages out?’
Stoker frowned when I showed him the remaining strips of torn paper. He then closed his eyes and exhaled as if letting out his final breath. He was experiencing a pain, a conflict which even the opiates could not alleviate.
‘I tried to protect them. Oh, God, I did!’
I leaned forward. ‘Protect who?’
Stoker shifted his weight as if suddenly bitten by a bug, and the bed creaked. ‘Oh, I don’t like that Terry woman … I tell everyone I do, but I don’t. Bloody harpy. She forgets her lines and people call her endearing. She has children out of wedlock and people admire her for her independence, when any other woman would be called a – Lord, she could commit murder on the stage, in everybody’s plain sight, and people would still applaud her for her good performance!’
‘Mr Stoker, could you please simply tell us –’
‘What annoys me the most – she knows the world loves her and has become bored of it. Bored! She didn’t realize she was madly in love with Godwin until the poor wretch died. Although … I don’t even think that was true love … Rather … she knows she can never have him back, so now she wants him like nothing else. Oh dear, we’re all like that, aren’t we? How desperately we crave what we cannot have.’
‘Did ye see the banshee?’ McGray asked again.
‘Was it Miss Terry?’ I pressed. ‘Was she the person you saw last night?’ I looked through the pages. ‘You mentioned the word “iridescent”, and Miss Terry was wearing her beetle dress at the ball.’
Stoker shook his head. It was terribly sad to see such a tall, well-built man about to whimper.
‘I couldn’t denounce her! I thought I saw her in Calton Hill that night, when Irving and I met you, but I wasn’t sure, so I kept quiet. I didn’t even keep those lines in my journal lest someone should read it. And then last night … I know it was her! The dog has, has to be hers … I tried to conceal it all, right before someone knocked at my door and attacked me.’
‘Why would ye do that?’ McGray asked, though he already guessed the answer.
‘I did it for Irving! I wanted to keep it all quiet for him. He loves her so much, God only knows why!’
I gave him a moment to collect himself. Then I whispered, ‘Mr Stoker, you have just said you know it was her. Are you absolutely certain? More importantly – can it be proven?’
He nodded and pointed at the back of my chair, where the nurses had hung his muddy jacket. ‘Pocket – right-hand pocket.’
I flung my hand in, and as soon as my fingers felt it I knew what Stoker meant.
It was an oval, delicate, iridescent beetle wing.
37
The ride from the infirmary had felt like an eternity. We ran past Irving without even looking at him, and only heard him roar at our backs. He’d surely asked Stoker what had happened, and by now must be travelling frantically to the hotel in his rented cab, but he would certainly not beat us.
We stormed into the Palace Hotel, inquired for Miss Terry, and were told she was in her rooms but had commanded not to be disturbed. I would rather not transcribe what Nine-Nails told the manager.
McGray climbed the stairs like a dart, and when I caught up with him he was pounding Miss Terry’s door so hard the wood creaked.
A young bellboy opened the door a crack, but before he could say a word McGray pushed his way in and the boy scrambled backwards. We walked into the vestibule, but there was nobody there. Then we heard voices from the sitting room, and McGray stepped in so swiftly its occupants needed a moment to take in what had happened.
The room was filled with the pungent smell of oil paints and white spirit, and at the very centre stood the enormous canvas I’d seen being carried in. The portrait was so imposing one had to stop and admire it, even at such dire a moment.
Clad in her striking green dress, Miss Terry held the Scottish crown up high, about to place it on her head. Her pale skin had an almost ghostly glow against the dark background and the heavy fabrics. The portraitist, however, had not attempted to be flattering: Terry’s large nostrils and strong jaw were there, depicted most accurately, but so was the fire in her eyes, which not even photographs were able to capture with absolute fidelity – the sensibility of the artist succeeding where the cool lens of the camera could not.
I recognized the man who’d painted the portrait of one of my stepmother’s distant in-laws (Mrs Henry White), and whom I’d seen in a social gathering a few years
ago, when his career was only just taking off in England: John Singer Sargent.
From the seconds it took him to acknowledge our entrance, I saw that the man painted with staggering dexterity: a single stroke from his brush, charged with bright green and yellow and white, suddenly became a perfect beetle wing; then a winding line, on its own nothing but a dark green smear, expertly positioned became part of the intricate yarn weaving.
He turned to us and spoke with the strangest accent I’d ever heard, not quite English, not quite French, and with a few American slurs here and there.
‘May I help you, gentlemen? I am quite busy, if you don’t –’
‘Shush!’ said McGray, stepping sideways. The canvas had obscured the real Miss Terry, who was posing at the end of the room, standing on a low side table that acted as a platform, each fold of her shimmering dress carefully draped. And when she saw us there was sheer panic in her face. I thought it would be impossible to describe it, yet –
‘There!’ Mr Sargent cried, sprinting back to his set of brushes. ‘Freeze there, Miss Terry! That is perfect!’
Even though the painted eyes were already flawless, their colour and shape an exact match to the model, Sargent began retouching them with his finest brush, his nose almost rubbing the canvas. I cannot tell for certain what he did – some tiny lengthening of the dark eyelashes, some touch of titanium white added to the sparks on the pupils – but in seconds the expression of the portrait had changed entirely. Suddenly there was all the fear, all the shock we had unleashed, as if Miss Terry were staring at the gates of hell.
The woman was frozen, the only movement the slight tremor of her parted lips, staring at us and unable to conceal that fright, now immortalized by Mr Sargent. What a bizarre moment … and McGray stood there in silence, as if savouring the tension. I, on the other hand, was spellbound.
‘That is superb!’ cried Sargent, taking a step back to admire his work. ‘Simply superb!’
Another male voice came from one of the adjacent chambers, quite pompous even to the likes of me. ‘Why, I would like a peek, dear Sargent!’
Another face I recognized from society gatherings. Mr Oscar Wilde himself: tall, large, dreamy-eyed, arrogant to the marrow and holding a glass of port as he approached with a light tread. Before he could look at the painting he scrutinized us.
‘Oh, my! Who are the two Dickensian characters?’
‘Nine-Nails McGray,’ he grunted, as if attempting to appear even more Dickensian. ‘CID. Who the fuck are ye?’
Mr Wilde chuckled; quite condescendingly and standing dangerously close to McGray.
‘You obviously do not move in the cultivated circles I –’
‘Get out!’ McGray snarled. ‘Both o’ youse. We need to talk to Miss Terry.’
Mr Sargent put his palette and brushes down, but Mr Wilde again chuckled, brushing imaginary specks of dust off his velvet jacket.
‘Oh, my raggedy policeman, I would like to know what on earth Miss Terry could have to do with the –’
McGray growled. ‘Mind yer own business, ye sleekit beastie!’
‘Why, my own business always bores me to death; I prefer other people’s.’
McGray looked at me quite wearily. ‘Och, and I thought ye were the worst.’
Then, startling us all, he grabbed Mr Wilde by the collar, and the round-faced man dropped his port on the carpet. Mr Wilde was but a couple of inches shorter than McGray, but where the Irishman had pomposity, the Scot had sinew.
‘Give me wit again, ye braggart, and I’ll punch yer wobbly stomach ’til ye soil yerself from both ends.’
‘Lord, you are quite the brute, aren’t –’
Mr Wilde would not finish his sentence, for McGray dragged him out like a stray cat. I shall never forget the sight of Wilde’s long, dark hair flailing about as he was being so roughly handled.
Upon Nine-Nails’ return, Mr Sargent gulped, stammered a fearful ‘excuse me’ and then left the room with hasty strides. Before shutting the door he waved at Miss Terry, his face full of concern. I remembered Stoker’s words: everyone was in love with that woman.
Right now, though, she looked at us with the eyes of a cornered fox. She did not move or speak as McGray walked around the painting.
‘So lifelike,’ he said. He offered Miss Terry a hand and she stepped down from the makeshift plinth, clasping the crown. ‘Are ye happy with the result, miss?’
Terry blinked nervously and made to sit down, but must have remembered she could not whilst wearing that dress.
‘I’ve not seen it,’ she murmured. ‘Not until it’s finished. I like to be surprised.’
‘You cannot be surprised right now,’ I said. ‘You must know very well why we are here.’ Miss Terry said nothing, but she held my stare quite bravely. I produced the mucky beetle wing from my pocket and put it in the palm of her hand. ‘I believe you dropped something.’
Terry received it and stared at it for a good while, looking puzzled.
‘Where did you find this?’
‘Not us,’ McGray intervened. ‘Mr Stoker.’
Terry’s eyes, if possible, opened wider. ‘Have you found him?’ she gasped. ‘Is he well?’
‘Well enough to tell us he saw you on the street last night,’ I told her, and her chest swelled. ‘He found this wing while following you.’ Miss Terry opened her mouth to say something, but McGray jumped in.
‘And we ken ye were out last night. We questioned everybody in this building and ye were nowhere to be found. What were ye doing out there?’
For the first time Miss Terry blushed. She was lost for words, and McGray had to tap her on the shoulder.
‘Ye better talk, hen. We also ken that some stranger walked out o’ yer rooms earlier yesterday. Very likely the same person who attacked Mr Stoker.’
‘Very likely! What do you mean?’
‘He was recognized by Stoker and by … one other witness.’ I preferred not to mention it had been Freddie Harwood. ‘We know the man walked with a strange gait, and also that he left behind some sort of chemical smell.’
Terry shook her head so fervently that every beetle wing trembled. There it was again, the expression of doom in her eyes. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Nae need to expose the sinner,’ McGray prompted.
‘He did smell funny …’ she said in a whisper. I could almost feel the cold fear she was experiencing.
‘So ye’ve met that man,’ said McGray. ‘Who is he? What was he doing here?’
Ignoring the dress, Miss Terry sank on a sofa, covering her mouth, the crown falling from her hands – from the soft thud on the floor I could tell it was made of painted wood. The beetle wings cracked beneath her.
‘He brought me letters … But I’ve been deceived! My God, I must have been deceived!’
‘Deceived?’ I asked.
Miss Terry spread her fingers all over her head, as if containing her skull from exploding.
‘What a fool I’ve been! And now Bram … what happened to him?’
‘Before we tell ye more,’ said Nine-Nails, ‘ye tell us yer story. What letters was this man bringing ye? Who deceived ye?’
‘I wish I knew!’ cried Terry, clasping her head so tightly I thought she’d plunge her fingernails into her scalp. ‘I thought I – I thought I was exchanging letters with …’ She blushed intensely, and then rose all of a sudden, went to the table at which we’d had tea with her and brought her copy of The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. That was the same small book I’d seen young Susy Harwood bring back, the one Lewis Carroll had dedicated to Miss Terry.
She pulled out a letter from within the pages and showed it to us, unable to say more.
McGray grabbed it and unfolded the expensive cotton paper. His eyes flashed across the sheet, and then he saw the dedication on the book’s first page, which Miss Terry was holding up for him.
‘Lewis Carroll?’ McGray asked. ‘Did he send ye this?’
Miss Terry could not contain angry
tears any more. ‘I thought he had!’ And she dropped herself on the sofa again.
McGray handed me the letter. It was clear that the hand matched that of the dedication. It read thus:
My Dearest Ellen,
I must appeal to you for help. It is all very, very sad, and there are things I cannot put on paper. I must say them face to face. Do meet me at the arches of Regent Bridge, a quarter past midnight. Not a minute later, I beg you!
Charles
‘Why did Mr Carroll sign as Charles?’ I asked her.
‘His real name is Charles Dodgson. Lewis Carroll is just his pen name, and I’ve always called him Charles.’
‘Youse two were very close,’ said McGray. ‘I remember ye telling us so.’
‘Yes. He is the dearest gentleman and he was very fond of my sister as well. I also told you we had to cease all connections after I had my two children illegitimately.’
I again blushed as she mentioned such a thing so naturally. ‘That was many years ago, was it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet …’ I added, raising a brow, ‘all of a sudden he asked you to meet him on an insalubrious city street, in the middle of the night?’
Her chest heaved. ‘It was not all of a sudden. We resumed correspondence recently. Well, only a few weeks ago, to be frank … although now I’m not sure he ever wrote me anything at all!’
McGray and I exchanged sceptical looks.
‘So someone deceived ye,’ said Nine-Nails, ‘into thinking Lewis Carroll wanted to renew his friendship.’
‘That’s what must have happened! In his letters he mentioned he would come to Scotland to see me on the stage, away from all the London gossip, and that we might even meet in person. After all these years! Then yesterday he sent me that damned note asking for my help. I could not refuse! There I went. I risked it all to be there at the precise time.’
‘Even after the mayhem we all witnessed last night?’ I said. ‘Were you aware of what your little jaunt would make us think?’
Miss Terry gulped. ‘I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking. You’ve seen the note. It seemed dire, and Charles is such a dear friend, taken away from me because of – propriety!’
A Mask of Shadows: Frey & McGray Book 3 (A Case for Frey & McGray) Page 25
