Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  In the doorway stood Aunt Madeleine and Miss Tregear. Surrounding them were a group of children. They were no longer smiling. I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes, not opening them again until we had reached the station at Plymouth. I felt in the pocket of my jacket and found the crumpled paper bag containing the bull’s eyes. As the car pulled away from the kerb I unwrapped one ready for the journey home.

  Such vivid recollections, they seem like only yesterday. The innocence of childhood captured for all time in the memories of two short weeks. The change in me upon my return home was as natural as could be, and neither my mother, nor Ellen commented upon it, but I was aware. Childish things were put away, and the spirit of childhood, which was all I had previously known, was gone forever, at least for me. Somewhere it existed. The carefree exuberance, the freedom from responsibility or worry that had characterised my thirteen years would never again feature as part of my life.

  My own son is thirteen soon. I wait, even now, for the pink envelope to arrive. For his summons to Border End.

  CURTAIN CALL

  The street lamps poured a milky glow into the thick London fog, as Sullivan stepped out of the taxi and slammed the door behind him. He snapped an order to the cabbie to wait, and entered the Club. The doorman tipped his hat. "Sir George is expecting you, Mr Sullivan. He's in the Reading Room."

  Sullivan walked straight past him with a cursory nod, and made directly for the Reading Room. Sir George Larkin sat in his usual chair, staring intently out of the window at the blind yellow fog. His face wore a troubled expression, and his fingers fidgeted nervously with a fountain pen. A newspaper lay on his lap, the crossword half-finished.

  Sullivan approached him and stood beside his chair. For a moment the older man did not notice him, until Sullivan cleared his throat, and then Sir George looked up. At first it seemed as if he did not recognise his friend's face, but then his mind returned to the present, and with an anxious smile he was on his feet.

  "Thank God you've made it," he said, shaking Sullivan's hand vigorously. "I only hope we have enough time. Did you tell the driver to wait?"

  "Yes, but what did..."

  "I'll tell you when we're on our way. The fog will slow us up enough as it is. Come on."

  He grabbed Sullivan's arm, and led him from the room, through the lobby, and out of the front door into the street.

  Sir George gave the cabbie the address of a theatre some distance from the Club, and joined Sullivan in the back of the taxi. The cab lurched forward, and made it's way slowly through the fogbound streets. Sullivan looked at his pocket-watch.

  "What's the time?" Sir George asked impatiently.

  "A quarter to eight. Look George what is all this? You telephone and tell me to meet you at your Club, immediately, with no earthly reason whatsoever. As soon as I arrive you drag me off to the theatre. I had to cancel a very important dinner date with a client. If it had been anyone else but you I would have had the good sense to refuse."

  "My dear James, I am not in the habit of wasting anyone's time, least of all an important and busy man such as yourself."

  Sullivan allowed his show of anger to subside a little. He had known Sir George for about twenty years, during which time there had developed between them a great bond of mutual respect. Sir George was well known in City circles for his financial astuteness, as well as being an eminent politician. What was less well known, because Sir George chose to keep it that way, was his interest and expertise in psychic phenomena. Sullivan, when he had received Sir George's call, had had no hesitation in cancelling his dinner appointment. Whenever Sir George said a thing was important, it was guaranteed to be interesting as well. He had been on many of his friend's `little jaunts' in the past. Sullivan's show of impatience was merely for form, so that his friend would realise that his agreement to join him should not be taken for granted.

  As they drove, Sir George began to outline some of the story. "I was at the theatre last night, with a lady, to see the play that has just opened there. The play was amusing, and the audience was enjoying it immensely, as indeed I was myself. It is a modern play, but let us not condemn it for that, and consequently the costumes are all modern. As I say, I was enjoying the play, we were seated in one of the boxes, when at the rear of the stage I happened to notice a young woman, dressed in a costume some forty years out of date. I thought this odd, especially when after several minutes the girl had not spoken a line, and I remarked as much to my friend. Do you know she didn't have the slightest idea what I was talking about. At first I thought she might not be able to see the girl from where she was sitting, but after a great deal of moving about she was still unable to see her. Even after I had tested her with the aid of the opera glasses, and made sure she was looking at the exact spot, she could still not see the girl. I let the matter rest there, as I felt to press too forcibly would be unwise. Then, as my friend tried to concentrate on the play once more, I realised that the rest of the audience could not see the girl either, otherwise there would have been some reaction. It seemed I was the only one aware of her presence. It was an uncanny feeling I can assure you, and the rest of the play passed none too quickly for me. The sooner we were out of the theatre the better."

  "And yet we're going there tonight?"

  "Yes, of course, James, of course. Don't you see? I must be sure she exists. The look on her face was of such anguish, such great torment. How is it that I was the only one to see her?"

  "So you want to know if I can see her as well?"

  "Exactly." The taxi began to slow down. "Ah, it seems we are nearly there."

  The next few minutes are of little importance, suffice it to say that two tickets were collected, as well as a programme for the evening, and the two men took their seats. Sir George was careful to select a different box from the previous night. Being a very meticulous man he wanted to make sure that there was no, `trick of the light', or of the shadow. The play began. They had agreed before it started, that when the time came, and Sir George saw the girl, he was not to give any indication that he had done so. In this way Sullivan would be completely free from expectation, and when, and if, he saw the girl, it would be entirely voluntarily.

  The first act was completed, and the second more than halfway through, when Sir George sat forward in his seat. At once realising what he had done he sat back, but he had no need to worry, Sullivan had seen her as well, exactly as the old man described, sad and lonely, dressed in clothes hopelessly old fashioned. She seemed frightened, and yet it was clear that Sir George and Sullivan were the only two people who could see her. There was little they could do immediately except sit and watch. This they did, until the four acts of the play were completed, the applause and the bows were over, and the theatre began to empty.

  "She was there all right," Sullivan said. "But what do we do now?"

  "I believe we must go backstage to look for clues," Sir George said. "The owner of this theatre is a great friend of my sister, so I don't think we shall be frowned upon too heavily."

  The scenes behind the curtains after a performance are always chaotic. Players relax in various fashions, costumes are thrown aside, scenery is shifted, bouquets and brick-bats are handed out. Outsiders to this family atmosphere are rationed to a few words of congratulations and then they leave. Except, of course, for members of the press, whose opinions can be vital to the success of any play. Sullivan and Sir George were immediately prevented from examining the actual stage, and, despite their protests, they were barred from the dressing rooms. Their search, therefore, was confined to the labyrinth of corridors and passages at the rear of the theatre. These offered no solution to their problem and so they decided to find the owner of the theatre who might afford some sort of answer.

  They found him at `The King's Arms' across the road, celebrating the success of the latest production. He was a small rotund man of red bloated features, and he was less than helpful. As they left Sir George remarked to Sullivan that if the man had not been a frie
nd of his sister he would have been less polite to him. Sullivan smiled. He had witnessed examples of Sir George's polite discourtesy before.

  On the way home both men were very quiet, each deep in his own thoughts. When the cab arrived at Sullivan's house, the first stop, they spoke for the first time since leaving the theatre.

  "Well, James, we must try again," said Sir George. "The trail has not yet ended."

  "Indeed it hasn't, George, that's certain, but I am afraid you will have to continue the search on your own for the next few days. I have a business trip arranged that simply cannot be put off."

  Sir George had already formulated plans for the two of them but he let the matter rest. He knew James would get out of the trip if he could. They bade each other good night, with Sir George wishing his friend a safe trip, and Sullivan promising to get in touch as soon as he returned.

  The business trip took longer than Sullivan anticipated, and became a sight more involved than had originally been the plan. Consequently he had been gone from London four days when on the fifth day, as he was travelling back by train from York, he read the headline in The Times:

  "EMINENT POLITICIAN DIES IN THEATRE MYSTERY."

  The story went on to describe how Sir George Larkin, businessman and politician, dashed onto the stage during the second act of the play, `The Guilty lady', the previous evening. Once on the stage he began to gesticulate wildly, before he suddenly gripped his own throat as though choking. For several seconds he struggled for breath, with his hands pulling at his throat, a look of terror on his face. Then, when his face became scarlet through lack of breath, he fell to the floor, dead.

  When asked why they did not try to help him, several members of the cast told reporters that they felt `a rush of cold air all around him, as if he was standing in a terribly strong draught'. Members of the audience said it looked as if he was trying to unfasten his collar to ease his breathing, while one or two people remarked that it looked more as though he was trying to pluck something away from his neck. The performance was stopped for the evening, although the play is thought to be re-opening tonight. The official verdict is thought to be death by natural causes, asphyxiation.

  Sullivan made immediate plans to attend the funeral. Upon arriving in London he travelled directly to the theatre. From there he went to Sir George's Club, then to his home, and finally to the doctor who had examined the body. No one was able to answer his question, why had Sir George rushed onto the stage?

  The funeral took place on a Friday, and it poured with rain. The ground around the grave was already muddy, but with this torrent of water it became like a rice field. There was a large crowd gathered. Relatives, friends and colleagues – many of whom were household names from the political world. They listened with half a mind to the words of the vicar, the other half concentrating on their rain-brought problems. Sullivan had attended funerals before. Despite his deep grief at the death of his friend, he was able to control his emotions for outward appearances. He was studying the faces of some of the mourners, when, at the rear of the crowd, some distance from actual contact with the people, he saw the same frightened girl he and Sir George had seen on the stage. He could not approach her during the service and so he had to wait patiently for it to end. None of the other mourners seemed to take any notice of her, although she was still dressed in her out of date clothes. The vicar had just finished his words, and the coffin was lowered into the ground when the girl started to move away. Infuriated, but bound to his duty Sullivan had to watch as she walked slowly towards the gates of the churchyard.

  As luck would have it the girl was still in view when the service was concluded. Feigning a sudden attack of grief, Sullivan walked briskly after her, determined to put an end to the mystery. When he was out of the gaze of the others, he broke into a run that was intended to catch the girl, who had a fair sized start on him, but soon he had lost her. For several streets he wandered about, hoping to catch sight of her, until eventually he found himself in a district of London which still waits to be rebuilt from the bomb damage of the last war. For two streets he searched, hoping to see the girl amongst the rubble, and he was on the brink of giving up on the business, when he saw her, only a few yards away. He chased after her, desperate not to let her escape, but as he rounded a corner she was gone again.

  With a sigh of defeat he noted his surroundings. He was in one of the streets in the area where people still live in the prefabricated houses that were erected after the war. It seemed that the girl had led him here on purpose. Sullivan, who was as thorough as Sir George, found it difficult to imagine how he could search an entire street for clues. As if his thoughts had been read he again saw the girl, at the end of the street, pointing at one of the houses. "Wait," he shouted, and dashed after her. He was certain he did not take his eye off her for one moment, but when he reached the house she had gone.

  The house was prefabricated with a touch here, a curtain there, to give it a cosy feel. Sullivan knocked on the door and waited while footsteps shuffled in the hallway. The door was opened by a tall man who might have been aged eighty or more. After a brief exchange of words on the doorstep the old man invited Sullivan in for some tea. If Sullivan had worried beforehand about how to open the desired conversation he needn't have done. The walls of the small living room were covered with theatrical cuttings, photographs, and various memorabilia. They were a natural opener to any conversation.

  "I can see you are a man of the theatre," Sullivan called into the kitchen. The old man returned with a tray containing two mugs of tea and some biscuits.

  "It was my life, sir," he said, "my whole life."

  "I expect you have some stories to tell, eh?"

  "Oh indeed yes, sir, indeed I have. I've seen more actors and actresses in my time that any theatre critic in the land."

  Sullivan listened as the man's life was unveiled. He listened with patience and interest, the man was amusing, yet even if he hadn't been, Sullivan knew the solution to the problem lay here. Eventually the man's reminiscences came to the time when he was the stage-door keeper at the theatre where Sir George had died. Sullivan sat forward and began to ask questions. Was there anything out of the ordinary that happened there? Something involving a young girl?

  "Indeed there was, sir, yes I believe you're right. Let me think. Yes, terrible that was, terrible. I doubt if a young chap like yourself has heard of Marie Lanchester?"

  "No I..."

  "No I didn't think so, and yet she was one of the finest actresses we had in those days. Of course I'm going back a bit now, sir, before the war. Anyway towards the end of her heyday, as you might call it, she began to have a few problems with the old bottle if you get my meaning. Well, it got so bad one night as she couldn't go on. Drunk as a lord if you want the honest truth, singing and shouting, a real carry on. We had her understudy go on in her place, pretty little thing she was, looked like a frightened little bird when she was told she was playing that night. Anyway, on she went, scared or no, and she was really wonderful, stole the show, a musical revue it was. The critics and the public loved her. The manager had no choice, he had to keep her in. Between you and me though, sir, I think he was secretly glad to get rid of poor Marie: a star who's over the hill's not a pretty sight."

  The old man stopped for a moment to pour some more tea into the mugs. "Where was I? Oh yes. So everything was set for this young girl to have a long and successful run. Then what do you think happened?"

  Sullivan put down the biscuit he had been eating and indicated that he had no idea.

  "The very next day we found her, dead. Lying in the middle of a pile of her own reviews she was. She'd been strangled with a silk stocking. No-one ever did find out who did it, although of course I had my suspicions, we all did. Jealousy can be a very powerful motive, sir, and a nasty one."

  "Marie Lanchester?"

  The old man shrugged and tapped the side of his nose. "Shouldn't speak ill of the dead, sir."

  "Marie Lanchester is
dead now?"

  "Of the drink, some years later. At least that was the verdict of the inquest. Those who didn't know Marie too well said she drank her own life away out of remorse...but, as I say, they didn't know Marie Lanchester that well."

  "And you did?"

  "Marie Lanchester wasn't capable of remorse, or pity, or shame. Not in her make-up. She lived for one thing and one thing only, and that was Marie Lanchester."

  Sullivan left the old man and made his way home where he could think in peace. He had to take some action, but what exactly, he had no idea. He would not make the same frontal attack as Sir George, he would approach more deviously.

  That evening he went to the theatre before the audience began to arrive, and by telling the stage manager that he was more involved in the official investigations into Sir George's death than he actually was, he was able to persuade the man to allow him access to the wings. From this position he was able to see the entire stage, as well as behind the scenes.

  The play began, and the first act was completed without interference of any kind. As before, the second act was in progress when the girl materialised at the back of the stage. Sullivan couldn't be sure if she had slipped in from behind the backdrop, or the other wing. For several moments she stood on her own, looking frightened and confused. Sullivan beckoned to her, but she shook her head. Then she moved across the stage to the opposite wing, and disappeared behind the curtains, into the backstage area. Sullivan ran behind the stage to find her.

  He could hear the voices of the actors on stage, speaking their lines as though from far away. Sullivan searched in the near darkness, but could find no trace of the girl. Then, in front of him, he saw her, lying on the floor. He knelt beside her, but before he could see what was wrong with her movement behind him distracted him. He turned to see a faint grey glow move from behind the curtain towards him. Slowly the glow began to take human shape, and to develop arms, legs, finally the head of a woman. This is what must have prompted Sir George to leap onto the stage. The woman reached the wing of the stage and Sullivan could see the pallor of death on the face, the skin wrinkled and crumbling, yellow with age and corruption. And held tightly in her hands, a length of material that could once have been recognised as silk. The figure was moving dreadfully towards him and the girl, who was still motionless.