by M. J. Trow
Batchelor sniffed the air; bacon! Enveloping himself in a robe he found over the back of a chair, he made his way down two flights to the basement kitchen, following his nose, and was soon tucking in to bacon and egg. ‘Over easy’ was not a phrase he was familiar with, but he wasn’t in any position to complain; besides, the eggs – as it turned out – were delicious. He spoke through a mouthful of food. ‘Where did you learn to cook?’
‘This isn’t really cooking, is it?’ Grand said. ‘But, such as it is, on campaign, I guess. Bacon and beans is as good on the Strand as it is along the Shenandoah.’ He looked around the kitchen, which was already looking a little the worse for wear. ‘I am going to have to get me some staff, though. The cooking’s not so bad – the washing up is beyond me.’
‘I don’t see how a cook would be too much of a worry when it comes to eavesdropping,’ Batchelor agreed. ‘Don’t they usually spend all day in the kitchen?’
‘I guess they do,’ Grand said. ‘All we need do is stop talking when she brings the food up.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll go out this morning and see about hiring someone. And you? Do you have any plans?’
Batchelor looked up from mopping up his bacon fat with a piece of bread. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have been thinking about that Maskelyne performance, and the more I do, the more doubtful I get about him.’
Grand smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Your eyes were shining like a child at Christmas,’ he said.
‘I know, I know,’ Batchelor said. ‘I was taken in. But he’s a fraud – you saw all his people at the theatre; nothing was as it seemed. I wondered if he was even more of a fraud than we thought him. I wondered if he might be Mr Dundreary.’
Grand thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Too small. Too slight altogether. Too young as well. I felt that my man was … older.’
‘How could you tell that?’ Batchelor asked. He didn’t like his fledgling theory being shot down in a hail of lead this early in the game.
‘It was just an impression. His voice. His bearing. Hard to tell – but the Maskelyne we saw on stage was not my man. Not Dundreary.’
‘Perhaps one of his entourage then?’ Batchelor was like a dog with a bone when he had a theory in his head.
‘We didn’t see them all, at least not clearly. So you may be right. But what can you do to check on him?’
‘I thought I might go to the theatre this morning. See what I can find out there.’
‘The Alhambra? Are you crazy? Strange threw us out last time, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. My shoulder is still paining me, and you must be worse – you landed far more awkwardly than I did.’ Grand flexed his arm and winced.
‘That was because I hit the pavement. You just hit me. I may be a bit bony but I’m a softer landing than cobbles.’
‘True. Your sidewalks are on the hard side. So, again, what’s your plan?’
Batchelor poured another cup of coffee and sipped it thoughtfully. Then, he put it down hard in the saucer, slopping half of it. ‘Argyll!’ he said. ‘I doubt there is any love lost between him and Fred Strange – these impresarios are always trying to outdo each other. If there’s anything scurrilous to know about Maskelyne, Argyll will know it.’
‘You’re a genius!’ Grand said. ‘Or a journalist.’
‘One and the same,’ Batchelor said, wiping his mouth. ‘I’ll get dressed and be off.’ He gathered the folds of his dressing gown about him. ‘Thank you for the loan of these, by the way.’
‘You didn’t seem to have anything to wear in bed, so I lent you some of my things.’
‘Mrs Biggs didn’t agree with night clothes. They just make extra washing, she said.’
‘Very possibly,’ Grand said, wrinkling a fastidious nose. ‘But although there won’t be rules as such here, James, a bed gown is mandatory, I’m afraid, as is a fresh shirt daily and underclothes. You only seem to have one pair.’
Batchelor was a little bemused. ‘I’m in my summer ones,’ he said. ‘My winter ones are in my grip.’
‘Yes,’ Grand said. ‘Along with the moths. While I’m out, I will order you some more. No—’ He held up his hand as Batchelor opened his mouth to protest. ‘This isn’t for your benefit, but mine. I spent long enough with men who wore the same clothes for weeks on end. A battlefield is an excuse; Mrs Biggs’ standards are not. Please accept, as a favour to me.’
Batchelor grinned and nodded. ‘Not too fancy, now,’ he said, draining his coffee from the saucer. ‘I’m a simple man at heart.’
‘And now,’ Grand said, ‘a fresh one too.’ He fished in his waistcoat pocket for his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine. You will probably have to get Argyll out of bed, but needs must when the devil drives. I’ll see you back here later.’ He fished in his other pocket and brought out a key. ‘Here – this is yours.’
Batchelor took it and grabbed Grand’s hand as he did so. ‘Matthew, I …’
‘Tchah!’ Grand slapped him on the shoulder again. ‘You’re a strange one,’ he said. ‘I’m only doing what any decent man would do.’
Batchelor looked at him, his head on one side. ‘I hope London never rubs off on you,’ he said. ‘We’re a hard-hearted lot, you know. We’d tread on anyone to get an advantage. But you … you march to a different drum.’
‘Yes,’ Grand said, his face solemn. ‘And the drum is playing “Strike the Tents”. Off you go and beard Argyll in his den. I have to face a household servant agent – if tales my mother told me are true, I will be lucky to be the winner.’
‘A cook can’t be that hard to hire,’ Batchelor said. ‘We don’t need anything fancy.’
‘No,’ Grand agreed. ‘But speaking for myself, I would rather have one who won’t steal the spoons.’ He got up and made for the door. ‘See you later. Good luck.’
Dressed in his own clothes again, Batchelor strolled along the Strand towards the Haymarket Theatre. He was a little early to be visiting anyone in the theatre – he imagined that no one in that business was awake much before midday – but his time on the Telegraph had shown him that it was always better to have the element of surprise. There was a spring in his step as he made his way west and dived into the little maze of roads that would take him to the Haymarket. It still seemed strange to be setting his back so firmly to Fleet Street and the life he had known there, but there was a freedom too, a feeling that all things were possible.
He had forgotten Lavenham. Not for him the late start, the morning in bed. There he stood, leaning on his mop, barring the way in to the theatre. Batchelor tried the ‘hail fellow well met’ approach. It hardly ever worked, but it was worth at least one attempt. He stuck on his friendliest smile and approached the man, hand outstretched.
‘Lavenham!’ he cried, as though the man were his greatest friend. ‘How lovely to meet you again. How are you?’
The hall keeper looked him up and down and pointedly ignored the hand. ‘Do I know you?’ he said, and the absent ‘sir’ hung in the air like a bad smell.
‘You must remember me,’ Batchelor said, still pitching his voice at a friendly level. ‘I found one of the poor girls, do you remember?’
‘Effie. Aye, I remember you.’
‘So, you know me then.’ Batchelor’s smile was becoming a little fixed. Perhaps the old man was soft in the head after all.
‘I remember you,’ the man said. ‘That don’t mean I know you.’
The journalist in Batchelor doffed his cap to the fine distinction. ‘My name is James Batchelor,’ he said. ‘You let me in to see Mr Argyll before, do you remember?’
‘I do.’
‘So,’ Batchelor said, getting desperate, ‘can I go up?’ He tried to sidestep around the man but got nowhere. As if by magic, the mop bucket and mop barred his way.
‘I don’t think so,’ Lavenham said. ‘He near chewed my ear off last time, as I remember. He didn’t give me my usual tip, not after that.’
The light dawned. Batchelor fished in his pocket and came up with his last
half-guinea. He proffered it to Lavenham, and it disappeared into the man’s clothing as quick as a wink.
‘I have to mop over there,’ Lavenham said. ‘Watch that door and make sure no one don’t go through, there’s a good gentleman.’
Batchelor needed no second bidding and was in the theatre even quicker than a wink and was knocking on the door of the inner sanctum seconds later.
Straining his ears, he heard soft footfalls approaching the door and a bolt being drawn back. An eye applied itself to the crack in the door that was opened and a voice whispered, ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Argyll?’ Batchelor said. ‘I’m—’
‘No,’ the voice said, still in a whisper. ‘I am Mr Argyll’s private secretary. Mr Argyll is asleep. What may I do for you? We’re not auditioning today, you know.’
‘No,’ Batchelor said. ‘I—’
‘Sssshhh!’
‘Sorry.’ He dropped his voice so he was whispering too. ‘My name is Batchelor. I’m here to see Mr Argyll. I wondered if he might have some details on Maskelyne. The magician, you know.’
If it were possible to whisper, ‘Ha!’ the man behind the door did it now. ‘He’ll have plenty to say about Maskelyne, but, as I think I said, Mr Argyll is asleep at present. Come back … come back in a day or two.’
‘Surely he will be out of bed in less than a day or two,’ Batchelor breathed.
The secretary allowed himself a small chuckle, quickly suppressed. ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘I have not as yet checked on Mr Argyll’s sleeping companion, but it has been known … Let’s leave it there, shall we?’
‘I see.’ Batchelor was a little nonplussed. This had not featured in his plans for the morning. ‘It is rather important. Could you … could you perhaps just peep round the door?’
The secretary sighed. ‘I shouldn’t … Oh, come in. We can’t keep up this stupid whispering through a crack.’ He opened the door fully and ushered Batchelor in. The secretary was a dapper little man, around the journalist’s height but better groomed in every department. Batchelor couldn’t imagine that he wore the same combinations a whole season long; indeed, he looked as though he probably changed for different times of the day. The secretary was also appraising Batchelor. ‘Press?’ he asked.
Batchelor was impressed. ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘I am a freelance journalist, but that is not why I am here this morning. I am here for a more personal reason.’
‘Oh, so you are here to audition!’
‘No,’ Batchelor said, ‘I am not here to audition. I want to see …’
Behind the secretary a door opened, and Roderick Argyll stood there, in a dressing gown that made Matthew Grand’s look like sackcloth. ‘Is there a problem, Pearson? No, but wait, it’s Caliban!’
‘Pardon?’ Pearson was confused. ‘No, sir, I think the gentleman’s name is Batchelor.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Argyll flapped the air in an imperious gesture. ‘Just my little joke. How may I help you, Mr Batchelor, now I am awake?’
A voice floated through the half open door. ‘Roddy? What’s going on?’
Pearson and Batchelor froze, but Argyll took it in his stride. ‘Pearson, please take Mrs … Er … home for me, could you? Oh, wait, I did say we’d pop in to Asprey’s on the way. My wallet is on the nightstand, so if you could do the honours?’
‘Certainly.’ Pearson didn’t appear fazed by the request. ‘The amount?’
‘Oooh, let me see …’ Argyll tapped his chin with a long forefinger. ‘I think a hundred, don’t you?’
‘Guineas?’ Pearson checked.
‘Hmm. No, pounds, I think, on this occasion. Thank you, Pearson. Back stairs, if you please. Now, Mr Batchelor, what has brought you here so early?’
‘I went to the theatre with a friend to see the Great Maskelyne,’ Batchelor began.
There was a discreet cough from the doorway. ‘The lady would like to say goodbye, Mr Argyll.’
‘Really?’ Argyll turned to his secretary. ‘Can’t you …? Well, perhaps not. Do excuse me, Mr Batchelor. I will be but a minute.’
Pearson stepped aside and the door closed, leaving the secretary and the journalist looking at each other in an awkward silence.
Batchelor rummaged in his pockets and came up empty.
‘A problem?’ Pearson asked, for something to say rather than from any concern.
‘I appear to have left my notepad at home. All I have is a pencil.’
Pearson indicated the desk, in front of a window on the far side of the room. ‘There is waste paper on there,’ he said. ‘Do help yourself to a piece.’
‘Thank you.’ Batchelor chose a piece from the top of a pile and folded it in four, to give himself a surface to lean on. Not the same as his trusty notebook, but it would serve.
The door swung open, and Argyll was back, smoothing down his hair and rebuttoning his dressing gown. ‘Ladies, eh!’ he remarked to the room in general, and then, to Batchelor, ‘Sorry, I can’t remember what you said.’
‘I went to see the Great Maskelyne at the Alhambra.’
Pearson discreetly withdrew.
‘What fun for you.’ Argyll threw himself down in a wing chair and picked up a cigarette case, which he proffered to Batchelor.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ Batchelor said. ‘Yes, we went to the show, and afterwards we went backstage.’
‘My word.’ Argyll was impressed. ‘Dear John doesn’t encourage too much of that, oh, dear me, no.’
‘Well, we didn’t exactly get invited,’ Batchelor said.
‘And, now, don’t tell me, you saw something you shouldn’t. His little cabal, his coterie, his … what’s the word I’m searching for? His co-conspirators who engage with him in fooling the paying public.’
‘I didn’t see them, my friend did, but that sounds about right. Is he a fraud, Mr Argyll?’
‘You saw him,’ Argyll said, lighting his cigarette with a flourish. ‘What do you think?’
‘I was mesmerized,’ Batchelor admitted. ‘I was totally taken in by everything he did. My friend, Mr Grand, was not – apparently, in America, they have travelling shows that do much the same. But I had never seen anything like it, and I was … well, I was totally taken in.’
‘Grand. Where have I seen that name?’
‘You may have read it in the paper – he was guest of honour at George Sala’s dinner.’
‘Of course. I was particularly interested in Mr Sala’s articles from America, as I have friends there. They have gone through so much, and now they have peace at last.’
‘Their President has been shot, though. Not so peaceful, I wouldn’t have said.’
Argyll made one of his dismissive gestures. ‘There is always another President,’ he said, then, seeing Batchelor’s face, added, ‘not that it wasn’t tragic, of course. But when one deals with drama on stage day in and day out, it is hard to come down to earth sometimes. Anyway, I digress. Maskelyne is, as you have deduced, a fraud. He has travelled the world – or, perhaps, one should more accurately say Europe and America – exposing mediums and also, sadly, picking up their cunning tricks. He claims he only puts on his shows to fund his researches, but one wonders. He preys on the gullible just as the mediums do, so how is he any better than they? His people are everywhere – he has spies in the queue, he finds out all about everyone before their backsides, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, touch a seat. He knows about the human heart. He knows about the human soul. He has a following that is only just short of discipleship – people follow him everywhere he goes, believing every word he says. I believe they would do anything he asked of them.’
Batchelor was scribbling furiously. ‘Do you believe he should be stopped, Mr Argyll?’ he asked.
Argyll convulsed with laughter. ‘Indeed I don’t, Mr Batchelor,’ he said. ‘I believe he should move his show to the Haymarket and make me a fortune instead of that charlatan Strange. Now, if there is nothing more, I should get myself dressed. I have other people to see before the show this afte
rnoon, and I don’t expect to see Pearson again today.’
‘Will it take him that long to see … the lady home?’ Batchelor asked, innocently.
‘Taking her home won’t take long,’ Argyll assured him. ‘Escaping once there will be more difficult. Oh, don’t worry about Pearson—’ he had seen Batchelor’s aghast expression – ‘he isn’t as frail as he looks.’ The impresario leapt to his feet. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mr Batchelor. Don’t hesitate to visit me again. I enjoy our chats, indeed I do. Please see yourself out.’ He whirled back through his bedroom door, and soon the room was ringing to the strains of an operatic aria that Batchelor didn’t even try to identify. He looked over his notes once more, folded the paper again and stuffed it in his pocket. With a last glance around the opulent room, which reflected its owner down to the last gesture, he let himself out.
Old Lavenham was waiting for him in the alley.
‘Find him, did yer?’
‘I did, thank you.’ Batchelor tried to squeeze past.
‘I saw ’em leave, that secertery and her, no better than she should be.’
‘I didn’t meet the lady,’ Batchelor said.
‘Don’t have to,’ Lavenham said. ‘They’re none of them no better than they should be. It’s a lot calmer round here when he’s away. None of them trollops up and down the stairs, day and night.’
