She gave me a quizzical look. “The play isn’t over yet.”
“And ... er ... the play’s the thing?” I quoted Hamlet.
“Tonight it certainly is,” she said, her words containing many levels of meaning.
In his fourth act scene with the Witches, Mycroft Holmes struggled with the visions of Banquo’s descendants who were destined to reign after him. “A third is like the former. Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?” Fortuitously his voice cracked as it rose; I thought it was a very skillful device—either that, or he was growing tired; much as I wanted to believe the former, I was more sure of the latter.
By the third scene of the fifth act, I could see that Holmes was flagging; apparently some of the actors were aware that he was not at full strength, as well, for they kept moving him downstage, and turning him more toward the audience—Sutton called that dressing—and helping him to make the most of his tired voice.
“Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear.” Arrogance covered the beginning of panic in MacBeth’s assertion. “The spirits that know/All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus: ‘Fear not, MacBeth; no man that’s born of woman/Shall e’en have power upon thee.’”
He made the same grand, sweeping gesture that Sutton did, but a trifle slower and with a more ironic bow. As I continued to watch, I was glad the play was almost finished, for I recognized the exhaustion that was giving its impetus to Holmes’ performance now.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” Mycroft Holmes intoned as if sounding a funeral bell, “Creeps in this petty pace from day to day ...”
“He’s really doing very well,” Miss Gatspy whispered to me. “In spite of the way his Lady MacBeth was behaving.”
She was vehemently hissed by a man behind her, who was much annoyed at her expressions of approval from the first rising of the curtain.
“ ... have lighted fools/The way to dusty death ...”
Because I knew Mycroft Holmes fairly well, I distinguished his personal discomfort in his position for what it was, and did not see it as the abandoning of hope that most of the audience perceived. I also felt an uncomfortable twinge of memory of Jacobbus Braaten earlier today, watching him die. Until this moment, I had been able to put that behind me and lose myself in the play.
“ ... That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/And then is heard no more ...” The poignant words struck me as the farewell I understood them to be: Mycroft Holmes would not walk this stage again, nor any other, if he could arrange it. “Full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing.”
I remembered the battle was coming, and I hoped that Sutton had gone over the moves of it enough times for Holmes to copy them perfectly, for I suspected this would be the most difficult part of the play for my employer to perform. In spite of all the excitement on the stage, and the double tension I experienced—that of the drama itself, and that of knowing Mycroft Holmes was playing the lead role, not Edmund Sutton—fatigue was catching up with me. I was in no danger of nodding off, but I had slumped a bit in my chair, and I was aware of aches I could ordinarily ignore. I could not help but wonder if Miss Gatspy was enjoying herself, or if the exigencies of the day had robbed her of delectation.
The last fight came, and, as the Bard decreed, MacDuff triumphed. The play ended, the curtain came down, and there were curtain calls—all the usual ritual of the theatre. I applauded along with the rest, and felt assuagement of Holmes’ behalf that this ordeal was almost over.
“We should go backstage,” said Miss Gatspy, plucking at my sleeve. “We should congratulate him for getting through it in such good form.”
“Perhaps,” I said, not knowing if Holmes would welcome our visit.
“At least we should try,” she said, and began to edge her way toward the aisle. “He can always refuse to let us come in. The doorman will know.”
I could not say no to her, nor did I want to, truth to tell. I meekly followed after her, out of the building and around the side of the theatre to the stage door, where I stood while Miss Gatspy approached the doorman, saying, “We are here to visit Mister Sutton. He may have left our names: Mister Guthrie and Miss Gatspy?”
The doorman did not bother to consult the list. “You’re not on it,” he announced, and looked away from her.
“Oh, but I think you are mistaken,” said Miss Gatspy, going up to the stand where the doorman sat, and pointing to a grubby sheet of names. “There. You see? Gatspy and Guthrie. Along with Tyers.”
The doorman sniffed as he stared down at the sheet as if it had only just materialized in front of him. “Oh,” he said with such tremendous boredom that I wanted to call him to task. “You may go in. It’s the second door at the top of the spiral staircase, prompt side.”
“Thank you,” I said formally as we went into the dark, starkly functional world of backstage. The spiral staircase the doorman mentioned was beyond the banks of ropes and counterweights that raised and lowered scenery, curtains, and certain special lights. There was a faint smell of gas from the lights, but not enough to be alarming. We passed the stagehands—rough men in work-clothes—and a few supernumeraries in archaic armor and false beards before we came to the wrought-iron staircase that corkscrewed up to the dressing-rooms above; the whole structure gave off an unmelodious clang as I put my foot on it to begin our ascent.
“Be careful, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy, following me upward. “Someone may want to come down.”
“I will,” I said, and went on without incident to the narrow metal balcony that marked the start to the corridor. The second dressing-room had a label tacked to it: EDMUND SUTTON it read. I knocked and said, “It’s Guthrie, sir, and Miss Gatspy, come to congratulate you.”
“Come in,” said an exhausted voice I hardly recognized; we went in and found Mycroft Holmes in a dressing gown, his make-up partially removed. The dressing-room was small, and painted a shade somewhere between green and cream; it smelled of sweat and greasepaint and cologne. Gaslights flanked the mirror, giving a bright, even luminescence to everything before it. A small clothing rack mounted on wheels held the costumes Mycroft Holmes had just worn, and next to it, a butler’s chair held his engulfing street-clothes. I watched as Holmes went on smearing white cream on his face and wiping off the resultant smear of color with a bit of butcher-paper. He indicated a stool, and I offered it to Miss Gatspy, who sat down and watched this process. “And the devil of it is, I must put on more before I leave, so I may maintain some semblance of Sutton’s appearance.”
“I think Sutton would have been pleased, sir, had he seen you tonight.” I wanted to say more, but Holmes held up his hand.
“Had Sutton been able to see me, I shouldn’t have had to do this.” He took a last swipe under his chin. “I had no notion how tiring it is to project the voice for a full play. And the lights are distracting, as well as hot.”
“No one suspected,” I said.
“Why should they. Although La Motherwell noticed Sutton was not quite himself; you saw how she carried on in the earlier scenes. I said I had a touch of a cold. I am not entirely sure she believed me.” Holmes folded his hands and met my eyes in the mirror. “I rely on you to leave with me. I don’t want to be detained by any of this troupe. Actors are canny folk; I might fool them on-stage for a performance, but I cannot continue to do so now that the performance is over.” He looked down at the pots of color and the tub of powder. “Is it still raining?”
“Yes; it’s getting heavier again,” said Miss Gatspy before I could answer.
“I see,” said Holmes. “Well, that is in our favor. I will have excellent reason to be engulfed in my cloak. I shall have to give it to Sutton, or questions may be asked if he doesn’t wear it again.” He selected a tannish-pink shade of color and patted it onto his face, taking care to smooth it with a wedge of spong
e. “I can’t change the color of my eyes, but I can put a little dark-blue on my lashes, to make my eyes seem bluer. My hair will be covered. Fortunately the cloak is voluminous, so it will conceal my bulk. I must say, I am pleased that the costumer wanted to make Sutton look bulkier. I took the padding out of the costumes; Sutton will have to put it back again.” He continued working on his face, using shading to diminish the lines in his face, creating an eerily younger appearance. “Hastings should be waiting for me shortly. I want you to accompany me out of the theatre.”
“So you said,” I reminded him.
“And I want you both to come back to Pall Mall with me. There are a few matters we need to discuss.” He continued to refine the make-up until it no longer looked applied. “This has been a most demanding week, Guthrie.”
“So it has, sir,” I said.
Holmes pushed back from the mirror. “It isn’t quite over yet, but very nearly. If we can but put one or two matters to rest, we will be able to conclude the whole by Friday.” He ran his fingers through his hair, muttering something about the wig he had worn. “Miss Gatspy, you have been most helpful. I hope this does not in any way compromise your position within the Golden Lodge.”
“You needn’t worry on that account,” said Miss Gatspy. “In this instance, our goals and yours have been in accord.” She favored him with a seraphic smile.
“Miss Gatspy, you unnerve me.” Holmes rose. “If you will both be kind enough to wait outside, I’ll complete my changing.”
“Of course,” I said, and held my hand out to Miss Gatspy, in case she needed assistance in rising in these cramped quarters.
“Thank you, Guthrie,” she said, so demurely that I wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t mocking me. She allowed me to escort her from the room, and then she pulled me to the head of the corridor where there was a small bench. “It has been a very exciting day, hasn’t it?”
“A very exciting—if that’s the word I want—week, I should rather say,” I responded.
“But today—had we been in Italy, it could have come from Missus Radcliffe’s pen. Disguises. Unscrupulous villains. Mysterious doubles. Insane asylums. Cross-country chases. Not that she would have had a motor-car in her tale,” she added hastily, her blue eyes bright with amusement. “But you will admit it had a touch of romance.”
“I should think more along the line of Wilkie Collins,” I said. “And he is more contemporary than Missus Radcliffe.”
“Yes,” she agreed, and fell silent as Beatrice Motherwell approached.
Out of her medieval raiment, she was a handsome woman with a generous figure that she was at pains to show off in a nip-waist princess gown of sapphire-blue. Her hair was done up fashionably and she wore a diamond dog-collar and a rope of pearls around her neck. She was accompanied by a man, at least a decade her senior, in evening clothes with the unmistakable air of wealth and privilege about him. As they passed us, she nodded to us, saying, “You’re Sutton’s friend, aren’t you? Shame he was having an off-night. Still, he is a trouper, to play in spite of it. His voice was off. It must be his cold.” With a smile that was almost a smirk, she was gone, making her way down the circular stairs with the ease of long practice.
“Well!” said Miss Gatspy. “Frailty, thy name is Motherwell,” she said in an undervoice. “I can see why Sutton speaks about her as he does.”
“That was a touch too much,” I agreed.
“Guthrie, you are a nod-cock,” said Miss Gatspy in kindly rebuke.
I was about to ask her why she thought so when the door to Sutton’s dressing-room came open and Mycroft Holmes surged out, once again wrapped in his cloak and a long muffler with his hat pulled down low. He coughed for effect. “Guthrie. Come,” he exclaimed, and clapped me on the shoulder before propelling me toward the stairs. “You, too, Miss Gatspy.”
“As you wish,” she said, her voice still tinged with inner merriment.
We trooped down the stairs, our steps sounding like hail in a smithy. As we reached the main floor, one or two other actors hailed Holmes—as Sutton—but didn’t detain him, seeing he was with company. The doorman hardly deigned to notice our departure.
“Where is your carriage?” asked Holmes as Sid Hastings brought his cab up in front of the theatre; now that most of the audience had left, the place seemed deserted and a bit sinister, for all its decorative facade and shining lights.
“Around the corner,” said Miss Gatspy.
“Then we shall meet again in Pall Mall,” he said, as if there could be no argument on that head.
“Yes. That we shall,” said Miss Gatspy, and slipped her hand through my arm. “Come, Guthrie.”
I went along with her, thinking as I did that the theatre is truly a haunted place. We rounded the building away from the stage door and started to where her sylphide had been stalled for the evening’s performance. All but one or two of the various carriages and buggies were gone, giving the place a forlorn look, like a ballroom after everyone had left. We had just got inside the sylphide when the mare whinnied loudly and tossed her head as if in protest of having to continue to work. I was about to say something about this when Miss Gatspy motioned me to silence. “What is it?” I mouthed, for I was keenly aware that she was abristle with distress.
“The mare’s been crippled,” she said barely above a whisper. “Someone is trying to trap us.”
“Are you certain?” I asked in the same hushed voice.
“She is not moving because her tendons are cut,” said Miss Gatspy in such a tone of fury and sadness as I never hope to hear from her again.
“How can you be certain?” I asked.
“Because there is blood on her legs and she is in pain,” said Miss Gatspy. “And we are trapped.”
I remained still, listening to the rain and any other sounds from the night. I thought I heard the snick of a pistol being cocked, and I dropped into a ball on the floor, Miss Gatspy immediately beside me.
The shot went off and the mare neighed again, struggling to run, and instead falling, tangling herself in her harness.
“I have had enough,” whispered Miss Gatspy, and reached into her muff for her pistol. “Guthrie, get ready to run.”
“I have my pistol with me, as well,” I told her softly. “If we both move simultaneously, we might be able to stop them—whoever they may be.”
She nodded agreement, and drew her pistol. “Ready? Set. Go.”
We both rolled out of the small carriage, she on the left, I on the right. We both landed crouched and aiming our pistols into the dark; a figure in a flapping cloak stopped not six feet from the carriage and turned to run.
“Stop!” I cried, and started after him. I chased him into Saint Martin’s Lane, and up toward Long Acre, but he had a lead on me, and I could not stop him from slipping between two buildings on the edge of Covent Garden. Fearing to leave Miss Gatspy alone, I turned and ran back toward the Duke of York’s Theatre only to hear a single shot just as I approached. “Miss Gatspy!” I shouted, dreading what that might portend, and arrived to find her standing over her mare, tears shining in her eyes.
“She was suffering,” she said, and handed her pistol to me.
“My dear Miss Gatspy,” I said, putting my arm round her shoulder to comfort her. “What a dreadful thing.”
“It’s one thing to shoot at us,” she said in a small, tight voice, “for we can defend ourselves. But to cripple a blameless horse for no reason but to make it easier to fight us—that is the utmost cowardice.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, truly agreeing with her. What on earth were we going to do now? I asked myself. How were we to disengage the carriage and harness from the dead horse, and how were we to dispose of the animal? It was all perplexing and inconvenient.
“Don’t worry,” said Miss Gatspy, as if reading my thoughts. “My colleagues will t
ake care of this.”
“Ah, yes, your colleagues,” I said. “Just where were they when your horse was cut?” Little as I liked the notion of being followed, I dislike the lack of diligence even less.
“They were seeing Mister Holmes home,” she said. “They thought we would not need their attention.”
“Not much help,” I said, trying to keep my temper in check.
“No; they will have to account for their lapse to our superiors.” She put her hand on my arm, keeping her muff on the other; she made no mention of her pistol, so I put it into my trouser-pocket, away from my own pistol. “Pall Mall isn’t so very far. We could walk back, if you don’t think it would be too great a risk?”
“We can certainly try,” I said, the fatigue I had been feeling vanishing as if by a fairy’s spell. “If we take too long, Hastings may well come in search of us.”
“Or my colleagues,” said Miss Gatspy. “Down Saint Martin’s Lane to East Pall Mall and thence to Mister Holmes’.” She did her best to smile. “It isn’t much more than half a mile, would you say?”
“More or less,” I replied, not caring about the distance. It was a sweet ending to what had been a most trying day, and one that wasn’t yet over. I thought that a few more minutes in Miss Gatspy’s company would lessen the sourness of what was to come, and solace her loss of her mare. So I did not walk as fast as I might, and I only worried that the rain might damage Miss Gatspy’s gown, or chill her. We saw few vehicles on the street, and not many men on horseback until we were almost opposite Cockspur Street, when a rider approached us, hailing Miss Gatspy by name and asking why she was not in her carriage.
“You will see why when you go back to the theatre. I leave you and Langford to tend to it.” Her tone was sharp, but I could hear the distress she strove to hide.
“Right you are, Miss Gatspy,” said the man, lifting his hand in salute before he rode on toward Saint Martin’s Lane.
While they had spoken I became acutely aware that her hand was still in mine in the crook of my arm and that she had made no attempt to remove it. It was a heady sensation, and one I feared I was making too much of: she had endured a most trying day, one that ended in her having to dispatch her own mare with her pistol. It was only to be expected that she would require succor; I was determined not to refine upon it too much, or to attach any significance to it beyond her inclination to be comforted.
The Scottish Ploy Page 36
