“Can I help?”
For the next hour or so I helped repair and repaint a number of pieces of the Twelfth Night sets and got to chatting with Jack Parsons till we were like old friends. I got him talking about the principal actors and—more importantly, from my point of view—about the management.
“So who’s really in charge, then?” I asked “This Mrs. Crowe or the lead actor, Mr. Pheebes-Watson?”
“Old Philly thinks ’e’s in charge.” Parsons chuckled. “Leastwise, you’d believe ’im if you ’eard ’im. But it’s Mrs. C as pulls the strings. Trust me, she’s the one you need to pay attention to.”
“What’s this I heard about someone poisoning the Lyceum man?” I tried to make it a casual question. “That Henry Irving.”
Parsons laughed out loud. “Ha! It’s amazing ’ow stories gets around.”
“It’s not true, then?”
He shook his head. “They was talkin’ about ’ow they needed to get Twelfth Night going afore the Lyceum’s ’Amlet, and speaking of Mr. Irving, old Philly said somethin’ like, ‘Someone should poison the blighter!’ Not serious, o’ course.”
“But someone was serious,” I said. “I mean, Irving did get poisoned. So who do you think did it?”
Parsons paused with his paintbrush in his hand and gazed off into the wings, thinking. “Don’t know as ’ow it was anyone from ’ere, though I’m supposing it could ’ave been. But it could just as well ’ave been someone from the Lyceum for all I know.”
“You haven’t heard any tittle-tattle?”
“There’s always tittle-tattle,” he said, resuming painting. “I try not to listen to it, though sometimes you can’t ’elp it. Take that young Mr. Bateman, for example . . .”
“Ralph?”
“Right! ’Im! ’E was ’anging about with a couple of the lighting blokes and was braggin’ as to ’ow ’e could bring the Lyceum folks to their knees if ’e ’ad a mind. Just boastful talk, mind you.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yes. Though come to think on it, ’e was pretty tight with one of the Lyceum ’ands wot got ’isself the mittens; got booted out! Too fond of the bottle, I ’eard. What was ’is name now?”
“Willis?” I offered.
“That’s ’im! ’Erbert Willis. Nasty piece o’ work. ’Im and Ralph Bateman made a fine pair of scalawags.”
“Is that right?”
“Well, I’m thinkin’ our young Mr. Bateman ’as ’is fingers in a lot of dirty pies, if you follow me?”
I nodded. I followed him only too well.
“What about that other Lyceum man?” I said. “The understudy who got run down and killed.”
“Ah!”
There was a wealth of meaning in that word. Obviously Jack Parsons knew more than he had so far divulged.
“Can I buy you a drink, Jack, when we get through here?”
He was no fool. He realized I wanted to know more on the subject. I arranged to meet him later at the Bag o’ Nails. Meanwhile, I had a quick word with one or two others of the Sadler’s Wells backstage staff.
* * *
Jack and I were soon settled at a table away from the bar; he with his favorite India pale ale and me with my inevitable porter. It didn’t take long to draw him out on the running of Sadler’s Wells and the comings and goings of Ralph Bateman and his cronies. Jack gave the impression of being a quiet type who just did his job, but I had long ago learned that he was well able to keep up with the gossip and chitchat that takes place in any large theatre. He told me, as I already knew, that Ralph had been abroad for a while but had recently returned, bringing with him a new friend from Haiti named Henry Ogoon, who seemed to have made himself at home. Not just made himself at home, but seemed to have some sort of “power,” as Jack put it, over the young man. It wasn’t like Ralph to take orders from anyone, yet according to Jack he did anything and everything that Ogoon suggested.
Jack said that the rivalry between Sadler’s and the Lyceum was something everyone was aware of but that no one other than the Batemans really took seriously.
“Oh, old Pheebes-Watson likes to dream about showing up ’Enry Irving, but I think even ’e realizes that it’ll be a cold day in ’ell afore ’e is actually recognized as the better actor.”
I agreed. “But tell me, what do you hear about that understudy’s death?” I asked. “You seemed to hint that there was more to it than meets the eye.”
“I did?” Jack was suddenly playing innocent. “Oh, I don’t know as I’d say that. Mind you, Ralph was crowin’ somethin’ awful after it ’appened. As though ’e knew more than anyone else. But I didn’t take ’im serious, and I wouldn’t think you would, neither.”
I let it go for now. I was sure all would come out eventually.
“What are Ralph’s cronies like?” I asked as innocently as I could, after a long draw on my porter. “You hear of him running around with them, but I’m wondering just who they are. Anyone I’d know, do you think?”
Jack stared down into his now-empty tankard for a moment. I signaled for a refill for both of us.
“A lot of ’em come and go. They’re all sorts, I suppose you’d say. O’ course there’s one or two as is real thick with Ralph. That understudy as you just talked about f’r instance. The two of them was pretty thick, it seems to me. As well as that Willis fella.”
“Was Ralph thick with Richland?” I was surprised.
“Was that ’is name? Richland? Yes. Ralph and ’im spent a lot of time together, right ’ere in this same watering ’ole.”
I made a mental note.
* * *
I left Jack in the public house, having his lunch, and started back to the Lyceum. As I came onto the street, a figure approached and stood blocking my way. Smartly dressed in a fashionable topcoat, with top hat and carrying a cane, it was the West Indian man I had seen with Ralph Bateman on the Embankment.
“Mr. Harry Rivers,” he said.
I was startled that he not only knew who I was but that he could see through my disguise when even my old friend Jack Parsons had not done so. However, Jack had told me the man’s name. I thought to throw it back at him.
“Mr. Henry Ogoon,” I said.
It didn’t faze him.
“There is a saying in your country, Mr. Rivers. It is ‘a word to the wise.’ You are familiar with the expression?”
“Of course.” I nodded.
“A word to the wise, then, Mr. Rivers, assuming that you have some wisdom. Do not go prying where you are not welcome. Do I make myself clear?”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t know this man nor was I aware of what he might be capable. But I was not going to be browbeaten. After all, I represented the Lyceum, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Stoker.
“That cuts both ways, Mr. Ogoon,” I said. “You are familiar with the expression ‘to cut both ways,’ I take it?”
His deep brown eyes—almost black—bored into me. He said nothing for a long moment, and then he raised his hat, turned, and walked away. I saw that his head was completely shaved; not a hair on it nor on his face. I don’t know why, but I shivered.
* * *
“So nothing definite, I’m afraid, sir,” I reported back to Mr. Stoker as soon as I returned to the Lyceum. “Just wild talk and boasting by Ralph Bateman.” I felt myself loath to report on my meeting with Henry Ogoon. I tried to put it out of my mind. If necessary I would mention it to my boss later, I told myself.
“Nothing new about that,” grunted Stoker.
I had caught him in his exercise period. Perhaps with memories of his invalid childhood, when he had been confined to a bed and unable to walk, Bram Stoker observed a strict regimen of exercise. This involved pounding a large, stuffed canvas bag, which he had suspended in a corner of his office, and—as he now was—the swinging of heavy Indian clubs. I was always afraid that one
would escape his powerful hands and fly off in my direction, so I tended to keep close to the door when I found him so engaged.
“Oh, and it seems Bateman is close with our ex-stagehand Herbert Willis who, I’m sure you recall, sir, cursed the Lyceum when he was fired from it for excessive drinking,” I said from around the doorpost. “And Bateman was definitely involved with Peter Richland.”
“Involved? How so, Harry?”
I took a chance and eased myself into the room.
“Bateman and Richland were thick as thieves both before Ralph took off for the Caribbean Islands and, it seems, more so since his return. Right up to the time of Richland’s death.”
“Indeed?”
“And it seems that this Caribbean man who has turned up exercises some sort of power—if that’s the right word—over Ralph.” I felt suddenly uneasy as I said that. I could see the man’s eyes boring into me.
“Explain yourself.” Mr. Stoker put down the Indian clubs.
“Influence, I suppose it is.” I searched for words. “Jack Parsons says that ever since Ralph got back from foreign parts, he has been more subdued and seems eager to please this man, whose name, by the way, is Henry Ogoon, or some such.”
“Ogoon?” Stoker seemed surprised.
I nodded. “So Jack said. You know the name?”
“Just a coincidence, I’m sure.” He placed the clubs carefully in the corner of the office. “It’s just that Ogoun is the name of the storm god of Voudon. One of the deities, or loa, as they are termed.” He thought for a moment. “You spoke to more than this man Parsons?”
“Oh yes,” I said, and indeed I had. “I got into conversation with lighting men, props, even the wardrobe mistress. I figured she would hear anything worth hearing.”
The big man sighed. “All right, Harry. Thank you.”
“Can I get back to my own hair color now then, sir?” My head was starting to itch and I was sure it was Mr. Archibald’s concoction that was responsible.
“Of course. Hopefully we won’t be asking you to do that again.”
I hurried off to the dressing rooms and got one of the wardrobe assistants to boil up some water for me. I couldn’t wait to wash my hair.
I thought about the situation. It was doubtful that Ralph could have sneaked into our theatre without being discovered, though that didn’t go for Willis. We were very much more aware of strangers in our midst than Sadler’s Wells apparently was. But even if Ralph had managed it, he was too portly and out of shape to have climbed to the fly tower and dropped sandbags. Again, not so with Willis. Other than his beer belly, he was a skinny scurf. As to the poisoning, we still were not certain as to just how that had been accomplished. Miss Terry’s theory—and it seemed the most logical—was that the arsenic had been introduced to the hot lemonade that the Guv’nor always drank with his lunch. Yet that lunch was prepared by Mr. Turnbull, the caterer, an ancient gentleman who had been providing victuals for the Lyceum actors for longer than anyone could remember.
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Ralph Bateman was not the culprit for the poisoning. Much as I hated to admit it, Jack Parsons could be right; it may well have been someone right here among the Lyceum’s own staff, and although now dismissed, Herbert Willis did fit the bill.
There are over three hundred people employed by the Lyceum, including front of house and backstage staff. Yet few of them, so far as I could see, would have access to actors’ provisions. And anyway, it was only the principals who were catered for; the extras and lesser roles invariably retired to the Druid’s Head for their refreshments. So that would seem to rule out Willis. I found myself thinking around in circles and getting nowhere.
I was interrupted in my ruminating by remembering that my boss had suggested that we should—by which he meant that I should—do the decent thing and apprise Mrs. Richland of her son’s empty coffin. Not a task I looked forward to completing.
* * *
The evening performance went off without a hitch . . . if you didn’t count John Whitby, as the sexton in the churchyard scene, dropping Yorick’s skull and having to scamper across the stage to retrieve it. (Shades of that loathsome severed head!) It did provoke some laughter from the audience, but the Guv’nor quickly brought them back to the scene. Yet there were no falling sandbags, nor any other untoward incidents . . . until later.
The American actor Edwin Booth had arrived in London in January, destined for the Princess’s Theatre. Regrettably, the manager of that establishment was more at home with crude forms of melodrama rather than higher standards of true drama, hoping for quick financial return. Mr. Booth, therefore, so it was reported, suffered from this bad presentation. Mr. Stoker and the Guv’nor decided to step in and offered to have Booth perform at the Lyceum in one of the Guv’nor’s productions. It was decided that Othello would be the ideal vehicle, with Booth playing the title role and Irving playing Iago. The production was planned for late April, after Hamlet had run its course. I felt in two minds about this. I knew, of course, that we would be starting a new production when Hamlet came to an end, but the added pressure of hosting an American alongside Mr. Irving presaged all kinds of complications. I was not happy about it.
Since the start of the century, American actors had been coming to England to make an appearance. I think a lot of them came just to say that they had appeared in the homeland of Shakespeare, though some few wanted to be compared to the best that England could provide. In turn, many British actors had crossed the Atlantic Ocean to show off our talents in what used to be “the Colonies.” The Guv’nor had himself talked to Mr. Stoker about the possibility of one day taking a Lyceum production across to America. Not just himself but the whole theatre: actors, stagehands, scenery, lights . . . a very ambitious project never before attempted. All the more reason, Mr. Irving said, for us to do it. Well, I wasn’t holding my breath. Neither, I suspected, was Mr. Stoker.
As luck would have it, this very evening Colonel Wilberforce Cornell, Mr. Booth’s business manager, attended our performance of Hamlet, to acquaint himself with our standards of excellence. He sat with my boss in the royal box, both his bald head and his monocle gleaming, and apparently thoroughly enjoyed the performance . . . despite John Whitby’s blunder. The colonel, who was almost as tall as my boss, had a longish dark beard and a mustache that drooped on either side of his petulant mouth. I wondered if all Americans wore the wide-brimmed hats that the colonel carried. Such headgear would seem to promise far more sunshine than we enjoyed in these British Isles.
After the final curtain had fallen and the audience had dispersed, Colonel Cornell was brought onstage and my boss introduced me. I quickly ran over my duties but could sense that the gentleman was well acquainted with what had to be accomplished backstage during a performance. He was far more concerned about the specifics of Mr. Booth’s role in the new production. Mr. Stoker pointed out details of the projected set that had been designed, and explained exactly where it would be erected after the Hamlet set was struck. My boss pointed out the details of the present scenery. Mr. Irving had brought a new sense of realism to the London stage with the sets presented at the Lyceum, and word of this had apparently crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Stoker and the Guv’nor stood admiring the present set and discussing ideas for Othello. I was close by, in the wings, and saw what happened next.
Suddenly, above the three of them, there was a clang and Mr. Stoker, with a quick upward look, pushed the colonel to one side. A short wooden batten, with three heavy lights tied to it, came crashing down. It smashed into the colonel’s left shoulder but would surely have split his head had it not been for Mr. Stoker’s quick reaction.
I shouted to the stagehands, still moving scenery, to watch for anyone descending and once again rushed to the ladder up the back wall. I started to climb as quickly as I could.
“Get him, Harry!” shouted Stoker.
I was too out of breath to reply but hurried on upward. Above me I heard someone curse as they hit against an obstacle, then there was a loud, rasping noise and a clang. I looked up as I climbed. I saw what looked like a bright light shining down from the fly tower, though with little in the way of actual illumination. I only glimpsed it through the slats of the gridiron, so I couldn’t really make it out. Then something seemed to cover the light before moving off it again. I gritted my teeth and climbed till my heart was thumping in my chest.
I reached the fly gallery and dashed across the bridge to continue on upward on the central rear ladder. Across the top of the wall stretched the old gas table. This is where the gas used to be regulated, with a complicated system of valves, for the stage lighting. The stage area had been converted to the new electricity, but the gas table had not yet been removed. It was my guess that the intruder had bumped into it as he moved around.
I eventually reached the gridiron and stepped onto the slatted floor. My eyes were drawn back to the circle of light from above. I realized that a roof vent had been pried open—the sound I had heard—and that what I was seeing was the moon, just three days past full. Our intruder had blocked the light momentarily as he climbed up onto the shaft of the drum and exited through the vent, out onto the roof. I followed.
Chapter Six
By the time I had got up to the fly floor inside the theatre, my eyes had adjusted to the low light. It, therefore, took only a moment, when I broke out on the rooftop, to be able to focus on the figure I was chasing. The moon, sliding in and out from behind the clouds, helped. The intruder was dressed all in black—which didn’t help me—and had a good start, but I spotted him disappearing over the ridge of the roof on the north side toward Exeter Street. The front of the theatre was on Wellington Street, and I didn’t think he would attempt to get down that façade with its big Gothic columns. But on the north side there was a variety of possibilities, with gutters and rainspouts, sloping gables, mansards, and dormers. Crestings, decorative eaves, and embellishments could afford handholds for a desperate man. I rushed after him, slipping and sliding on the ice-covered roof. I part fell and part threw myself down at the corner where I had last seen him, and peered over the edge. There was no sign of the man. He had either fallen to the street below or he had somehow managed to hang on and claw his way to freedom.
Cursed in the Act Page 7
