by P. N. Elrod
"You just tell me what I need to do, Effie, and I will do it."
"Now, that's a good lad," she told him. "We want you looking only your best, now, to go on for Their Highnesses."
"Highnesses? What are you talking about?"
Effie chuckled but did not look up. "Now tell me, Mr. Liam Gideon, are you trying to say that you don't know about our 'guests' for opening night?"
Liana drew a breath and forced a smile. He had played this little game with Effie before. "No, Effie, I don't. So would you please share that information with me?"
"Well," she said. "I suppose if they had wanted you to know someone would have mentioned it to you."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps everyone thought that everyone else had told me. So why don't you tell me?"
"Maybe I should. After all, it isn't often that poor little common actors get the chance to perform for the high and mighty likes of 'themselves,' now do they?"
"Yes?"
"It seems that opening night we will have some people in the audience that will bring all of the 'right' sort of society as well as the commoners in."
"Who in hell are you talking about, woman? Is St. Patrick himself coming to see the show?"
A sharp pain drove its way into Liam's calf. He could barely keep from moving, knowing that Effie would do much worse if he did.
"No, you Irish gobashit, it isn't St. Patrick, nor is it Grace O'Malley or even Finn MacCool! Trust an uncivilized Irishman to think of those insignificants in a case like this," she said.
"Insignificants! Strike me, woman, there are moments I wonder about your sense of who is or isn't important," Liam said. "So, now, who would it be, if it isn't those noteworthies?"
"Simple; it is himself, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of England, who will be gracing these premises on opening night. Seems that he and his wife think that seeing a performance of Pirates would make a grand way to spend her birthday," Effie said.
"I suppose they're renting out the entire theater? Just an intimate little gathering of 1,500 of their closest friends," said Liam.
"No, they aren't renting out the entire theater, you Irish idiot. You don't think Bertie has that many friends?"
Another pain shot through Liam's calf to punctuate Effie's words. There was a muted chuckle from the costume mistress.
"Woman, you enjoyed that!"
"Me? Of course I did. Now, stand still!"
"I wanted to stop in and wish you good luck, Liam," said Dracula.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Count. But I really wish you hadn't said it."
"What?"
Liam smiled. Explaining theatrical traditions to non-theater people was something that every actor had to do now and then. He led Dracula into the Strand Green Room. The Green Room, which was painted a mottled brown, was a large lounge in the back of the theater where actors and stagehands could take a few minutes and relax. Why it was called the Green Room Liam didn't know. As a matter of fact he had never been in one that was green; it was just another theatrical tradition.
"It's an old theatrical custom. If you wish a performer good luck before they go on, you don't say those words; they'll bring him bad luck. Instead, actors say 'break a leg.' Every actor knows what you really mean."
Dracula raised an eyebrow at this. "I suppose each profession has its own customs. Very well, let me bid you to 'break a leg.' Figuratively, of course, not in reality."
"Thank you," said Liam.
"Are you nervous?" asked the Count.
"A bit. A very wise actor once told me that if I weren't at least a little bit nervous before each performance, then that was the time to worry."
"Your friend had the right attitude."
Just then the door to the Green Room flew open, as if a storm was behind it. Bunberry came barreling in, followed by Effie and several stagehands.
"Liam, there you are. I've been looking all over the theater for you!" said Bunberry.
"Is there a problem? Everett has his sword and knows the new choreography backwards and forwards."
"I don't know what he does or doesn't know, and it doesn't matter. Everett is incapacitated and won't be going on tonight," said Bunberry.
"Incapacitated? Is that a fancy way of saying he's drunk again?" said one of the other actors.
Effie answered them with a humph, and a look of disgust. There were tales that Everett had, over his twenty-five-year career, given some of his best performances drunk.
"He's passed out and no one can rouse him. He's breathing, so I assume he is alive. I spoke to the gobashit earlier, not an hour ago," said Effie. "He seemed fine then. I certainly didn't smell any alcohol on him then."
"Could he be sick?" suggested Liam.
"There's a doctor in the audience. I had him come back and look Everett over. He says nothing appears to be wrong with him; he is just asleep and no one can wake him up."
"The thing is, we are going to need a Pirate King and neither of the usual understudies is available," said Bunberry.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"We can use Gene Yearson as Frederic, but not for the Pirate King. I want you to take the role," he said.
The words hung in the air. Liam felt the bottom fall out from his stomach. He glanced toward the big clock that hung near the door. It said 7 o'clock.
"And curtain is at half eight," he muttered. "The thing is, I don't know half the songs or the dialogue. I'll try, but I'm afraid that I will end up making a fool out of myself and disgracing us in front of the Prince of Wales."
"That's a chance that we are just going to have to take. Effie, can you alter his costumes and fit him out as the Pirate King in time to go on?"
"A moment, Mr. Bunberry," said the Count. "Liam will do what he has to do; that is all any man can do. Understand that I do not doubt Liam's abilities, but I may have an alternate possibility that you should consider."
"Count, right now I can see no other answers, besides Liam, short of sending a man on with script in hand," said Bunberry. "But, I'm willing to entertain any ideas. Just make it quick."
"Very well, then I suggest you leave Liam in the role for which he is prepared and put me in the role of the Pirate King."
There was utter silence in the Green Room. Every one of the actors had heard Dracula's words; none was more surprised than Liam.
"You, Count?" asked Liam.
"Yes."
"You're an actor?" said Bunberry, a tone of disbelief in his voice. "In university, I suppose."
"There and in other places. I was in fact considered very good," said Dracula.
"You never mentioned that you were an actor," said Liam.
"It was a long time ago. Besides, Liam, you never asked." His eyes locked with Bunberry's, as they had the previous night. The company manager didn't appear to breathe for several minutes.
"You know the libretto? The songs, the dialogue?" said Liam.
"Every word."
"Only two days ago you hadn't even heard of Gilbert & Sullivan, let alone the Pirates of Penzance, said Liam.
"Meeting you and seeing this company made me curious. Shall we say I borrowed a copy of the libretto someone had left on a chair, read it over, and was amused by it. I even slipped in last night and watched the rehearsal."
"That would help with you knowing the blocking. But you say you read the libretto just once?" asked Liam.
"That's right. Anything I read I remember, every word of it."
"Your voice, sir?"
Liam, Burberry, and the others looked toward the door. A man, dressed in evening clothes, with a neatly waxed mustache stood there.
"Mr. Gilbert!" said Effie.
"Your voice, sir? What do you sing?" demanded William
Schwenck Gilbert. The fifty-seven-year-old lyricist spoke with the manner of a sergeant-major demanding something from one of his troops.
"Baritone."
"And you say you know my words?"
"Indeed," Dracula began to si
ng, "Oh, better to live and die, under the brave black flag I fly. Than play a sanctimonious part, with a pirate head and a pirate heart."
Gilbert stood silent, his face unmoving and emotionless.
"Effie!" said Gilbert. "Can you alter Everett's costume quick enough to fit the Count? I can have them hold the curtain an extra ten minutes, but not a second longer."
"I'll have him looking like those clothes were made for him."
"Do it."
"Still nervous, Liam?" asked Dracula.
The two men stood in the wings, looking out at the back of the great gold curtain that covered the front of the stage. Effie was standing just behind them, tying off several threads in the Count's costume.
"A bit. But I should be asking you if you're nervous. After all, you came to see the play, now you're a part of it."
"I am a bit nervous," said Dracula.
"Then break a leg, Count."
"Thank you, Liam."
No one heard a shot. With the orchestra well into the act's final number it would have been impossible to hear anything short of a cannon going off. Liam would have never known that anything happened if he had not been looking straight toward the Royal Box.
Something struck the plaster wall edging just above the Prince and Princess of Wales, sending a shower of powder down across the duo. Their Royal Highnesses looked around, as puzzled as everyone else. A moment later they began laughing as the elaborate dance on stage ended and the curtain rolled down.
As Dracula exited behind the waterfall curtain, Liam grabbed him and explained what he had seen.
"It was not your imagination, Liam, nor was it the manifestation of this ancient theater exhibiting its aches and pains. I saw it as well. I suspect a rifle shot," he said.
"A rifle? In the theater? Why, and who would be using it?"
"I'm not sure," said Dracula. "I suspect that it came from somewhere above us."
Liam's eyes traced the edge of the curtain up into the darkness high above the backstage area. It was a landscape of catwalks, curtains, and ropes, all helping to add to the illusion that was projected on stage. There were a few figures moving around on the catwalk, high up in the air, where they could raise and lower the curtains. But it was higher that Liam looked, nearly a hundred feet, near the top of the building itself. He saw nothing, but apparently Dracula did.
"Follow me," said the Count.
Liam was only a moment behind him. Attached to the back wall of the theater was a ladder that ran all the way to the roof. Dracula was thirty feet onto it when Liam began climbing, moving upwards into the darkness.
More than a dozen heavy black curtains, along with an equal number of smaller, lighter ones, hung from railings that were in turn suspended from beams embedded in the walls of the theater itself. Below and all around them Liam could hear the sounds of the stage crew busily changing the set to get it ready for act two. Once they reached the highest level there was little light. The catwalks were nothing but long boards, a foot or so wide at best, that had been placed along the girders to provide a path for workmen. A single misstep could send someone hurtling down.
That fact did not bother Dracula. He moved quickly, with a confidence that seemed inhuman. Liam tried to keep pace, but it was not easy. When Liam finally caught up with the Count they had made their way back across the stage area and stood next to the top of the huge waterfall curtain.
"Observe," said Dracula. His long slim fingers pointed downwards. From this perch they had a clear view of the Royal Box. "I would say this is where the assassin shot from."
"Thank God he missed," said Liam. "But where is he now?" "I think close by." The Count motioned for Liam to be silent, his eyes blazing red. Dracula was a hunter seeking his prey.
Liam heard the soft sound of a board creaking. He turned and found himself confronting a figure, dressed in the same pirate costume that the actors wore. In the semidarkness it seemed a fearful apparition that was trying to slip by the two men. "Oh no, you don't," Liam said.
He moved to intercept the assassin but missed his footing and stumbled, ramming his head hard against a metal strut that supported the curtain. It was only the purest luck that he was able to keep from falling from the girder. Around him the world whirled for a moment, transforming the stage light below into a rainbow of colors.
That was when he noticed the fog. It came from nowhere, it was just there, flowing around the upper part of the theater. Liam tried to focus on Dracula, dressed as the Pirate King, who stood now facing the assassin in the crewman's costume.
The words that Dracula had sung earlier in the Green Room ran through Liam's mind, echoing in the Count's strong baritone. "Oh, better to live and die, under the brave black flag I fly. Than play a sanctimonious part, with a pirate head and a pirate heart."
Then Dracula was gone, replaced by a huge silver wolf, the fog blending into the beast's coat. The animal's growl was an otherworldly sound that seemed to Liam something out of a nightmare. The assassin screamed and tried to back away.
Liam's eyesight began to clear and he could see Dracula again. The fog was gone and so was the wolf. The Count was grappling with the assassin. In a single motion he managed to hurl him against the curtain. The impact made a dull thud that sent the figure collapsing into an unconscious heap.
Liam got to his feet and made his way over to their prisoner. There was enough light coming through the top of the curtain that he could see the figure's face.
"Effie?!"
With the help of a couple of stagehands, Effie had been taken down from the theater aerie. She now lay stretched out, unconscious, on a pallet of curtains and sacks, a thin trail of drying blood running from a cut on her scalp.
A crowd of actors and stagehands surrounded them. Gilbert, Bunberry, and the large fat man that Liam had seen earlier had appeared out of nowhere.
"It looks as if we have what we were hoping for," said the fat man.
"Is there a doctor in the house?" said Gilbert. That it was one of the oldest theatrical clichés ever didn't seem to matter when William Gilbert said it.
"I think having a doctor look over both Effie and Liam would be a good idea," said Dracula.
"Arguably," said the fat man. "Send one of the stage hands to box A17. There is a doctor named Watson with the A. J. Raffles party."
"Are we going to be able to finish this show?" asked Gilbert.
"Oh, yes," said the fat man, "if Mr. Gideon and the Count are able to carry on, and I think there should be no doubt of that. By the way, Count, I thoroughly enjoyed your performance. You have a wonderful voice and a real talent for comedy."
"Look here, Holmes." said Bunberry.
"Holmes?" said Liam. He knew that name, as any regular reader of The Strand magazine did. "Are you?"
"That was my late brother. But it doesn't matter who I am, young man, because you never heard that name mentioned in this theater, and I was never here," said the fat man. "Consider that an order from Her Majesty's Government."
"Yes, sir," said Liam. He had other questions he wanted to ask, but discretion seemed the better part of valor right now.
"Perhaps you could explain things to me, sir," said Dracula. "Would I be correct in assuming that this whole matter of the reprise of Pirates was part of an elaborate plan? Who is Effie?"
The fat man, who wasn't there, removed a cigar case from his inside jacket, opened it, and offered one to Dracula. The Count declined.
"As to your first question, you may be right or you may wrong, that is all I can say. Effie, my dear Count, besides being the costume mistress for this theater, is an expert with a one-shot air rifle. I know of only one better, a former Indian army colonel. Those skills earned her a position as an assassin for hire, working this evening for a Scottish anarchist group," he said.
"And you want her to tell you all about her employers," suggested Dracula.
"It would be very nice to hear news of her current and past employers. She can choose to cooperate with us, or
face a hangman's noose. Her Majesty's Government had long suspected her, but we never had any proof. Tonight, we have the proof we needed. Thanks to the cooperation of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan, Their Highnesses, and a pair of very good actors who portrayed them this evening. Had she not missed, and even the best miss occasionally, it would have been a most inconvenient matter to explain things to the public. Now, I have matters that require my attention. May I wish you, Count, and the rest of the cast the best of lu—"
"The proper phrase is 'break a leg', I believe," said Dracula.
"Ah, yes, quite right. Very well then, break a leg."
Others came crowding around Effie, Gilbert, and the fat man, so Liam and Dracula withdrew to the far corner of the stage.
"Count, I have to ask you something," said Liam.
"What is that?"
"Up there, when were fighting Effie, did I see what I thought I saw?"
"And what was that?"
"I would swear that I saw one of Finn MacCool's wolves. But then it was gone."
"Are you sure of what you saw? Any more sure than Everett is that he did not have a visitor earlier this evening? One that told him to take a long nap?"
"Perhaps not. But why, Count? Why did you do it?"
"Partially curiosity. When you are as old as I am you embrace the unknown. By the time we encountered Effie, I had no choice. I was a 'slave to duty,' " he said with a remarkably toothy grin.
Before Liam could speak the assistant stage manager came up behind the men.
"Places for act two, gentlemen," he announced.
