The Campbell Curse

by Olivier Bosman

  Hardy raised his eyebrows and took his watch out of his pocket. “It’s seven o’clock,” he said, frowning. “She should be getting changed by now.” He arrived at the actress’ door and knocked. “Miss LeFevre, are you ready?”

  LeFevre opened the door. She was fully dressed, but her hair had not been tied back properly. Hairs were sticking out at the side of her head, and a lock hung loose over her forehead. She looked tired and worried.

  “Good evening, Mr Hardy. We have a problem.” She opened the door wide so that Hardy and Billings could take a look inside.

  Kitty was lying in bed. The blankets were pulled up to her chin. Under the sheets, her arms were crossed over her chest. Her eyes were shut. If it wasn’t for the fact that she could clearly be seen breathing, Billings and Hardy might have thought that she was dead.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Hardy asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s being a little pest, that’s all.”

  Hardy walked into the room and approached the bed. “Hello, darling,” he said softly. “Are you awake?”

  There was no response.

  “Kitty, dear?”

  “She’s wide awake, Mr Hardy,” LeFevre answered. “She’s just pretending to be asleep.”

  Hardy put his hand on Kitty’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Come on, darling, you must get up and accompany your mother to the theatre.”

  Still there was no reaction.

  “She does this sometimes,” LeFevre explained. “She plays dead. It doesn’t matter how hard I shake her, she simply won’t snap out of it. At least not until her tantrum is over.”

  “So what do we do?” Hardy asked.

  “We could leave her, I suppose. Lock the room. It’s only for a few hours. No harm can come to her here.”

  Hardy frowned at this suggestion. “Are you sure she’s not ill?”

  “I am positive. I tell you, she’s done this before. I suppose we could ask someone to stay with her in the room.”

  “But who? We’re all needed at the theatre.”

  Suddenly LeFevre turned towards Billings. “Mr Billings could do it.”

  Billings immediately shook his head. “Oh, no, no. My brief is to stay with you at all times.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You don’t still think I’m being targeted by an assassin, do you?”

  “What if we ask Mr Westbrook to stay with her?” Hardy suggested.

  LeFevre turned towards him with a look of disgust on her face. “Hal? Absolutely not!”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust Hal with her. He has no idea about children. He barely had a childhood himself. His mother abandoned him and his father neglected him. When Kitty had a tantrum in Paris, Hal suggested locking her up in the closet until she quieted down. He was perfectly serious about it. He said that that’s what his father used to do with him when he was five and wouldn’t stop crying. No, Mr Hardy, I will not entrust my daughter’s care to Hal. Let Mr Billings stay with her. He’s being paid to look after us. Let him do something useful for a change.”

  Hardy crouched down and placed his arms underneath the child. “Why don’t we let her sleep in the dressing room.”

  He lifted Kitty up in his arms, blankets and all. The girl made a noise of surprise as she was being lifted and almost opened her eyes, but she quickly collected herself and continued to feign sleep in Mr Hardy’s arms.

  “I can’t have a child in my dressing room during the show,” LeFevre protested. “My dressing room is my sanctuary. I can’t be distracted when I’m off stage.”

  “Well, we’ll put her in Mary’s dressing room, then,” Hardy replied, carrying the child out of the room and down the corridor. “Anyway, she’ll probably wake up by the time we get to the theatre.”

  Kitty was lying on the sofa in the witches’ dressing room, snuggled beneath the hotel’s blankets and bed sheets. Her eyes were still closed. She hadn’t opened them since she’d been carried out of the hotel in Hardy’s arms. Billings and Westbrook were standing over her, looking down at her.

  “Is she sleeping?” Billings asked.

  “I think she really is this time.” Westbrook bent over the girl and waved his hand in front of her face. There was no reaction. “She must have finally dozed off for real.”

  “We should warn the actresses before they come in,” Billings suggested. “We don’t want her waking up.”

  Westbrook looked at his pocket watch. “They won’t be back for another while.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know the play by heart, Billings. The witches are standing around a cauldron, saying, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble’.”

  “In that case, I think I’ll patrol the block once more.” He walked towards the doorway. “Will you stay here with the girl until I get back?”

  Westbrook looked at Billings and hesitated before answering. “Can I not take a stroll with you?”

  “And leave the girl alone?”

  “She’s sleeping. She’s safe here.”

  “We promised Mr Hardy and Miss LeFevre we’d stay with her.”

  Westbrook suddenly turned his back on the detective, grabbed a chair from the dressing table and sat on it. “Very well, go for your stroll, then!” he said, sulking. “I’ll stay here with the baby!”

  Billings looked confused at Westbrook’s sudden change of tone. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  Westbrook turned his head to face him. “Nothing,” he said, smiling and winking at him. “Go on your patrol.”

  It was a joke, Billings concluded. Although he wasn’t so sure about that. “I won’t be long,” he said, and he headed down the corridor to the stage door.

  As he exited the building, he found himself in a large, dimly lit close at the rear of the theatre. This was where the actors entered the building, away from the prying eyes of the paying public, and the place through which the sets, props, costumes and champagne bottles for the interval were loaded into the theatre. He took a deep breath of what he thought would be crisp night air but frowned when his nostrils were met by the stench of rotting vegetables. He suddenly spotted a barrel with waste food standing around the corner.

  He could hear the murmur of the actors on stage coming from inside the theatre. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying but he did hear the words ‘double, double, toil and trouble’, which made him smile. So Westbrook had been right, he thought.

  He still wasn’t sure just what to make of that man. Westbrook was charming and handsome, but he had a bad habit of disarming him. The unexpected hug in London a few days ago. And now that little act just now in the dressing room, when he didn’t know whether Westbrook was being churlish or whether he was just jesting.

  He felt his left hand begin to tremble again. It was bad enough being away from home, without having to deal with these bohemian types. He hadn’t taken his dose of morphine yet. He was trying to cut down on his usage, but it had been a long and difficult day, and it was still far from over, so perhaps he would have to take a small dose later on. But first he had to take that stroll around the building.

  He clenched his trembling fist and hid it behind his back as he walked out of the close and down Grindlay Street. He turned into Cornwall Street and then through Castle Terrace back towards the theatre, looking around him all the time for any suspicious behaviour. There wasn’t much of anything happening on the streets of Edinburgh at this time of night. This town wasn’t like London. No matter how often people called it the Athens of the North, to Billings it was bleak, cold and provincial.

  He returned to the close at the back of the theatre and looked around him to make sure he wasn’t being observed. He sat down on the ground in a dark corner next to the bins, leaned against the wall and took his morphine kit out of his breast pocket. He attached the needle to the syringe, broke open an ampoule and sucked the liquid in. He had rolled up his right sleeve and begun injecting the drug into his arm when suddenly he heard footsteps ap
proaching him. He dropped the syringe on the ground and quickly tried pulling his sleeve back down, but he was too late. Before he knew it, Westbrook was standing over him, looking down at him.

  “Hello,” Westbrook said. “Why are you sitting on the ground?”

  “What are you doing here?” Billings buttoned up his cuff. “You’re supposed to be looking after Kitty.”

  “Oh, she’s still asleep. What’s this?” Westbrook spotted the syringe and empty ampoule on the ground and crouched down to pick them up. He looked at the label on the ampoule. “Morphine? Why are you taking morphine?”

  “Give that to me!” Billings tried to grab the syringe back, but Westbrook turned away just in time.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “I take that sometimes to relax my muscles. I have a tendency of getting tense. Now give it back, please.”

  “Do you have any more?” Westbrook suddenly noticed Billings’ leather wallet on the ground. He picked it up and opened it. It contained another three ampoules. “Can I have one, too?” he asked, then gave the syringe back to Billings, took an ampoule out of the wallet and sat down beside the detective on the ground.

  “We have to get back to Kitty,” Billings said.

  “Kitty’s fine. She’s asleep.”

  “We must be there before the actors get back.”

  “They’re still on stage. The witches are summoning apparitions for Macbeth.”

  “How do you know?”

  “‘Show his eyes and grieve his heart. Come like shadows; so depart’.”

  Billings sat up and listened. Westbrook was right again. He could hear those very same words being recited by the actors. He looked at his companion and smiled.

  “I’m having some too,” Westbrook snatched the syringe from the detective’s hand and began sucking in the liquid.

  “Why do you want to take morphine?” Billings asked.

  “You think I don’t get tense? It’s not easy, you know, being Carola’s companion. I tag along with her to Europe, but I have nothing to do here. And I have no money. I keep having to ask Carola for some every time I want to go out for a drink.”

  Having rolled up his sleeve, Westbrook proceeded to inject the morphine into his arm. The two men threw their heads back against the wall and closed their eyes as the morphine started to take effect. It wasn’t long before Westbrook’s head dropped onto the detective’s shoulder, and Billings was reminded of that night in the theatre with Clarkson. Westbrook shoved up closer to him, moving his head up and down as he did so and caressing Billings’ chin and cheekbones with his nose and moustache. Billings remained frozen and kept his eyes tightly shut. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt butterflies in his stomach. He was trying to lose himself in the moment, something he was surprised to find himself capable of, thanks largely to the large dose of morphine he’d just taken. Before long, Westbrook was kissing him on his mouth and caressing his chest with his hand. Billings could not help but be amazed at how he did not put up any resistance. He’d been scared of this kind of temptation for so long. He did not understand why he felt no guilt about it now. There was something very uncomplicated about Westbrook – despite his tantrums. Something very spontaneous, which made Billings feel relaxed.

  “Open your mouth,” Westbrook whispered to him.

  Billings frowned. Of course, he thought. Lovers don’t kiss with mouths closed. Billings opened his mouth, and before long they were rolling about on the floor. Westbrook’s body was weighing down on him, and his hands had found their way inside his shirt. Billings wanted to feel inside Westbrook’s shirt too and was about to slip his hands between the buttons when he heard a distant church clock chime and he suddenly remembered where he was.

  “My God, Kitty!” he said, pushing Westbrook’s face away from him and sitting up.

  “Don’t worry, she’s fine,” Westbrook planted his mouth on Billings’ lips again, but Billings would not be placated.

  “We must go back,” he said and pushed Westbrook away. He got up on his feet and staggered to the stage door, buttoning up his shirt as he did so.

  “Where are you going?” Westbrook called after him. “Don’t be foolish. Kitty is fine.” But Billings did not answer him and went back into the theatre.

  Billings hurried down the corridor and barged into the dressing room. His sudden entrance was met by a cacophony of surprised shrieks and gasps of indignation. Two actresses were standing in their underwear. They quickly grabbed whatever items of clothing they could find lying around and covered themselves up with them.

  “Mr Billings!” one of the actresses shouted. “What is the meaning of this!”

  “I’m sorry,” Billings said, embarrassed, and covered his eyes with his hand. “I didn’t expect you to be back. I was looking for Kitty.”

  “Kitty?” The actress looked around her. Suddenly she saw the hotel blanket and sheets discarded on the sofa. “Where is she?”

  “Well, perhaps she’s gone to her mother’s dressing room,” Billings said, keen to leave the actresses alone and resume his search, but the actress detained him.

  “She can’t be with her mother,” she protested. “Miss LeFevre is still on stage. It’s her death scene.”

  “Of course. Well, then I expect she’s with Mr Westbrook.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be looking after her?” There was an unmistakable tone of accusation in her voice.

  “Perhaps Mary took her,” the other actress suggested.

  “Mary?” Billings took his hand away from his eyes and looked around the dressing room. “Where’s Mary?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Mary’s gone back to the hotel. She was taken ill.”

  “Ill?”

  “She said she had one of her migraines.”

  “When was this?”

  “Right at the beginning. She did the first scene with us, then left. Margaret and I have been sharing her lines between us.”

  “Well, then she can’t have taken Kitty back with her, because Mr Westbrook and I were here at that time. I expect Mr Westbrook must have taken her for a little walk around the theatre.”

  Again, Billings tried to break away from the actresses, but the larger of the two grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “A walk around the theatre? When there’s a play in progress?” She shook her head and frowned. “This won’t do, Mr Billings! This won’t do at all. I suggest you find her and bring her back here at once.”

  “I will, if you let me.” He gestured at her hand, which was still grabbing his arm.

  Billings hurried on towards the stage. He was approaching the wings when suddenly he was stopped by one of the stage hands.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going to, mister?” The stage hand put his hands on the detective’s chest and pushed him back. “There’s a play on, here!”

  “I’m looking for a little girl. Kitty. She’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter. Has she perhaps wandered on stage?”

  “There’s no girls here, mister.”

  “Are you sure? Could you have a look?”

  “I don’t need to have a look. I know exactly who is and who isn’t on the stage. Now, will you please go back to the dressing rooms. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Frustrated, Billings turned back and headed for the foyer. It was empty, except for the man at the bar cleaning the champagne glasses that had been used during the interval. Billings approached him and asked whether he had seen the girl wandering around. The barman shook his head. Billings then headed for the auditorium and was about to enter when he was stopped by the usher.

  “I’m sorry, sir. The play has started. I can’t let you in until the scene has finished.”

  Billings took his police badge from his jacket and showed it to the usher. “I don’t want to go in, but I’m looking for a little girl. She’s Miss LeFevre’s daughter. I wonder if she’s in here.”

  “There are no girls in here, sir.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look
myself?”

  “So long as you don’t disturb the audience.”

  “I won’t.”

  Billings stood at the entrance for a good ten minutes and carefully scanned all of the members of the audience. The auditorium was sufficiently lit to allow him to do so. He saw Miss LeFevre on stage, a tall, thin figure, in front of a wash basin, fiercely scrubbing her hands. “Out, damn spot! Out!” she was saying with a loud, booming voice. But there were no signs of a little girl among the audience.

  Billings could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his left hand was trembling again, despite the morphine. He had a terrible foreboding that something horrible had happened to Kitty. “This is my punishment,” he thought. “For rolling about on the ground with Westbrook when I should have been looking after Kitty.” He left the auditorium and headed out the door. He looked around him desperately, but the street was deserted, as it was when he did his patrol only a few minutes ago. She must have gone out through the back entrance, he concluded, and he ran back through the corridor to where he came from.

  As he rushed out the stage door, he bumped into Westbrook, who had been lingering in the close, smoking a cigarette, oblivious to what had happened.

  “Back for some more, eh?” he said, smiling and winking at the detective.

  Billings stopped and looked at him. He felt a great anger surge in his body as he did so. “Kitty’s gone!”

  Westbrook looked confused. “What do you mean, she’s gone? She was sleeping in the dressing room.”

  “She’s not there anymore! She’s gone!”

  “Well, don’t worry, Billings, we’ll find her. She can’t be far.” He approached the detective to give him a hug, but Billings pushed him away.

  “Get off me!” he said and marched out of the close onto the street.

  He headed towards the hotel, thinking she may have wandered back to her room, but as he passed Grindlay Street Court – a dark, narrow alleyway which led to a small close – he suddenly saw three men assembled in the corner. They were wearing police uniforms. One of them was shining a torch on the ground. Billings’ whole body began to tremble, and the blood rushed out of his head. He just knew that something horrible had happened. He slowly approached the policemen, trying to get a glimpse of what they were looking at. One of the policemen heard him approach and turned his head to face him.