by Fedora Amis
Aunt Delilah reveled in organizing outings and people. When she learned Jemmy was assigned to review the play, she took charge. Auntie Dee obtained yet another in the parade of escorts deemed suitable for Jemmy to marry. Auntie and Mother never ceased their efforts to marry off Jemmy and make her “comfortable for life.”
Tonight’s old coot was the color of yesterday’s oatmeal. He smelled of formaldehyde and cigars. What’s more, he had less personality than a dead catfish—and the looks to match. Could Auntie Dee possibly believe I’d marry a dwarf who’s a good thirty years older than I?
Aunt Delilah’s theatre party had come to see Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery story had outlived its author, not to mention her intentions.
Before the Civil War, the melodrama provoked high emotion. A half-century later, the new version provoked more laughter than outrage. During the 1880s companies piled on the humor and theatrics to meet the tastes of a new audience. By 1898, the play’s message had been made tolerable even in a volatile state like Missouri.
The new bigger and better version offered two special features to delight St. Louis playgoers. The producer double-cast the play. Two Elizas crossed the river on moving ice floes, two little Evas died, and two Gumption Cutes trounced four hissable villains in Scene Two.
The second modern innovation yielded even greater spectacle. Local boxing star Quisenberry Sproat played slave chaser Tom Loker in the first act and Simon Legree in the second. He remained mute the whole time. The bona fide actor Tom Loker-Simon Legree spoke all the lines. Sproat’s real job was to keep control of twenty-seven baying hounds. The dogs created enough barking to satisfy a hundred ’possum hunters as they scrabbled across the stage in Scene Two.
Two Eliza Harrises alternated lines to open the scene. They started by wringing their skirts made wet from crossing the Ohio River from Kentucky. Must have slipped from one of those ice floes. The slave Elizas ran away to save their sons from the Arthur Shelbys. The Master Shelbys meant to sell Eliza’s boy-Harrys down the river along with two Uncle Toms.
Two husband Georges arrived. A brace of Gumption Cutes offered horses for the six Harrises to escape to Canada. The speaking actor Tom Loker entered. Beside him came boxer Q. B. Sproat with more than two dozen hounds pulling at their leashes. The howling, bawling canine mass was supposed to race across the stage in hot pursuit of the runaway slaves.
Something was amiss. Midway across the stage, Sproat began to totter, then slipped down on one knee. Leashes slithered through his fingers, one or two at a time. The rest of the dog pack bolted. In less than a minute the whole theatre erupted in canine chaos.
Freedom made the dogs delirious with joy. They leaped off the stage and did what dogs do: raced up and down the aisles, jumped in tuxedoed laps to lick gentlemen’s faces, and clawed gashes in taffeta gowns as they charged across ladies’ laps.
A young girl of about eleven, wearing rust-colored velvet and white leggings, stepped into the aisle and flung her arms wide open to a liver-colored bloodhound. The exuberant dog ran at her—up and over. The pair sprawled backwards against a row of seats. For a moment the two looked like a gigantic brown cockroach with too many legs.
The dog scrambled over the girl’s head to land square in the pompadoured hair of a society matron. In his frantic effort to escape, the hound’s paws tangled in her tresses. Off balance, he fell upside down in her lap. The creature yelped and thrashed with paws still tangled in her hair. All those seated nearby came to her aid. Still, it took some moments before they extricated his feet from her hair—but not from her hairpiece.
Once freed, the dog hightailed it up the aisle. From time to time he stopped and gnawed at the sausage-shaped roll of brown wool the lady had used to augment her hair. Anyone who didn’t know better would think the mutt was chewing at a turd. He burst out the door without ridding himself of the lady’s hair rat. The lady herself covered her head with a lacy hanky. She held her chin high as she marched off to the powder room. Her haughty stare dared anyone to snicker.
A black and tan coonhound leapt from the stage and landed on a chubby dame in the first row. She beat the creature’s nose with her fan. The result appalled everyone. The dog stood stock still in shock while he turned her light blue skirt into a soggy pool of dark blue satin.
One bluetick hound, too mixed up and excited to choose a direction, ran in circles on stage. That was the only dog easy to catch.
In moments, Frank James and other front-of-the-house employees raced in to help. Gentlemen patrons from the orchestra seats had already corralled most of the canines. At length, cast members led the creatures off stage. The theatre returned to a semblance of calm. Time for the show to go on—but it didn’t.
Quisenberry Sproat lay deathly still on the stage apron.
CHAPTER TWO
November 17, 1898
The portieres at the back of the loge box opened to reveal Frank James. “Which of you gentlemen is Doctor Delmadge Wangermeier?”
Sassy’s escort stood. He was a shriveled fellow of about sixty. His pinkish-tan scalp peeked through his white, wispy hair like a boardwalk through a white picket fence. Jemmy thought he probably read Plato in ancient Greek.
His voice sounded like an ungreased pulley. “I would have come to the stage, but I saw two excellent physicians go to the aid of the fallen actor.”
“I’ve come to fetch you in your other capacity.”
“If you’ll forgive me, ladies, gentlemen.” The doctor followed Frank into the hall behind the boxes. Sassy followed him. Jemmy followed Sassy.
The other three had to straggle along behind. As the girls’ chaperone, Aunt Delilah was obliged to accompany them. Uncle Erwin and Jemmy’s escort had no choice but to traipse along as well. True gentlemen would never leave ladies unattended.
Jemmy itched to go because she smelled a story for the Illuminator. She had not produced paper-selling stories for over a month.
A pack of guard dogs couldn’t have kept Sassy in her chair. Doctor Wangermeier was acting coroner for the city of St. Louis. If a theatre official summoned him in his “other” capacity, there could only be one reason. Quisenberry Sproat, Sassy’s strongman with the amazing muscles, was dead.
Frank James ushered the party of six downstairs and through the theatre along the far aisle. On the way towards the stage, he answered questions from Doctor Wangermeier. At least, that’s what Jemmy imagined.
She trod on Frank’s heels in an effort to hear, but hundreds of theatre patrons made far too much noise. Excited babble coursed through the hall.
“Did you see that hound with the hair rat?”
“It was all I could do to keep the filthy mutt from—”
“I didn’t dare laugh. After all, she’s my mother.”
Not many outings could match tonight’s outlandish goings-on at the Crystal Palace for first-rate gossip and good clean fun.
The group paused to listen to an announcement by Patrick Short. The dapper manager stepped in front of the red velvet curtain and raised his hands to quiet the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the mishap and the delay. The dogs have all been rounded up, and we will recommence the play shortly. I beg your indulgence for a few minutes longer. To reward your patience, the management invites you to complimentary champagne in the lobby at intermission. Once again, let me express my deep gratitude for your forbearance.”
Dr. Wangermeier took no notice of the train of people behind him until they arrived backstage. He scowled. “McBustle, old chum, why on earth didn’t you keep everyone in the box? The last thing I need is to have this mob underfoot.”
Aunt Delilah answered for her husband. “My dear Doctor, we would never be so ill-mannered as to desert a member of our party. If you are unable to see the performance, we feel it our duty and honor to accompany you.”
The doctor frowned. “I’m going to examine a dead man, not dance a schottische. A death scene is no place for ladies.”
Sas
sy wheedled. “Don’t scold them, dear Doctor. It’s entirely my fault. They came because they couldn’t have stopped me at pistol point. I so very much longed to see you in action. Would you deprive your little Sassy of her one and only chance?”
She batted her lush, dark lashes. Doctor Wangermeier visibly melted. “But my dear . . .”
“I promise not to faint. I’m begging to accompany you. I’ll lock myself in my room and pout for days if you deny me.”
“And what about her?” Dr. Wangermeier nodded in Jemmy’s direction. “The sight of a dead man may well offend a young lady’s delicate sensibilities.”
Aunt Delilah murmured into the doctor’s ear. “My niece writes for the St. Louis Illuminator. You may have seen her byline—Ann O’Nimity.”
The doctor’s head shot up. “My word. A woman wrote those lurid stories? A female brain producing such vulgarity quite amazes me, Miss McBustle.”
“I’ve stopped a train robbery and seen a body crushed by a rockslide. I am hardly likely to faint at the sight of a dead actor.”
The doctor waved his hand in defeat. “Come along then, all of you. I take no responsibility for your nightmares.”
Frank James led them down a spiral staircase to dressing rooms in the basement. The place smelled of sawdust and fresh paint. Thank heavens it doesn’t smell like a moldy cave. It would take a pair of draft horses to get me down under St. Louis again.
On one side of a long corridor were at least a dozen doors to dressing rooms. The pair of Tom Loker-Simon Legrees shared the men’s star suite.
Inside, trunks and furniture had been pushed aside to make way for the body on the floor.
Quisenberry Sproat lay on his back, eyes closed as if he’d stretched out for a nap between acts. Frank James borrowed the exact words from Shakespeare: “He dies, and makes no sign.”
The surviving Tom Loker stood beside the body, arms folded as if ready to offer a funeral sermon. The young actor’s golden good looks stopped Jemmy cold. The worry lines on his forehead only added to his appeal. He could have posed for a statue of blond Adonis.
Without bidding, the actor launched into a description of the previous twenty minutes. “Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sproat fall to one knee. I thought he probably got twisted up in the leashes, so I turned back to help. That’s when he started sweating and gagging like he was about to disgorge his supper.”
Red faced, Tom Loker interrupted himself. “Pardon me, ladies, I should have thought of a more genteel way to say it.”
Aunt Delilah offered a feeble smile as she fanned her face. “Quite all right, young man. Plain speaking is the order of the day.”
The doctor snapped, “Yes, yes, man. Get on with it. The ladies knew what they were getting into—and are quite free to leave whenever they wish.”
“He was breathing fast when he began letting go of the animals. I started to chase after the dogs, but he grabbed my arm. His hand was cold. I think he said he felt dizzy. I’m not sure because his words were slurred. Then his head hit the floor.”
Tom Loker stood in silence with all eyes watching him. The doctor prompted, “What did you do then?”
“I nodded to the stage manager to bring down the curtain, but he didn’t. Too busy giving orders about the dogs, I suppose. A few actors came out on stage. We got hold of Sproat’s arms and legs and started to move him into the wings. He seemed to rally. He waved us off and tried to sit up, but then he collapsed and stopped breathing altogether.”
“How did he get down here to this dressing room?”
“The stage manager said we had to get him out of the way so the show could start up again once all the dogs were caught.”
“My word, why bring him down here? Why not go to the alley door while someone telephoned for an ambulance to take him to the hospital?”
Loker dropped his head in embarrassment. “It sounds quite silly now. But I think we brought him to his dressing room because we wanted him to be comfortable—in his own place.”
“If you wanted him to be comfortable, why did you put him on the floor?”
“Some watery ooze was seeping through his shirt. We didn’t want to spoil the chaise longue.”
“Let’s see his back.”
Uncle Erwin and Jemmy’s escort helped Loker turn Sproat over onto his stomach. Pink-red diagonal slashes ran across his white shirt back in random pattern.
“I don’t have my physician’s bag. Does anyone have scissors?”
Tom Loker fished around in his make-up kit and produced a pair of shears. Dr. Wangermeier knelt down, pulled up Sproat’s shirttail and made one snip through the hem. He took the cut pieces in both hands and pulled. The shirt ripped clean to the collar and fell aside, exposing Sproat’s back.
Sassy gasped and ran out of the room. Aunt Delilah fanned with increased fury. Uncle Erwin’s face took on a green cast, and Jemmy’s bland gentleman swooned in a heap over Sproat’s legs.
The stink could make a vulture gag—like spoiled fish doused with spruce-oil liniment.
Tom Loker pulled Jemmy’s escort off Sproat’s legs and helped him to the door.
Jemmy put her hanky over her mouth and bent over Sproat for a closer look. Slashes of red flesh and white bone crisscrossed his body. A dozen or more gashes wept pink ooze from the boxer’s raw back. Someone had flogged Quisenberry Sproat.
Dr. Wangermeier called to Tom for a measuring stick.
“The costume mistress always wears a tape measure round her neck. Will that do?” The doctor’s nod sent Tom off to find her.
Dr. Wangermeier addressed the escorts. “Gentlemen, I’d be obliged if you would see to the ambulance. And please take the ladies elsewhere now their morbid curiosity has been satisfied.”
Jemmy’s escort was still sitting on the floor in the doorway with his head tucked between his knees. Uncle Erwin helped him stand. Aunt Delilah alternated fanning his red face and her own as the trio shuffled out. Only Jemmy and the doctor remained.
Jemmy said, “I’d like to be of assistance if I may.”
“I intended for you to leave with the others.”
“There must be something I can do here.”
“My word, a young lady with the stomach of a coyote.”
“A hospital nurse must see such sights every day.”
“Very well, then. Find a handkerchief to tie up his valuables after I empty his pockets. Then gather up every cream and liquid and powder in this room—and I mean every single one. Find some container to hold them. When that actor fellow comes back, have him identify everything that belongs to Mr. Sproat. I plan to take it all with me tonight.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Jemmy found a theatrical trunk bearing the initials Q.S. Inside was a change of clothes, pistol, riding quirt, tin of Cloverine salve, bottle of Watkins Liniment, and flagon of laudanum. To those she added everything from the dressing table.
“Dr. Wangermeier, did someone horsewhip this man to death?”
“Unlikely. Too young and healthy. A hundred lashes can be a death sentence, but not fourteen—at least not right away. The lesions can fester. But then sepsis would be the killer—not the beating itself.”
“What killed him then?”
“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. My word, that’s no information belonging in the newspapers. It’s my job to inform the police, not the yellow news trade.”
“I’d never reveal information you asked me to withhold. I promise. What do you think was the cause of his death?”
“I’ll know more after the autopsy. Come see me then. For now, just write that the man collapsed on stage. Don’t mention the lashing, or I’ll never tell you anything more.”
Tom Loker returned with the costume mistress’s tape measure. The doctor measured the welts and wrote their dimensions in a notebook. Jemmy took notes in her own little book.
Tom stared at the newly vacant dressing table. “Where did my things—my makeup . . .”
“Dr. Wangermeier requested me to gather up all
of Mr. Sproat’s possessions and add them to the contents of his trunk. It will go to the police.”
“Most of the things on that dressing table belong to me. You have no right to take them, Doctor.”
“You’ll get them back in due course.”
“May I at least have the greasepaints and powder? I need to make myself up for the next act.”
“Go ahead. But put them back when you’re finished.”
Tom grumbled but did as he was told.
The doctor picked up one of Sproat’s hands to examine the fingernails. “Miss McBustle, if you want to be of use, fetch some stage grips to move the body and take the trunk to my carriage. I can do no more here. And, Miss McBustle, kindly offer my regrets to Miss Patterson. I will be unable to transport her home. Also please convey my appreciation to your uncle. Tell him I regret I must prevail upon his good nature to attend Miss Patterson. I hope he doesn’t find it an undue burden.”
“I’m sure they’ll all understand and forgive your absence.” Jemmy tucked her notebook in her reticule. “Mr. Loker, where may I find the stagehands.”
“ ‘Tom’ will do. There’s always a grip by the saltwater rheostats.”
Jemmy raised her eyebrows. “Saltwater . . .”
“Tubs of salt water with electric bars to pull up or down in the water. That’s how we dim the lights. This theatre is fully electrified, you know.”
“I remember some containers. I thought the water was to put out fires.”
“Not much danger of fires. The Crystal Palace has a fire curtain—a roll-down curtain of asbestos, the latest thing.”
Jemmy pulled on her gloves.
Tom said, “The man at the rheostats wouldn’t be able to leave his job. None of the hands would. You’ll have to get front-of-the-house people. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll take you myself—point you to Mr. Short’s office.”
When Tom Loker turned around, Jemmy stepped back in surprise. Her foot landed on a Sproat shoe. She would have been the second person to fall on the poor dead boxer if Tom hadn’t grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.
She shuddered at the transformation greasepaint and powder had wrought on the dashing young actor. With his gleaming hair hidden under a ragged slouch hat and his elegant chin dirtied with black beard stubble, he looked the very incarnation of brutality. Jemima McBustle found herself in the arms of Simon Legree.
