Act of Murder (23 page)

Benjamin! He smiled and turned to his left. If he knew what his darling boy was up to tonight! With a jaunty spring in his step, he headed towards his destination, and thought happily of the
rewards that would soon be his. He was about to keep his side of the bargain, and he was sure she would reciprocate.

*

It was difficult for Slevin to explain to Constable Bowery back at the station the chaotic scenes he had left behind him at the Royal Court Theatre.

When Miss Coupe had announced the news about the missing revolver, he had held his hand up and asked everyone to remain where they were, for now this was ‘a police matter.’ It had
disturbed him somewhat when everyone around him, including the delectable Miss Coupe, had fallen into fits of laughter at his expense, his embarrassment only compounded when Morgan-Drew explained
that the revolver was, like the cigar, merely a prop, and was used in the opening scene when Will Denver, drunken and rendered penniless because of his excessive gambling, draws out his revolver
and hints at suicide.

‘It is nevertheless missing,’ Slevin had said, his voice slightly higher than normal, ‘and this is therefore a possible theft.’ It was straw-clutching at its worst, he
knew, but he couldn’t stand there and say nothing, not with Miss Coupe now stifling her giggle behind a delicately slender hand.

She watched while he and the others scrabbled around the stage looking for the missing prop. He came to a large trunk, its lid open to reveal an untidy heap of breastplates, helmets, swords,
plumes and what looked like a scarlet blanket.

‘That’s a toga,’ came a voice behind him. He turned around to come face to face with Miss Coupe. ‘We’re doing
Julius Caesar
next week. In
Liverpool.’

‘I . . . I see.’ He felt his face flush once more, caused both by his recent embarrassment and his proximity to such a beautiful creature. He saw her eyes. A deep blue, intense and
alluring. He wondered how many hearts she had already broken.

‘You must think we’re all mad.’

‘Not at all.’

He recalled the words he had heard her use about him earlier – ‘he fascinates me’. The memory robbed him of the power of eloquent speech, and he was, for the moment, reduced to
the most abrupt of responses.

‘Did you find Herbert?’

‘Pardon?’

‘We were present earlier when you were enquiring about him.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I found him.’

‘Unwell, I gather.’

‘Apparently so.’

She looked at him with an enigmatic smile before continuing.

‘We were all sorry to hear he was poorly. But Toby deserves his chance.’

‘Is Mr Koller often unwell?’

She frowned, thrown by the question. ‘Of course not. Herbert, you might say, is in the pink of health.’

There was something about the way she said it that aroused his curiosity.

‘Have you known him long, miss?’

‘Herbert? A matter of months.’

‘And, forgive the question, but do you know of his relationship with the man who was murdered here in town? Mr Richard Throstle?’

‘Throstle?’ echoed a voice from the darkness.

Slevin was startled by the intrusion. Then he saw the man he had met briefly, the older actor, Jonathan Keele.

Jonathan stepped from the darkness and beyond one of the flats. ‘What’s this about Throstle?’

Slevin, irrationally piqued by the old man’s appearance, explained briefly the circumstances of the murder while omitting its more lurid aspects. ‘It appears Mr Koller knew the
victim.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You knew?’ Susan Coupe lifted a hand to her lips.

Jonathan smiled. ‘I had seen him with Throstle. At least Herbert said it was he. They were dining together. I got the impression they knew each other quite well.’

‘Oh?’ Slevin said.

‘I saw Herbert pass him some money. Apparently he denied it to Benjamin, but I know what I saw.’

Susan Coupe looked horrified. ‘This town,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Murderers. Madmen. Black-faced colliers.’

‘Susan,’ said Jonathan in a kindly voice, ‘hadn’t you better go and turn into Nelly Denver?’

‘You’ll excuse me, Sergeant Slevin?’

He nodded and she moved off into the dark recesses of the stage.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me, sir?’

‘Only that he isn’t to be trusted.’

‘Koller?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why not?’

Jonathan thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. ‘There is a breed of young men for whom nothing will ever suffice. They are driven by some inner demons . . .’ His words
trailed off and he stood there, a pained expression on his face.

‘Thank you,’ Slevin said after a few seconds’ silence. ‘Then I shall resume my search for the missing revolver.’ He moved to a row of sealed containers made of
shiny metal.

‘It won’t be in there,’ Jonathan said.

‘What are they?’

‘Stage effects for our next production. Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar.
Benjamin will play the lead, of course. Some contain pots of dust to smear on our breastplates in the
battle scenes to make us look battle-weary. A great believer in verisimilitude, is Benjamin. Here are very realistic strips that look for all the world like scars and knife wounds. And of
course,’ he stooped and patted one of the containers, ‘the special capsules filled with fake blood. There’s a lot of blood in Shakespeare, haven’t you noticed?’

Slevin said that he hadn’t particularly, no. Apart from
Julius Caesar,
the only other Shakespeare he and Sarah had seen was
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

‘Oh the public like blood. As long as it isn’t their own.’

From the other side of the stage, someone shouted ‘Found it!’ and a great hurrah went up.

‘The show will go on,’ said Jonathan. ‘Poor Benjamin will be relieved. Despite the best efforts of some people.’

‘What do you mean?’

The old man shook his head and mumbled something about getting himself ready, leaving Slevin suddenly alone.

‘Queer lot, if you ask me,’ said Constable Bowery after he had listened to the account of Slevin’s visit. ‘First a cigar buggers off, then a gun.’

‘Well, strictly speaking, the cigar didn’t “bugger off”. It was found where it was supposed to be. Young Toby was simply nervous, that’s all.’

Slevin leaned back in his chair and glanced up at the clock above his desk. Seven-fifteen.

‘So, Constable Bowery. Your visit to Springfield and the delectable Violet. Yield results, did it?’

Bowery, who had been sent to Mort Street earlier, shrugged. ‘Well, she seemed glad we’d let her old man go at last. Without charges.’ He let the latter statement hang in the
air before continuing. Slevin recalled the curses of the three sober and bitter brigands as they barged their way out of the station earlier. Billy Cowburn and his musketeers would even now be
celebrating their release, no doubt glorying in their intransigence.

‘Dunno if it means owt, sergeant. She’d never heard of Herbert Koller, not by name, any road. But she said Throstle told her summat once that made her think he had friends who were
actors.’

‘What was it?’

‘Told her if she’d agree to do some more poses for him, he’d have her specially trained. Said he knew a bloke what could help. Said this bloke was just what he needed,
’cos it meant London. That’s why she kept lettin’ him . . . You know. On account of his promise to take her to London with him. Make her famous among the toffs.’

‘But she never heard his name?’

‘No, sergeant.’

Slevin looked up at the ceiling and thought for over a minute. Then he suddenly slammed both hands down on the desk top. ‘Right!’ he said firmly. ‘Get your coat on,
constable.’

‘Where we goin’ now?’

There was just enough weariness in Bowery’s voice to forestall the sharp response already forming on Slevin’s lips. It was late, and his constable had had a long and tiring day.

‘I’m treating you, Jimmy!’

As soon as he heard that particular form of address, Bowery’s heart sank.

‘What to?’

‘You tell me you enjoyed it so much I think it’s time for an encore.’

‘What?’

‘We’re off to the Public Hall, Jimmy. To watch this amazing
Phantasmagoria
, and perhaps keep an eye on the grieving widow. We can’t ignore the scrawled slogans, can
we?’

Bowery’s shoulders slumped as he followed the reinvigorated sergeant down the corridor and out of the station. The snow was falling thickly now, heavy flakes that came down in swirling
gusts, stinging their faces with a bitter chill, and they both hunched forward into their coats, hands shoved into deep pockets.

*

‘Don’t you talk about rope, Spider! If it comes to hanging, it won’t be me, it’ll be you!’

Toby Thomas, pinioned from behind by Harry Montford, who was playing Cripps, stared defiantly at the arch-villain Spider. The entire theatre was hushed and expectant as
The Silver King
built to its climax in the fourth act. The band of villains was disintegrating before their eyes and it was glorious to watch, especially when they knew the wronged Will Denver, disguised as the
simpleton Dicky, was listening to their every self-incriminating word.

‘Curse you!’ roared Henry Parks as the Spider. ‘Will you never give me peace till I kill you?’

Toby raised his head high so that the entire auditorium could hear his next words. ‘Yes, as you killed Geoffrey Ware!’

James Shorton leapt onto the stage to the consternation of the group of villains gathered at Coombe’s Wharf. ‘Ah!’ he screamed euphorically, the misery of false accusation at
last in sight of being destroyed by the truth. ‘Innocent! Innocent! Thank God!’

He made a dash for the door, flourishing a crowbar, and, pursued by the others, escaped through the wings with the words ‘The whole world shall not stop me now!’

The quick curtain brought a tumultuous round of applause.

Backstage, the atmosphere was similarly jubilant. ‘Marvellous, my boy!’ Jonathan Keele placed a hand on Toby’s shoulder and beamed at him. The boy was perspiring and holding a
cloth to his face, careful not to ruin his make-up.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Benjamin walked past, making sure everyone was in place for the opening scene of the final act, set in Skinner’s villa. The euphoria that was evident on everyone’s face was curiously
absent from his. Some reflected sagely that it was Mr Morgan-Drew’s way, that the joy could only be unconfined when the final curtain fell and he could then relax and exult. Yet Jonathan knew
different. No matter how well young Toby might perform as the sharp-tongued Cockney, it would never be enough to compensate for the absence of Herbert Koller. He could see, hidden deep behind those
black-rimmed eyes, a sadness that was rendered almost unbearable by his sense of betrayal.

He knew that no words could soothe what his old friend was feeling. So as they passed briefly behind the curtain, Jonathan merely nodded and gave a smile of support, but he knew full well that
the smile he got in response was merely an act.

*

A mere fifty yards away, Herbert Koller, the absent Corkett, was actually enjoying himself. He stood behind the raised screen in the Public Hall and spoke in the deep, sonorous
tones Georgina Throstle had told him to adopt. He took a peek at the audience, which was almost exclusively drawn from the labouring classes, and smiled. Did superstition still hold sway among
these people, he wondered.

‘Now the dead, unhappy at their forced incarceration, begin to rise. They attempt to rise to heaven, but look! How they are hurled back by the thunderbolts flashing through the sky! Now
look how the rotting flesh hovers through the fog and the filthy air . . .’

Herbert felt a hand on his arm. It was Georgina Throstle. She gave him a sharp look. ‘Slow down!’ she whispered. ‘You make it sound as if they are being transported to Hell by
steam locomotive!’

Herbert gripped the sheets of paper tightly and thrust them into her face. ‘You dare criticise my pacing!’

‘If it moves faster than the railways, yes. Remember what you are here for.’

He lowered his script. He daren’t antagonise the woman now, not until he had what he had come for. And soon, in a matter of half an hour, he would succeed.

Although he was unaware of their presence, Detective Sergeant Slevin and Constable Bowery were well aware of his. They had sat through the last thirty minutes listening to his voice and watching
the projected images soaring high above them. Bowery had told Slevin not to be afraid, it was all done by lantern projectors. He had even patted the sergeant’s knee to reassure him of his
presence and support.

‘Do that again,’ Slevin had whispered, ‘and I’ll snap every one of your fat fingers. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sergeant.’

Nevertheless, Slevin had to marvel at the way the images were created. He could hear the occasional gasp from those around him, but he felt somehow detached from the fear infecting the rest of
the audience, probably because of the constant, nasal drone of the narrator. He didn’t like Mr Herbert Koller, and now he could see why the young actor had feigned illness this afternoon:
perhaps Mrs Throstle had offered him a large sum of money, more than he would be paid by the company, to fulfil her final engagement in town, and therefore avoid forfeiting the contract and missing
out on the sizeable income to be gained from the large attendance.

Was this arrangement the reason for their raised voices, as reported by the hotel manager, Mr Jameson? Had they been arguing over the size of his fee?

His thoughts were interrupted by Herbert Koller, now speaking in a new, more measured pace.

‘Picture a dark and lonely cottage . . .’

A slide was projected onto the screen, the inside of a filthy hovel. Onto the scene was suddenly projected another: three old hags peering wildly at the audience. Above the screen, a horned
devil rose with a ferocious expression on its vile features.

‘Picture three wicked dams, all staring with the vilest of intentions at their next victim. And their beloved fiend, the one with the cloven foot and the serpent’s tail, he has heard
their evil chants and now he prepares to come among them, to come among us . . . every one of us . . .’