Act of Murder (27 page)

‘You were working with her last night. There was plenty of opportunity to slip the noxious substance into her system by a drink or a small piece of confectionery.’

‘Nonsense! This is madness! Madness!’

‘You knew her, you had business with her husband, you may well have been the angel of death in their bedroom when he was so brutally slain, you argued with her before her death and you
were with her minutes before she died. To complete this miserable picture of guilt, you then compounded your involvement by attempting to steal what was in the safe before running away. Do you see
how very black things look for you, Mr Koller?’

Herbert clenched his hands into fists and slammed them both on the table. ‘I have killed no one! You must believe me, sergeant!’

Slevin leaned back. The arrogance had now gone. Instead, he was facing a young man trembling as the shadow of a noose dangled above his head.

‘Mr Koller, before I arrest and charge you for the murders of Richard Throstle and Georgina Throstle, do you have anything to say?’

Herbert slumped forward and put his forehead on his balled fists. ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘There is something I think you should know.’

*

As he spoke, Herbert Koller’s voice lost much of its air of superiority. Occasionally he wrung his hands, anxious for his words to be believed.

‘I met Throstle in Manchester. I knew a few chaps there, and they took me along to a private showing. You have no idea how monotonous it can be, touring the country with the same people
and having the same conversations, and . . . So, I was intrigued by Richard Throstle. He told me about his ambitions. God, how refreshing it was to speak to someone with ambition! He told me he
wanted to expand his business – not the phantasmagoria nonsense, you understand. He said there was a fortune, an incalculable fortune, to be made if he could find the right person to assist
him.’

‘Assist in what way?’

Koller licked his lips. ‘London was his golden opportunity, and he intended to set up business there. But he needed someone who could . . . provide him with a steady supply.’

‘Of what?’

‘Young women. And, on occasion, young men.’

‘And you could provide this supply?’

‘London is a place of plenty, sergeant. I would be providing a service and sharing in the profits.’

‘With little thought for the victims of your enterprise?’

‘They would be paid handsomely. I hardly think that they would regard themselves as victims.’

‘What about children?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Richard Throstle included children in his . . . presentations.’

Koller shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know nothing of that. He asked me to provide young women, and, for an even more specialised audience, young men.’

Slevin watched him carefully and decided to probe further. ‘You saw no slides of children being defiled?’

‘Certainly not! The idea appals me.’

‘So the extent of your involvement with Mr Throstle was as procurer and investor?’

‘We may quibble over your terminology, but yes.’

‘And the money you say you didn’t hand over to Mr Throstle?’

Koller blinked. Slevin didn’t seem to be the type to give up. At last he said, ‘It was evidence of my good faith. I saw him as a lucrative prospect.’

‘Unfortunately, he was murdered. If what you say is true, then you had a very good motive for keeping him alive, not dismembering him.’

‘Of course I wanted him alive. I had given him money.’

‘So tell me again about your meeting with his widow.’

‘I went of course to express my condolences.’ He saw Slevin’s lip curl, and added quickly, ‘And to see if she intended to continue his work. I reminded her of my
investment. She said she could not be held responsible for her husband’s private arrangements.’

‘Hence the raised voices.’

‘Yes. Although we did come to an agreement of sorts. I would help with the
Phantasmagoria
and she would consider my proposals. She fully intended to continue his work.’

‘And that is the whole truth, Mr Koller?’

‘The whole truth, Sergeant Slevin.’

*

Slevin returned to his office and sent for Constable Bowery.

‘What can I do for you, sergeant?’

‘First, we have let Herbert Koller go.’

Bowery’s eyes widened. ‘But he was there last night, the bugger ran away, and he –’

He was counting off on his fingers reasons to keep Koller in custody when Slevin interrupted him.

‘Don’t, constable. You’ll run out of fingers.’

‘So why, then?’

‘He told me things that make the situation a little clearer.’

‘What things?’

Slevin took a deep breath and began to repeat the gist of what Koller had told him. ‘But Herbert Koller is lying,’ he said finally, ‘He was telling me what he wanted me to
hear. You see, I know the real reason he wanted to foster Throstle’s acquaintance. And I don’t think it had anything to do with business opportunities in London, or anywhere else for
that matter. Nor do I think it had anything to do with his ridiculous suggestion of suborning young females to pose for immoral photographs.’

‘So what was his reason?’

Slevin narrowed his gaze and looked away.

Bowery, oblivious to the gesture of evasion, went on. ‘But he’s lying, so you let him go?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to catch the murderer of Richard Throstle and Georgina Throstle. For that I need proof. And because I have solved the mystery of the two heads.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll explain later. But that’s the reason I wanted to see you, Jimmy. I want you to accompany me to the theatre tonight.’

‘The theatre? A bloody play?’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’ve never been to a play in me entire life, sergeant.’

‘First time for everything. In any case it’s an order, constable. Here in a suit at six-thirty sharp. Got it?’

‘Yes, sergeant.’

*

‘Are you sure you will be able to do this?’ Benjamin asked Herbert.

Although they were only thirty minutes from curtain-up, he had asked Herbert to spend a few minutes alone with him in his dressing-room, away from prying eyes and well-wishers. Everyone had been
glad and relieved to see Herbert when he was brought back to the theatre – almost everyone, that is. Jonathan Keele had turned away as soon as the two of them bustled in through the stage
door, and Toby Thomas had used his acting talents to the full when he went over to congratulate Herbert on his return. The young understudy had been gratified when James Shorton and Susan Coupe
took the time to offer their whispered commiserations, and told him that his chance would come to prove to the wider world what a great actor he could be.

Now, with the buzz of excitement building in the theatre, Herbert reached over and patted Benjamin on the leg.

‘You worry too much,’ he said.

‘I do everything too much,’ came the cryptic response.

‘You said you had a surprise in store for me?’ Herbert gave him a wicked smile, and his eyes glittered in anticipation.

Benjamin touched his face. ‘You have such smooth features,’ he said in a gentle whisper. ‘I have never seen such beauty, you know.’

Herbert reached up and slowly pulled his hand away. ‘Benjamin? The surprise?’

‘Ah yes. The surprise. I will wait till later. Once you have given another of your great performances. Regard it as an incentive.’

Herbert gazed at him curiously. ‘You are being deliberately evasive, Benjie, but I forgive you. As long as the surprise is worth it! And now, may I return to my dressing-room?’

‘Of course.’

They embraced tentatively before parting.

Benjamin stared at the closed door for a long time before turning to make his own final adjustments. Somehow, as he looked at the face of Detective Samuel Baxter in the looking-glass, he saw an
expression that made him flinch – what did his eyes contain behind the mask?

It was time.

He averted his gaze, unable to maintain the introspection, and donned his coat, flicking away the remnants of dust from the previous night’s performance.

*

Susan Coupe was once more Nelly Denver, the faithful and long-suffering wife of a man falsely accused of murder. As she too faced herself in the looking-glass, she thought of
the heavy irony of her role: a stage marriage to the man she loved above all else in this world, and yet that was all it was – a sham, something to play at for a few hours before shedding the
clothing and wiping clean the make-up so that once more she could become herself, a person whose hopes depended on the whims of others. James’s wife, for instance. It was loathsome and
insupportable that she could even contemplate holding him to ransom for the sake of a few paltry pounds, even threatening to contest the divorce.

That James loved her, she had no doubt. Hadn’t he proved his devotion to her time and time again? His expressions of adoration had sustained her more than he could ever know during those
dark moments of despair.

Soon they would be back in London, and she knew the following months would be hard, perhaps far more difficult than even she could contemplate, and she realised that if they were ultimately to
be together, then she would have to show strength, a strength she hadn’t shown for a very long time. She saw the determination resolve itself on her face. Wasn’t Nelly Denver, at heart,
a strong and resilient woman? And didn’t Will and his beloved Nelly live happily ever after? Perhaps it was a good omen. Perhaps life would reflect art. The next few years held a wealth of
possibilities, not least the promise of an American tour with Henry Irving himself. She closed her eyes and saw the future, as she and James strolled down Broadway, listening to the calls of the
street vendors and the rattle of the carriages as they swept past on their way to Central Park.

She opened her eyes and set her mouth firmly. Nelly Denver had a resilience that would see her through. Slowly she stood up, ready for her call.

*

His benefit night. Jonathan Keele couldn’t help smiling, although the smile was a bitter one. Tonight he was celebrating his many years on the stage, and due to receive a
financial nod of gratitude for his lifetime’s efforts. His bitterness was not born of a sense of his own mortality. No, he thought, as he caught sight of those kindly eyes belonging not to
himself but to the devoted servant Jaikes, everyone has to die. It was the order of things, the immutable order of things.

But then he thought of little Catherine, so young, so innocent, and so tortured. How was her death immutable? Couldn’t he have done something? Stepped in before the melancholia dug itself
deep inside her muddled brain?

He thought of Benjamin, and the simple faith he hid behind his mask of experience and business. Yet he was so vulnerable, a man who loved not wisely but too well!

Now the boy Koller had once more succeeded in fooling the foolish.

Jonathan stared in the looking-glass at Jaikes, the devoted servant, who had helped sustain the family of the fugitive Denver until the man returned as John Franklin, the Silver King, his
fortune made in the silver mines of Nevada. Melodrama was nothing more than the fulfilment of wishes, he thought, a dramatist’s way of perpetuating the myth that good will prevail and the
wicked shall be damned.

He thought of the cancer, insidious and unforgiving inside him.

Jaikes looked back at him, and Jaikes shook his head.

*

James Shorton adjusted his cravat so that it hung limply at his throat. Wilfred Denver’s first appearance was important in establishing his drunken, dissolute nature, and
he made sure that everything about his entrance to the Wheatsheaf at Clerkenwell was as it should be.

He thought of Susan. Would he lose her when they returned to London, where he would be forced to face his wife? He knew Elizabeth would fly into the foulest temper and make the direst threats.
She would spend her days ensuring he had little chance to enjoy the cause of their separation until she extracted every last penny of her entitlement.

Or was that too melodramatic? The scorned wife turned virago?

He closed his eyes and an image of Susan began to form itself. A blessed relief and the most glorious of signs! There she was, her delicate features, her smooth cheeks and those deliciously
tender lips, slightly parted and waiting for him . . .

Dear Lord, was it possible that he and Susan could be together?

He opened his eyes and touched the loose cravat. He had to remain firm. He was her protector, her knight in shining armour, and he would slay any dragon that stepped in their way. Including
Elizabeth.

*

And what about Herbert? How did he regard himself during those last moments before curtain-up?

He wasn’t a man given to introspection, yet he congratulated himself on getting out of a very hazardous situation. Detective Sergeant Slevin was no fool, and he had realised, even as
Benjamin spoke his words of comfort and undying support that morning, that it would take a superlative effort of will and artifice to convince all and sundry of his innocence. Slevin had to be
given something, of course. An admission of guilt, or at least of potential guilt, should have been enough to slake his thirst for justice, so while he had cleverly admitted the desire and the
intention to commit a crime, he had also made it clear that he had at last seen the error of his ways and would henceforth walk the path of righteousness.

He gazed at the cocky, confident Henry Corkett in the looking-glass and gave him a sly, rascally wink. There was something of any actor in the part he played, he knew that. Henry Corkett, the
young clerk, began the play with a wealth of money from his winnings at the races. For a brief moment he would stand there glorying in all his new-found wealth, even to the point of burning money
to light his huge cigar, until that dourest of detectives, Baxter, stage-whispered his admonishment. He loved that scene because it gave him a glimpse of the luxury, the sheer exultant pleasure, of
unbridled wealth.

He knew that, in order to gain such wealth, he had to continue with his plan. The fact that he had been thwarted abominably the previous night by the most disgustingly bad luck only served to
make him work harder to gain what he wanted. There would, of course, be some deception involved, but he was more than passably good at that, wasn’t he?