Act of Murder (3 page)

‘I’ve been to three chemists. Hence my apparent tardiness.’

‘Tardiness?’ The word was dripping with mockery. ‘Do you wish to see me dead?’

‘If you’ll allow me to –’

‘Do you wish to take a photograph of my pain-ravaged corpse and flicker it across the room in your next phantasmagoria? Is that what I am? A future source of horrid amusement for the lower
orders?’

Richard Throstle reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bottle.

‘What is that?’

‘This, my dearest, is a highly recommended potion that has been prepared by a local chemist.’

‘But what is it? If it isn’t oil of peppermint –’

Richard shook his head with a smile. ‘You don’t apply this. You take it. It’s Chlorodyne.’

She approached him cautiously, gazing down at the brown bottle and the clear liquid it contained as if it were a venomous snake.

‘It’s an analgesic. When I described your symptoms the chemist said this would do the trick.’

She reached out and held the bottle in her hand. Slowly she removed the stopper and lifted it to her nose. ‘Ugh!’ she grimaced, and held it at arm’s length.

‘Notwithstanding, dearest, it’s the latest thing. Take it, and your faces will be history.’

She looked into his eyes. Was there another hint of mockery? Or was it something else? ‘Who was that man you spoke to?’ she asked, delaying the moment in spite of the throbbing in
her face.

‘Where?’

‘I watched you. I was waiting in agony. As you knew I would be.’

Richard nodded. ‘Oh, that? He is a board member of the Wigan and District Sunday School Union.’

She smiled involuntarily.

‘He wanted to know if I would be willing to present
The Magic Wand
at their next gathering.’

‘I see.’

She saw him hold her gaze for a second before continuing.

‘I refused, of course.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? It’s hardly a profitable venture, nor a likely prospect. Sunday afternoon with a gaggle of filthy little miners’ spawn! Besides, it would mean staying here one more
night.’ He gave an impish smile. ‘It might please Saint Edward if I did something virtuous for a change. But it would not please me!’

‘Edward is beyond pleasing.’

Richard laughed. ‘No doubt he’ll be kneeling on some hard wooden board in a windswept old chapel on the moors as we speak.’

She smiled coquettishly. ‘You make him sound like a . . . a sanctimonious dullard. The very idea!’

‘No, really? How very unfraternal of me.’

‘He would dearly love to provide some financial support.’

Richard laughed and threw his head back. ‘And then insist we make nothing but Temperance slides and tales from the Bible! He’d finish with a whole barrage of chromatropes, dazzling
the poor unwashed until they leave the room dizzy and blinded.’

‘That’s exactly how they leave his sermons!’ she laughed, her pain temporarily forgotten in her desire to mock her brother. ‘Dizzy with his bluster and blinded by his
righteousness!’

Richard put his arms around her waist. ‘Forget him, my dear. And amuse yourself with the thought of his outrage if he really knew what we had done.’

She detached herself and stared down at the threadbare carpet. ‘You know how I feel about that.’

‘You forget, my sweet, that you have played a most active part in establishing our . . . shall we say, repertoire of delight? Our very profitable repertoire of delight.’

Georgina blushed and placed a hand flat against her right cheek.

He reached out and took the medicine from her left hand, then went over to the basin and poured a small measure into a glass. ‘Come, my dear, I can’t bear to see you in pain any
longer. Swallow this.’

She moved slowly towards him as if she were walking to a tumbril and took the proffered glass. Its pungent aroma seemed stronger, more volatile, now it was freed from its container, and she
screwed her eyes closed as she raised it to her lips.

‘That’s my good girl,’ he said as the liquid went down. ‘And if it makes you feel any better, I will consider the offer from the gentleman representing the Sunday School
Union.’

She gasped and clutched at her throat. ‘It’s bitter!’ she croaked hoarsely. ‘It’s so very bitter!’ She recoiled in disgust, not only at the vile taste of the
analgesic, but also at the unpalatable fact that once again Richard had lied to her.

*

‘Good of you to come.’

‘The least I could do.’

‘Considering how much we are paying for the privilege.’

Richard Throstle gave a knowing smile. There was, he acknowledged, something mischievously wicked about describing this fellow as a board member of a Sunday School Union. The lantern slides he
had requested would have been most inappropriate for such a tender audience, not to mention the simple fact that, at twenty guineas, they would have been beyond the reach of the most philanthropic
of charitable institutions.

‘It will be money well spent.’

‘That’s to be judged. Still, you come highly recommended.’

Throstle gave a short nod, accepting the compliment. The small private room at the rear of the Victoria Hotel overlooked Wallgate Station. The air was already thick with cigar smoke, the two men
of business sitting in leather armchairs with their backs to the window, while Throstle stood before them looking for all the world like a junior clerk about to be dismissed.

‘When I watched that . . . what d’ye call it? That show last night?’ said the spokesman, the one who had accosted him so recklessly on the steps of the Legs of Man. He thrust
his cigar at Richard, who noticed specks of grey ash stuck on the man’s whiskered chin.

‘A phantasmagoria.’

‘Aye. That’s the fellow. Well, when I watched that, I noticed you had your wife assisting you.’

‘Georgina is of some help on occasion, yes. Among other things, she is a most accomplished screamer.’

‘I presume she won’t be assisting you on Sunday, eh?’ He gave a chesty laugh and looked at his companion, a thin-faced chap with sharp, piercing eyes and an intensity in the
set of his jaw that caused even Throstle to flinch. He knew how wealthy and how powerful both men were.

The man licked his lips and gave a dry, ironic cough. ‘Although,’ he said, pausing to gain their attention, ‘that all depends on what your definition of
assisting
is.
Eh?’

‘She could perhaps lend a hand?’ suggested the other with mock innocence.

‘Alas, my private showings are for a strictly male audience. They tend to be more appreciative of the artistic scenarios on display.’

Throstle smiled frostily and, after a few more minutes discussing the financial details of the venture, found himself on the steps of the Victoria Hotel, looking out at the fading lights of the
murky afternoon.

He took a deep breath. The lewd innuendo about his wife had angered him, but he comforted himself with the excitement of what loomed on the horizon: if his plans came to fruition, then he would
be entering an entirely different world, a world of infinite possibilities and untold wealth, where his art would become justly lauded among the discerning and he himself would be regarded as a
pioneer of daring and enterprise, as courageous in his way as Sir Richard Burton in his pursuit of the Nile source.

Throstle allowed himself an impish smile as he developed the comparison: hadn’t Burton, the rogue, made a fortune with his private translation of
The Kama Sutra
? Wasn’t his
own art simply a more graphic elaboration of Burton’s daring prose? He must share these reflections with his dear Georgina!

The thought of her stirred his loins. He had left her asleep. The new medication had apparently proved rather more efficacious than that damnable oil of peppermint, and she had retired to bed
with the curtains drawn and a desire for solitude. He had mumbled some excuse about going down to the Public Hall to inspect the lantern equipment for the evening’s display, which had given
him the ideal opportunity to pursue the business proposal further.

And yet . . .

He checked his watch. Four-fifteen. He thought of his
Phantasmagoria
that night, which was due to begin only at seven-thirty. Three and a quarter hours!

Time to kill.

Say, an hour or so to do the business. His beloved wife would undoubtedly sleep for a while yet. He turned to his left and walked quickly towards Standishgate, away from the Victoria Hotel and
the foolish and sinful men inside. A hansom lurched suddenly through the fog.

‘Springfield, cabbie! Mort Street!’ he called through the trapdoor above his head once he was settled inside. He could be in sweet Violet’s arms in less than ten minutes if the
idiot went at a brisk pace, though that seemed unlikely in this damned fog. Still, he would have ample time. And afterwards, well, with a modicum of luck and a compliant cabbie, he’d be back
in the hotel room by six at the latest, standing over Georgina’s still supine form and looking for all the world like the concerned and solicitous husband. The image made him smile.

He leaned back against the coarse fabric of the seat and wrinkled his nose. The stench of horseflesh mingled with the gritty dust of the swirling fog, and he held a handkerchief close to his
mouth, savouring its slight fragrance.

He had never been one for prolonged and probing introspection; his philosophy was more pragmatic, forward-looking and unsullied by whatever he had done in the past, in much the same way as a
huntsman spares no thought for the mud clinging to his boots in the thrill of the chase. Not that his destination this afternoon involved any sense of challenge, pursuit or hard-fought conquest.
Violet was a sweet young girl and had her charms, to be sure, but they were the charms of the submissive, the already conquered prey. Yet there had been a time when things weren’t so
determined. He closed his eyes and permitted himself the luxury of reflection, viewing the memory more as an
hors d’oeuvre
to the main course, a pleasant way of passing the time in
this rather uncomfortable carriage . . .

*

Bolton. November 1893. A waif-like creature standing on the steps of the town hall. Unlike those rushing to and fro, she was motionless, in spite of the fact that it was
snowing quite heavily, and her shoulders were wrapped tightly in the flimsiest of shawls. There was something about the huge stone lion that rested with a lazy arrogance above the steps that had
caught her eye, and she was gazing up at it with something akin to terror. Richard, on his way to arrange the hire of a hall, stopped just before the colonnaded entrance and watched her. He had
always had an eye for that tantalising combination of prettiness, vulnerability and desperation; indeed, it was that self-same fusion that brought him such a tidy profit from his more adult
presentations, some of his models at least being more willing to stretch their morality for the sake of his art than other, less impecunious females.

‘Good morning!’ he said, raising his hat and offering the girl an elaborate bow.

‘Mornin’,’ she replied.

‘It’s hardly Leeds!’

‘Wha’?’

He gave her one of his winning smiles. ‘They built this town hall because they admired the one we have in Leeds so much. I personally think it’s a pale imitation.’

He could see the tears beginning to well around the rims of her eyes. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen. ‘I’ve never been t’Leeds.’

‘Look,’ he said, holding his hands open to catch the occasional snowflake. ‘It’s very cold out here!’

She hunched her shoulders in response and looked at him with a growing suspicion. Several people rushed past, eager to reach the relative warmth and dryness of the town hall. One or two of
them gave the girl a cursory glance, but showed no more interest in her than in the stone lion above her head.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’

She shook her head.

‘Then why are you here?’ The vulnerability in her eyes gave him the confidence to ask such a direct question.

The girl dropped her head and mumbled something about her father.

‘You’re waiting for your father?’ Richard felt strangely irked. The girl’s face – what he could see of it through the snow and the embrace of the shawl –
was quite fetching. She had the most amazingly wide brown eyes that would have appeared trusting if it weren’t for the frown that accompanied them, and her lips were full and rich with
sensuous promise.

‘No, sir. Me dad’s back home.’

‘But you said something about him. What was it?’

‘I said me dad’d kill me.’

‘Kill you?’ He gave a laugh that was meant to show he took her words as mere hyperbole.

‘I . . . I’d best be off.’

‘Wait.’ He placed a hand on her arm. This was intriguing. The wretchedly pretty little thing had piqued his curiosity. What exactly was bothering the wench? ‘Perhaps I can
help?’

She shook her head and turned her face away from him, as if in shame. ‘I’ll get belted if I’m not back. Shouldn’t have come in t’first place. Please let me go,
sir.’

He pulled her gently up the steps. ‘Well at least we can be dry. And then we can talk. What do you say? I’m a very good listener.’

After seating her in a secluded niche far away from inquisitive eyes, he listened to her sorry tale. Her name was Violet and she came from nearby Wigan, a town suffering more than most from
the current coal strike that had apparently no end in sight. Her father was one of the striking miners, and she couldn’t recall the last time they’d had a decent hot meal.

‘What about your mother?’ he had asked, feigning concern and interest, seeing that she had been conspicuous by her absence from the narrative.

‘Dead,’ came the flat reply. Then the curious addendum, ‘to us, any road.’

‘How do you mean?’

She looked him full in the face. God, she was fetching!

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘I shouldn’t be talkin’ like this. To a stranger.’