Act of Murder Read online

  Cultural diet! He had thought such fantastic demonstrations of hocus-pocus had long since died a natural death, and was surprised there was still a profit to be made from projecting ghostly figures onto a screen with the express intention of alarming an audience, albeit a gullible one.

  ‘Tragedy or disaster?’

  Benjamin wheeled around, startled by the disembodied voice behind him. ‘Jonathan! What the blazes are you doing? I could have had an apoplectic fit.’

  ‘Sorry. I saw you from below. Your frown was quite expressive.’

  Jonathan Keele was the oldest member of the company. He had been an actor for more years than he would care either to remember or admit, and he had agreed to accompany the tour as a special favour to Benjamin, of whom he was rather paternally fond. Some members of the company relished his reflective moments, when he would regale them with tales of Macready, whom he first saw play Othello in Bath in ’35 and who was responsible for infecting him with the curse of Thespis, or of working with the Bancrofts at the Prince of Wales Theatre in Tottenham Street.

  It had been the kindest of gestures from his old friend that the final performance of The Silver King should be given over to his benefit, and Jonathan had been genuinely touched by this demonstration of affection.

  Benjamin sighed and gazed back down towards the stage. Three or four of the footlights which had begun to flicker suddenly gave up the ghost. ‘Is it any wonder?’

  ‘Don’t worry. These things have a delightful habit of coming together. Rather like a broken bone setting, eh?’

  ‘Well, the simile is apt, at any rate. At least as far as the pain and the damage are concerned.’ He gave his old mentor a rueful look. ‘Worry is what I do. Worry is what pays our way, Jonathan. Do you know how long it took those imbeciles to change the flats?’

  The veteran of the stage shook his head.

  ‘Fourteen minutes! We had the curtain drop for fourteen unconscionable minutes! I mean, what is the audience going to do for nigh on a quarter-hour? Play I-Spy? They said it was an impediment in the grooves and they could solve it with a drop of oil. Oil? I ask you! And we’ve got the full dress rehearsal to follow. Our tragedy, as you say, will be just that. Thank the good Lord we’re on King Street, Wigan, and not Charing Cross Road! I shudder to think what The Era would make of us.’

  It was Benjamin’s turn to shake his head. From the darkness behind him, Jonathan smiled, but placed a hand gently on the manager’s shoulder.

  ‘You take too much on yourself, Benjamin. All the weight of the world on your shoulders.’

  ‘No. Not that bad.’ He gave a smile that was hidden in the darkness.

  ‘Benjamin . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  He turned and saw the old actor bite his lip and stroke his narrow chin as if in contemplation of saying something that was perhaps quite difficult. But he merely stood there, his face half-covered by the shadows.

  ‘What is it, Jonathan?’

  But the moment had evidently passed, for Jonathan Keele smiled and said, ‘No matter. It will keep, I dare say,’ before turning around and disappearing through the velvet curtains.

  *

  Georgina Throstle stood at the window of the Royal Hotel and felt the pain begin. It invariably began with a pricking sensation behind the eyes, as if a hypodermic syringe were piercing her eyeballs from the inside. The metaphorical needle would then slide its way down the side of her face, rendering her cheekbones raw and indescribably tender, the only analgesic for which was the external application of oil of peppermint and her own particular prescription from their local doctor. Yet they had forgotten to bring both the salve and the compound from Leeds, and although Richard had shown admirable concern and a brisk determination to seek out the nearest pharmacy, when she observed him leaving the hotel he was actually sauntering along the street with his hands in his pockets as if he were off to watch the races. It was insupportable! He had been gone an agonising half-hour and there was still no sign of his return.

  Down in the street below, the fog, which had been a mere ground mist earlier in the day, had thickened alarmingly, and she watched an assortment of shoppers and street-hawkers, every one of whom was blithely unaware of her misery and going about their business with a vulgar nonchalance as they appeared and disappeared like wraiths. God, she despised this town!

  These ghostly figures somehow put her in mind of her brother Edward. She gave an involuntary shudder and turned her mind to more pleasing thoughts. If Richard’s plans bore fruit, why, they could soon become the foremost proponents of the magic lantern in the entire country, and he would be able to purchase the latest projection equipment, perhaps buy a small theatre of their own, somewhere in the West Riding, where they could establish a more permanent home for his presentations. After that, who knows? A grand tour of demonstrations in France, and Belgium, and perhaps even Venice. How she would love to visit Venice!

  But she had to convince him first. He had to give up the dark business, as she tactfully described it. There could be no more of that if they were to achieve the sort of respectability and renown that she craved so much.

  Suddenly, through the fog, she caught sight of Richard’s casual, unhurried gait. He was strolling past the Legs of Man public house on the other side of the street, when a man, dressed quite respectably in dark coat and tall hat, emerged from the entrance and, evidently recognising her husband, approached him and extended his hand. Richard spoke at length to the stranger until finally, bowing low to whisper some confidence in the man’s ear, he shook hands and they parted company.

  By now her face was a raging torrent of spasm. The physician had told her the name of her condition – tic douloureux – and it was her sole consolation that she was the victim of an affliction elevated to Parisian grandeur by its exotic, romantic-sounding name.

  She had to wait an age before she heard Richard’s boots clacking along the wooden boards outside their second-floor room.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve sold out of peppermint oil,’ were his first words as he ostentatiously extended his empty hands.

  ‘What?’ Georgina rushed from the window towards her tormentor.

  ‘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 w
hen 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.