Ruddy Gore (17 page)

‘It seems to be as big and complicated an oper-ation as staging a major war,’ she commented.

‘But no one notices us. Stage crew are just hands.

Only when something goes wrong. Then they go crook fast enough. My word they do!’ His eyes blazed with sudden fury. ‘Then they come down on us like a ton of bricks. ‘‘That set was crooked, Mr Brawn.’’ ‘‘There is a rip in the scenery, Mr Brawn.’’

‘‘There is sand on the floor, Mr Brawn, pray have it cleared away – the stage sounds like Brighton Beach.’’ Fair go, sometimes I’m ready to throw it all in, I can tell you. How would their bloody theatre run without us? That mob wouldn’t recognise a hammer if it hit them. And they get all the applause and all the glory, and we do all the work. Got big heads, actors. All of ’em.’

‘What about Management?’ ventured Phryne.

Mr Brawn snorted.

‘They want it all done yesterday and it shouldn’t cost an extra penny, even if I’ve got to go all over 165

town matching paint or go dotty mending sets that are past it.’

‘Why do you work here, Mr Brawn?’ she asked gently, ‘If you loathe them all so much?’

‘Because it’s magic, Miss – when it works, it’s magic.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Have you seen the ghost, Mr Brawn?’ she asked, and the stage carpenter snapped, ‘No,’ and walked away out of the warehouse into the street, leaving Phryne wondering why no one did appreciate technicals.

Phryne dined quietly at home with Dot.

‘How’s the investigation going, Miss?’ Dot asked, picking up her knife and fork to attack a lamb chop. Dot liked the theatre. Also, Phryne was unlikely to be in much danger in such a relatively civilised place, unlike say, a circus, which was populated by freaks and gypsies.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on, Dot dear. There seems to be a ghost, lots of people have seen it. There is a trickster pinching gloves and making mischief, and now there is a murderer.

And I think he was intending to murder either Mr Evans the lead singer or me.’

Dot’s belief in the safety of theatres was dashed.

She shook her long plait back over her wool-clad shoulder and asked, ‘Would you like to talk about it, Miss?’

‘Dot, I’d love to talk about it, I really would, 166

but I don’t want to weary your ears just now.’

‘No, Miss, really, I’m interested,’ protested Dot, who saw the theatre as a glamorous and slightly wicked place (though not, of course, as wicked as The Movies).

‘Good. All right. The ghost is supposed to be Dorothea Curtis, who had a brief affair with Sir Bernard Tarrant in 1896, and who was found dead in her dressing room in 1898 in the middle of a production of
Ruddigore
. The only persons at the Maj now who knew her then, as far as I can tell, are Bernie himself and a decrepit stage door keeper called Tom Deeping, who’s been with G

and S all his life.’

‘Then she’s come back to haunt Sir Bernard?’

asked Dot, who had no conceptual difficulty with ghosts. ‘Have some more of this creamed potato, Miss, it’s really tasty.’

Phryne took more
pommes duchesse
and waved her fork in the air for emphasis.

‘No, all the tricks seemed to be aimed at Miss Esperance and Mr Alexander. Neither of them have any connection with poor dead Dorothea.

Of course, when old Bernie confessed that Dorothea had been having an affair with him and then vanished from the stage for a couple of months, I immediately leaped to the usual conclusion.’

‘A baby,’ agreed Dot. Devotion to the doctrine of the Catholic Church did not preclude a girl knowing what’s what, her mother had considered.

‘But the baby would have had to have been born 167

in 1897, probably when she vanished from the stage, that is June or July. I went through all the contracts and the only birth date that matches is Gwilym Evans, and he is Welsh. Then when I asked him about it he revealed that he was a foundling, but what would Dorothea be doing abandoning a baby in Wales, of all places? I know these Londoners. They think going to Chiswick is travelling abroad. If Dorothea was going to abandon the child, she would have left it in London. Besides, she would have been noticed.

Any London lady turning up in one of those small mining villages would have been watched by the enthusiastic peasantry from the moment she set foot to ground. Of course, she may have had a child earlier in her career, but how I can find it now is beyond me.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dot, taking another chop. ‘That’s a puzzler, Miss.’

‘Then there are the appearances of the ghost.

What do you think about ghosts, Dot?’

‘You should get onto the church. You should call Father Ryan. It’s their business,’ said Dot firmly. ‘All this spirit talking and table-turning, it’s mortally sinful.’

‘Now, I suppose, is not the time to tell you that I am going to the Spiritualist church tonight with Selwyn Alexander?’ asked Phryne with a smile.

‘Oh, Miss, you be careful.’

‘I’ll be safe with Selwyn, Dot. He’s in love with Miss Esperance as who wouldn’t be. She is perfectly beautiful.’

168

‘It’s not your virtue I’m worried about, Miss, I reckon you can take care of that. But Father Ryan preached about it only last week. Possession, he said, possession is the great danger of spiritualism and he was talking about an exorcism he had performed. Some silly madam was playing with an ouija board and got herself possessed. He says they aren’t the spirits of the dead, who are with God, but the temptations of the Devil.’

‘Dot dear, I’m sure that the Devil has other things to do.’

‘No, Miss, he’s got plenty of time – he ‘‘walks to and fro upon the earth, seeking whom he might devour’’ – that’s what the Bible says.’ Dot was in deep earnest and Phryne patted her hand.

‘I don’t think you can be possessed unless you want to be,’ she soothed. ‘And I don’t want to be.

It can’t be that bad, Dot dear, lots of people go to these spirit readings – it’s been popular ever since so many young men didn’t come home from the War. There are many lost souls.’

‘Souls,’ said Dot firmly, ‘are with God.’

‘You know what I mean. If it makes some poor bereaved mother feel better if she thinks that her son is somewhere with a lot of flowers and happy singing – much though that might not have suited him in his earthly form – what harm does it do?’

‘It’s dangerous,’ said Dot mulishly. ‘I don’t like it, Miss.’

‘Then I’m sorry, but I’m going.’

‘Will you wear your St Christopher medal?’ bargained Dot, and Phryne nodded. ‘Then I’ll just say 169

a rosary, Miss, until you’re safely home.’

Phryne reflected that knowing that Dot was telling her way solidly though her beads would hardly ensure that she returned home promptly, recognised that she was being blackmailed, and smiled.

One could never have too many prayers. And it would give her nervous maid something to do.

The Spiritualist church smelt exactly like an ordinary church, old hymnbooks, cough lollies and brass-polish. It was sparsely furnished and crowded. Phryne, sitting on a hastily bagged front row bench, scanned the audience as Selwyn Alexander sat down with his dresser Bradford beside him.

‘He wanted to come,’ he apologised. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘Not at all.’

The congregation, it seemed, were mostly female. About half of them were in deepest mourning. There was a sprinkling of children and several men. It was not like a church gathering, but buzzing with excitement.

The table on the dais was draped in a blue velvet cloth and massed flowers banked the steps. A stout woman was assisted onto the stage by two helpers and there was some applause. ‘It’s Mrs Price,’ said the woman beside Phryne. ‘She’s really good.’

‘Now, we will all sing ‘‘Shall We Gather At The River’’,’ said the stout lady. ‘So the spirits will 170

know that we are all here and in the right frame of mind.’

A harmonium groaned the chorus and the voices rose. They were a good deal more enthusiastic than the Maj’s policemen and most of them were in tune.

Shall we gather at the river,

Where bright angel feet have trod?

Flows the crystal stream forever, Flowing by the throne of God.

The audience responded that yes, they would gather by the river, and Phryne began to feel warm and excited.

Those sitting in the front pews had flowers in their hands. Phryne had a small gold button, one of a set which Bernard had given Dorothea Curtis and which he had retrieved from her belongings after she had died. He had not wanted to lend it to her but she had insisted.

‘Spirits of the other world,’ began Mrs Price,

‘hear us and come to us. We are open to you; we want to talk to you.’

Unlike a trance medium, Mrs Price seemed to require no spirit guide and no props. The helpers received things from the audience, placed them in paper bags and handed them to the medium as she stood on stage.

‘Is there a Susan? Someone who says you are his daughter says that the paper you are looking for is behind the kitchen drawer.’ There was a gasp in 171

the body of the hall. ‘This flower comes from a woman who has lost her son. You haven’t lost him. His name’s Bill and he’s standing behind you.

Bright eyes. He’s calling you bright eyes.’ Someone sobbed. The medium picked up another fruit-bag.

‘Liz, he isn’t dead. He’s in South America and he isn’t coming back, love,’ she said sadly. ‘There’s a woman and a baby. Sorry,’ she added as Liz screamed in outrage. ‘But there’s another man for you,’ said the medium hastily. ‘You’ll meet him in three weeks time. Tall man with black hair and he’ll make you happy. Now . . . ’ Phryne saw Mrs Price lay the hand holding a bag on her corseted middle and wince. ‘Go and see a doctor right away, dear,’ she said. ‘Name of May . . . no, not May . . . Maisie? Maisie. Your Grandma’s here and she’s saying ‘‘It’s serious, make her go to the doctor.’’ ’

She walked along the stage, holding a bag. Her voice was no longer sure. She sounded shaken and puzzled. ‘There’s three people here. This is a strange one. There’s a Greek woman and a man and Dorothy. Dorothy?’ The medium’s eyes unfocused.

‘Dorothy but not Dorothy. She passed on last century, she’s a ghost. The other woman’s here now. And the man. Someone killed her. Can Ph . . .

Psy . . . I can’t get it. Stay and see me afterwards.’

She laid down Phryne’s bag and rubbed her hands as if wiping off dough, resuming her former calm.

‘Tom, here’s Tom saying that his Mum is here. He says, ‘‘You still like ginger biscuits, Mum.’’ He’s smiling. He’s wearing overalls . . . he fell off . . . fell 172

off a ladder?’ Another little cry broke through the silence. ‘Then there’s a girl, a pretty girl holding a bunch of roses. She says they’re her favourite flower. No, that’s her name. Rosie. There’s a boy with her; her little brother. They passed on together. She’s talking to John. She says, ‘‘Johnnie, you have to forget me and marry someone else. I’m happy here and I can’t come back and I’ll wait for you.’’ ’

Someone in the audience fainted and was borne out. It was getting hot in the hall, and Phryne fanned herself with a spare paper bag. This was most impressive and she did not know what to make of it.

After ten minutes, the medium, who had been flagging, sat down and one of the helpers announced, ‘That’s enough for tonight. Now, we will all sing ‘‘Bringing In The Sheaves’’. Good night and God bless you.’

Phryne stood up to sing the hymn, waited until the audience had gone and gathered her male companions. They went with the waiting helper behind the dais and into what had been the vestry, where the stout woman was drinking tea and putting her feet up on a hassock left over from the Church of England’s occupancy.

‘Are you Greek?’ asked the medium. Mrs Price was as broad as she was tall, with a no-nonsense manner completely devoid of mysticism.

‘No, but my name is Phryne.’

‘I couldn’t get it – it’s harder when I haven’t heard the name before. Well, you’ve brought me 173

a puzzle! I don’t know what to make of all these people. I’ll have to try a trance and I don’t like trances, they give me a splitting headache. Is this important, dear? I don’t want to pester the spirits out of idle curiosity. This isn’t a parlour game, you know. I never make anything up and I don’t get any fee for this. I’m not one of those performing mediums with dark closets and a lot of tricks.

I’ve been able to see spirits since I was a child and they trust me and I trust them. If I fake it, I lose it.’

‘No, it is very important,’ Phryne assured her.

Selwyn Alexander and Bradford stood by the wall as the medium closed her eyes and began to speak softly.

‘Come along, Dorothy, there’s people who want to talk to you.’ Nothing happened and Selwyn began to fidget. Phryne hushed him. The helper whispered, ‘It’s too much, trying a trance when she’s so tired.’

‘Dorothy, where are you? said the medium crossly. ‘I’m tired and I don’t have time to play games. Come here, there’s a good girl.’

‘Call her by her real name,’ suggested Phryne,

‘Dorothea.’

‘So that’s what it was. Dorothea, Dorothea, come along and talk to us,’ Mrs Price said coax-ingly. ‘That’s a good girl. Now, what have you to say?’ The face changed eerily. Muscles seemed to writhe and rearrange themselves. It was like watching the surface of a boiling pot. Then the movement, which had been making Phryne feel 174

quite seasick, settled down. On the medium’s pink triple-chinned countenance a pouting, cross, very pretty face was visible.

‘Poisoned,’ said a petulant, light voice. ‘Poisoned me!’

‘Who poisoned you?’ asked Phryne, deciding to behave as if she was talking to Dorothea and sort out the reality of the situation later. ‘Why?’

‘Jealous,’ snapped the girl’s voice, then dropped into weeping. ‘My baby,’ she mourned. ‘My little baby.’

‘Where did you leave the baby?’ asked Phryne.

The medium sat bolt upright and pointed a finger at her audience.

‘Murderer!’ she screamed. Selwyn Alexander’s eyes dilated black with shock and he clutched his dresser, who was sweating. Mrs Price collapsed, rubbed her face, and said, ‘I hate trance. Ouch. I feel like a rubber band snapped back into place.