Cursed in the Act (14 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I
boarded the horse-drawn omnibus to St. James's and made my way along to a vacant seat. The floor's normal covering of sawdust was well mixed in with layers of dirty snow trudged in by the passengers. As I took my seat, I focused my mind on this young woman Daisy I was to trace. All I had was the single name and the fact that she had come into contact with Henry Irving at the St. James's Theatre fifteen years ago. Not much to go on. She would no longer be a young woman, of course. If she had been in her early twenties then, she would be nearing forty now. Past her prime for playing juvenile leads, if in fact she had ever played leads, of course. It was not far to the St. James's, and I was still pondering whether or not this Daisy might have had nothing more than walk-ons, or even worked in wardrobe or similar, when I realized I was at my destination. I jumped up and squeezed between a corpulent costermonger and a fragrant fishwife to jump off at the corner of Duke Street.

The St. James's Theatre was at the corner of Duke Street and King Street. Built in 1835, it had an elaborate Louis XIV–style interior that was much admired by the theatre-going public. The theatre had been renovated just two years ago and was beautiful, at least to my eyes. The manager was John Hare and I found him in his office. He was a large, bald-headed man who seemed to sweat a great deal. He had a fire blazing in the fireplace, which I am sure contributed to his condition. His face was red and his unkempt black mustache seemed to overpower his lower face. It was one of those now out-of-fashion mustaches that flowed outward to join with exaggerated sideboards. His chin was hairless, though it was almost hidden in the profuse adornment of this hirsute gentleman.

“What can I do for a member of the esteemed Lyceum Theatre?” he asked, after I had introduced myself. His voice had a North Country ring to it; Yorkshire, I would guess.

“I—we were interested in tracing a young lady whom we believe was a member of the St. James's personnel fifteen years ago,” I said. “I have little to go on but I have hopes that your records may divulge her identity.”

His eyebrows—equally bushy as the mustache—rose an inch or so. “Intriguing. You are thinking of retaining 'er services?”

“No.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “It's purely a case of completing our own records. Mr. Stoker can be very fussy there.” I smiled, hoping to indicate that I was merely following a whim of my employer.

“So what information do you ‘ave about this lady of mystery, young man?” he asked.

I told him. “First name Daisy. Was here in 1866, when Mr. Irving was first appearing on your stage.”

“1866?” His brow wrinkled and he tapped the surface of his desk with his forefinger. “That's a time or two ago, young man. Hmm. That would ‘ave been well afore my time. 1866?” He looked up at the ceiling as though for inspiration. “Benjamin Nottingham Webster was the manager in those days, I do believe.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar to me. “The production was
The Belle's Stratagem
,” I offered.

With a great sigh he got to his feet and made his way over to a set of wooden filing cabinets in the far corner of his office. He pulled open a drawer, then closed it again and opened the one above it. He dug into the files inside and eventually produced a fat folder that he carried back to his desk. Opening it, he revealed a great many old programs and playbills, handwritten notes and printed posters.

“'Ere you go, lad. The years 1865, '66, and '67. There's a table over in yon corner. I 'avena time to plough through this stuff meself, but you're welcome to look all you like.”

I thanked him and carried the folder across to the table he indicated, which I had to clear of assorted papers, books, and miscellany. I pushed everything to the far side so that I could open and spread the folder. I pulled up a rickety straight-backed chair, sat down, and got to work. It was almost an hour before the search bore fruit. I lifted an old, faded program and held it in my hands.

“Found something, lad?” asked Hare, seeing me sit back.

I turned to him. “This may be it,” I said. “It's the program for
The Belle's Stratagem
. Now to look through it.”

I saw that the Guv'nor was billed as playing Doricourt, one of the four lead roles. It was a romantic comedy of manners that had been very successful since it was first introduced a hundred years ago at the Drury Lane Theatre. I looked down the full list of characters. There, at the bottom, in the minor role of Miss Ogle, was a Daisy Middleton.

* * *

T
he day seemed to have flown by, and I had to hurry to get back to the Lyceum to go over various matters before the evening performance. I decided to forgo lunch. I let Mr. Stoker know what I had discovered at the St. James's and then hurried backstage to check on the properties and deal with the one hundred and one problems that seemed to have materialized while I was away that morning. Time seemed to rush on apace. Indeed, as the Bard had Hamlet say, I felt that time was “out of joint.”

After a quick early evening meal, I was just about to slip into my office and catch a few brief minutes of comparative quiet before things really got going, when I was surprised to encounter the Guv'nor himself. He was in costume but had not yet applied his makeup. He stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to his dressing room and beckoned to me, then turned and made his way up the steps. I followed, mystified.

“Come along inside, Mr. Rivers,” he said, leading the way. “Close the door behind you, if you please.”

Thoughts rushed through my head. What had I done wrong? (It's funny how one immediately thinks the worst when summoned by a superior.) Had I forgotten something? Did he simply want me to run an errand? Mr. Irving sat down at his makeup table and began to apply the greasepaint. I stood just inside the doorway.

“Sit down. Sit down, do,” he said.

I perched myself on the edge on a large, comfortable chair close to him. Somehow it didn't seem too comfortable to me at that time. “Is—is there something I . . .” My voice trailed off.

“I was passing by Abraham's office earlier,” he said, “when I heard mention of a name I have not encountered in many a long year.”

My heart sank.

“Miss Daisy Middleton,” he continued. He paused in applying his makeup and turned to look at me for a moment. Then he went back to what he was doing. “I was of a mind to enquire of you, Mr. Rivers, just what had prompted you to bring up that name to Mr. Stoker?”

“I . . . we . . .” What was I to say? I could hardly admit that we had stolen his private correspondence and were now digging into his past.

“Or am I to take it that it was in fact Abraham himself who brought up the name?”

Now what? Did I protect my immediate boss and take the blame on myself, or did I shift the blame to Mr. Bram Stoker, rather than face any wrath from the Guv'nor? Henry Irving, a forceful man when necessary, was not one to be trifled with.

I took a deep breath and began trifling.

* * *

“W
hat did you tell him?” asked Stoker, when I stuck my head in his office during the first interval and told him of my encounter with the Guv'nor.

“I told him that we—well, actually I said it was your idea—that you wanted to put together a scrapbook of his many appearances and that in doing so we had come across record of his early St. James's Theatre days. I said that I had noticed that particular name because I believe I have a distant cousin named Middleton.” I paused, and then added, “I think he bought it.”

Stoker fixed me with one piercing gray green eye, the other scrunched up.

“You are a devious devil, Harry . . . Well done! You're sure the Guv'nor harbors no further suspicions?”

“As sure as I can be, sir.”

“Good. All right. Then tomorrow—or as soon as you are able—follow up on this Middleton lady and see if you can trace her. I think we need to speak with her about her future plans, especially if they concern Mr. Henry Irving.”

* * *

I
wanted to see Jenny but knew I couldn't until the weekend. Sunday was her one day off. Not that it was a full day off, just a few hours. I would have to get the letters back to her then, but at least we'd be able to spend some time together. I planned to take her out somewhere special . . . although as yet I had no idea where.

I started the day at the Reading Room of the British Museum, perusing the pages of back issues of
Theatre World
. This is the periodical for actors, actresses, stagehands, lighting people . . . in fact anyone and everyone involved with the theatre in any way. It bears a few articles but is mostly made up of advertisements for vacancies, casting calls, agents seeking clients and clients seeking agents, and sales of stage makeup, wigs, properties, scenery painters, and so on. We always have a copy of the latest issue at the Lyceum, but I was interested in
Theatre World
editions from years back. The year 1866, to be precise. I reasoned that when
The Belle's Stratagem
had closed its run at the St. James's Theatre, a number of its cast members would have been out looking for their next position. Miss Daisy Middleton would almost certainly have been among them. It was a long shot, I realized, but I didn't know where else to start looking.

There is a personal column in the paper where actors and actresses list their abilities, experience, references, and other credentials, hoping to be spotted by casting agents. I worked my way through fifteen issues before I found what I was looking for. A small listing that read:

Ingénue now available after long run at principal London theatre. Ready to read for any part, large or small. Small bones; delicate features. Some dancing ability; pleasant singing voice. Miss Daisy Middleton, Box 37, Theatre World.

I was complimenting myself when I realized that I hadn't actually learned anything, other than the fact that Miss Middleton thought herself to have a pleasant singing voice. I needed to know at what theatre she obtained employment, in order to follow along the trail that would eventually lead to her present position. I sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, but I was determined. I gathered up my notebook and set out for the home of
Theatre World.

I had visited the journal's office on various occasions previously. It was located on Old Compton Street, above the Admiral Duncan public house. The innkeeper of that establishment, William Gordon, greeted me warmly when I decided to stop in for a ploughman's lunch before going up to the periodical's office. He was apparently well pleased with the fact that so many visitors to
Theatre World
invariably stopped below for a drink or a meal. He recognized me from my previous visits, and we exchanged pleasantries before I enjoyed an excellent lunch.

As I approached the frosted-glass-paneled office door two floors above the tavern, I heard the clatter of typewriting machines. When I opened the door I saw one young lady at a keyboard, working with what seemed a delicate touch, while a coatless man in waistcoat and shirtsleeves pounded heavy-handedly on a second such machine. He was rail thin, with gray hair plastered down across his head and a gray face to match. He clutched a cigar between his teeth as he concentrated on what he was doing. Without looking up, he waved me to the only available chair just inside the door. I sat and waited.

With a final thump and a grunt of satisfaction, the man ripped the paper out of the machine and slapped it down in an already overflowing tray of such papers on his desk. He finally turned to face me.

“Yes?”

He was brief and to the point. I noticed his ink-stained fingers and the splash of egg down his shirtfront. He took the cigar from his mouth and knocked off the ash so that it fell close to the ashtray fighting for survival among the many letters, strips of newsprint, and invoices that covered his desk.

“I am Harry Rivers, stage manager at the Lyceum,” I said by way of introduction. I held out my hand. He ignored it.

“Hurry along, then. We don't have all day.” His voice was dry and brittle and made me want to swallow.

“Yes. Of course.” I cleared my throat. “I am trying to trace a young actress who ran a personal a number of years ago,” I said. “She used one of your box numbers—number 37. I'm sure you no longer . . .”

“How long ago?” interrupted the man.

“Oh! Er—more than fifteen years. August of 1866.”

He looked across at the young lady, still steadily typing. “Judy! The book.”

She ignored him. He sat for a moment and then got up and reached across his desk to hers and grabbed a ledger while she continued typewriting. As he pulled the volume toward himself, a number of disturbed papers on his own desk fell to the floor. He took no notice, reseated himself, and started turning pages in the book. Then he stopped and slammed the book closed. Grumbling to himself he got up again and swung about to the filing cabinets behind his desk. After a little digging he dropped another sister ledger on his desk and began looking through that one.

“Ah!” He studied the page and then apparently realized that his cigar was no longer lit. He patted his waistcoat pockets, found nothing, and stabbed the cigar stub down into the ashtray. “Box 37, you say? That would have been a Miss Daisy Middleton. Never heard of her. Another one as didn't become a star.” He sniffed.

“I'm trying to locate her present place of employment,” I said.

He sniffed again. “You are in luck, though who knows if it's deserved or not? Seems this Miss Middleton retained that box number all the way through to the end of last year.”

“She kept advertising?” I asked.

“Off 'n on.” He looked across to the young lady. “Judy, you nearly done? We're waiting on that, you know.” He sounded irritated. For her part, the young lady continued to ignore him and to work her machine. He muttered and then turned back to me. “What you want to know, then?”