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Crime and Thriller
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| A Final Performance | |
| By employee2-4601 | ||||||||||
| 23 May 2006 | ||||||||||
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It's that man again! March 1859 “Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the magician on the stage, “I shall now attempt to cheat death itself!” The audience responded with a mixture of gasps and applause, the sound echoing throughout the cavernous theatre. “I shall attempt this feat,” cried the magician, “No less than three times!” Up in the box he had hired for the performance, Sir Arthur Truscott-Smith was listening as his friend, Mordecai Andrews, explained each trick as it was performed. The lights had been dimmed for the performance and so neither of them could see the gaudily painted interior of the Royal Theatre in Tannerbridge. “You see those slight bulges in the man’s shirt?” asked Andrews as he passed the opera glasses across, “They’re packets of red dye. You watch now.” As he spoke, a stage hand walked onto the stage with a pistol in his left hand. Meanwhile, the magician had tied a blindfold across his eyes, making a great show of bravado. The stage hand took aim and waited for the command to fire. “I must warn you,” the magician called whilst tightening his blindfold, “That what you are about to witness is not for those of a nervous disposition.” He finished tying the knot and, lowering his hands to his sides, he gave a curt nod towards the stage hand. The pistol was fired, a sharp crack that echoed from every corner of the theatre until it was amplified into a deafening roar; a cacophony pf sound that had several members of the audience clapping their hands to their ears in terror. A wisp of grey smoke hung in the air before slowly dissipating. “A clear miss!” snapped the magician, trying to keep his anger under control, "If you cannot do this, find someone who can!" The stage hand mumbled something under his breath and reloaded. He took aim and fired. Again the report; again the wisp of smoke. This time, however, the audience gasped or screamed as they saw the magician’s shirt blossom a sticky red. He was thrown backwards as the miniature geyser exploded from his chest. A second passed; two, three. The magician stood slowly, very like a corpse that is shaking off the mantle of death. “Again!” bellowed the magician, “I shall cheat death twice more this night!” The stagehand took aim once more and the spectacle was repeated. “Of course,” Andrews whispered to Sir Arthur, “He’s wearing protection under his shirt. Otherwise the pistol shots would kill him outright.” Down on the stage, the magician waited impatiently whilst the stage hand reloaded his pistol for the third and final time. The muzzle of the pistol was pointed at the magician’s chest; the stagehand carefully took aim; his finger gently squeezed the trigger. Even though they had come to expect the brief spurts of ‘blood,’ the audience, as one, screamed like a chorus of banshees at the action played out before them. Those who were interviewed by the newspapers saw everything in slow motion. The shot left the pistol’s barrel. It hurtled across the stage and impacted with tremendous violence into the magician’s shirt. There were two enormous gushes of blood, as though someone had broken open a water pipe. The magician was flung back head over heels. The stagehand feinted dead away as others ran to the corpse of the former entertainer. The following day, Andrews sprawled in a comfortable old armchair in the drawing room at Sir Arthur’s city estate. The room was brightly lit by the early morning sun pouring voluptuously through the large sash windows. The walls had recently been redecorated a vibrant green. The empty fireplace the only dull place in an otherwise warm and inviting room. Andrews was wearing his customary black trousers and a tartan waistcoat. Sir Arthur, on the other hand, was resplendent in an opulent suit ordered especially for the previous night’s performance. His bald pate was creased in furious thought whilst Andrews, his head topped by an unkempt mass of black, seemed to be doing nothing. However, his mind was constantly sifting through every modicum of data that he had accumulated over the years no matter what the problem he was attempting to solve. “Confound it!” ejaculated Sir Arthur at last, “I’ll be damned if I can puzzle the matter out.” Andrews looked nonchalantly at his host, his beady eyes betraying no hint of his own emotions. “Of course,” he replied, “Were we at my home in Bridewell, the answer would simply be to take a walk along the cliffs. It is one of the singular disadvantages of living in the city.” “Then you have nothing to say either?” asked Sir Arthur, knowing how much Andrews feared failure. “I have so little data that it would be folly for me to make any prognosis at this stage.” “What do you intend?” Andrews stood, “I intend to discover more about this late performer’s life. The most obvious conclusion would be that the stage hand was the murderer. You recall how the magician abused him before an audience. Place yourself in such a position; I do not believe you capable of outright murder, but you would certainly desire some revenge.” “Why must it always be revenge? So many people kill for other reasons and yet you seem to have a morbid obsession with this one motive.” Andrews shook his head reprovingly, “I do not have an obsession with it. It just happens that the majority of murder cases I have been involved with centre around revenge. I could quite easily have supposed the motive to be money or even, absurd as it may seem, to simply eradicate competition in the trade.” Andrews left the room abruptly and went in search of his coat. It was only a matter of moments before he heard behind the laboured breathing of his host. The front door had been propped open to allow the fresh spring breeze to waft through the house. Outside, the dawn chorus was reaching its full peak despite it being after ten o’clock. The two men were helped into their coats by the retinue of servants that seemed to always be within call. “Hughes, order my carriage if you please,” Sir Arthur ordered his butler. Long ago it had become plain that Sir Arthur’s military career had left certain ideas indelibly inscribed onto his mind. Thus, when he gave an order, it was generally carried out immediately. Indeed, such was the efficiency of the household, that the carriage arrived a mere four minutes after it was requested. As they drove through Tannerbridge, Andrews sat back in his seat, his eyes closed; he had no interest in the mundane life of the city and so did his best to keep it as far from his mind as possible. Sir Arthur, on the other hand, was fascinated by the hustle and bustle of the city-dwellers and spent the journey peering from his window like an excited child being taken by its parents on a trip into the country. Were he not keen to preserve his dignity, Sir Arthur would undoubtedly have been bouncing up and down on the seat with fevered anticipation. “Wait here, Rogers,” commanded Sir Arthur; he and Andrews alighted from the carriage. The driver gave a polite grunt and sat waiting as still as a gargoyle on a church. Inside the theatre was grey and uninteresting. The lights were still turned low. The walls, usually blue and gold in colour, seemed old and ruined, the colour almost draining away. The corpse had been removed and the stage cleaned to conceal any trace of the bloodstain. Sir Arthur and Andrews made their way down to the very front of the stage and looked around for any sign of the staff. “Hello!” bellowed Sir Arthur, “We’ve come to see the proprietor!” A veritable giant of a man stepped out from behind the curtains lowered over the stage and looked down at the two men. He wore a set of threadbare stage-clothes that might once have been red and yellow, though time had slowly faded the colours to a crude parody of white. “I’m the owner, what do you want!” he snapped in a deep, basso voice. “My name is Mordecai Andrews; I’ve come to ask a few questions concerning the terrible tragedy that occurred here last night.” The owner spat onto the bare floorboards of the stage and snorted in disgust, “I’ve nothing to say. The police have arrested the murderer and that’s all you’ll get from me. Good day to you!” He turned with a practiced flourish and disappeared back behind the curtain. “A thoroughly odious gentleman,” observed Sir Arthur. “Typical of the surly, unhelpful businessman,” replied Andrews, “Though one that let slip slightly more than he intended.” “His words denote some desire to direct attention away from himself,” said Sir Arthur before Andrews could elaborate, “His clothes are shabby and so he has a careless nature; or perhaps they, too, are intended to dissuade anyone investigating the death.” “My own conclusion,” said Andrews, “Was not so much carelessness, but wishful thinking.” “How do you mean.” “It appears the man may have been a performer himself; the clothes themselves hint at that aspect. Their condition certainly attests to great usage and age. He certainly has no desire to help uncover the truth behind last night’s events so I should surmise that he had a greater part to play than the simple theatre manager.” “Well, I doubt we can learn more here, at any rate,” said Sir Arthur, “Perhaps a spot of lunch might aid the deductive process?” “An excellent idea!” Down the road from the theatre stood a small Italian restaurant that Sir Arthur knew well. The waiter who served them was a short fat man with a handlebar moustache and a ridiculous pseudo-Italian accent. “Ah, Sir Arthur!” he beamed as the two men entered, “Your-a usual-a table?” “Thank you Sergio,” said Sir Arthur and followed the waiter. “I can-a recommend the soup today; is-a very nice-a.” “I’ll trust your judgement, Sergio,” answered Sir Arthur. “As will I,” added Andrews. The soup was exquisite and the talk turned at once to the matter in hand. “The stagehand fired his pistol twice into the magician’s chest. On both occasions, the shots would have hit whatever protection the magician was wearing under his shirt. Why, then, did the third shot kill him?” Sir Arthur thought for a moment, “I assume that the protection was metal. If that was the case it would be too heavy to have the whole of the man’s chest covered and so the stagehand’s final shot was aimed at a vulnerable spot.” “Indeed. We need to inspect the man’s clothing as soon as possible and then interrogate the stagehand.” “Do you think he was responsible?” “I have little doubt that he was the murderer; the problem is who he was working for. This murder was certainly premeditated.” “Why do you say that?” “Because to shoot someone in the heat of the moment with the intention of killing them would be so simple. However, if the victim is wearing protection such as our magician was, then the murderer would have to know exactly where to aim in order to kill his man. ”To aim at a precise point and with a steady hand requires forethought.” “I see. So the stagehand might have been working for someone else?” “It is possible. But we are wasting time here.” Sir Arthur’s coach-driver was waiting for them when they left the restaurant. The Tannerbridge police station lay halfway across the city from the theatre. Inside, Andrews’ name and reputation had preceded him and the officers on duty were delighted to assist in any way they could. Andrews and Sir Arthur were shown into a small, disused office whilst the magician’s clothes were brought from the evidence locker. The magician’s suite was covered in dried blood. There were two small ragged holes in the shirt. The ‘protection’ had been a simple leather hauberk. It was thick enough, Andrews gauged, to withstand a pistol shot from a few feet away. However, on closer inspection, Andrews could see just how far one bullet had penetrated. Of the second, there was no sign save a hole right through the material. “Our stagehand was a greater marksman than the deceased gave him credit for,” said Andrews indicating the second hole, “He fired at exactly the same place as the first shot and the two penetrated into the body. The first shot weakening the armour, the third completing the job. ”If we were to examine the body, we should find two rounds instead of just the one.” “The question remains,” Sir Arthur interrupted, “Of why the man did it and, if he was working for someone else, what that person hoped to gain.” “I think it is almost certain that our man did the deed for money. There is almost no limit as to how far men and women will stoop in order to put the extra penny in the pocket. But, then again, why should the man undertake the task when it was obvious that he would be caught and imprisoned for it?” “There is another possibility,” ventured Sir Arthur, “What if our man didn’t commit the crime?” “Explain?” “Imagine you are a person who has known the magician personally during his lifetime; he has wronged you in some way, or at least you harbour that belief. ”Now, the magician is performing in Tannerbridge; you have a perfect opportunity to exact your revenge. “Now let us assume that you are an expert marksman. You have been fortunate enough to acquire a windbüchse and are sitting in a box alone. The weapon would hardly make enough noise when fired in concert with that stagehand’s pistol. Well, I’m certain you can imagine the rest.” “Sir Arthur, I take my proverbial hat off to you,” said Andrews in genuine admiration, “Constable!” At Andrews’ shout a stocky police constable entered the room and brusquely inquired as to how he could be of assistance. “I would like to question the man held for the murder last night.” “Of course sir. I’ll show you there myself.” The prison cells smelt of damp. Each cell was separated from the rest of the world by four thick walls, a miniscule barred window and an iron door. A small shutter was set in the base of each door in order for the food trays to be delivered and collected. The stagehand sat in one corner of his cell hugging his knees to his chest and sobbing quietly. The man’s name was Simmons, Joseph Simmons. “Simmons?” said Andrews as he entered the cell, “I would like to help you. My name is Mordecai…” “Andrews?” asked Simmons, his head immediately jerking up to look at the newcomer. “You know me?” “Of course; I’ve read about your exploits in the papers.” “Well, as I said, I’d like to help you in this matter. Now, can you tell me whether or not you killed the magician?” “I didn’t kill him. I was shaking so much in case I missed that I did, in fact, miss the stupid man.” “So, if I were to look over that stage area inch by inch, I would find the last shot from your pistol somewhere?” “If you looked hard enough.” “Now, think carefully Simmons, do you know of anyone who might harbour ill-feelings towards the deceased?” “All I know is that I was going to knock on the old man’s dressing room door when I heard raised voices from inside. ”One was the old man; the other was Burroughs, the theatre manager.” “What did you hear?” “I heard them quarrelling about the act; ’If you do that damned trick again, you’ll regret it!’ said the manager. I didn’t know what he meant so I listened at the door. ‘I tell you it’s the best in my repertoire. If I remove it from the show, I’ve lost my climax.’ ‘Then come up with something else.’ ‘There’s no time!’ ‘I warn you; perform that trick tonight and you’ll never perform again!’” “And you went ahead and performed with the magician, even though you knew the manager had threatened him?” “I was terrified. If I refused to perform for the magician, then the manager would have given me my marching orders. If it was only the magician who lost his job, well at least I would still have been in the trade.” “A callous attitude to take!” snapped Sir Arthur from behind Andrews. “You may think so,” answered Simmons, “As I do now. At the time I wasn’t concerned with other people; just me.” “Well, I think we shall soon have you out of here, my good man,” said Andrews in what he thought was a sympathetic manner. So back to the theatre. Andrews and Sir Arthur said nothing as their carriage weaved its way through the busy evening traffic. Now and again, a brief drizzle descended from the heavens with a soft whisper. The interior of the theatre was lit by a single gas lamp down by the stage where a caretaker was sweeping the floorboards. “Eh, what d’you want?” he asked when he caught sight of Andrews and Sir Arthur. “I would like to inspect the walls of the stage,” said Andrews quite matter-of-factly. “No,” replied the caretaker, “I’ve just swept up there and I ain’t going to let people up there just so I can sweep it all over again.” “Look, my dear fellow,” said Sir Arthur, taking the caretaker, who had now descended from the stage, by the arm, “You let us look around up there whilst you have a drink.” So saying, Sir Arthur placed a few coins in the man’s hand and smiled. The caretaker touched his thumb and forefinger to his forehead in a salute and left the stage whistling to himself. “Must you always be so patronising to the lower classes?” asked Andrews in exasperation. “I happen to believe the old festive tradition of ‘goodwill to all men’ should not simply apply to one twelve day period at the end of each year.” “Eureka!” Whilst Sir Arthur had been explaining away, Andrews had commenced searching the stage for signs of the third shot. He had found it embedded in the wall at about shoulder height, having estimated the likely trajectory based on where the stagehand had stood and the fact that, by his own testament, his hand had been trembling. The shot was lead and had lost its round shape due to the impact with the plaster wall. It now resembled the wide-brimmed hats worn by curates. Andrews held it in the palm of his hand and stood for some time apparently just staring at the miniscule object he had so painstakingly retrieved from its resting place in the wall. “Well, that confirms Simmons was telling the truth,” said Sir Arthur as he came to stand at Andrews’ side. “It confirms that someone fired a shot and it hit this section of the wall,” replied Andrews sharply, “Other than that, this object can tell us very little; though of course I have no doubt that Simmons did indeed fire this shot. Now, the next line of inquiry lies with the ticket records. Not, I fear an easy line to pursue given our encounter with the theatre owner this morning. ”Ah, here comes the man himself; good evening sir!” “I told you to keep your noses out of my business!” the theatre manager virtually screamed as he bore down on the stage, “I told you and you just wouldn’t listen!” Andrews strode calmly to the front of the stage and looked down at the theatre manager, “I should warn you, sir, that we are acting for Her Majesty’s police and, should you hinder us, you shall find yourself up on charges of hindering an investigation and possibly withholding evidence. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to allow me to peruse your ticket records; I assume you do keep them?” “Yes sir,” said the manager, the mention of the police having immediately altered his view on the matter; “If you’ll follow me to my office, I think you should be able to find the information your after.” The manager’s office was a chaotic mess of papers and books scattered all over a battered mahogany desk. Somehow, the manager knew exactly where everything was and proceeded to pick apart a particular pile of leather-bound books. Scanning the label of each book, he pulled out the one containing the information Andrews was after. The manager, though he was obviously distrustful of the two men, was only too eager to leave them alone in his office. Andrews opened the book and flicked through pages and pages of ticket numbers and the names of people who they had been sold to. Each entry was written in black ink and each name was written surname first, followed by an initial or two if there were two people possessing the same surname and initial. For example, there was an almost endless stream of men and women under the name of ‘Smith’ and these were told apart by the initials. In one case, there was a ‘Smith, J’ written in and below it was ‘Smith, J.A’. The lists were further sorted by dates and times. Several pages were headed up for days of the week, with small-hand notes indicating where the author had run out of space for a Monday and so used some of Tuesday’s. Finally, after much flicking backwards and forwards, Andrews found the page he sought. It was headed as being ‘Thursday, 18; MARCH’, the year being written on the spine of the book. Trailing his thumb down the list of entries, Andrews finally found what he was looking for and showed it to Sir Arthur. ‘Barrowclough, A’ it read. The expression on Andrews’ face was one of sheer delight. He snapped the book shut, his thumb keeping his place, and rushed out of the office. “Do you recognise this name?” asked Andrews when he had found the theatre manager skulking outside the office. “No, sir can’t say I do.” “Think hard, man! You sold a ticket to this person; a box, to themselves. You must remember who they were.” It took several attempts to threaten and cajole the manager into revealing what he knew. The full name was Alice Barrowclough. She was apparently a woman of mixed French and Scottish blood and had known the magician, one Alexander Thompson, some years previously. The manager also happened to know the woman’s current address. The theatre manager begged Andrews not to inform the police that he had withheld information. “I couldn’t help it sir, I’ve a wife and family, if I went to prison lord knows what they’d do without me.” “Oh for heavens’ sake get away from me!” cried Andrews, the theatre manager having resorted to clutching at his leg. That night, Andrews and Sir Arthur, against the latter’s wishes, spent a pleasant few hours before Andrews stood and unceremoniously announced that he was going out and would Sir Arthur care to ‘come along’. As it happened, Andrews was going to call on Ms Barrowclough and Sir Arthur was pleased to come along for the inevitable confrontation with the killer. The streets were clear as the carriage rumbled and clattered over the cobbles. Andrews sat, as usual, looking into space whilst Sir Arthur gazed out of the window, looking over the city where he had grown up. The sky was clouded over, the moon occasionally shining through. There were even thin wisps of mist that coiled lazily about doorways and the carriage wheels; unseasonable weather for March. The address was on the outskirts of Tannerbridge and it took almost half and hour even with the clear streets. Finally, they arrived, Andrews and Sir Arthur disembarking at the end of the street to avoid drawing unwanted attention to themselves. The house was a thin, redbrick affair with a green door and a bay window. At shoulder height on the door was set a brass knocker which Andrews operated with short, sharp raps. The door was opened by a tall, regal-looking woman perhaps in her mid-thirties. “Ms Barrowclough?” “Yes, may I help you gentlemen?” The voice was rich and sonorous. “My name is Mordecai Andrews and this is Sir Arthur Truscott-Smith. Might I be correct in assuming that you knew a Mr Alexander Thompson?” “I did, once. Are you associates of his?” “We are. Or, that is to say, we were. I am afraid he recently passed away.” The woman never batted an eyelid. “May I ask how you knew him?” “Very well, perhaps we could talk inside; there is a distinct chill in the air.” She led them into a neat little room almost immediately next to the front door. Inside a fire was roaring in the grate and the lights were turned low. “You must forgive me, but I feel the cold more than others and my eyesight is quite sensitive to bright lights.” “Think nothing of it, Ms Barrowclough,” said Sir Arthur in a soothing tone as he and Andrews took the seats that were offered to them, “Now, you said you knew Mr Thompson?” “Yes I did. The man was a scoundrel and deserved nothing less than death. I was in Paris at the funeral of my great uncle when, later the same night, I was walking home and encountered that ogre of a man. ”’A young woman should not be walking the streets of Paris alone at night,’ he said as he appeared from out of a darkened alleyway. ‘I am perfectly fine thank you,’ said I. As I walked away, he followed me and apologised for being so uncouth (his words, not mine). We began talking and he explained that he had seen me and thought it best that I should have some company whilst walking home. “He even had the audacity to say that there were many unsavoury people who frequented the streets at night. Little did I know that he was one of them.” “May we ask what happened?” said Andrews, leaning forward in his chair. “Well, he put his arm around me, saying he thought I looked cold. I was cold and so I did not object. He…” She burst into tears and Sir Arthur, finding his way to the dresser, poured a generous amount of whisky. Ms Barrowclough took two sips and apologised for breaking down. “There is nothing to be ashamed about,” said Sir Arthur, “We will not press you if you do not wish to go on.” “No, I must.” She took to more sips and sat back in her chair. “We were walking down by the river, I forget exactly where, when he suddenly grabbed me by the waist and forced me against a wall. His strength was terrifying. He clamped one hand over my mouth and with the other began to lift up the hem of my skirt. ”It was only by biting on his hand that I managed to escape from that devil’s grasp. I ran home as fast as I could, thanking God that Thompson did not follow me. I lay awake that night, saying over and over to myself that he would pay for such a vile act.” “And so you killed him,” said Andrews flatly. “How did you know?” “We’ve been investigating his murder. I’m sorry for the subterfuge, but an innocent man is being held in prison for your crimes.” “Yes, I know. I was going to confess tomorrow. I’d been in anguish all day over that poor man’s fate. I didn’t care for my own skin; I was planning to simply shoot him later that evening in his dressing room, but when he began his final act I thought I would never have a better opportunity.” “Would you come to the police station with us now?” “Of course; I’ll collect my coat this minute.” The two men waited for Ms Barrowclough. She took a minute to fetch her coat and left the house of her own volition. As Andrews held the door for her, he caught sight of another carriage following Sir Arthur’s, the latter’s driver having been summoned by a simple arm signal. The second carriage was moving rapidly and swiftly overtook Sir Arthur’s. As it neared the house, Andrews saw the door open a fraction and the glint of metal. “Get down!” he yelled, too late. The shot snapped out milliseconds before Ms Barrowclough fell to the ground, a pool of blood slowly spreading from the wound in her chest.
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