The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 2
Mr Inkling sat back and revolved his thumbs, and Jack waited.
‘As you know, I do not, as a rule, often venture very far beyond my own part of the City,’ said Tod, at length. ‘But for a Fitzglen house – and Mr Montague … There’s no knowing what might be in those rooms.’ Again there was the sense of some memory resurrecting itself in Todworthy’s agile brain, then he made a dismissive gesture, sat up a little straighter, and said, ‘I don’t see why I couldn’t travel out to – Notting Hill, isn’t it? And if my knowledge will be of any use to your family, Mr Jack, I should be very pleased to place it at your disposal.’
He did not say, ‘For a fee’, because they both knew Todworthy Inkling never did anything without payment. So Jack only said, ‘Could you manage tomorrow? I’ll be at the house for most of the day.’
Mr Inkling consulted the pages of a leather-bound diary, and said he could come along at eleven o’clock, if that would suit.
‘A very intriguing prospect,’ he said, making a note in his diary. ‘And now, could I persuade you to drink a glass of malmsey with me in memory of Mr Montague?’
Montague Fitzglen’s house, seen by a grey morning light, did not, at first sight, look as if it contained any notable secrets. From the street, it was simply a tall, white-fronted house, whose general demeanour suggested that once inside, the visitor would find himself in a somewhat dusty and probably dishevelled interior. It looked exactly as it had always looked, which was very comforting of it.
As Jack went up the steps to unlock the door, he was remembering how Montague had distributed several sets of keys around the family some years previously – ‘Because none of you know when it might be useful for you to have a discreet bolt-hole,’ he had said.
Jack felt a fresh pang of loss, and he was glad Byron and Ambrose – Gus, too – were with him. Byron and Ambrose shared the memories of this house, and Gus would find interest anywhere if there was likely to be some benefit to the Fitzglens. Last night, ironing shirts in Jack’s dressing room, he had said there was no knowing what they might find in Mr Montague’s house. He hoped Mr Jack did not mind him saying that, but he knew all about story-telling – hadn’t Pa Pocket spun tales of his own while working Bond Street or the Burlington Arcade, using them to cover the deft lifting of a wallet or purse belonging to some toff. Jack, who always enjoyed Gus’s reminiscences, had often thought it was not surprising that Tod Inkling had suggested a much younger Gus might be a useful addition to the Fitzglens all those years ago. And Gus had fitted in as if the situation had been tailored for him.
As Jack unlocked the door, a hansom cab rattled along the street, and Cecily Fitzglen got out, hung about with mops and brushes and dusters.
‘She didn’t say she was coming, did she?’ demanded Jack of Byron.
‘No, but we should have expected it.’
As he spoke, a nearby church chimed eleven, and a hansom drew up and disgorged Todworthy Inkling.
‘And the famous crimson smoking cap nicely in evidence,’ said Byron. ‘That should make the locals sit up a bit.’
Todworthy was carrying a large portmanteau of the style made popular by Mr Gladstone some forty years earlier, and it took several journeys to get Tod, the portmanteau, and Cecily’s cleaning implements up the steps to the house.
‘And now en avant,’ said Byron, as Jack finally opened the door. ‘Cry God for Harry, England and St George, and … Oh, my goodness,’ he said, as the door swung inwards. ‘Uncle Montague’s Turkish cigarettes! Doesn’t that bring back the memories?’
‘Very unhealthy,’ said Cecily. ‘I should have brought some of my dried lavender.’
The rooms were dim, because the neighbour who had discovered Montague’s body had closed all the curtains in the accepted tradition of a bereaved house, but Gus and Cecily were already drawing them back. An uncertain daylight slanted into the house, sending the dust motes dancing.
They agreed that Jack would search the two big rooms at the front of the house, Byron would investigate the rooms at the back, and Ambrose would explore the bedrooms. Tod Inkling had already gravitated to a small room opening off the half-landing, which Montague had used as a book room. Jack considered for a moment whether Tod might quietly slide any choice specimens he found into the Gladstone bag, but although Tod was a shocking old rogue, he was not an outright thief – at least, not when it came to such long-standing friends and clients as the Fitzglens.
Cecily headed for the sculleries, taking Gus with her, and could be heard directing him to light the copper and boil plenty of water.
Jack surveyed the clutter in the main living room with slight dismay, then resolutely began opening cupboards and cabinets and desks. There were memories everywhere – all the years when he and his cousins would come to this house and listen, entranced, to Great Uncle Montague’s stories. Rainy Sunday afternoons when they would read the plays he brought out, taking all the different parts in turn … Marvellous training, that had been. There had been intriguing glimpses into the past, as well – old posters and playbills and newspaper cuttings of plays staged at the Amaranth by their parents and grandparents, many of them before Jack and Ambrose and the others were born. He would try to find those – the younger members of the family would like to see them. He had a sudden vivid image of Tansy, in raptures over the cuttings and the playbills, and smiled.
Later, growing up, he and his cousins had been included in Montague’s evening parties – noisy, relaxed gatherings, often with the slightly more raffish members of the theatre and literary world present, with food and drink circulating freely. It had been in this house that Byron had read aloud the first poem he had ever written – to considerable acclaim, apparently, although Jack had not actually heard it, because he was being given his first real initiation into the mysteries of sex in an upstairs bedroom, with a chair wedged under the door handle. He had only met the lady an hour before, and he had never seen her since. She had been enthusiastic and kind, though, and he remembered her with considerable gratitude, even though he had always felt slightly guilty at missing Byron’s first public rendering of his work.
He began to search a tall glass-fronted cabinet, which stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and which was crammed with playscripts and scrapbooks and old newspapers, smiling a little at hearing Cecily from the scullery and the hall.
‘—and, Gus, if you could find any Jeyes Fluid, we could scrub down the stairs. I shouldn’t think I’d start visualizing poor dear Uncle Montague tumbling all the way down them, should you?’
There was a reassuring murmur from Gus, then Cecily said, ‘No, of course I don’t believe in ghosts, although as a girl I was very much affected by Uncle Furnival’s portrayal of the ghost of Hamlet’s father when I was taken to see it. The newspapers said Uncle Furnival gave a splendidly blood-curdling performance, although I didn’t really understand much of the Ghost’s actual speech at the time.’
Gus said, ‘“Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast … O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power so to seduce—” There isn’t any Jeyes Fluid, Miss Cecily, but there’s caustic soda.’
Jack thought if Montague Fitzglen’s shade did walk through this house, it would be a kindly and slightly mischievous ghost. He would be chuckling to see his family searching for his notes about the Gainsborough forgery, and also the fabled iron box, which most likely had never existed.
He reached up to a stack of scrapbooks, pulling into place one of the beaded footstools which were scattered around the house and which Montague Fitzglen used to prop up his weak leg. There were bundles of old cuttings with the scrapbooks, dating to the 1860s; Jack lifted them down then saw, behind them, pushed to the very back, something with a domed lid and a large old-fashioned lock. Something black and deep …
He stood very still, staring at it. It would not be the fabled iron box, of course. Probably it was a cash box or a repository for important papers – the deeds of this house, for instance.
There were faint sounds of floorboards overhead creaking, which would be Ambrose exploring the contents of the bedrooms, and Cecily’s voice asking Gus to find a stepladder so that they could take down the lace curtains to wash. But the voices seemed to reach him from a long way off, and Jack had to fight off the feeling that something had crept into the room, and was watching him.
He lifted the box from its shelf, and set it on the desk by the window. He was surprised at how heavy it was, but if it was iron, then of course it would be heavy. Would it be locked? It would not matter if it was, because when had a lock ever prevented him – or any of the Fitzglens – from opening a door or a safe or a cupboard? Or a black box, bound with iron strips, with a slightly domed lid studded with brass studs …
The box was not locked, but it took several attempts to prise up the lid, because there was an accretion of dust and dirt in the seams. But at last, with a reluctant sigh, it gave way, and the lid folded back.
It was an extraordinary moment. All around him the house’s floors creaked as Byron and Ambrose and the others moved around, but the sounds belonged to another world.
Within the box lay a sheaf of papers. They were covered in thin, sloping handwriting, the ink slightly faded to pale brown in places, but the writing itself perfectly readable. And the topmost page was very clear indeed.
THE MURDERER INSIDE THE MIRROR
A Drama in Three Acts of Murder, Revenge and Terror
by
Phelan Rafferty
Phelan Rafferty, thought Jack, staring at the writing. Phelan Rafferty. The man acknowledged as one of Ireland’s finest gothic dramatists in the last half of the nineteenth century. The playwright critics said dredged up people’s deepest nightmares and placed them on a stage. Spoken of in the same breath as Robert Louis Stevenson, Wilkie Collins and George du Maurier.
He looked at the faded pages again. The Murderer Inside the Mirror. Rafferty had never written a play with that title, had he?
In any case, Phelan Rafferty had died five years ago.
THREE
Jack was immediately aware of a strong sense of reluctance to even touch the faded pages, but he pushed the feeling away and lifted the papers out, setting them on the desk. After the title page he expected to see the usual list of characters and scenes, but the second page had only a single stage direction at the top – The curtain rises on a darkened room, clearly a prison cell. There are stone walls and a barred window.
Jack glanced over his shoulder to the closed door leading out to the hall, then turned back and began to read.
Tomás: Maran – I’m thankful they let you come in, Maran. You know there are only two days left now – two days for the reprieve to come?
Maran: I know it. But there’s still time, Tomás. And you do know that if there’s no reprieve, I’ll be here in two days’ time?
Tomás: (Gesture of anger and frustration). I never thought it would end this way. It was my inheritance I was trying to reach – you knew that, didn’t you? Catrina knew it, too. She understood. Maran – was I mad, that night? And on all those other nights when we made those incredible plans?
Maran: You’re many things, but you were never mad, Tomás. You could never be mad, not even now.
Tomás: Not even now – while I’m counting the hours until eight o’clock chimes?
Maran: Not even then.
Lights dim. Curtain.
The scene ended there, and Jack was about to turn the page, when Byron’s voice said, ‘Jack – I’ve found something extraordinary – some of Uncle Montague’s notes, and I wanted you to see them straightaway, because … What’s wrong? You look like a troll that’s been caught unawares by daylight and turned to stone.’ He walked over to the desk, looked at what lay on it, and said, in a completely different voice, ‘My God, that’s not—’
‘It’s Great Uncle Montague’s fabled iron box,’ said Jack.
Byron said, almost in a whisper, ‘Then it really did exist. I never entirely believed in it, you know.’
‘Nor did I. But inside it was this.’ Jack indicated the script, turning back to the title page.
Byron stared at it, then, in a stunned voice, said, ‘Phelan Rafferty.’
‘Yes.’
‘The man who wrote The Iron Tongue of Midnight and The Twilight Catcher,’ said Byron, his eyes still on the page. ‘And who was awarded the Richard Brinsley Sheridan Award – the one they only give every ten years.’
‘I remember that award being made,’ said Jack. ‘I was only eight or nine, but the Amaranth staged The Iron Tongue of Midnight as a tribute, and Ambrose and I stole out and went down to the theatre and hid in one of the boxes and watched the entire performance. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘I know all Rafferty’s work,’ said Byron. ‘I always looked up to him – tried to emulate him, even – and there aren’t many people I’d admit that to. Don’t mock, will you?’
‘I’m not mocking,’ said Jack. ‘We all need something to aspire to.’
‘But I’d stake my life Phelan Rafferty never wrote a play with this title.’
‘So would I.’
They looked at one another. Then Jack said, ‘We’re both remembering Uncle Montague’s particular talent, aren’t we?’
‘The master forger,’ said Byron. ‘It’s what we all called him. Half in fun, but half not. It’s what he called himself. Is this a forgery, Jack?’
‘I don’t know. But if it isn’t, then we’ve found an unknown play by one of Ireland’s greatest playwrights,’ said Jack. ‘A lost play. Montague knew Rafferty, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, quite well. I don’t know how far back the friendship went, but Montague often stayed with him in Ireland.’ Byron turned the page to read the start of the first scene.
‘“You know we’re waiting to hear about a reprieve? There are only two days left now …”’ He looked up at Jack. ‘It’s a condemned man – Tomás? – counting down his remaining hours until he’s executed, yes? But still hoping for a reprieve.’
‘It’s what it sounds like,’ said Jack, his eyes on the page.
‘If we take it over to the window where the light’s better, we might be able to read a bit more,’ suggested Byron.
Jack again had to push away the feeling that there was something in the pages of the play that would be better left undisturbed. He said, ‘Yes, let’s do that before anyone comes in.’
Silence closed down as they began reading. The scene was still in the stone room, with Tomás and Maran seated at the table.
Tomás: I’m writing it all down, Maran – what happened that night. What we did – what we found … How the darkness was there. There was such a darkness in that place. Waiting …
Maran: The darkness you wanted to destroy.
Tomás: Yes. But instead, it’s destroyed me.
Maran: You’re trying to trap it, though, aren’t you? By writing it down? You’re almost seeing it as a kind of exorcism.
Tomás: I should have known you’d understand. Maran, when I’ve written it, will you keep the pages? Don’t give them to the world until it’s safe, though. For my sake – for Catrina’s sake, as well.
Maran: You have my word, Tomás, that no one will know what happened that night.
Jack was turning to the next scene when the hall door opened, to reveal Todworthy Inkling, his pince-nez firmly in place, his sharp eyes looking all around the room. Jack moved instinctively to shield the script, but Tod only said, ‘I’ve made some cursory notes, Mr Jack. Some of those books could be quite valuable. If I could spend a day or two going through them properly, I could provide a more detailed report. Inkling’s would be very happy to handle any sales, of course.’
‘I’m sure we’d want you to do that, Tod.’
‘Good. For now, though, I’ve come to remind you that a man cannot live by bread alone, and neither can he live on the dust of antique time, no matter how scholarly or first-edition-noteworthy that dust might be,’ said Tod. ‘It’s already one o’clock, and I am told by the invaluable Gus that there is a very tolerable coffee house along the street.’
Jack said, ‘So it is. I hadn’t realized how late it was.’
‘We’ll tidy this away and follow you,’ said Byron. He waited until the door had closed and Tod’s footsteps had gone down the hall, then turned to Jack.
‘I was going to keep this to read to the family,’ he said producing a slightly battered notebook from his pocket. ‘But I think you should hear it now.’
‘What is it?’
‘Uncle Montague’s notebook, and although there are mostly just brief jottings of ideas for filches, a couple of pages are devoted to Phelan Rafferty.’ Byron opened the notebook and began to read.
‘Link between Girdlestones and Phelan Rafferty’s family possibly of interest for Girdlestone/Gainsborough forgery,’ Montague Fitzglen had written. ‘PR once recounted how family’s name was Anglicized to allow a marriage between the families – Girdlestones were scandalized by legend of a 16C Ó Raifeartaigh ancestress who had met mysterious, macabre and probably shameful end. May only be a story – PR a maestro at story-telling! – but now think it worth investigating.’
‘PR is clearly Phelan Rafferty,’ said Byron, and, as Jack nodded, he continued reading.
‘Have therefore scraped acquaintance with Lady G – a terrible woman! – and am to visit the Hall in the guise of “Mr Montgomery”, a mild-mannered, slightly eccentric art expert.
‘N.B. Forging and filching the Gainsborough probably still a good idea – will discuss with Jack and family.’
‘It sounds,’ said Jack, slowly, ‘as if it was the sixteenth-century lady of the macabre legend Montague was after, as much as the Gainsborough.’
