The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(28)

We had agreed to arrive at Mr Tufnell’s establishment at five o’clock that evening, when there was still an hour or two of daylight left, and we could properly look over the Palace Theatre and the surrounding fair. Before that happened, Lockwood had a new rapier and other supplies to pick up from Mullet’s on Bond Street. A delivery of fresh iron was expected too; and Holly and I had a batch of DEPRAC paperwork to get through. We were also keen to try out some new techniques in the rapier practice room. In short, there was plenty to be done, but – as always before a major new case – George’s briefing came first. We gathered in the basement office to hear him.

‘Just a quick one first about the whole Marissa thing,’ George said. He had a pile of notebooks that he’d taken from his battered leather case. ‘As you know, I’ve been looking into the beginnings of the Problem, and the way in which Fittes and Rotwell started out. Yesterday I had to nip off to the Hardimann Library to follow up a lead, and it might be something tasty. I’ll fill you in when I learn more.’

‘Isn’t the Hardimann out of bounds?’ Holly asked. As part of DEPRAC’s new edicts, certain occult libraries had restrictions on them. Officially this was to prevent the spread of dangerous ghost-cults among the public; we guessed it was also to discourage curious researchers like George.

‘Strictly speaking,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t go there without a permit, but the curator’s a friend of mine. It’s not a big deal. Anyway, more on that later. I was mostly in the Archives, looking into the history of the Palace Theatre. And I had some success there too, as you’ll see …’

George sat back in his chair; he spread his notebooks out in front of him and unfolded a yellowed theatrical handbill, similar to the one Tufnell had given us. It showed the same blonde woman in another chilly-looking pose, this time with the words The Hangman’s Daughter written alongside. The D was formed of an ominous-looking noose.

Lockwood tilted the flyer round approvingly. ‘Aha, so you found out something more about our glamorous ghost, La Belle Dame?’

‘Her real name would be a good start,’ I said.

‘We’ve got it here.’ Lockwood pointed to a corner of the handbill. ‘See? Featuring our sinister star, Marianne de Sèvres. Classy. She must’ve come straight from Paris.’

‘Or possibly Luton.’ George scratched his ear. ‘Turns out Marianne de Sèvres was only her stage name. Her real name was Doris Blower. She was first heard of at an end-of-the-pier show in Eastbourne a hundred years ago. Within five years she’s packing out audiences at the Palace Theatre in Stratford. Tufnell was right: she was a big star of her day, and it was all based on a certain kind of act – one that combined glamour, sensation and the threat of violent death.’ He looked at us meaningfully. ‘That pretty much summed up her offstage life too.’

‘Mr Tufnell said she was a cruel and wicked woman,’ Holly said, ‘who wrapped men round her little finger. Or that was the implication.’

‘It’s pretty much accurate,’ George said. ‘The popular papers of the day were full of stories about the rich married men who’d fallen for her, and all the wives she’d wronged – they even attacked her in the street. She never stayed with her lovers for long, but discarded them like sweet wrappers. It’s rumoured that more than one man killed himself for love of her. When she heard about it, La Belle Dame laughed and said it was life imitating art. All her shows involved that kind of story too.’

‘Charming woman,’ I said.

‘And now a charming ghost.’ George consulted his notes. ‘Well, it’s not surprising she’s shown up at the Palace Theatre, because that was her base for years. She performed many illusions there, all of which were set up as little dramas or playlets. Each one ended with a staged death that was acted out with the utmost precision. The one she actually died in, The Sultan’s Revenge, was a story about a faithless queen who did all sorts of naughty things behind her husband’s back. When the king found out, he had her sealed in a massive coffin and run through with fifty swords.’ George pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Guess that’s entertainment for you.’

Holly gave a snort of disgust. ‘What a foul story. Who’d want to see that?’

‘Lots of people. It was the sensation of the age. Another of her hits was The Captive Mermaid. They built a great glass tank on stage and filled it with water. La Belle Dame went splashing about with a fish tail; she played an innocent mermaid who was caught by a jealous rival and horribly mistreated. At the end she was tied to lots of weights and—’

‘Pardoned, I hope,’ Holly said tartly.

‘I’m going to guess “thrown back into the tank to drown”,’ I said.

‘Points go to Lucy there,’ George said. ‘Yes, it was a famous illusion. She thrashes around at the bottom of the vat for ages, goes limp, and finally a black curtain is drawn round, concealing her from view. Then – presto! – the mermaid reappears from offstage, alive and kicking. Well, not exactly kicking. She’s got a tail.’

‘And people came to see this?’ Holly folded her arms. ‘It doesn’t even make sense. A mermaid can’t drown.’

‘It was very good show business. It’s said that everyone came – the men to adore her, the women to cheer on the hangman, the drowning pool, the executioner’s knife.’ George sat back with an air of finality. ‘How much more do you want? There was the celebrated routine called The Hangman’s Daughter about—’