The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(32)
‘Isn’t it good that Quill was free tonight?’ Lockwood said. ‘It’s the more the merrier on this one.’ As so often at the start of a job, he was in excellent spirits. The hunt was up and his sense of purpose was at its sharpest, keen as the new rapier hanging at his side. The quiet, reflective boy who’d opened up to me the evening before was nowhere to be seen. He radiated energy and anticipation. ‘Let’s get over to the theatre,’ he said. ‘We’ll ask someone to show us around.’
We passed striped tents and a helter-skelter, and crossed into the shadow of the building. Posters and banners festooned its massive brick-lined wall, advertising Tufnell’s Marvels, Tufnell’s Magic Show for Children Young and Old, and similar entertainments. A pair of double doors hung open. A sour-faced girl in an usherette’s uniform was just in the process of shutting one of them, applying iron bolts and chains.
The girl regarded us. ‘Show’s over for the day. I can give you tickets for tomorrow.’
‘We’re not here to see the show,’ Lockwood said. ‘Is Lew Tufnell available, please?’
He’d given her his best smile, which normally had the melting effect of hot water poured on ice. But the girl’s expression did not change. ‘He’s up onstage.’ She hesitated, hands toying with the iron bolt. ‘It’s not a good time. You shouldn’t go in.’
‘I’m sure he’s very busy. But he is expecting us.’
‘I’m not talking about him. It’s not a good time to be here, this time of day. She’ll be walking the corridors soon.’
‘You mean La Belle Dame?’ I asked. ‘Have you seen her?’
The girl shivered, glanced over her shoulder. Before she could answer, a familiar voice hailed us from the dark; Mr Tufnell appeared, checked shirt sleeves rolled up, waistcoat bulging. ‘Come in, come in!’ His face was redder than ever, his grey curls pearled with sweat. He flashed us his weak, dishonest smile. ‘I’m just helping the stagehands. We’re short-staffed now, what with Sid and Charley. Look alive there, Tracey! Don’t block the door, girl! Let them by, let them by!’
We filed through into a makeshift foyer, smelling of popcorn, cigarettes and mildew. There was a ticket booth, and a stand selling chocolate bars and cans of drink. The girl had stepped aside to let us pass. She was a slight, pale-skinned thing with reddish hair, perhaps a year older than me, and looked very tightly wound. I tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look at us, and quickly slipped out into the field, leaving the door ajar.
Mr Tufnell bobbed and bowed and shook Lockwood by the hand. ‘Honoured that you’re here! Come on, I’ll show you the stage. We’re readying it for tomorrow.’
He led us along a broad passage, low-ceilinged and dimly lit, with cheap gold tracery decorating the walls. Other passages led off on both sides. One, labelled TUFNELL’S MARVELS, was cordoned off by a frayed gold rope.
‘How’s poor Charley Budd?’ Holly asked as we went.
‘Alive,’ Mr Tufnell said, ‘but not, I fear, long for this world. I’ve got him locked in my caravan. He started screaming this afternoon, disrupting Coco the Clown’s toddler party in the main tent. I’m sorry to say it meant more refunds.’ The impresario gave a mordant sigh. ‘In fact, I’ll need to see to Charley shortly. I’m assuming you won’t mind if, once it gets dark, I don’t remain inside? I’d like to, of course, but I’d only get in your way.’ With this he pushed open an impressive pair of doors lined with scarlet plush, and we walked through into the auditorium.
As a general rule Lockwood & Co. didn’t hang out in theatres. True, back in the summer we’d once chased a Spectre up an alley next to the London Palladium and blasted it to atoms with a flare. As far as I knew, the theatre wall still had the outline of a startled gentleman in a top hat smudged across it in soot. This was as close to high culture as we typically got, so I wasn’t prepared for what we saw inside.
The auditorium of the Palace Theatre was a world away from its dismal exterior. It was a cavern of gold, twinkling with points of light. We stood in the deepest velvet black, down amongst the stalls. Above and behind us, electric candles shone along curved balconies, ranged with incredible steepness to impossible heights. To the sides, golden candelabra picked out the ranks of individual boxes. Ahead, rising above the central aisle, the stage was white and spot-lit, flanked by blood-red curtains. A few youths were moving here, sweeping the boards, shifting brightly coloured cubes and baskets around. They worked in silence, but I could hear their hurried breathing. The acoustics were excellent – even whispered words carried across the vast dark space.
Tufnell led us down the aisle, our boots pattering on the wooden floor. High above, several long ropes hung from the dark, some ending in trapeze bars, others tied to rings fixed into the balconies. I imagined them in motion, with hurtling bodies in temporary flight. The idea made my palms sweat. It was hard to get over the room’s sheer scale. You couldn’t pick out the details of the balconies without squinting. The ceiling was lost in the warm golden haze.
We climbed steep steps at the side of the stage and walked out into the light.
‘This is it, Mr Lockwood,’ Tufnell said. ‘This is where La Belle Dame met her end.’ He waved his arm at the youths, who had stopped work and were watching him. ‘All right, you lot can go. Straight outside, no dallying. You know the reason why.’