Act of Murder Read Free

to create such an audible sound of
disapprobation might encourage some of the lower orders to take up the call and turn the stalls into a giant snake pit.
    As he surveyed the painted scene at the rear of the stage, he sighed and thought of the Lyceum in London, where the mise en scène had no equal: the marvellous effects produced by a
subtle blending of colours and lighting could create the misery and the danger of a winter storm in one moment and the dazzling possibilities of a lark-filled sky in another. But Mr Craven,
Irving’s genius of scenic artistry, was hundreds of miles away. Benjamin had to make do with coarse approximations of the play’s dramatic backdrops.
    He privately gave thanks that the abominable display of childishly projected phantoms in the Public Hall across the street would almost certainly draw an audience comprised in the main of
miners, foundrymen, mill-girls and their kind. The so-called Phantasmagoria had been laughably described in the local newspaper, the Wigan Observer , as a ‘powerful source of
rivalry for the famous London touring company, and it is the opinion of this newspaper that such diversity of choice can only serve to enrich the cultural diet of the borough.’
    Cultural diet! He had thought such fantastic demonstrations of hocus-pocus had long since died a natural death, and was surprised there was still a profit to be made from projecting ghostly
figures onto a screen with the express intention of alarming an audience, albeit a gullible one.
    ‘Tragedy or disaster?’
    Benjamin wheeled around, startled by the disembodied voice behind him. ‘Jonathan! What the blazes are you doing? I could have had an apoplectic fit.’
    ‘Sorry. I saw you from below. Your frown was quite expressive.’
    Jonathan Keele was the oldest member of the company. He had been an actor for more years than he would care either to remember or admit, and he had agreed to accompany the tour as a special
favour to Benjamin, of whom he was rather paternally fond. Some members of the company relished his reflective moments, when he would regale them with tales of Macready, whom he first saw play
Othello in Bath in ’35 and who was responsible for infecting him with the curse of Thespis, or of working with the Bancrofts at the Prince of Wales Theatre in Tottenham Street.
    It had been the kindest of gestures from his old friend that the final performance of The Silver King should be given over to his benefit, and Jonathan had been genuinely touched by this
demonstration of affection.
    Benjamin sighed and gazed back down towards the stage. Three or four of the footlights which had begun to flicker suddenly gave up the ghost. ‘Is it any wonder?’
    ‘Don’t worry. These things have a delightful habit of coming together. Rather like a broken bone setting, eh?’
    ‘Well, the simile is apt, at any rate. At least as far as the pain and the damage are concerned.’ He gave his old mentor a rueful look. ‘Worry is what I do. Worry is what pays
our way, Jonathan. Do you know how long it took those imbeciles to change the flats?’
    The veteran of the stage shook his head.
    ‘Fourteen minutes! We had the curtain drop for fourteen unconscionable minutes! I mean, what is the audience going to do for nigh on a quarter-hour? Play I-Spy? They said it was an
impediment in the grooves and they could solve it with a drop of oil. Oil? I ask you! And we’ve got the full dress rehearsal to follow. Our tragedy , as you say, will be just that.
Thank the good Lord we’re on King Street, Wigan, and not Charing Cross Road! I shudder to think what The Era would make of us.’
    It was Benjamin’s turn to shake his head. From the darkness behind him, Jonathan smiled, but placed a hand gently on the manager’s shoulder.
    ‘You take too much on yourself, Benjamin. All the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
    ‘No. Not that bad.’ He gave a smile that was hidden in the darkness.
    ‘Benjamin . .