Act of Murder Read Free Page A

.’
    ‘Yes?’
    He turned and saw the old actor bite his lip and stroke his narrow chin as if in contemplation of saying something that was perhaps quite difficult. But he merely stood there, his face
half-covered by the shadows.
    ‘What is it, Jonathan?’
    But the moment had evidently passed, for Jonathan Keele smiled and said, ‘No matter. It will keep, I dare say,’ before turning around and disappearing through the velvet
curtains.
    *
    Georgina Throstle stood at the window of the Royal Hotel and felt the pain begin. It invariably began with a pricking sensation behind the eyes, as if a hypodermic syringe were
piercing her eyeballs from the inside. The metaphorical needle would then slide its way down the side of her face, rendering her cheekbones raw and indescribably tender, the only analgesic for
which was the external application of oil of peppermint and her own particular prescription from their local doctor. Yet they had forgotten to bring both the salve and the compound from Leeds, and
although Richard had shown admirable concern and a brisk determination to seek out the nearest pharmacy, when she observed him leaving the hotel he was actually sauntering along the street with his
hands in his pockets as if he were off to watch the races. It was insupportable! He had been gone an agonising half-hour and there was still no sign of his return.
    Down in the street below, the fog, which had been a mere ground mist earlier in the day, had thickened alarmingly, and she watched an assortment of shoppers and street-hawkers, every one of whom
was blithely unaware of her misery and going about their business with a vulgar nonchalance as they appeared and disappeared like wraiths. God, she despised this town!
    These ghostly figures somehow put her in mind of her brother Edward. She gave an involuntary shudder and turned her mind to more pleasing thoughts. If Richard’s plans bore fruit, why, they
could soon become the foremost proponents of the magic lantern in the entire country, and he would be able to purchase the latest projection equipment, perhaps buy a small theatre of their own,
somewhere in the West Riding, where they could establish a more permanent home for his presentations. After that, who knows? A grand tour of demonstrations in France, and Belgium, and perhaps even
Venice. How she would love to visit Venice!
    But she had to convince him first. He had to give up the dark business , as she tactfully described it. There could be no more of that if they were to achieve the sort of respectability
and renown that she craved so much.
    Suddenly, through the fog, she caught sight of Richard’s casual, unhurried gait. He was strolling past the Legs of Man public house on the other side of the street, when a man, dressed
quite respectably in dark coat and tall hat, emerged from the entrance and, evidently recognising her husband, approached him and extended his hand. Richard spoke at length to the stranger until
finally, bowing low to whisper some confidence in the man’s ear, he shook hands and they parted company.
    By now her face was a raging torrent of spasm. The physician had told her the name of her condition – tic douloureux – and it was her sole consolation that she was the victim
of an affliction elevated to Parisian grandeur by its exotic, romantic-sounding name.
    She had to wait an age before she heard Richard’s boots clacking along the wooden boards outside their second-floor room.
    ‘I’m afraid they’ve sold out of peppermint oil,’ were his first words as he ostentatiously extended his empty hands.
    ‘What?’ Georgina rushed from the window towards her tormentor.
    ‘I’ve been to three chemists. Hence my apparent tardiness.’
    ‘Tardiness?’ The word was dripping with mockery. ‘Do you wish to see me dead?’
    ‘If you’ll allow me to –’
    ‘Do you wish to take a photograph of my pain-ravaged corpse and flicker it across the room in your next phantasmagoria? Is