Cursed in the Act Read Online Free Page A

apparently suffered, my dear. It would appear, from the Metropolitan Police report, that he may have left the theatre after last night’s performance and then spent time—perhaps some considerable time—in our neighborly tavern, the Druid’s Head
.
”
    There were murmurs and smiles, with heads nodding, since all at the Lyceum were familiar with that particular watering hole.
    â€œFrom there,” continued the Guv’nor, “he would seem to have blundered out into the late night traffic and . . . met his fate.”
    There were further murmurs and muttered comments.
    â€œI understand that there will be a service of sorts on Saturday at St. Paul’s Church, between the matinee and the evening performance.”
    John Saxon held up his hand, like a small boy in school trying to attract the attention of his master. Irving looked his way and inclined his head very slightly.
    â€œEr, will there even be a matinee performance, I was wondering, Henry?”
    Irving looked perplexed. “And why would there not be?”
    â€œOh! Er, I don’t know. I suppose . . .” His voice trailed off.
    Irving’s steely gaze swept the theatre. “Any other questions?” No one said anything. “Then I would encourage you all to attend the church service . . . your duties allowing you to do so. That is all.”
    He turned on his heel and, with Miss Terry close beside him, strode from the stage, dismissing us with the wave of a hand.
    I looked about for Stoker and saw him heading for the passageway that led from the stage to the office, a somewhat dark passage under the staircase leading to the two “star” dressing rooms above the stage on the OP side. I made off in the same direction.
    I found the big man at his desk.
    â€œThe Guv’nor spoke of trauma suffered by Richland,” I said. “What was that all about?”
    â€œIf you’d ever seen a man who’s been trampled by a team of horses, you wouldn’t have to ask, Harry,” he said. “But now that you
have
asked, here’s a chance to see it firsthand. The police at St. James’s Division, Piccadilly, have the body. A Superintendent Dunlap is in charge. They want someone to officially identify it.”
    â€œIdentify it?” I echoed, my voice sounding somewhat hollow, even to my own ears.
    He nodded. “Hop on over there, Harry. Won’t take you but a minute.”
    * * *
    I had not previously had the opportunity, if that is the right word, to visit a morgue. The one at St. James’s Division police station did not inspire me to repeat the effort at any time in the future. The morgue was in the basement, below street level, and was even colder than the February air outside. It reeked of a mixture of bodily excretions and stale tobacco smoke topped by liberal applications of carbolic soap. I held my scarf up over my nose and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. The officer I had been handed over to was a Sergeant Samuel Charles Bellamy. He was in plain clothes, which he explained by stating that he was a detective policeman. He pointed to one of several sheet-covered figures lying on tables at the back of the white-tiled room.
    â€œStrand fatality, approximately eleven thirty on the late evening of the 8th day of February 1881.” The sergeant read from an oak and metal clipboard that looked as though it had seen many years of service. “Victim male, approximately thirty-five years of age; five feet and eleven inches in height; eleven stone four pounds in weight. Contents of pockets: none. Jewelry: none . . .”
    â€œYes. Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “I’m just here to identify the man. Can we get this over with?”
    The policeman shrugged and advanced on a figure lying on one of the tables. A soiled grayish sheet covered the victim’s head and body but allowed his feet to stick out incongruously