Free Cursed in the Act by Raymond Buckland Page A

remembered the fact that my mother had been a scullery maid before she met and married my father. I did make a point of suggesting to Mr. Stoker that the servants at 15a Grafton Street might benefit from a visit to the theatre. “Benefit” was the word I used, though I wasn’t able to elaborate on exactly how such a visit would advance them. Happily, Mr. Stoker didn’t press me on the matter. He merely grunted, as usual, and said he’d look into it when he had the time.
    * * *
    I was standing in the wings contemplating some changes that had been made to prop placement for Act Three, Scene Four, when suddenly Bellamy appeared beside me.
    â€œGoodness, Sergeant! You startled me.”
    â€œWe’re sorry about that, sir, but we have a question or two that bears answering.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Out came the inevitable notebook and pencil.
    â€œIt would appear that someone—and we do stress the word ‘someone,’ sir—has entered the churchyard of the Parish Church of Covent Garden—namely, St. Paul’s Church—and has seen fit to interfere with one of the interments at that location. In a word, sir, they have dug up a grave and removed the corpse from the coffin.” He fixed his bright, beady eyes on me. “Would you happen to know anything about that, we were wondering?”
    â€œRemoved the corpse?” I said, not willing to admit to anything. I found that my mouth had suddenly gone dry and I was aware of my face growing hot. I swallowed and tried to look surprised.
    â€œThere was no body in evidence, sir. A short, stout tree trunk of elm wood was lying in the place normally reserved for the deceased.”
    â€œDear me,” I murmured. “And this was Mr. Richland’s grave?”
    â€œDid we say that, sir?” The pencil hovered and then scribbled in the notebook.
    â€œEr, no.” I cursed myself, conscious that I was now sweating profusely. “No. But I presumed, since you have come here to the Lyceum, that it must be he.” I felt better. That made sense, at least to me.
    â€œMmm.” The sergeant was noncommittal.
    I pressed my slight advantage. “And was this log of elm wood placed in the coffin before or after the interment?” I asked, innocently.
    More scribbling. “That, sir, has not yet been ascertained.”
    â€œThen you had best be about your business and ascertain it,” I said triumphantly, and turned my back on the policeman. After a brief pause he walked away.
    * * *
    I t was another day before Mr. Stoker got around to sending me off to Sadler’s Wells again, looking for clues as to who might have poisoned the Guv’nor.
    â€œIf they did it once, they could do it again,” he said. “Perhaps poison the whole cast! That would certainly slow us down.”
    I don’t know that I was quite so suspicious myself, though that heavy sandbag that had only just missed me did give some emphasis to the possibility of a war that might well be developing. Such thoughts passed back and forth through my head as I sat in the red “Favorite” omnibus that would let me off outside the Sadler’s Wells Theatre.
    I was mentally somewhat numb from the transformation that Mr. Archibald had performed on me. He had completely agreed that any wig that would hide my bright carrot hair would have to be so large that it would draw more attention than the hair itself. His solution? To instead
color
my hair! I had been prevailed upon to dip my head repeatedly into a bucket filled with some odious brown liquid that smelled of garlic, coal tar, wood ash, and vinegar. The result was a drab, brownish red mop that, under certain light, I swear had a purplish tinge to it. Mr. Archibald had claimed that he could have done a far better job by adding walnuts to the mixture but that it would then have taken two to three months of washing to get it out again. I balked at that. I was just