Free Cursed in the Act by Raymond Buckland Page B

glad that Jenny couldn’t see me like this.
    To complete the transformation, Mr. Archibald dabbed on spirit gum and affixed a stringy mustache and an equally stringy beard. He clipped a pair of pince-nez spectacles on my nose, patted me on the shoulder, and sent me off.
    The two big shire horses brought the omnibus to a halt and I jumped off the vehicle and sauntered along to the stage door of Sadler’s Wells. Outside the theatre a trio of musicians played a desultory selection of popular tunes. I suspected that they were members of the Sadler’s Wells’ theatre orchestra and they were there seeking to expand their earnings. I slipped around the violinist, cracked open the stage door, and peered inside. As I expected, George Dale was wedged into his booth and was sitting with a slice of pork pie in one hand and a copy of
Sporting Life
in the other. His eyes were half closed, the lids drooping. Even as I watched, his head nodded down and then he jerked it up again. He was obviously fighting sleep. The hand holding the half-eaten pork pie slowly descended to the countertop in front of him. I took a chance and slipped into the narrow passage in front of him as quietly as I could. I ducked down below the level of his window and crept along, hoping no one else would appear. As luck would have it, I made it all the way to the end of the passage and turned the corner without being seen.
    I headed for the scenery bays. I knew that the stagehands were anonymous in most houses. They did their job and the actors rarely thought about them. Consequently, during rehearsals and before performances the stagehands would many times pick up gossip overheard from actors exchanging what they believed to be confidential tidbits.
    I knew a couple of the Sadler’s Wells’ scene changers, though not well. One was Jack Parsons, and I was pleased now to see him in the scenery bay, measuring a flat that needed restoring. I knew him to be an honest man who always thought the best of his fellows.
    â€œHow’s it going, Jack?” I asked.
    He glanced up, squinting a little as he tried to place me. I was thrilled that my disguise held up. “’Oo’s asking?”
    â€œJust came aboard,” I said, playing the part of a new employee. “Someone said that Jack Parsons could be found back here. I take it that’s you?”
    He nodded and returned to his measuring. “Didn’t know as ’ow they was ’iring?”
    â€œNot much,” I said. “I was just lucky to apply at the right time. What you doing? Building or rebuilding?”
    â€œSome clumsy actor managed to put ’is foot through this flat,” he said, sniffing. “Don’t ask me ’ow ’e did it! Just got to patch it.”
    â€œCan I help?”
    For the next hour or so I helped repair and repaint a number of pieces of the
Twelfth Night
sets and got to chatting with Jack Parsons till we were like old friends. I got him talking about the principal actors and—more importantly, from my point of view—about the management.
    â€œSo who’s really in charge, then?” I asked “This Mrs. Crowe or the lead actor, Mr. Pheebes-Watson?”
    â€œOld Philly
thinks
’e’s in charge.” Parsons chuckled. “Leastwise, you’d believe ’im if you ’eard ’im. But it’s Mrs. C as pulls the strings. Trust me, she’s the one you need to pay attention to.”
    â€œWhat’s this I heard about someone poisoning the Lyceum man?” I tried to make it a casual question. “That Henry Irving.”
    Parsons laughed out loud. “Ha! It’s amazing ’ow stories gets around.”
    â€œIt’s not true, then?”
    He shook his head. “They was talkin’ about ’ow they needed to get
Twelfth Night
going afore the Lyceum’s ’
Amlet,
and speaking of Mr. Irving, old Philly said somethin’ like, ‘Someone should poison the