Free Act of Murder by Alan J. Wright

Herbert Koller had come to
remonstrate with his close friend for the unscripted encounter? If so, it was hardly the time. The interval lasted a mere fifteen minutes, and Herbert was on stage almost immediately
afterwards.
    Just before he entered his own dressing-room, Shorton could hear a series of impatient raps echoing down the corridor, immediately followed by Herbert’s angry voice.
    ‘Benjamin! Benjamin, open the door! Open the bloody door!’
    Shorton shook his head and smiled to himself, although the smile faded when he stepped into his own dressing-room and saw what was propped against his looking-glass.
    It was a telegram from his wife.

3
    There were many in Richard Throstle’s audience who felt that they would never smile again. The vast majority of those seated in that dark and forbidding place were a far
cry from those enjoying the trials and torments of The Silver King . Here were men from the coalfields and the foundries, accustomed to the grit and earthy stench of dust and heat, men who
prided themselves on their toughness, who scorned the metaphysical and shied away from any display that could be construed as sentimental. Many of them – the miners certainly – spent
most of their days deep underground experiencing at first hand the dangers, the close proximity of death.
    Yet every one of them sat in rigid silence, heads erect and eyes narrowed, as high above them the projected images of three witches glared down, appearing to shower them with the vilest curses.
All around, the sound of thunder and the startling flashes of lightning filled the hall, swiftly followed by the horrid sight of a graveyard, where mounds of earth slowly grew and grew until the
white skeletal hands came forth and corpses rose from the earth.
    And through it all, the deep, sonorous tones of Richard Throstle.
    ‘Imagine that final day, my friends, that Day of Judgement, when we shall all be judged by what we have done, for isn’t it written that death and hell were cast into the lake of fire
. . .’
    Suddenly the whole scene around and above them was transformed into a mighty flame-filled lake with the roar of an all-devouring conflagration that burned until all the corpses and the
skeletons, and the evil-cursing witches, shrivelled and screamed for the last time and darkness returned to the land.
    Behind the screen, Richard held his hand above his head, an instruction to one of his assistants to refrain from raising the lighting for a few more tremulous seconds. Beside him, the other
helpers slowly put down their instruments – the trumpets and the drums that had created all the cacophony of horror – while Georgina herself depressed the main valves linking the oxygen
and hydrogen cylinders to the lanterns, their low hiss immediately silenced. He smiled as he could hear the gasps and the whimperings from the audience. Then, finally, he turned to his assistant
and whispered, ‘Let there be light!’
    As the lights slowly came up there was an audible gasp and a scattering of nervous laughter that could be heard over the sound of rapturous applause. Some of the men coughed and nodded to each
other, and raised their eyes to the heavens in a signal of manly understanding and amused compassion towards their skittish wives.
    Later, when the hall was empty and Richard’s assistants were securing the lanterns for the next performance, Georgina beckoned her husband to sit beside her in the front row.
    ‘What’s this?’ he asked, taking his place beside her. ‘A tryst?’
    But the expression on her face precluded any thought of dalliance. ‘I want you to be honest with me,’ she said.
    ‘My dearest, I am invariably honest.’
    With a wry smile, she gazed down at his hand, which had intertwined itself with hers. She spoke quietly, as if conscious of the assistants scurrying around at the rear of the hall.
    ‘I must confess I am a little . . . confused. Wouldn’t it be better to speak at the hotel? Less