“Indeed? I may have to seek them out,” he said. “That may, perhaps, explain your sword. Seeing a young man carrying one is a common thing in my homeland. But here in England, except for military ceremonies, I have seen none.”
Liam held up the sword for his friend’s inspection. Its surface was shiny as a teapot, the grip emblazoned with a dozen brightly colored stones amid Celtic knotwork.
“At first glance, it does appear to be a formidable weapon,” said Dracula.
Liam could see that the Count had discerned the blade’s true nature.
Liam cupped his left hand and sharply slid the edge of the blade along it. Then he turned his palm where Dracula could see it. Both men were smiling and not surprised that the flesh was uncut. “I’m afraid I couldn’t have done much real damage to those three. It’s a prop intended for the character of the Pirate King.”
“The thing is, our enemies didn’t know that. Their own imaginations were very potent weapons against them.”
“Thank you, Count. Our company manager asked me to pick up a replacement for one of our principals, who broke his this morning. Since it was only a slight detour from where I was going, I was glad to do it.” Liam pulled out his watch and flipped the cover open.
“Damn! I was due at the theater a full ten minutes ago. I’m sure that Mr. Bunberry will be snarling like a banshee!”
“Fear not, friend Liam. I am in your debt. You have stood to combat at my side. So I shall not abandon you. I will accompany you and explain about the delay to this Mr. Bunberry,” he told Liam.
“Thank you, Count, but that isn’t necessary.”
“I feel it is,” observed Dracula. “Besides, along the way you can tell me more about this Gilbert & Sullivan.”
By the time Liam and his companion reached the theater, what had begun as a light rain had turned into a torrential downpour. As they rushed up to the stage entrance, Liam noticed that the new advertising poster had been put in place.
A theater in the midst of rehearsal a few days from opening night could resemble chaos personified. That evening the Strand was no exception. Yet to Liam’s experienced eye there was an almost musical order to the whole scene, though he imagined Count Dracula found it quite confusing.
An entirely new operetta,
Yet at the last minute the decision had been made to reprise
“It is a matter of publicity, Liam,” observed Alexander Bunberry, the company manager. “We will still open with
“Liam! Liam Gideon! Where the hell have you been! I expected you back by half past four!”
The voice belonged to a tall skinny man, with muttonchop sideburns that seemed to cover half or more of his face. He came charging toward Liam from behind a huge Greek column that was part of the
“I’m sorry I was delayed, Mr. Bunberry. It couldn’t be helped,” said Liam.
“Couldn’t be helped! You know that Everett is screaming that he can’t rehearse unless he has his new sword,” said Bunberry.
“I well know all his complaints, sir,” said Liam.
“Then why were you dawdling about! I’m still expecting him to fall in the pit deliberately, just to spite me!”
“I doubt that.”
“Sir, Mr. Gideon was not as you say it, dawdling about,” said Dracula.
“And who would you be?”
“I am… Count Dracula.” Dracula’s eyes fastened on Bunberry’s. Neither man blinked. “Had it not been for the timely intervention of Mr. Gideon when three thieves were attacking me, I would have found myself in a grave situation. He did the only thing that a man of honor and duty could do.”
Bunberry stood there for a moment, his eyes glassed over, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Well, if it was something like that I can understand the delay,” he said. “Just get that sword to Everett. The old hen will be fretting his life away, sure that his performance will be ruined and his career over, until he gets it. Then run down to the costume shop. They need to measure you for your new Frederic costume.”
At that, Bunberry whirled on his heels and headed off in the direction of the pirate ship set that filled much of stage left. Just before he got there, a large fat man that Liam didn’t recognize, dressed in a tailored waistcoat with a top hat and cane in hand, stopped him. The two men began to speak in whispers.
“I expected him to be quite a bit more vehement about the whole thing,” muttered Liam.
“Perhaps it was something I said,” mused Dracula.
“Look, you blinking Irishman. If you don’t stand still, Effie is going skewer that pretty little bum of yours with a very long needle!”
With those words ringing in his ears, Liam made a conscious effort not to move. If Effie Ferguson made a threat, she meant it. Looking somewhere between thirty and sixty, she was the absolute mistress of the Strand Theatre costume shop. She had the reputation of being able to make a gunny sack, four buttons, a flower, a skein of thread, and some glass beads into the fanciest ball gown. Facing the mirror, Liam could see the woman’s hands moving swiftly, marking with a long piece of chalk on his pants leg. Then she produced a rather formidable-looking shaving razor and slid it along the cloth from the back of his knee to his ankle. He could feel the cloth parting, but never once felt the touch of the metal.
“You just tell me what I need to do, Effie, and I will do it.”
“Now, that’s a good lad,” she told him. “We want you looking only your best, now, to go on for Their Highnesses.”
“Highnesses? What are you talking about?”
Effie chuckled but did not look up. “Now tell me, Mr. Liam Gideon, are you trying to say that you don’t know about our ‘guests’ for opening night?”
Liana drew a breath and forced a smile. He had played this little game with Effie before. “No, Effie, I don’t. So would you please share that information with me?”
“Well,” she said. “I suppose if they had wanted you to know someone would have mentioned it to you.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps everyone thought that everyone else had told me. So why don’t you tell me?”
“Maybe I should. After all, it isn’t often that poor little common actors get the chance to perform for the high and mighty likes of ‘themselves,’ now do they?”
“Yes?”
“It seems that opening night we will have some people in the audience that will bring all of the ‘right’ sort of society as well as the commoners in.”
“Who in hell are you talking about, woman? Is St. Patrick himself coming to see the show?”
A sharp pain drove its way into Liam’s calf. He could barely keep from moving, knowing that Effie would do much worse if he did.
“No, you Irish gobashit, it isn’t St. Patrick, nor is it Grace O’Malley or even Finn MacCool! Trust an uncivilized Irishman to think of those insignificants in a case like this,” she said.
“Insignificants! Strike me, woman, there are moments I wonder about your sense of who is or isn’t important,” Liam said. “So, now, who would it be, if it isn’t
“Simple; it is himself, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of England, who will be gracing
