'What was it?' blurted Doyle.
Without looking at him, Sparks made a light gesture toward Doyle, trying to gently dampen his eagerness.
'The word came down to me,' resumed Stoker, 'that a certain high-placed gentleman—he was not mentioned by name—through a series of obscure intermediaries, had retained certain members of a provincial theatrical company— actors, professionals, likewise unknown—to enact a newly scripted performance in a private London house. Not a play or a piece ever intended for the stage, mind you—an original creation. One time only, never to be repeated. Performed for an audience of one. No contractual arrangement, other than certain verbal agreements, were entered into. We might ask what motivated these actors to accept such an unorthodox assignment? A disproportionately large sum of money for this performance was guaranteed; half apparently disbursed to them ahead of time. The other half would be receivable upon completion.
'What was the purpose of this mysterious performance? It was never stated to them, but the implication echoed that, which I'm sure you will recall, of Hamlet's second-act importunity to the Player King: as in the Bard, this reenactment of a cold-blooded murder was intended to achieve some provocation in the sole member of its audience.'
'Murder,' said Doyle. He felt a squeamish tightening in his throat. A sidelong glance to Sparks saw him return a look of equal intensity.
'Who that person might have been or what his or her desired reaction was to be was never remarked upon. Even at that, the story was up to snuff as a bona fide nine-day wonder, but this dog has a tail that grew stranger still. During the performance, new and unanticipated characters made an impromptu entrance onto the scene, carrying these itinerant players far beyond the scope of what they had so carefully rehearsed. Something went terribly awry.' Stoker leaned in closer to them, lowering his voice to a hush. 'Actual blood was shed.'
By some superhuman effort, Doyle did not say a word, al-
though he was not at all certain he could keep his heart from leaping out of his throat.
'The players scattered,' Stoker went on. 'One of their number had fallen at the scene and was never recovered. Presumed dead.' Stoker paused, looking back and forth between them.
Don't let it be her, thought Doyle. Dear God, if she's alive, my own life before hers.
'Needless to say, the survivors feared for their lives, not without reason. They sought protection in the shelter of the only safe haven they knew and rejoined their original company.'
'The Manchester Players,' said Sparks.
Stoker did not so much as bat an eye. 'Yes. The unfortunate Manchester Players.'
Stoker removed and unfolded a flier from his coat, trumpeting the Manchester Players' production of The Revenger's Tragedy, the same design as the one they had discovered on the desk in Rathborne and Sons. The dates advertised an engagement the previous week in the nearby city of Scarborough. A small strip pasted diagonally across the poster read: CANCELED.
'Upon hearing this, I tracked the rumor to its source: A stage manager once in my employ heard it from an actor who had in turn left the Manchester troupe on family business while they were playing London last fall. Intrigued, I made some inquiries and learned their itinerary from a booking agent. This was December twenty- eighth; that same day the Manchester Players reached Nottingham, where they had a two-day engagement. That same afternoon they were rejoined by two of the actors who had participated in the ruse—'
'How many were in it altogether?' Damn the man's vanity and his orderly unfolding of information; Doyle felt fully justified in asking.
'Four,' said Stoker. 'Two men, two women.'
'Which of these had fallen at the scene?'
'Doyle—' said Sparks.
'I must know: which one?'
'One of the men,' said Stoker. He paused now, not petulantly, but in a way that demanded respect to both the gravity of the tale and faith in his expertise as its teller.
'Please, continue,' said Doyle, his heart beating ever faster.
'On that night of December twenty-eighth, at their hotel in Nottingham, these same two members of the troupe disappeared. Although they had stated to their confreres that they feared for their lives—and indeed took all commonsensical precautions to ensure their safety; windows and door secured, lights left burning—when the morning arrived, these two were gone from their beds, without a trace, luggage left behind, without any visible signs of struggle. Considering the extremity of their state of mind, it seemed to others in the company not altogether perplexing that the two had decided during the night to take flight. At least that is what was presumed until the discovery was made during the troupe's evening performance.' Stoker took a long draught from his drink; he seemed to require it. 'Are you familiar with The Revenger's Tragedy, Mr. Sparks?'
'I am,' said Sparks.
'A broad meller and a bloody bit of Grand Guignol,' said Stoker. 'Not exactly an edifying spectacle; plays to the cheap seats, as we say in my business. There's a steady stream of gratuitous savagery throughout, but its denouement delivers a particularly vivid session with the guillotine, featuring a stage effect that can only be described as a severing bit of ultra-realism. That night, as the property master went about his backstage task of placing props in all the proper places, he checked the hooded basket that rests below the blade. Inside that basket were the wooden heads used to simulate the remains of the recently dispatched. Later that evening, during the performance's climactic scene, when the lid was lifted to display the contents of the basket ... inside were the heads of these two missing actors.'
'Good Lord. Good Lord,' said Doyle. Chief among the commingling of feelings Doyle felt pulsing through him with a dizzying sensation of relief: Jack Sparks had been with him throughout the night of December 28—on the road, and onboard ship, between Cambridge and Topping. If these murders were the work of Alexander Sparks, and they bore the gruesome and unmistakably original stamp of his foul hand, then clearly his fears that the two brothers were one and the same man were groundless.
'The actor who made the discovery fainted onstage. The performance was, of course, suspended, and all the Manchester Players' following engagements were summarily canceled by wire that same night. The next morning I first learned of the killings and traveled immediately to Nottingham, arriving late on the afternoon of the twenty- ninth. But it seems that before any of the chores regarding the disposition of their business could be conducted— return of received receipts, packing and shipping of costumes, scenery, and the like—the rest of this traveling company of players had gone missing, simply vanished, just as the first two had disappeared—hotel bill unpaid, bags and personal effects left in their rooms. The local constabulary were only too happy to attribute their sudden departure to the still lingering perception of actors as opportunistic gypsies fleeing from creditors, and perhaps from their culpable involvement in as unsavory a pair of murders as that quiet Midlands community would ever hope to see.'
'How many in the troupe altogether?' asked Sparks.
'Eighteen.'
Sparks shook his head slowly. 'I fear we will not see them again.'
Stoker looked at him for a long moment before responding, 'I share your concern, Mr. Sparks.'
'This murdered couple, they were a man and a woman?' asked Doyle.
'Man and wife. And the woman six months pregnant,' said Stoker, his repugnance at the atrocity surfacing for the first time from under the polish of his delivery.
The couple he'd seen at the seance, thought Doyle, the young couple seated beside him, the working-class man and his pregnant wife. So that meant the medium and the dark-skinned man were the genuine article, not for hire, they'd been on the inside of the job. Which meant the man killed at the scene was the actor hired to play the part of George B. Rathborne.
'Excuse me, Mr. Stoker,' said Doyle urgently. 'Is there a stage effect, a way of realistically simulating the cutting of someone's throat, with a knife or razor?'
'Not difficult at all,' said Stoker. 'The blade would have a hollow edge, and on it a slit to an interior cavity filled with fluid, triggered by a button which the holder would push as he drew it across the skin.'
'The fluid would be ...'
'Stage blood. A mix of dye and glycerin. Sometimes animal's blood.'
Pig's blood on the floorboards of 13 Chesire Street.
