Chapter 4 #2
‘The Garston?’ he echoed, nonplussed. ‘Why on earth would I go there? Unless—’
She watched understanding cross his face.
The Garston Club was a gentlemen-only establishment not far from the Strand, a venue Harry could not enter for herself.
But Oliver was a member and he had met John Archer there when the man had begged for the help of Sherlock Holmes.
‘It’s possible Mr Archer might be at home in Cambridgeshire, tending to his uncle, but I think it’s worth a try. And if he is in London—’
‘You want to enlist his help with your disguise,’ Oliver finished.
Harry spread her hands. ‘Who better to make me unrecognisable than a trained actor, with the whole of the Drury Lane theatre wardrobe at his disposal?’
Oliver gazed broodingly at what was left of his wine. ‘And then?’
‘And then I visit the scene of the crime to work out how it was done,’ she said.
‘Just like that,’ he said, arching an eyebrow. ‘When the finest minds in London’s police force have so far failed to find any clues. How do you propose getting inside?’
She beamed at him as she set her empty glass back on the table. ‘Elementary, my dear Fortescue. But let’s see if Mr Archer is in town first.’
It seemed to Harry that it took an age for Oliver to reappear in the doorway of the Garston Club.
She settled herself on a nearby bench, ignoring the biting chill of the starless January night, and pretended to read her book.
As ever, the area was busy but no one troubled her, although she noticed a raggedly dressed girl of around eight or nine eyeing her with professional interest, clearly trying to decide whether she was a worthwhile mark.
The timely arrival of a portly bobby on the beat sent the child scurrying before he could approach Harry but she suspected she had not gone far, perhaps loitering in a nearby alleyway until the coast was clear to resume her approach.
She hadn’t liked the threadbare thinness of the girl’s clothes, nor the pinched pallor of her skin.
Without haste, she dug into her handbag for a coin and rose, placing the sixpence on the bench as she did so.
She did not look back as she trailed in an unhurried fashion after the policeman, trusting that the girl had been watching like a hawk.
It was only a little money but perhaps it might get her something to eat.
She took a leisurely stroll along New Row, pausing at regular intervals to glance back towards the Garston to make sure she did not miss Oliver’s reappearance.
At the junction with St Martin’s Lane, she crossed and made her way back along New Row.
As she was considering turning into Bedford Street, the door of the Garston Club opened and she saw him emerge. He was not alone.
‘My dear Miss Moss, what an unexpected joy!’ John Archer exclaimed as he hurried across the road to shake her by the hand. ‘I couldn’t believe my luck when Mr Fortescue arrived at my table. I had hardly hoped to see you both again so soon.’
His smile was so warm and his greeting so effusive that Harry could not help but forgive him his vigorous pumping of her arm. ‘It’s good to see you too, Mr Archer. Has Mr Fortescue explained the reason for bothering you?’
Archer spread his arms. ‘He has. But it is no trouble at all – I am very happy to help. We can go to the Lane now.’
Harry blinked in surprise. ‘Now?’
‘Of course. Tonight’s performance will be underway, but we can sneak in through the stage door and raid the costume stores in the cellar.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I assume you are working on behalf of a certain beekeeper?’
The last word was imbued with an especially theatrical flourish which somehow only served to make it more audible. She nodded. ‘An undercover operation of the highest importance,’ she confided. ‘But I’m afraid that’s all we are able to reveal.’
‘Naturally,’ John Archer said, his eyes twinkling. ‘Let’s not waste another moment. To the theatre, dear friends!’
The stage door was in Russell Street, a sumptuous red arch that made no attempt at discretion, declaring its presence with a large, unmissable sign.
‘But how would our adoring public know where to find us after the performance otherwise?’ Archer asked, forehead wrinkling as Harry expressed her surprise.
He tapped at the door. Moments later, one half of the arch was pulled back and a head appeared. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Archer,’ the grizzle-bearded man said, then peered at Harry and Oliver. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My esteemed guests,’ Archer said grandly. ‘We are here to consult Madame Francine. Is she in good spirits this evening?’
The stage door manager bared a set of nicotine-stained teeth in what Harry thought was a grimace of regret.
‘Very temperamental, Mr A, it’s been a tricky night so far.
Miss Greenwood declared her costume had lice and refused to go on for the opening number unless it was fumigated.
Mr Selten couldn’t find his hat and Madame’s new assistant ran into Mr Macklin backstage, brandishing his cane and groaning.
She had to take a tot of brandy for her nerves. ’
‘Ah.’ John Archer gave a solemn nod, then turned to Oliver and Harry. ‘Perhaps we won’t trouble Madame, then. Don’t worry, I know exactly where to find what you need.’
Grumbling and muttering, the stage door manager allowed them inside.
The corridor beyond the stage door was narrow and dimly lit.
The sound of an orchestra in full flow vibrated through the walls as a gaggle of dancers appeared as if from nowhere and vanished along an adjoining passage.
‘This way,’ Archer said, his usually hearty tone muted as he waved towards a staircase leading downwards.
‘We don’t want to get tangled up with the production, especially not on a night when Mr Macklin is up to his old tricks. ’
Harry exchanged a glance with Oliver. The doorman had mentioned the same name. ‘Who is Mr Macklin?’
John Archer gave her a look of mild surprise. ‘One of the theatre ghosts. But there’s no need for concern – he never ventures into the cellars.’
It wasn’t long before Harry found herself in a vaulted cavern for the second time that evening, although this one was lit by flickering overhead bulbs rather than candlelight.
Amid the gloom, Harry made out row after row of shapeless rails, each draped with a heavy dust sheet.
Clusters of packing crates were dotted here and there, while wooden cupboards lined one long wall, doors closed against the chill.
The air was musty with the scent of old fabric, overlain by mothballs and lavender.
It reminded Harry a little of home. As a child she and her brothers had played hide-and-seek in the many rooms of Abinger Hall and her grandmother’s wardrobes had smelled much the same.
‘Behold the cave of wonders,’ Archer said, waving an expressive arm that was reflected in an enormous cheval mirror hulking in one corner. ‘There’s enough magic here to transform you into a Greek goddess or a toothless beggar, Miss Moss. What’s it to be?’
With a flourish, he swept the dust sheet from the nearest rail, revealing a riot of colour and finery that dazzled Harry’s eyes.
Leathery pirate costumes nestled beside brass-buttoned military jackets, gauzy fairy wings peeped out from behind lavish ball gowns and there were at least three bear costumes squashed together at one end.
Another rail appeared to be hung with white shirts of differing styles and periods, while a third consisted entirely of men’s suits, in various shades of grey, black and brown.
Tucked away behind this rail was a vast gilt sarcophagus, resplendent with the face of an imperious bearded pharaoh.
Harry dragged her marvelling gaze away from the treasure trove to gaze at John Archer. ‘I need you to turn me into a man.’
If Archer was in any way surprised by this, he did not show it. Instead, he turned an enquiring expression towards Oliver. ‘And you, Mr Fortescue? A duchess, perhaps?’
Harry fought the urge to giggle. ‘He simply needs to look different. I thought perhaps a beard, and a matching wig.’
Oliver gave her a level look. ‘You intend me to wear a disguise as well.’
‘Naturally. If the scene of the crime is being watched by our adversary, then we need to take steps to conceal both our identities.’ She paused, widening her eyes. ‘But if you’d rather not then I’m sure I can go without you.’
He opened and closed his mouth, as though formulating and discarding an argument, then sighed. ‘Very well. A beard and wig, if you please, Mr Archer.’
The other man nodded. ‘Easily done. Are you to be gentlemen of means or working men?’
‘Somewhere in between, I think,’ Harry said after a moment’s consideration.
‘Respectable but unremarkable. The sort of men no one really notices.’ She thought about the scruffy trousers and flat cap stashed under her bed, worn when she had needed to follow up a lead in Elephant and Castle and just about good enough to fool a casual observer.
‘But we need to look convincing under close inspection. Can you help?’
‘Hmmm.’ Archer scanned the rails of clothing thoughtfully.
‘I think we can manage that. A greatcoat and a bowler hat might work for you, Mr Fortescue.’ Rustling among the browns and greys, he pulled out a heavy woollen coat and held it towards Oliver, squinting critically. ‘Yes, that will do very well.’