Cursed in the Act by Raymond Buckland

blighter!’ Not serious, o’ course.”
    â€œBut someone
was
serious,” I said. “I mean, Irving did get poisoned. So who do you think did it?”
    Parsons paused with his paintbrush in his hand and gazed off into the wings, thinking. “Don’t know as ’ow it was anyone from ’ere, though I’m supposing it could ’ave been. But it could just as well ’ave been someone from the Lyceum for all I know.”
    â€œYou haven’t heard any tittle-tattle?”
    â€œThere’s always tittle-tattle,” he said, resuming painting. “I try not to listen to it, though sometimes you can’t ’elp it. Take that young Mr. Bateman, for example . . .”
    â€œRalph?”
    â€œRight! ’Im! ’E was ’anging about with a couple of the lighting blokes and was braggin’ as to ’ow ’e could bring the Lyceum folks to their knees if ’e ’ad a mind. Just boastful talk, mind you.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œOh yes. Though come to think on it, ’e was pretty tight with one of the Lyceum ’ands wot got ’isself the mittens; got booted out! Too fond of the bottle, I ’eard. What was ’is name now?”
    â€œWillis?” I offered.
    â€œThat’s ’im! ’Erbert Willis. Nasty piece o’ work. ’Im and Ralph Bateman made a fine pair of scalawags.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œWell, I’m thinkin’ our young Mr. Bateman ’as ’is fingers in a lot of dirty pies, if you follow me?”
    I nodded. I followed him only too well.
    â€œWhat about that other Lyceum man?” I said. “The understudy who got run down and killed.”
    â€œAh!”
    There was a wealth of meaning in that word. Obviously Jack Parsons knew more than he had so far divulged.
    â€œCan I buy you a drink, Jack, when we get through here?”
    He was no fool. He realized I wanted to know more on the subject. I arranged to meet him later at the Bag o’ Nails. Meanwhile, I had a quick word with one or two others of the Sadler’s Wells backstage staff.
    * * *
    J ack and I were soon settled at a table away from the bar; he with his favorite India pale ale and me with my inevitable porter. It didn’t take long to draw him out on the running of Sadler’s Wells and the comings and goings of Ralph Bateman and his cronies. Jack gave the impression of being a quiet type who just did his job, but I had long ago learned that he was well able to keep up with the gossip and chitchat that takes place in any large theatre. He told me, as I already knew, that Ralph had been abroad for a while but had recently returned, bringing with him a new friend from Haiti named Henry Ogoon, who seemed to have made himself at home. Not just made himself at home, but seemed to have some sort of “power,” as Jack put it, over the young man. It wasn’t like Ralph to take orders from anyone, yet according to Jack he did anything and everything that Ogoon suggested.
    Jack said that the rivalry between Sadler’s and the Lyceum was something everyone was aware of but that no one other than the Batemans really took seriously.
    â€œOh, old Pheebes-Watson likes to dream about showing up ’Enry Irving, but I think even ’e realizes that it’ll be a cold day in ’ell afore ’e is actually recognized as the better actor.”
    I agreed. “But tell me, what do you hear about that understudy’s death?” I asked. “You seemed to hint that there was more to it than meets the eye.”
    â€œI did?” Jack was suddenly playing innocent. “Oh, I don’t know as I’d say that. Mind you, Ralph was crowin’ somethin’ awful after it ’appened. As though ’
e
knew more than anyone else. But I didn’t take ’im serious, and I wouldn’t think you would, neither.”
    I let it go for now. I was sure all would