Cursed in the Act by Raymond Buckland Page B

death.”
    â€œIndeed?”
    â€œAnd it seems that this Caribbean man who has turned up exercises some sort of power—if that’s the right word—over Ralph.” I felt suddenly uneasy as I said that. I could see the man’s eyes boring into me.
    â€œExplain yourself.” Mr. Stoker put down the Indian clubs.
    â€œInfluence, I suppose it is.” I searched for words. “Jack Parsons says that ever since Ralph got back from foreign parts, he has been more subdued and seems eager to please this man, whose name, by the way, is Henry Ogoon, or some such.”
    â€œOgoon?” Stoker seemed surprised.
    I nodded. “So Jack said. You know the name?”
    â€œJust a coincidence, I’m sure.” He placed the clubs carefully in the corner of the office. “It’s just that Ogoun is the name of the storm god of Voudon. One of the deities, or
loa
, as they are termed.” He thought for a moment. “You spoke to more than this man Parsons?”
    â€œOh yes,” I said, and indeed I had. “I got into conversation with lighting men, props, even the wardrobe mistress. I figured she would hear anything worth hearing.”
    The big man sighed. “All right, Harry. Thank you.”
    â€œCan I get back to my own hair color now then, sir?” My head was starting to itch and I was sure it was Mr. Archibald’s concoction that was responsible.
    â€œOf course. Hopefully we won’t be asking you to do that again.”
    I hurried off to the dressing rooms and got one of the wardrobe assistants to boil up some water for me. I couldn’t wait to wash my hair.
    I thought about the situation. It was doubtful that Ralph could have sneaked into our theatre without being discovered, though that didn’t go for Willis. We were very much more aware of strangers in our midst than Sadler’s Wells apparently was. But even if Ralph had managed it, he was too portly and out of shape to have climbed to the fly tower and dropped sandbags. Again, not so with Willis. Other than his beer belly, he was a skinny scurf. As to the poisoning, we still were not certain as to just how that had been accomplished. Miss Terry’s theory—and it seemed the most logical—was that the arsenic had been introduced to the hot lemonade that the Guv’nor always drank with his lunch. Yet that lunch was prepared by Mr. Turnbull, the caterer, an ancient gentleman who had been providing victuals for the Lyceum actors for longer than anyone could remember.
    The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Ralph Bateman was not the culprit for the poisoning. Much as I hated to admit it, Jack Parsons could be right; it may well have been someone right here among the Lyceum’s own staff, and although now dismissed, Herbert Willis did fit the bill.
    There are over three hundred people employed by the Lyceum, including front of house and backstage staff. Yet few of them, so far as I could see, would have access to actors’ provisions. And anyway, it was only the principals who were catered for; the extras and lesser roles invariably retired to the Druid’s Head for their refreshments. So that would seem to rule out Willis. I found myself thinking around in circles and getting nowhere.
    I was interrupted in my ruminating by remembering that my boss had suggested that we should—by which he meant that
I
should—do the decent thing and apprise Mrs. Richland of her son’s empty coffin. Not a task I looked forward to completing.
    * * *
    T he evening performance went off without a hitch . . . if you didn’t count John Whitby, as the sexton in the churchyard scene, dropping Yorick’s skull and having to scamper across the stage to retrieve it. (Shades of that loathsome severed head!) It did provoke some laughter from the audience, but the Guv’nor quickly brought them back to the scene. Yet there were no falling sandbags, nor