V
Kate woke up in the dark, with a fuzzy headache. She knew she'd been chloroformed, but not how long she'd been unconscious.
She was slumped in an upholstered chair. She had a sense she was underground. A weight dragged at her ankle. She was shackled to the chair-leg. The chair was fixed to the floor. Her hands were free, but she was too weak to lift them.
The room was cold and slightly damp. She smelled mothballs.
She realised she'd been stripped. She wore some sort of shift or nightdress.
Was this the lair of Sultan the Gorilla-Man?
Someone turned up a gas-lamp. Kate saw herself in a large mirror. Her hair was a mess, her skin was unhealthy white and her freckles stood out like pinpricks of blood. Her nightie was immodest, but surprisingly good quality. She had at least been abducted by a better class of ape.
Over her shoulder, she saw her captor, hairy hand up to the gas-jet. His gorilla head was off, but he wore a skin-tight black hood with holes for his eyes and mouth.
'She's awake,' called Sultan.
A row of chairs faced the mirror, as in an expensive dentist's office or a hairdresser's. On the walls were theatre posters and photographs of famous actors. Stuck to and around the mirror were pictures: faces with hideous deformities, gouged eyes, flattened noses or terrible scars. If real, they were models for make-up artists trying to achieve shocking effects. If fake, they were records of previous triumphs to be recreated. On a shelf under the mirror were pots of powder and paint and trays of glass eyes. Faceless wooden heads supported a variety of wigs, including a scabby bald cap and Bertrand Caillet's wolfish shock of hair. Racks of costumes hung nearby, explaining the mothballs.
She was backstage at the Théâtre des Horreurs.
Sultan walked over to her, not bothering with the rolling ape-gait, and took hold of her chin. He examined her face.
She would have spat but her mouth was dry.
As if reading her mind, he poured water from a jug into a glass and raised it to her lips, tipping liquid gently into her mouth.
She should have squirted it in his face. Instead, she said, 'Thank you.'
Others entered the dressing room. She recognised Morpho. His scars weren't stuck on. Dr Orloff, the theatre physician, and Malita, the versatile actress. And someone else.
'I told you it cost blood to get a Red Circle invitation,' said Clara Watson. 'I never said it would be mine.'
Kate choked on her water. She rattled her leg-chain.
'Temper, temper,' said the English woman.
So Clara was a Fallen Angel? A turncoat. Kate should have guessed as much. The scarlet widow was too twisted to stay the course. Why hadn't Erik expected this?
Kate made an impractical anatomical suggestion.
'You know, in China, I saw a slave girl actually do that,' said Clara, smiling sweetly.
Dr Orloff stuck the cold end of his stethoscope against her chest. Kate supposed her heart rate was up.
Orloff professionally pinched her bare arms. She winced.
'Good reflexes,' he commented. 'Open wide.'
He touched her under the jaw-hinge and sprung her mouth open, then peered in.
'And good teeth. A pleasure to see good teeth. So many ladies neglect dental care. They just think that if they smile with their lips closed no one will notice the gaps and the green fur.'
'We should keep her scalp,' said Malita. 'We don't get enough red hair… for the wigs.'
That wasn't encouraging.
'Why am I here?' she demanded.
'Katie, you are to be a shining star of the stage,' said Clara. 'The toast of the après-minuit of the Théâtre des Horreurs– now, what's the expression? – For One Night Only.'
If – no, when– she got out of this, she'd even things. A connoisseur of torture, was she? Well, Clara Watson hadn't gone to school in Ireland…
Clara bent down to kiss close to Kate's ears.
'Courage,' she whispered. 'And trust. Angels always.'
Then, with a fluttery wave, she left the room.
'See you in the cheap seats,' Kate shouted after her.
'Break a leg,' Clara responded. 'At least.'
Had she misunderstood Clara? If this was a stratagem to discover the secrets of the Red Circle, it would have been nice if she'd been in on it. Or was the Fallen Angel torturing her with the hope of a rescue that would never come?
Malita approached, with a pair of brushes. She began to groom Kate, putting her hair up in a way she hadn't tried before.
Objectively, Kate quite liked the effect.
Under the circumstances, she couldn't bring herself to thank her dresser.
A Près-Minuit Didn't mean the curtain went up at the tolling of the twelve o'clock bell. While Kate was unconscious, Guignol's company gave a regular evening show. Then, the audience and most of the company left the building and preparations for the Red Circle performance began.
Malita powdered over her freckles (which took several pots) and gave her red, red lips and rouge cheek-blushes. With a pencil that drew blood, the crone added a final touch – a beauty spot by her nose.
Kate was unshackled and wrestled into a cheap tart costume: low-cut bodice, gypsy skirt, beret, tattered red shawl, patent leather boots. Now, Kate thought she looked ridiculous. If she were a doll, she would sit unbought in Madame Mandelip's window.
Malita dragged her – it was hard to walk in the thick-soled, high-heeled boots – out of the dressing room. She was taken along a corridor, up through the wings and onto the stage. The heavy curtain was down. A stock backdrop showed sylvan fields and marble statuary. A stained oilskin was laid over the boards. Stage-hands stood ready with buckets and mops.
Sultan had his head back on but his hairy gloves off. His hands were blacked with coal and he held a hunting rifle.
Want to see something really frightening? A gorilla with a gun.
Other oddly dressed and made-up people were gathered.
A young man in white tie and tails was protesting to a hard-faced Morpho. Kate recognised the Stage Door Jeannot she'd spotted on her first visit to the theatre. His bunch of black flowers was wilting. She gathered he'd slipped backstage in the hope of paying tribute to la belle Berma. Others – more obvious wretches – were sober enough to be terrified. A beldame, dressed as a duchess but smelling like a down-and-out washerwoman. Two thin children, got up in animal costumes – Henriette and Louise, the orphans who'd run away to join the circus. A noseless, one-armed soldier in uniform proudly announced that he was making his third appearance in an après-minuit. Kate guessed such return performances were rare.
Dr Orloff supervised the co-opted, addled or desperate cast.
'Feel free to scream at the top of your lungs,' he said. 'It's a small house, but it takes a lot to fill the auditorium. Our patrons like a good scream. Remember to stay in the limelight. No point bleeding in the dark, is there? You want your moment. If you must beg and plead for mercy, address yourselves to the audience. Our orchestra are blindfolded and callous. Your fellow performers are professionals and will stick to the script.'
'There's a chance for mercy?' asked a young woman in an Aztec headdress.
'Of course not,' said the doctor. 'But the begging, whining and tearing of hair amuses some of the Red Circle. It irritates others, who just want to get on with the procedures. But many are happy to delay their pleasure. Who knows, maybe largesse will be extended to your loved ones if you plead prettily enough. You are here to honour a family obligation, are you not, Nini?'
The sacrificial princess nodded.
'Follow your instincts. I'm sure you'll triumph. And Papa will be saved from disgrace.'
It hadn't occurred to Kate that anyone would deliberately give themselves over to Guignol. Evidently, everything could be bought. This business got more horrible the more she found out.
The beldame sank to her knees, dress pooling around her, and began keening and drooling. Morpho hauled her upright and slapped her silent. Malita stepped in with a cloth and some powder to repair her make-up.
Sultan slung his rifle on his back and climbed a rope into the flyspace above the stage. He was as agile as a natural-born ape.
Could she escape by following him up there? Not in these blasted boots.
Looking up, she saw Sultan crouch on a gangway amid ropes and pulleys. He trained his rifle on the stage and bared his teeth – the big fake choppers in his articulated mask – at her in a grin. An ape-man of many talents – ventriloquist, abductor of women, acrobat, sharp shooter…
So long as Sultan was at his post, there was no point in making a dash for freedom.
Rallying the performers to rebel was not much of a possibility. She couldn't know how many were essentially volunteers, like the Old Soldier and Nini. Most of the obviously co-opted, like Stage Door Jeannot and the Duchess, were in no state to be of any use to her or themselves. The orphans, a fish and a cat, were undernourished.
At this juncture, the best she could hope for was to die knowing the answers.
She put up her hand, as if at a press conference.
'Miss, ah, Reed, isn't it?' Orloff acknowledged. 'How can I help you?'
'Skipping past the obvious business of me not wanting to be in the show, can I at least ask what it's all about?'
'I don't understand. What is what all about?'
'This. The après-minuit, the Red Circle… Your patrons – who I'll bet I could name, by the way – what do they get out of this?'
Dr Orloff looked puzzled. Had no one ever asked before?
'I believe I can enlighten our guest,' said someone from behind her – in a slightly reedy voice.
She turned and saw Georges Du Roy.
The journalist and politician was dressed as if for the opera, from top hat to spats. Jewels sparkled on his fingers and his stickpin. Famously handsome, he had wooed his way through the salons to winkle tit-bits for the gossip column that was the making of him. He had softened in middle-age but retained his smooth skin and watery bright eyes. His moustache was dyed and waxed.
She would have walked past him on the street without noticing – yet, he was the true monster in this case. His pink, plump face was his mask.
With him was Guignol, on a leash and all fours like a hunting dog.
'I confess it,' he said. 'My comrades and I, the brothers of the Red Circle, are addicts. Connoisseurs, certainly. Fastidious, perhaps. Choosy, naturally. But addicts. We want what we want. We must have it. Must. If we can no longer participate, we must watch. It is the great secret delight of all mankind, you know.'
'Murder?'
'You could call it that… but it's so commonplace a term. Murder is brute stuff. One man shoots or stabs another, in a quarrel or for no reason. Even duels, assassinations, factory accidents… they are over too quickly, not savoured, not
enjoyed.'
'This is about Bloody Week?'
Du Roy looked wistful. 'Yes, of course. Some of us had an inkling before then. During the siege of Paris, when the elephants in the zoo were slaughtered for food. Or at school or on the battlefield. We trembled, on the verge of self-understanding. We pursued other gratifications, so much less piquant than those we really needed. It was that glorious shining week, those few precious days, when we truly learned what it was that we must have. It was our revelation. Excess, my dear. Excess! A banquet of killing! An orgy of blood-letting. Murder upon murder! Massacre upon massacre! A refinement of the art!'
Kate saw why Clara Watson had sold her for a Red Circle pass.
'You're just… mad. Rich, and mad. The worst combination.'
Du Roy smiled, showing little rows of sparkling teeth. 'Everyone's a critic.'
'Are you satisfied, Mademoiselle Pomme de Terre?' asked Orloff. 'You've been privileged above any other in being granted an interview with our impresario. An exclusive.'
'I doubt that. What he says sounds rehearsed. I think he's said it all before. He's as bored with it as I was.'
Orloff signalled. Malita slapped Kate.
Kate made fists, then remembered the gorilla with the high-powered rifle.
Du Roy tipped his hat to the performers and retreated, hauling Guignol away. The presiding spirit of the Théâtre des Horreurs was surprisingly quiet. Du Roy handed the leash to Morpho, who grinned and tugged viciously. As the collar went tight, a wheezing came from deep in Guignol's throat – air forced through his swazzle.
So, the monster's position was usurped.
This wasn't Guignol's show any more. This was for the Red Circle.
arranged the cast against the backdrop, as if it were an execution wall. Kate half-expected a blindfold, then realised that would be a mercy. The Red Circle were not disposed to mercy.
Morpho, Malita and Orloff remained onstage. Morpho was stripped to the waist, showing off his battle scars. Malita and Orloff put on butcher's aprons and white coats. The props bench in the wings was piled with hammers, tongs, knives, sickles, gouges, bludgeons and other, unidentifiable instruments of mistreatment. Bottles of poison and acid were also available. A short, round-faced, bald-headed fellow with a permanent smile stood by the table, ready to hand over implements when needed. Very professional.
Kate thought of making a grab for the acid, but knew she'd be cut down. She had no doubt the man in the gorilla suit was an expert marksman. Dying too quickly would spoil the show but she'd still be dead.
The curtains parted and the limelights flared.
Beyond the shimmer, she could make out shapes.
A procession advanced down the aisle, and climbed up a carpeted set of steps to the stage, traversing the invisible barrier between the audience and the drama.
Du Roy escorted a veiled lady in a scarlet hooded cape.
Kate trusted the Red Circle were satisfied with their newest member. She hoped Clara would get bored in a year or two and poison the lot of them. By then, she'd have had opportunity to seduce an intern at the School of Tropical Medicine and secure some new, hideously virulent bacillus for the job. Du Roy wouldn't look so smug with weeping boils erupting all over his face.
The others trooped behind the King and Queen of Horror.
General Assolant was in full uniform, chest sagging with a glittery weight of medals and honours. In this private realm of fantasy, Père de Kern had promoted himself to cardinal. His red robes would have been too grand for Richelieu. His train trailed like a bride's, and was carried by imps – naked children painted red all over and staggering as they began to suffocate. Charles Pradier wore judicial robes and magistrate's hat, adopting the British convention of the black silk handkerchief draped over the top to signify passage of a death sentence. Eugène Mortain sported a tricolour sash over court clothes and had a drunken doxy with him. The fair-haired wench tittered and clucked, marring the solemnity of the occasion. Would she end up taking part in the performance? Blondes were as easy to replace as Maximilian's little yellow birds.
The audience wore red domino masks, for convention rather than disguise.
Attendants in red livery set out chairs on the stage, close to the action. Individual trays for snacks and drinks were bolted to the chair-arms. There was even a folded-up programme placed on each cushion.
Kate would have liked a look at the running order. With pathetic orphan sisters and an Aztec princess in the line-up, she doubted she'd get top billing. The best she could hope for was to be snuffed quickly at the end of Act One. Her corpse would be dragged off for dumping in the sewers while the audience enjoyed an intermission and exchanged opinions about her death scene.
A small group of musicians – blindfolded, as promised – struck up a selection from Carmen.
The audience took their seats.
Mortain's mistress evidently had no idea what she was about to see – she was laughing shrilly and flirting with everyone. The others were intent, quiet, perspiring, eager. Du Roy had a habit of licking his lips like a fat lizard. Assolant gripped the hilt of his sword as if he'd like to draw his weapon and hack randomly at the people in front of him – which, she supposed, he might well do. Watching wouldn't be enough for these people. De Kern had his imps kneel down before him to form a footstool. Pradier counted out little pills from a box and swallowed them, washed down with a swallow from a silver flask.
The surprise was Guignol's role.
The masked man was still on a leash, still held by Morpho. Where once he had been master of the stage, now he was a stooge.
Kate saw blood on Guignol's costume, seeping through. The mask was battered, the nose pushed in, as if he'd taken a bad beating.
Even this close to her death, she was trying to understand.
Was Guignol an unwilling participant in the après-minuit? She saw his eyes were shut, as if he didn't want to look.
Morpho tied Guignol's leash to a post, and kicked him.
The show had started …