Wulf the Saxon: A Story of the Norman Conquest by G. A. Henty (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

and off one by one. A fog machine added to the effect. A number of stagehands were asking the person on the podium if everything was okay, and he knew from the replies that it could only be one person behind the breathtaking make-up.

Even Gardener – who was by no means a film buff – knew that Corndell had recreated the character Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

The attention to detail was fascinating, hypnotic. His nose was shaped like a tetrahedron, a sort of four-sided triangular pyramid, with a mouth arched like a horseshoe. Corndell’s left eye was pushed upwards, and his eyebrow had bristles like those of a carrot. The right eye was buried behind a tumour. He had irregular teeth like the battlements of a fortress, and a horny lip over which the teeth protruded like a walrus tusk. His head was covered with red bristles, and between his shoulders he had a hell of a hump. How he had balanced it, Gardener had no idea. His legs were so strangely positioned that they only touched at the knees, as if they had been broken in order to achieve the effect.

He wore a dark grey three-quarter smock that must have been laid on a warehouse floor for the last ten years, and a tight pair of black leggings for which Gardener was sure Corndell had used padding. No one on earth could have legs like that. The whole effect was neatly finished with Corndell trussed up and held firm to the podium by chains that appeared to be real, but were surely not.

Suddenly, as if in slow motion, Corndell turned his head, spotting Gardener. Despite the intense amount of make-up, Gardener detected an expression of pure rage on Corndell’s face. His remaining eye widened and nearly popped out of its socket.

“Would you please remove that man from this stage? Now!” he whispered, but still managed to make it sound like he was shouting.

“Now, now, Mr Corndell, that’s no way to treat an old friend.”

“If you were my friend, Mr Gardener, you wouldn’t be here. I will not give you any further instructions other than either leave the stage now, or the whole show is cancelled.”

“If that’s what you want,” replied Gardener.

Martin Brown appeared at Gardener’s side. “Can I ask you what the hell you think you’re doing?”

“I told you. I came to see an old friend.”

“You don’t look like a friend from where I’m standing. Now you either leave or I’ll call the police and have you removed officially!”

“Okay.” Gardener raised his hands. As he was about to leave, he turned. “Oh, Corndell, by the way...”

The Hunchback glanced in his direction but didn’t speak.

“Good luck,” shouted Gardener. He didn’t wait for a reply.

As he passed the curtain in front of the stage, he could hear the commotion he had caused. Corndell was quite clearly distressed and Martin Brown was doing his best to reassure him that everything was fine and that they really had to continue with tonight’s performance. Gardener doubted very much that it would be cancelled now, what with Corndell already chained up, but it may well be delayed.

One thing was certain: Corndell’s excellent use of make-up had only confirmed his suspicions about who their killer could be. Gardener joined Reilly back in his seat, removing his hat.

“How did it go?” asked the Irishman.

“Let’s see, shall we.”

“You didn’t upset him, did you?” asked Reilly, smirking.

“Would I?”

The main hall lights dimmed and the background music died. The lighting creating the eerie vampire effect on the black curtains diminished and eventually they were lifted, leaving the red velvet drapes and a silhouette of the Hunchback. The entire stage lighting petered out, leaving the whole theatre in darkness.

The tension was electric. People spoke in hushed whispers, and he could see that most of them struggled to contain their excitement. The drapes opened, followed by the hiss of fog machines and a blast of the white mist. The speakers roared into life, and despite the fact that he’d been ready for something to happen, the sound still startled him and half the audience. He did not recognise the piece of music, but figured it would feature in one of the film versions of the character Corndell was playing.

At that moment, Gardener was beginning to believe there was a possibility that Corndell really could act; perhaps he had been a big name in the theatre, had done all the things he’d professed. The effect was certainly dazzling.

All four strobe lights lit up, each one of the beams directed at Corndell. Even with his head bowed and the chains in place, he still managed to send a ripple of fear around the audience.

The music grew in volume and intensity, and as it reached a crescendo, died instantly. In that moment, Corndell raised his head and screamed, breaking the chains, launching them across the stage. He raised his hands, which were now free, and glared directly into the audience, more so towards Gardener. Or so it felt.

Until that point, the show was as professional as any he’d seen. What came next blew those thoughts completely.

Whether it was Corndell’s fault or the podium on which he was standing, Gardener didn’t know, but the whole thing completely overbalanced and Corndell fell forwards. He hit the stage with a thud and rolled over, crashing into one of the monitors at the front. Despite the sound created by the pandemonium, the word “Bollocks!” was very prominent. But for that, no one would really have known whether the slip was part of the show or not.

Corndell was quickly on his feet, and the whole audience erupted into raucous laughter. Students rolled about in the aisles and laughed and pointed at the pathetic figure on the stage.

Gardener stifled a smile, but that was wiped from his face when Corndell