The first three pages of my new short story titled Lilly Alise

Lilly Alise was an actress who insisted on performing only after sunset. No afternoon matinees, no daytime rehearsals, no mid-afternoon publicity appearances, were ever scheduled for a production in which she appeared. Even with this almost impossible demand, she continued to be cast at the Royal Haymarket and the Lyceum; the two most fashionable stages in London at the time. Shakespeare classics were her specialty, and, on occasion, she appeared in a modern drama. Her most popular role was that of Georgina, in the beloved comedy The Merry Maiden.

Miss Alise was beautiful, exceedingly talented, and remarkably pale, with lips and hair the colour of ripe cherries. No one knew from whence she came or when she first arrived in London. No one knew the true source of Miss Alise’s fortune either, yet she lived with the ease of royalty and always gave generously to her favorite charities.

Before Her Majesty went into mourning for her beloved Prince Albert, Miss Alise’s portrayal of Ophelia in the Haymarket’s production of Hamlet had become her favourite. In the summer of 1861, after the prince had fallen ill, the royal couple had even commanded a private performance.

Yet, as skilled as she was at playing young Ophelia, Miss Alise could easily embody Hecate the witch, or Lady MacBeth, or Desdemona, with an almost unnatural grace. When audiences wondered how she became the character so completely, the transformation in her features was explained to be expert stage make up.

Backstage the explanation did not sit so easily. The make-up men knew otherwise and were unsettled by her changes. She quieted their fears with a gift of two shillings every evening, compensating for her lack of need to create the illusion.

Miss Alise lived close to Highgate cemetery, in a mansion made of brick, faced with Portland stone. Her courtyard garden contained strange flowers and plants. Brought over from some obscure corner of Ireland a few speculated, maybe from the Burren. Others thought they were eastern European. Things that bloomed black petals or opened their faces only at night. Some devoured insects or small bits of meat, hand fed to them by her house servant, a pretty, blonde-haired young woman who deserted Miss Nightingale’s school of nursing, to work for Miss Alise. Her name was Klara.

One evening, when Miss Alise rose from her bed and dusted sleep from her amber colored eyes, she decided to go for a midnight walk. Miss Alise had an unusual schedule. She slept the day away and woke after the sun set. When she was not on stage for an evening program, Miss Alise spent the night in the discharge of her affairs using the moon and gaslight as her only source of illumination. Many times, she took strolls among the gravestones close by, in Highgate cemetery.

 This night, she called for Klara to accompany her and together, they walked the cobbled streets to the dark cemetery. As they passed along the shaded path, they came upon a man with a lantern sitting on a wagon, parked next to a fresh gravesite.

They hid behind a large gravestone and watched in silence as the man threw a shovel off his wagon, jumped down after it, dug up the coffin, opened it, and drew forth the body. He rolled the unfortunate corpse up into a rug and heaved it upon the back of his wagon. He cast a thick tarpaulin over the body then returned to the grave, closed the coffin, and replaced the earth. Lastly, he guided his horse and wagon out of a side-gate. One that was seldom used.

The two women waited until the wagon was out of sight before they dared to speak.

Lilly Alise exclaimed, “A grave robber. A body snatcher.”

“And one that is known, madam,” Klara replied. “That graverobber has the face of Anthony Tidkins.”

Miss Alise was aware of the stories of Tidkins’ crimes. She knew Klara was right.

“I’ve seen Tidkins’ face on wanted bills,” Klara said, “and in the papers this many a week. Among his crimes, he’s wanted for killing Catherine Taylor, that female detective in disguise, who was married to the Chief of Police.”

“Klara,” Miss Alise said, in a low voice. “You must report that we’ve seen him to the constabulary.”

The next day, Klara rode in her mistress’s carriage to Scotland Yard, as was instructed. Miss Alise had excused herself from traveling with Klara. She told her faithful servant that she did not care to change her daily routine of being asleep during sunshine hours and she did not want her name connected in any way.

The transport was a polished black Brougham. The elderly coachman named Nelson, sat rigidly upon the box. Klara had never heard him speak more than one or two words. The horse that drew them was a magnificent beast of the unusual color of grey, which appeared to glow like the silver moon, in certain light.

Klara had taken the Brougham before and knew all she had to do was to speak her destination to Nelson, in a respectful tone and he would nod once and take her there.

Nelson was getting weak and weary though, she could tell. How long he had worked for Miss Alise was a mystery, but she knew he’d been there long before she came to the manor