Lore - Episode 198: Curtain Call

Episode Date: May 9, 2022

Our love of all things thrilling and dramatic has led to some amazing achievements. But in the very center of that cultural legacy is a story that’s both dark and chilling. And it comes with an encore that seems too strange to be true. Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com ©2022 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved. Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support To advertise on our podcast, please reach out to [e-mail], or visit our listing here.  

Allow me to set the stage for you. It's 1863, America is in the middle of a civil war, Queen Victoria is seated on the throne of England, and the entire English-speaking world is obsessed with melodramatic theater. Washington DC has suffered a fire and undergone some renovations and was celebrating its reopening in August of that year. And on November 10 of 1863, President Abraham Lincoln sat down in a box seat to watch a performance of The Marble Heart, the exact same box seat, by the way, where he'd be shot a year and a half later. During the performance, one of Lincoln's guests named Mary Clay, the daughter of the U.S. minister to Russia, pointed out that the actor playing

the villain was doing a really good job of looking mean, and more than that, he seemed to know his audience well, because every time he recited a line that threatened violence, he looked straight at their box seats. Lincoln was so impressed with the actor that he later invited the man to meet him at the White House. The trouble was that man had no desire to be social with the president, because, and I'm sure you've already guessed this by now, that actor was John Wilkes Booth, the man who would be forever remembered as President Lincoln's assassin. Theater has long been the home of the unexpected. It's a realm where ego and skill are put on full display and where audiences are thrilled by scenes they might never experience anywhere else.

To attend a show is to guarantee a certain amount of surprise and thrill. But there's one truth above all others that's proven itself time and again over the centuries when it comes to those temples of performance and personality. The drama rarely ends, just because the curtain has dropped. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. It's fair to say that most of us have a good understanding of fads. Depending on how long you've been on this planet and what eras you've lived through, you can probably list a few fads that have come and gone. I certainly know that I can. In the Victorian age, it was just the same, but one particular fad had its roots in the economy. You see, Queen Victoria's England was an

economic powerhouse, and its expertise in things like industrialization helped fill the pockets of a lot of people. At first, that was just the wealthiest individuals, but by the middle of the 19th century, more and more middle-class people were benefiting from it too, which is why theaters and music halls really took off in that era. All of a sudden, a good percentage of people could afford to buy a ticket to a show, and by the 1870s, they were a powerful driving force behind the industry. In London, that growth became a place on the map, an area of central London known as the West End. Now, the oldest theater in the West End, the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, had opened long before in 1663, but more and more competition arrived over the years.

Today, there are nearly 40 theaters there, all offering a thrilling experience, but in the late 1800s, all anyone wanted was melodrama. These were plays that had outrageous plots where some villainous individual ruined the life of the heroine and then everything is set right through a series of unbelievable scenes. In a lot of ways, the audience always knew what they were going to get, but that's why they bought the tickets. They wanted the thrill, and they wanted to see the stars perform. Stars. Like William Terrace. He was actually born William Lewin, right there in London in 1847. His father passed away when he was just 10, although not that his educational situation changed much. He'd been in boarding schools

already and continued to attend them all the way into his teens, but he always had an underlying attitude of dissatisfaction, as if he wanted more from life but wasn't really interested in working for it. After inheriting a good chunk of change from his uncle at the age of 17, William frivolously spent it all and then tried hanging around with his older brothers to see what he could mooch off them. One was a commissioner in India, but I think the manual labor of his tea plantation might have frightened William off. Back in England, he next visited with his other brother, who was a surgeon. That was more to his liking, I think. William loved to stand near successful people, hoping their wealth and power would rub off on him. But with no real interest in becoming

a physician himself, he eventually went on his way. He found theatre at the age of 21, and it was love at first sight. He changed his name for the stage. William Lewin became William Terrace and went on to build a powerful career, although it wasn't without its ups and downs. Early on, he actually left theatre work to start a family with his wife Isabel, first trying to raise horses in the Falkland Islands and then the American state of Kentucky, but the stage lured him back. When he returned in 1873, he was fully committed, and that dedication paid off. For more than 20 years, he would thrill audiences, travel the world, and work with other amazing performers. One longtime partner was Jesse Millward,

an English actress 14 years younger than him. And of course, their long run of performances opposite of each other generated all sorts of rumors, none of which seemed to be true. By the 1890s, William was the star of the stage in England. He took a better offer from the Adelphi Theatre and Jesse joined him there. Everyone in the country knew his name, and everyone wanted to see him perform. It didn't matter what the play was, or what role he had been cast in, they just wanted William Terrace. But it's lonely at the top. Some say there's safety in numbers, that it's safer to hide in a crowd. So logically, sitting at the pinnacle of his profession made William an easy target.

But one cold December night in 1897, that danger made itself known. And it gave new meaning to that age-old phrase, a shooting star. It was supposed to be just another day in the life of a superstar. William Terrace was set to take the stage on the night of December 17th in the role of Captain Thorn, a spy caught up in the middle of the American Civil War. And ticket holders were eager to see another thrilling performance. He spent the majority of that day on personal errands. He visited the hospital to see his daughter who was recovering from a medical emergency and brought his son-in-law, Seymour Hicks, along for the trip. After that, they picked up another

friend, John Graves, and the three men headed to the Green Room Club, located near the Adelphi Theatre. At 7pm, after a few hours of card games, food, drinks, and even a short nap, William, John, and Seymour all grabbed their coats and headed out. Their destination was a private side door located on Maiden Lane, a door that only two people had keys to, the Theatre's manager, and William Terrace. William pulled out his key and stooped low to push it into the lock. As he did, though, a shape rushed across the dark street and seemed to roughly pat the actor on his back a couple of times. William turned to see who it was and was patted once again on the chest, and then the figure dashed away. But those pats weren't claps of appreciation from a fan.

They were the stabbing motions of a hand that wielded a sharp knife. In an instant, William went down to the pavement, blood covering his clothing. And while his son-in-law stayed with him, John Graves headed after the attacker, who was caught easily enough and within moments. That man's name was Richard Archer Prince. He was a desperate actor who had fallen on hard times, and he was convinced that every setback he had experienced was the direct result of the actions of William Terrace. And yes, it is true that a few years before, Prince had made Terrace feel so uncomfortable that the star had asked the Theatre manager to never cast them together. But he certainly never blacklisted him. In fact, when Terrace later found

out about Prince's struggles, he made a number of donations to the actor's benevolent fund that were earmarked specifically for Prince. Basically, the anonymous charity Prince had come to depend on had been coming directly from the man he believed was out to ruin him. And that's why he brought a knife to the side door of the Theatre that night. William, meanwhile, had been carried inside by Seymour, and doctors had been called. As they all waited, Jesse Millward, his co-star of a dozen years, knelt beside him and held his hand. Cis, he said to her, I've been stabbed. For a while, his eyes fluttered shut. But a moment later, they opened again, and he squeezed her hand one final time. Cis, he whispered. And then he was gone. William Terrace, one of the

brightest stars of the Victorian stage, was dead at 50, murdered in the very place he felt the most at home. But as everyone likes to say, the show must go on. Just not in the way you might imagine. The nation mourned. William Terrace had been a big deal, and everyone was feeling that dark weight of loss. And that included Queen Victoria, who wrote a letter to William's widow to offer her condolences and kind words. His burial took place at the cemetery in West Brompton, and while it was meant to be a somber occasion, there was no way William's celebrity status was going to let that happen. It was reported that nearly 50,000 people swarmed the burial to pay their respects. But it wasn't the end of his story. At first, it was the trial of Richard

Archer Prince that took over the headlines. Prince was found guilty, but rather than prison or execution, he was sentenced to the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, where he lived out the rest of his life chasing glory as the conductor of the inmate orchestra. He passed away there in 1936. But William Terrace is apparently still with us. In 1927, a man by the name of Leonard Francis attended a meeting of the Ghost Club, a social club that had been formed in 1882 to give people a safe place to report ghostly encounters. And he brought with him a story. It seems that in December of 1926, he had received a visit from a spectral figure that he described as a middle-aged man, clean-shaven, and professionally dressed. And this figure apparently spoke to him.

I am William Lewin, it said. I was stabbed at the Adelphi Theater, and I cannot rest. He had more visitations from the Ghost in January of 1927, which prompted his trip to the Ghost Club. As a way of following up on the story, one of the group's members, a man by the name of Saunders, visited a medium looking for help. After being told to pray for the soul of William Terrace, the visitations stopped. Before a while, at least. In 1955, a number of unusual sightings occurred at the Covent Garden Station of the London Underground. Now, if you know the history of that area, you might find it odd for the ghost of a man to appear in a tube station that was built a decade after his murder. But it seems that William Terrace's favorite bakery once stood on that spot.

So, maybe we can blame this one on the scones. It was a ticket taker by the name of Jack, who first spotted the stranger in the station that November night in 1955. Jack described the man as middle-aged, clean-shaven, and professionally dressed in old-fashioned clothing. He also mentioned that the man looked sad. And because this mysterious man had appeared inside the gate in the middle of the night, Jack assumed that he'd been locked in and needed to be let out. But after looking away to find his key and unlock the gate, the figure had vanished. Less than a week later, though, the man was back. Jack reported that the same figure in an old-fashioned suit approached him in the middle of a busy station. Jack even asked the man if he needed

to find the cloakroom, but the figure just walked on by and disappeared into the crowd. A few days after that odd encounter, Jack was eating his lunch in the mess room when he heard screaming. A moment later, a young worker named Victor burst into the room, claiming to have seen a ghost. His description? Middle-aged, clean-shaven, and dressed in an old-fashioned suit. Of course. Finally, their foreman Eric Davy got involved when he spotted the ghost for himself a few days later. Instead of describing the mystery man with words, though, Davy opted for having a drawing made, sort of like those suspect sketches on a police drama. After showing the drawing to a newspaper, they brought out a number of photographs to compare them to, and the picture Davy pointed

to as a match, a photo of William Terrace. Humans have loved drama for a very long time, so long, in fact, that our ancestors invented a home for it, a place where everyone could show up and watch the story unfold. Thanks to theater, we have a place to be entertained. With the glow of the stage, of course, comes the stars, performers who wowed and thrilled everyone who paid for a moment of escape. But it's always good to remember that the drama never truly ended when the show was over, and in a world of fear and tragedy, actors ranked right up there with sailors as some of the most superstitious in the world. Why? Well, maybe it's because props could malfunction, set pieces could fall over, and fire could spread quickly if a candle or lamp

were kicked over. Naturally, those who have worked in theaters over the years have built up a whole catalog of common beliefs. You've probably heard the most common one before, that uttering the name of Shakespeare's legendary play Macbeth inside a theater is bad luck. Scholars aren't sure where it started, but many performers still defend this belief with a passion. There are a lot of little things too, mostly centered around bad luck. Never bring a peacock feather on stage, or a mirror, or say, good luck because all of those things are seen as bad omens. Don't whistle backstage, don't give a performer flowers before a show, and please, do your best to avoid flames on stage. My personal favorite, though, is the ghostlight. It's a common practice to leave a lamp lit overnight,

every night of the year, to do two things. Practically, it helps anyone who wanders on stage see their way, but it's also said to ward off the ghosts who might haunt the theater and bother those who work there. Having performed in dozens of theaters around the country myself, I have seen with my own eyes just how prevalent and alive this tradition still is. For William Terrace's longtime co-star Jesse Millward, one of the traditions she found comfort in was the sound of William knocking twice on the side door. Because he was the only one other than the manager to have a key to that door, she always knew when he'd arrived. It had become a reassuring sound, a cue she could hear from her dressing room. In 1928, many years after

William's murder, another actress was using Jesse's dressing room. She was sleeping in there between two performances, stretched out on a couch to rest her feet, when all of a sudden, a sensation woke her up. It felt as if the entire room were being rocked by an earthquake. Before she could get up to see what was happening, she felt two invisible hands grip her arms, pinning her down to the couch and shaking her. For a moment, she felt convinced that she was about to die, but suddenly, the hands let go and the room fell silent once more. What stopped it? Well, she reported that everything came to an end the moment a sound echoed from the theater's nearby side door. The sound of two firm knocks.

Clearly, this stage is home to a lot of drama. Most of the time, that's a very good thing. All one has to do is sit through a showing of Hamilton or Wicked to know just how moving that ancient art can still be. But the buildings where they take place are filled with more than just applause and curtain calls. In fact, if we pay a visit to London's oldest, we can find all manner of chilly tales. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear some of my favorites. There's a lot that a building can hide, and the older the structure, the easier that can be. For the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane, though, that doesn't even begin to scratch the surface,

because what we can see today is simply the latest chapter in a book that was begun nearly 350 years ago. The first Theatre Royal was built in 1663. It was impressive in its day, too, with three floors of seating that could hold over 700 people. Back then, it was known as the Theatre Royal in Bridges Street, because it was built in the large space between Bridges Street and Drury Lane. But like a lot of buildings that had been around for a while, it had other names as well. Most famously, it was the King's Playhouse, because King Charles was a regular visitor. The first iteration of the Theatre was a bit rough. It was more of an open-air amphitheater, though, because the audience area had no roof.

Because of that, shows began around 3 in the afternoon to allow for better lighting. But they also used a good number of candles, and when your building is made of wood, that's a deadly combination, which is why, in 1672, the place burned to the ground. The second iteration of the Theatre was designed by Christopher Wren, the renowned architect behind St. Paul's Cathedral and many other churches in London. This version had a ceiling for the audience's to sit beneath, which made performances there much more palatable. But it was built on the foundation of the original structure, and continued to grow after it was completed, with revisions and additional space being added

over the years. And it had a good run, too. But a little over a century later, in 1791, Wren's version of the Theatre was torn down so that a new, larger building could take its place. Three years after that, it opened its doors. But it wouldn't last long. Just 15 years after opening night, another fire consumed the building, and everything inside it. The fourth and final generation of the Theatre opened up in 1812, and that's the version you can still see today. Like all the others, it still sits atop the original 1663 foundation, and beneath its modern structure is a labyrinth of ancient tunnels and staircases. But even above ground, the past seems to have refused to fade away.

There are reports from numerous people, both visitors and theatre staff, who claim that the lower levels of the Theatre are filled with unusual sounds, cold spots, and the occasional vision of ghostly figures. Some performers have even encountered other worldly visitors just offstage in the middle of live performances, and many of the sightings have been associated with one man. Charles Macklin was an actor who spent a good amount of his career at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. Born in 1690 in Dublin, he was involved in all aspects of the Theatre arts, from playwriting to acting, although it was never smooth sailing for him. It seems that he was a tough man to

get along with, and had more than one legal battle with management over his contract. Those that admired him did so mostly for his performance in the role of Shylock in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. But his most memorable act was an offstage argument over a bit of wardrobe. In 1735, Macklin was getting ready for a performance when he noticed that his wig was missing. It said that he tracked it down in the possession of another actor, a man named Thomas Hallam, and Hallam denied stealing it. After their disagreement escalated to shouting, Macklin is rumored to have cried out, damn you, you black guard scrub and scoundrel, before grabbing his walking cane and driving it straight through Hallam's eye and into his brain.

And naturally, Macklin was taken into custody, and when Hallam died a few days later, he was brought to court on the charge of murder. Thankfully, his attack had taken place in front of a crowd of people, and they vouched for his immediate remorse. But rather than hire a lawyer to defend him, Macklin did the job himself, and miraculously walked away with only a charge of manslaughter, and a sentence of branding on the hand. Macklin, though, carried on, despite his new reputation as a violent, angry man. He would work at the theater for another 13 years before moving on. He taught acting, buried his first wife, married another, and patiently lived out his remaining years, finally passing away in 1797 at the reputed age of 107 years old.

But some people think he's still around. Many performers at the theater royal have seen the figure of a man dressed in gray with a white shirt and a powdered wig, walking through the back hallways of the building. They call him the man in gray, and he's never been shy. During the 1939 run of the dancing years, for example, cast members spotted him backstage, as did countless others in the years that followed. Most of the time, the man in gray is seated on the upper level, only to stand up and walk toward a particular spot on the wall before vanishing through it. But there are some who don't think that the man in gray is Charles Macklin. After all, Macklin didn't die inside the theater, but others did, as one discovery in the 1840s

suggests. It said that during renovations to the theater at that time, the wall of the upper level was opened up to install new plumbing, only to reveal a horrifying sight. There, trapped inside the wall behind the plaster dust and fragments of wood, was the skeletal remains of a man, a man who still had the knife that killed him embedded in his chest. But more frightening than that is where those grisly remains were discovered, the very same spot on the wall where the man in gray always disappears. This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Megan DeRosh and music by Chad Lawson. Lore is much more than just a podcast. There's a book series

available in bookstores and online, and two seasons of the television show on Amazon Prime Video. Check them both out if you want more lore in your life. I also make and executive produce a whole bunch of other podcasts, all of which I think you'd enjoy. My production company, Grim and Mild, specializes in shows that sit at the intersection of the dark and the historical. You can learn more about all of those shows and everything else going on over in one central place, grimandmild.com. And you can also follow this show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Just search for Lore podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button. And when you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.