Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  There was a tap at the door, and when it opened my heart skipped a beat. Jenny came in and bobbed a curtsey. She caught my eye and blushed but addressed herself to Mr. Irving.

  “Mrs. Cooke asks if you would like tea served, sir?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” responded the Guv’nor, glancing at the rest of us. We all nodded our heads. “We might as well make this as painless as we may.” We all laughed dutifully, though I noticed that the colonel did not join in. “Bring it in about twenty minutes please, Jenny.”

  Jenny bobbed another curtsey, risked a quick half smile in my direction, and went out, closing the door behind her.

  “Now then,” said Irving. “I thank you all for coming. As you know we have a play to put on in just six weeks. A tight schedule but one that we have all dealt with before, I am sure. Happily all the principals are thoroughly familiar with the piece.”

  “If I may interject, Henry?” said Booth. “Although this is not a great problem for us actors, I do wonder about your stage staff? That is not a great deal of time to construct the sets. Of course, you know of what your people are capable better than I do, but . . .” He left the sentence hanging.

  “Mr. Booth is accustomed to the very best in stage settings,” added the colonel. “He would not want any slipshod . . .”

  I couldn’t let that go, and apparently neither could Mr. Stoker. He broke in, beating me to it. “The word ‘slipshod’ is not in the Lyceum’s vocabulary, Colonel Cornell. I don’t know to what standards the American theatre holds . . .”

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” The Guv’nor held up his hands. “Please. Let us not get off on the wrong foot. I am sure we all want nothing but the best, and it is to that end that the Lyceum is dedicated.” He spoke to Mr. Booth, more or less ignoring the colonel, a fact that I know my boss recognized. The colonel looked annoyed but contented himself with harrumphing, which we all disregarded.

  “We did both approve the set designs a week or so ago, Edwin, I am sure you recall,” continued the Guv’nor. “You may now put any concerns regarding that aspect of the production out of your mind. Let us concentrate on our part in all of this. We are here to draw up a schedule for rehearsals. We have merely to bear in mind that our present production of Hamlet has the usual two matinees a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays, so we must work around those. The run will terminate with the evening performance on the twenty-third of April, so we will have a full week for stage set and dress rehearsals before opening night on the second of May.”

  “You have not had very good preproduction publicity, if I may say so,” put in the colonel, glaring at Mr. Stoker.

  “You are referring to the murder of one of our girls?” Mr. Irving sounded annoyed that the subject should have been brought up.

  “Indeed I am,” responded Cornell. “Not an ideal thing to focus on just before a new production, I would think.”

  “Othello is, as I have just pointed out, six weeks away, so this unfortunate affair is hardly a preproduction focus, would you say, Edwin?” The Guv’nor’s speech was clipped.

  Mr. Booth looked uncomfortable. I got the impression that he allowed his manager to manage not only his theatre life but much of his private life as well. “No. No, you are right, Henry. But it was most certainly unfortunate.”

  “As is any murder,” I couldn’t help saying.

  “The police are on top of it,” said Mr. Stoker. He turned to the colonel. “By the way, Colonel, when was it exactly that you and Mr. Booth arrived here in England? I was just trying to remember.”

  “The first of February,” came the response.

  “That’s when we got to London,” corrected Booth. “We actually docked at Liverpool the morning of the day before, but Wilberforce insisted we take a day to recuperate from the voyage and not proceed here right away.”

  “Very wise,” said the Guv’nor. “I would need more than a day myself, to recover from such a long ocean voyage.”

  “Especially since we were two days late in docking,” said Booth. “They said it was one of the roughest crossings in years.”

  “I understand it has been a very bad winter for the transatlantic trade,” observed Mr. Stoker.

  “Most of December and all of January,” agreed the American. “I tell you, I was not sorry to reach Liverpool.”

  We were interrupted by Jenny and Susan, the other maid, bringing in the tea. They poured and distributed the cups, together with an assortment of delicate sandwiches and petit fours, before retiring again. The atmosphere seemed to ease with the tea, until the colonel commented on a preference for coffee. However, he then declined any change in what was before him. I noticed that the Guv’nor’s mouth was unnaturally tightly drawn, and I heard Mr. Stoker sigh.

  From then on we seemed to make headway, and a little over an hour or so later the meeting broke up. Timmy was sent out to call up hansoms, and I soon found myself sharing a cab with my boss, rattling over the streets on our way back to the theatre.

  “What did you make of our American cousins?” Stoker enquired.

  I hesitated.

  “Be honest, Harry,” he added.

  I took a deep breath. “Well, sir . . . I think I liked Mr. Booth. He seemed to be all business, which as we know is what the Guv’nor appreciates. But as for his manager . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  Stoker chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “He does rather take some getting used to, does he not? I don’t know if this is typical of American businessmen, but he has an eye for details.”

  “And he certainly looks out for Mr. Booth.”

  “He does that, Harry. But then, that is his job.”

  We continued in silence for a while, and then I had a thought.

  “Oh, by the way, sir. I had an unexpected encounter at lunchtime, just before our meeting.” I went on to tell him about Bartholomew Nugent.

  “That man is poison,” said Stoker. “I thought he’d been put away for longer than this.”

  “He certainly should have been,” I said. “And I don’t know how he knew about Nell Burton. The man is illiterate, so he could not have read about it. And what business is it of his, anyway?”

  “Keep an eye out for him, Harry. Keep an eye out.”

  * * *

  Two days later I was accosted by Billy Weston, as soon as I entered the theatre.

  “Mr. Rivers, sir. Might I ’ave a word?”

  “Yes, of course, Billy. How are you holding up? Everything all right?”

  “Well, yes, sir, and no, sir, as it were.” He looked uncomfortable. “It’s summat I found out about Nell.”

  “Something about Nell? The police . . .”

  “No, sir. Nuffin’ the police ’as to know. Not yet, anyway.”

  We were standing outside my office. I beckoned him inside. Open as it was, it was still a little more private than standing in the passageway with stagehands and actors squeezing past all the time.

  “Here. Sit down, Billy. Tell me all about it.”

  He perched on the edge of the chair and scratched the top of his head. He made a face as though uncertain of what he was doing and then tugged on his ear. “There’s this . . . this Ben Gossett.” He paused.

  I was puzzled. I knew of no one by that name associated with the Lyceum. I was about to ask who he was, but Billy suddenly continued, the whole story pouring out at once.

  “It seems as ’ow Nell ’ad this ’ere ‘young man’ when she lived up north. Not to really be steppin’ out wif ’im, like, but just to know. She told me about ’im once. Nufink special, she says. I fink ’e lived next door to ’er, there in Derby. ’E was a bit older than ’er. Anyway, ’e suddenly turned up ’ere and ’e said as ’ow they ’ad been goin’ to get married, but then she got bitten by the playacting bug and took off for London. Of course, she’d done a bit of that stuff at the Nottingham Royal, but nothin’ real seri
ous like.”

  “Whoa! Slow down, Billy,” I said. “You are saying that this Ben Gossett claims he was engaged to Nell before she came here?”

  “’Sright, accordin’ to ’im! But she weren’t never engaged to ’im, neither. She was frightened of ’im.”

  “She told you this?”

  “Hoh yes! She said as ’ow ’e ’ad threatened ’er. Said as ’ow if ’e couldn’t ’ave ’er then no one could!”

  This sounded serious. Serious enough that I thought perhaps Inspector Bellamy should know of it. “What is he doing here?” I asked. “You have seen him, I take it?”

  “You might say that.” Billy scowled. “’E grabbed me by the coattails as I come out of the Red Lion one night, and waved ’is fist in my face.”

  “This was before Nell . . . before she was . . .”

  “Afore she was done for, Mr. Rivers, sir. Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know this earlier?” I asked.

  “Never thought no never mind. Jus’ ’im blowin’ steam, I thought. It was a week or more afore what ’appened. Then I kinda forgot all about ’im what wif Nell gettin’ . . . you know.”

  “Yes. Of course,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Is he still about? Still in the area?”

  Billy shrugged. “Dunno. Ain’t seen ’im since then. I just suddenly thought of ’im and ’ad to tell you. You know, just in case, like?”

  I knew exactly what he meant. “I’m glad you did, Billy. Let me speak to Mr. Stoker, and then I think it might be a good idea to let the police know.” Billy started to protest, but I stopped him. “No. This is important, Billy. Let’s see what Mr. Stoker has to say. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  * * *

  Inspector Bellamy dropped a brown paper–wrapped package onto Abraham Stoker’s desk. My boss looked at it then up at the policeman.

  “And this is . . . ?”

  “The two robes, Mr. Stoker. One white; one black. Both heavily bloodstained. You did say that your costume lady might be able to help.”

  “Miss Connelly. Yes. Our wardrobe mistress. Harry, would you get these to her right away, please? Meanwhile, I will apprise the inspector of this recent turn of events you learned from Billy Weston.”

  I took the package and went backstage and downstairs. Next to the greenroom, in Wardrobe, I found Miss Connelly in her usual position behind the very latest sewing machine. As always, she was surrounded by yards of fabric, ribbons, lace, reels of thread, balls of wool, and assorted shears, tape measures, chalk, pins, needles, and all the many accoutrements of the theatre costumier.

  “What have we here, Mr. Rivers?” she asked, peering at me over the rims of her pince-nez spectacles.

  I explained. “Mr. Stoker thought that maybe if you examined these robes—and we do apologize for the condition in which you will find them—you might be able to make a guess as to who it was who made them. Or where they came from. One was worn by Miss Nell Burton. Perhaps you can tell if they both were made by the same person? Or were they made for some production that we might be able to pinpoint?”

  She drew the package to her and began untying the string. “One was worn by our Nell, you say?”

  I nodded.

  “So sad,” she said quietly, and sighed. “Well, if I can help bring her killer to justice, Mr. Rivers, it will be as much as I can hope for.”

  She stood up and cleared a space on the big wooden worktable. Drawing out the two robes, she pushed the bulk of each away temporarily so that she could examine the bottom hems. She pursed her lips and nodded.

  “Yes. Handmade and no mistake. Nice stitchwork. Flesh basting.”

  “Were they both made by the same person?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. No doubt about that, Mr. Rivers, sir. Now let me think. I know this diagonal stitching.” She squinted up at the gas mantle above her head, her brow wrinkled, slowly shaking her head. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to me, her eyes bright behind the lenses. “Old Penelope Proctor!” she cried. “As I live and breathe, I’d know her stitching anywhere. Lor’ but I thought she was dead and gone these many years.”

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “Knew her,” she corrected me. “She was wardrobe mistress at the old Elephant and Castle Theatre a lifetime ago. I worked there with her for a brief period before I went on to the Princess’s and then from there to here at the Lyceum. Last I heard she had retired.”

  “But both these robes were made by her?”

  “I’d swear to it,” said Miss Connelly. “She did this fine fore-stitching on her hems. No one else would take the time, especially since it was for stage work. But she was proud of it. And so she should be. Beautiful work it was.”

  I reported the identification to Mr. Stoker. “Should I let the inspector know?” I asked.

  He did not even pause to consider. “No, Harry. Not right away, I don’t think. Plenty of time yet. We don’t want to interfere with Inspector Bellamy’s questioning of the staff. I think that perhaps we can first investigate a little further ourselves . . . just so that we will be able to present him with a more complete picture, of course.”

  “Of course, sir,” I said, a smile creeping across my face. “So you want me to follow up on this and track down Miss Penelope Proctor?”

  “You are very good at mind reading, Harry. You should be on the stage.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Yes. Pop down to the Elephant and Castle and start there. You know the way, as I recall.”

  It was little more than a month ago that I had visited that theatre trying to trace an elderly actress who had thoughts of blackmailing the Guv’nor, so it was a strange sensation when I once again boarded the light green omnibus and paid my fourpence fare. Alighting at the Elephant and Castle Hostelry, I hurried around the corner, tugging my topcoat close about me as a cold gust of wind blew down the New Kent Road as though aiming directly for the old theatre.

  The theatre had been badly damaged in a fire some three years ago and still awaited repairs and renovations. I pushed past the unlocked stage door, sagging on its hinges, and found my way to the manager’s office.

  “Hello! Ain’t I seen you afore?” The little figure, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, no jacket but sporting a bowler hat, looked up from where he sat behind a well-worn desk, covered with papers. His striped shirt looked clean but it was minus the collar. His sleeves, as the last time I encountered him, were pulled back with black armbands. Most of the papers on the desk, from where I stood, looked to be unpaid bills. He made no attempt to hide them. “Don’t tell me,” he continued, pausing to chew thoughtfully on his straggly mustache. “Ain’t you the gent from the Sadler’s Wells?”

  “The Lyceum,” I said.

  “That’s right. You was here after one of our young ladies.”

  “Enquiring,” I said. “And she was far from young!”

  “Oh yes.” His face broke out in a grin. “Our Miss Daisy Middleton. I remember. Is that who you want this time?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Don’t blame you. Anyway, she’s moved on. Given up treading the boards and is now treading the pavement full-time, if’n you take my meaning.”

  I decided to come straight to the point. “I have been led to believe that you have, or had, a wardrobe mistress named Miss Penelope Proctor?”

  “Mrs. Proctor.” He stressed the title. “She never liked to be called Miss, though I came to find out that she’d never actually been married. Just thought it made her sound more distinguished or something, I think.”

  I nodded. “Is she still employed here?”

  “Lor’ no! She retired a goodly time ago. Just afore the fire, I think it was. Good thing, too, if you ask me.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Well, it was the wardrobe room where the fire started, wasn’t it?”

  I shrugged my s
houlders. I had no idea. “So do you know where she is now?” I asked.

  “She was always talking about buying a nice little cottage down at Margate or Ramsgate or one of them seaside places. A lot of old actors and theatre folks do that, as I’m sure you know. But it weren’t to be for old Mrs. Proctor.”

  “Oh?” I was beginning to feel the effort of drawing out all these facts and wanted to get to the final curtain, as it were.

  “No. Had a nephew what ran off with her savings, poor old dear. She had to start taking in sewing work to makes ends meet.”

  “Could she not have come back here?” I asked, even though I knew I was prolonging the story.

  “We’d already filled her place, hadn’t we?”

  I wished he wouldn’t keep asking me questions like that. I sighed. “So where is she now?” I asked.

  “Newington Butts, or just off it.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “There’s a graveyard alongside Newington Butts, just south of here. Mrs. Proctor is planted there.”

  “She’s dead?”

  He laughed. “I hope so. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay with the gravediggers!” He laughed at his joke.

  I moved forward and slapped my hand down hard on his desk. He looked startled.

  “This is no laughing matter. When did she die?”

  “All right, all right! No need to get shirty.” He started sorting papers into piles as though he had no more time to spend with me. “Just a few days ago, as it happens. She was hit and run down by a brewer’s dray that came out of George’s Road faster than he should have done. Made no effort to stop, from what I hear.”

  Chapter Six

  It could not have been a nicer day to spend with Jenny and her aunt Alice. Miss Alice Forsyth was from Bermondsey, on the south side of the River Thames, and she informed us that not since the days of her youth had she visited Kew to enjoy the nearly three hundred acres that comprised the Royal Botanic Gardens, generally known simply as Kew Gardens. There we found swathes of immaculate lawns dotted with rare trees. Although it was only the end of March, the sky was clear and the sun shone down. However, it had little warmth so we all sported our topcoats.