Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “You were drinking with Billy at the Black Swan? Last night? But the landlord said . . .”

  “Aye, well! Old John Rhodes ain’t goin’ to be a-tellin’ to a stranger, now is ’e?”

  I nodded understandingly. No, the landlord wouldn’t be telling everything to an out-of-towner such as myself. But I still did not fully understand.

  “You are telling me that you and Billy Weston have been drinking together? But the very reason I’m here is to make sure that he doesn’t do you any harm. He was bent on trying to kill you, believing you responsible for Nell Burton’s death!”

  Ben nodded his head; the matted hair stuck out at odd angles as he scratched at it. “We talked about it. Even ’ad a bit of a tussle afore we got sorted out.”

  “He realizes you couldn’t have been responsible?” I asked.

  He continued to nod. “We was both torn up over it.”

  “I heard something about you saying that if you couldn’t have Nell then no one could have her.”

  He continued scratching his head and for some reason went to shaking it negatively rather than nodding. “That was when I was thinking as ’ow Bill was stealing ’er away. But then, when she got topped, well . . . what was I to do? No purpose to it then, was there?”

  I had to agree. It seemed my task was complete. I presumed that Billy Weston, having discovered the truth, had by now returned to London. I should do the same. It had been something of a wasted journey. Well, perhaps I could still get back in time to see Jenny on Sunday.

  “Thank you, Ben,” I said. “I’m glad the reason for my trip proved to be in vain. I’ll bid you good day.” I turned to leave.

  “What you goin’ to do about it, then?”

  I turned back. “What do you mean?”

  “Billy says as ’ow you’re goin’ to find ’oo killed Nell.”

  “If we possibly can, yes.” I saw that his eyes were red and realized that it might be that he had been crying. “Mr. Abraham Stoker, together with Scotland Yard, is on the case, Ben. Mr. Stoker can be tenacious.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “He will keep on until he finds the killer, Ben.”

  He finally straightened up and swung a leg over the low fence rail, hopping on over to stand beside me. He smelled strongly of pigs.

  “I—we—want to ’elp.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Billy and me. We want to ’elp catch ’ooever killed Nell.”

  * * *

  I left my room, bag in hand, and made for the stairs down to the main level. I had plenty of time before the Friday morning train out of Langley Mill. It felt good to be heading back to London after such a fruitless two days. As I passed the one other room at the inn, the door opened. I looked around and found myself gazing into the eyes of Billy Weston.

  “Billy!”

  “Mr. Rivers!”

  “What are you doing here, Billy? I thought you’d be halfway back to the Lyceum by now. And I had no idea you had been staying at the same tavern as me.”

  He shook his head, and his face turned a bright red. “I sure am sorry, Mr. Rivers. I should ’ave listened to you and Mr. Stoker. I guess my temper just got the better of me. I was just so . . . so torn up about Nell.”

  “It’s all right, Billy. I understand.”

  “Do you think Mr. Stoker will let me ’ave my job back? I mean, I didn’t mean to leave no one in the lurch, like.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see about that. But I think you’ll find Mr. Stoker to be a very fair and understanding man. I can make no promises, mind. But I will speak up for you when we get back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rivers. Thank you, sir.” He still looked worried. “But . . . I mean, Ben and me, we was thinkin’ that maybe we could ’elp in finding ’oo it was what done for our Nell.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I spoke with Ben. He did seem upset.”

  “We both are. ’Im and me, we ’ad a long talk, and now, with Nell gone, well . . . It just don’t seem right that ’ooever done it should get away with it, you know?”

  “Yes, I do know, Billly. That’s why Mr. Stoker and I—and don’t forget the police as well—we’re determined to catch whoever it was.”

  “So, can we ’elp, then?”

  “Help? Track down the murderer?”

  He nodded.

  I thought about it. Mr. Stoker had told me to do whatever I felt needed to be done, while I was away. He was content to leave things up to my better judgment, he had said. He had even given me some extra money—a few sovereigns—in case I needed it.

  I set down my portmanteau and stood thinking for a moment. Billy watched me, seeming to understand that I was contemplating something that would affect him. Finally, I looked at him again. I explained to him about the other murder; the one in Liverpool.

  “You mean, someone else was done in like Nell was?”

  I nodded. “Another young woman, Billy.”

  “But . . . I mean, ’ow can this be? What’s going on?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “But we do believe the two murders are connected, so if we can solve one we can possibly solve them both. I did go to the Warrington site—that’s where the second murder took place—but I really didn’t have enough time to get every bit of possible information. Now, how would you and Ben like to help by asking some questions for me? It would mean going to Liverpool, or just this side of Liverpool. It’s only a short journey from where we are now. About seventy-five miles.”

  “I—we—don’t ’ave no money, Mr. Rivers. I ’ad to borrow some to get ’ere in the first place.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Billy. The Lyceum—Mr. Stoker—will take care of the expenses. We just need you to go there to save us from doing it.” I pulled out my half hunter and consulted it. “I don’t have a lot of time if I’m to leave for London. Do you think you can get hold of Ben and the two of you could meet me at the railway station? Then, before I leave, I can tell you exactly what we need.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Rivers!” Billy reached behind him and pulled the door closed. He preceded me at a fast pace down the stairs and took off along the High Street as I left the Black Swan.

  Twenty minutes later I was standing on the platform with a carriage door open beside me. My portmanteau was already in the train, up on the shelf over the seats. Billy and Ben stood attentively in front of me as I carefully went over all that I knew of the Liverpool/Warrington murder.

  “Now, when you get there you are to make contact with the vicar of the local church, a Reverend Prendergast. I’m sure he will be able to help you find accommodation. You can tell him that you are following up on the information that he and I found. Mention Reverend Swanson; that should jog his memory.”

  “Swanson. Prendergast and Swanson.” Billy repeated the names, as did Ben. I hoped that between the two of them they’d get it right.

  “I want to know all you can uncover about the group he and I discussed; the evil group that we believe was active there.”

  “All aboard!” The guard moved along the short train, slamming closed any open doors. He waved for me to get inside. I did so but lowered the window and leaned out to finish talking to the two boys.

  “All aboard!” the guard repeated as he climbed into the end car, leaned out, waved his green flag, and blew his whistle. The engine gave a toot and started to haul the train slowly out of the station. Billy and Ben trotted alongside as I gave last-minute instructions.

  “Get any names you can of members of the group,” I shouted. “See if the vicar knows who they are and where they might be.”

  The boys broke into a run to keep up.

  “Remember, this will all help find Nell’s killer. Get names if you can. Anything and everything you can learn!”

  Billy and Ben had reached the end of the platform. I shouted to them but finally had to pull
back into the carriage and close the window. Well, I had done what I thought was best. We’d have to see if it bore any fruit.

  I settled down onto the seat. How nice if I was truly going straight back to the Lyceum, I thought. But no! With a heavy heart I knew it was not to be. Before I had left London Mr. Stoker had suggested I might return by way of Oxford, to see just what it was that Reginald Robertson was up to. Was he just blowing hot air, or did he have some plan to install himself as Britain’s premier Shakespearean actor . . . perhaps drawing on his old grandmother’s knowledge of witchcraft?

  * * *

  Oxford is the seat of one of the most ancient and celebrated universities in the whole of Europe. Lying amid picturesque environs at the confluence of the River Cherwell and the River Thames, it is surrounded by an amphitheatre of gentle hills. It has approximately forty thousand inhabitants and is the county town of Oxfordshire. The university comprises twenty-four colleges, many of them richly endowed by royalty and notable private persons. I never had the temerity to aspire to attend such a prestigious establishment myself—the Hounslow Masonic Institution for Boys was quite sufficient for my needs—yet I could appreciate those who did, and I stood in awe of the wealth of knowledge that was available in that one small town. I have never even been to Oxford before, but I had certainly read about it in many publications.

  The station of the London and North Western Railway lay on the west side of the town. The King’s Arms hotel, where I was to spend a night or two, sent an omnibus to meet arriving trains, so I did not have to worry about getting to my lodging. The King’s Arms was at the corner of Park Street and Holywell Street and, I was happy to see, was across the road from a small and relatively inexpensive restaurant. After checking into the hotel I took my lunch at a table beside a large window and looked out at the passing world.

  It was a fine April day such as one finds only in England . . . or so I have always been led to believe by the poets, at least. The sun, although lacking any great warmth, shone down from out of an almost cloudless blue sky. It was the sort of Friday that encouraged one to turn his back on all thoughts of winter and look ahead to spring and summer with a smile on one’s face.

  I enjoyed a large helping of Kentish capon pudding, with white sauce, followed by blackberry and apple pie with Devonshire cream, all washed down by a fine sherry. This last was something of a luxury for me, but it was such a beautiful day and I felt so good that I decided to indulge. Besides, I felt some small recompense was due me for being repeatedly dragged out of London and sent off to gather information from the ends of the earth . . . well, from Liverpool first, from Derbyshire, and now Oxford.

  As I sat nursing my glass of wine and gazing out at the assortment of ladies and gentlemen, tutors and scholars, hurrying along the pavement past the window, I slowly brought my mind back to the matter at hand: Reginald Robertson. The Oxford Grand Theatre was a small theatre compared to many found in towns of comparable size. Most such establishments bore the name Theatre Royal, but presumably the inconspicuous edifice on Oxford’s Fellowship Street was not quite bold enough for that title, even as a sobriquet. Enquiry at the King’s Arms’ concierge had brought me the information that the Oxford Grand was not too grand at all. It seated less than eight hundred patrons on three levels. In contrast, the Lyceum held more than three times that number. Mr. Robertson’s Players had been in residence for two years but, according to my source, consistently with audiences far from capacity. All the more reason why it seemed strange that Mr. Robertson felt he was the heir apparent to the title of Britain’s premier Shakespearean actor.

  I finished my wine, paid the bill, and took to the pavement. The restaurant waiter had given me directions to Fellowship Street, and I enjoyed the weather and my surroundings as I made my way there without hurrying. A hurdy-gurdy player was entertaining a small group of grubby children and two or three adults at the first street corner, and I paused awhile to enjoy the melodious sound before continuing on my way.

  Unlike the ever-vigilant Bill Thomas at the Lyceum, the stage door keeper at the Oxford Grand was not at his post when I entered the theatre. Admittedly there was no performance until that evening, but he still should have been at his post to regulate visitors. I finally tracked him down to a gloomy alcove in the nether regions, where he was making a pot of tea.

  “Cuthbert Wellington,” he introduced himself, barely looking up from the steaming water he was pouring into an old Brown Betty teapot. “Though most people call me ‘Welly.’ What was it you was wanting, then?”

  “I’m up from London, Welly,” I said. “Harry Rivers is the name. Stage manager at one of the West End theatres.” I thought it best not to mention the Lyceum by name, given Mr. Robertson’s strong opinions. “I’m just visiting the area and thought it might be nice to look in and see how things are done in the provinces.”

  “You’ve picked a good example,” he said, putting the lid on the teapot and then settling a cozy on it. “You care for a cuppa?”

  I was glad he seemed to have some sense of pride in the Grand. He was a short, wizened-faced man with scraggly gray hair, a wispy bit of a beard, and a large hump on his back. He made me think—not unkindly—of a character from a pantomime; perhaps Rumpelstiltskin. His eyes were very dark, almost black, it seemed.

  We settled on a couple of dirty, well-worn, upholstered armchairs, each of us with a mug of steaming tea in his hands. I think my host was glad of the company. I looked around and, in the gloom, made out old playbills drawing-pinned to the walls. There didn’t seem to be any recent ones; all were from twenty or thirty years ago.

  Suddenly a young boy, about fourteen years old—just a few years older than Miss Terry’s son Edward—popped into the tiny room and dropped down cross-legged on the floor. He had a dirty face and tousled fair hair that had a reddish tinge to it, making me feel a certain affinity to him. He grinned at me but said nothing.

  “This here’s Rufus,” volunteered Welly, without enlarging on the boy’s position or duties. “You want a cuppa, Rufus?”

  “Nar. Just ’ad a ginger beer.”

  “Suit yourself. Now, where were we?”

  “I was going to ask you about Mr. Roberston’s company.” I said. “How is it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s working,” he said, noncommittedly, and slurped his tea noisily. “I’ve been here a goodly number of years and seen ’em come and go. This one’s all right, I suppose.”

  “I have heard that Mr. Robertson is a fine interpreter of the works of the Bard.”

  Again he shrugged. “Don’t watch it myself. Stick to the stage door area, and my little rest room here. I hears ’em clapping and sometimes laughing.” He looked up at me, a smile on his face, and winked. “Mostly at the comedies.”

  I smiled back. I sensed I might be able to draw him out. “I’ll bet you have a wealth of stories you could tell, eh, Welly?” I sipped my own tea, trying to look appreciative despite the tiny amounts of both milk and sugar that had been available.

  “You could say that.” He nodded, and then glanced about him as though to be certain we were alone. “Theatre’s always a place of superstitions, but then you’ll know that being in the business yourself.”

  “Indeed.” It was my turn to nod. “What? Do you have ghosts here, then, or something like that?”

  “Only in that ’Amlet, eh, Welly?” put in Rufus, his grin widening.

  “Witches is more like it,” said the older man, his face suddenly serious.

  “Macbeth?” I asked.

  “Oh, more real than that,” said Wellington. The boy stopped grinning and looked anxiously at him. “Now don’t you go getting scared, Rufus. We’ve talked about this afore. What did I tell you?”

  “You said it weren’t real,” the boy replied.

  “That’s right. Leastwise, no more real than most of what he plays around at.”

  “He?” I asked. “Yo
u mean Mr. Robertson?”

  Again the humpbacked man had a quick glance around. He lowered his voice a little. “He don’t make no secret of the fact that his grandmother were a witch . . . and he makes good use of that, from all accounts.”

  I sat quietly for a moment, so as not to frighten him off the subject. A dozen questions buzzed around in my head. Eventually, after another drink of tea, I said, “He does ‘witch stuff,’ whatever you call it, then, Welly?”

  “You know ’e does!” put in Rufus.

  “Shh!” Wellington again looked all about him, and his voice dropped even lower so that I had to sit forward to catch what he was saying. “Every time there’s a full moon, he goes below stage at midnight and him and two or three others get together and . . . do things!”

  “We’ve spied on ’im!” cried the boy.

  “Shh!” The hunchback looked quite alarmed. “Now you just bite your tongue. You know what I’ve told you.”

  “Sorry, Welly.”

  “Next week, just seven days from now, it’s a full moon. He’ll be at it again then, believe me,” said the older man.

  I drank the rest of my tea. “What exactly does he do? What’s the purpose?”

  “Purpose? To be the best of ’em, I reckon. And I won’t say he’s not trying to do away with the others. That’s why he does the sacrifices.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Before I had a chance to ask about the sacrifices we heard footsteps coming along the passageway, from the outside stage door.

  “Lor’ but that’s probably him!” cried Wellington. “Quick, Rufus, get out Mr. Robertson’s teacup in case he wants a drop.”

  The boy scampered around to a cupboard, brought out a fancy, delicate Staffordshire bone china cup and saucer, and placed it reverently in the center of the otherwise messy tea-making area. No sooner had he done so than a face appeared around the doorpost. I presumed it to be Reginald Robertson himself. He was of medium height—nowhere near the imposing six feet two inches of the Guv’nor—with dirty blond wavy hair framing a young face bare of beard or mustache. His eyelids drooped as though he were perpetually bored. His clothes were fine, at the height of fashion, and he carried gloves, top hat, and cane. A diamond—albeit small—glistened in his cravat. His eyes immediately alit upon me.