Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “We have a visitor, Wellington?”

  His voice, slightly high-pitched, sounded equally bored. After making the observation he lingered no longer on myself but glanced at the Brown Betty.

  “Ah, tea! My usual. Two lumps. Just a hint of milk. Three digestive biscuits. Get the boy to bring it to my dressing room.”

  He turned away, and we heard his footsteps move off along the hallway.

  The hunchback jumped to his feet and swiftly poured the requested tea. “Here! Look lively now! Don’t go slopping it into the saucer.”

  Rufus swung into action, opening a biscuit barrel and extracting three biscuits, which he dropped onto a plate matching the cup and saucer. Gathering up all, he had gone in a trice.

  Wellington breathed heavily and then poured himself another mugful of tea. He didn’t offer me any more, but it looked as though that was the last of the pot.

  “So that’s the would-be-great Reginald Robertson?” I said. “Not the friendliest of people, if I may say so.”

  “‘Friendly’ is not a word known to Mr. Robertson,” replied Welly, lowering himself once more into his armchair. “He must’ve thought you was a mate of mine or he would have had you thrown out. Come to think of it, he was in a remarkably good mood, seems to me.”

  “Was he now?” I murmured.

  I stayed awhile longer but had no opportunity to return the doorkeeper to the subject of witchcraft. I did, however, seem to strike a friendship, if only temporary, and promised to stop by again the following day.

  * * *

  I was fortunate to find myself dining at a table next to a second-year student of Christ Church College, known among its members as “The House.” The undergraduate’s name was Claude Baird-Parker. He was dining alone, as was I, and suggested we get together for company. I was quite agreeable to the idea and moved across to sit opposite him.

  “Can be a bit of a bore at times,” he said, tucking into the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding we both settled upon. “A chap likes to stay independent and not get caught up in one or other of the cliques so prevalent around here,” he said, helping himself liberally to the horseradish sauce.

  I nodded and murmured some response that I hoped seemed to indicate that I knew what he was talking about.

  “You’ve been through all this, I’m sure, old man, so you understand.” He smothered mustard along with the horseradish onto his beef and nodded appreciatively as he sank his teeth into a forkful.

  “You are in your second year here, is that what you said?” I asked. He grunted assent and went on chewing. “Forgive me, I’m not that familiar with Oxford,” I continued.

  He stopped and looked up at me, his eyes wide. “You’re not a Cambridge man, are you, for heaven’s sake?”

  “No, no!” I hastened to assure him. “No, I’m . . . from the south. I have always admired Oxford.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” he said, as though Cambridge people were continually trying to insert themselves into the Oxford environs. He returned to his meal, carefully separating the Brussels sprouts from the peas and carrots.

  I got the feeling that young Mr. Baird-Parker did not have a lot of friends. He had a mop of dark brown hair, worn overlong and brushing acquaintance with his shoulders. In contrast, a beard and mustache tried desperately to take hold of the lower section of his face but with little success. We ate in silence for a while.

  “Christ Church,” I said. “That is one of the larger of the colleges, is it not?”

  “Probably the largest,” he said, with some satisfaction. “Founded by Cardinal Wolsey in 1525.” He sounded as though he was quoting from a college brochure. “Two hundred to two hundred and fifty undergraduates.”

  “You have a lot of great libraries around here, I understand.” He nodded. “I was wondering how familiar you might be with something I recently came across?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I took a deep breath and hoped that I was remembering Mr. Stoker’s pronunciation correctly. “Walpurgisnacht,” I said.

  The eyebrow lowered again, and he concentrated on dissecting the rest of the roast beef. “Isn’t that at All Hallows’ or something?” he said.

  “I was told Beltane.”

  He looked about the tabletop and spied the gravy bowl. He treated himself to a generous helping of the dark brown liquid.

  “Ah yes. The other half of the year.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Beltane and Samhain—or All Hallows’ Eve—are two of the main festivals of the old pagan calendar. Yule and Lughnasadh are the other two.”

  “So . . . Walpurgisnacht?” I asked again.

  “That’s the German—well, West European—name for Beltane, or May Eve.”

  “And they have some significance?” I pursued.

  “I did a paper on pre-Christian paganism and delusions of witchcraft a while back,” he said. “They used to break down the year into the light half and the dark half, like the summer months and the winter months,” he volunteered. “Beltane and Samhain were the two turning points.”

  “So Walpurgisnacht was the end of winter and the start of summer?”

  He nodded, cleaning his plate and then pushing it away from him. “Important dates. Big ceremonies. Turn of the year, with sacrifice, death, and rebirth.”

  “What do you know of these ceremonies?” I asked.

  “No one knows a lot,” he replied. “It was a long time ago they indulged in all that nonsense.”

  “They don’t still do them, then?” I asked.

  He waved a hand. It seemed to me he was trying to imply that he knew more than he actually did know. “Oh, I’m sure in some backward areas of Europe there are peasants who still worship the Old Gods.” He laughed without humor. “Not at all our sort of thing, old man.”

  “No. I suppose not,” I agreed. We both sat back and awaited dessert.

  “Did they do sacrifices at all of their festivals?” I asked, once we were settled with large helpings of gooseberry tart and cream.

  Claude shook his head. “I don’t think so. Just certain of them, as I recall.”

  “So it would be unusual for there to be, let’s say, a ritual sacrifice at three consecutive celebrations?”

  Claude put down his spoon and fork and studied me. I had come to recognize that for this undergraduate to stop eating was an unusual event in itself. “What are you on about, Harold? You seem to be more than just a little bit curious.”

  I decided to come clean. Without going into details, I told him a little of the investigations both in Liverpool and in London and of trying to be of assistance to Scotland Yard. His face was a picture. His lower jaw had dropped, and his mouth hung open. His eyes had grown wide.

  “Scot—Scotland Yard?” he stammered. “You are with the police?”

  “No! No, Claude,” I hastened to assure him. “No, I am working in an entirely amateur capacity. It’s just that, well, since these two murders occurred on these specific dates, I thought you might have access to knowledge, through your great college libraries, and to information I had not.”

  The slight flattery seemed to work. His mouth closed, and he picked up his utensils and went back to devouring his gooseberry tart.

  “I am but a lowly second-year student, Harold. Would that it were not so. You should speak with my tutor. I could probably arrange it.”

  “No. Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a well-versed mentor back in London who probably knows more than anyone. I was just curious, since I am here in Oxford, as to whether there was anything obvious that I had not thought about.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Claude Baird-Parker seemed slightly miffed, as though by my questions I had offered something delectable and then withdrawn it. It couldn’t be helped. An early evening conversation had got slightly out of hand, I felt. It was entirel
y my fault. Yet not sufficiently that I felt any need to apologize. We finished our meal with a demitasse of coffee apiece and, after a formal handshake, went our separate ways.

  * * *

  The following morning I again ventured around to the Oxford Grand. My thought was that sometime during the morning I might be able to speak to one or two of the company and get their thoughts and feelings on their leader. Cuthbert Wellington had mentioned that Reginald Robertson was planning a read-through of their next production, Julius Caesar. I was surprised they were already looking at a follow-up to Coriolanus. I wondered if perhaps they might draw larger houses if they extended the run of each production but then, on reflection, realized that it was probably only by presenting a variety of plays that they were able to maintain sufficient interest to fill the seats. Wellington seemed not unpleased to see me and installed me on a stool behind him, in his cubicle next to the stage door.

  “They’ll be in and out all morning,” Welly explained, “so I’ve got to be up front. Don’t you worry none though, Harry. We’ll squeeze in a pot o’ tea later, you see.” He gave me a wink and a nod of the head. As unprepossessing as his appearance most certainly was, I found Cuthbert Wellington to be a friendly personality.

  “Where might young Rufus be?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s about, trust me. He’ll be here like magic when I brew the tea.”

  The outside door slammed, and I recognized Reginald Robertson’s voice as he entered the theatre, his Yorkshire dialect evident despite his attempts to hide it. He was deep in conversation with another man, taller than himself, and they walked past the stage door keeper’s cubicle without any acknowledgment of Wellington’s presence, despite the hunchback’s wishing them a good morning.

  “I’m sure they’ve got a lot to discuss,” Welly said, obviously aware of their ignoring him.

  I grunted agreement. “Who was the fellow with him?” I asked.

  “Lancelot Nightingale. You may have heard of him. He’s in all the productions. I think he’s down for the title role in Julius Caesar. Mr. Robertson will, of course, play Brutus.”

  One of the Guv’nor’s favorite roles, I thought to myself. Well, everyone is entitled to play whatever he believes is right for him. “Tell me, Welly, if you would,” I said out loud. “All this nonsense reported in the press. Does Robertson really think he’s a better actor than Henry Irving?”

  “Oh, he believes it, all right. Henry Irving, John Parselle, William Macready, Charles Kean, Beerbohm Tree . . . the lot! Yes, he truly thinks he is God’s gift to the theatre; the Shakespearean theatre, at least.”

  “But surely these poor houses you have—you must have trouble paying the bills—and the terrible reviews . . . doesn’t anything get through to him?”

  The hunchback shook his head and gave the slightest of smiles. “He believes what he wants to believe and never mind the rest! Besides, his faith lies in his grandmother’s old rituals.”

  “Magic?” I said.

  He nodded, and then grinned. “Oh, you don’t have to tell me, Harry! But you’d be surprised at how many people do believe that nonsense. I’ve known actors I looked up to, who I thought were more intelligent than most, I’ve seen them in fear and trembling, shaking like a tree in a thunderstorm when they thought they had inadvertently crossed Mr. Robertson.”

  “You mean, he rules here by fear?”

  “That’s about the length and the breadth of it. He does some of his mumbo jumbo, and everyone bows down to him. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed. Tell me . . . you mentioned sacrifices?”

  He nodded his head. “Catches black cats and kills ’em. Terrible.”

  “Cats?”

  Again he nodded.

  An hour or so later I had managed to have a few words with three or four of the company, and then, as the play-reading proceeded on the stage, Wellington and I moved back to his cozy, if dimly lit, alcove and enjoyed a cup of his strong tea. As the hunchback had predicted, Rufus suddenly bounded into the space like a released jack-in-the-box.

  “’Ere we are then, Welly! ’Allo, ’Arry.”

  “Here! That’s Mr. Rivers to you, boy!” snapped Wellington.

  “Sorry.” The boy grinned at me, and I nodded that I was not offended by the familiarity.

  “What do you know of Mr. Robertson’s magical rituals, Rufus?” I asked.

  The grin quickly disappeared, and he scratched his head, frowning at the ceiling as he thought.

  “Don’t know nothin’ but what Mr. Wellington tells me,” he said. “Though, o’ course, there’s always Mr. Robertson’s ‘Big Book’ as ’e keeps in ’is dressing room.”

  “His ‘Big Book’?” I repeated.

  “You don’t know nothing about that, young Rufus,” snapped Welly. “That’s just hearsay.”

  “What say?”

  “Hearsay. Things that you’ve just heard other people saying.”

  “No, it ain’t, neither, Mr. W.,” Rufus protested. “’E’s got a book. all right. I know. I seen it.”

  There was a sudden silence. Cuthbert Wellington had been vigorously stirring sugar into his second serving of tea, and his hand stopped, causing tea to splatter over the rim of the cup.

  “What do you mean, you’ve seen it?”

  “Just what I says. I seen it. In ’is dressing room.”

  “When were you ever in Mr. Robertson’s dressing room?”

  The young boy looked defiantly at the hunchback. “When there was that water leak what ’e complained about. You remember! Some pipe cracked, or something, last winter, and ’e claimed ’is ’ole dressing room was flooded.” He sniffed. “Flooded, my arse!”

  “Here! You watch your language, young man.”

  “Sorry. But it’s true. You remember now?”

  Wellington went back to his tea stirring and then sat down with the fresh cup. “Hmm. Yes. I do remember. But you weren’t in there for long. Just had to move some things for him and then the plumber went in there.”

  “I was in long enough to see what I seen,” mumbled Rufus, and he flung himself down in a corner.

  “Exactly what was this book?” I asked, looking at both Wellington and the boy. “What did it look like? Was it open? Did you see inside it? Have you seen it yourself, Welly?”

  The hunchback seemed reluctant to answer but finally did. “Long time ago I saw it. Didn’t take much note of it at the time. Wish I had done. It’s an old leather-bound book. Dark red leather. Looks real ancient. My guess is it was his grandmother’s.”

  “I seen in it,” volunteered Rufus.

  Wellington looked surprised.

  “You did? What was in it?” I asked, truly curious.

  The boy shrugged. “Dunno. I can’t read.”

  Welly and I looked at each other for a moment, and then we both burst out laughing.

  “So much for the secrets of magic!” cried the hunchback, wiping a tear from his eye.

  “What do his fellow actors think of Mr. Robertson?” I asked.

  He gave me one of his noncommittal shrugs. “They’re glad to be employed. Of course, there’s Mr. Renfrew. He’s very long-suffering.”

  “Mr. Renfrew?”

  “Mr. Stewart Renfrew. He’s Mr. Robertson’s understudy. He’s treated something cruel. I don’t know how he puts up with it. One of these days he’s going to fight back, don’t you know it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Welly took it as a sign of interest and continued.

  “Robertson will pretend to have a sore throat . . .”

  “Or a bad cough,” put in Rufus.

  “Mr. Renfrew will go on in his place and then Robertson will claim that he made a mess of the whole play and blame him for every bad review we get, even when they refer to Robertson himself.”

  “Is Mr. Stewart a bad actor?” I asked.
r />   Rufus vigorously shook his head.

  “He’s much better than Robertson,” said Welly.

  Rufus disappeared shortly after that, and I didn’t see him again until I was taking my leave. There was a train back to London in the late afternoon, and I felt that if I could be on it then I’d have all of Sunday morning to report my findings to Mr. Stoker, and I would be assured of meeting with Jenny come the afternoon. I thanked Welly Wellington for his time and his company, assuring him that any time I found myself back in Oxford I would look him up. I returned to my hotel and packed my bag.

  I was at the railway station boarding the train when I heard a shout. The guard had blown his whistle, and the engine was blowing steam and spinning its wheels as it strained to start moving the carriages. I was leaning out of the window and saw a small figure that I recognized dart under the arms of the stationmaster, trying to check for tickets, and hare along the platform to where I was starting to move.

  “’Ere, ’Arry!” Rufus gasped, thrusting a soiled newspaper-wrapped package up at me. “Take it. You can do summat with it, I’m sure.”

  As I took the package from him he twisted away, dodged the stationmaster again, and ran off out of the station yard. The London train bore me away, and I couldn’t help smiling. I would miss both the hunchback and the waif.

  As the train left Oxford and settled into a steady rattle over the rails, I sat back in the carriage, which I had to myself, and unwrapped the precious package. I gasped at what was inside. It was Reginald Robertson’s grandmother’s book of magic. Rufus must have stolen it out of his dressing room while they were all busy reading Julius Caesar.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So this is Reginald Robertson’s grandmother’s famous book of witchcraft?” Abraham Stoker sat at his desk looking down at the dark red leather-bound book that I had laid in front of him. “Your young friend took quite a chance, taking this from the man.”