Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “That would, then, put him in the right location for the Elizabeth Scott murder.”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “Not like the younger Nugent,” I suggested.

  “You are right there, Mr. Rivers. Young Bartholomew goes in and out of Newgate Prison so much we have been thinking of installing a swing door.”

  I laughed out loud. Humor from Inspector Bellamy was the last thing I expected. Then I grew serious again. “Tell me, Inspector, do you think there might really be a connection between this Jacob and Nell Burton’s murder? Mr. Stoker was only just saying that it would be quite possible for the man to have been at both the scene of Nell’s murder and that of Elizabeth Scott.”

  The pencil clattered onto the desk as Bellamy dropped it. He looked at me sharply.

  “Mr. Stoker said that?”

  I nodded.

  “Hmm. It does seem that on occasion—on occasion, mark you—Mr. Stoker does have an idea or two that might possibly be in the right direction.”

  I smiled at the inspector’s reluctance to give my boss full credit for anything, but it was gratifying to hear him bend a little in Mr. Stoker’s direction.

  “What else did he say?” He picked up the pencil again and sat tapping it on the desktop.

  “Isn’t that sufficient?” I asked.

  “For what? To arrest the man for murder? I think not, Mr. Rivers.”

  He was right, of course. “Do the two brothers see much of each other? I know that Bart is frequently locked up, but does Jacob ever see him?”

  “That you would have to find out for yourself, Mr. Rivers. It’s possible Jacob has paid a visit or two to Newgate to see his brother over the years, but I wouldn’t know of it.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” I said, getting to my feet. I could see that I’d have to pursue this line of enquiry myself.

  “Oh, by the way,” Bellamy said casually, “you might like to know that we have crossed off your theatre cast and crew from our list of suspects.” He drained the dregs from his teacup. “All just too full of themselves, it seems to me, to be interested in murdering their own kind.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Not wanting to take any more time than necessary, I took a hansom to the gloomy granite building that was Newgate Prison. There I asked to see the chief warder but had to settle for the assistant warder, an officious gentleman no taller than myself but with a military bearing. He sported a fine black mustache, heavily waxed at the ends, and had black bushy eyebrows that seemed to meet over his beak of a nose. There were large bags under his eyes, and it looked as though he was in dire need of sleep, though his mind seemed sharp enough. His highly polished black boots gleamed under his uniform trousers.

  “Nugent?” he snapped. “He is currently not in residence, though I doubt it will be long before his return.” He stood ramrod straight behind his desk, apparently unwilling to bend enough to sit down.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, I know he’s out. But I was wondering if you could help me with my enquiries regarding visitors he might have had while here?”

  “Visitors? Hah!” He snorted and fingered the ends of his mustache. “Not many of those for any of our clients.”

  Clients? I thought.

  “But they do—he did—have some?”

  “No one is allowed more than five visitors a month. Many don’t get that, and Bartholomew Nugent was one such. It was an unusual day when anyone came to speak with him, unless it was a solicitor. Is that what you are looking for?”

  “No! No,” I assured him. “No, I was wondering about regular visitors, not anyone connected with his arrest.”

  He pulled a large black leather-bound book from where it sat on the side of the desk, opened it, and flipped through pages while he spoke.

  “Well, I can answer that right away, young man. He only ever got one interested party to attend on him. Name of Jacob Nugent, as I recall. Almost certainly a relative. He’d pay a visit on rare occasions, which seemed to suit young Bartholomew, it seemed to me.”

  I thought about that. Such occasional contacts didn’t tell me much, but they did tell me that there was communication between the two brothers. Enough, perhaps, to allow them to plot and plan? Enough to show that both men were involved in the murders? I sighed. Why was it all so difficult?

  The assistant warder stopped turning pages and then ran a finger down a column of names in the book.

  “Ah! Here we are. Nugent. Yes, he did have one other occasional caller. Name of Higby. Don’t ask me who he was; we don’t keep that sort of information. Only came once or twice. There! That’s it!” He snapped the book closed. He had obviously finished with me.

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been of help,” I said. He looked down at my proffered hand as though I had presented a kipper. I withdrew it, turned, and sought the exit.

  * * *

  “Harold, dear boy!”

  Without turning, I knew who hailed me. It was Guy Purdy, the only one who called me Harold. I recall that my father would occasionally use that form of address, and when he did, it invariably meant that I was in trouble. It’s no wonder, then, that I am not enamored of the name Harold. Harry does quite well, thank you very much!

  I stopped as I was about to enter my office, turned, and forced myself to smile at the old actor. Guy Purdy had been with Mr. Irving as long as the Guv’nor had been at the Lyceum. Mr. Purdy was of the old school, and even with my untrained eyes I could see that he tended to overact. Overly dramatic gestures, grimaces, projected voice that bounced off the upper levels of the theatre. He was too old for most of the young parts but applied his makeup heavily in an attempt to compensate. He had an eye for the young lads in the business, so I’d heard, though he’d always behaved himself at the Lyceum.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Purdy?” I asked.

  “Not a thing, dear boy. Life smiles down upon us despite the final curtain approaching for young Hamlet. ‘Our revels now are ended,’ as the Bard informs us.”

  “Yes. Well, some of us still have lots to do,” I replied pointedly. I moved to go into my office, but he stepped forward, close to me.

  “A word in your ear, dear boy, if I may?”

  A dozen thoughts flew through my head, but I nodded and ushered him to the one seat in front of my desk.

  “You are to play Cassio, in Othello?” I asked. I understood from Mr. Stoker that there had been some rivalry between Guy Purdy and John Saxon for that role.

  “That I am, dear boy, that I am.”

  “So is there a problem?” I asked. I looked at his sagging chin and the bags beneath his eyes. He would certainly never play Romeo again, if he ever had. His dyed brown hair was growing thin, and his eyes were dull and listless.

  He looked uneasy. “I have heard rumors—and don’t we all, in the theatre, Harold? Indeed, the theatre would not be the theatre without the underworld of rumors to fuel . . .”

  “The point, Mr. Purdy!” I interrupted. “I really do have a great deal of work to get through. Here it is Tuesday already. Hamlet may be in its final week, but, as you well know, there is a tremendous amount of preparation to be accomplished before the second of May and the opening of Othello.”

  “Of course, of course, dear boy. And far be it from me to slow the wheels of progress in that direction. No, Harold. It’s just . . .” He jogged his chair a fraction closer to my desk and glanced quickly over his shoulder as though to be sure that no one was within earshot. His voice hardened. “I have heard rumors that John Saxon is trying to talk the Guv’nor into switching roles with me. Saxon is cast as Roderigo, a bit part compared to Cassio, in my opinion.” He sounded bitter. “John Saxon does not have the presence for such a role as Cassio . . .”

  Once again I interrupted him. “Mr. Purdy. You know as well as I do that when the Guv’nor has cast a play, he is not going to reth
ink the roles.”

  “But you have the ear of our esteemed Mr. Stoker. He, in turn, has the ear of Mr. Irving.”

  “It makes no difference,” I said. “And you should be well aware of this, after all your years of working with Mr. Irving.”

  “I ask merely that you enquire as to the possibility—and I do say possibility—of circumventing John Saxon’s ability to approach our esteemed Guv’nor on this point.”

  A thought suddenly struck me. “Who was it told you of this possible change?”

  Again the quick glance over his shoulder.

  “’Tis no matter.” He stood up. “I should have known better than to come to you with this.”

  I, too, came to my feet. I hated dissention in the theatre, as I knew Mr. Stoker did. “Mr. Purdy, this is important. I must insist that you tell me who is spreading these rumors.”

  “Ah, dear boy! There you have it. Rumors! It is as I first stated.” He shrugged his shoulders and forced a stage smile. “We should ignore them. They do us ill. ‘Rumor of oppression and deceit, / Of unsuccessful or successful war, / Might never reach me more!’ Who was it said that?” His brow wrinkled.

  “I have no idea,” I said, my patience at an end. “Now, unless you want me to pass your fears on to Mr. Stoker, would you be so kind as to tell me who told you that John Saxon was trying to take your part?”

  He sank back down into the chair at the thought of me passing on his uncertainty to my boss.

  “It was that new young lad. What is his name? In the chorus. Seth, I believe it is. Seth Hartzman. I once knew a Hartzman, in a little theatre up in Yorkshire . . .”

  “Seth Hartzman told you that John Saxon was trying to talk the Guv’nor into giving him your role?” He nodded. “Did you not think to ask Mr. Saxon himself if that was what he was doing?”

  “Dear boy, one does not like to confront one’s friends in such matters.”

  I sighed. “Leave this with me, Mr. Purdy. I am certain there is no truth in the rumor, but I will pursue it and let you know. Now, is there anything else?”

  “An interesting lad, young Hartzman.” The old actor settled back a little more in the chair, now that his problem was in my hands. “Yes. He tells me he has crossed the broad Atlantic and viewed our brethren who tread the boards in such far-flung venues as New York and Philadelphia. Most interesting.”

  “Seth Hartzman has been to America?” It was my turn to sit down again, my interest piqued. I had been told that Hartzman had not arrived here with Mr. Booth and the colonel, so I had assumed he had not come from America, but I had not considered that he might have traveled to that country prior to that. And indeed, why should I have thought it? “What did he say about it? When was this, do you know?”

  Guy waved a flabby hand. “Lifetimes ago for all I know, dear boy. No, he just happened to mention it as we chatted. Why? Is it important?”

  It was my turn to wave a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Purdy. You get on with learning your lines, and I’ll attend to behind the scenes.”

  The old actor nodded, came to his feet, and made a dramatic exit from my office. He had intrigued me. Mostly with his talk of Hartzman having been to America but also with the whole episode of Hartzman suggesting to him that there was a problem with the Othello casting. Was this newcomer determined to cause conflict within the Lyceum ranks? Why would he do such a thing? I determined to have a talk with him.

  * * *

  “Ten days until Beltane, Harry!”

  Wednesday morning I was greeted by my boss’s somber call. It wasn’t often that he reached the theatre ahead of me, but this morning I found him there and at his desk when I entered his office.

  “I thought you were counting the days till Othello’s curtain-up,” I responded.

  He looked grave. “So I am. But is not the prospect of a third sacrifice of an innocent young woman of even greater urgency?”

  “Of course it is, sir. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I know, Harry. I know. We have two events, each in its own way of great import. The one we can control; the other is in the hands of the gods, it would seem.”

  “Have you heard anything new from Inspector Bellamy?” I asked. I had already filled him in on what I had learned on my visit to Newgate.

  He shook his head. “Nary a word. Not that I expected Scotland Yard to resolve anything. They do try, I sometimes believe, yet are wont to stumble over their own not insignificant feet.”

  I looked at a half-drunk cup of what I recognized as one of Bill Thomas’s strong cups of tea, resting at the edge of his desk.

  “How long have you been here, sir, if I may ask?”

  Stoker rubbed the back of his neck. “What? Oh, I could not sleep, so I came in early. Quite a change, I don’t mind admitting. You are usually the early bird. Not that there seem to be any worms for either of us to catch.”

  I pulled the Times from under my arm, opened it, and spread it across the lower part of his desk. I flipped through the first few pages, glancing at the headlines to see if there was anything of note. I almost missed an article halfway down one of the right-hand pages.

  “My goodness me!” I exclaimed.

  “What is it?” asked Stoker.

  “Look at this, sir.” I read it aloud:

  Well-known actor found dead in his own theatre.

  Shakespearean actor Reginald Robertson, moving force behind the Oxford Grand Theatre, on that town’s Fellowship Street, was found dead in the early hours of yesterday morning. His body had been stuffed into a costume hamper discovered at the rear door of the theatre. Cause of death has not yet been announced. Fellow actors and theatre staff are being questioned by the local police. Scotland Yard has been called in.

  Mr. Robertson had proclaimed himself “the next Henry Irving”—alluding to the London actor/manager of the Lyceum Theatre—and was planning a national tour. Mr. Stewart Renfrew, Mr. Robertson’s understudy, stated that the Oxford Grand Theatre would continue after what he termed “a fitting time of mourning,” and that he, Mr. Renfrew, would assume the principal roles.

  “The next Henry Irving indeed!” cried Stoker. “What about the present Henry Irving? Here! Let me see that.” He turned the newspaper around to read it.

  Our eyes met.

  “What do you think, sir? Could it possibly be Welly?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Let us not jump to conclusions, Harry. And let us hope that the police don’t jump to any, either.”

  “Welly did seem to have accepted Rufus’s death, last time I saw him,” I said. “Though I was somewhat concerned that he appeared to have suppressed his emotions.”

  “He left the employ of the theatre, did he not?”

  “Yes, sir. He said that he needed some time alone, to adjust.”

  “Did you sense any sign of antagonism toward Robertson?” Mr. Stoker persisted. “And goodness knows, he had sufficient cause to hate the man. But was there any hint of a need for revenge, do you think?”

  I thought long and hard. I shook my head. “No, sir. That wasn’t the Welly I had come to know. He was a loving and extraordinarily forgiving man.”

  “I sensed the same.”

  I remembered something. “At the Beefsteak Club meeting, sir,” I said. “You may recall that I afterward spoke to you of Colonel Cornell’s remarks about Mr. Robertson. He said, ‘This Robertson fella needs putting in his place. He’s an upstart and an incompetent.’ I remember that quite distinctly.”

  My boss nodded but said nothing. We sat in silence for a while. Finally, Mr. Stoker closed and folded the newspaper.

  “Well, this does take Reginald Robertson off our list of suspects for the two murders,” I suggested.

  “Does it, Harry? All it does is remove him from any list of suspects for the upcoming sacrifice. But we cannot just sit back and s
ee whether or not that now takes place, can we? Robertson may or may not have murdered our Nell Burton and Elizabeth Scott—though, as I’ve said before, I don’t think he did—but I’ll still lay odds that there will be that third sacrifice in ten days.” He stifled a yawn, clenched and unclenched his fists, then stretched his arms up in the air and shook them. “Reginald Robertson, by all accounts, antagonized most of the people with whom he came in contact. I don’t think we need place Welly at the top of any list of suspects . . . at least for now, Harry. And as for the colonel’s remark, well . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “I agree, sir.” I moved to the door but then paused before going out. “But whether or not Welly was responsible for Mr. Robertson’s death, I do think that he will be affected by it, don’t you? I’m sure the police will put him high on their list. Don’t you think he may need help?”

  “Probably, but not necessarily ours, Harry.” He looked at me, his eyes surprisingly soft and gentle. “You have a big heart, Harry. I admire you for it. But just look at the calendar. We have two crises rapidly approaching. I think that we can let the theatre business—the opening of Othello—proceed at its own pace. All seems to be under control there, other than the usual bits and pieces of any new production. No, I think we need to focus all of our energies on finding the killers of Nell Burton and Elizabeth Scott and, hopefully, in doing so, prevent the killing of some other unfortunate young lady.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  * * *

  It was between houses that day when I happened to bump into Seth Hartzman. He had apparently just got back to the theatre after taking a quick meal, as most of us did, between the matinee and the evening performance. I immediately broached the subject of his upsetting Guy Purdy with wild rumors. He didn’t deny it; merely tipped back his head and laughed.