“The old fool! No, don’t pay it no never mind, Mr. Rivers. I was feeling bored and just playing with the old mummer. Not much else to do around here.”
I shook my head. “That won’t do, Mr. Hartzman. This theatre runs on mutual respect and harmony. I’ve a good mind to report this to Mr. Stoker.”
It didn’t seem to faze him. “Yes? Well, you do what you think you have to do, Mr. Stage Manager.”
His attitude was in contrast to the relatively congenial exchange we had had in the greenroom the previous Saturday. Though I reminded myself that he had then gone on to fool around with Miss Abbott’s tarot cards. He was a difficult person to judge. For the life of me I could not see where he fitted in with Colonel Cornell. I contented myself with a final warning.
“Just keep your pranks to yourself and out of the Lyceum,” I said.
He waved a nonchalant hand and turned away, ambling off in the general direction of the backstage area. I had more important things on my mind and hurried off to my office space.
I had hardly been sitting at my desk ten minutes when I heard, “It’s the Chariot, Mr. Rivers!”
Edwina Abbott’s voice echoed off the walls. It was shriller than I had heard from her before. It was approaching curtain call for the evening performance, and I didn’t have a great deal of time.
“Calm down, Miss Abbott,” I said as she burst into my office. “Now I know these cards mean a great deal to you, but, quite frankly, I do feel you get carried away by them. In fact, I would like to ask you to refrain from . . .”
“The Chariot, Mr. Rivers!” She was not to be reined in. “I was in the dressing room with the other girls and someone—I think it might have been Bess Monroe, though I can’t be sure—said to pull a card for the ending of the run. You know, just to see if we was to go out in a blaze of glory, as they say. So I spread out all the cards, facedown o’ course, and we all—every one of us—decided on which one card to turn over. Just one card. It was the Chariot!”
She made the announcement as though revealing the long-sought answer to a riddle. I tried to humor her. “The Chariot, eh? And what exactly does that signify, Miss Abbott? Will we, then, be finishing Hamlet to resounding applause and numerous curtain calls? Or will that final curtain simply drop down and stay down?”
She was standing facing my desk with the pasteboard in question held up for me to see. It depicted a crude two-wheeled chariot drawn by two prancing horses, one white and one black. The figure at the reins wore a crown and held a scepter. He had a determined look on his face, I thought.
“This is a driving force, Mr. Rivers. Unstoppable!” She emphasized it. Her finger jabbed at the two horses. “There is both good and evil here. The chariot is rushing forward and there ain’t nothing we can do to stop it!”
“I see. And I can see how that applies . . . I think. We are rushing toward the end of our Hamlet run. There is certainly no stopping that. I don’t know about your ‘good and evil,’ but in all other respects I don’t think your card shows anything untoward. Certainly nothing to get excited about . . . is there?” It suddenly struck me that Miss Abbott did seem to have a knack of seeing things in her cards that I did not.
“Good and evil, Mr. Rivers,” she said. “And there is a figure of some importance at the reins, guiding them. Someone in charge.”
I took the card from her and examined it. The figure certainly did look grim, but surely that was merely the whim of the artist? I had a thought. “Is it possible to draw another card and learn more of this person?”
Without a word, she drew the deck from her pocket and fanned the cards, holding them out toward me and indicating that I should choose one. I put down the Chariot card and studied the proffered pasteboards. I hesitantly ran my finger along their backs—back and forth.
“Just pull out whatever card feels right to you, Mr. Rivers,” she said.
The trouble was that none of them “felt right.” What if I should pull something terrible? I had memories of the windmill struck by lightning that she had turned over once before. And the heart stuck through with swords. But time was getting on. I had work to do. I stabbed my finger onto one card and pulled it free. Obviously, it was just going to be the luck of the draw. Not really significant. Edwina took the card from me and turned it faceup.
“The Hanged Man,” she said, her voice little above a whisper.
Chapter Twenty-one
I had scarcely sat down at my desk on Thursday morning when Mr. Stoker appeared. He had on his overcoat and top hat and stood drawing on his gloves. “Harry, I need you to accompany me.”
“But . . . will we be back in time for curtain-up, sir?” I asked, getting to my feet and quickly stacking the papers on my desk.
“It is of no consequence. The curtain has risen countless times throughout this run. This very successful run, I might add. I’m sure it will do so again. Alert Sam Green to cover your duties should we be detained, and put on your coat, Harry. We have work to do.”
* * *
“Where are we going, sir?” I saw that the carriage was moving northwest, out past Ealing and heading toward Uxbridge. Mr. Stoker had hired a four-wheeler rather than a hansom, so I knew that we were going farther than just the outskirts of the city.
“I had a disturbing yet possibly enlightening night, Harry,” said my boss. The sun had come out, and he had removed his hat and sat with it resting on the seat in front of him. “Not a dream, for I was in full possession of my faculties. Tell me, did you notice the gentleman, Lord Glenmont, at the Beefsteak dinner last week? He was the crossbencher associated with the prime minister’s party.”
I thought back. It was less than ten days ago. There had been so many dignitaries I wasn’t sure that I could recall them all. I certainly remembered Sir William Harcourt, the home secretary, since he had sat close to me. And there was the Earl of Northbrook. I ran their faces through my mind. Yes, there had been someone sitting farther up the table. I vaguely remembered hearing his name mentioned by the Guv’nor at some point.
“Was that the constantly smiling gentleman with the round face and dimples?” I asked. “I was struck by his youthful-looking face despite the mass of white hair on his head. Clean-shaven, I believe?”
My boss nodded. “That was he. Constantly smiling is a good description, Harry. Not particularly notable; keeps his head down in the House. When I started thinking about him, I realized that not a lot is known about Lord Glenmont.”
I wondered where this was leading.
“No. Not a lot at all,” Stoker continued. “Remind me to check Debrett’s Peerage when we get back to the Lyceum, Harry. That will tell us all about his lordship.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I do recall, however, that an ancestor of his was a member of the original Hellfire Club of Sir Francis Dashwood. There’s that name raising its head again! Indeed, I very much think that he became somehow associated with the American Benjamin Franklin. Franklin, you know, visited this side of the Atlantic Ocean on occasion and would participate in the Hellfire rituals when present. I personally think Franklin was a member just because he liked to be a part of anything and everything! Probably the wine and women rather than the devil worship, I wouldn’t wonder.”
I had heard of Ben Franklin. I knew that he had been ambassador to France for a decade and had paid many visits to England. I was somewhat surprised to learn that he had been an occasional member of Sir Francis Dashwood’s group.
“Is there some connection between Lord Glenmont and our excursion this morning, sir?”
“There is indeed.” Mr. Stoker peered out at the passing countryside. “The gentleman has an estate somewhere not far from where we now find ourselves. I would very much like to have a good look at it.”
“So that’s where we’re going? To Lord Glenmont’s estate?”
“Indeed. Knowl Estate, it’s called. West of Maidenhe
ad, alongside Knowl Hill, so I’m told.”
He raised his cane and rapped on the rear of the driver’s seat. The man on the box looked back over his shoulder.
“Yessir?”
“Driver, how close are we?”
“’Alf an ’our at most, sir, I reckon. Should be seein’ the gates afore long.”
“I want you to pull up a goodly distance from the entranceway, if you would,” said Stoker. “Just stop and await my instructions.”
“Yessir.” He returned his attention to the road.
“It all sounds most mysterious,” I said. “Can you not tell me a little of what to expect, sir?”
He was silent for a while, obviously going over things in his head. Finally he looked at me. “I want you to cast your mind back to that Beefsteak dinner, Harry. That’s what I was doing while lying in bed last night. For whatever reason I seemed unable to fall asleep, and many thoughts kept running through my head.
* * *
“I was recalling what I know of the old Hellfire Club. They originally used to meet at Sir Francis’s home in West Wycombe. As a matter of fact, their very first meeting was held in 1752 on Walpurgisnacht, so you can see how that date resonates. Then in 1755 they moved to Medmenham Abbey, or the ruins thereof. Sir Francis renovated the abbey, and underneath it he had a series of caves carved out. It’s all chalk around that area.”
I wondered where this was all leading but kept quiet and let my boss take his own time.
“But to return to Lord Glenmont. His Knowl Estate is close to Medmenham. At the Beefsteak dinner I happened to overhear his lordship talking with Colonel Cornell. It appears that a generation ago Lord Glenmont’s father had similar caves carved out there—though on a much less pretentious scale. I thought that it might be worth paying them a visit, Harry.”
So that was it. “You think that Lord Glenmont might be leading a modern Hellfire Club at his estate?” I asked.
Stoker chuckled. “No, Harry. No. Somehow I can’t imagine such a cherubic-faced gentleman leading satanic rituals when not occupied in the House of Lords.” Then he was silent for a moment. “However, having said that, I do not think we can always judge a book by its cover, as Miss George Eliot recently put it, so eloquently, in one of her own books.”
I, too, had difficulty imagining the round-faced gentleman I had seen at the Beefsteak dinner involved in dark rites that included the slaying of innocent young women.
“What do you hope to find there?” I asked.
“I’m not quite sure, Harry. In all probability there is nothing at all. I certainly don’t expect to find the chalk designs that were at the sites of the two murders, nor do I even expect to discover melted candles, bloodstains, or abandoned altars. No. As I say, I really don’t know what to expect. It was just that on hearing his lordship mention the caves I felt a desire to see them for myself. To see just how similar they might be to those at Medmenham Abbey.”
“Do you know why Lord Glenmont’s father had them carved out?”
“I think that is part of what intrigues me, Harry. We know that the earlier Lord Glenmont, back in the last century, was one of Dashwood’s followers, but I’ve never heard any hint of later Glenmonts treading that same path. I’m sure it will be something of a waste of time, but I have long since learned not to ignore my nighttime thoughts and dreams.”
We sat back and traveled in silence for quite some time. The scenery was delightful, with spring growth thrusting forth and bringing back some color to the fields and hedgerows. There were flat meadows close to the river with occasional tree-covered hills and with the church spires of tiny villages reaching up to greet the now warming sun.
We were really not that far from Oxford, and my mind went to Welly and where he might be and what he might be doing. I wondered if the police had yet made a connection between him and the murder of Reginald Robertson. I refused to believe that there was any direct link, but I could certainly see how the mind of Scotland Yard might stitch things together. My mind also dwelt for a moment on Rufus, of course. I still couldn’t quite get over the tragedy.
* * *
I must have dozed off in the warm sun and from the jogging of the carriage. I was awakened when Mr. Stoker called out to the driver to stop. I looked about me but saw nothing to indicate that we had arrived at any particular point. The country road wound on into the distance, rising and falling on gentle hills. But my boss seemed to know where we were. We both climbed down from the carriage, and I spent a minute or two stretching the stiffness out of my limbs.
“Come, Harry,” he said, waving the carriage away. “We will walk on to the estate gates. No need to announce our arrival.”
“Why the secrecy, sir?”
“Not exactly secrecy, Harry. Let’s just call it caution, shall we?”
I suspected that my boss desired to have a look at the caves he had mentioned but did not necessarily want his lordship to know of his interest. I’m sure Lord Glenmont was not at home, anyway, but surely someone would be at the house. We walked less than a quarter mile before we came to the entrance to Knowl Estate. The thick hedgerow had given way to a stout wrought-iron fence that, in turn, ended in tall gates set in stone pillars surmounted by heraldic beasts. A broad drive curved off and away between stately beeches.
“Do we just walk up the driveway, sir?” I asked.
“It would seem to be the best way to enter, Harry. Come! I have a feeling we won’t have far to go. Let us just keep over to the side, under the shadow of the beeches.”
It was very pleasant walking, though I wished I had chosen better shoes for the hike. This was not something I had been prepared for. We advanced along the gravel path, and sure enough, just around the first curve, we came upon a side spur that led toward what appeared to be a folly; an ancient-looking ruin projecting above the trees. It may well have been an actual ruin—there were a few of those about the county—but I suspected it had been carefully designed and constructed, probably by one of the earlier Glenmonts. As we drew closer I saw that it was set at the edge of a small lake, also in all probability man-made.
“As I suspected,” murmured my boss. He stopped to admire the structure.
It gave the impression of being the façade and crumbled walls of a small stone church or chapel. Mullioned windows bare of glass faced out to the lake and on the side closest to where we stood. Blocks of stone lay as though a tower had collapsed and fallen toward the water.
“See here, Harry.” Stoker pointed at the ground as he started to walk on. I could see what he indicated: the grass was pressed down as though more than one person had passed that way. There was not enough wear to constitute a footpath, yet obviously this mock ruin was not totally abandoned.
We followed the trail to where part of the pseudo-ancient wall formed an impressive entranceway, reminding me somewhat of the north porch of Salisbury Cathedral. Side by side, Mr. Stoker and I peered in and saw steps descending into darkness.
“I believe we have found the entrance to the Glenmont caves,” murmured my boss.
“So what do we do now, sir?”
As if in answer to my question, a voice from behind us said, “Turn ’round slowly and no funny stuff!”
We did as bid. Facing us, with an over-and-under shotgun pointing in our direction, stood a squat fellow dressed in a worn Norfolk jacket, with gaiters encasing his lower legs. His boots were muddy. His face was tanned from years of outdoor life, and I presumed him to be some sort of gamekeeper for the Knowl Estate. I glanced at my boss, but he seemed unfazed by the shotgun.
“What you doin’ rootin’ about ’ere? This ’ere’s private property, don’t yer know?” To emphasize his position he cocked the gun, still keeping it trained on us. I swallowed.
“Is that not a Williams and Powell Simplex 10 gauge?” asked Mr. Stoker.
“Eh?” The gamekeeper’s brows drew together,
and he looked perplexed.
“My father had one of those,” continued my companion, and he started forward.
“’Ere! Just you wait a minute.” The man waved the barrels of the gun.
Stoker held out his hands toward the weapon and continued to advance, a smile on his face. “Deucedly handy little thing, my father always thought. Used it for pheasant back in Ireland. May I see?” He reached out and took the gun from the man’s unprotesting fingers and eased the hammers back down. He ran one hand along the barrels. “Damascus. Very nice.” He looked the man squarely in the eyes as he handed back the gun. “I see you keep it in good care. Nicely oiled. Well done.”
It seemed that the man could not take his eyes off Mr. Stoker’s face. His voice was much subdued when next he spoke. “’Oo are you?”
Stoker removed his glove and extended his hand. The man ignored it. “Oh, I’m sorry. Stoker is the name. Bram Stoker. And this is my good friend Mr. Harry Rivers.”
I raised my bowler hat as though I’d been introduced to someone on the streets of the city rather than having been rescued from a challenging gamekeeper in the depths of the country.
“What you doin’ ’ere?” the man asked.
“Perhaps his lordship failed to mention that we might stop by,” said my boss, turning back to admire the folly behind us. “We had been together at a dinner last week, and Lord Glenmont made mention of what he had here. I found it most interesting.” He turned back to the gamekeeper. “And you are . . . ?”
“’Igby. Bill ’Igby. ’Is lordship’s gamekeeper.” He had the decency to raise his hand and tug at the dirty hat on his head. “Sir,” he finally added. He seemed quite disconcerted by Mr. Stoker’s demeanor, which I could well understand.
“Good,” said my boss. “Good. Well now, Higby, don’t let us keep you from your rounds. You must have much ground to cover. Fear not, we can fend for ourselves. Off you go then.”
Thoroughly disconcerted, the gamekeeper turned away, slipping his shotgun into the crook of his arm, and with several backward glances walked off into the woods abutting the folly and disappeared.
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