I gave him time to move out of earshot. “That—that was incredible, sir,” I said. “I can’t believe you simply talked him out of it.”
“Oh pshaw! The man would never have shot us, Harry. He just didn’t know it, that’s all.”
Chapter Twenty-two
On the journey back to town I told Mr. Stoker of my thoughts and concerns about Welly. It wasn’t easy to get him out of my mind. It felt like abandoning him.
“I applaud your concerns, Harry. I, too, have had thoughts in that direction. But one thing at a time. Beltane, or Walpurgisnacht, fast approaches, and we must, at all costs, ensure that no third ritual slaying takes place.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“You are probably wondering what was the point of our excursion today.”
“I did rather wonder,” I admitted.
“It was not pure idleness on my part, or simple curiosity. I am more convinced than ever that these terrible crimes are connected to the misguided actions of individuals caught up in the perceived romance of Sir Francis Dashwood’s Hellfire Club. It’s amazing how that simple little group of so long ago still stirs the minds of individuals of a certain type. There have been many resurrections of the concept since Dashwood’s passing. Most have been by the younger crowd, looking for excitement and with no true dedication to evil. Certainly with no intention to actually harm another. Yet even one or two of those have got out of hand in the heat of the moment.”
“So you are saying that these murders may not have been intended, sir?” I was puzzled.
“These two in particular, Harry? Oh yes, they were intentional. No question about that. No, what I am saying is that many members of these latter-day Hellfire Clubs—how I loathe the name—are no more than gatherings of idle-minded persons who imitate true satanic rites in order to titillate. Yet there are certain less altruistic beings that take advantage of these people; who steer them in a direction they had no intention of taking. They it is who are the true Satanists. They it is who commit the most heinous crimes for their own purposes.”
“And that is what has happened here, with Nell Burton and Elizabeth Scott?”
He nodded. “So I believe, Harry. Some powerful and knowledgeable leader has taken his followers over the edge in what they thought was mere dabbling and used their energies to bring about an end that he had been working toward all along. Once they have taken that step, then they cannot go back, and this leader is in a position to command their complete allegiance and to ensure that they do all of his further biddings.”
“But who would do such a thing?” I asked.
“Who indeed, Harry? Who indeed?” Mr. Stoker gave one of his long sighs. “That person is the one we must determine before the end of this month. He—or she, for it is not unknown for a woman to lead such rituals—must be apprehended. Today I wanted to see for myself the caves of Lord Glenmont. I doubt that they will be used in the upcoming ceremony, but I needed to be fully aware of their location and availability just in case.”
“Why wouldn’t they simply use the original caves at Medmenham?” I asked.
“Those have long been boarded up,” said Stoker. “Too many people broke into them and abused them, spreading red paint and the like to simulate blood. A shame, for they are historical, whatever their original purpose.”
“So what now, sir? Now that you’ve seen the Glenmont caves, what is our next step?”
“Back to London to try to track down this leader. Thanks to you and young Billy Weston we have a list of suspects; persons who may well comprise the bulk of the congregation for these rites. I have prevailed upon our Inspector Bellamy to attempt to locate them and detain them for questioning, though I do not hold out a great deal of hope in that direction.”
“We do know one of them, sir,” I said. “Jacob Nugent.”
“That we do, Harry. And the inspector has already had the man into Scotland Yard for questioning.”
“And?” I sat on the edge of my seat, expectantly.
“As we might have expected, young Nugent has a fine alibi for every instance we could think of.”
I slid back in my seat again and watched as our four-wheeler entered the outskirts of the big city.
“But we will not leave it there, Harry.”
I turned to my boss expectantly.
“We are certain, from that list of names, that Jacob Nugent is entangled somehow. Scotland Yard is keeping a close eye on him and on his movements. If nothing else, there is a good chance that Mr. Nugent might lead us to someone more directly involved.”
The trees and hedgerows slowly gave way to houses, first well spread out and then increasingly closer together. The soft dirt road became a hard-topped street, which quickly showed signs of its constant use. I spotted crossing sweeps, hurdy-gurdy players, newspaper sellers, and pie men and knew that we were almost home. It had been an interesting excursion but one I could have done without. We arrived back at the Lyceum in good time for the evening performance.
* * *
“We can’t get anything out of the minx, so we thought your Mr. Stoker might have a better idea of what sort of questions to ask her.”
It was Inspector Bellamy. Seeing him at the Lyceum was not my idea of a good way to start off Friday morning. I had just left my boss’s office and almost bumped into the man as I headed back to my own desk. Behind the inspector I could see a police constable with a firm grip on the arm of a young woman. She had bright red hair, a mirror image of my own, although hers was understandably long and in ringlets. The woman was not shoddily dressed, though her fawn jacket was well-worn at the collar and her walking skirt much tattered at the hem from constant contact with the pavement. She wore a fur felt walking hat sporting a fancy quill. The hat, I thought, was worn at a roguish angle, so I was not entirely disconcerted when she winked at me. She had piercing green eyes and, in other circumstances, might have been thought attractive.
“Who is this young lady?” I asked. “Mr. Stoker is not casting for the next play.”
“Out of our way, Mr. Rivers. This is police business. We are not in the habit of providing young women to work your theatre. This is part of our investigation.”
“Oh, I see.” I turned back to Mr. Stoker’s office door and tapped on it. “In that case I’m sure he’ll see you.”
“Come!” My boss’s voice emanated from within, and I opened the door and told him who was there.
“Show him in, Harry. Let us not hinder the Metropolitan Police in the course of their enquiries. Ah, Inspector! Please come in. And who do we have here?”
There was not a lot of room in Mr. Stoker’s office, but I did not feel inclined to leave; I was far too intrigued. I edged over to the far wall so that the inspector, the constable, and the young lady could all enter and close the door. The inspector sat down on the chair facing Mr. Stoker but left the others standing.
“Miss Sarah Winterbotham,” said Bellamy, waving a hand in her direction. “On your list, if you recall. We picked her up in Piccadilly just yesterday afternoon and have been trying to fit her into your murder scene.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the woman, looking about her at the playbills on the walls of the office.
“Now then. None of that.” Bellamy barely glanced at her before returning his attention to my boss. “She does not have an alibi for either of the murders . . .”
“’Ere! I told you. I don’t know nothing about no murders!”
Bellamy continued without looking at her. “No alibis. No recollection—or so she says—of what she was doing at those times. No one to vouch for her or her movements. We thought perhaps you might have more pointed questions to ask her, sir.”
Mr. Stoker sat back and studied the young lady. He smiled, which seemed to surprise her. I think she was expecting my boss to browbeat her, as did the police.
&n
bsp; “And what is your name, young lady?”
“We’ve told you that . . .” exploded the inspector.
“Shh! Please, Inspector.” Stoker kept his eyes on the young woman, nodding encouragingly. “And by the way, may I compliment you on your hat? It is very becoming, especially with the entrance of spring all about us.”
I kept my eyes on Miss Winterbotham. It was fascinating to see how Mr. Stoker’s few words calmed her. She had come into the office—had been almost dragged into it—and was perhaps understandably antagonistic. But I saw the hint of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
“You like it? It was me mum’s. She only wore it on ’igh days and ’olidays. Got lots more life in it yet.”
“I can see.” Stoker’s head nodded. “Charming. Tell me, Miss Winterbotham, speaking of holidays, isn’t there one coming up in a few days? What is it . . . ?” He paused as though trying to think of it.
“Beltane,” she provided. “My favorite. Springtime, ain’it?” She looked defiantly at the inspector, as though half expecting him to deny the approaching season.
“Ah yes.” Stoker’s head again nodded. “Beltane. That’s it. So much nicer than Imbolc, wouldn’t you say? All that coming out of the winter and yet still frost biting at our toes.”
She laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Mr. Stoker, sir.” Inspector Bellamy could remain silent no longer. “We didn’t come here to discuss the weather. All this going on about belting and bolting, or whatever. Can we not get on with finding out what this woman knows? I need not remind you of the importance of this. After all, it was your acting young lady . . .”
My boss held up his hand, stopping the inspector in midsentence. “Inspector, please! You have your methods. Methods that you openly admit have produced no results. I have mine. I would suggest that you leave this young lady with me for the rest of the morning. Young Harry and I will take her to an early lunch, and then I will attend upon Scotland Yard and apprise you of the results.”
“Leave her with you? We can’t afford to let our constable lallygag about here all morning. He’s got other duties he needs to get to.”
“I’m not asking you to leave your constable here, Inspector. Mr. Rivers and myself are well able to escort Miss Winterbotham.”
Inspector Bellamy spluttered and argued, but eventually, as I knew he would have to, he and the police constable went out, leaving the young lady with us. Stoker smiled at her and indicated the chair that the inspector had vacated.
“Won’t you please be seated, Miss Winterbotham? I apologize for the crudeness of our Metropolitan force. Harry, would you see if Bill has got his kettle on? A cup of tea might not go amiss.”
* * *
“You let her go?” Inspector Bellamy was incredulous. “Don’t you know how lucky we were to find her in the first place? You were the one who alerted us to that list of people, and we managed to strike lucky and get hold of one of them. And now you go and let her off the hook?” His mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide.
Mr. Stoker sat down, placing his top hat and gloves on the inspector’s desk and laying his cane across it. He settled back in the chair and fixed his eyes on the policeman. I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible and eased myself down into the only other chair in the office.
“And what would you have done with her, Inspector? Thrown her into a jail cell perhaps? Beaten her? Tortured her?” He laughed. “I jest . . . I hope. But seriously, I do believe that Mr. Rivers and myself obtained all available information from Miss Winterbotham. To have forcefully retained her would have served no purpose. But to set your mind at rest, I did prevail upon one of my ever-helpful young street lads to keep an eye on her movements and to alert me in certain circumstances. It will not be a major task to apprehend her again should it really become necessary.”
The inspector harrumphed and moved papers about on his desk. “All the same, we do wish you had consulted us in the matter.” He paused before also sitting back and looking Mr. Stoker in the eyes. “So what great information did you learn? Something more than the weather through the year, we would hope.”
“That initial little exchange that you witnessed actually gave me a great deal of information. With just a couple of questions I got Miss Winterbotham to acknowledge that she is fully aware of the pagan calendar; that she recognizes the names of the ancient feast days. The days on which, if you recall, Inspector, the first murder took place and the third might. Imbolc, or February Eve, and Beltane, or May Eve. How many ordinary citizens would know that? How many young ladies of Miss Winterbotham’s class would be conversant with those terms? No, Inspector, we have ascertained that this young lady in particular is indeed a member of the group we seek and she, in turn, could well lead us to the others.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Mr. Stoker’s hope that Miss Winterbotham would lead us to others of the satanic group bore no fruit immediately, but I had learned to be patient when one of my boss’s plans started to fall into place. He had arranged for a number of street urchins to keep an eye on the young lady, taking turns in following so that she would never see the same face behind her.
Meanwhile the good inspector’s men did manage to discover another of the group. Mr. Albert Pottinger had, in effect, been sitting out in the open all the time. He was the proprietor of an apothecary shop in Watford, a small town northwest of the city. It seems it was quite by chance that one of the sergeants attached to Scotland Yard, a Sergeant Ames, was visiting an aunt in Watford and was sent in search of laudanum for that lady. Directed to the shop, he fell into conversation with the man behind the counter, not revealing his own profession. He discovered that the storekeeper was a collector of ancient recipes and herbal cures for little-known maladies and was interested in ancient magical practices. The sergeant was struck by the unusual name of the proprietor and suddenly remembered that name being on the list that Inspector Bellamy had distributed. He arrested the man and dragged him back to Scotland Yard. Under Inspector Bellamy’s questioning, Mr. Pottinger reluctantly admitted to being one of a group that occasionally gathered in Warrington and elsewhere, though he denied any connection with devil worship or knowledge of Elizabeth Scott’s murder.
The inspector arrived at Mr. Stoker’s office early Saturday morning mainly, it seemed to me, to crow about the capture.
“Our Sergeant Ames—one of our finest, I might add—immediately recognized the man and lost no time in bringing him to justice,” he said, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets and his chest thrust out.
“Justice?” asked Mr. Stoker. “For what? It seems you have yet to actually connect him to any murder. Although I applaud your sergeant’s rapid response, I fear it will mean but little unless you can follow up on the man’s admission of having been in Warrington.”
The thumbs came out of the pockets, and the inspector looked hard at my boss and frowned. “Yes, well . . . that remains to be seen. We don’t think it will be too hard to establish the connection. Not under our questioning.”
“And just what have you learned so far?”
“He has no alibi, sir! No alibi at all. He is unable to account for his movements at the time of either murder. We are holding him at Scotland Yard for the time being.” He lowered his head and glowered at Mr. Stoker. “We will not be releasing this gentleman into your custody, Mr. Stoker. He will stay safely with us.”
“I am sure he will quickly feel at home there,” said my boss. “Now, if you have no further news of any substance . . .”
“Just one more item.” Bellamy pulled out his tattered notebook and flipped through the pages to the item he was looking for. “Mr. Cuthbert Wellington . . .”
“Welly!” I shouted out. I couldn’t contain myself. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” I said to Mr. Stoker. “I was just overexcited to hear mention of him.”
“Quite all right, Harry.” He addresse
d himself to the inspector. “So! What news do you bring of Mr. Wellington, Inspector? I understand you had been wanting to talk with him ever since the passing of that upstart actor in Oxford.”
“Indeed we had.” He consulted his book. “Mr. Wellington surfaced down in Brighton where, it appears, he has found employment at a small theatre there, the Brighton Alhambra on the King’s Road.”
“Wonderful,” I murmured. The inspector ignored me.
“It would appear that he was well ensconced there at the time of Mr. Robertson’s passing. Not that there is any further concern on our part, regarding that particular gentleman’s death.”
“Oh?” Stoker looked surprised. “Pray tell, Inspector. What other news are you keeping from us?”
Bellamy looked pleased with himself, having information that my boss did not have.
“At the Oxford Grand Theatre, under more of our effective questioning, Mr. Stoker, we were able to elicit a complete confession from . . .”—another quick glance at his notebook—“Mr. Stewart Renfrew, the late Reginald Robertson’s understudy. It would appear that Mr. Renfrew had long been aggravated by that gentleman and one evening he decided he would take it no more and hit Mr. Robertson over the head with a metal bust of Julius Caesar.”
“A bust of Caesar?” I said.
“Apparently a stage property of some kind.”
Mr. Stoker grunted. “Yes. Well, we have had our own problems with understudies in the past. They do seem an unstable lot. So is that it, Inspector? May we now be allowed to get on about our daily business? Or would you like to chat away until curtain-up for this afternoon’s performance?”
With the trace of a smile on his face, Inspector Bellamy left, and Mr. Stoker and I got back to the business of the Lyceum.
* * *
It was between houses that I got the terrible news. The worst news I have ever received in my life, it seems to me.
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