Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “Mr. Rivers, sir.”

  I was hurrying along to the prop room and did not want to be delayed. There was little enough time to accomplish all that was required. I glanced back over my shoulder.

  “What is it? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “It’s me, sir. Timmy.”

  “Timmy?” The name didn’t immediately mean anything. I stopped and turned around. It was the young boy from Mr. Irving’s residence. “Timmy! What are you doing here? Are you looking for Mr. Irving? His dressing room is up the stairs. Here, let me show you the way.”

  “No, sir. No. It’s you as I was told to find, sir.”

  I was puzzled. Then a thought struck me. Perhaps Jenny had to get an urgent note of some sort to me. Perhaps she wouldn’t be able to meet me tomorrow. My heart sank at the thought.

  “What is it, Timmy? Did Jenny send you?”

  “No, sir. It was Mrs. Cooke what told me to come and find you. But it’s about Jenny. She’s gorn and disappeared, sir.”

  I would swear that my heart stopped beating for a moment.

  “What do you mean, she’s disappeared?” I spoke sharply. More sharply than I meant to.

  The boy shook his head. “I dunno. Mrs. Cooke says to tell you. Jenny was sent out to get summat at the shop yesterday and she never come back.”

  “What do you mean, she never came back?” I could feel panic growing in my stomach. I involuntarily grabbed the boy by his arm and jerked him around to face me.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry! I’m sorry, Timmy. But . . . Look, let’s go and find Mr. Stoker. Come with me.”

  We hurried along to my boss’s office, and I threw open the door without even bothering to knock. As I burst in, I knocked his Indian clubs from where they stood close to the door. I scrambled to retrieve the heavy objects and looked about me. The office was empty.

  * * *

  It was a good ten minutes before I located the big man. I then had Timmy repeat what he had told me.

  “The first thing is not to panic, Harry.”

  That was easy to say, I thought, but not so easy to do. “But what can we do, sir?” I felt wretched.

  I sent Timmy home with a note to Mrs. Cooke advising her that I had alerted Mr. Stoker and he, in turn, had advised Mr. Irving.

  “What are the possibilities?” asked Stoker. “Does she have any relatives nearby? Might there have been some emergency that she had to attend to?”

  “There’s only her old aunt who lives in Bermondsey, though I don’t know the exact address. The last I heard, Aunt Alice was in fine fettle. But if Jenny had gone there, surely she would have advised Mrs. Cooke? She wouldn’t simply run off.”

  “Hmm. Agreed. It does seem unusual. Still, I think I will send one of our men off to Bermondsey to locate the old lady, just to be certain. Meanwhile, you and I will do a little police work, Harry.” Stoker got to his feet. “Come. Let us proceed to where Miss Cartwright was last seen and begin our own enquiries.”

  I gave Sam Green what details I could remember of Aunt Alice Forsyth and where she lived and saw him off as he left to try to locate her. Then I hurried after Mr. Stoker as he exited the theatre and summoned a hansom. At a fast trot, we made our way to Mayfair and to Grafton Street. The big black-painted front door opened as we drew near it. Timmy was looking out for us, and he ran up the stairs to alert the housekeeper the moment we stepped out of the cab.

  “I take it Miss Cartwright has not yet returned?” My boss’s voice echoed up the stairway as Mrs. Cooke’s short, stocky figure appeared at the top.

  She quickly put her hands up to check that her hair was secure in its bun and then shook her head. “No, sir. Not a sign of ’er. Never done this afore. She ’ad run out to the milliner’s for me, to get me some thread, and just never come back.”

  “And this was yesterday, Friday?”

  “Yes, sir. About teatime it was, so I didn’t really notice Jenny ’adn’t returned till close on six of the clock, sir.”

  My boss had ascended but a short way up the stairs and stood, holding the banister rail and speaking up to the housekeeper at the top. I stood uncertainly just inside the front door, which remained open.

  “And this milliner is located where, Mrs. Cooke? Precisely.”

  “Number 63 Bond Street, sir. We always goes there. Mr. Irving says . . .”

  “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Cooke.” Mr. Stoker turned back down and waved me ahead of him. “Lead on, Harry. Around the corner to Bond Street. Thank you, Mrs. Cooke,” he called back over his shoulder as we went out and closed the door behind us.

  It wasn’t far to the milliner’s shop. The ladies behind the counters at Mrs. Hazlett’s Millinery and Mercantile all looked up as the bell tinkled when Mr. Stoker threw open the door.

  “Which of you is Mrs. Hazlett?” he asked, his eyes sweeping the shop.

  There were a number of lady customers, all of whom were obviously surprised to see two men invade what they surely thought to be their territory. I heard one or two murmur but was unable to catch what was said. A petite, dark-haired lady, smartly dressed and wearing a fashionable hat sporting a tall peacock feather, excused herself from a customer and advanced upon us.

  “I am she. May I ask who enquires?”

  Stoker removed his hat and gave the slightest of bows. “Forgive our intrusion, madam, but we are here on urgent business. Is there somewhere we may speak?” His eyes ran across the other ladies whose faces were all locked on us.

  To her credit Mrs. Hazlett wasted no time. “Ladies, kindly proceed with your business. Gentlemen, won’t you please follow me?”

  She led the way back behind the counters and beyond the fitting rooms to a small office. There was a large table, rather than a desk, in its center, with a variety of rolls of cloth spread about together with a peaked-brim bonnet of wired buckram on a stand. It was covered in silk taffeta and decorated with feathers. She swept a clear space on the table and turned to face us.

  “Now, gentlemen. What is so urgent that you must interrupt the working of my establishment?”

  Mr. Stoker wasted no time. “We are seeking a young gentlewoman who has disappeared, madam. She was last known to have visited your shop. It was late afternoon yesterday. I am informed that she was here to purchase some thread for her employer.”

  “Can you describe her? We have a varied clientele. We are a not unpopular purveyor of hats of the latest fashion together with a wide assortment . . .”

  “Forgive me, but time is of the essence,” said Stoker, holding up his hand to stop her. He turned to me. “Harry, be so good as to give this lady a full description of Jenny.”

  I did so.

  “A little over five feet in height, you say? And with brown hair and eyes?”

  I nodded. “Yes, madam.”

  “At that hour of the day we did not have a great many ladies in the shop, but as it happens I have good reason to remember the lady you describe,” said Mrs. Hazlett.

  I thought my heart might burst through my chest. “You do?” I gasped.

  “Easy, Harry,” said Mr. Stoker. He addressed the milliner. “Pray tell all you remember, madam. It would be of great service to us. The young lady in question has disappeared, and we are most anxious to locate her. Anything you can tell us will be gratefully appreciated.”

  “The young lady you mention had barely entered my shop when the door swung open again behind her and a rather large, rough-looking gentleman followed her in. He threw his arms around her waist and, as he dragged her back out of the door, shouted something at me that sounded like, ‘My willful daughter. She just won’t obey me.’ The young lady seemed most surprised and started to scream, but the man hustled her outside and into a waiting cab.”

  “Sir!” I cried, turning to Mr. Stoker.

  “Easy, Harry,” he said, for the second time. “Mrs. Hazl
ett, we are indebted to you. Can you tell me in which direction the cab proceeded?”

  “Why, toward Piccadilly, I believe.”

  “Ah! Piccadilly, eh? I’m sorry, Harry. I’m afraid there’s no way we’ll be able to track it. Piccadilly, as you know, is the veritable hub of London. They could have continued in literally any direction from there.”

  “But surely, sir . . .”

  “Are you aware of just how many cabs ply their trade in the city, Harry? And of how many pass through Piccadilly within the space of just one hour?” He shook his head. “No, Harry, direct pursuit is not to be the order of our day. Come! Let us return to the Lyceum.”

  “There must be something we can do, sir,” I protested as we rode back to the theatre. “I can’t do nothing. Perhaps Sam Green will have found Aunt Alice. Perhaps . . .”

  “Easy, Harry. One step at a time. We will, of course, advise Scotland Yard and the good inspector, but there is one thing you should keep in mind.”

  “Sir?” I felt the slightest hope from my boss’s reassuring voice.

  “If, as we both must suspect, young Jenny has been taken to play the part of the next victim for the Hellfire group, then we can rest assured that she will be held in good state until that appointed night. They will not harm her—in all probability will treat her well—until they need her for their shameful rite on the eve of May. That is yet a week away. We can accomplish a lot in a week, Harry.”

  I did, indeed, feel some small consolation from that thought. Mr. Stoker was right. For some strange reason I had had a certain dread at the back of my mind that my Jenny might be the chosen one; that she would somehow be spirited away by these demons. There was no logic to my fear. Why would Jenny be chosen, out of all the young women in London? And yet I had felt very strongly that there was a connection of some sort. I shared my thoughts with Mr. Stoker.

  “I think you are right, Harry.” His big head nodded with the motion of the hansom passing over the cobbled street. “I blame myself for not acting on such a supposition in a more timely manner. Nell Burton was one of our own. If, as I suspect, this whole trio of rites is being aimed at the Lyceum and—as I am becoming more and more certain—at our Henry Irving, then it would make sense that there would be a strong connection between the victim and their center of focus.”

  “But Elizabeth Scott had no direct connection with us, sir,” I said. “She was a simple flower seller, not even in London, never mind part of the Lyceum.”

  “Very true, Harry. And I have my own theory as to why she became the first victim of these tragedies. Ah, here we are. Let us get back inside and to my office. I find I think best in my own milieu.”

  We both descended from the cab and hurried back inside the Lyceum to prepare for the final performance of Hamlet. The theatre was full.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Saturday night saw Hamlet go out in a blaze of glory. The Guv’nor took ten curtain calls and could have squeezed several more out of the enthusiastic audience if he had wanted to. Everyone seemed delighted. Mr. Irving took the principals out to a very late dinner at Romano’s. Mr. Stoker was invited but declined. His mind was on other things.

  The next day was a most unusual Sunday. It had been a sleepness night for me. There was to be no meeting with Jenny that afternoon. Yet the day started like a regular weekday morning . . . I went in to the theatre and met with Mr. Stoker in his office.

  “I’ve been thinking, sir,” I said. “The Nugents. Just where do they fit into this whole scheme of things?”

  “I’ve been trying to sort out that myself, Harry. They are both obviously involved in some way, and I think I might have it fathomed. Tell me again the name of the second man that Newgate Prison said would occasionally visit Bart Nugent.”

  I had to turn to my notebook for that. I’d come to realize that there were some things Inspector Bellamy did that were worth copying. I now wrote down any and all items I might possibly forget. I’d always kept such a workbook for my theatrical duties, but now I kept a second one for the many diverse happenings that seemed to bubble up all about me in the blink of an eye . . . tarot cards, railway timetables, directions thither and yon, and many, many names. Even with the notebook I found it difficult to keep the names in any sort of order. I had to record what each name was associated with and how I had encountered it. I now ran my finger down a page and stopped under the Newgate Prison heading.

  “William Higby,” I read out. “The assistant warder said that he only visited Bart once or twice.”

  “And what was the name of Lord Glenmont’s gamekeeper? He of the double-barreled shotgun?”

  I turned a page or two then turned back.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t make a note of that. Should I have done?”

  “I can tell you, Harry. It was Bill Higby.”

  My mouth fell open. “It was? Was there any connection between the two Higbys?” I asked.

  “There were not two Higbys, Harry. Just one—I’m certain of it. The gamekeeper was the man who visited Bart Nugent in prison.” Mr. Stoker sat back in his chair and looked pleased with himself.

  “Well I’m . . . I’m speechless,” I said.

  My boss looked even more pleased with himself. “I knew I’d heard the name before somewhere, when Lord Glenmont’s man said it. I just couldn’t place it right away.”

  “So why did he visit Bart?”

  “It was clever and it tells us a lot, if my reasoning is correct, Harry.”

  “It does, sir?”

  “It most certainly does. You know, of course, that we had two young ladies murdered. One up north near Liverpool and the other right here in London. Both were ritual slayings. Ergo, both required a number of participants. Now don’t you think it would be a very large coincidence if there just happened to be operating two separate and distinct Hellfire groups—for want of a better name? Don’t you think it much more likely that it was in fact two parts of one single group responsible for both deaths?”

  I nodded. It was persuasive.

  “Two parts of a whole,” he continued. “And consequently a need to coordinate their actions.”

  “So, how . . . ?” I started to say.

  “The leader, or the spokesman, for the northern half—Jacob Nugent—would report to his brother Bart, in Newgate Prison, on a visiting day. Then the spokesman, or coordinator, for the southern half—William Higby—would collect that information from Bart on another such day and take it on down to his group. Bart would act as go-between, being useful despite his confinement. The two groups could thus coordinate their actions to get together for the third big event . . . the Walpurgisnacht slaying.”

  “So Jacob Nugent is the leader of the northern half . . .”

  “Not the leader, to my mind, Harry. The leader is the mastermind behind it all, and I do not think either of the Nugents so capable. Most certainly not our gamekeeper, either. No, Harry. They are merely pawns in this mighty game of chess.”

  “Why didn’t both murders take place in the London area, sir? Why pick a young woman up near Liverpool?” I had been wondering this for some time. “Surely then there would have been no need for coordinating and go-betweens.”

  Mr. Stoker nodded his head slowly as though thinking things through. “Good question, Harry. I do have a vague sort of idea that is still germinating. It seems ridiculous on the face of it, but then so do many things about murder when first contemplated.”

  He did not elaborate, and I knew he would not do so until he was more certain of things. I asked him what he would like me to do.

  “I know you want to keep busy, Harry, and I think it best you do. There is nothing calling for your immediate attention here at the Lyceum today, now that Hamlet has taken its final bows. Starting tomorrow we will be deep into Othello rehearsals, but this afternoon I would like to suggest that you call upon Lord Glenmont.”

>   “Call on him, sir?”

  “Not literally, Harry. I still hesitate to associate that gentleman with the satanic group, though I have not scratched him off my list. I think it more likely that the true mastermind is taking advantage of his lordship. But we cannot take anything at face value. I’d like you to make enquiries at the House of Lords, and at his lordship’s club, to get some idea of Lord Glenmont’s movements at the times in which we are interested. Perhaps even see if you can discover if his lordship has any special plans for May Eve? I, myself, have things to do.”

  “Yes, sir!” I jumped to my feet. Here was something I could immerse myself in, however temporarily, to take my mind off thoughts of Jenny being held and possibly abused. “I’ll get onto it right away.”

  * * *

  There was little information I could extract at the House of Lords. I could not even gain access there. The Palace of Westminster, of which it is a part, is closely guarded, and I had to do some fast talking in order to speak with the steward of the palace, Sir Gregory Ford. I was lucky to find even him there on a Sunday.

  “The crossbenchers are under no obligation to sign in or out,” he told me. “They are invariably on hand when there is a vote expected or even for strong discussion, but the very fact of their being crossbenchers precludes any obligation on their part. I am not even sure that Lord Glenmont has been here at all this week. Now if you will excuse me?” He bustled away, looking about him as though searching for someone.

  I returned through the great gates of the palace and started walking down Great George Street toward St. James’s Park. It was turning into a beautiful day, and my mind kept straying to thoughts of strolling with Jenny around that park or Hyde Park. I tried to put such thoughts out of my head. Mr. Stoker had warned me that to dwell on Jenny’s abduction would do her no favors and that I needed to keep my brain active.

  I cut across the park, walked along the side of St. James’s Palace, and came out at the junction of Pall Mall and St. James’s Street. My destination was number 60 St. James’s Street, the home of Brooks’s, the leading Liberal club for gentlemen. I had learned from Debrett’s that this was the club favored by Lord Glenmont. When the House of Lords was in session many of the politicians lived in their respective clubs, traveling home only at the weekends. The accommodation at such establishments is without parallel, and the cuisine is nothing but excellent. Baedeker claims that the wine and viands at the West End gentleman’s clubs attain excellence unequaled by the most elaborate and expensive restaurants. Who, in his right mind, would want to go home? I thought, my mind briefly visiting Mrs. Bell and her cold kippers and lukewarm tea.