Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  I knew that I could not hope to gain entrance to Brooks’s, being neither a member nor a member’s guest, but it was not admission that I sought. It was information, and a Sunday seemed the ideal day to acquire it.

  A commissionaire was to be found at the entrance to all such gentleman’s clubs. He was usually a retired army sergeant major; big and burly enough to keep out any undesirables yet educated enough to be able to converse intelligently with the members and their guests. At Brooks’s I encountered Sergeant Major Oliver Martingale, formerly of the Coldstream Guards. His dress uniform gleamed in all the right places; his boots and belt reflected the sunlight; and the paired brass buttons of his jacket dazzled the eyes. His bald pate gleamed to match the boots, and I briefly wondered if he polished that, also. It wasn’t difficult to get into conversation with the commissionaire, there being little coming and going at Brooks’s on this Sunday.

  “I don’t think there’s a man in England who does not look twice, and with pride, at the uniform of the Coldsteam Guards, Sergeant Major,” I said. I sensed rather than saw that he pulled himself up a little straighter and thrust out his chest.

  “Crimean. Waterloo. Napoleonic Wars. Wilhelmstal. Siege of Namur.” He counted them off as though he had fought in all of them, though I happened to know that the siege had taken place two hundred years ago. Still, it was by such benchmarks that a soldier defined his regiment.

  “Amazing,” I murmured, sufficiently loudly for him to hear and appreciate my awe. “Surely you must find this gentleman’s club a far cry from your past glories.”

  “Oh, you would be surprised at some of the goings-on I’ve witnessed ’ere,” he said, leaning in toward me in a confidential manner.

  I raised my eyebrows and tried to look surprised.

  “Many of them as is supposed to be gentlemen fall far from the mark, to my ’umble mind, when they’ve got a drink or two in ’em.” He pursed his lips and nodded his bald head. “Wouldn’t have done back at the regiment, I can tell you.”

  “No, I’m sure not,” I agreed.

  In no time I was able to bring the conversation around to certain members of the club, Lord Glenmont in particular. I expressed my particular interest in that gentleman and his movements, implying a desire to discuss certain investments with his lordship. By then the sergeant major was much more relaxed, and I could tell he seldom got to be at ease and to just chat. We quickly came to be on first-name terms. I soon learned that his lordship was one of the few members for whom he had any respect.

  “Never seen ’is lordship falling down drunk, ’Arry, which is more than I can say for most of ’em. ’E always bids me good day and stops to comment on the weather. Nice old gentleman.”

  It transpired that the sergeant major kept a register of the members’ comings and goings together with any guests that they admitted.

  “You must see some very important people come and go, Oliver,” I said.

  “Just feast your eyes on this,” he said.

  We stood in the foyer of the club, at the foot of the marble staircase that curved away up to the main club rooms. The book lay open on the desk where the commissionaire normally sat. He flipped a page or two back and pointed to the signatures of the prime minister and various well-placed members of his party. Just then a carriage bearing a discreet coat of arms on its door pulled up at the club entrance.

  “No rest even on a Sunday!” said the sergeant major. “’Old on, ’Arry. I’ll be right back.” He tugged his uniform jacket straight and marched across to open the doors for the party descending from the carriage.

  I wasted no time. I quickly turned the pages in the book, back to the date of Nell Burton’s slaying. I ran my finger down the signatures. There was no sign of Lord Glenmont’s name. I turned back farther.

  “What you looking for, ’Arry?”

  With a start I realized that the sergeant major was back beside me. I couldn’t believe I had not been aware of his heavy boots marching across the foyer. I glanced down at the thick carpet.

  “I can’t believe some of these names, Oliver,” I said. “Lord this and Earl that. Did I see a duke in there?”

  “Could well be,” he smirked. “Could very well be.”

  * * *

  “No, sir,” I said. “I could see no indication that Lord Glenmont went out from his club at the time of Nell Burton’s murder. Apparently he was in residence there at the time. Does this mean he’s clear of any involvement?” I stared at Mr. Stoker to see his reaction.

  “We cannot jump to any hasty conclusions, Harry,” he said. We were back in his office late on Sunday afternoon. “I must admit, I find Lord Glenmont a bit of a puzzle.”

  “Sir?”

  “Everything seems to indicate that he really is all he seems to be . . . a benign elderly gentleman with a smile for everyone. But is that truly him, or is he a consummate actor—good enough for the Lyceum family—who is secretly the mastermind of this terrible satanic group intent on destroying life?” He shook his head. “I just don’t know, Harry.”

  “But you have your suspicions, sir?” I urged. “You always have your inner feelings. Your grandmother’s senses?”

  “I don’t know who you’ve been listening to, Harry. I’m sure I would never lay claim to such paranormal abilities.”

  I stifled myself. Mr. Stoker could be almost laughable at times, I thought. I kept a straight face. “Any second thoughts then, sir?”

  He pursed his lips and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, gazing off into space. “I must admit that I am inclined to take his lordship at face value. I think he may well be an unwitting link in the chain. I think it possible that others have made use of him without his knowledge. But time alone will tell, Harry, and we cannot sit around and wait for that time to pass. Come!”

  He got to his feet and reached for his overcoat on the mahogany clothes tree.

  “Where are we going, sir?” I asked.

  “Out!” came the enigmatic response.

  * * *

  The hansom deposited us outside a small, cheap hotel in Belgravia. I followed my boss as he surged up the steps and into the foyer. A tall, thin lady with a lantern jaw and what I believe is described as a hatchet face stood from where she sat behind the counter. Her black eyebrows rose in questioning mode, though she said nothing.

  “Mr. Seth Hartzman?” said Stoker. “I believe he is one of your guests? Is he presently in residence?”

  “I am unable to divulge any particulars of my guests . . .”

  “Is he in residence?” thundered my boss.

  The eyebrows rose even higher. “Sir!”

  Stoker slammed his hand down on the counter and looked the lady squarely in the eyes.

  “This is no time for shilly-shallying, madam! Mr. Hartzman. It is imperative that I speak with him.”

  To her credit, the lady looked straight back at Mr. Stoker without flinching. “As it happens that particular guest of the hotel is not in residence at this time, sir. He left yesterday evening with his bag packed. It was my understanding that he would not be back for several days, though he did request that we hold his room.”

  “Damnation!”

  “Sir, I must ask that you leave this establishment immediately.”

  I was surprised at my boss’s outburst. It showed me, in no uncertain terms, that he was more emotionally involved with the approaching ritual, and the fate of my dear Jenny, than he cared to say. He raised his hat to the lady.

  “My apologies, madam. I forget myself. It is certain circumstances that bring unexpected pressures.” He looked briefly at me. “Come, Harry. Let us take up no more of this good lady’s time.”

  I trotted after him as he swept out of the hotel.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Now where, sir?”

  A light rain had started to fall, and I felt we should do r
ather more than simply stand in the middle of the pavement looking up and down the street.

  “Damnation! I should have acted yesterday, when I knew our man was still here. I should have confronted him before this. I blame myself.”

  “Our man?”

  “Hartzman. He is the key to much that is going on, Harry. We need to track him down and have a heart-to-heart talk with him.”

  “I hesitate to suggest it, but would Inspector Bellamy be of any use here?” I said. I turned up my coat collar.

  Mr. Stoker pulled out his gold watch, looked at it, and then thrust it back in his pocket. “It’s a Sunday and late in the afternoon. I very much doubt that the good inspector will be at his post right now. But let us not forget him, Harry. Perhaps we can squeeze him in tomorrow?”

  “I’ll make a point of it, sir,” I said.

  “Good. Then don’t keep me here in this rain any longer. Let us repair to an eatery for some tea.”

  We found a tea shop open on Wilton Crescent, though it looked as though they were preparing to close for the day. We took a table in the window, and the waitress bustled about bringing us tea, sandwiches, and pastries. Mr. Stoker inspected the assortment of savories. Apparently satisfied, he sank his teeth into one of the sandwiches and sat back while I poured the tea.

  “I had alerted Inspector Bellamy to Hartzman a while ago,” he said, gazing out of the window. “If he had only acted at that time, instead of putting it off, we might have apprehended the young man. Now he may have to institute a search.”

  “What is it you think you’ll discover about him, sir?” I asked, stirring a lump of sugar into my tea.

  “I’m not certain. I have one or two theories but nothing firm as yet. I intend to do some further digging tomorrow morning, while you are busy with the inspector.”

  “Mr. Hartzman should be at the theatre this week for Othello rehearsals,” I said. “Wasn’t that the reason the colonel wanted him in the cast, so that he could be a part of it when Mr. Booth was onstage?”

  “That was the suggestion, yes.”

  I thought he sounded unsure.

  “You think there may have been other reasons?”

  “Once again, time will tell, Harry. Now eat up and let us allow these poor people to close the shop and go home.”

  * * *

  On Monday morning we received a note from Scotland Yard saying that Inspector Bellamy would be obliged if Mr. Stoker would come by. He didn’t mention me, but I presumed to accompany my boss. When we got to the Yard we found Bellamy in conference with another police officer. I immediately recognized him as Inspector Whittaker of the Warrington police. How could I forget that short, bald-headed official with the receding chin? I thought. I didn’t see his baton in evidence, but I was sure it was in the room somewhere. I wondered what brought him to London all the way from Liverpool.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” said Bellamy, and he waved us to two chairs set out beside the one occupied by Inspector Whittaker. He made no comment on the fact that I had accompanied my boss, but that there were two chairs ready showed that he was not altogether surprised.

  “Your note intimated that there was some urgency,” said Mr. Stoker.

  “If we are to abide by your prediction of an upcoming murder, sir, and if this ties in with your missing young lady, yes, there is indeed urgency.” He moved a bulky file into the center of his desk and opened it. “We have had the good inspector, here, dig back through his files to the murder of Miss Elizabeth Scott. He has been good enough to bring those files with him to Scotland Yard, at our request.” His eyes settled on Mr. Stoker’s face. “We felt it would save time if you were present while we went through them since you have, on previous occasions, managed to put a somewhat different perspective on things.”

  I thought it very magnanimous of Inspector Bellamy to admit to Mr. Stoker’s brilliance. I grinned. If Bellamy saw the smile, he ignored it.

  “But surely you have already been through these files with a fine-tooth comb?” Stoker looked surprised. “Have you, then, discovered something new and of note?”

  Inspector Bellamy looked uncomfortable.

  Whittaker knitted his brow. “It was a complete . . .” he started to say, but Bellamy cut him off.

  “What our colleague is trying to say, is that the Scott murder occurred at a time when the Yard was going through changes. Our predecessor was retiring, and we were just starting to take the helm. There was some, er, mismanagement, perhaps . . .”

  Inspector Whittaker could contain himself no longer. “The Yard made a complete mess of things! That ridiculous Inspector Watson—thank the gods he did retire—he came in and took over what was most decidedly our case. The first good murder we had had in years. Just snatched it right out of our hands! Then the fool goes and retires and the new man . . .” Here he had the grace to incline his head to Inspector Bellamy and nod. “Well, no doubt . . .”

  “We were pushed into this with no preparation,” pleaded Bellamy. “Too many cases suddenly thrust upon us. It’s no wonder the murder did not get the full and complete examination that it deserved.”

  “You are saying—‘admitting’ might be the more accurate word—that the Elizabeth Scott murder was not properly examined?” Mr. Stoker sounded amazed.

  “Oh, it was all done properly,” pleaded Bellamy. “It was just that we didn’t have the time or the manpower to look into it as thoroughly as we might have done.”

  “And wouldn’t allow the Warrington force to work it,” grumbled Whittaker.

  “Water under the bridge,” muttered Bellamy. “Water under the bridge.”

  “Properly done but not thoroughly done.” Mr. Stoker sat forward and turned the file around so that he might read it. “Well, no matter, gentlemen. We are here now, and let us get on with it.” He turned to Whittaker. “Inspector, would you be kind enough to give me a complete rundown on the case from your point of view? What have you learned, both from your original, if sparse, investigations and from your subsequent perusal? Harry, you might take notes if you would.”

  Over the next four hours the three of them worked their way through the large file, the two inspectors bickering from time to time but being brought to order by Mr. Stoker. To my mind the only really new information was the fact that although locally there had been the occasional “juvenile high spirits”—it seemed that Inspector Whittaker thought along the same lines as did the vicar—there had never been any real problems in the area until the beginning of this present year. Then suddenly there seemed to be a number of previously unknown people, “undesirables,” as the inspector termed them, who appeared in the area around Warrington and then as quickly disappeared right after the murder of Miss Scott.

  “You say that you were not familiar with many of these malcontents?” asked Stoker.

  Whittaker shook his head. “I was born and raised in Warrington, Mr. Stoker. Certainly we have changed over the years. Being so close to Liverpool, it’s no wonder. But I have never seen such an influx of strangers in so short a time. It is a small community, so a dozen strange faces suddenly appearing can be disconcerting. I had mentioned this to the original Inspector Watson, but he seemed to have thought it insignificant. He did not even record my remarks.”

  “And you say these new faces disappeared as quickly as they had come?”

  “To the best of my knowledge.”

  “Exactly what time period are we talking about?”

  “From the start of the year up until the first week of March. Only about eight or nine weeks.”

  “But what we find of especial interest, Mr. Stoker,” said Bellamy, “is the name of one of those persons. Hartzman. Seth Hartzman. The gentleman you are looking for, I believe?”

  Mr. Stoker pursed his lips and fingered his beard. “So our Mr. Hartzman was definitely on the scene at the time of Miss Scott’s murder. Very interesting.”
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  “More than simply ‘on the scene’ as you put it, sir,” said Whittaker. “It is my belief that he was some sort of leader, or organizer, of these interlopers.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “One of the problems that we had was the burning of bonfires. They built and lit one the night of Miss Scott’s murder. Hartzman was noted as organizing the building of it. It was at the opposite end of the village and was what drew our attention away from any activity we might otherwise have observed at the old windmill. Then a second, admittedly much smaller, bonfire was lit on the night of . . .” He dug into the file on the desk. “The night of the twenty-first of March.”

  Stoker’s head slowly nodded up and down.

  “Pagan holidays, sir?” I ventured to ask.

  “Oh yes, Harry. Imbolc, the night of the sacrifice of Miss Scott, and then the spring equinox, Ostara, the sacrifice of our own Miss Burton. Bonfires often featured as the focal point of pagan festivities; not that this group is necessarily pagan. The fire represents the sun. Even today, in various remote parts of England, bonfires are lit—usually on hilltops—to celebrate all the old feast days.”

  “But why would they build a second bonfire in Warrington when that particular sacrifice was taking place in London, sir?”

  “Merely a token to indicate the continuation of the rites, Harry. An indication that both sacrifices were connected. Inspector Bellamy! Do you have any evidence of a similar large bonfire being lit in your bailiwick on the night of Miss Burton’s murder?”