Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “We get lots of fires around the city, sir, all the time.”

  “I am talking a large bonfire, Inspector. Of the Guy Fawkes variety, but far from the fifth of November and without the fireworks.”

  Inspector Bellamy had to call in a sergeant, whom he instructed to check on my boss’s suggestion. In no time the sergeant returned with the news that yes, there had indeed been an unusual bonfire on that night. Not especially large but definitely unusual. Bellamy relayed the details to us all.

  “On the river, not far from the warehouse where we discovered the body of your Miss Burton,” he said to Mr. Stoker. “Right on the water, a flat homemade raft was set adrift and floated downriver. There was a large pile of kindling, driftwood and the like, piled on the raft, and it had been set alight. It took the Thames River Police by surprise, we can tell you.”

  “I am sure it did,” murmured Stoker. “I’m sure it did.”

  “So we had bonfires up north and down here,” said Inspector Whittaker. “What of it? What about the people? What about this Hartzman you seem to know?”

  “I am certainly of the opinion that Hartzman is a key figure in all of this, even in the two murders,” said Mr. Stoker. “But I still do not believe that he is the ringleader, the mastermind. I have my suspicions, but am not yet ready to point the finger. We need to look into this a lot closer.”

  The meeting came to an end, and Mr. Stoker and I departed Scotland Yard, heading back to the Lyceum. There was much to do there, with Othello rehearsals proceeding apace and with scenery and props to be attended to.

  * * *

  I was startled to be addressed by the Guv’nor himself, at the end of rehearsal. He stopped by my humble office on his way out of the theatre.

  “Mr. Rivers. I suppose we have no further news regarding our missing young lady?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid not.”

  “Such a shame. Young Jenny is very much missed back at my rooms, and I understand that you have a special interest in her?” He bowed and tut-tutted, sadly shaking his head.

  He glanced up again. I noticed that he never actually looked at me. I couldn’t help thinking that it was as though he were playing a part onstage. Not overly dramatic yet just not natural, to my mind. Still, I was grateful that he was even aware of myself and Jenny.

  “Miss Terry and I have spoken of this on a number of occasions recently. Our thoughts and prayers are with you both, young man. Together we will pull through this trial.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I said. I really didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes, we are all most concerned.” It was Colonel Cornell who had spoken. I was surprised to see that Mr. Edwin Booth and his manager had come up behind the Guv’nor. They were all on their way out of the Lyceum at the end of rehearsal.

  Still sadly shaking his head, Mr. Irving moved on, and I was left once again with thoughts of my Jenny in the hands of the satanic abductors. I felt very depressed. The Guv’nor’s words had not cheered me at all; in fact quite the opposite. I reached for my coat and made for the Druid’s Head and a pint of porter.

  John Martin, the tavern keeper, gave me a cheery wave, but I barely responded. I sank down onto a bench at a table close to the fireplace. The fire was low, the day having been quite warm for the time of year. A tankard brimming with beer appeared almost magically at my elbow, and the serving girl asked me if I’d like anything to eat. I didn’t feel like facing Mrs. Bell’s offerings so I settled on a piece of pork pie and some cheese. But I was not really hungry, and when it arrived I just toyed with the food.

  “Not like you, Mr. Rivers, from what I’ve heard. Everyone always says that you are bright and cheerful all the time.”

  I looked up to see Miss Abbott smiling at me from across the table. I waved for her to sit down.

  “What are you doing here, Edwina?” I asked.

  “We were at rehearsals. They were doing the crowd scenes this afternoon. I sometimes drop in here for a quick bite before going back to Mrs. Briggs’s. Tilly Fairbanks said she might look in as well, though she had to do something first.”

  I felt a little better just by virtue of having another member of the Lyceum family with me. I managed a smile.

  “Let me buy you supper, Miss Abbott,” I said.

  “Oh no, Mr. Rivers. There ain’t no need for that. I just saw you sitting here and you looked so sad that I had to say something. Now, I can be on my way.”

  She started to get up, but I stopped her. “Stay, if you would, Edwina. I must admit, I could use a bit of company.”

  “No news, then?”

  “No.” I signaled the serving girl to come and take her order. “But Mr. Stoker says to be patient. He seems to know how things will play out, and I trust his judgment.”

  “Would you like me to read the cards, Mr. Rivers?” She reached for her reticule.

  Again I stopped her. “Not right now, I don’t think, Edwina. But thank you.”

  “Oh, by the way . . . I never did thank you properly for finding them, when they was lost last week.”

  I waved a dismissing hand.

  “No, really, Mr. Rivers. You’ve no idea.”

  I looked up.

  “You see, I’d thought of looking under the stage myself,” she continued. “Though goodness knows how they would have got there. But when I went down there—just out of the light, you know, and was groping around trying to find my way—suddenly someone grabbed me.”

  “Grabbed you?”

  “Yes, sir. They must have been waiting, I’m thinking. P’raps that’s why they took the cards in the first place. To entice me down there, if you see what I mean?”

  I was beginning to. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

  She shrugged. “I was lucky. I threw out my arms and just happened to feel a big piece of wood, or something. I grabbed hold of it and swung it back over my shoulder. I think it must have hit the man on the head. I don’t think it did any real damage, but it was enough to make him let go for a second. I dropped the wood and ran out of there as though the devil were at my heels!”

  “You were indeed lucky,” I said. “You should have reported this, Miss Abbott. You should have let me know.”

  “I know.” She hung her head. “But then I suppose I got caught up in something else, and by the time I was back at the theatre next morning I’d really put it out of my mind.”

  I wondered who it might have been. Was it just one of the stagehands looking for a little nonsense with Edwina, or was it more than that? Perhaps someone’s first attempt to get the next ritual victim? Failing, they went on to take my Jenny.

  We sat in silence for a while. From time to time Edwina would look back toward the door, obviously wondering if her friend was coming. The serving girl brought her bread, cheese, and a pickled onion, together with a half pint of ale. We chatted about the way Othello was shaping up and what we thought of the American Mr. Booth. Eventually Tilly Fairbanks appeared, and, draining my porter, I left the two of them by the fire.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Rehearsals started early Tuesday morning, as they had since the end of Hamlet. It felt good to hear voices echoing about the stage area and to hear people hurrying here and there, trying on costumes and exchanging banter. Mr. Irving was strict when it came to directing those onstage but slightly more lax with the rest of the cast backstage, so long as their talking did not interfere with the rehearsal.

  I had dealt with some minor crises—a broken spear and a misplaced helmet—but felt that all was on course and flowing as it should. Just before the lunch break Bill Thomas stuck his head around the corner of my office space.

  “Harry! There’s a young feller up front with a message for you. Says he was told to give it to you personally. Wouldn’t even let me bring it to you.”

  I looked up, surprised. “Thanks, Bill. I’ll be righ
t there.”

  I got up and followed his stocky figure as he returned to his domain just inside the stage door. A scruffy young street urchin stood by Bill’s window. He grinned when he saw me.

  “You Mr. Rivers then?” he asked, and he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tattered jacket.

  “I am. Who sent you?” I had a sudden hope that it was a message from Jenny’s abductor, but that was soon dashed.

  “Sergeant Major Martingale. ’Im as is at the gentleman’s club on St. James’s Street.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a grimy piece of paper. He had the grace to hold it against the wall and rub his hand over it a few times to get rid of the creases before handing it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “’E said as ’ow you’d see me all right.” He looked anxious.

  “Of course.” I dug into my own pocket and found a sixpence, which I gave him.

  “Ta, guv.” He turned and quickly disappeared out of the door.

  The note said that the sergeant major had just acquired certain information regarding the gentleman I had been enquiring about, and that he’d be happy to pass along that information if I should care to look in at the club. I applauded the commissionaire for not using any names in his note, nor revealing any other details of my quest. I decided to go over to St. James’s Street right away. The Lyceum wouldn’t miss me for a while. Besides, it was almost lunchtime.

  I was tempted to look in at the Druid’s Head and get something to eat first but decided that anything however loosely connected to Jenny’s disappearance was more important than my midday meal. I took a hansom to the club.

  “Ah! There you are, ’Arry. I thought as ’ow you’d be interested.” Sergeant Major Oliver Martingale was in his gleaming uniform, his boots as highly polished as ever. His face was cheery and his smile infectious. He was sorting mail into individual boxes behind his desk, by the club’s front entrance. “Just a minute. Got to get these billet-doux into their right boxes.” He pronounced it “billy-doos.”

  “No rush, Oliver,” I said. “I thank you for thinking of me.”

  He finished his task, saluted two gentlemen who came down the staircase and hurried out, and then turned to me. Although the lobby was now empty, he glanced about him as though to be sure we were alone and then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level.

  “Your Lord Glenmont, ’Arry. Thought you might be interested to know that ’is nibs ’as apparently got some plans for this coming weekend.”

  I was immediately alert.

  “The gentlemen usually let me know if they are going to be in residence over the weekend or if they are going ’ome to their wives and children. Just so’s I can know in case they get unexpected visitors like.”

  I nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “Well Lord G. said that ’e’s leaving late Friday and may not be back for a few days. Just thought you’d like to know, ’Arry.”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed. Thank you very much, Oliver.” My mind was racing. Did this mean that his lordship was going back to Knowl Estate to be on hand for the ritual sacrifice? I needed to share this with Mr. Stoker. “Thank you, Oliver. This really could be important.” I slipped a whole sovereign into his waiting palm. He gave a wink and a nod, and I hurried out.

  On the ride back to the Lyceum I ran over possibilities in my mind. Could this possibly mean that Lord Glenmont was the mastermind we had been looking for? Was this confirmation that the ritual would take place at the caves on Knowl Estate? If so, could we get there without being seen and be successful in rescuing Jenny?

  My mind galloped on at high speed. Before I knew it the cab pulled in to the curb in front of the theatre. As I paid the driver and got out, I determined that I needed to pay another visit to the caves and study the lie of the land.

  I ate a quick lunch at the Druid’s Head before going back into the theatre. As it happened, when I did go in Bill told me that Mr. Stoker had left with the Guv’nor and Mr. Booth and had said that he wouldn’t be back today. That settled it, I thought. A sure sign that I should run out to Knowl Estate by myself and make a thorough investigation before reporting everything to my boss. But it was not to be immediately. Miss Connelly, the wardrobe mistress, cornered me with some concerns about Cassio’s costume. As I had on numerous previous occasions, I tried to point out to her that my duties as stage manager did not extend to wardrobe. But again, as usual, she completely ignored that and carried on with her concerns. I sighed and tried to deal with them. One thing led to another until I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to get to the caves today. I determined to get up early and leave first thing in the morning. With no current production, I did not have to meet with Mr. Stoker in his office first thing. I could see him, and have much more to report, later in the day.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning was cold, and there was a steady drizzle of rain. I felt damp and miserable as the four-wheeler took me out of the city, but I was determined. As on the last time with Mr. Stoker, I had the cabdriver drop me off a short distance before the entrance to the estate. I looked carefully all about me—wondering if Sergeant Major Martingale’s habit had now become mine—and then hurried forward to the estate gates, my coat collar turned up and my bowler hat pulled down over my ears. Another quick look around and then I was off down the driveway, keeping well under the outstretched limbs of the beech trees and grateful for their shelter. I doubted that there would be anyone traveling the driveway, but I was keenly aware that the gun-carrying gamekeeper could be anywhere, and the last thing I needed was to come face-to-face with him again. I did not have Mr. Stoker’s confidence and aplomb when it came to dealing with such people. On that visit we had not actually entered the caves, due to the gamekeeper’s diligence, but I determined to rectify that omission this time.

  I soon came upon the folly and carefully skirted it, making around to where I could see the steps down into the caves. Huddled under a large bush, I took my time ensuring that no one else was about. What I wanted to do was what we had not been able to do on the previous visit. Namely, to actually go down into the caves and see how extensive they were. It was feeling rainwater seeping down into my shoes that finally made me make my move. The rain had not given up; if anything it had increased its intensity. Trying to keep low, and with a hand holding on to my hat, I dashed across and down the steps.

  I had thought to bring a bullseye lantern with me; one that we had in the property room. It held a candle, rather than having the more usual oil reservoir and wick. I struck one of Bryant & May’s safety matches and lit the candle. It felt good to be out of the rain, though it was still cold. I shone the lantern about me.

  A bullseye is also known as a dark lantern. This is because it has an inserted sliding cylinder of metal that has a hole cut out at the front. This hole allows the light to pass through to the bullseye glass, which then magnifies the illumination. But it is possible to rotate the metal cylinder so that the light can be gradually cut off until it has completely been hidden. The wick will keep burning because of the chimney on top of the lantern, which allows a flow of air. The cylinder may then be rotated again to open up to full light.

  The cave entrance was made of flint and chalk mortar, and then there was a short brick-lined passageway before coming to the inner rough chalk walls. Not far into the passage the walls had been expanded to make what amounted to a small room. With large nails hammered into the walls in lines, I assumed that this was a robing room, or similar, the nails being to hang the robes. Beyond, the passage or tunnel continued. It advanced for some way, though it was not easy to judge the exact distance, before coming to a very large room. This, I guessed, was the main space. A section of it in the center had a higher floor than the rest, making it a small stage. Presumably this was the actual ritual area.

  There was little beyond the ritual room. I was disappointed. I recalled Mr. Stoker speaking of the ong
oing passage in the original caves of Sir Francis Dashwood. I had been told that they included a wine store, a buttery, a banquet room, and two or three other rooms of varying sizes. Here there was a continuation of sorts, but the passageway quickly became quite narrow, and the roof was low enough to cause me to stoop. The short section ended with a pile of chalk rubble on the floor; rocks large and small.

  I was about to turn around and retrace my steps when I froze. I heard footsteps. Someone was coming my way, humming tunelessly as they came. Who could possibly be here? I wondered. It had to be the gamekeeper. Surely no one else would be in this underground cavern? Frantically, I looked around. Where to hide? There was nowhere. I did the only thing possible. I blew out the lantern and dropped down flat on the ground behind the small mound of loose rock.

  The heavy footsteps got closer, and a glow showed that whoever it was had a lantern. It didn’t emit much light, just enough to show the way. The steps stopped just before entering the low-ceilinged end section where I was. The person seemed to stand and look around. The humming continued. Then the lamp was put down on the ground, and I heard a sweeping sound.

  I took a chance and peered up over the chalk pile. It was indeed the gamekeeper, William Higby. Apparently, he had brought a broom with him and was now sweeping the floor of the main area. Thankfully, he didn’t seem at all interested in probing the darkness at the very end of the tunnel where I was. I carefully eased myself up into a less cramped position.

  He swept for ten or fifteen minutes, pushing the dirt into the area where I sat. I had to cover my mouth with a handkerchief to keep from sneezing. After the first few minutes he gave up humming, which was a small mercy, it seemed to me. But then he started an equally tuneless whistling.

  It was obvious that the gamekeeper was cleaning the area because someone was expected or because the place was to be used for some purpose. It didn’t take a genius to guess that the purpose was almost certainly the ritual murder of my beloved Jenny. If attacking the gamekeeper could have prevented that, I would not have hesitated, but I knew he was only a small cog in the wheel. I bided my time. I determined to get away from there and to take back to Mr. Stoker all that I had learned.