“Very true, Sam,” said Stoker. “Thank you. You can get on about your work.” He turned to me as Sam departed. “My guess is that this is a follow-on from your abduction on Saturday, Harry. They may have been simply preparing the door for future use and the wind blew it open, or they may have come in and realized that whatever they had in mind was not feasible. This is most decidedly an ongoing battle we have been thrust into, and we need to keep alert at all times.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Do you think it’s Bateman behind it?”
“Almost certainly. Though just what he has planned and how he hopes to implement it, I don’t know.”
“I’m still worried about that threat from Ogoon about a theatre fire,” I said. “And there seems to be so much that has not been explained.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, we still haven’t found out who tried to poison the Guv’nor, and we don’t know if Peter Richland was killed accidentally or if, perhaps, he was pushed in front of that growler. We have no explanation for Mr. Turnbull’s death; even Dr. Cochran couldn’t explain that. We don’t know—although we suspect Ralph Bateman—who was behind dropping weights on both me and the American gentleman. And then there was my kidnapping. Now it looks as though the theatre has been entered. What can that be leading up to?”
Stoker nodded. “It is worrying,” he agreed. “But let’s not become overly concerned without concrete evidence.” He looked at me sternly. “I don’t want you getting superstitious on me, Harry!”
I almost laughed.
He continued, “I’ve been having two men make continual sweeps of the entire building, keeping an eye open for any suspicious piles of rags or paper, or anything that could be ignited. Theatre fires in the past have shown what death pits these places can be. We must remain constantly vigilant . . .”
He broke off as the door swung open. I turned to find the Guv’nor himself framed in the doorway. His face was strained. His complexion never looked especially ruddy without makeup, but now it looked positively ashen. For a brief moment I thought he had been poisoned again. But he stood straight and tall, his hand on the doorknob.
“Ellen cannot find Edward,” he said. “He came to the theatre with her, and we assumed he would attend to his duties as callboy, but he has disappeared.”
Stoker was on his feet in a flash. For a big man, he could move surprisingly quickly when necessary.
“You’ve started searching?” he said.
Mr. Irving had turned to go back to the stage area, and we were right behind him.
“Oh yes. As soon as she said she couldn’t find him, I had stagehands start looking. Ellen is most upset, Abraham, and from what you have told me of our Mr. Rivers’s recent experience, I must admit that I am not at ease myself.”
I was momentarily surprised to learn that Stoker had discussed my abduction with the Guv’nor but, on reflection, realized he would have done so. I felt a lump in my throat. Was this what I had been expecting? Or was I acquiring Stoker’s old granny’s “second sight,” or something?
If young Edward was missing, it might be explained by the open scenery bay door. The young boy would not have gone out by himself; he was far too well behaved and extremely conscious of his job here at the Lyceum. No. Edward could even now be sitting in a fast-moving carriage with a bag over his head and be scared out of his wits.
“I must go to comfort Ellen,” said the Guv’nor, making for the stairs up to the star dressing rooms.
“Tonight’s performance?” queried Stoker.
Irving’s voice came back from above. “The show must go on, of course! The show must go on!”
* * *
It was snowing when we left the theatre. The lamplighters had long since made their rounds. I followed behind the large figure of Bram Stoker, feeling a little like the Page following in the footsteps of Good King Wenceslas. We went around to the far side of the Lyceum to where the scenery bay doors gave access. Once there, Stoker examined the ground immediately outside the door.
“It has been snowing for too long, I fear,” he said.
“You were hoping for footprints?”
He nodded. “I thought it too much to hope for, but it would have been nice to have gleaned some sort of clue from them.”
“We could have followed them all the way to wherever they went, and rescued Edward.”
“Hardly,” he said. “At most they would have led to the curb and the perpetrators would have got into a carriage. But at least we might have discovered how many people were involved. Ah, well! Let us press on, Harry.”
“Where are we going, sir?” I asked.
In answer he led me to the closest crossing sweeper, a young boy who swept a clear passage among the horse droppings with great vigor, obviously as much to keep himself warm as to garner tips from those seeking to cross the street unsullied.
“Ho, boy! Tell me, have you been here all day?”
“Yessir.” The lad, who was little more than Edward’s age, paused and, resting the handle of his broom on his shoulder, closed his fists and blew into his hands to warm them. I noticed that his fingerless gloves were old and worn and probably gave little warmth. He had a similarly worn and frayed muffler wrapped about his neck, but his head was bare and already covered with snowflakes.
“Did you notice anybody at those big doors recently?” Stoker indicated the theatre bay doors. “Anyone going in or coming out? Anyone with a boy, such as yourself?”
“Lemme see.” The boy screwed up his face as though thinking hard. “’Tain’t easy ’membrin’ fings in this ’ere snow, mister. Kinda gets in yer eyes, yer know?”
Stoker produced a shilling and held it up.
“’Course, fings does come back to me on occasion, yer know?”
Stoker gave him the coin. “Well? What comes back to you now?”
The coin disappeared into a pocket and the boy went back to blowing on his fingers. “Come to fink on it, yeh. Yeh, there was some brown-polish bruiser wif a kid. He’d got the kiddy tight agin ’im, wif an ’and across ’is north an’ south. I s’pose ’e di’n want the kid shoutin’ out.”
“Where did they go?” snapped Stoker.
“Beats me. They got into a growler wot pulls ’round the corner. Was waitin’ for ’em, is my guess.”
“Damnation!” It was the first time I’d heard my boss swear. Well, the first time in a long while, to be more accurate. “Which way did they go?” he demanded of the boy.
“Well, now . . . let me see . . .” He once again screwed up his face. Stoker produced another coin—a sixpence this time. The boy grabbed it. “Off up Bow Street, would be my guess,” he said.
“Come, Harry!” cried Stoker, and strode off in that direction. I broke into a run to keep up with him.
There was little traffic about at that time, so by dint of questioning crossing sweepers, itinerant musicians, a hot– potato seller, a roast-chestnut purveyor, and various street peddlers, we determined—at least to Bram Stoker’s satisfaction—that the four-wheeler taking Edward had gone east on Long Acre. But where it might have gone from there, we had no idea.
I spotted a pie shop and pointed to it.
“Don’t you think we should stop and fortify ourselves, sir?” I said. “Review what we’ve got so far and plan where we’re going?” I tried to sound convincing though, truth be told, I did feel we needed some plan other than running off in all directions at once. Perhaps that was the Irish way, but I gave Mr. Stoker more credit than that. He stopped and studied the shop as though he’d never seen one before.
“You are right, Harry. Yes. A cup of hot cocoa would be good.”
“And a pork pie,” I added.
We seated ourselves by the window where we could look out at the now fast-falling snow and the passing traffic.
“What did the sweeper mean by ‘a bro
wn-polish bruiser’?” I asked. “I haven’t heard that expression before.”
“It must have been your Mr. Ogoon,” Stoker replied, warming his hands around the steaming mug of cocoa. “Brown polish is street language for someone with darker skin.”
I don’t know what made the Caribbean gentleman in question my Mr. Ogoon, but I was too tired to argue. “So where do we look now, sir?” I asked, turning my attention to the pork pie I had insisted upon.
“They could be anywhere, though it would seem they are heading north or perhaps also east. We must start counting our credits, Harry.” He removed his hands from the cocoa and began indicating on his fingers. “One, we now definitely know that Edward was taken from the theatre against his will. Two, we know who took him—Ogoon, almost certainly at the instigation of Ralph Bateman. Three, as we’ve said, we know that they are heading into the East End.”
“A really unsavory area,” I said. “Full of thieves and scoundrels.”
“That’s as may be. But yes, Harry, we must acknowledge that it’s a far cry from the West End. Now then, do we have a ‘four’ in our favor?” He held up his fourth digit.
“What about we know they are in a growler and so there’s probably more than Mr. Ogoon involved?” I suggested. “If it was just the two of them, they’d be more likely to take a hansom.”
“All right. Very good, Harry.” He closed his hand and then drank deeply from his mug, despite that I found mine still too hot to savor. “We must apply some logic, I think,” he continued. “Since they have made off with Edward, then there is a good chance that they have plans for him. If they were thinking of killing him, they would almost certainly have made for the river: the favored place, it seems, for casting off bodies. This means that they may be considering making kidnap demands.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“My first guess would be demanding that we close Hamlet and let Sadler’s Wells benefit from the playgoers.”
“The Guv’nor would never agree to that, would he, sir?”
Stoker frowned and then shook his head. “It’s a hard one, Harry; a hard one. That boy is the apple of Miss Terry’s eye, and the Guv’nor will do almost anything for Miss Terry.”
“Anything?” I asked.
“I did say almost anything,” he replied. “It will remain to be seen whether or not closing the production is on the cards.”
“Are such battles between theatres common, sir?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘common,’ Harry. But they are far from unknown. When every penny counts, it’s surprising what some theatre managements will do to keep drawing an audience. But it is unusual in the larger theatres such as the Lyceum and Sadler’s Wells. More to be expected in the penny gaffs and the pantomime and melodrama houses.” He drained his mug of cocoa.
“Perhaps Sergeant Bellamy can help,” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” he replied. He didn’t sound very confident. “Come on, Harry. Drink up. We need to keep on the trail while it’s hot.”
Looking out at the snow didn’t make me think of anything hot other than the cocoa before me. I sipped at it. “I really doubt we can do much more tonight, sir,” I said. “I feel really badly for young Edward; he must be scared to death. But what are the chances we’ll catch up with them when we have no idea in which direction they went? Perhaps we’d have better luck starting fresh in the morning? Should we get back to the theatre and confer with the Guv’nor and Miss Terry? It’s going to be a hard night for her, I’m sure.”
“So it is, Harry. All the more reason for us to press on. Find something positive we can take back to her.”
I finished my pork pie and made headway on the cocoa, determined to fortify myself before having to once more venture out into the March weather. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. So where do we go?” I asked.
Stoker stared out of the window at the thickening flakes. He spoke as though running thoughts through his head and uttering them out loud. “They didn’t head west, as I expected,” he said. “Twickenham is west, so they are not planning on taking Edward to where they held you, Harry, at Mrs. Richland’s. No, they are going in the opposite direction.” He suddenly turned to face me. “What lies that way, Harry?”
“What? Why—er—of course! Sadler’s Wells. The theatre is almost into Islington. Of course they’d go there!” I took a deep gulp of cocoa, burning my throat in the process.
Stoker came to his feet. “I am going to hurry back to the Lyceum and advise the Guv’nor and Miss Terry what is afoot, Harry. She will be relieved, to an extent at least, to know that we have discovered that Edward was abducted and that we know who was responsible. I think she may be doubly relieved to know that we are on the trail. I want you to take a cab along to Sadler’s Wells and I will join you there immediately.” He moved to the door and finished speaking as he prepared to step outside. “Do not attempt to enter that theatre, Harry. Stay in your cab and keep watch. I will be with you before you know it.”
He disappeared into the night. I drained my cup and came to my feet. Wrapping my muffler more firmly about my throat, I buttoned my coat and followed my boss into the falling snow to look for a cab.
* * *
We sat in a hansom across the road from the stage door of Sadler’s Wells Theatre. It was late and all was quiet, with no lights on other than the single gas flame over the stage door. The audience had long since gone home, as they must have done from the Lyceum by now. I wondered how the Hamlet performance had gone. Had Miss Terry’s Ophelia suffered because of her worries about her son? I was sure it had not. She was too much the seasoned trooper. Even a dire family crisis would not keep her from giving her best on the boards.
At the far corner of the road sat a four-wheeler with its lanterns still alight. We were certain it was the one that had been used to transport Ogoon and Edward. The fact that it was parked there—the driver in all probability sitting snoozing within—was a good indication that the abductors had not finished with it. We had instructed our hansom driver to wait until it moved . . . if it did. He was then to follow at a discreet distance. Stoker had paid him a number of sovereigns in advance to ensure that he would follow instructions.
“You don’t think we should simply force our way in and rescue Edward, sir?” I asked.
Stoker snorted. He was good at giving impressive snorts when necessary. They somehow always seemed to fit the mood and to convey his meaning. “On what grounds, Harry? We are presuming that Ogoon has taken him in there. We are presuming that that is the same four-wheeler used to whisk him away from the Lyceum. But we don’t actually know these things for a fact. No. Better, I think, to wait and see what their next move might be and to strike at the very best opportunity, catching them red-handed.”
I conceded the point. I knew, deep within me, that they had Edward right there in the theatre, just as I’m sure Stoker knew it. Yet he was correct that we must exercise patience. We sat there another half hour. The cabdriver tapped on the trapdoor and, opening it, peered down at us.
“You gents sure ’bout this?”
Stoker didn’t even look up but kept his eyes on the doorway across the road. “We are.”
The driver continued studying us for a minute or two and then, with a grunt, closed the trap. I thought how wonderfully cabdrivers can be controlled with gold coin.
Ten minutes later—just as I was wondering if we would all freeze to death sitting there—a light showed as the stage door opened.
“Here we go,” murmured Stoker.
A figure emerged, turned back and extinguished the light inside, and then locked the stage door. Whoever he was, the man started along the road in the opposite direction from where the growler still stood.
“What?” I sat forward on the seat, puzzled.
“Quickly, Harry!” cried Stoker and jumped to the pavement. He started across the road toward the f
igure. I leaped out and followed him.
“You there! Stop!” cried Stoker. The figure did so and turned to face us.
“Good Lord! George Dale!” I said. It was indeed the stage door keeper closing up for the night.
“Quickly!” snapped Stoker. “Who else is still in the theatre?”
George looked bewildered. “Why, no one, sir. I’m always last out. Just locked up, I did. Ain’t no one in there now. Leastwise, there ain’t better be.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Stoker swung around and ran toward the parked growler. He wrenched open the door to reveal the driver, bleary-eyed, sitting back on the passenger seat and looking very surprised.
“Who are you waiting for? How long have you been here?” asked my boss.
The driver picked up his bowler hat from the seat and settled it on his head. He tugged his coat about him as he struggled out of the door and down onto the pavement. “I ain’t waitin’ for no one. Not now, anyway. Looks like I done my time. I can take off now.”
“What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
I had never seen my boss so irate. The driver clambered up onto his box and took up his whip. “I was paid to sit here a spell afore takin’ off,” he said. “Gent I brought ’ere paid me to just sit, so that’s what I did.”
“Damnation!”
“What’s it mean, sir?” I asked. “Have we lost Edward and Ogoon?”
Stoker took a number of deep breaths and seemed to calm a little as the growler pulled away and trotted off back in the direction of the city.
“They were one step ahead of us, Harry. Smarter than I gave them credit for. They knew we would come here after them and they left the growler here as a decoy. They guessed we would sit and watch it for a while, thinking they were inside the theatre. That gave them extra time to get away.”
“So we’ve lost them?” I felt devastated. It had all been too easy, it seemed. Now where were we to go?
Cursed in the Act Page 22