Cursed in the Act (13 page)

“Yes, if'n you must know. I'd take messages for 'im and 'e'd pay me for doin' it. An' where I spends me money is my business. Wot's wrong wi' that?”

“Nothing,” I said. “If that's all you were doing.”

I held up the silver coin where he could see it. “A last question for you, Mr. Willis . . . for now. You were taking messages from Mr. Bateman to whom?”

“'Oo was the other geezer, you mean? Why, that was Mr. Richland, the actor feller.”

“The understudy?” He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Willis. That's all for now. You may get about your job here.” I reluctantly let him have the coin.

“'Ere! You ain't got no peelers out after me, 'ave you? I ain't done nofink, y'know.”

“No,” I said. “You're safe . . . if you're telling the truth. But I will be checking further on you, I can tell you that much.”

Content that I now knew where to find him, I walked off, heading back toward the omnibus stop, until I again remembered that my pocket had been picked. I changed direction to start the long hike back to the Lyceum. As I swung around to cut along London Street, I caught sight of Willis dashing away from his place of employment and hailing a passing growler. He was leaving, and with my money! Without stopping to think, I ran after the cab and had the good fortune to find a hansom only a street away. I jumped into it even before it had come to a stop.

“See that growler?” I cried to the startled cabbie. “Follow him, will you? Double your fare if you can keep up without being seen.”

“Yes, sir!” He cracked his whip and we were off.

I knew, of course, that I had no money, but a rough plan had formed even as I was chasing after Willis's cab. I needed to see where he was going. I suspected he was haring off to report to Ralph Bateman, but I had to make sure. I figured that once I discovered his destination I could then direct my cab to take me back to the Lyceum, where I could run inside to borrow money from Bill to pay the fare. That was the plan. I didn't want to examine it too closely in case there was a glaring hole in it.

Chapter Fourteen

A
s I had half expected, the chase led across town to Clerkenwell and the Sadler's Wells Theatre. My cab pulled in to the side of the road a short distance away from where the growler had stopped, and I watched Herbert Willis disappear into the building. I sat and waited. It wasn't long before Willis reappeared, accompanied by Ralph Bateman, and the two of them went across the road and into the Bag o' Nails tavern. I decided to follow.

I felt in my pockets and located a piece of paper. I borrowed a pencil from the cabdriver and hurriedly scribbled a note that I handed to him.

“Drive to the Lyceum Theatre on Wellington Street,” I said. “Give this note to Mr. Abraham Stoker, the theatre manager, and he will see that you are paid.” I got out.

The cabdriver was hesitant. I'm sure he'd been told a story like this before only to find that the person to whom he had been sent knew nothing of his fare. But I was in luck in that not only had he heard of Mr. Stoker but he also decided that I looked respectable enough to be trusted. He turned the hansom and trotted off down Rosebery Avenue. I walked along to the Bag o' Nails
.

I made my way through the usual gathering of dirty-faced, raggedy children hovering at the doorway, past a crone playing a hurdy-gurdy, and peered into the smoky atmosphere of the tavern. It was a crowded lunchtime with every table full. The place reeked of cooking, wood smoke from the fireplace, tobacco smoke, and sweat. Serving girls moved through the throng, bearing tankards of ale and balancing platters of food. Boys in grubby aprons cleared tables as fast as they were vacated and squeezed patrons onto the benches. It took me a long time to locate Willis and Bateman, who sat some distance from the door and close to the bar. I entered and cautiously made my way toward the pair.

As I drew near I pulled my hat lower on my head—it was really useless trying to hide my mop of red hair—and managed to slide onto a bench, squeezing in at a table immediately behind where they sat. I scooped up an empty tankard left by a previous customer and held it in front of my face, studiously ignoring the serving girl when she came. I leaned back, hoping to catch some of the conversation between Ralph and Herbert. With the clamor of the crowd, it wasn't easy.

“Go for the man at the top,” Willis was saying. “Grab 'im and you can make 'em do anything you want.”

“I don't think the boss would go along with that,” said Bateman. “I think he'd draw the line there.”

“But 'e didn't mind poisoning 'im, did 'e?”

“We don't know that. Not for certain, anyway.”

“Oh, come on!” Willis sounded annoyed. “'Ere! If'n you won't grab Irving, what about 'is lady?”

“Miss Ellen Terry?”

“'Oo else?”

Again Bateman dithered. I couldn't blame him. If they were talking of kidnapping, as I'm sure they were, then it would be a difficult move for them to try to snatch either the Guv'nor or Miss Terry.

“I'll have to talk with the boss,” Bateman said.

I wondered who this boss could be. I recalled that ten days ago, when I had spotted Bateman on the Embankment with Ogoon and Charlie Vickers, he had referred to a “boss” when talking about paying Vickers for work done. So Ralph Bateman was definitely not the one making the decisions. I thought that Mr. Stoker would find that interesting.

“Can you still get into the Lyceum and move about there?” asked Bateman.

“O' course I can!” Willis sounded confident, if not cocky. “No problem. I'm your man. Don't 'ave no nevermind on that score.”

“Hmm.” Bateman didn't sound so certain.

“Well, well, well!”

I looked up at the now familiar voice and nearly dropped the tankard I held. The dark face of Mr. Ogoon stared down at me from across the table where I sat.

“Mr. Bateman, I think you should be aware of who is listening to your careless talk!”

“What?” Behind me Ralph Bateman came to his feet.

I jumped up, planning to get out of there. With the number of patrons crowding the Bag o' Nails, I hoped I would be able to get away, but I was trounced before I began. My foot caught on the bench as I attempted to swing over it, so that I could run. I tripped and fell on my back. Herbert Willis took great delight in pouncing on me, grabbing my arms, and twisting them behind my back. He and Bateman dragged me to my feet and, to cheers from the diners, pushed me toward the doorway. I struggled but quickly desisted when I found Ogoon at my side, holding a greasy but sharp serving knife to my ribs.

“Quietly, Mr. Rivers,” he hissed. “Let us not make a scene.” He nodded to Bateman. “Where to?”

“To my office,” Ralph replied, and led the way between the tables toward the exit.

Ten minutes later I found myself standing in a small room at the back of the Sadler's Wells Theatre. Bateman had taken a seat behind the desk in the room, Willis had dropped onto a plain wooden chair alongside it, and I stood at the side of the desk opposite where Bateman sat. Ogoon stood boldly with his back to the door, fixing me with his gimlet gaze. I still had trouble equating the urbane, elegantly dressed man with the apparent lunatic of a couple of nights ago.

“So the great and grand Lyceum Theatre has taken to sending spies to listen to our conversations, has it?” said Bateman.

“I just happened to be in there having lunch,” I said.

“You was up in Paddington talking nice and smooth to me,” sneered Willis. “You 'ad to 'ave followed me down 'ere.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” I said.

“Enough!” Ralph slammed the flat of his hand down on the top of the desk. “I don't care where you were before. You were most definitely spying on us just now. That's all I know.”

“Yes,” I said. “And heard you planning to kidnap Mr. Irving and Miss Terry.”

Ralph laughed. “Ha! Did you hear that, Mr. Ogoon? Kidnap people? I think you must have overheard some other patrons, Mr. Rivers. It was quite crowded in the Bag o' Nails, you know? It was someone else you heard. Surely you realize that.”

I ignored him.

“'E was the one what got me fired!” snarled Willis. “'E always 'ad it in for me.”

“You got yourself fired, Willis, with your drinking,” I said. “You know it and I know it.”

“This is beside the point, is it not?” observed Ogoon.

“Yes, it is,” agreed Bateman.

“So where do we go from here?” I asked.

“
You
don't go anywhere,” said Bateman. “Leastwise, nowhere you'd like to go.”

That didn't sound good. I wondered what they had in store for me if, indeed, they had thought that far ahead. I wondered if Mrs. Crowe knew what her young brother Ralph was up to. Perhaps she was the “boss”? Somehow I doubted it. In fact, now that I thought about it, that mysterious figure had been referred to as a male.

“Well, I have work to do, Bateman,” said Ogoon, turning to the door and taking hold of the handle. “You do what you think fit. You know where to find me.”

There came a sudden commotion from outside, with raised voices followed by a banging on the door. Ogoon opened it to reveal George Dale, blinking rapidly through his ­dirt-­smeared spectacles.

“I couldn't keep 'im out, Mr. Bateman . . .” he started to say.

Then I saw a large and welcome figure advancing rapidly toward us. The top hat was slightly askew and the face beneath it was grim.

“Ah! There you are, Harry!” Abraham Stoker's voice had never sounded so welcome.

“Right here, sir!” I cried.

My boss's burly figure filled the doorframe, and even Ogoon stepped back a pace.

“Come on, then. Don't ­shilly-­shally! I need you back at the Lyceum. Now that's a
real
theatre!”

He turned away and I scurried after him. No one made a move to stop me, and Mr. Stoker and I strode out of Sadler's Wells and off along Rosebery Avenue. It didn't take long to hail a cab and for me to leave all the unpleasantness behind me. I couldn't believe that Mr. Stoker had come all this way to rescue me. But then, that's the sort of boss I had. I sank back in the seat of the hansom and gradually stopped shaking.

“How did you know where to find me, sir?” I asked.

“Straightforward, Harry. I enquired of the cabbie whose fare you had me pay.”

* * *

M
r. Stoker seemed well pleased after I had later reviewed my day's events.

“You might have been a little incautious, Harry,” he said, leaning over his desk. “But you've learned some interesting facts. Well done. We shall certainly be on our guard against any possible abduction of the Guv'nor or of Miss Terry.”

He sat with a parcel of letters on his desk and one of them open and in his hand. I recognized the pile as being the ones that Jenny had managed to obtain for us.

“Anything worthwhile?” I asked, nodding toward the epistle he held.

“Yes, indeed, Harry,” he said. “Our Mr. Richland found a lot to occupy his time, since he was not treading the boards nightly.”

“Oh?” I sat on the straight-backed chair facing his desk.

“He was very careful with his wording, I will give him that. No direct threats, but plenty of innuendo. In this particular letter”—he tapped the missive—“he intimates that this Daisy—whoever she may be—is more than willing to divulge to the newspapers the fine details of the Guv'nor's purported philandering with her. I'm sure she cannot substantiate one word of it, but I am equally sure the newspapers would delight in reporting whatever she might tell them. Truth or not, it could severely damage the Guv'nor's reputation and—perhaps more to the point—thereby make a sizable inroad into the Lyceum's profits.”

I whistled, a sound that brought a momentary frown to my boss's face. He had, a number of times in the past, requested that I not whistle, but it was something of a reflex action. I tried to look apologetic, but I don't think it registered with him.

“I have seen such scandal—real or imagined—happen before to other actors,” he continued. “Some of the most promising lost both their reputations and their employment. Reputation is all-important, Harry. Don't you forget that.”

“I won't, sir,” I said.

“However, I am sure you are right in what you suggested,” Stoker continued. “She got into this probably at the urging of Peter Richland and in hopes of some financial gain.”

“Do the letters cover anything else of interest?” I asked. “Anything else that could affect the Lyceum?”

“There was mention in one of them”—he tapped the pile—“of Ralph Bateman, as you had originally reported. Well spotted, Harry.”

I nodded, pleased. “What did it say about him?”

“It was rather disquieting. Something of a veiled threat, perhaps? Richland intimated that his ‘valued friend,' as he put it, was Mr. Ralph Bateman of Sadler's Wells Theatre and that said Bateman—‘newly returned from his travels'—had it within his power to bring forces to bear that might bring down the Lyceum Theatre.” He paused. “He did say ‘might.'”

“‘
Bring down
the Lyceum'? Did he enlarge on that, say just how that might be accomplished?” I found it hard to credit Ralph Bateman with any true ability to harm such an established theatre as the Lyceum.

Mr. Stoker was silent for a long moment. Then he continued: “This was one of the more recent letters, Harry. Most of them were written before the Guv'nor brought Richland into the company. I think he may then have been ‘blowing hot air,' as they say. But if nothing else, they do establish that there was a connection between the two men, Richland and Bateman, and now also Ogoon.”

I agreed. For the length of time that Peter Richland had been with us, as understudy, I didn't recall him ever speaking of Ralph Bateman or giving any indication that the two knew each other. This admission in the letter was, then, of some interest. And it had now been confirmed by Herbert Willis, during our recent run-in.

“What of the other letters written in recent times?” I asked.

“You mean, while Richland was in our employ?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They did eventually taper off, Harry. Yet there was still the odd one or two that Richland sent. No longer outwardly threatening but just enough to let the Guv'nor know that Richland had the upper hand . . . or so he thought.”

“I can imagine the Guv'nor's reaction to such threats,” I said.

Stoker nodded and sat back in his chair. “All in all, Harry, I don't think there is anything here we need be overly worried about, especially now that Richland is no longer with us.” He ran his hand through his thick hair, and I could tell that he
was
worried. “I think we did right to look at them, though. It's good to have a clear picture of what went on.”

“And what about this Daisy character?” I asked. “Presumably she is still about and is something of a loose cannon.”

“I think it may be in our interests to track down this young lady, Harry, and to have a word or two with her. What do you think?”

Asking me what I thought was tantamount to saying that he'd like me to do the tracking. What could I say?

“Of course, sir. I'll see what I can do to locate her.”