Cursed in the Act (18 page)

Chapter Nineteen

S
aturday turned out to be one of those bright, sunny days that can leap out at you in the middle of a long, dark winter. There was little warmth in the sun, but its very existence was enough. I noticed that people smiled more than usual and walked with a spring in their step. We all knew that it was only a temporary respite from the general harshness we had experienced in February, but we were determined to make the most of it.

Saturday is a matinee day at the Lyceum, so I knew I would be kept busy with the extra performance. That was good, I thought. Tomorrow, Sunday, I would be seeing Jenny, so this would keep my mind busy and I wouldn't be counting the minutes. Or would I? I smiled to myself as I walked briskly along Wych Street, swinging my cane and admiring the wood-fronted and gabled Elizabethan buildings. Wych Street was the ancient way leading from the north side of the Strand to Broad Street, St. Giles. Its purlieus to the north consisted of filthy and fetid slums displaying the accumulated dirt and squalor of centuries. But, for now at least, Wych Street and its neighboring Holywell Street were places of fascination and interest. In the centre of Wych Street lies the New Inn. A narrow alleyway leads back from it into the dark and dismal Clare Market.

As I drew level with the New Inn, a four-wheeler rumbled up behind me, its width a tight squeeze between the overhanging buildings. I was surprised to see such a vehicle there. I glanced at it, and as I did so, two ruffians came leaping out of the narrow court from Clare Market and grasped both my arms. My stick and my bowler hat went flying as they ran me toward the growler. A third man had stepped out of the carriage and now held the door open while the two pushed me inside. Then all three jumped in, and with a great lurch, the horses leapt forward and all of us were borne along Wych Street and out onto Broad Street. As we passed St. Clement Danes church, a bag of some coarse material was roughly pulled over my head and a rope or cord was tied about my neck to hold it there. I shouted and demanded to know what was going on, but not a word was spoken by any of the men. I tried to struggle, but the hands holding mine were strong and unyielding.

I soon stopped attempting to break free and instead tried to determine where the carriage was going; with the bag over my head I was quite blind. I was aware of the first two or three turns, but with the lurching of the vehicle and the unevenness of the cobbled streets, I soon lost my bearings. As I relaxed and stopped struggling, so did the tightness of the hands restraining me, though they remained about my wrists. At some point I sensed that the carriage was crossing a bridge, most likely over the Thames, though I couldn't be certain. The drive was a very long one; it seemed to go on for hours.

In my mind I ran over the possibilities. I discounted a casual kidnapping. Far more likely that this was tied in to the threats of Mr. Ogoon and, presumably, Ralph Bateman. But why were they snatching me away? What use could I be to them? Surely if they were solely interested in harming the Lyceum, they would have taken Mr. Stoker or even—had they dared—the Guv'nor himself. My one regret was that, should they detain me for any length of time, I would miss my assignation with Jenny, something I had been looking forward to all week long. And then it struck me that if I failed to meet with her, she would have no way of knowing what had happened to me and might well think that I had abandoned her. I almost redoubled my efforts to struggle but realized it would be fruitless. I sat and seethed.

It was a very long time later that the carriage slowed. I had been nodding in my seat, the restraining hands no longer grasping mine. As the growler came to a halt, the hands once again clamped onto my arms and I was manhandled out of the carriage to stand on the pavement. I heard a gate creaking as it was being opened, and I was urged forward. Under my feet it felt like paving stones, and then, almost immediately, I was onto grass. The ground was frozen and I was almost thankful for the steadying hands, though I knew my arms would shortly be exhibiting bruises.

There was another creaking, this time I guessed from a door of some kind. I realized I was being pushed into a building. I sensed it to be small and I smelled rotting wood . . . perhaps an old shed? I was roughly pushed down onto a wooden bench, and coarse rope was used to tie me there.

“All right!” I cried. “You have got me here. I'm your prisoner. Now what is it you want? Would somebody please answer me?”

But nobody did. The men went away and I heard the door close and what sounded like a bolt slide across it. All grew quiet and still. I sat for a while gathering my wits about me, and then I began straining at the bindings. They did not give. Whoever had tied me was no stranger to ropes and knots. As my wrists became sore, I desisted. It was very cold in the shed, if shed it was. With the brightness of the day, that morning I had eschewed my heavy topcoat and worn but a light one. Now I was sorry. I wondered how long I would be left there.

It was the matinee day at the theatre so I knew that I would be missed by noon. What time was it now, I wondered? With the long drive out to wherever we were, I guessed it to be close to midday. That meant that my absence would be noted. Surely Mr. Stoker, if no one else, would guess that something had happened to me? But then, I often got involved in matters that took me away from the theatre, even up to curtain time. The matinee performance started at two of the clock, so I might not yet be missed.

I sat and shivered. If I could only rid my head of the sack or bag or whatever it was, I might glean some sort of clue as to my whereabouts. I tilted my head and rubbed it against my shoulder, hoping to dislodge the bag. It remained firm. I wondered if I could chew my way out, but then almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the thought.

Or was it ridiculous? Not so much to eat through the fabric but at least to dislodge it. I again leaned my head into my shoulder, the better to force the material against my mouth. I got a good mouthful—it tasted vile—and then tried to tug at it. By rotating my head against the pressure of my shoulder, and holding firmly with my teeth, I was eventually rewarded with something giving way. It must have been the cord that had been tied about my neck to hold the bag in place, I realized. Yes, after some more shrugging and tugging, the bottom of the bag was pulled away from whatever encircled it and I found that I could look directly down and see, in a very restricted way, the lower part of my body tied to the wooden bench. I tugged and shrugged some more and was rewarded with a slightly wider view. Working at it for the next many minutes I was eventually able to shrug and tug and bite to the point where I managed to shrug the bag up and off my head. It fluttered to the ground at my feet. I breathed a great sigh of relief.

It was murky in the shed. There were two windows but both had been boarded up. A little light came in through holes and chinks in the boarding of the side walls. In a couple of places whole planks had slipped down out of place, allowing shafts of low light to filter in. It seemed that the early morning bright sunshine had greatly diminished, probably from encroaching clouds.

I studied my surroundings. I saw a pile of canoe paddles and a pair of oars. Rope lines were piled in a corner and there was the seat from a rowboat. I surmised that I was in an old boathouse. No wonder it was cold . . . It must be on the riverbank. At this time of year I knew that the river was frozen solid, so I was, in effect, sitting on top of a huge block of ice. I shivered again.

I didn't know how long I might be left there, so I needed to free myself just as soon as possible, so that I didn't freeze to death. Perhaps that was the plan? I shivered for a different reason.

The bench to which I was tied was an old rustic affair, probably once set out on the lawn beside the boathouse, overlooking the river. I tried rocking it and after a few tries was pleased to find that if I really put energy into it, the seat was ancient enough to sway slightly. If I could rock it long enough and vigorously enough, I thought, it would surely fall apart. But then I might find myself worse off, sitting in a pile of wood and tree limbs, perhaps in an extremely uncomfortable position. I quickly decided it was worth the risk . . . What choice did I have? I just might be able to break free of the bench even if I could not rid myself of the ropes binding me. I set to, rocking first one way and then the other. The bench creaked and groaned but refused to die.

I had to rest from time to time but I persisted. Slowly the old bench moved farther and farther to each side as I threw my weight back and forth. Suddenly, with a loud cracking, it slid off to one side, collapsing on its legs and dropping me unceremoniously to the ground. I was still tied to the seat part of the bench, but I found that the ropes securing me were now considerably looser.

I took time to recover my breath. As I sat there on the floor, in the shambles of the rustic bench, I reassessed the situation. If I should be able to free myself from my bonds, I would then have to break out of the boathouse itself. I remembered hearing the sliding closure of a bolt, when my abductors left, but studying the decaying nature of the structure, I didn't think that would be a major problem. I just hoped that I could effect my complete escape before the kidnappers returned.

I rolled onto my knees and attempted to stand up. The length and thickness of the bench seat prevented me from doing so. I saw that the ropes around me had been secured to the various intertwined limbs making up the decorative nature of the bench. I started working at sliding individual tree limbs out from the ropes. It took a long time, but one by one I managed to wriggle and push—sometimes grasping limbs between my knees—and extricate enough branches to allow me to pull free of the structure. With the ropes now loose about my body, I was able to then concentrate on loosing the knots tying my wrists and ankles. Since my hands had not been tied together but had been lashed to the original chair arms, I was able to get to the separate knots and finally stood up, free and clear of the jumble that had once been the rustic bench.

I breathed deeply to slow my racing heart and then moved to the largest of the holes in the wall and squinted through it. As I had guessed, the structure was on the bank of a river, stretching out over the solid ice. I couldn't see enough, nor was I familiar enough with all parts of the river, to be able to locate exactly where I was. I moved away from the chink of daylight and went to the door. It was solid, despite the decaying nature of much of the boathouse. It did not budge at all when I applied my shoulder to it. I moved over to where the largest of the broken planking had dropped on the inside of the wall. Raising my foot, I gave a hard kick to the wood. Again, no sign of weakness.

I looked about me and then took up a short oar. I wedged the blade into the crack between two of the wall planks and grasped the handle of the oar. Hoping it would work like a lever, I tugged on the handle. There was a loud cracking followed by a snapping sound. I staggered back, still clutching the oar while the broken blade remained wedged into the wall.

I was not to be beaten. I jammed the thicker broken end of the blade into the crack, alongside the thinner section wedged there. I grabbed up a piece of the broken bench and pounded the oar firmly into the crack. Then I again took hold of the handle and started pulling on it. I was at last rewarded with the creaking and cracking of the plank. A larger band of daylight began to grow as the wood was pried apart. I was just about to give a final heave when the door behind me opened and two of the kidnappers appeared.

* * *

T
he men were understandably surprised to see me standing there, and both of them uttered curses. The larger of the two—they were both of them taller than me, of course—moved forward and swung his fist at me. I may be small, but I can move quickly when there is good reason to. That swinging fist was the incentive. I ducked under it and tried to run for the door. The second man, though larger than me, was also quick. He threw out a leg and tripped me.

“Damn your eyes!” cried the big man. He grabbed up a stout branch from the garden seat debris and swung that at me. It caught my shoulder as I was struggling to my feet, and I went down again.

“'Old 'im, yer bloody fool!” snarled the second man. “'E's a quick 'un, an' no mistake.”

There ensued what might have been viewed as a comedy routine were it performed on the pantomime stage. I dodged mighty blows thrown by hands and by makeshift weapons: boat parts and bits of the broken seat. I ran around one man to be cornered by the second. This odd dance was repeated several times. At one point I did manage to grasp a length of sturdy wood. A cursory glance suggested it to be the broken half of a punt pole. I had no time to study it; a slap on the side of the head with a canoe paddle got my attention.

What saved me was the fact that the two men were so intent on either grabbing me or hitting me that they forgot all about the door through which they had entered. It hung, sagging on its rusty hinges, half open. I ducked under a pair of outstretched hands and was quickly through the door and running from the boat shed. They wasted no time and, with loud yells, pounded after me.

I darted to my left, which I immediately realized was not the best choice. That way led to the river. However, all was not lost. After a long and typical English winter, the river was frozen so solid that a wagon and horses could drive across it. My boots gripped well enough that I had no trouble keeping my feet as I ran from the frozen grass of the riverbank and aimed over the ice toward the far-off Surrey shore.

My pursuers came after me. The larger of the two men swung slightly to one side, probably hoping to cut me off, while the second man came more directly. I thought I could outrun them. I was lighter and possibly fitter.

“Aagh! Bert! 'Elp me!”

I wondered what was wrong. It was the larger man who had cried out. The other one slowed but did not stop. He and I briefly glanced back as we ran. It seemed that to one side of where the boathouse protruded onto the river, someone had been cutting blocks of ice. I glimpsed an icehouse toward the rear of the boathouse. It was common practice for householders to have ice cut from the frozen river. The cutting must have taken place only a few days ago since the surface water had frozen over again, yet not to any great thickness, it seemed. The larger man had broken the surface and crashed through the hole. He was now frantically beating at the icy water around him. I realized that, in all probability, the man could not swim.