Cursed in the Act (19 page)

“Bert! Christ, Bert! 'Elp me!”

But Bert dithered. Whoever had paid these men to capture me obviously had a strong hold on them. Bert would let his companion drown so long as he was able to recapture me.

I could not be so callous. At the back of my mind I had some sort of crazy notion that I could help save the man and then still make off, but I knew there were no guarantees.

“Come on, Bert, or whatever your name is,” I cried, swinging around and making back to the floundering man. “We've got to get your friend out of there before he either drowns or freezes to death. Come on!”

With very poor grace, it seemed to me, Bert joined me in retracing our footsteps to the hole in the ice. Since the ice blocks had been cut from the surface, the edges were strong and sound, with no fear of them breaking off when we stood at the very edge. I managed to persuade Bert to get some of the rope from inside the shed while I held on to his companion to keep him afloat. We got a loop of it under the drowning man's arms and together started hauling him from his icy snare. Eventually we had him out and lying, gasping and shivering, on the solid surface.

I thought it time to leave. But Bert was ahead of the game. As I straightened up from the whalelike figure before me, I caught just the briefest glimpse of what must have been a solid chunk of wood brought from the shed by Bert, along with the rope. Everything went black.

* * *

W
hen I came to my senses, all was dark. Not just dark, but pitch-black. My head ached and pounded. I lay on my back trying to piece together the events that had so recently taken place. I recalled that I had finally succeeded in breaking out of that odious boathouse. Or had I? I remembered at some point grabbing up a canoe paddle and lashing out as the two toughs came at me. They were seasoned fighters. Whoever had hired them to abduct me had chosen well. Bits and pieces of the skirmish came back to me like broken images of a dream. One of the men had wrenched the paddle out of my hands as though taking a stick from a two-year-old. The other had punched me full in the face. Ridiculous as it now seemed, I remember wondering if Jenny would mind if I had a broken nose. But then things got blurred. Had I somehow got out of the boathouse and made off across the frozen river? Then there was something about beaching a whale . . . or a drowning man? I shook my head but immediately stopped as stars filled my vision. I could not recall everything—or anything—at all clearly.

I was lying on something hard. I did find that I was not bound up, which seemed a blessing. I tentatively reached out my hand, but it encountered something solid. A wall? I moved my arm about and also raised the other hand. There were rough, and what felt like wooden, walls close on either side of me. I was in the narrow gap between the two. I felt above me. It was there as well! Heavens! I was in some sort of box, closed on all sides. No wonder the complete darkness.

Suddenly a paralyzing thought struck me . . . I was in a coffin! I panicked and tried to sit upright but hit my head on the low surface above and reactivated the stars.
Calm yourself
, I said. I tried to breathe slowly and deeply. How much air was in this space? I changed to shallow breaths. Trying hard not to panic, I slowly and deliberately moved my hands, as well as I was able, to discern the limits of my containment. It did not bring me any satisfaction. With my feet, I was able to verify the end of the structure. Everything seemed to point to my being confined in a coffin. My thoughts flew to Bram Stoker's stories. Was I about to be turned into a zombie?

Chapter Twenty

I
t is strange what thoughts pass through one's mind when under stress. As I lay in the coffin I thought of a recent book I had seen, dealing with premature burial. It was a subject that had been frequently broached in the newspapers for many years. It dealt with a fear that a lot of people seemed to have. This particular book, as I recall, had a number of illustrations showing various devices designed to rescue anyone unfortunate enough to be interred in error. A small lever inside the coffin would raise a flag on the surface of the grave. A bell could be rung. A breathing tube was patented to ensure there would be no suffocation of a living “corpse.” The newspapers had recently reported that all possible devices had been combined and patented by a Russian chamberlain to the czar. Any detected movement in a coffin would cause an air supply to open, a flag to be raised, and a bell to be rung. I realized it was fruitless to contemplate such inventions since none of them was available to me. Yet I could not simply lie there inert.

I wondered if the coffin had yet been lowered into a grave and covered with earth. Escaping from the confines of the casket was one thing, but to have to dig one's way out of the ground was quite another. I once again felt all about me, running my hands over the surfaces of the walls and lid. There was no lining, I noticed. That seemed strange, until I thought about the origins of zombies, as detailed by Stoker. In Haiti, or wherever in the Caribbean Islands they were created, there would be no such finery. Bodies, he had said, were placed in wooden boxes and dropped into graves just as soon after apparent death as possible.

But we were not in Haiti. We were—I presumed—still in London, in England. However, if this operation was being directed by Ralph Bateman's Caribbean friend, the Haitian customs would probably prevail.

I had to do something! I couldn't just lie there and wait either to die or to be removed by an evil boko. I put up my hands and pressed up on the lid above me. It seemed to be tightly fastened. But with screws or with nails, I wondered? It struck me that if the lid was screwed down, then I was doomed. Yet if, in fact, this Boko was to have his minions remove the lid so that he might command me to rise, then it would almost certainly be a temporary fastening, such as light nailing that could be easily pried open. I prayed that I was right.

I managed to bring my knees up to my chest. I prayed that I would not cramp in that confined position. I pressed my knees against the lid, pushing and straining as I have never strained before. I had my hands up also, pushing along with them. I turned my head and sniffed at the surface. Pine. Good, I thought. Pine is a soft wood and does not grip nails anywhere nearly as tightly as does oak or other hard woods. I pushed harder, my heart thumping in my chest. After what seemed like many long minutes, I heard a creaking and cracking sound . . . the sound of nails being forced out of wood.

I had to rest for a while. I struggled and again got my legs down and straight before any signs of cramping came upon me. I breathed deeply—heedless now of the air capacity in that confined space—before a second attempt. Then I again struggled to ease my legs up till my knees were once more on my chest. I started pushing upward again, knees and hands forcing against the unpliant wood. I would press, hold it as long as I could, and then relax for a moment before more straining. Each time I applied the pressure, I heard more screeching, as the fasteners were drawn out.

I quickly became aware of dim light seeping in through the tiny opening I had created about the top of the coffin. At least, I thought, I can now get air. I pressed, pushed, and strained. Suddenly the top came free. One end of it popped off and the balance swung away, bending the nails fastening it. I sat up and pushed the lid out of the way. It came fully free and clattered to the floor. I hoped no one was about to hear it.

The first thing I noticed was that it was not a coffin per se in which I sat. It was a large packing crate. There were two others nearby, one partly filled with straw, so I may have simply been stuffed into it just because it was available. No real coffin; no graveyard burial; ergo, no Haitian Boko. Or so it seemed. I was relieved and hoped that I was right.

I climbed out of the crate and looked about me. The light was very dim and I guessed that I was perhaps in a basement. Yet on inspection I saw that the floor was made up of rough wooden planks. I revised my thinking to the top of a building. It could be that I was in an attic. I looked upward. In the dim light I made out rafters and crossbeams. Yes, it must be an attic.

I felt for my watch chain but it wasn't there. My watch had either been torn off at some point or one of the miscreants had removed it. I wondered what the time might be. How long had I been there? Was it still Saturday or had I been unconscious for far longer than I thought? Was this, perhaps, Sunday morning light that I saw filtering through? I felt a pang at the thought of abandoning Jenny, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I would by now have been missed. Mr. Stoker would surely be on the trail to find me.

I felt hunger pangs. I had not eaten since breakfast, though whether today or yesterday I didn't know. Perhaps more than one day had passed. But hunger was the least of my worries. The first thing was to remove myself from my immediate surroundings before the kidnappers once again came back and caught me. There was a door at the far end of the long attic room. I moved swiftly to it, trying not to tread too heavily on the floorboards. I didn't know where the abductors might be and didn't want to alert them if they were immediately below me. I tried the door and found that it was not locked. They must have felt confident that the packing crate would hold me.

With a last glance around, I eased open the door. I found myself at the top of a flight of wooden stairs leading down into what I presumed was the main part of the house. There was little spare space where I stood, and I saw two other doors besides the attic one I was exiting. Probably servants' quarters, I thought. I had no choice but to go down. Halfway down, one of the stairs creaked. It sounded very loud to me and I froze in place, holding my breath. After a long time there came no sounds from below, so I cautiously continued downward to the bottom of the stairs.

I found myself on a small landing with a back staircase and a front one, the back one presumably leading farther down, eventually, to the kitchen. There was a short corridor with doors on either side, which I surmised to be bedrooms. I went to the closest of these and tried the door. It opened easily and I peered in on a small room that seemed not to be currently in use. There was a narrow, iron-framed bed bearing a thin, faded mattress. It was not made up with any bed linen. The second door was to another bedroom but much more interesting. The first thing I noticed was a clock on the mantelpiece. It showed a time of six thirty, which accounted for the dim light that still filtered in through the window, though whether this was six thirty in the evening or the morning, I still had no idea. However, that was good in that it meant that no one was likely to come up to the bedrooms for a while if the house was inhabited, something I did not know for certain. Presumably, however, the three abductors were somewhere in the building.

The room was obviously that of a male, and a fastidious male at that. The wardrobe doors were partially open, and three suits, along with some nondescript trousers and coats, were in evidence hanging therein. On the shelves I found neatly folded shirts and underwear. The bottom drawer contained an assortment of socks, all carefully paired. Well-polished shoes and boots were set in the base of the wardrobe.

There was a small drop-front writing desk by the window, and I moved across to that. I was surprised when I opened it to find letters and invoices addressed to none other than Peter Richland. Was I in Richland's home? If this was the house I had visited out at Twickenham, then his mother had obviously kept his room much like a shrine to her departed son. It appeared as though nothing had been moved since his untimely death. I ran a finger along the top of the desk. The maid still kept the room clean.

I peered out of the window and tried to recognize whether or not it was the Twickenham house, but the light was insufficient and there were no immediate street gas lamps to illuminate the area and cut through the mist that came off the river. I could not afford to linger; I needed to get out of the house and away.

It seemed to me that my best bet would be to use the back stairs, where I would only meet servants, if anyone. I listened at the top of the stairs and then cautiously made my way down. When I arrived at the kitchen door I became aware of the murmur of voices within. I could make out several male voices plus two female ones. I presumed the latter to belong to the maid and the cook. I had no idea if there were other servants. The male voices could have been the kidnappers or they could have been male servants, but judging from what I had seen when I had visited Mrs. Richland—if this was indeed the same house—I didn't think she had more than a maid and a cook.

I saw the pantry off to my right and made my way to that. Supplies were sparse, it seemed, but what caught my eye was a small window high up in the outside wall. It wasn't large, but then neither was I. If I could get up to it, I thought there was a good chance I might be able to climb through it and get away.

I heard the chink of crockery coming from the kitchen. I carefully dragged a tea chest over underneath the window and balanced a wooden crate on top of that. I clambered up and reached across to the window. It was stiff and obviously had not been opened in a while. As I pushed to move it, it made a screeching sound. I stopped and stood balanced, not daring to move. From behind me the sounds from the kitchen stopped. I hardly dared breathe. Then the conversation started again, and the sounds of plates and teacups continued. I could almost swear that I heard one of the ladies say the word “cat,” but it may have been wishful thinking. As I clawed my way up, a bag of flour tumbled to the tile floor and burst open. It didn't make much noise, and this time I didn't stop to see if anyone had heard anything. But as I reached across to get my head and shoulders through the window, behind me the pantry door opened.

I swung around, ready to throw whatever might be at hand so that I might make my escape. Standing staring at me was the larger of the two men with whom I had fought in the boathouse. He clutched a blanket about him, and his hair, although now dry, was still plastered about his head. He stood stock still for a long moment, just staring at me.

I could almost see the images passing through his head, like a miniature play being performed. The scene of his falling through the ice, the panic that must have ensued, the rescue from certain death by myself when his own partner ignored his cries for help. He stood and studied me, and then he turned away and returned to the kitchen, closing its door firmly behind him.

I sent a quick prayer of thanks up to whatever deity watched over me, then spun around and dragged and pushed to get my head and shoulders through the window opening. With some wriggling and kicking—I heard other items fall—I eventually slid out into the open, dropping a few feet onto my head and shoulders into a privet hedge. I wasted no time. I rolled out of that and got to my feet. I thought I saw the light of a lantern being carried into the pantry behind me, but I ran off across the frozen lawn and along the iron railing to a gate that opened onto the road.

* * *

B
y the time I got back to the Lyceum it was nearly noon. It was indeed Sunday; I had missed the Saturday performances and, more to my chagrin, had missed my meeting with Jenny.

Despite it being the Sabbath morning, I found Bram Stoker standing by the stage door, fiercely looking up and down the street. I descended from the growler I had procured in Twickenham and asked him if he could pay the driver, since my wallet and all of my money seemed to have disappeared. He did so—with some muttered comment about this becoming a habit—and then, to my immense surprise, he threw his arms about me and hugged me to him. Such was the warmth of his embrace I was afraid that, after surviving the many trials of my abduction, I would be suffocated by my boss.

“Come inside, Harry,” he said, his voice strangely husky. “Come along in and get warm. I'll send out one of the lads to get you a good meal. Come and tell me all about it.”

I was touched. I knew Bram Stoker to be an emotional man. At one of his earliest meetings with Henry Irving, in Ireland, he had been invited to dinner with the Guv'nor in response to writing an exceptionally favorable review of
Hamlet
at Dublin's Theatre Royal. At the dinner, Irving recited Thomas Hood's popular and extremely poignant poem
The Dream of Eugene Aram
, giving a histrionic performance. At the end of it Irving affected a theatrical swoon, but Stoker joined him in a very real swoon, being so overcome by the recital. He was never one to hide his emotions.

I related to my boss all that had transpired, pausing only briefly to start eating a late breakfast of eggs, bacon, kidneys, sausage, fried potatoes, and tomatoes. I downed several mugs of tea, all brought in from a nearby restaurant by the attentive Bill Thomas, who dawdled long enough to listen to the end of my story.

“So you did not recognize any of these men?” Stoker asked.

“No, sir. I had a good look at them before they put the bag over my head, but I'm sure I had never seen any one of them before.”

“Rogues hired by that young Bateman, no doubt,” muttered Bill as he gathered up the empty plate and utensils. Bill went out and Stoker sat with a deep frown on his face.

“This is not good, Harry. Who knows what their intention was? I spent the day awaiting perhaps the arrival of a blackmailing note, but they made no contact.”

“Perhaps they were waiting a day or more to make sure my being missing was really noticed?” I offered.

“Hmm. Maybe. I did let your Sergeant Bellamy know, however.”