Cursed in the Act (20 page)

I looked up, surprised. “You did? Well, thank you, sir. What did the good sergeant have to say?”

Stoker sighed. “He said to wait a day or so, since you just might turn up.” He sighed again. “And so you have.”

“No thanks to the Metropolitan Police,” I murmured. I finished off the last of the mug of tea.

“What did you determine of the house where you were kept? You mentioned that you thought it was the home of Mr. Peter Richland and his mother.”

“Yes, sir, I did. In fact I am certain it was. I do remember that, on my original visit there, I noticed an old boathouse out in the garden. That must have been the one where they first placed me.”

“But you saw no sign of Mrs. Richland?”

“No, sir.” Memory came flooding back. “But I did find what used to be Peter Richland's room. Upstairs in the house. She keeps it as it was when he was alive. No surprise, I suppose, considering that our queen keeps whole palaces as they were when Prince Albert was alive. Oh, and when I looked in some of the drawers there, I saw no sign of silk undergarments, just plain cotton ones.”

“Interesting.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Richland even knew that her house and boathouse were being used,” I said, after a few moments' thought. “I suppose that it's possible she was away from home and Ralph Bateman—being an old friend of Peter Richland—had his men make use of that facility.”

“As a convenience?” asked Stoker. I nodded. “I don't know, Harry. But it should be easy enough to find out whether or not Mrs. Richland was in residence this weekend.”

I yawned. I couldn't help myself. I was tired and my head was still sore.

“Take yourself off home, Harry. You look a mess. Get some rest. It's Sunday so I don't want to see you here again until late tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, sir. Yes.” I got to my feet.
Sunday
, I thought! What about Jenny? I had to get to her and explain my absence. I think Stoker read my thoughts.

“Oh, and I sent a message around to Jenny for you, Harry. Told her that you had been delayed.”

I was both surprised and delighted. “You did? Oh, I cannot thank you enough . . .”

He pooh-poohed my thanks, flapping a hand at me. “Get yourself cleaned up and see her when you can, Harry. Now, off with you! Oh, and one more thing, Harry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get yourself another cane—a good stout one—and be ever vigilant. We don't want you snatched away again.”

* * *

I
had thoughts of bathing and getting into some clean clothes. It wasn't Friday—the traditional “bath night”—so I couldn't count on Mrs. Bell heating water for me. I decided to visit the public baths, and there I soon felt refreshed and able to look life squarely in the face again. I went back to my rooms, put on clean clothes, and left the house. Still feeling hungry, I felt that I could not face one of Mrs. Bell's culinary disasters but made my way to the King's Arms on Carey Street. There I lunched on a platter of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, Brussels sprouts, and roast potatoes, together with a tankard of porter. I dug into a freshly baked loaf of bread laden with recently churned butter. By the time I had finished, I felt considerably better, if not overindulged. I had persuaded Mrs. Bell to let me have one of her precious supply of Dr. Clark's Pills for Nervous Headache. I don't know that my headache was especially “nervous,” but it was most certainly a headache. I washed down the pill with a healthy swallow of porter.

It was exactly two of the clock when I finally arrived outside 15a Grafton Street. I had stopped briefly at Mortimer's on Regent Street and, as Mr. Stoker had suggested, purchased a new cane. Jenny must have been watching for me from the upper windows. She emerged from the gleaming black-painted front door wearing the same ensemble she had worn on the previous Sunday. I'm sure it was her only good outfit, but she looked wonderful in it. Her eyes were bright and gleaming, her mouth in a delightful smile.

“Mrs. Cooke was kind enough to let me change the hour of my time off,” she said.

We set out to enjoy a few short hours together. She clung to my arm and urged me to tell her all of my adventures.

“All in good time. Let us enjoy the day for a while first,” I said, a smile on my face. I looked about me, feeling both happy and lucky. How easily things could have gone wrong and I might never have seen my dear Jenny again. I beamed at her, feeling blessed. Her eyes sparkled as she returned my smile.

The weather continued to be relatively fine for the time of year. The sun peeked intermittently through the clouds and there was no wind to speak of. We made our way over to Green Park, on the far side of St. James's Park. Piccadilly was on its north side, and we stopped briefly to listen to an old man playing a hurdy-gurdy at the end of Queen's Walk.

“Has the Lyceum been busy?” asked Jenny, her hand in the crook of my arm. There was no snow and I carried no umbrella, so there was really no necessity for her to hold on to me, but I squeezed my arm to draw her tight against my side. She smiled up at me and my heart beat loudly enough that I was sure she would hear it.

“
Hamlet
is doing very well,” I said. “The Guv'nor keeps them in their seats. Mr. Stoker said that people do not come to the Lyceum to see
Hamlet
, they come to see Henry Irving playing Hamlet.”

“I wish I could see it,” said Jenny wistfully.

“Oh, you will, if I can manage it,” I said, mindful of my promise to her.

We had just turned from Queen's Walk to go up Constitution Hill when I saw a man striding purposefully toward us. He had come out of the trees along the wide walk leading up to the Palace, and with a start I recognized him as one of the men who had held me captive the previous day: the third one in the carriage, not one of the two who had been at the boathouse. Before I knew what was happening he had reached out and grasped Jenny's arm. She screamed.

I had gone a step farther when following Mr. Stoker's advice. The newly purchased cane I now carried was in fact a sword-cane. With a quick pull, I drew the blade and lunged at the man.

Jenny had given a cry when he took her arm, but it was his turn to cry when I stabbed him just above the wrist. Blood spurted and he leapt back, releasing Jenny. I may be small, but I was fencing champion at the Hounslow Institution for Boys; it was the only sport at which I did excel. This ruffian was tussling with a fiery redhead and my blood was up! I stepped forward in front of Jenny and jabbed again with the blade. It pierced the man's forearm. He pulled back, turned, and ran. I was tempted to run after him but was mindful of my companion.

“Jenny! Are you all right?” I asked.

“Oh, Harry!” she cried. “My hero!” She threw her arms about my neck and kissed me full on the lips. I almost dropped the sword-cane but had the presence of mind to wrap my arm, still holding the weapon, about her slim waist and draw her to me. It might not have been the gentlemanly thing to do, but I felt very much the knight in shining armor.

The kiss was all too brief and Jenny stepped back, her face flaming red and her eyes cast down.

“Who—who was that, Harry?” she gasped. “Where did he come from? What did he want?”

I had sheathed the blade and now, straightening my bowler hat, I took a firm grip on Jenny's arm and started us in the direction of St. James's Park.

“First things first, Jenny. I think we need to find somewhere to sit down and have a cup of tea. There is a small refreshment stand in the park, I believe. Let us repair to that and I will tell you a story . . . a story of my adventures yesterday.”

Chapter Twenty-one

E
llen Terry, the darling of the Shakespearean theatre and leading lady to the Guv'nor, has been on the stage since the age of eight, when she first appeared with Charles Kean at the Princess's Theatre. Bram Stoker had many times related to me her brilliant career. I think the fact that Miss Terry's father was of Irish descent made her special in his eyes. She had been married three times and had caused some scandal along the way. It was just at the beginning of the present year that she had separated from her third husband, Charles Kelly. Yet such was her acting and stage presence that she was forgiven much that others would not have been. Her second husband was the architect-designer Edward William Godwin . . . though in fact they never actually married since she was separated but still married to her first husband, the eminent artist George Frederick Watts. But with Godwin she had two children, a daughter, Edith, and a son, Edward.

Edward was now nine years of age and Edith was twelve. Edward usually accompanied Miss Terry to the theatre and had taken on the role of callboy, he who alerts the actors as to when they need be in the wings, ready to go on. Edward took the job very seriously and was much loved and appreciated by all.

On Monday, after my so pleasurable Sunday sojourn with Jenny, I had reported the attempted attack in the park to Mr. Stoker but then got on with theatre work. It was early evening that the day started to unravel.

Sam Green came to me two hours or so before curtain-up. Actors were drifting in and backstage staff was checking and double-checking scenery, lighting, and props. I had just started on my rounds when Sam accosted me.

“Mr. Rivers! 'Arry! Any idea why the scenery bay doors should be unlocked?”

I was surprised. The big doors were only opened when newly built flats were being brought into the theatre or, at the end of a run, when old flats were being taken out. Some of the scenery could be quite tall, and appropriate doors are necessary. Throughout the entire run of a production there is no necessity for them to be opened.

“What do you mean, Sam?”

“Jus' what I says, 'Arry. Them doors is unlocked. I found one of 'em swingin' in the breeze, as it were . . . wondered where the cold draught was coming from! It's a rum do an' no mistake.”

That was his favorite expression. I hurried off in the direction of the scenery bay, Sam stretching his long legs to keep up with me. I found the doors shut but not locked.

“I shut 'em,” volunteered Sam. “Keep the bleedin' cold out. But I ain't locked 'em cos I didn't know what was goin' on.”

“Quite right,” I said. I scratched my head. “Who has a key to these doors?” I asked, though I knew the answer. I was just playing for time while I considered the possibilities.

“As you know, 'Arry,” Sam said, well aware of my tactic, “you, me, Mr. Stoker, and Fred Summer, the electrician. 'E's somewhere up in the flies, if'n you wants 'im.”

I bent over and examined the locks. It looked as though someone had used a betty on the lock, or otherwise forced it. A betty was a skeleton key and the tool of a burglar. I was no police detective, but I could make out scratches all around the keyhole of the one door.

“All right, Sam,” I said. “Get some of your lads and make a run through the theatre. Look everywhere. Someone either got in, got out, or both. I want to know if anything is missing. Keep your eyes open for any stranger. My guess is that whoever it was couldn't get past our Bill, up by the stage door, so they decided to get in from here.”

“Right, 'Arry!” He went running off and I headed for Stoker's office.

Nearly an hour later Sam came to find me and to report. I was still with my boss.

“No sign of anythin' missin', 'Arry; Mr. Stoker, sir. No sign of anyone wot don't belong 'ere. O' course, it could be someone's been and gorn by now.”

“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!”

* * *

I
t 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 brown-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.”