Cursed in the Act (21 page)

“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.

* * *

W
e 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 figure. 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

S
toker 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?

“Not if I can help it.” Stoker strode over to where George Dale still stood scratching his head and looking about him, not knowing what to expect.

“Mr. Dale. We need your assistance. I am Mr. Abraham Stoker of the Lyceum Theatre . . .”

“Oh yes, sir. I knows you. I know young 'Arry, 'ere. We been mates for many years.”

I would not have put it quite like that, but this was not the time for niceties. I quickly explained to George what was happening and asked if he could help.

“They took the young 'un? Miss Terry's boy?” His eyes opened wide. I nodded. “You sure about that . . . ? Not that I'm doubting your word, sir,” he said to Stoker, “but takin' a young boy from 'is mother, right out of the theatre . . . now that ain't right.”

“Not at all right,” agreed my boss. “Now, time is of the essence. We need to find where they have taken the child. How can you help us?”

George lifted his well-worn bowler and again scratched his head. “I'm your man, if'n I can be,” he assured us. “'Oo did you say was involved?”

“Mr. Ogoon, Ralph Bateman's foreign friend,” I said. “And Ralph himself, of course. We don't know who else. Tell me, George, who has been hanging around with Ralph and Ogoon recently?”

“Only one as I know of would be that 'Erbert Willis.”

“Willis? Of course!” muttered Stoker. “We should have guessed.”

“Was he with them tonight?” I asked.

“No. Monday night is 'appy night for Mr. Willis. Never misses.”

“Happy night? Whatever do you mean, George?” I was intrigued.

“In Whitechapel, as I 'ave it. There's a 'ticular one as our Mr. Willis goes to. Never misses.”

I looked at Stoker for an explanation. “Opium, Harry. There are lots of dens in Chinatown. Used mostly by seamen, but quite a few so-called gentlemen from the West End go out to Limehouse on a lark. Some for more than just a lark, too. I didn't realize they were also in Whitechapel.”

“Ho, yes!” said George. “There's ones in Whitechapel a bit more posh than them Chinatown ones, they say. It appears our Mr. 'Erbert Willis is somewhat addicted to the stuff, as I 'ear it.”

“You know where this particular den of iniquity is, Mr. Dale? There's a sovereign in it if you do. We have to find out from Willis where Messrs. Bateman and Ogoon may have taken young Edward. Time is of the essence.”

“'Ave no fear, Mr. Stoker, sir.” George Dale pulled himself up as straight as he ever could. “I don't 'old with the doings of Ralph Bateman and I most certainly don't 'old with takin' a young man like that, especially one belonging to Miss Terry. You don't 'ave to pay me no sovereign, Mr. Stoker. I'll tell you all I know. No problem.”

* * *

T
he hansom made good time to the Whitechapel area, just north of the Commercial Road. I was worried about the passing hours and said so to Mr. Stoker.

“I don't think we need be too concerned, Harry,” he said. “Time is certainly of the essence, as I have observed, but I don't think they mean young Edward any immediate harm. I'm presuming they have in mind some sort of ransom demand. If so, then they can do nothing until tomorrow morning at the earliest, so they will be holding the boy in some safe place. The location of that place is what we need to learn from Mr. Willis. Now, the inestimable Mr. Dale said we should find him just off New Road, Whitechapel, at the end of Green Street. Ah! We seem to be arriving at our destination.”

He banged on the trap with his cane and the driver pulled in to the curbside and stopped. We alighted.

“Wait for us here,” Stoker said to the man, and then led the way along to the top of the well-worn stone steps descending to a cul-de-sac. There was one solitary street gas lamp at the top of the stairs, its light greatly diminished by the fog drifting off the river. I took hold of the rickety handrail and followed the bulk of my boss as he moved slowly downward. At the bottom of the steps we paused and looked about us.

“Over there,” said Stoker, swinging his cane to point in the direction of a small cluster of shops alongside the solid blackness that was one of a set of warehouses.

As we drew near the group I was able to make out a low-flamed gas jet protruding, globeless, alongside the front entrance of the shop. It was the only illumination in that area. The shop doorway itself seemed tightly closed.

“I don't think there's anyone here,” I muttered. It didn't seem right to speak loudly, for some reason.

“Nonsense,” said Stoker, his voice booming and echoing across the water lapping the wharf. “This has to be the place.”

He raised his cane and rapped on the door. There was no response. He rapped again, a dozen times at least. A small grid in the door, which I had not noticed before, slid to one side and a pair of eyes looked out and studied us. No words were spoken. Stoker himself said nothing but held up a half sovereign, turning it in his fingers so that it might catch the glimmer of light issuing from the gas jet. The grid slid closed again.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Shh! Patience, Harry,”

We must have stood there for two or three minutes before we heard a lock turn and the door inched open. An ancient Chinese face filled the narrow gap. I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. The figure held a candle, which sputtered in the slight breeze.

“You want?”

“We want entrance,” stated Stoker. “Kindly step aside.”

But the figure remained firmly blocking the doorway. “Name?”

“
My
name?” responded Stoker. “I don't think . . .”

The person tut-tutted and shook his head. I had pretty much decided that it was a man, though some slight doubt still remained. “Herbert Willis,” I said.

The face turned to look at me, raising the candle higher. Then he held out a skeletal, clawlike hand with long, dirty fingernails. “
Crown
,” he said.

“How did you know he needed Willis's name?”

“I guessed that we required some sort of introduction, sir,” I said. “I remembered that Willis is a regular here so assumed his name would give us passage.”

“Well done, Harry.”

As soon as Mr. Stoker had paid the crown we were allowed in, with the door being closed firmly behind us. The man led the way back into the darkness, his long, loose-flowing robe dragging on the floor. He opened a second very low door and we followed into a long room with dim light coming from two or three lanterns hanging along the length of the room.

The room was filled with a sweet-smelling smoke that I found attractive yet repulsive at the same time. The floor of the room was covered with pallets in low wooden frames, side by side and end to end, stretching away into the far reaches of the establishment. Two young Chinese boys, dressed in soiled blue canvas jackets and ragged short trousers, wearing the rope-soled shoes favored by the Chinese, scampered back and forth over bodies stretched out on the pallets. The pair brought long-stemmed pipes and glowing charcoal to the variety of men lying in various stages of stupor. Some were sitting up drawing on the pipes, while others lay flat, the ends of the pipes still held between their lips, their eyes glazed, closed, or half hooded. One or two of the imbibers muttered to themselves, a few laughing quietly at something imagined.

I looked to Mr. Stoker. I had heard of these opium dens but never seen one before. My boss did not seem at all affected by his surroundings. He looked about him and even rolled a couple of men over onto their backs the better to see them.

“Ah! Here we are!” he cried.

“Shh! No talk!” hissed the man who had led us in. He waved his hands to silence us.

Stoker ignored him and dragged Willis into a more or less upright sitting position.

“Here, Harry. We're going to have to get him out of this idiocy if we are to get any sense out of him.”

“Shh! No talk! No talk!”

We ignored the man until I became aware of another figure who had advanced from the dim, smoky, far end of the room. It was the largest man I had ever seen. He was stripped to the waist and stood with massive arms folded across a huge barrel of a chest. His jet-black hair was pulled back in a queue, and his equally black eyebrows met together in a frown that did more to quiet us than did any number of “No talk!” orders.

The man reached across two other semicomatose figures to pluck Willis off of his pallet. Slinging Herbert over his shoulder, the giant pushed past us and made for the door through which we had entered. Reaching it, he flung it open and pitched Willis out into the night. As he then turned to us, Stoker and I squeezed around him and dashed out of the building. I heard the door slam behind.

* * *

“F
ank you for wasting my 'alf crown!”

Willis's dirty blond hair looked dirtier than usual. It stuck out at different angles, making him look like a scarecrow.

“Let us have the information we seek and I shall be happy to reimburse you,” said Stoker. “Now, where would Mr. Bateman have taken the boy you kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped? Boy? I'm sure I don't know what the 'ell you're goin' on about.” The nervous tick in his right eye started working overtime.

“You know perfectly well. I will be more than happy to hand you over to Sergeant Bellamy if I don't get some sense out of you. Some of his men can be none too fussy about how they extract information when it is needed.” Bram Stoker is a big man and he can look fearsome when he wants to. He wanted to now. He drew his brows together and glared at Willis, his face only inches away.

I pulled out my new half hunter and looked at it. I was surprised to see it was almost two of the clock in the morning. Stoker glanced at the dial and then turned back to Willis.

“Two minutes, Mr. Willis. That is all the time we can give you. Two minutes in which to tell us where your confederates are hiding the boy.”

“I don't know.”

“Of course you do.”

“I don't, I tell you. They wouldn't tell me.”

“Where
could
they be hiding him?” I said.

“They wouldn't hold him at the theatre,” said Stoker. “And I doubt very much they'd be foolish enough to try to secrete him at the home of any one of you. Where else is there, that would be secure?”

I had an idea. “Willis, when Mrs. Crowe took over Sadler's Wells Theatre, she had to clear out a great deal of stuff she didn't need, did she not?”

“Good, Harry!” cried my boss. “Yes. I remember when the Guv'nor took over the Lyceum, the same thing. He threw out a vast quantity of material and a tremendous amount was put into storage, just in case it should be needed for some future production. I particularly remember several thousand peacock feathers, for example.”

“You can't keep everything backstage,” I agreed. I turned back to Willis. “So where is the storage for Sadler's?”

Willis looked somewhat surprised. I honestly think he hadn't known where Ralph had taken the boy, but I think he now saw that I was probably right. It would be a good place to hide someone, and not at all obvious.

“Ralph did say somefink just a few days ago about the old warehouse,” he muttered grudgingly. “I asked 'im what he was goin' on about but 'e just told me to shut up!”

“Good.” Stoker nodded. “Now all you have to do is to tell us where it is located.”

“All I know is that it's off the Mile End Road.”

“South of the gas works?”

He nodded, his brow furrowed. I could see him trying to picture the route. I imagine he had not traveled it any great number of times, the last time probably far in the past.

“Not far from the Docks,” he said. “London Docks. Off Old Manor Road. I fink it was Salmon Lane, on the left as you gets toward the river.”

“Salmon Lane?” said Stoker.

“I fink so.” The tick was at work again.

“Hmm. And where exactly on that road might we find it?”

“It's a bleedin' big ware'ouse on the left. I fink it's the first one you come to. Fact I never went no farther down the road so it may be the only one, for all I know.”

“How far would that be from here, sir?” I asked my boss.

“Not too far,” he said, cryptically. “But whatever the distance, we must be on our way. Mr. Willis, if you should be misleading us . . . we will meet again; have no fear.”