Cursed in the Act (25 page)

“And you, sir, are . . . ?”

Bellamy had the good sense to intervene. “This is Mr. Abraham Stoker, manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, Inspector. We really do need to be about our business as promptly as possible. I have a carriage full of my own men out front and we simply look for a few of your good men to join us.”

When the inspector still hesitated, Stoker added, “We would, of course, Inspector, deem it an honor if you yourself would join us and help lead the exercise.”

* * *

W
e approached Mrs. Richland's home cautiously. Behind our hansom came a four-wheeler carrying Inspector Gulley and three of the Thames Valley Police's finest constables . . . their
only
constables, as it turned out. We stopped at the end of a road opposite the line of houses that stretched along the riverbank. From there we advanced on foot.

At the head of the Richland driveway I looked toward the river and could see the boathouse that had held me several days before. Its door still hung sadly sagging on its rusty hinges. There was no sign of life either at the boathouse or at the main house.

Bram Stoker led the way up the driveway and banged loudly on the front door. When the elderly maid I had encountered on my first visit responded, he asked to see Mrs. Richland.

“I am sorry, sir, but Mrs. Richland is not at home,” she said, her eyes cast down.

“Are you sure?” snapped Sergeant Bellamy.

“Oh yes, sir. Mrs. Richland is not at home.”

“I see,” he said. “We would like to come in and check for ourselves.”

Inspector Gulley pushed forward. “We don't have a search warrant,” he muttered to Bellamy and Stoker.

“No, sir, we don't,” agreed Bellamy. “But we're thinking this lady may not question that. Is that right?” he demanded of the maid.

She looked up, obviously terrified to find so many policemen at her door.

“I—I—I'll have to go and ask,” she said, turning tail and fleeing into the house.

“Ask whom, one wonders?” said Stoker. “If the mistress of the house is truly not home, then whom is she questioning?”

“Let's find out!” snapped Bellamy.

He pushed forward into the entrance hall. With the briefest of pauses, Gulley followed, Stoker, myself, and the five policemen right behind him. We moved quickly up the staircase to the living room, which was empty. Above us we heard the sound of voices—that of the maid and more than one male voice.

“Come on!” cried Stoker.

We turned away from the living room and continued on up the staircase, coming to a stop partway up the next flight as a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. I blinked my eyes and then rubbed them.

“Damnation but I knew it!” cried Stoker.

There, looking down on us, his face distorted in fury, was the supposedly dead Peter Richland. Behind him stood Ralph Bateman, Ogoon, and Herbert Willis.

“Well! The late Mr. Richland,” said Stoker. “Might I say how well you are looking?”

“Damn you!”

Richland bent and swiftly picked up a potted palm tree that stood at the top of the staircase. He flung it down to strike Stoker. The big man fell back a couple of steps, and the rest of us, bumping into one another, also fell back, some of the police constables literally losing their balance, falling to the stairs, and rolling back down them. Richland and his followers turned and disappeared.

“They're making for the back stairs!” I shouted. “We must get down and around to the kitchen.”

What followed was chaotic. Constables tried to pick themselves up while those on the upper stairs tried to get past them to lead the way down. Valuable time was lost getting back to the ground floor and then around and down to the kitchen. We arrived to find the outer door open and the miscreants gone.

* * *

“J
ackson, Ingram, and Rogers! Go through this house with a fine-tooth comb. Any person or persons you find you will apprehend and hold until my return. The rest of you, come with me,” cried the inspector.

The other two constables, Sergeant Bellamy, Stoker, and I followed the inspector out to the back garden. We had a quick look in the boathouse and another constable was left there. The five of us then hurried back up to the roadway.

“Over there!” cried Stoker, pointing to a house two doors along.

There was a man working in the front of the house, clearing snow from the path. Stoker advanced on him.

“You, sir! Did you see some men—at least three of them—hurry from this house a short time ago? One of them was tall, almost as tall as myself. Possibly they would have been without overcoats.”

The man, who was elderly, stuck his finger in one ear and wiggled it as though to stir up his memory. He knit his brow and squinted his eyes. It seemed obvious he was making a great effort to report, with accuracy, anything he had seen.

“Well now, young man,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “You say at least three men?”

“Yes. Yes,” said Stoker.

“And without topcoats, even in this inclement weather?”

“Did you see them?” snapped Inspector Gulley. “Speak up, man. This is urgent police business.”

“Don't fluster him,” urged Stoker quietly.

“Three men in a hurry?” He scratched the top of his head. “You know I do believe I did, don't you know. Though in point of fact there were four of them. I wondered why they were running.”

I heard the inspector growling.

“Yes,” continued our witness. “I did not observe the lack of outer attire initially, though it did eventually strike me. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Why would any man, no matter his station, pursue his business in such inclement weather as we have seen of late—although one must acknowledge that the day is a fine one for the season—why would any man exit his house thus sparsely clad . . . ?”

“Oh, get on with it, man!” cried Bellamy.

The older gentleman gave the sergeant a brief hard look and then continued undaunted. “They ran out from the back of the house, continued around to the front, and then hailed a four-wheeler that was passing,” he said.

“They got a growler?”

“Not many of them along here at this time of day,” continued the old man. “They were lucky there.”

“Tell me, sir,” Stoker spoke quietly but firmly. “Were you close enough? Did you happen to hear where they asked the driver to go?”

We all hung on his words.

“Oh yes.” He nodded his head several times. “That was not difficult.” He chuckled. “The old driver must have been a mite deaf, don't you know! They had to shout it out more than once.”

“What did they say!”
screamed the inspector.

“Teddington,” said the man. “Yes, Teddington. Just down the road, don't you know. Only about a mile . . .”

We didn't wait for him to finish but ran across to where we had left the police growler. A constable climbed up onto the box and the rest of us bundled into the carriage. The hansom had long since departed. With a lurch, the four-wheeler rolled out of the side road and turned westward toward the neighboring town of Teddington.

“Why would they be going there, sir?” I asked.

“I'm not certain,” said Stoker.

“The lock, I wouldn't mind betting,” said Inspector Gulley. “They can cross the river over the lock gate and then they'll be in Surrey . . . and out of my jurisdiction.”

“Not if we catch up with them first,” said Bellamy, through clenched teeth.

We all clung on tightly as the policeman in the driver's seat whipped up the horses to a gallop.

“I still can't get over the fact that Richland is alive,” I said. “How can that be? There were witnesses that saw him run down and killed—why, I even went and identified the body—and then we all went to his funeral.”

“Except that the coffin was empty,” said Stoker. “I have to admit that I began to have my doubts when you reported that his mother was keeping his room in situ, Harry. Not unknown when a mother loses a son, certainly, but enough to draw out my suspicions in this instance.”

“So why did he fake his death?” asked the inspector.

“And whose body was it that we were chasing after?” said Bellamy. “There certainly
was
a body, as we all know. Sometimes with a head and sometimes without, but a body nonetheless.”

“Oh yes. There was a body,” replied Stoker.

Gulley stuck his head out the side of the carriage and shouted up to the driver, “Turn left along here, Constable. Ferry Road, right off Manor Road.” He drew back in and turned to Mr. Stoker. “Pray continue, sir.”

Stoker did so. “Don't forget that Richland was in the company of another man at the Druid's Head. They both left the tavern, apparently very much the worse for drink, or so it appeared. I have a feeling that Richland was actually quite sober. And I am pretty certain that the body we took to be Richland—and that he wanted us to think was him—was in fact the body of the stranger he had befriended at the public house. A visitor to the city who would not be easily missed.”

“But how could that be?” I asked. “The police—Sergeant Bellamy here—said that they knew the victim was one of our actors because of the traces of makeup on his face.”

Bellamy nodded. “That's correct, sir.”

“Oh, our Mr. Richland planned it all carefully, Harry, I'm sure. Someone observed that at the scene of the accident one man dragged the victim over to the far side of the road and then down an alley.”

“That's right!” acknowledged Bellamy.

“In case there was any chance of identification,” continued Stoker, “our man put makeup on the other's face, shaved his mustache, if he had one, and then smashed his face so there could be no absolute recognition.”

“I have to admit,” I said, “when I was at the police station to identify the man, I was not able to really study him . . . my stomach wouldn't allow it.”

The four-wheeler skidded to a halt and the inspector flung open the door. “Here we are. Let's get after the blighters!”

We all tumbled out and ran toward the water.

“There they go!” shouted Bellamy.

I could make out four men ahead of us. We watched them climbing up onto the footbridge that stretched across to the narrow island, at the end of which were the locks and the weir.

As I understood it, the footbridge extended to the island, but in order to complete the river crossing it was necessary to turn and proceed to the lock. There it was then possible to walk across on the tops of the lock gates, a common practice. At this time of the year the river on the Teddington side was frozen, with the exception of around the weir, but on the far side of the island ice had been broken up leading to the lock, to allow passage of boats. The men ahead of us split up, two of them running to the left, to the lock, and the other two to the right, to the weir.

“With me, Harry!” shouted Stoker, swinging to the left in order to pursue what we saw to be Richland and Ogoon.

It was Bateman and Willis, then, who had gone the other way, I realized. What they hoped to accomplish at the weir I had no idea, though in the summer months it might be possible to pick one's way across protruding rocks. I could hear Bellamy panting behind me. Inspector Gulley and his constable went the other way, after the second couple.

Bram Stoker's powerful legs drew him away from me and my skinny ones. I saw him gaining on the two we pursued, but I didn't think he could catch them in time. As I watched, Peter Richland swung himself up onto the top of the lock gates and started across. When Richland got to the middle, where the two gates met, he paused momentarily to look back. Ogoon was close behind him. Perhaps too close, for he slid on the icy wood trying to avoid Richland. The two bumped into each and Peter Richland pitched over the side, crying out as he fell.

Ogoon jumped over where his companion had been standing and, without a word and not looking back, ran on to gain a footing on the Surrey bank. He still didn't look back but disappeared behind the lock house. I hoped I would never see him again.

I ran up to where Stoker now stood on the top of the lock gate, looking down into the icy water. I had a brief glimpse of Peter Richland, floundering as he tried to stay afloat. No one could survive for more than a few minutes in that icy pit. I eased carefully around Stoker and ran to where the life belt hung on its hook, in case of such emergencies. But with the cold and the icy winds that had blown there for some time, the ring of cork was frozen solid to its base. I tugged and tugged until I heard Stoker's voice.

“Never mind, Harry. Never mind.”

Chapter Twenty-six

I
ntermittently since 1705 there had been a so-called Beefsteak Club in London. The first of these had been started by an actor, Richard Estcourt, championing beef. In 1735 the scenery painter George Lambert, together with actor John Rich, formed the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks, who met at Covent Garden. After the Covent Garden fire of 1808, they started meeting at the Lyceum Theatre, in a back room. This had gradually developed into a very private club where the members—mainly actors plus a few politicians—wore a uniform of blue coat and buff waistcoat with brass buttons. The buttons bore the symbol of the club, a gridiron motif, which was also found on their cuff links. The original gridiron, on which the steaks had been cooked, had been rescued from the ashes of the Covent Garden fire.

The steaks were served on hot pewter plates, together with baked potatoes and onions. Porter and port were served, as was toasted cheese. Nothing else was offered. After eating, the table—one long table at which all guests sat—was cleared and the evening given over to revelry. After a checkered existence this early Beefsteak Club had finally disbanded in 1867, but the Guv'nor, Mr. Henry Irving, had decided to revive it just a year or so ago. It now met sporadically, usually very late in the evening after a Lyceum performance. Mr. Stoker was an enthusiastic member, and on occasion he had even been instrumental in inviting myself as a guest. As such, it meant that I did not have to wear the blue jacket uniform as all the regular members did. I did, however, always enjoy the excellent steaks served, not to mention the porter.

The day following our adventures in Twickenham, my boss informed me that there was to be a Beefsteak Club that very evening and that he would take me along as his guest. The room was one that had been used for such club meetings for many years, when the original Beefsteak Club was still in existence. It was part of the Lyceum Theatre, though tucked away at the back where it had some privacy. It had its own kitchen, of course, and Mr. Irving's personal cook prepared the meal. A number of close friends of the Guv'nor were there, though I knew few of them. I did recognize—how could I not?—the prime minister, Mr. Gladstone, a close friend and admirer of Mr. Irving's. The Beefsteak Club was an all-male preserve, so Miss Terry did not join us.

After a most enjoyable meal, well lubricated with both porter and an excellent port, I sat back to see what might be the occasion of this gathering. The Guv'nor was there, of course, as was Mr. Stoker. Also present were Mr. Edwin Booth and Colonel Cornell, Sergeant Bellamy and even Inspector Gulley from the Thames Valley Police. I recognized one or two of the theatre critics, including Mr. Matthew Burgundy of the
Times
and Mr. Horatio Fitzwilliams of the
Era
.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough, Abraham, to run over the events of the past few days, for the benefit of those of us who have not yet been privy to all of the details?” The Guv'nor sat back and blew smoke from his cigar toward the ceiling, as he smiled at Mr. Stoker.

“Of course, Henry, of course.” My boss did not get to his feet, such was the relaxed atmosphere after the repast, and blew his own cigar smoke to the rafters. “And there I think it might be beneficial to go all the way back to the days following your poisoning?”

There was a murmur around the table, from those who were not conversant with all the many little incidents of which I had been a part. Mr. Stoker then started the history, from the apparent death of Peter Richland through to our discovery of the abduction of young Edward. I noticed that he omitted reference to some few details, such as our digging up the Richland coffin and also the Voudon ceremony beneath the Lyceum stage. In the course of the relating, he did have me fill in many of the details and recapitulate on my own abduction and consequent escape from the house in Twickenham.

“So you were able to return the young boy to his mother,” said Booth, raising his wineglass to Mr. Stoker as my boss finished the story. “My congratulations.”

Stoker waved away the praise.

“And all this led to your rushing out to Middlesex County and the unmasking of the villain,” said the Guv'nor. “How did it go from there?”

“The death of Mr. Richland was unfortunate,” said my boss. “As was the escape of Mr. Ogoon.” He took a long, ruminative draw on his cigar. “I would have liked to have seen both of them brought to justice.”

“But you did bring back one of the main instigators, as I understand it?” said the colonel.

“Yes. In fact our good friend Inspector Gulley, of the Thames Valley Police Force, was instrumental in that.” Stoker turned to the man. “Would you like to take up the tale there, Inspector?”

Inspector Gulley's face turned red. He was obviously unused to speaking in front of such dignitaries as he saw about him. I think the presence of the prime minister especially unnerved him.

“I—er—well, that is to say . . .” He looked desperately to Sergeant Bellamy, who seemed to me to be totally oblivious to any embarrassment.

“The inspector and his constables did manage to catch and arrest Mr. Ralph Bateman,” Bellamy said. “It seems that he and Mr. Herbert Willis were trapped, teetering on the edge of the weir . . . which we must say can be treacherous at this time of year, with ice covering the rocks. Mr. Willis in point of fact did slip and fall into the freezing water, and we were unable to rescue him. He succumbed to the elements, you might say.”

“Good Lord,” murmured Mr. Gladstone.

I was myself ambivalent about Willis's death. He was a nasty, scheming character, yet I didn't feel that he was as close to pure evil as was Mr. Ogoon. Willis had possessed some redeeming qualities, I thought, though I couldn't for the moment think what they were.

“What became of this Ogoon?” asked Mr. Booth.

My boss answered, “It is my belief that he is now already on board a ship steaming for his island home. And good riddance to him.”

“What exactly was his part in all of this?” asked the prime minister.

“Ah!” Mr. Stoker paused long enough to pour himself another glass of port. I suspected that he was playing for time to decide just how much of Ogoon's involvement he should share.

“We do not know the exact involvement of that individual,” he said, eventually. “He was close to Mr. Bateman, who had been instrumental in bringing him to these shores from his native Republic of Haiti.”

“But you don't know exactly why he was here?” The colonel looked darkly through his cigar smoke at my boss. His monocle gleamed, catching the light from the fireplace where a comfortable fire blazed.

“Exactly? No.”

I felt uneasy when I remembered Ogoon's probable involvement in the death of old Mr. Turnbull, though I had to admit that we never had any hard evidence that was the case. And I had a strange feeling that in fact we had not seen the last of Mr. Ogoon. I hoped that I was wrong.

“What will Mr. Bateman be charged with?” asked the Guv'nor.

“We think we can come up with a number of things,” replied Bellamy. “Accomplice to murder for starters, attempted murder for another, kidnapping, attempted poisoning, and so on and so forth, sir.”

“It seems obvious, looking back, that it was Richland who was responsible for the attempt on your life, Henry,” said my boss. “He bamboozled our dear departed Mr. Turnbull at a time when he was most vulnerable, balancing a tray as he entered your dressing room. Almost certainly he introduced the poison into your hot lemonade at that time.”

“Of course, Bateman pleads that he was only following the orders of your Mr. Richland.” Inspector Gulley had found his voice at last. “Richland, by Mr. Bateman's account, was the ringleader all along.”

“Peter Richland seemed such a quiet man,” I said. “Unhappy, I grant you. Dissatisfied with his lot, but I would never have thought him capable of violence. And certainly not infamy of such magnitude.”

“You can't tell a book by its cover,” said Stoker, waving his cigar in the air. “And as for Ralph Bateman, as my old granny used to say,
An té a luíonn le gagharaibh éireoidh le dearnaithibh
.”

Bellamy almost dropped his cigar. “Lor', sir, but that sounds almost heathen, begging your pardon, sir.”

“Far from it,” responded Stoker. “My old granny was more Catholic than the pope. It simply means ‘if you lie down with dogs, you'll rise with fleas.' Most apt for our Mr. Bateman, I think.”

“So Richland was the mastermind, as it were,” I said. “Then Ralph Bateman recruited people like Charlie Vickers and Herbert Willis to carry out their various plots against the Lyceum.”

“Mr. Richland must have been very bitter,” observed Mr. Gladstone.

“It seems he saw himself as an outstanding actor held back only by myself,” said the Guv'nor. “If I had only had the decency to be sick, or literally break a leg, thus allowing my understudy to tread the boards, then the public would have acknowledged Mr. Peter Richland as the new star in the firmament. Richland would have gone on to fame and fortune . . . at least in his own eyes.”

“And those of his mother, I do believe,” I said.

Stoker nodded. “Indeed. One can but wonder just what part she may have played in all of this. Mothers can be surprisingly forceful, especially concerning their offspring treading the boards in front of the footlights.”

“She claims ignorance of everything,” said Inspector Gulley. “I questioned her myself.”

“As did I her neighbors and the local tradespeople,” said Stoker. “It would seem she had a reputation among the latter as a tough person to deal with, not easy to get her to pay her bills.”

“Was she in financial difficulties?” asked Mr. Booth.

“She should not have been,” said the prime minister. “I knew something of her late husband Henry Richland. He died two years ago, apparently of a heart attack. He was far from poor.”

“He was the lady's second husband,” said the inspector, who now seemed to have overcome his earlier reticence. “Interestingly, her first husband died in a boating accident. He, incidentally, was Peter's real father and died when the child was only ten. Both men were quite wealthy.”

“So Richland was not Peter's real name,” I said. “His stage name, I presume?”

“Yes,” agreed Stoker. “His actual father was Timothy Bottomley, but Peter took his mother's second husband's name for the stage.”

“Hmm,” mused Inspector Gulley. “Two husbands who died in, shall we say, unusual circumstances? I wonder if we—my department, that is—should look more closely at those deaths?”

“We wonder what she's done with the money if they both were, as you say, well-to-do,” pondered Sergeant Bellamy. “The Twickenham house looks rather seedy and neglected.”

* * *

T
he answer to this last question—at least in part—did not come until two days later, when we joined Sergeant Bellamy at the C Division station house. Stoker and I were greeted by the sour-faced policeman.

“What is it?” asked Stoker.

“There is no prisoner to be questioned at this time.”

“What do you mean?”

Bellamy shrugged. “It would seem that Mrs. Richland still has influence, or money to buy it. Your Mr. Ralph Bateman has been granted bail through the actions of none other than Sir Mortimer Dugdale, Q.C.”

“Dugdale?” cried Stoker. “She must indeed have money. He does not come cheaply.”

“So does this mean we can't question him about his actions and those of Richland?” I asked, annoyed and angry at this turn of events.

“I'm afraid so. At least not until his trial,” said Stoker.

“No date has yet been fixed for that,” added Bellamy, gloomily.

“Damnation!”

I had lost count of the number of times recently that my boss had sworn.

“But why would Mrs. Richland pay for Ralph's defense?” I asked.

“Good question, Harry. My guess is that there was far more to the Peter Richland and Ralph Bateman relationship than is obvious on the surface. Either that or she feels she somehow owes something to Bateman.”

We once again went over all that we knew, and then my boss and I returned to the theatre.

“When we first encountered Richland, at the top of the stairs in the Twickenham house, you didn't seem too surprised,” I said. “In fact you said, ‘I knew it.' Might I ask what you meant by that, sir?”

“It was the undergarments, Harry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The undergarments. The headless body that turned up at the rag-and-bone merchant's, and that we now know belonged to the unknown gentleman sacrificed by Richland, wore silk undergarments. Richland himself, as you found when you searched his room, wore linen. I had the feeling that we might have been dealing with two different people.”

“Ah!” I nodded. I thought for a moment. “Who do you think this ‘unknown gentleman' was? Has nobody missed him?”

“Another good question.” The big man rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, I thought. “It seems that Sergeant Bellamy is onto that, enquiring as to any missing persons. It's possible, if not probable, that the man was visiting London from out of town. It could take quite a while to identify him.”

“Another thing.” I felt that this was a good time to pick my boss's brains on everything to do with the events of the past few weeks. He was a wealth of knowledge and most adept at putting two and two together. The benefits of a college education, I presumed. “Why separate the head from the body?” I asked.

Stoker gave one of his sighs. “My guess is that, having made use of the corpse to make us think that Richland really had died, he simply decided to make further use of it to undermine the Lyceum production he could never be a part of. I'm sure he hoped that by having a severed head pop out of the scenery, he would frighten the audience into leaving the theatre.”