Cursed in the Act (6 page)

“You think so?”

“Oh yes. Though come to think on it, 'e was pretty tight with one of the Lyceum 'ands wot got 'isself the mittens; got booted out! Too fond of the bottle, I 'eard. What was 'is name now?”

“Willis?” I offered.

“That's 'im! 'Erbert Willis. Nasty piece o' work. 'Im and Ralph Bateman made a fine pair of scalawags.”

“Is that right?”

“Well, I'm thinkin' our young Mr. Bateman 'as 'is fingers in a lot of dirty pies, if you follow me?”

I nodded. I followed him only too well.

“What about that other Lyceum man?” I said. “The understudy who got run down and killed.”

“Ah!”

There was a wealth of meaning in that word. Obviously Jack Parsons knew more than he had so far divulged.

“Can I buy you a drink, Jack, when we get through here?”

He was no fool. He realized I wanted to know more on the subject. I arranged to meet him later at the Bag o' Nails. Meanwhile, I had a quick word with one or two others of the Sadler's Wells backstage staff.

* * *

J
ack and I were soon settled at a table away from the bar; he with his favorite India pale ale and me with my inevitable porter. It didn't take long to draw him out on the running of Sadler's Wells and the comings and goings of Ralph Bateman and his cronies. Jack gave the impression of being a quiet type who just did his job, but I had long ago learned that he was well able to keep up with the gossip and chitchat that takes place in any large theatre. He told me, as I already knew, that Ralph had been abroad for a while but had recently returned, bringing with him a new friend from Haiti named Henry Ogoon, who seemed to have made himself at home. Not just made himself at home, but seemed to have some sort of “power,” as Jack put it, over the young man. It wasn't like Ralph to take orders from anyone, yet according to Jack he did anything and everything that Ogoon suggested.

Jack said that the rivalry between Sadler's and the Lyceum was something everyone was aware of but that no one other than the Batemans really took seriously.

“Oh, old Pheebes-Watson likes to dream about showing up 'Enry Irving, but I think even 'e realizes that it'll be a cold day in 'ell afore 'e is actually recognized as the better actor.”

I agreed. “But tell me, what do you hear about that understudy's death?” I asked. “You seemed to hint that there was more to it than meets the eye.”

“I did?” Jack was suddenly playing innocent. “Oh, I don't know as I'd say that. Mind you, Ralph was crowin' somethin' awful after it 'appened. As though '
e
knew more than anyone else. But I didn't take 'im serious, and I wouldn't think you would, neither.”

I let it go for now. I was sure all would come out eventually.

“What are Ralph's cronies like?” I asked as innocently as I could, after a long draw on my porter. “You hear of him running around with them, but I'm wondering just who they are. Anyone I'd know, do you think?”

Jack stared down into his now-empty tankard for a moment. I signaled for a refill for both of us.

“A lot of 'em come and go. They're all sorts, I suppose you'd say. O' course there's one or two as is real thick with Ralph. That understudy as you just talked about f'r instance. The two of them was pretty thick, it seems to me. As well as that Willis fella.”

“Was Ralph thick with Richland?” I was surprised.

“Was that 'is name? Richland? Yes. Ralph and 'im spent a lot of time together, right 'ere in this same watering 'ole.”

I made a mental note.

* * *

I
left Jack in the public house, having his lunch, and started back to the Lyceum. As I came onto the street, a figure approached and stood blocking my way. Smartly dressed in a fashionable topcoat, with top hat and carrying a cane, it was the West Indian man I had seen with Ralph Bateman on the Embankment.

“Mr. Harry Rivers,” he said.

I was startled that he not only knew who I was but that he could see through my disguise when even my old friend Jack Parsons had not done so. However, Jack had told me the man's name. I thought to throw it back at him.

“Mr. Henry Ogoon,” I said.

It didn't faze him.

“There is a saying in your country, Mr. Rivers. It is ‘a word to the wise.' You are familiar with the expression?”

“Of course.” I nodded.

“A word to the wise, then, Mr. Rivers, assuming that you have some wisdom. Do not go prying where you are not welcome. Do I make myself clear?”

I took a deep breath. I didn't know this man nor was I aware of what he might be capable. But I was not going to be browbeaten. After all, I represented the Lyceum, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Stoker.

“That cuts both ways, Mr. Ogoon,” I said. “You are familiar with the expression ‘to cut both ways,' I take it?”

His deep brown eyes—almost black—bored into me. He said nothing for a long moment, and then he raised his hat, turned, and walked away. I saw that his head was completely shaved; not a hair on it nor on his face. I don't know why, but I shivered.

* * *

“S
o nothing definite, I'm afraid, sir,” I reported back to Mr. Stoker as soon as I returned to the Lyceum. “Just wild talk and boasting by Ralph Bateman.” I felt myself loath to report on my meeting with Henry Ogoon. I tried to put it out of my mind. If necessary I would mention it to my boss later, I told myself.

“Nothing new about that,” grunted Stoker.

I had caught him in his exercise period. Perhaps with memories of his invalid childhood, when he had been confined to a bed and unable to walk, Bram Stoker observed a strict regimen of exercise. This involved pounding a large, stuffed canvas bag, which he had suspended in a corner of his office, and—as he now was—the swinging of heavy Indian clubs. I was always afraid that one would escape his powerful hands and fly off in my direction, so I tended to keep close to the door when I found him so engaged.

“Oh, and it seems Bateman is close with our ex-stagehand Herbert Willis who, I'm sure you recall, sir, cursed the Lyceum when he was fired from it for excessive drinking,” I said from around the doorpost. “And Bateman was definitely involved with Peter Richland.”

“Involved? How so, Harry?”

I took a chance and eased myself into the room.

“Bateman and Richland were thick as thieves both before Ralph took off for the Caribbean Islands and, it seems, more so since his return. Right up to the time of Richland's death.”

“Indeed?”

“And it seems that this Caribbean man who has turned up exercises some sort of power—if that's the right word—over Ralph.” I felt suddenly uneasy as I said that. I could see the man's eyes boring into me.

“Explain yourself.” Mr. Stoker put down the Indian clubs.

“Influence, I suppose it is.” I searched for words. “Jack Parsons says that ever since Ralph got back from foreign parts, he has been more subdued and seems eager to please this man, whose name, by the way, is Henry Ogoon, or some such.”

“Ogoon?” Stoker seemed surprised.

I nodded. “So Jack said. You know the name?”

“Just a coincidence, I'm sure.” He placed the clubs carefully in the corner of the office. “It's just that Ogoun is the name of the storm god of Voudon. One of the deities, or
loa
, as they are termed.” He thought for a moment. “You spoke to more than this man Parsons?”

“Oh yes,” I said, and indeed I had. “I got into conversation with lighting men, props, even the wardrobe mistress. I figured she would hear anything worth hearing.”

The big man sighed. “All right, Harry. Thank you.”

“Can I get back to my own hair color now then, sir?” My head was starting to itch and I was sure it was Mr. Archibald's concoction that was responsible.

“Of course. Hopefully we won't be asking you to do that again.”

I hurried off to the dressing rooms and got one of the wardrobe assistants to boil up some water for me. I couldn't wait to wash my hair.

I thought about the situation. It was doubtful that Ralph could have sneaked into our theatre without being discovered, though that didn't go for Willis. We were very much more aware of strangers in our midst than Sadler's Wells apparently was. But even if Ralph had managed it, he was too portly and out of shape to have climbed to the fly tower and dropped sandbags. Again, not so with Willis. Other than his beer belly, he was a skinny scurf. As to the poisoning, we still were not certain as to just how that had been accomplished. Miss Terry's theory—and it seemed the most logical—was that the arsenic had been introduced to the hot lemonade that the Guv'nor always drank with his lunch. Yet that lunch was prepared by Mr. Turnbull, the caterer, an ancient gentleman who had been providing victuals for the Lyceum actors for longer than anyone could remember.

The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Ralph Bateman was not the culprit for the poisoning. Much as I hated to admit it, Jack Parsons could be right; it may well have been someone right here among the Lyceum's own staff, and although now dismissed, Herbert Willis did fit the bill.

There are over three hundred people employed by the Lyceum, including front of house and backstage staff. Yet few of them, so far as I could see, would have access to actors' provisions. And anyway, it was only the principals who were catered for; the extras and lesser roles invariably retired to the Druid's Head for their refreshments. So that would seem to rule out Willis. I found myself thinking around in circles and getting nowhere.

I was interrupted in my ruminating by remembering that my boss had suggested that we should—by which he meant that
I
should—do the decent thing and apprise Mrs. Richland of her son's empty coffin. Not a task I looked forward to completing.

* * *

T
he evening performance went off without a hitch . . . if you didn't count John Whitby, as the sexton in the churchyard scene, dropping Yorick's skull and having to scamper across the stage to retrieve it. (Shades of that loathsome severed head!) It did provoke some laughter from the audience, but the Guv'nor quickly brought them back to the scene. Yet there were no falling sandbags, nor any other untoward incidents . . . until later.

The American actor Edwin Booth had arrived in London in January, destined for the Princess's Theatre. Regrettably, the manager of that establishment was more at home with crude forms of melodrama rather than higher standards of true drama, hoping for quick financial return. Mr. Booth, therefore, so it was reported, suffered from this bad presentation. Mr. Stoker and the Guv'nor decided to step in and offered to have Booth perform at the Lyceum in one of the Guv'nor's productions. It was decided that
Othello
would be the ideal vehicle, with Booth playing the title role and Irving playing Iago. The production was planned for late April, after
Hamlet
had run its course. I felt in two minds about this. I knew, of course, that we would be starting a new production when
Hamlet
came to an end, but the added pressure of hosting an American alongside Mr. Irving presaged all kinds of complications. I was not happy about it.

Since the start of the century, American actors had been coming to England to make an appearance. I think a lot of them came just to say that they had appeared in the homeland of Shakespeare, though some few wanted to be compared to the best that England could provide. In turn, many British actors had crossed the Atlantic Ocean to show off our talents in what used to be “the Colonies.” The Guv'nor had himself talked to Mr. Stoker about the possibility of one day taking a Lyceum production across to America. Not just himself but the whole theatre: actors, stagehands, scenery, lights . . . a very ambitious project never before attempted. All the more reason, Mr. Irving said, for us to do it. Well, I wasn't holding my breath. Neither, I suspected, was Mr. Stoker.

As luck would have it, this very evening Colonel Wilberforce Cornell, Mr. Booth's business manager, attended our performance of
Hamlet
, to acquaint himself with our standards of excellence. He sat with my boss in the royal box, both his bald head and his monocle gleaming, and apparently thoroughly enjoyed the performance . . . despite John Whitby's blunder. The colonel, who was almost as tall as my boss, had a longish dark beard and a mustache that drooped on either side of his petulant mouth. I wondered if all Americans wore the wide-brimmed hats that the colonel carried. Such headgear would seem to promise far more sunshine than we enjoyed in these British Isles.

After the final curtain had fallen and the audience had dispersed, Colonel Cornell was brought onstage and my boss introduced me. I quickly ran over my duties but could sense that the gentleman was well acquainted with what had to be accomplished backstage during a performance. He was far more concerned about the specifics of Mr. Booth's role in the new production. Mr. Stoker pointed out details of the projected set that had been designed, and explained exactly where it would be erected after the
Hamlet
set was struck. My boss pointed out the details of the present scenery. Mr. Irving had brought a new sense of realism to the London stage with the sets presented at the Lyceum, and word of this had apparently crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Stoker and the Guv'nor stood admiring the present set and discussing ideas for
Othello
. I was close by, in the wings, and saw what happened next.

Suddenly, above the three of them, there was a clang and Mr. Stoker, with a quick upward look, pushed the colonel to one side. A short wooden batten, with three heavy lights tied to it, came crashing down. It smashed into the colonel's left shoulder but would surely have split his head had it not been for Mr. Stoker's quick reaction.

I shouted to the stagehands, still moving scenery, to watch for anyone descending and once again rushed to the ladder up the back wall. I started to climb as quickly as I could.