Cursed in the Act (9 page)

Chapter Eight

“H
erbert Willis,” I said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Stoker looked surprised.

“Herbert Willis. That stagehand that we had to let go. Bill Thomas may be right,” I said, warming to the idea. “Willis cursed the Lyceum when he left. He was always sneaking off somewhere to tilt the bottle while he was here, and you found bottles down there. He could well have discovered that drainage space and made use of it, for God knows how long, for his imbibing. Then, after he was dismissed, he could have slipped back into the theatre—perhaps while we were away at Richland's funeral—and ensconced himself there while he waged his war against us. What do you think, sir?”

“Mmm!” The dark red head nodded up and down. “It is possible,” was all he said. He drank deeply of the dark, strong tea, seeming not to notice its slightly bitter taste. He eventually put down his cup and looked at me. “What you say of Mr. Willis may or may not be the answer, Harry. But I think there is far more going on here. Your Mr. Willis may have been a drinker, but most of those bottles we found were empty
rum
bottles, which could be very significant.”

I didn't follow, and my face must have registered it. Stoker continued.

“You remember what I told you of zombies, Harry?”

How could I forget? I'd had some very disturbing dreams for the last couple of nights.

“Are you saying that the Lyceum has become a home for zombies?” I asked.

He gave one of his mirthless chuckles. “Not exactly, Harry. No. But . . . not far from it!”

A sudden chill swept over me and I shivered. Bram Stoker's wild stories were one thing, and I could listen to them all day, but to suddenly find myself in the middle of one? No! That was not what I had signed on for.

“What was that design on the wall down there, sir?” I asked.

I moved my chair a little closer to his desk as he settled in and cleared a space on the tabletop. “That and the bottles are what suggest an alternate scenario to me,” he said. “The latter, as I said, are rum bottles.”

“That is significant, you say?”

“Highly.” He laid down a sheet of paper on the desk and started drawing on it. I quickly recognized—even upside down from where I sat—the design we had found on the wall below stage.

“You certainly memorized that fast enough,” I commented.

“That's because I know it well,” he said, cryptically. “I've mentioned it to you before, Harry, and now you can see it. It is what is known as a
vévé
, the symbol of one of the deities of Voudon. These gods, or loa, each have such a particular pictorial representation. This is the symbol for the god of the dead: Guédé.”

I made no comment. I sat with my eyes focused on his drawing.

“Notice that it looks something like a gravestone, with a stylized cross atop the base. On either side are representations of coffins. All the little swirls and marks have meaning, Harry. And in the rituals of Voudon—a polytheistic religion, I might add—the use of rum is important when drawing down the chthonic deities. The rum is distributed to the four ‘corners' of the ritual space.”

“The cleared circle we found?” I suggested.

He nodded. “Marked by the candles. That was the consecrated space. The
houfor
for the ritual.”

“What ritual would that be?” I asked, already suspicious as to the answer.

“It involved sacrifice to the loa. In this case, the killing of a white rooster.”

“You—you're talking primitive ritual,” I protested. “This is London, England, in Her Imperial Majesty's year of 1881. Modern times!”

“You think all primitive religion has ground to a halt just because Victoria is on the throne?” His eyes bored into me.

“No. No, of course not! It's just . . .”

“No, Harry. All I am saying is that it appears this is no mere slapping at the Lyceum by a discontented stagehand. This is something I would hazard to say is far beyond the comprehension of our Mr. Willis. Something far more serious indeed.”

“You are surely not suggesting that our Peter Richland has been turned into a zombie?” I said, thinking of Marjorie Connelly's vision of what may have seemed like Richland's ghost. Could it have been a zombie of Richland? I shuddered at the thought.

“No, nothing like that. Simply that a perhaps similar Voudon ritual, aimed at the downfall of the Lyceum, may well have been performed in our very under-stage area.”

I said nothing.

Stoker sat deep in thought for a long moment before finally saying, “It is not unlikely that further rites may yet be held there.”

There was another silence that stretched on. I did not want to break it, to interrupt his thought processes. Finally, he looked up at me from under his bushy eyebrows, his eyes questioning.

“If—and I do say ‘if,' Harry—it is necessary to undertake more midnight activity, may I count on your help? This would be a very different enterprise from our last adventure. It is perhaps unfair of me to ask you, since this is far outside the borders of your appointed employment, but . . .” He let the words hang there. Then he sighed. “We will talk further on this should the occasion arise.”

I felt uncomfortable but at the same time drawn in to whatever nefarious scheme my boss had swirling around inside his head. I felt as a mongoose must feel when locked onto the eyes of a cobra. I was repelled but I was fascinated; I could not look away.

“Where do zombies fit in?” I finally asked, in a quiet voice.

“Where indeed, Harry? If, in fact, they do. But they are a product, if you like, of Voudon. A tool of the evil side of that practice. And I would hasten to add that Voudon is not a purely malevolent religion. It has its benevolent side also, bringing healing and well-being to its many followers. But, as I have told you, zombies are created by a Boko—the representative of the evil side—working in just such a ritual circle as we have found under the stage of the Lyceum.” He studied his drawing for a long moment before, with a sigh, he looked up at me and smiled, breaking the spell. “But this hasn't helped us find the body, has it?”

“No, sir. It has not.” I was unsure as to whether or not I wanted to stop this discussion of the working of evil in our midst, but I think I did need a change of direction for a while.

Stoker reached around for one of his leather-bound ledgers and dropped it, with a thump, on his desk, covering the drawing. “I can't spend any more time on this right now, Harry. I need to think things through a little more. I'll have to leave you to continue the search of the theatre. Get a couple of front of house people to check that side of the footlights and take any hands you need to comb backstage. I'd like to have a clean sweep before curtain-up tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Harry . . . ?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful.”

Dismissed, I got three of the stagehands started on searching for the body along with any additional attempts at undermining the production and passed the word to Herbert Gardner, who ran the commissariat, to start going over the front of house. Gardner grumbled, since there is not a lot of time between the matinee and the evening performance. I told him to get others involved and do the best he could.

I went back to my own little office. Not that it could truly be so called. It was a large alcove—much like a small room with one wall missing—that held my own greatly battered desk and chair together with an open bookcase stuffed with scripts and reference works. There was no carpet on the floor. A single gas jet jutted out from the wall . . . The electrification for backstage had not yet included me. Untidy piles of assorted props spilled over from my desk onto the floor. It was a mess, I admit, but I felt comfortable and safe there. With no wall or door, people passed freely to and fro in front of my space, often stopping to ask a question or lodge a complaint. I spent the next hour catching up on complaints, suggestions, directions, and assorted notes from everyone from the Guv'nor on down. The whole time, at the back of my mind, the worry about what sort of a midnight adventure Mr. Stoker was dreaming up plagued me.

I slipped out for a quick bite to eat, getting back an hour before curtain call. Reports from backstage and front of house confirmed that there was no headless body or further signs of trickery anywhere in the theatre. I breathed a sigh of relief and sent word to my boss.

Half an hour before curtain-up the Guv'nor always had either a hot lemonade or a cup of tea and three arrowroot biscuits. It was a tradition of his. At that time he would be in costume and makeup but was then able to relax and run over any lines or other business before curtain. Sometimes Miss Terry joined him, though she was more often refining her makeup until receiving the first page.

As I sat at my desk I saw the aged figure of Mr. Turnbull passing my office bearing a tray holding the Guv'nor's snack. Mr. Turnbull has been with the company for more years than anyone could remember. He retired from the front office a decade ago but couldn't abide being away from the theatre. He became unofficial personal caterer to the theatre's star actor when Mr. Irving first appeared at the Lyceum in 1871 in
The Bells.
This was under the management of Ralph Bateman's now deceased father, Hezekiah Bateman, and long before my time or Mr. Stoker's.

I saw Mr. Turnbull stumble slightly and got up from my desk to go to him. But he recovered and moved on to start the climb up the stairs to the two stars' dressing rooms. I followed, not a little concerned about the old man. When we got to the Guv'nor's door, I reached around Mr. Turnbull and tapped on the door, then opened it and let him go in. He tottered forward to put the tray down on the table beside Mr. Irving's makeup bench.

When Turnbull came back out he thanked me.

“Not at all,” I said. And then I had a thought. “Tell me, Mr. Turnbull, last week when the Guv'nor got poisoned, was anyone else here when you brought up Mr. Irving's hot lemonade?”

His white head rose from his stooped shoulders as he pursed his lips and wrinkled his already well-creased face, thinking back the past few days.

“I usually manage quite well, Mr. Rivers, by putting down the tray on the floor so that I can open the door, but I do recall that on that day someone did reach around me and open the door for me—just as yourself a moment ago.”

“They opened the door for you?”

“No, wait! I tell a lie!” He smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand. “I had placed the tray down on the floor and opened the door myself. Then, as I turned back to get the tray, someone handed it to me.”

“Who was it?” I asked. I realized that whoever it was could well have dropped poison into the Guv'nor's cup while Mr. Turnbull was opening the door.

“Ah! Now there you have me, I'm afraid. My old eyes are not what they used to be, and besides, I don't know half the people who now move around here. Not like the old days. Not by a long chalk. Why, I remember when . . .”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Turnbull. So you didn't recognize the man but did he seem familiar, however vaguely?”

“Oh yes. Yes, I had seen him around. He was of the Lyceum and no mistake.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall. Leastwise, taller than me, though that probably doesn't tell you a great deal, Mr. Rivers, does it? Clean shaven, I do remember that. So many young men these days like to . . .”

“Age?” I interrupted.

“Age? Oh, now there you have me again. I am never very good at guessing a person's age. Young ladies especially. But then, there you have to be circumspect, do you not? Young people generally . . .”

“Thank you, Mr. Turnbull. Yes. If you should recall who it was who handed you the tray, please let me know at once, would you?”

“Of course, Mr. Rivers. Of course.”

He stood a moment as though getting his bearings and then shuffled off to the landing. Clutching the handrail, he descended once again to the stage floor. I watched him go. Well, at least his story seemed to confirm that someone had had access to the Guv'nor's lemonade enough to poison it. But the question remained . . .
who
had done it?

* * *

T
he evening performance went smoothly. John Whitby kept a firm hold on Yorick's skull, Anthony Sampson's Polonius was well stabbed through the arras, and nobody dropped sandbags or lights on anyone. We had a full house and the Guv'nor took seven curtain calls. I felt cheered as I headed back to Chancery Lane and my rooms at Mrs. Bell's. The wind had picked up and I knew I'd hear it screaming past my poorly fitting window all night, but I felt tired enough I didn't think it would keep me awake. Besides, I comforted myself, I was to see Jenny in the morning.

* * *

A
fter the wild and windy night, Sunday was fair and mild. A very light snow fell, but the sun struggled to break through the low overcast, occasionally peeking through the clouds like a muted spotlight seeking to highlight an actor.

As I alighted from the omnibus, I found Jenny waiting for me at the corner of Bond Street. She was wearing a midnight blue cape trimmed with gray squirrel fur. Although obviously far from new, the cape complemented Jenny's bright face, dark hair, and sparkling eyes. On her head was a fur-felt walking hat, draped with velvet on the brim to match the blue of the cape; folds of taffeta around the crown finished with a knot and a light blue fancy quill. Her three-button kid gloves echoed the gray of the fur. I almost gasped at the picture she made, standing with a slight if nervous smile on her face. I quickly opened my umbrella against the light snow and moved close beside her.

“You look beautiful, Jenny, if I may say so,” I said.

She blushed prettily and looked down. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Where would you like to go? How long before you have to be back?”