Dead for a Spell (10 page)

“It's just that . . . well, I have to go somewhere for Mr. Stoker and I wondered . . .”

“Say no more, Mr. Rivers. Here! Make room, you lot.”

The other girls pulled back. I saw that Edwina already had her cards out; she was probably reading them for one of the group. I felt bad for interrupting, but I did not have a great deal of time. Miss Abbott scooped up the cards, shuffled them expertly, and then fanned them out and offered them to me. I hesitated a moment, my hand hovering along the display, and then I pulled one that seemed to beckon to me. She put aside the others and lay down the one card, faceup, on the small table in front of her. The girls all leaned inward, and there was a collective gasp.

“What? What is it?” I was suddenly concerned.

“Oh, don't pay them no nevermind,” said Edwina. “They get excited no matter what the card.”

We all looked down at the pasteboard, which depicted five swords; nothing more.
What did they mean?
I wondered. I looked up at Edwina.

“Five épées,” she said. “That's what Auntie Jessica called them.”

“So what do they mean?” I had difficulty containing my curiosity.

“Well, first of all they're in the Minor Arcana. Don't ask me what that means, but it's just that they ain't court cards, if'n you take my meaning.”

“But they are significant?” I asked.

“Oh yes. They are
all
significant. But the thing with these here Minors is that it means there ain't no big forces at work. Nothing major, Auntie would say.”

“I'm still not sure . . .” I began.

“Forces change around us all the time,” explained the girl. “But with big forces, like the Major Arcana, there really ain't
no
changing them. What you see is what you get. With these little ones, you can do things to make changes happen. Do you follow me, Mr. Rivers?”

I was not sure. “I—I think so,” I said. “You mean that with the court cards it shows what is set in stone, as it were, whereas with these smaller ones, things are still fluid; still changing.”

“That's it! You got it, Mr. Rivers.”

“Well, that's good . . . I think. But then what do the five swords actually signify?”

Her brow wrinkled as she studied the card. “The card is upside down. It's not easy to see with these Minors, but I can tell you it's not right side up.”

“Is that bad?”

“Needn't be. Hmm. It says that there's a possible problem, a misfortune, that could happen to a friend.” She looked up at me. “You got someone as you are worried about, Mr. Rivers?”

I nodded.
Billy Weston
, I thought, though I didn't say his name out loud. “What can you tell me about him?” I asked.

“Draw another card,” she said and, picking up the rest of the deck, fanned them again.

I ran my fingertip along the backs of them, dithering over the choice.

“Beginners, Act Three!” came young Edward's voice, as he moved past the greenroom door.

Edwina scooped up the cards and slipped them into a pocket in her skirt. With the rest of the girls, she ran out of the room, calling back over her shoulder: “Sorry, Mr. Rivers. Mr. Irving doesn't like us to be late.”

They disappeared toward the steps leading up to the stage. I had no idea what that next card might have been.

I saw that Arthur Swindon was slumped in his chair, snoring. I didn't think he was needed onstage, so I left him.

L
angley Mill is a small village in the Amber Valley. To the left, as the train chugs into Langley Mill, may be seen the ruins of Codnor Castle, a desolate site on a hill surrounded by wheat fields. The village is right on the border of Derbyshire (of which it is a part) and Nottinghamshire, and is on the River Erewash. It has little to commend it, to my mind.

It was noon when I disembarked at the railway station. I was beginning to hate rail travel. I had left London's St. Pancras Station before the morning had fully arrived and then suffered a hard seat on a slow-moving train of the Midland Railway's L.N.W. route. The stop before Langley Mill was Derby. I would have preferred to have done my investigating in that city, with its large hotels and restaurants, but Inspector Bellamy had assured me that Ben Gossett had gone to earth in Langley Mill, so that was where I needed to be. That was where Billy Weston would be drawn.

In the village there were but two rooms offered at the Black Swan Inn, locally referred to as the Muddy Duck. I was lucky to find one of those rooms vacant.

After a surprisingly edible ploughman's lunch at the inn, I set off along the High Street in search of my prey. When I had queried the landlord, he had assured me that he knew the Gossett family but had not seen Ben for a few weeks. The boy, he said, had lived with his aged mother and an aunt and had scraped a living doing odd jobs.

“Never amounted to much,” he said. “Not surprised 'e went off to London.”

“But I hear he has returned,” I said.

He sniffed and concentrated on slicing cheese. “I ain't seen nothin' of 'im, if'n 'e 'as,” he said.

So I passed along the High Street in the direction the landlord had indicated. The Gossett farm was a half mile beyond the last house in the village, and I found it to be in very run-down condition. I presumed there were no longer animals there, since the barn roof had fallen in and the chicken house leaned at a precarious angle. I was surprised, therefore, to hear sounds coming from the dilapidated pigsty.

It took a number of raps on the farmhouse door to elicit a response. Finally, an elderly lady dressed all in black, stooped and obviously arthritic, squinted at me from red-rimmed eyes, one of which was white and cloudy.

“'Oo is it?” she demanded.

I introduced myself. “I was wondering if young Mr. Ben Gossett was at home?” I said. “I believe he has been away in London, but I have been led to believe that he has recently returned here.”

“What?” she said, cupping a hand to her ear.

I sighed and repeated myself, leaning in toward her and raising my voice a little.

“Ben?”

“Yes, ma'am. Ben Gossett.”

“You'd best come in and speak to his mam.”

She turned and shuffled away back into the darkness of the passageway. I stepped inside and followed, closing the door behind me. This left me in almost total darkness, despite the brightness of the sun outside. I could make out the woman's white cap as she moved away, and I followed it. She led me into the parlor, where a small amount of light fought its way into the room through heavy, dark-colored curtains that almost entirely covered the window.

A second elderly lady, looking much like the first, also dressed in black but with bright, intelligent eyes, sat in a rocking chair knitting something large and multicolored. The click-clack of her needles did not pause as she acknowledged my presence with a bob of her head.

“Young feller says it's about our Ben,” said the woman who had led me in.

Another bob of the head.

I looked about me but could see no empty seat—I believe there were one or two chairs, but each supported a cat—so I remained standing.

“Yes, ma'am. I understand that Ben has newly returned from London?”

The bright eyes looked at me, and she smiled; the needles continued their tattoo.

“Is that correct?” I pressed.

“She don't 'ear too well,” volunteered the first lady. “Best if you talk to me.”

I was bewildered. Hadn't she just told me to speak to Ben's mother? Yet here Ben's mother couldn't, or wouldn't, speak. I mentally shook myself and counted to ten. I smiled.

“Of course. Forgive me,” I said. I took the liberty of shooing an overweight calico cat off the nearest chair and sitting down. The ladies didn't seem to take it amiss.

I told my story of needing to contact Ben and of the possibility of Billy following him and wishing him harm.

The aunt—for that is whom I took the first lady to be—repeated my tale, sentence by sentence, to the mother. It seemed to me that she did not speak any louder than did I, yet the mother appeared to hear and understand her. Leastwise, the mother kept nodding her head and smiling as she worked her knitting needles.

“So is Ben here?” I persisted. “May I speak with him?”

“He'm out and about,” said the aunt. “Best you leave it with me. I'll let him know you was askin' after him.”

I was more than “asking after him”; I was there to warn him of a possible attempt on his life. I did not feel comfortable just “leaving it” with her. But what was I to do? I got to my feet. Ben's mother's head bobbed as she smiled at me.

“When do you think he will be back? I really would like to have a word with him myself.”

“Of course you would,” agreed the aunt, but she made no suggestion on how to proceed.

“Look,” I said, “I am staying at the Black Swan, in town. Would you please ask Ben to come and see me there? And I'll come back here tomorrow just in case. Is that all right?”

“He'll be out and about,” said the aunt agreeably, starting to struggle to her feet, ready to see me off.

I held up my hand. “Please don't trouble yourself. I can see myself out. I hope, perhaps, to visit with you tomorrow.” I gave a half bow and then turned and left, the sound of the knitting needles fading away as I exited the house.

“You won't get nowhere with Mam and Auntie A,” said a voice.

I looked around. A tall, thin young man with an unshaven chin and straggly attempt at a mustache stood leaning on the top rail of the fence around the pigsty. He looked as though he hadn't washed in two or three days and I noticed that his fingernails were black with grime.

“Are you Ben?” I asked.

“That's what they call me. And 'oo might you be?”

I moved forward, resisting the impulse to extend my hand to shake his. “Harry Rivers,” I said. He remained slumped forward on the fence rail. “I'm from the Lyceum Theatre in London. I came here . . .”

“Aye. I know all about that. I've 'eard of you.”

“You have?” I was surprised. I didn't think my fame had spread so far. In truth, I didn't think I had any fame! “Might I ask, from whom?”

“Billy,” he said. “Billy Weston.”

My face must have registered my surprise.

“Don't look so flabbergasted, mate. 'E says good things about you.”

“When—when did you speak with him?” I gasped.

“Just yester-evenin'. We was sharing a jug at the Muddy Duck.”

“You were drinking with Billy at the Black Swan? Last night? But the landlord said . . .”

“Aye, well! Old John Rhodes ain't goin' to be a-tellin' to a stranger, now is 'e?”

I nodded understandingly. No, the landlord wouldn't be telling everything to an out-of-towner such as myself. But I still did not fully understand.

“You are telling me that you and Billy Weston have been drinking together? But the very reason I'm here is to make sure that he doesn't do you any harm. He was bent on trying to kill you, believing you responsible for Nell Burton's death!”

Ben nodded his head; the matted hair stuck out at odd angles as he scratched at it. “We talked about it. Even 'ad a bit of a tussle afore we got sorted out.”

“He realizes you couldn't have been responsible?” I asked.

He continued to nod. “We was both torn up over it.”

“I heard something about you saying that if you couldn't have Nell then no one could have her.”

He continued scratching his head and for some reason went to shaking it negatively rather than nodding. “That was when I was thinking as 'ow Bill was stealing 'er away. But then, when she got topped, well . . . what was I to do? No purpose to it then, was there?”

I had to agree. It seemed my task was complete. I presumed that Billy Weston, having discovered the truth, had by now returned to London. I should do the same. It had been something of a wasted journey. Well, perhaps I could still get back in time to see Jenny on Sunday.

“Thank you, Ben,” I said. “I'm glad the reason for my trip proved to be in vain. I'll bid you good day.” I turned to leave.

“What you goin' to do about it, then?”

I turned back. “What do you mean?”

“Billy says as 'ow you're goin' to find 'oo killed Nell.”

“If we possibly can, yes.” I saw that his eyes were red and realized that it might be that he had been crying. “Mr. Abraham Stoker, together with Scotland Yard, is on the case, Ben. Mr. Stoker can be tenacious.”

He looked puzzled.

“He will keep on until he finds the killer, Ben.”

He finally straightened up and swung a leg over the low fence rail, hopping on over to stand beside me. He smelled strongly of pigs.

“I—we—want to 'elp.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Billy and me. We want to 'elp catch 'ooever killed Nell.”

*   *   *

I
left my room, bag in hand, and made for the stairs down to the main level. I had plenty of time before the Friday morning train out of Langley Mill. It felt good to be heading back to London after such a fruitless two days. As I passed the one other room at the inn, the door opened. I looked around and found myself gazing into the eyes of Billy Weston.

“Billy!”

“Mr. Rivers!”

“What are you doing here, Billy? I thought you'd be halfway back to the Lyceum by now. And I had no idea you had been staying at the same tavern as me.”

He shook his head, and his face turned a bright red. “I sure am sorry, Mr. Rivers. I should 'ave listened to you and Mr. Stoker. I guess my temper just got the better of me. I was just so . . . so torn up about Nell.”

“It's all right, Billy. I understand.”

“Do you think Mr. Stoker will let me 'ave my job back? I mean, I didn't mean to leave no one in the lurch, like.”

“Well, we'll have to see about that. But I think you'll find Mr. Stoker to be a very fair and understanding man. I can make no promises, mind. But I will speak up for you when we get back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rivers. Thank you, sir.” He still looked worried. “But . . . I mean, Ben and me, we was thinkin' that maybe we could 'elp in finding 'oo it was what done for our Nell.”

“Yes,” I said. “I spoke with Ben. He did seem upset.”

“We both are. 'Im and me, we 'ad a long talk, and now, with Nell gone, well . . . It just don't seem right that 'ooever done it should get away with it, you know?”

“Yes, I do know, Billly. That's why Mr. Stoker and I—and don't forget the police as well—we're determined to catch whoever it was.”

“So, can we 'elp, then?”

“Help? Track down the murderer?”

He nodded.

I thought about it. Mr. Stoker had told me to do whatever I felt needed to be done, while I was away. He was content to leave things up to my better judgment, he had said. He had even given me some extra money—a few sovereigns—in case I needed it.

I set down my portmanteau and stood thinking for a moment. Billy watched me, seeming to understand that I was contemplating something that would affect him. Finally, I looked at him again. I explained to him about the other murder; the one in Liverpool.

“You mean, someone else was done in like Nell was?”

I nodded. “Another young woman, Billy.”

“But . . . I mean, 'ow can this be? What's going on?”

“Exactly,” I said. “But we do believe the two murders are connected, so if we can solve one we can possibly solve them both. I did go to the Warrington site—that's where the second murder took place—but I really didn't have enough time to get every bit of possible information. Now, how would you and Ben like to help by asking some questions for me? It would mean going to Liverpool, or just this side of Liverpool. It's only a short journey from where we are now. About seventy-five miles.”

“I—we—don't 'ave no money, Mr. Rivers. I 'ad to borrow some to get 'ere in the first place.”

“Don't worry about that, Billy. The Lyceum—Mr. Stoker—will take care of the expenses. We just need you to go there to save us from doing it.” I pulled out my half hunter and consulted it. “I don't have a lot of time if I'm to leave for London. Do you think you can get hold of Ben and the two of you could meet me at the railway station? Then, before I leave, I can tell you exactly what we need.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rivers!” Billy reached behind him and pulled the door closed. He preceded me at a fast pace down the stairs and took off along the High Street as I left the Black Swan.

Twenty minutes later I was standing on the platform with a carriage door open beside me. My portmanteau was already in the train, up on the shelf over the seats. Billy and Ben stood attentively in front of me as I carefully went over all that I knew of the Liverpool/Warrington murder.

“Now, when you get there you are to make contact with the vicar of the local church, a Reverend Prendergast. I'm sure he will be able to help you find accommodation. You can tell him that you are following up on the information that he and I found. Mention Reverend Swanson; that should jog his memory.”

“Swanson. Prendergast and Swanson.” Billy repeated the names, as did Ben. I hoped that between the two of them they'd get it right.