Dead for a Spell (11 page)

“I want to know all you can uncover about the group he and I discussed; the evil group that we believe was active there.”

“All aboard!” The guard moved along the short train, slamming closed any open doors. He waved for me to get inside. I did so but lowered the window and leaned out to finish talking to the two boys.

“All aboard!” the guard repeated as he climbed into the end car, leaned out, waved his green flag, and blew his whistle. The engine gave a toot and started to haul the train slowly out of the station. Billy and Ben trotted alongside as I gave last-minute instructions.

“Get any names you can of members of the group,” I shouted. “See if the vicar knows who they are and where they might be.”

The boys broke into a run to keep up.

“Remember, this will all help find Nell's killer. Get names if you can. Anything and everything you can learn!”

Billy and Ben had reached the end of the platform. I shouted to them but finally had to pull back into the carriage and close the window. Well, I had done what I thought was best. We'd have to see if it bore any fruit.

I settled down onto the seat. How nice if I was truly going straight back to the Lyceum, I thought. But no! With a heavy heart I knew it was not to be. Before I had left London Mr. Stoker had suggested I might return by way of Oxford, to see just what it was that Reginald Robertson was up to. Was he just blowing hot air, or did he have some plan to install himself as Britain's premier Shakespearean actor . . . perhaps drawing on his old grandmother's knowledge of witchcraft?

*   *   *

O
xford is the seat of one of the most ancient and celebrated universities in the whole of Europe. Lying amid picturesque environs at the confluence of the River Cherwell and the River Thames, it is surrounded by an amphitheatre of gentle hills. It has approximately forty thousand inhabitants and is the county town of Oxfordshire. The university comprises twenty-four colleges, many of them richly endowed by royalty and notable private persons. I never had the temerity to aspire to attend such a prestigious establishment myself—the Hounslow Masonic Institution for Boys was quite sufficient for my needs—yet I could appreciate those who did, and I stood in awe of the wealth of knowledge that was available in that one small town. I have never even been to Oxford before, but I had certainly read about it in many publications.

The station of the London and North Western Railway lay on the west side of the town. The King's Arms hotel, where I was to spend a night or two, sent an omnibus to meet arriving trains, so I did not have to worry about getting to my lodging. The King's Arms was at the corner of Park Street and Holywell Street and, I was happy to see, was across the road from a small and relatively inexpensive restaurant. After checking into the hotel I took my lunch at a table beside a large window and looked out at the passing world.

It was a fine April day such as one finds only in England . . . or so I have always been led to believe by the poets, at least. The sun, although lacking any great warmth, shone down from out of an almost cloudless blue sky. It was the sort of Friday that encouraged one to turn his back on all thoughts of winter and look ahead to spring and summer with a smile on one's face.

I enjoyed a large helping of Kentish capon pudding, with white sauce, followed by blackberry and apple pie with Devonshire cream, all washed down by a fine sherry. This last was something of a luxury for me, but it was such a beautiful day and I felt so good that I decided to indulge. Besides, I felt some small recompense was due me for being repeatedly dragged out of London and sent off to gather information from the ends of the earth . . . well, from Liverpool first, from Derbyshire, and now Oxford.

As I sat nursing my glass of wine and gazing out at the assortment of ladies and gentlemen, tutors and scholars, hurrying along the pavement past the window, I slowly brought my mind back to the matter at hand: Reginald Robertson. The Oxford Grand Theatre
was a small theatre compared to many found in towns of comparable size. Most such establishments bore the name Theatre Royal, but presumably the inconspicuous edifice on Oxford's Fellowship Street was not quite bold enough for that title, even as a sobriquet. Enquiry at the King's Arms' concierge had brought me the information that the Oxford Grand was not too grand at all. It seated less than eight hundred patrons on three levels. In contrast, the Lyceum held more than three times that number. Mr. Robertson's Players had been in residence for two years but, according to my source, consistently with audiences far from capacity. All the more reason why it seemed strange that Mr. Robertson felt he was the heir apparent to the title of Britain's premier Shakespearean actor.

I finished my wine, paid the bill, and took to the pavement. The restaurant waiter had given me directions to Fellowship Street, and I enjoyed the weather and my surroundings as I made my way there without hurrying. A hurdy-gurdy player was entertaining a small group of grubby children and two or three adults at the first street corner, and I paused awhile to enjoy the melodious sound before continuing on my way.

Unlike the ever-vigilant Bill Thomas at the Lyceum, the stage door keeper at the Oxford Grand was not at his post when I entered the theatre. Admittedly there was no performance until that evening, but he still should have been at his post to regulate visitors. I finally tracked him down to a gloomy alcove in the nether regions, where he was making a pot of tea.

“Cuthbert Wellington,” he introduced himself, barely looking up from the steaming water he was pouring into an old Brown Betty teapot. “Though most people call me ‘Welly.' What was it you was wanting, then?”

“I'm up from London, Welly,” I said. “Harry Rivers is the name. Stage manager at one of the West End theatres.” I thought it best not to mention the Lyceum by name, given Mr. Robertson's strong opinions. “I'm just visiting the area and thought it might be nice to look in and see how things are done in the provinces.”

“You've picked a good example,” he said, putting the lid on the teapot and then settling a cozy on it. “You care for a cuppa?”

I was glad he seemed to have some sense of pride in the Grand. He was a short, wizened-faced man with scraggly gray hair, a wispy bit of a beard, and a large hump on his back. He made me think—not unkindly—of a character from a pantomime; perhaps Rumpelstiltskin. His eyes were very dark, almost black, it seemed.

We settled on a couple of dirty, well-worn, upholstered armchairs, each of us with a mug of steaming tea in his hands. I think my host was glad of the company. I looked around and, in the gloom, made out old playbills drawing-pinned to the walls. There didn't seem to be any recent ones; all were from twenty or thirty years ago.

Suddenly a young boy, about fourteen years old—just a few years older than Miss Terry's son Edward—popped into the tiny room and dropped down cross-legged on the floor. He had a dirty face and tousled fair hair that had a reddish tinge to it, making me feel a certain affinity to him. He grinned at me but said nothing.

“This here's Rufus,” volunteered Welly, without enlarging on the boy's position or duties. “You want a cuppa, Rufus?”

“Nar. Just 'ad a ginger beer.”

“Suit yourself. Now, where were we?”

“I was going to ask you about Mr. Roberston's company.” I said. “How is it?”

He shrugged. “It's working,” he said, noncommittedly, and slurped his tea noisily. “I've been here a goodly number of years and seen 'em come and go. This one's all right, I suppose.”

“I have heard that Mr. Robertson is a fine interpreter of the works of the Bard.”

Again he shrugged. “Don't watch it myself. Stick to the stage door area, and my little rest room here. I hears 'em clapping and sometimes laughing.” He looked up at me, a smile on his face, and winked. “Mostly at the comedies.”

I smiled back. I sensed I might be able to draw him out. “I'll bet you have a wealth of stories you could tell, eh, Welly?” I sipped my own tea, trying to look appreciative despite the tiny amounts of both milk and sugar that had been available.

“You could say that.” He nodded, and then glanced about him as though to be certain we were alone. “Theatre's always a place of superstitions, but then you'll know that being in the business yourself.”

“Indeed.” It was my turn to nod. “What? Do you have ghosts here, then, or something like that?”

“Only in that
'Amlet
, eh, Welly?” put in Rufus, his grin widening.

“Witches is more like it,” said the older man, his face suddenly serious.

“
Macbeth
?” I asked.

“Oh, more real than that,” said Wellington. The boy stopped grinning and looked anxiously at him. “Now don't you go getting scared, Rufus. We've talked about this afore. What did I tell you?”

“You said it weren't real,” the boy replied.

“That's right. Leastwise, no more real than most of what he plays around at.”

“He?” I asked. “You mean Mr. Robertson?”

Again the humpbacked man had a quick glance around. He lowered his voice a little. “He don't make no secret of the fact that his grandmother were a witch . . . and he makes good use of that, from all accounts.”

I sat quietly for a moment, so as not to frighten him off the subject. A dozen questions buzzed around in my head. Eventually, after another drink of tea, I said, “He does ‘witch stuff,' whatever you call it, then, Welly?”

“You know 'e does!” put in Rufus.

“Shh!” Wellington again looked all about him, and his voice dropped even lower so that I had to sit forward to catch what he was saying. “Every time there's a full moon, he goes below stage at midnight and him and two or three others get together and . . . do things!”

“We've spied on 'im!” cried the boy.

“Shh!” The hunchback looked quite alarmed. “Now you just bite your tongue. You know what I've told you.”

“Sorry, Welly.”

“Next week, just seven days from now, it's a full moon. He'll be at it again then, believe me,” said the older man.

I drank the rest of my tea. “What exactly does he do? What's the purpose?”

“Purpose? To be the best of 'em, I reckon. And I won't say he's not trying to do away with the others. That's why he does the sacrifices.”

B
efore I had a chance to ask about the sacrifices we heard footsteps coming along the passageway, from the outside stage door.

“Lor' but that's probably him!” cried Wellington. “Quick, Rufus, get out Mr. Robertson's teacup in case he wants a drop.”

The boy scampered around to a cupboard, brought out a fancy, delicate Staffordshire bone china cup and saucer, and placed it reverently in the center of the otherwise messy tea-making area. No sooner had he done so than a face appeared around the doorpost. I presumed it to be Reginald Robertson himself. He was of medium height—nowhere near the imposing six feet two inches of the Guv'nor—with dirty blond wavy hair framing a young face bare of beard or mustache. His eyelids drooped as though he were perpetually bored. His clothes were fine, at the height of fashion, and he carried gloves, top hat, and cane. A diamond—albeit small—glistened in his cravat. His eyes immediately alit upon me.

“We have a visitor, Wellington?”

His voice, slightly high-pitched, sounded equally bored. After making the observation he lingered no longer on myself but glanced at the Brown Betty.

“Ah, tea! My usual. Two lumps. Just a hint of milk. Three digestive biscuits. Get the boy to bring it to my dressing room.”

He turned away, and we heard his footsteps move off along the hallway.

The hunchback jumped to his feet and swiftly poured the requested tea. “Here! Look lively now! Don't go slopping it into the saucer.”

Rufus swung into action, opening a biscuit barrel and extracting three biscuits, which he dropped onto a plate matching the cup and saucer. Gathering up all, he had gone in a trice.

Wellington breathed heavily and then poured himself another mugful of tea. He didn't offer me any more, but it looked as though that was the last of the pot.

“So that's the would-be-great Reginald Robertson?” I said. “Not the friendliest of people, if I may say so.”

“‘Friendly' is not a word known to Mr. Robertson,” replied Welly, lowering himself once more into his armchair. “He must've thought you was a mate of mine or he would have had you thrown out. Come to think of it, he was in a remarkably good mood, seems to me.”

“Was he now?” I murmured.

I stayed awhile longer but had no opportunity to return the doorkeeper to the subject of witchcraft. I did, however, seem to strike a friendship, if only temporary, and promised to stop by again the following day.

*   *   *

I
was fortunate to find myself dining at a table next to a second-year student of Christ Church College, known among its members as “The House.” The undergraduate's name was Claude Baird-Parker. He was dining alone, as was I, and suggested we get together for company. I was quite agreeable to the idea and moved across to sit opposite him.

“Can be a bit of a bore at times,” he said, tucking into the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding we both settled upon. “A chap likes to stay independent and not get caught up in one or other of the cliques so prevalent around here,” he said, helping himself liberally to the horseradish sauce.

I nodded and murmured some response that I hoped seemed to indicate that I knew what he was talking about.

“You've been through all this, I'm sure, old man, so you understand.” He smothered mustard along with the horseradish onto his beef and nodded appreciatively as he sank his teeth into a forkful.

“You are in your second year here, is that what you said?” I asked. He grunted assent and went on chewing. “Forgive me, I'm not that familiar with Oxford,” I continued.

He stopped and looked up at me, his eyes wide. “You're not a Cambridge man, are you, for heaven's sake?”

“No, no!” I hastened to assure him. “No, I'm . . . from the south. I have always admired Oxford.”

“Can't be too careful,” he said, as though Cambridge people were continually trying to insert themselves into the Oxford environs. He returned to his meal, carefully separating the Brussels sprouts from the peas and carrots.

I got the feeling that young Mr. Baird-Parker did not have a lot of friends. He had a mop of dark brown hair, worn overlong and brushing acquaintance with his shoulders. In contrast, a beard and mustache tried desperately to take hold of the lower section of his face but with little success. We ate in silence for a while.

“Christ Church,” I said. “That is one of the larger of the colleges, is it not?”

“Probably the largest,” he said, with some satisfaction. “Founded by Cardinal Wolsey in 1525.” He sounded as though he was quoting from a college brochure. “Two hundred to two hundred and fifty undergraduates.”

“You have a lot of great libraries around here, I understand.” He nodded. “I was wondering how familiar you might be with something I recently came across?”

He raised an eyebrow.

I took a deep breath and hoped that I was remembering Mr. Stoker's pronunciation correctly. “
Walpurgisnacht
,” I said.

The eyebrow lowered again, and he concentrated on dissecting the rest of the roast beef. “Isn't that at All Hallows' or something?” he said.

“I was told Beltane.”

He looked about the tabletop and spied the gravy bowl. He treated himself to a generous helping of the dark brown liquid.

“Ah yes. The other half of the year.”

“Excuse me?”

“Beltane and Samhain—or All Hallows' Eve—are two of the main festivals of the old pagan calendar. Yule and Lughnasadh are the other two.”

“So . . .
Walpurgisnacht
?” I asked again.

“That's the German—well, West European—name for Beltane, or May Eve.”

“And they have some significance?” I pursued.

“I did a paper on pre-Christian paganism and delusions of witchcraft a while back,” he said. “They used to break down the year into the light half and the dark half, like the summer months and the winter months,” he volunteered. “Beltane and Samhain were the two turning points.”

“So
Walpurgisnacht
was the end of winter and the start of summer?”

He nodded, cleaning his plate and then pushing it away from him. “Important dates. Big ceremonies. Turn of the year, with sacrifice, death, and rebirth.”

“What do you know of these ceremonies?” I asked.

“No one knows a lot,” he replied. “It was a long time ago they indulged in all that nonsense.”

“They don't still do them, then?” I asked.

He waved a hand. It seemed to me he was trying to imply that he knew more than he actually did know. “Oh, I'm sure in some backward areas of Europe there are peasants who still worship the Old Gods.” He laughed without humor. “Not at all our sort of thing, old man.”

“No. I suppose not,” I agreed. We both sat back and awaited dessert.

“Did they do sacrifices at all of their festivals?” I asked, once we were settled with large helpings of gooseberry tart and cream.

Claude shook his head. “I don't think so. Just certain of them, as I recall.”

“So it would be unusual for there to be, let's say, a ritual sacrifice at three consecutive celebrations?”

Claude put down his spoon and fork and studied me. I had come to recognize that for this undergraduate to stop eating was an unusual event in itself. “What are you on about, Harold? You seem to be more than just a little bit curious.”

I decided to come clean. Without going into details, I told him a little of the investigations both in Liverpool and in London and of trying to be of assistance to Scotland Yard. His face was a picture. His lower jaw had dropped, and his mouth hung open. His eyes had grown wide.

“Scot—Scotland Yard?” he stammered. “You are with the police?”

“No! No, Claude,” I hastened to assure him. “No, I am working in an entirely amateur capacity. It's just that, well, since these two murders occurred on these specific dates, I thought you might have access to knowledge, through your great college libraries, and to information I had not.”

The slight flattery seemed to work. His mouth closed, and he picked up his utensils and went back to devouring his gooseberry tart.

“I am but a lowly second-year student, Harold. Would that it were not so. You should speak with my tutor. I could probably arrange it.”

“No. Don't worry,” I said. “I have a well-versed mentor back in London who probably knows more than anyone. I was just curious, since I am here in Oxford, as to whether there was anything obvious that I had not thought about.”

“Suit yourself.”

Claude Baird-Parker seemed slightly miffed, as though by my questions I had offered something delectable and then withdrawn it. It couldn't be helped. An early evening conversation had got slightly out of hand, I felt. It was entirely my fault. Yet not sufficiently that I felt any need to apologize. We finished our meal with a demitasse of coffee apiece and, after a formal handshake, went our separate ways.

*   *   *

T
he following morning I again ventured around to the Oxford Grand. My thought was that sometime during the morning I might be able to speak to one or two of the company and get their thoughts and feelings on their leader. Cuthbert Wellington had mentioned that Reginald Robertson was planning a read-through of their next production,
Julius Caesar
. I was surprised they were already looking at a follow-up to
Coriolanus
. I wondered if perhaps they might draw larger houses if they extended the run of each production but then, on reflection, realized that it was probably only by presenting a variety of plays that they were able to maintain sufficient interest to fill the seats. Wellington seemed not unpleased to see me and installed me on a stool behind him, in his cubicle next to the stage door.

“They'll be in and out all morning,” Welly explained, “so I've got to be up front. Don't you worry none though, Harry. We'll squeeze in a pot o' tea later, you see.” He gave me a wink and a nod of the head. As unprepossessing as his appearance most certainly was, I found Cuthbert Wellington to be a friendly personality.

“Where might young Rufus be?” I asked.

“Oh, he's about, trust me. He'll be here like magic when I brew the tea.”

The outside door slammed, and I recognized Reginald Robertson's voice as he entered the theatre, his Yorkshire dialect evident despite his attempts to hide it. He was deep in conversation with another man, taller than himself, and they walked past the stage door keeper's cubicle without any acknowledgment of Wellington's presence, despite the hunchback's wishing them a good morning.

“I'm sure they've got a lot to discuss,” Welly said, obviously aware of their ignoring him.

I grunted agreement. “Who was the fellow with him?” I asked.

“Lancelot Nightingale. You may have heard of him. He's in all the productions. I think he's down for the title role in
Julius Caesar
. Mr. Robertson will, of course, play Brutus.”

One of the Guv'nor's favorite roles
, I thought to myself.
Well, everyone is entitled to play whatever he believes is right for him.
“Tell me, Welly, if you would,” I said out loud. “All this nonsense reported in the press. Does Robertson really think he's a better actor than Henry Irving?”

“Oh, he believes it, all right. Henry Irving, John Parselle, William Macready, Charles Kean, Beerbohm Tree . . . the lot! Yes, he truly thinks he is God's gift to the theatre; the Shakespearean theatre, at least.”

“But surely these poor houses you have—you must have trouble paying the bills—and the terrible reviews . . . doesn't anything get through to him?”

The hunchback shook his head and gave the slightest of smiles. “He believes what he wants to believe and never mind the rest! Besides, his faith lies in his grandmother's old rituals.”

“Magic?” I said.

He nodded, and then grinned. “Oh, you don't have to tell me, Harry! But you'd be surprised at how many people do believe that nonsense. I've known actors I looked up to, who I thought were more intelligent than most, I've seen them in fear and trembling, shaking like a tree in a thunderstorm when they thought they had inadvertently crossed Mr. Robertson.”

“You mean, he rules here by fear?”

“That's about the length and the breadth of it. He does some of his mumbo jumbo, and everyone bows down to him. Crazy, isn't it?”

“It is indeed. Tell me . . . you mentioned sacrifices?”

He nodded his head. “Catches black cats and kills 'em. Terrible.”

“Cats?”

Again he nodded.

An hour or so later I had managed to have a few words with three or four of the company, and then, as the play-reading proceeded on the stage, Wellington and I moved back to his cozy, if dimly lit, alcove and enjoyed a cup of his strong tea. As the hunchback had predicted, Rufus suddenly bounded into the space like a released jack-in-the-box.

“'Ere we are then, Welly! 'Allo, 'Arry.”

“Here! That's Mr. Rivers to you, boy!” snapped Wellington.

“Sorry.” The boy grinned at me, and I nodded that I was not offended by the familiarity.

“What do
you
know of Mr. Robertson's magical rituals, Rufus?” I asked.

The grin quickly disappeared, and he scratched his head, frowning at the ceiling as he thought.

“Don't know nothin' but what Mr. Wellington tells me,” he said. “Though, o' course, there's always Mr. Robertson's ‘Big Book' as 'e keeps in 'is dressing room.”

“His ‘Big Book'?” I repeated.

“You don't know nothing about that, young Rufus,” snapped Welly. “That's just hearsay.”

“What say?”

“Hearsay. Things that you've just heard other people saying.”

“No, it ain't, neither, Mr. W.,” Rufus protested. “'E's got a book. all right. I know. I seen it.”