Dead for a Spell (17 page)

I
t had been some time since I'd last spoken with Miss Edwina Abbott. Not that I had missed the young lady, but I remained fascinated by her tarot cards. Mr. Stoker seemed to have respect for their prognostications, so I tried not to dismiss them in too cavalier a fashion myself. As I passed the entrance to the greenroom during that Saturday evening's performance, I glanced in and, as usual, saw the girls all huddled about Miss Abbott as she spread out her pasteboards on a table. Seth Hartzman leaned up against the wall, watching them. He caught my eye and nodded in a not unfriendly manner. I paused, and he came over to me.

“Miss Abbott sure keeps 'em happy with those cards,” he said.

“Has she read them for you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nar! I don't need no cards or such to tell me what to do.”

“I don't think that's quite the idea of them,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don't need the likes o' them.”

I saw an opportunity. “What exactly is your connection with Mr. Edwin Booth?” I asked, as casually as I could.

“Booth? What about him?”

“How well do you know him?” I persisted.

Again he shrugged. “I don't, really. It's Colonel Cornell I know. It was him as got me this job.” He looked back at the girls, still crowded around Edwina. “Not that I'm overjoyed with it.”

“You have acted before?” I asked.

“Been in and around theatres some, yes.”

That didn't exactly answer my question, but I let it go.

“Have you known the colonel a long time?”

He paused before answering, and I wondered if I had overpressed my luck and been too obvious in trying to get information out of him.

“We go back a way, yes. Here! Where's that callboy? It must be near time for us to go on again.”

“Edward won't let you miss an entrance,” I assured him. I thought to change the subject. “Are you looking forward to doing
Othello
?”

“I do what I'm told,” he said, enigmatically. “Go where I'm told to go.”

“It was Colonel Cornell who told you to do this and
Othello
?”

“He's a very busy gentleman. I don't get to talk to him a lot.” He turned away, back to the others in the greenroom.

I passed on. It seemed that Mr. Hartzman was not causing any disruptions, and that was all I cared about. I moved up to the stage level and stood in the wings watching the play progress.

It was as Act Five, Scene Two, got under way that my calm was disturbed. The graveyard scene had gone well, with the Guv'nor's “Alas, poor Yorick” speech well received. Saturday evening performances were always the best of the week, with a near-capacity house that truly seemed to appreciate the works of the Bard. Now we were into the last scene, approaching the death of Hamlet. I felt a tug at my sleeve and looked down to see Edwina trying to get my attention and mouthing words I couldn't quite hear. I backed farther away from the stage.

“What is it, Miss Abbott? You'll soon be needed for curtain calls, won't you?”

“Mr. Rivers!” Her voice, though hushed so as not to be heard onstage, had an edge of panic to it. “Mr. Rivers, they've gone. Vanished!”

“What have gone?”

“My cards, Mr. Rivers. My old aunt Jessica's pasteboards. Someone's stole 'em!”

I could understand her distress. I knew that the cards meant a great deal to her, not only for their intrinsic value but for the prestige that they gave her among her fellow actors.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She nodded vigorously.

“You haven't just mislaid them?”

“No way, Mr. Rivers. I'd done a layout for Ruby Sticks and then, when we was called for the Mourners in the graveyard scene, I left them there in the greenroom. When I comes back, they were gone!”

“You're certain you left them there? You usually put them in the pocket of your skirt, don't you?”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers. But since I'd only just laid 'em down, I left 'em. Thought I'd come straight back to them.”

“And you've looked everywhere? Perhaps someone tidied up? Put them away for you?”

“Put 'em where, Mr. Rivers? I've looked all over and asked everyone as was in the greenroom. No one has seen them. I've looked everywhere.”

The play was drawing to a close. Hamlet was dead. The whole cast was gathering in the wings, waiting to go on for the several curtain calls we always had.

“Stay with it, Edwina. I'll check into it for you. We'll have all the extras gather in the greenroom before they take off their makeup. Leave it to me.”

I tried to sound more confident than I felt. I stood by, ready to summon them all as soon as the final curtain fell. But when I peered out at the lineup taking their bows, I noticed that Seth Hartzman was missing.

*   *   *

I
t was late and the theatre was almost empty when I discovered Edwina Abbott's precious cards. They had been stuffed into the hollow skull of “poor Yorick,” which lay at the bottom of the “grave,” which was in the trap on stage right. Most theatres have a number of traps. In
Hamlet
we used the one at center stage for the appearance of the Ghost of Hamlet's Father and the ones stage right and stage left for the graveyard scene. Lowered slightly, they enabled Hamlet to appear to leap down into the graves; one for Ophelia and the other for Yorick. It was quite by chance—on a whim—that I looked there, and I was glad I did. My immediate thought was that Seth Hartzman had stolen the cards and stashed them there. He would seem to be the obvious suspect. He had missed the curtain call and had not shown up afterward. He was missing from the group I assembled in the greenroom, and I had made a note to pass on that information to Mr. Stoker.

Miss Abbott had been most upset when I finally persuaded her to go home, on the assurance that I would continue searching. I was now glad I had not given up. She would be delighted at their safe return. Since the theatre would be closed the next day, I found a street urchin and gave him thruppence to take the tarot deck around to Mrs. Briggs's rooming house and deliver it to Edwina.

*   *   *

S
unday came at last. It seemed as though I'd been waiting a month, not a week, to see my Jenny again. It turned out to be a damp, dull day with intermittent rain showers that were unable to diminish our joy in each other. We walked leisurely to Hyde Park and sat on a newspaper I spread out on a park bench, under an overhanging weeping willow, with my umbrella keeping us as dry as was possible. It was the same seat we had occupied the previous Sunday.

I told Jenny all that had transpired since I had seen her last. I didn't dwell upon the contents of Reginald Robertson's grandmother's book of magic but concentrated more on the joys and delights of the Beefsteak Club.

“You are making my mouth water just talking about it, Harry,” she said, looking up at me through long eyelashes.

I then had to tell her of Cuthbert Wellington's visit and our resultant rushed return trip to Oxford.

“I had a bad feeling about it, when you told me young Rufus had taken that book,” said Jenny. “And you say Welly came all the way down to London because the boy had gone missing?”

I was reluctant to continue with the story but knew that I had to. When I had told Jenny of my original encounter with Rufus, her full heart had seemed to warm toward the boy. Now I had to tear it. I went over the visit by myself and Mr. Stoker, the search for the boy, and his eventual discovery in the drainage pipe. I tried not to dwell on the details of extracting him and of sitting with him in Dr. Schrock's home. But Jenny was made of strong stuff. She listened silently and then nodded her head slowly and sadly.

“It was meant to be,” she said quietly. “A young life lost needlessly. So many promising children perish in this modern world. I sometimes wonder at the price we pay for what is hailed as ‘progress.'” She turned her head to look up at me. Her eyes were moist. Involuntarily, I put my arm about her and drew her close. She rested her head on my shoulder, and we sat in silence for a long time.

*   *   *

I
t was not the day of joy and delight that I had been anticipating, being with Jenny again. Yet we were able to find warmth and comfort in each other's company. The rain let up, and we walked randomly about the great park, with Jenny hanging on to my arm. She told me that Colonel Cornell had visited Mr. Irving twice during the week, to coach him on matters pertaining to the Guv'nor's anticipated entry into the Ancient Order of Freemasons.

“You are not one of them, are you, Harry?” she asked.

“No, Jenny. I think that is more for businessmen and politicians,” I replied. “People of note . . . and of substance.”

“Would it not help you in your career?”

I shook my head. “I don't think in terms of a career, when it comes to my work in the theatre. Someone in Mr. Irving's position may well do, but I am more than happy just working with Mr. Stoker and tending the daily running of the Lyceum. No, Jenny, I don't think I need intrude on the Freemasons.”

We ended up, as we usually did, at the little tea shop on Kensington Road, sitting at a table in the window and looking out at the rapidly drying pavement as the sun came out and shone down. I almost asked if Jenny was feeling better but was afraid it might then bring attention back to the loss of young Rufus. Instead, I asked after her aunt Alice, whom I had met at the end of March.

“Oh, Auntie is fine, thank you, Harry. She still talks of our outing to Kew Gardens.”

“We must do it again sometime,” I said.

Jenny beamed at me, as she poured our cups of tea. “That would be nice. Especially now the weather is so much better.”

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and finally I walked Jenny back to Grafton Street, at the corner of Bond Street. After a quick look up and down the road, to make sure we were not observed, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and then hurried into the house, disappearing behind the black door. With a smile on my lips, I turned and walked away.

“T
oday starts the last week of
Hamlet
,” announced Mr. Stoker when I entered his office on Monday morning. He stood grasping the lapels of his frock coat and looking down at the mess of papers on his desk, a frown on his face.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Something of a mixed blessing, I think.”

“Indeed, Harry. Indeed.” He gave one of his long, deep sighs. I thought that at that moment he looked very much like Mr. Irving, whom I know he truly admired. “Yes. The Guv'nor is giving a brief talk to the full cast and crew before curtain-up tonight. The usual thing, of course. Telling them not to get slovenly just because the run is almost at an end. We must close triumphantly.”

“I don't think there's any fear of that, sir,” I said. “It has been a very successful run.”

“It has indeed.” Another sigh. “No break for us, though, Harry, eh? The theatre will be dark for a short while, and then
Othello
is to open the second of May, as you know. We have little enough time to prepare. Rehearsals are going well, so I hear. Mr. Booth is a consummate actor who will complement the Guv'nor in every way. I believe London is in for a treat.” He paused before continuing. “The
Hamlet
set is to be struck right after the final curtain on Saturday, and then the new set will go up. Costumes are to be finished and fitted. I will be kept busy with programs, playbills, and the like, not to mention priming the press on what awaits them.”

“Speaking of the press, Mr. Stoker,” I said, drawing the morning paper from under my arm and opening it on top of the accumulation on his desk. “Have you seen that Mr. Robertson is still holding forth? Another tirade against the state of the Shakespearean theatre today—with his usual digs at what he calls ‘the old guard'—and demands that his genius be recognized.” Stoker grunted. “Happily, the
Times
has seen fit to relegate it to a back page,” I continued.

“Any further word from Cuthbert Wellington?”

I shook my head. “Welly seems to have faded away, sir. He wrote to tell me that he has given up his job at the Oxford Grand, after I don't know how many years, but he didn't say what he planned to do.”

“Such a shame, that whole episode. Rufus's death was so totally unnecessary. A tragic loss. One can only imagine how Wellington must feel. I have no doubt, in my own mind, that Robertson was the culprit but what evidence do we have? None that would hold up in a court of law. Would that I had it in my power to bring about retribution. Karma will have its way, you mark my words, Harry. But regrettably we may not be around to see it.”

I decided to broach something that had been bothering me, at the back of my mind, for quite a while.

“Reginald Robertson, sir. Do you think there really
might
be a connection between him and the ritual slayings of the two girls? I mean, now knowing that he is into rituals, spells, and all that . . . stuff of magic? I did notice that when Rufus was killed it was a full moon, and Welly had once commented that Robertson ‘did things' under the theatre stage on such nights. Whether or not he got to Rufus that way, could he have done magic against the two girls, do you think?”

My boss was not as quick to dismiss the idea as I half expected him to be.

“The murders of our Nell Burton and Elizabeth Scott have not been far from my mind, Harry.” He took off his coat and hung it on the stand behind him. Straightening his waistcoat, he glanced at his pocket watch and then sat down at his desk. He waved me to my usual chair. “Mr. Robertson does appear to have had the opportunity to do the deeds. His seeming determination to discredit the Guv'nor, and all who tread the boards in the metropolis, could seem to be reason enough for a demented mind to act in so violent a fashion.”

“And the ritual part of it?” I asked.

He nodded, his great head moving slowly up and down. “Again, Harry, there would seem to be a distinct connection. From what we have seen of Mr. Robertson's granny's book, there is sufficient information there to imply—at the very least—that he might have employed the ancient arcane arts to better his position.”

“With the sacrifices of the girls being part of his rituals?”

There was silence for a moment.

“You see, that is what bothers me, Harry. Oh, Mr. Robertson could easily have traveled to Liverpool for Miss Scott, or where was it?”

“Warrington, sir. Just outside Liverpool.”

“Right. Warrington. It's not that far from Oxford. By the same token he could have run down to London, as Welly did the other day, for our Miss Burton. But what bothers me, Harry, is
would
he?” He sat back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “Somehow I just can't see Reginald Robertson with the ability . . . no, the patience! The patience to put together and then carry out what would most certainly be a complicated and intense magical ritual culminating in human sacrifice.”

He returned his attention to me, looking me in the eyes.

“It would be one thing for him to lose his temper and strike out against someone like Rufus, as we know he did. But the rest of it? I don't know, Harry. It just doesn't sit right with me.”

I had to agree. “But if not him, then who, sir?”

“Ah! Who indeed? Well, Harry, if the evil forces at work—whoever they turn out to be—are following the ancient pagan calendar as we believe they are, then we have less than two weeks to find out . . . two weeks until they make their third sacrifice. Only a fortnight until May Eve.
Walpurgisnacht
, Harry!”

*   *   *

“W
hat's this, Harry?”

“What, sir?”

I was running around getting ready for that evening's performance when Mr. Stoker stuck his head out of his office and waved a piece of paper at me. I changed direction and headed for him, following him back inside his room and closing the door behind me.

“Sit down, Harry. Here! I believe you left this on my desk for me to see?”

I glanced at it and saw that it was the list I had copied from the grubby piece of paper that Billy Weston had given me. I'd had Billy tell his story to Mr. Stoker and, at that time, had left the list on his desk. “Yes, sir. As I told you earlier, Billy got those names from the Reverend Prendergast. Apparently they compiled it from the earlier vicar's journals.”

“I remember you mentioning it. But what I'm questioning is one of the names on the list. Here, see? Jacob Nugent.”

I studied the name he pointed to. “Yes, sir. I noticed it was a Nugent, but I don't see any reason he'd be connected to Bart. I mean, we know that Bart was in prison when both murders were committed, so . . .”

My voice trailed off as a number of thoughts suddenly came to me. I looked up from the piece of paper to find my boss's eyes fixed on me, the hint of a smile on his lips. He raised his eyebrows in a question.

“You're right, sir,” I said, feeling slightly chastened. “I should have checked it out.”

“We are dealing with two terrible murders here, Harry. And the clock is ticking. We need to check out any and every instance that looks questionable.” He sat back in his chair. “Yes, there is probably no connection between the two Nugents. One is in London and the other near Liverpool, for heaven's sake.
But
 . . .”

The word hung in the air. I got to my feet.

“I have to finish getting ready for tonight's performance, sir,” I said. “But first thing in the morning I promise I'll get onto this.”

“Good man, Harry. I knew I could count on you.”

*   *   *

A
s good as my word, Tuesday morning saw me leaving Mrs. Bell's establishment at the crack of dawn, fortified—if I could use that word—with an underdone kipper and two slices of burnt toast, all washed down with lukewarm, extremely weak tea.
I really should look for better lodgings
, I told myself for the one hundredth time. Yet Mrs. Bell was very convenient for the theatre, and the rent was reasonable. I jumped on an omnibus and headed for Scotland Yard.

“Inspector Bellamy?” questioned a corpulent sergeant, when I enquired for that gentleman. “I don't rightly know as 'ow 'e's in yet.”

“Would you ascertain that?” I asked.

“And what did you want with Inspector Bellamy?”

“That is between that gentleman and myself,” I replied, somewhat stiffly. I suddenly felt that the underdone kipper was not sitting well in my stomach.

“Well, keep your 'air on!” muttered the policeman, and he shuffled off down the passageway behind the enquiry counter. He returned and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “Yes. 'E's in.” He busied himself moving papers back and forth on the countertop and proceeded to ignore me.

I walked back along the short corridor to Bellamy's office. The inspector sat at his disorderly desk, staring into a large mug of steaming tea. He looked up as I entered.

“And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Rivers?” he asked, remaining seated.

“I have a question for you,” I said. I pulled the list of names from my pocket and glanced at it. “Jacob Nugent,” I said.

“What about him?”

“Are you familiar with the name?”

“Older brother of Bartholomew Nugent.” He took a long drink of tea.

“Ah! So they
are
related?” I mentally thanked Mr. Stoker.

“Oh yes. As close as brothers can be. What about Jacob?” He leaned forward slightly and looked hard and long at me. “Is this something to do with our murdered actress young lady?”

I took one of the two seats in front of his desk. He obviously wasn't going to invite me to sit, so I presumed to do so myself. “We know that Bart was spending time in Newgate at the time of the murder, so we didn't think he could be involved,” I said. “But I hadn't realized he had a brother.”

“So you think that Jacob Nugent was connected?”

“I don't know, Inspector. That's what I've come to talk to you about. What do you know of the man?”

Bellamy took his time answering. He took another long drink of tea and set down the mug. Then he sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desktop.

“As it happens, Mr. Rivers, we have had our eyes on Mr. Jacob Nugent ourselves.”

I was surprised. “You mean, you think . . .”

Bellamy held up a hand. “Hold on, now. We are not saying he is a suspect in the murder. He is simply a person of interest at this time.”

I sighed. “Of course! Yes.”

“Mind you . . .” He stuck a pencil into his teacup and gave the liquid a vigorous stir, for no good reason I could see. The mug was already half empty. He sucked the pencil dry and sat staring into the mug. “Mind you, older brother Jacob is a shifty character and no mistake. We've had our eyes on him over a number of happenings but just haven't been able to connect with him. But he spends a lot of his time out in the suburbs and farther north, and out of our reach.”

“That would, then, put him in the right location for the Elizabeth Scott murder.”

“It's not impossible.”

“Not like the younger Nugent,” I suggested.

“You are right there, Mr. Rivers. Young Bartholomew goes in and out of Newgate Prison so much we have been thinking of installing a swing door.”

I laughed out loud. Humor from Inspector Bellamy was the last thing I expected. Then I grew serious again. “Tell me, Inspector, do you think there might really be a connection between this Jacob and Nell Burton's murder? Mr. Stoker was only just saying that it would be quite possible for the man to have been at both the scene of Nell's murder and that of Elizabeth Scott.”

The pencil clattered onto the desk as Bellamy dropped it. He looked at me sharply.

“Mr. Stoker said that?”

I nodded.

“Hmm. It does seem that on occasion—on occasion, mark you—Mr. Stoker does have an idea or two that might possibly be in the right direction.”

I smiled at the inspector's reluctance to give my boss full credit for anything, but it was gratifying to hear him bend a little in Mr. Stoker's direction.

“What else did he say?” He picked up the pencil again and sat tapping it on the desktop.

“Isn't that sufficient?” I asked.

“For what? To arrest the man for murder? I think not, Mr. Rivers.”

He was right, of course. “Do the two brothers see much of each other? I know that Bart is frequently locked up, but does Jacob ever see him?”

“That you would have to find out for yourself, Mr. Rivers. It's possible Jacob has paid a visit or two to Newgate to see his brother over the years, but I wouldn't know of it.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” I said, getting to my feet. I could see that I'd have to pursue this line of enquiry myself.

“Oh, by the way,” Bellamy said casually, “you might like to know that we have crossed off your theatre cast and crew from our list of suspects.” He drained the dregs from his teacup. “All just too full of themselves, it seems to me, to be interested in murdering their own kind.”