Dead for a Spell (20 page)

O
n the journey back to town I told Mr. Stoker of my thoughts and concerns about Welly. It wasn't easy to get him out of my mind. It felt like abandoning him.

“I applaud your concerns, Harry. I, too, have had thoughts in that direction. But one thing at a time. Beltane, or
Walpurgisnacht
, fast approaches, and we must, at all costs, ensure that no third ritual slaying takes place.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“You are probably wondering what was the point of our excursion today.”

“I did rather wonder,” I admitted.

“It was not pure idleness on my part, or simple curiosity. I am more convinced than ever that these terrible crimes are connected to the misguided actions of individuals caught up in the perceived romance of Sir Francis Dashwood's Hellfire Club. It's amazing how that simple little group of so long ago still stirs the minds of individuals of a certain type. There have been many resurrections of the concept since Dashwood's passing. Most have been by the younger crowd, looking for excitement and with no true dedication to evil. Certainly with no intention to actually harm another. Yet even one or two of those have got out of hand in the heat of the moment.”

“So you are saying that these murders may not have been intended, sir?” I was puzzled.

“These two in particular, Harry? Oh yes, they were intentional. No question about that. No, what I am saying is that many members of these latter-day Hellfire Clubs—how I loathe the name—are no more than gatherings of idle-minded persons who imitate true satanic rites in order to titillate. Yet there are certain less altruistic beings that take advantage of these people; who steer them in a direction they had no intention of taking. They it is who are the true Satanists. They it is who commit the most heinous crimes for their own purposes.”

“And that is what has happened here, with Nell Burton and Elizabeth Scott?”

He nodded. “So I believe, Harry. Some powerful and knowledgeable leader has taken his followers over the edge in what they thought was mere dabbling and used their energies to bring about an end that he had been working toward all along. Once they have taken that step, then they cannot go back, and this leader is in a position to command their complete allegiance and to ensure that they do all of his further biddings.”

“But who would do such a thing?” I asked.

“Who indeed, Harry? Who indeed?” Mr. Stoker gave one of his long sighs. “That person is the one we must determine before the end of this month. He—or she, for it is not unknown for a woman to lead such rituals—must be apprehended. Today I wanted to see for myself the caves of Lord Glenmont. I doubt that they will be used in the upcoming ceremony, but I needed to be fully aware of their location and availability just in case.”

“Why wouldn't they simply use the original caves at Medmenham?” I asked.

“Those have long been boarded up,” said Stoker. “Too many people broke into them and abused them, spreading red paint and the like to simulate blood. A shame, for they are historical, whatever their original purpose.”

“So what now, sir? Now that you've seen the Glenmont caves, what is our next step?”

“Back to London to try to track down this leader. Thanks to you and young Billy Weston we have a list of suspects; persons who may well comprise the bulk of the congregation for these rites. I have prevailed upon our Inspector Bellamy to attempt to locate them and detain them for questioning, though I do not hold out a great deal of hope in that direction.”

“We do know one of them, sir,” I said. “Jacob Nugent.”

“That we do, Harry. And the inspector has already had the man into Scotland Yard for questioning.”

“And?” I sat on the edge of my seat, expectantly.

“As we might have expected, young Nugent has a fine alibi for every instance we could think of.”

I slid back in my seat again and watched as our four-wheeler entered the outskirts of the big city.

“But we will not leave it there, Harry.”

I turned to my boss expectantly.

“We are certain, from that list of names, that Jacob Nugent is entangled somehow. Scotland Yard is keeping a close eye on him and on his movements. If nothing else, there is a good chance that Mr. Nugent might lead us to someone more directly involved.”

The trees and hedgerows slowly gave way to houses, first well spread out and then increasingly closer together. The soft dirt road became a hard-topped street, which quickly showed signs of its constant use. I spotted crossing sweeps, hurdy-gurdy players, newspaper sellers, and pie men and knew that we were almost home. It had been an interesting excursion but one I could have done without. We arrived back at the Lyceum in good time for the evening performance.

*   *   *

“W
e can't get anything out of the minx, so we thought your Mr. Stoker might have a better idea of what sort of questions to ask her.”

It was Inspector Bellamy. Seeing him at the Lyceum was not my idea of a good way to start off Friday morning. I had just left my boss's office and almost bumped into the man as I headed back to my own desk. Behind the inspector I could see a police constable with a firm grip on the arm of a young woman. She had bright red hair, a mirror image of my own, although hers was understandably long and in ringlets. The woman was not shoddily dressed, though her fawn jacket was well-worn at the collar and her walking skirt much tattered at the hem from constant contact with the pavement. She wore a fur felt walking hat sporting a fancy quill. The hat, I thought, was worn at a roguish angle, so I was not entirely disconcerted when she winked at me. She had piercing green eyes and, in other circumstances, might have been thought attractive.

“Who is this young lady?” I asked. “Mr. Stoker is not casting for the next play.”

“Out of our way, Mr. Rivers. This is police business. We are not in the habit of providing young women to work your theatre. This is part of our investigation.”

“Oh, I see.” I turned back to Mr. Stoker's office door and tapped on it. “In that case I'm sure he'll see you.”

“Come!” My boss's voice emanated from within, and I opened the door and told him who was there.

“Show him in, Harry. Let us not hinder the Metropolitan Police in the course of their enquiries. Ah, Inspector! Please come in. And who do we have here?”

There was not a lot of room in Mr. Stoker's office, but I did not feel inclined to leave; I was far too intrigued. I edged over to the far wall so that the inspector, the constable, and the young lady could all enter and close the door. The inspector sat down on the chair facing Mr. Stoker but left the others standing.

“Miss Sarah Winterbotham,” said Bellamy, waving a hand in her direction. “On your list, if you recall. We picked her up in Piccadilly just yesterday afternoon and have been trying to fit her into your murder scene.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” said the woman, looking about her at the playbills on the walls of the office.

“Now then. None of that.” Bellamy barely glanced at her before returning his attention to my boss. “She does not have an alibi for either of the murders . . .”

“'Ere! I told you. I don't know nothing about no murders!”

Bellamy continued without looking at her. “No alibis. No recollection—or so she says—of what she was doing at those times. No one to vouch for her or her movements. We thought perhaps you might have more pointed questions to ask her, sir.”

Mr. Stoker sat back and studied the young lady. He smiled, which seemed to surprise her. I think she was expecting my boss to browbeat her, as did the police.

“And what is your name, young lady?”

“We've told you that . . .” exploded the inspector.

“Shh! Please, Inspector.” Stoker kept his eyes on the young woman, nodding encouragingly. “And by the way, may I compliment you on your hat? It is very becoming, especially with the entrance of spring all about us.”

I kept my eyes on Miss Winterbotham. It was fascinating to see how Mr. Stoker's few words calmed her. She had come into the office—had been almost dragged into it—and was perhaps understandably antagonistic. But I saw the hint of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

“You like it? It was me mum's. She only wore it on 'igh days and 'olidays. Got lots more life in it yet.”

“I can see.” Stoker's head nodded. “Charming. Tell me, Miss Winterbotham, speaking of holidays, isn't there one coming up in a few days? What is it . . . ?” He paused as though trying to think of it.

“Beltane,” she provided. “My favorite. Springtime, ain'it?” She looked defiantly at the inspector, as though half expecting him to deny the approaching season.

“Ah yes.” Stoker's head again nodded. “Beltane. That's it. So much nicer than Imbolc, wouldn't you say? All that coming out of the winter and yet still frost biting at our toes.”

She laughed. “Ain't that the truth.”

“Mr. Stoker, sir.” Inspector Bellamy could remain silent no longer. “We didn't come here to discuss the weather. All this going on about belting and bolting, or whatever. Can we not get on with finding out what this woman knows? I need not remind you of the importance of this. After all, it was your acting young lady . . .”

My boss held up his hand, stopping the inspector in midsentence. “Inspector, please! You have your methods. Methods that you openly admit have produced no results. I have mine. I would suggest that you leave this young lady with me for the rest of the morning. Young Harry and I will take her to an early lunch, and then I will attend upon Scotland Yard and apprise you of the results.”

“Leave her with you? We can't afford to let our constable lallygag about here all morning. He's got other duties he needs to get to.”

“I'm not asking you to leave your constable here, Inspector. Mr. Rivers and myself are well able to escort Miss Winterbotham.”

Inspector Bellamy spluttered and argued, but eventually, as I knew he would have to, he and the police constable went out, leaving the young lady with us. Stoker smiled at her and indicated the chair that the inspector had vacated.

“Won't you please be seated, Miss Winterbotham? I apologize for the crudeness of our Metropolitan force. Harry, would you see if Bill has got his kettle on? A cup of tea might not go amiss.”

*   *   *

“Y
ou let her go?” Inspector Bellamy was incredulous. “Don't you know how lucky we were to find her in the first place? You were the one who alerted us to that list of people, and we managed to strike lucky and get hold of one of them. And now you go and let her off the hook?” His mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide.

Mr. Stoker sat down, placing his top hat and gloves on the inspector's desk and laying his cane across it. He settled back in the chair and fixed his eyes on the policeman. I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible and eased myself down into the only other chair in the office.

“And what would you have done with her, Inspector? Thrown her into a jail cell perhaps? Beaten her? Tortured her?” He laughed. “I jest . . . I hope. But seriously, I do believe that Mr. Rivers and myself obtained all available information from Miss Winterbotham. To have forcefully retained her would have served no purpose. But to set your mind at rest, I did prevail upon one of my ever-helpful young street lads to keep an eye on her movements and to alert me in certain circumstances. It will not be a major task to apprehend her again should it really become necessary.”

The inspector harrumphed and moved papers about on his desk. “All the same, we do wish you had consulted us in the matter.” He paused before also sitting back and looking Mr. Stoker in the eyes. “So what great information did you learn? Something more than the weather through the year, we would hope.”

“That initial little exchange that you witnessed actually gave me a great deal of information. With just a couple of questions I got Miss Winterbotham to acknowledge that she is fully aware of the pagan calendar; that she recognizes the names of the ancient feast days. The days on which, if you recall, Inspector, the first murder took place and the third might. Imbolc, or February Eve, and Beltane, or May Eve. How many ordinary citizens would know that? How many young ladies of Miss Winterbotham's class would be conversant with those terms? No, Inspector, we have ascertained that this young lady in particular is indeed a member of the group we seek and she, in turn, could well lead us to the others.”

M
r. Stoker's hope that Miss Winterbotham would lead us to others of the satanic group bore no fruit immediately, but I had learned to be patient when one of my boss's plans started to fall into place. He had arranged for a number of street urchins to keep an eye on the young lady, taking turns in following so that she would never see the same face behind her.

Meanwhile the good inspector's men did manage to discover another of the group. Mr. Albert Pottinger had, in effect, been sitting out in the open all the time. He was the proprietor of an apothecary shop in Watford, a small town northwest of the city. It seems it was quite by chance that one of the sergeants attached to Scotland Yard, a Sergeant Ames, was visiting an aunt in Watford and was sent in search of laudanum for that lady. Directed to the shop, he fell into conversation with the man behind the counter, not revealing his own profession. He discovered that the storekeeper was a collector of ancient recipes and herbal cures for little-known maladies and was interested in ancient magical practices. The sergeant was struck by the unusual name of the proprietor and suddenly remembered that name being on the list that Inspector Bellamy had distributed. He arrested the man and dragged him back to Scotland Yard. Under Inspector Bellamy's questioning, Mr. Pottinger reluctantly admitted to being one of a group that occasionally gathered in Warrington and elsewhere, though he denied any connection with devil worship or knowledge of Elizabeth Scott's murder.

The inspector arrived at Mr. Stoker's office early Saturday morning mainly, it seemed to me, to crow about the capture.

“Our Sergeant Ames—one of our finest, I might add—immediately recognized the man and lost no time in bringing him to justice,” he said, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets and his chest thrust out.

“Justice?” asked Mr. Stoker. “For what? It seems you have yet to actually connect him to any murder. Although I applaud your sergeant's rapid response, I fear it will mean but little unless you can follow up on the man's admission of having been in Warrington.”

The thumbs came out of the pockets, and the inspector looked hard at my boss and frowned. “Yes, well . . . that remains to be seen. We don't think it will be too hard to establish the connection. Not under our questioning.”

“And just what have you learned so far?”

“He has no alibi, sir! No alibi at all. He is unable to account for his movements at the time of either murder. We are holding him at Scotland Yard for the time being.” He lowered his head and glowered at Mr. Stoker. “We will not be releasing this gentleman into your custody, Mr. Stoker. He will stay safely with us.”

“I am sure he will quickly feel at home there,” said my boss. “Now, if you have no further news of any substance . . .”

“Just one more item.” Bellamy pulled out his tattered notebook and flipped through the pages to the item he was looking for. “Mr. Cuthbert Wellington . . .”

“Welly!” I shouted out. I couldn't contain myself. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” I said to Mr. Stoker. “I was just overexcited to hear mention of him.”

“Quite all right, Harry.” He addressed himself to the inspector. “So! What news do you bring of Mr. Wellington, Inspector? I understand you had been wanting to talk with him ever since the passing of that upstart actor in Oxford.”

“Indeed we had.” He consulted his book. “Mr. Wellington surfaced down in Brighton where, it appears, he has found employment at a small theatre there, the Brighton Alhambra on the King's Road.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured. The inspector ignored me.

“It would appear that he was well ensconced there at the time of Mr. Robertson's passing. Not that there is any further concern on our part, regarding that particular gentleman's death.”

“Oh?” Stoker looked surprised. “Pray tell, Inspector. What other news are you keeping from us?”

Bellamy looked pleased with himself, having information that my boss did not have.

“At the Oxford Grand Theatre, under more of our effective questioning, Mr. Stoker, we were able to elicit a complete confession from . . .”—another quick glance at his notebook—“Mr. Stewart Renfrew, the late Reginald Robertson's understudy. It would appear that Mr. Renfrew had long been aggravated by that gentleman and one evening he decided he would take it no more and hit Mr. Robertson over the head with a metal bust of Julius Caesar.”

“A bust of Caesar?” I said.

“Apparently a stage property of some kind.”

Mr. Stoker grunted. “Yes. Well, we have had our own problems with understudies in the past. They do seem an unstable lot. So is that it, Inspector? May we now be allowed to get on about our daily business? Or would you like to chat away until curtain-up for this afternoon's performance?”

With the trace of a smile on his face, Inspector Bellamy left, and Mr. Stoker and I got back to the business of the Lyceum.

*   *   *

I
t was between houses that I got the terrible news. The worst news I have ever received in my life, it seems to me.

“Mr. Rivers, sir.”

I was hurrying along to the prop room and did not want to be delayed. There was little enough time to accomplish all that was required. I glanced back over my shoulder.

“What is it? I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

“It's me, sir. Timmy.”

“Timmy?” The name didn't immediately mean anything. I stopped and turned around. It was the young boy from Mr. Irving's residence. “Timmy! What are you doing here? Are you looking for Mr. Irving? His dressing room is up the stairs. Here, let me show you the way.”

“No, sir. No. It's you as I was told to find, sir.”

I was puzzled. Then a thought struck me. Perhaps Jenny had to get an urgent note of some sort to me. Perhaps she wouldn't be able to meet me tomorrow. My heart sank at the thought.

“What is it, Timmy? Did Jenny send you?”

“No, sir. It was Mrs. Cooke what told me to come and find you. But it's about Jenny. She's gorn and disappeared, sir.”

I would swear that my heart stopped beating for a moment.

“What do you mean, she's disappeared?” I spoke sharply. More sharply than I meant to.

The boy shook his head. “I dunno. Mrs. Cooke says to tell you. Jenny was sent out to get summat at the shop yesterday and she never come back.”

“What do you mean, she never came back?” I could feel panic growing in my stomach. I involuntarily grabbed the boy by his arm and jerked him around to face me.

“Ow!”

“Sorry! I'm sorry, Timmy. But . . . Look, let's go and find Mr. Stoker. Come with me.”

We hurried along to my boss's office, and I threw open the door without even bothering to knock. As I burst in, I knocked his Indian clubs from where they stood close to the door. I scrambled to retrieve the heavy objects and looked about me. The office was empty.

*   *   *

I
t was a good ten minutes before I located the big man. I then had Timmy repeat what he had told me.

“The first thing is not to panic, Harry.”

That was easy to say, I thought, but not so easy to do. “But what can we do, sir?” I felt wretched.

I sent Timmy home with a note to Mrs. Cooke advising her that I had alerted Mr. Stoker and he, in turn, had advised Mr. Irving.

“What are the possibilities?” asked Stoker. “Does she have any relatives nearby? Might there have been some emergency that she had to attend to?”

“There's only her old aunt who lives in Bermondsey, though I don't know the exact address. The last I heard, Aunt Alice was in fine fettle. But if Jenny had gone there, surely she would have advised Mrs. Cooke? She wouldn't simply run off.”

“Hmm. Agreed. It does seem unusual. Still, I think I will send one of our men off to Bermondsey to locate the old lady, just to be certain. Meanwhile, you and I will do a little police work, Harry.” Stoker got to his feet. “Come. Let us proceed to where Miss Cartwright was last seen and begin our own enquiries.”

I gave Sam Green what details I could remember of Aunt Alice Forsyth and where she lived and saw him off as he left to try to locate her. Then I hurried after Mr. Stoker as he exited the theatre and summoned a hansom. At a fast trot, we made our way to Mayfair and to Grafton Street. The big black-painted front door opened as we drew near it. Timmy was looking out for us, and he ran up the stairs to alert the housekeeper the moment we stepped out of the cab.

“I take it Miss Cartwright has not yet returned?” My boss's voice echoed up the stairway as Mrs. Cooke's short, stocky figure appeared at the top.

She quickly put her hands up to check that her hair was secure in its bun and then shook her head. “No, sir. Not a sign of 'er. Never done this afore. She 'ad run out to the milliner's for me, to get me some thread, and just never come back.”

“And this was yesterday, Friday?”

“Yes, sir. About teatime it was, so I didn't really notice Jenny 'adn't returned till close on six of the clock, sir.”

My boss had ascended but a short way up the stairs and stood, holding the banister rail and speaking up to the housekeeper at the top. I stood uncertainly just inside the front door, which remained open.

“And this milliner is located where, Mrs. Cooke? Precisely.”

“Number 63 Bond Street, sir. We always goes there. Mr. Irving says . . .”

“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Cooke.” Mr. Stoker turned back down and waved me ahead of him. “Lead on, Harry. Around the corner to Bond Street. Thank you, Mrs. Cooke,” he called back over his shoulder as we went out and closed the door behind us.

It wasn't far to the milliner's shop. The ladies behind the counters at Mrs. Hazlett's Millinery and Mercantile all looked up as the bell tinkled when Mr. Stoker threw open the door.

“Which of you is Mrs. Hazlett?” he asked, his eyes sweeping the shop.

There were a number of lady customers, all of whom were obviously surprised to see two men invade what they surely thought to be their territory. I heard one or two murmur but was unable to catch what was said. A petite, dark-haired lady, smartly dressed and wearing a fashionable hat sporting a tall peacock feather, excused herself from a customer and advanced upon us.

“I am she. May I ask who enquires?”

Stoker removed his hat and gave the slightest of bows. “Forgive our intrusion, madam, but we are here on urgent business. Is there somewhere we may speak?” His eyes ran across the other ladies whose faces were all locked on us.

To her credit Mrs. Hazlett wasted no time. “Ladies, kindly proceed with your business. Gentlemen, won't you please follow me?”

She led the way back behind the counters and beyond the fitting rooms to a small office. There was a large table, rather than a desk, in its center, with a variety of rolls of cloth spread about together with a peaked-brim bonnet of wired buckram on a stand. It was covered in silk taffeta and decorated with feathers. She swept a clear space on the table and turned to face us.

“Now, gentlemen. What is so urgent that you must interrupt the working of my establishment?”

Mr. Stoker wasted no time. “We are seeking a young gentlewoman who has disappeared, madam. She was last known to have visited your shop. It was late afternoon yesterday. I am informed that she was here to purchase some thread for her employer.”

“Can you describe her? We have a varied clientele. We are a not unpopular purveyor of hats of the latest fashion together with a wide assortment . . .”

“Forgive me, but time is of the essence,” said Stoker, holding up his hand to stop her. He turned to me. “Harry, be so good as to give this lady a full description of Jenny.”

I did so.

“A little over five feet in height, you say? And with brown hair and eyes?”

I nodded. “Yes, madam.”

“At that hour of the day we did not have a great many ladies in the shop, but as it happens I have good reason to remember the lady you describe,” said Mrs. Hazlett.

I thought my heart might burst through my chest. “You do?” I gasped.

“Easy, Harry,” said Mr. Stoker. He addressed the milliner. “Pray tell all you remember, madam. It would be of great service to us. The young lady in question has disappeared, and we are most anxious to locate her. Anything you can tell us will be gratefully appreciated.”

“The young lady you mention had barely entered my shop when the door swung open again behind her and a rather large, rough-looking gentleman followed her in. He threw his arms around her waist and, as he dragged her back out of the door, shouted something at me that sounded like, ‘My willful daughter. She just won't obey me.' The young lady seemed most surprised and started to scream, but the man hustled her outside and into a waiting cab.”

“Sir!” I cried, turning to Mr. Stoker.

“Easy, Harry,” he said, for the second time. “Mrs. Hazlett, we are indebted to you. Can you tell me in which direction the cab proceeded?”

“Why, toward Piccadilly, I believe.”

“Ah! Piccadilly, eh? I'm sorry, Harry. I'm afraid there's no way we'll be able to track it. Piccadilly, as you know, is the veritable hub of London. They could have continued in literally any direction from there.”

“But surely, sir . . .”

“Are you aware of just how many cabs ply their trade in the city, Harry? And of how many pass through Piccadilly within the space of just one hour?” He shook his head. “No, Harry, direct pursuit is not to be the order of our day. Come! Let us return to the Lyceum.”

“There must be something we can do, sir,” I protested as we rode back to the theatre. “I can't do nothing. Perhaps Sam Green will have found Aunt Alice. Perhaps . . .”

“Easy, Harry. One step at a time. We will, of course, advise Scotland Yard and the good inspector, but there is one thing you should keep in mind.”