Dead for a Spell (16 page)

They seemed to like that and ran off, singly and in pairs, in different directions.

“We'll see what happens, Welly,” I said. “Thanks for getting things moving right away. Now, do you have to be at the theatre?”

“Best I be there for the performance tonight,” he said. “I missed the last one, though I got someone to cover for me. But better not press my luck. Mr. Robertson would throw me out on my ear.”

I nodded. “Let's have an early dinner, Welly. Perhaps by then there will be some news.”

But there wasn't. We dined, and then Welly went off to the Oxford Grand Theatre and I settled hopefully in front of the fireplace at the King's Arms, with
a tankard of porter to fortify me.

M
r. Stoker was as good as his word and arrived on the early train the next morning. After a late breakfast, he complimented me and Welly on starting the search.

“Do you think it might be possible to speak directly to Mr. Robertson, sir?” I asked. “After all, it was he who told Welly not to expect Rufus to show up again.”

“Oh, I wouldn't advise that,” said Welly quickly. “You don't know him like I do. That could set him off and no mistake!”

“I'm quite sure I am capable of handling the tantrums of one such as Mr. Robertson,” said my boss to the hunchback. “But with deference to you, my friend, I will refrain. Besides, I doubt very much that he would have anything positive to contribute to our endeavor. If he really is responsible for Rufus's disappearance, he is most unlikely to give us any clues as to what he did to the boy. And if he is innocent of any wrongdoing, then he can provide little of substance to aid our search. No, I think we need to move ahead under our own steam, as it were, and we can confront the man if and when we have results.”

Mr. Stoker proceeded to the local police station to alert them to the disappearance, while I started a round of questioning any who might have seen Rufus after he left the theatre. I started with cabdrivers and then extended my enquiries to news vendors, delivery boys, crossing sweepers, and the like. It seemed that the boy had made a clean getaway, disappearing into the jungle of main thoroughfares and cross streets around the Oxford Grand Theatre. Many admitted to being familiar with Rufus—his cheery grin had become well-known—but none had seen him within the last few days. I thought of how Mr. Robertson must have truly put fear into the young boy's heart to make him disappear so totally.

“We must not give up hope,” said Mr. Stoker over dinner that evening.

Welly and I sat with the big man at a table in the hotel, the hunchback moving vegetables about on his plate but not eating. I must admit that I, too, had lost my appetite, though Mr. Stoker followed the line of thinking that the body must stay fueled if it is to operate at full capacity.

“Have we had any word from our search party?” I asked.

Even as I spoke, the grubby blond girl wearing the cloth cap bounced into the room, ducking under the arms of the landlord as he tried to restrain her.

“We've found 'im!” she shouted. “Come on! 'Elp get 'im out!” With that she turned tail and ran back out of the room.

We all three of us came to our feet and hurried after her.

There were others of the search party outside the hotel. They had come with the girl, but she had been quicker and got in to inform us and out again before they had even got through the door. We all trailed after the female figure who, still shouting, “Come on!” was now a distance ahead of us. I learned that her name was Charlotte, though everyone called her Charley.

It was a motley crew of breathless adults and grubby, excited children who finally came to a halt in a muddy ditch behind a half-built and abandoned housing project many blocks away from the theatre district. The evening was advancing and the light was failing, but we could discern a narrow drainage pipe disappearing into the ground. Stooping down, I was able to make out what looked like a bundle of rags stuffed down into the pipe.

“What do you see, Harry?” asked Stoker.

I told him.

“Is it our boy?” he asked. I couldn't help noticing that the missing urchin had suddenly become “our boy” to the big man.

“It's 'im!” chirped the girl, Charley. “I recognize 'is coat.”

The figure did indeed wear a jacket with a particularly loud checkered pattern. The figure was not moving.

“Rufus!” Welly got down with his face into the end of the pipe. “Rufus, lad! It's me, Welly. Can you hear me?”

There was no sound and no movement.

“We must get him out,” said Stoker. “Harry, can you reach him? Get a grip on his coat?”

As Welly moved aside I stuck an arm down as far as I could. My fingertips brushed the material but I was unable to make a purchase.

“We are wasting valuable time,” said Stoker. He looked around at the sea of dirty faces. “Which of you children knows where we might find a doctor?”

The tall, skinny boy, who I had originally taken to be their leader, looked up and nodded. “Doc Schrock over on West Street,” he said. “He's closest.”

“Run and get him.”

The boy was off like a shot, two other smaller boys chasing after him.

“Now!” Stoker surveyed the rest of the children. His attention focused on a boy in a turtlenecked sweater a size or two too small for him. “You, boy. What's your name?”

“Alfred,” said the boy.

“Alfred, I think you may be Rufus's only hope.”

The boy gasped, and despite the growing dusk, I could see his face redden. “Yes, sir.”

“I want you to crawl into the pipe. It will be a tight fit, but I think you can do it.”

“But what good will that do, begging your pardon, sir?” protested Welly. “He'll only get stuck as well and then we'll have two boys to get out.”

“No, Welly.” Mr. Stoker sounded reassuring. “He can't go in too far because Rufus is blocking the way. But he can go far enough to get a good grip on the boy's jacket. We can then haul out both of them by pulling on Alfred's legs.”

There were murmurs all around. Some seemed dubious, but I could envision the strong possibility of it working. “Are you willing, Alfred?” I asked the boy.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.”

“Garn!” Another boy chided him. “You won't get stuck. We can all pull on you.”

“Yes!” cried Charley. “Come on, Alf! We gotta get Rufus outta there!”

The rest of them suddenly joined in the chorus. “We gotta get Rufus outta there!”

To his credit, Alfred got down on his knees and stuck his head, followed by his shoulders, into the end of the pipe. I had to admire him. I have a fear of confinement. I wouldn't have done what he was doing even if Her Imperial Majesty herself had been trapped in that tight enclosure.

When Alfred signaled that he was ready, we broke into two groups, one on each of his legs, and started pulling. For a moment nothing happened, and then slowly, very slowly, Alfred's filthy, once-green trousers began to reemerge from the end of the pipe.

“Pull!” gasped the blond girl.

Suddenly we all fell backward as Alfred popped out of the opening . . . empty-handed.

“What happened?” asked Mr. Stoker, as we picked ourselves up.

“S-sorry, sir,” said Alfred, breathing deeply. “I just couldn't keep a grip on 'im.”

“Then get back in there!” snapped Charley.

Reluctantly, Alfred once again got down on his knees and inserted his head and shoulders into the pipe.

“Get a good grip this time!” shouted one of the boys. There were murmurs of agreement.

Once again we gathered at the projecting legs and, gently, started pulling. Bit by bit, inch by inch, Alfred's lower regions began to come back out of the pipe.

“What's going on here? Who called for me?”

I glanced up over my shoulder and saw a pale, thin figure in top hat and frock coat, clutching a black doctor's bag, standing with the tall boy beside him. It was Dr. Schrock. Mr. Stoker quickly told him what was going on.

“Is he alive?” asked the doctor.

After the briefest of pauses, Stoker replied, “We hope so.”

“If he's not,” said Welly darkly, “then I swear I will make Mr. Robertson pay for it.”

It took all of ten more minutes to get Rufus out of his confinement. We all helped lift him up out of the ditch and lay him on the grass verge. We hovered around as the doctor examined him.

“He is breathing—though only just,” was his final pronouncement. “Get him to my house right away.”

It was as I traipsed along beside Mr. Stoker, who insisted on carrying the still figure of Rufus, that we learned that Dr. Schrock was actually a veterinarian.

“No matter,” he said. “One animal is much like another, human or not.”

*   *   *

I
t was a long night. Rufus was unconscious. Dr. Schrock said he was comatose. We had originally thought that Rufus had crawled into the opening to hide and get away from Robertson or Robertson's men, but it was looking more and more as though he had been caught and badly abused. We reached the conclusion that the boy had been savagely beaten before being stuffed into the pipe.

I spent the night sleeping on the floor at the doctor's house while Mr. Stoker returned to the hotel. Welly stayed at my side. The following morning, when Mr. Stoker came back, there had been no change. Half the children had also slept on the floor, though one or two—those who, presumably, had homes to go to—returned early, bringing pies and rolls with them, which we all fell upon gratefully.

“What is your prognosis, Doctor?” asked Mr. Stoker after the veterinarian had made yet another examination of Rufus. “And I ask you to be truthful. We will get nowhere if we beat about the bush.”

Dr. Schrock nodded and then slowly shook his head.

“I have done all that I am able. And I hasten to add that I doubt any other man of medicine could do more. I may primarily be an animal doctor, but as I said last evening, we are all animals of one sort or another.”

Stoker grunted in agreement. “Know that I hold you in the highest regard, Doctor. I thank you for your efforts. It seems we must all pray and send our healing thoughts and energies to this poor boy.”

I saw that a number of the children had eyes red from tears. Charlotte—Charley—stoically remained dry-eyed, though I could see that her movements were jerky and mechanical, as though her mind were elsewhere.

“Harry, I ask that you remain here, at least for the time being. Regrettably, I must return to the Lyceum. As you know there is much to do there that requires my attention. The Guv'nor leans on me a great deal, especially with Mr. Booth being there and with
Othello
opening night drawing ever closer.”

“I quite understand, sir,” I said.

“Get back as soon as you can,” continued my boss, “but not before we have a more definite and stable condition for the boy.”

It was to be another day before I was able to return to the Lyceum. I then walked into Mr. Stoker's office and slumped down on the chair in front of his desk. I had taken the milk train to get there, and happily, my boss was in his office early. He looked up at me, his eyebrows raised.

I said, “Rufus died.”

I
t was Saturday afternoon—the matinee—and I had tried to get absorbed in the performance but found it difficult to concentrate without my thoughts continually straying up to Oxford. As I had told Mr. Stoker, Welly had taken it upon himself to see that Rufus would be given a proper burial and had seemed almost anxious to get me away and back to London. I was now concerned about the hunchback. He had not shown the emotion that I was sure was locked up inside him. I felt that he needed to get it out. But, with grim determination, he had assured me that all was well with him and that I should return to where I was needed. I could not argue. The first train to the capital had been at 4:30
A.M.
that morning, and I made sure that I was on it. It stopped at every station along the line, picking up milk churns, and we finally steamed into Paddington Station at 8:15
A.M.

“Are we certain that Reginald Robertson was the one responsible?” asked a hushed voice.

I looked up from where I stood in the Opposite Prompt corner, stage right, watching but not seeing the performance progressing. Turning, I saw Mr. Stoker in the shadows. I nodded my head.

“Everything seems to point to it, sir. He had chased Rufus, and he was the one who made the remarks about the boy not showing up again.”

My boss stood there silently for several moments before moving off. I returned my gaze to the stage and tried to focus my attention on
Hamlet
.

Billy Weston was also far from my thoughts, yet he was what I needed . . . someone on whom to fasten my attention and to get my mind moving again along other lines. We still had to find out who murdered Nell Burton and Elizabeth Scott. I was therefore grateful and relieved when Billy showed up in my office shortly after the final curtain.

“You found the Reverend Prendergast, I take it?”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “Nice enough for a vicar. Bit too preachy for me, but then I s'pose that's 'is job.”

I smiled, for the first time in many days.

“Where's Ben?” I asked.

“He went back 'ome and I came down 'ere.”

“Sit down, Billy,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”

It seemed that the two of them had not wasted any of my money. They had got straight to work and talked, over several days, with the Reverend Prendergast, and then, after that, with various locals in the area around where Elizabeth Scott had been murdered.

“What did you find?”

“Well, Mr. Rivers, the vicar had done some diggin' about, after 'e spoke with you, it seems. 'E said as 'ow 'e'd read over a journal—I think 'e called it—that the
old
vicar had kept.”

“The Reverend Swanson,” I said.

“That's 'im. Reverend Prendergast said as 'ow it was quite a eye-opener for 'im, was the way 'e put it.”

I nodded. “That's good. I think the old vicar had more of a grasp on what was going on in his parish than does this new one. Certainly so far as the sort of incidents in which we are interested. Go on, Billy. Tell me what you found.”

“The vicar said as 'ow there was reports in the journal about meetings of groups of people. 'E talked about them gettin' together at certain times of the year and dancin' round bonfires and stuff. Weird things. Creepy, I thought.”

“Mr. Stoker is going to love this.” I chuckled. “Just the sort of thing he suspected, I think. Anything else, Billy?”

He started checking his pockets, looking for something.

“I got a list 'ere somewhere. The vicar let me copy it down. Where is it?” He stood up, the better to dig into his trouser pockets. “Ah! 'Ere it is.” He pulled out a crumpled, grubby piece of paper, together with a half sovereign and a number of smaller coins. “Oh, and that's all the money we got left,” he said. Sitting down again, he laid the scrap of paper on my desk and repeatedly rubbed his hand over it in a futile effort to smooth it out. Then he took it up and peered at it.

“What is it, Billy? A list of what?”

“Of the people as was jumpin' about round the bonfires. Let's see, there was a Sadie Compton—was women as well as men, it seems—and Ben Staples, 'Arry Westwick, Albert Pottinger, Bessy Wheatly, Jacob Nugent, Matthew 'Iggins, Matthew Epson, Sarah Winterbotham, Angus Wilson, and Cuthbert Nightingley. That's all the names there was, Mr. Rivers, but the old vicar said as 'ow there was others 'oo 'e didn't know.”

I nodded. “Well done, Billy. This will be a big help. I'm sure Mr. Stoker will want to pass this along to Inspector Bellamy after he's had a look at it.”

Billy sat back, looking pleased with himself.

“Have you been home yet, Billy? Had anything to eat?”

He shook his head. “No. I came straight 'ere from the railway, Mr. Rivers.”

I pushed the small pile of money back toward him. “Well, take this and go and get yourself something to eat,” I said. “Hold on to anything left over. If you need to go back to your rooms for a while, that's fine. Be back here before this evening's performance, and we'll both go and see Mr. Stoker and you can tell him all you've just told me. I'm sure he'll have some questions.”

*   *   *

B
illy Weston had no sooner gone than Inspector Bellamy slipped into my office space. Speak of the devil, I thought. I briefly wondered how he managed to move so quietly in those big policeman's boots.

“Mr. Rivers,” he said, as though summoning me to a witness stand.

“Inspector Bellamy,” I responded, refusing to be intimidated. “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” I stressed the last word, meaning it to carry a trace of sarcasm, but he seemed impervious to any such subtlety.

“We have been pondering the whole question of your young lady's murder,” he said, positioning himself in front of where I sat.

“I would hope that you have,” I replied.

“We are not prone to beat about the bush, so we must say that there would seem to us to be the elements of a conspiracy here.”

“A conspiracy?” What was he talking about?

“Yes, sir. A conspiracy.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, fastening his beady little brown eyes on me.

“Concerning . . . ?”

“The murder of your young actress, Miss Nell Burton.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” I cried, and came to my feet. Unfortunately, my lack of height did not give me the ability to look him straight in the eye, but I did the best I could.

“All this talk of ritual slayings and theatrical knives belonging to Mr. Irving just doesn't make sense,” he said. “This is a theatre. You people are actors. You present these dramas, and we do know that you have to practice them. We also know that in your practices things can go wrong. Horribly wrong! In this case, when things went ‘off the rails,' as the current expression puts it, then you all conspired to present this ridiculous story of Satanist rituals and human sacrifices. You did your little chalk drawings and then claimed they are myth . . . mist . . .”

“Mystical?” I said.

“No, sir! No! It will not wash! We know better.”

I was almost speechless. I wished Mr. Stoker were there. He would not have been at a loss for words, but he had gone to dine with Mr. Irving between performances. I had to handle this on my own.

What would Mr. Stoker have done? I felt that he would have tried to make the inspector see how ridiculous was his charge. I sat down and even managed to smile up at the imposing figure before me.

“Won't you sit down, Inspector?”

He remained standing and glaring down at me. I swallowed.

I raised my hand and extended my fingers. I began to count off points on them as I elucidated.

“Firstly, Miss Burton was more specifically an extra, not an actress in the general sense of the word.”

“Did she or did she not appear on your stage in your play?” he demanded.

It threw me off balance a little, but I tried to ignore it. “You are correct on that score. In that sense, yes, she was an actress.” I moved on to the next finger. “And yes, the murder weapon was a knife taken from this theatre and had indeed
once
been used by Mr. Irving. But as we explained some time ago, the Guv'nor had no knowledge even of the fact that the knife was missing.”

The inspector said nothing but remained with his eyes fixed on me.

“At rehearsals—rehearsals, Inspector, not practices—nothing goes wrong.”

“Nothing goes wrong? Then why do you need to practice?”

I swallowed. It was a good point. “Nothing goes wrong to the extent that you are implying. No actual knives are used in practice . . . I mean, rehearsal. We use prop knives; wood and rubber. Onstage we might use an actual blade, if the performance merits it, but then it is never, ever, a sharpened blade.”

“It seemed to do a good job on your young lady's throat.”

“Because it wasn't the blade we use in the play!” I cried. “In fact that particular knife is not used at all in
Hamlet
. It belongs to
The Merchant of Venice
. And anyway, if we staged all this, then why would we use Mr. Irving's own knife and implicate him?”

I could hear my voice getting higher and higher as I became more and more frustrated. I took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten.

“Inspector Bellamy, we have been over all of this. Mr. Stoker has been over it. If you want to go over it yet again then I suggest you speak directly to him. He is not here at the moment but . . .”

“The waste of police time is a serious offense, Mr. Rivers. There are penalties for such,” he intoned.

“I would think that the waste of time when you could be out finding the murderer would be a much more serious offense, Inspector,” I said through gritted teeth, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands as I clenched my fists.

He stood staring at me for a long time before saying, “Yes. Well, that's as may be.” Then he turned and walked away.

I sat seething for the longest time. How incompetent could the Metropolitan Police be? How could they possibly believe that we had manufactured all the evidence to cover up a blunder on our own part? How could they not see that Nell's throat had been viciously slashed? I sat there for a long time. My thoughts strayed once more to Rufus and to Welly. All seemed very bleak.