Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “As it happens, Mr. Stoker,” he said, addressing my boss as though it were he who had asked the question, “we have found something relevant. Caught up in the rubbish and jetsam that seems to accumulate around piers, we salvaged a black robe similar to the white one worn by our victim. It was at the foot of Waterloo Bridge.”

  “And you associate it with this case?”

  “As we say, sir, it is a similar robe and it is also covered with blood, as may be expected from creating such a wound.”

  “Slashing the throat?” I said.

  He looked at me with his beady little eyes before turning back to Stoker and ignoring me again.

  “We were wondering if this might all be connected in some way with a theatrical production,” said Bellamy. “We understand that these warehouses, with their large floor space, are attractive to you people for practicing your plays. We wondered if, perhaps, this was a case of such a practice session gone wrong. Some actor who perhaps got carried away with his part. You see what we are saying, sir?”

  “I do indeed, Inspector.” Stoker came to his feet and stood looking down on the slightly shorter figure of the policeman. “We term these ‘practices,’ as you call them, rehearsals. And no, I do not for one moment endorse your theory. Firstly, no actor—no matter how involved in his part—would go that far, even in the heat of an actual performance in front of a theatre audience. And secondly, at no time would props—weapons, to you—be used that could do any real harm. No, Inspector, the suggestion is untenable.”

  “Hmm.” Bellamy rubbed his chin as though unconvinced, looking Mr. Stoker square in the eyes. “Well, time will tell, sir. Time will tell.”

  “It will indeed,” responded my boss. “Meanwhile, may I suggest that you bring this robe—in fact both robes, if you’d be so kind—here to be examined by our wardrobe mistress, Miss Connelly. She will be able to ascertain whether or not these are, in fact, theatrical costumes.”

  “A good idea,” acknowledged Bellamy. “We will see to it that they are delivered here as soon as we have finished looking at them ourselves. Now, sir, we would like, if we may, to speak with your people. In particular we would like to ask a few questions of those young ladies who were close to the murdered girl.”

  “Of course. We were expecting you to do just that. Harry, take the inspector backstage, would you? The cast should be arriving shortly for today’s matinee. The inspector can use the greenroom to conduct his enquiries.”

  * * *

  I returned to my boss’s office for a moment, after depositing the inspector among a group of Hamlet extras. They included both Tilly Fairbanks and Edwina Abbott, though I hoped the latter would not get into discussing tarot cards with the policeman. I didn’t think Inspector Bellamy would be as fascinated as Mr. Stoker or myself.

  “Was there something, Harry?” Stoker had a pile of correspondence in front of him and, although always open to any queries I might have, looked as though he would much prefer to be left to complete his own work.

  “Sorry to trouble you, sir,” I said. “I can come back later if you’d prefer, though I thought that with the matinee this afternoon . . .”

  “No, no, Harry. Come on in.” He waved me toward the chair in front of his desk. “Another problem?”

  I shook my head. “I was just wondering about those chalk markings, in the warehouse. You spoke about ‘Words of Power,’ if I remember correctly. I was wondering just what they might be and how they connected with Nell Burton’s murder?”

  “You do remember correctly, Harry. What I recognized, drawn in chalk on those floorboards, was the so-called Sun Pentacle for compelling spirits. In the rites of high magic it is used to connect with honor, kingly power, and glory. The words written around and between the circles were the names of the genies of the Lower Orders who are called upon by ceremonial magicians. There is Astaroth, war god of the ancient Semites . . .”

  “Excuse me, sir,” I interrupted. “But did you say ‘magicians,’ as in conjurers, prestidigitators, and all that hocus-pocus?”

  “I did indeed say magicians, Harry, but not—I venture to say—as in legerdemain and the like. No. Far from it. These are serious workers of true magic. Ones who have almost certainly studied the arcane arts for many years and are dedicated to their own particular goals.”

  “But . . .” I started to say. Stoker held up his hand.

  “In the Middle Ages this art, or science, was at its height, Harry. It is still prevalent today, in certain circles. It is a belief that there are certain spirits—for want of a better term—who are able to influence our thoughts and actions. If one is able to prove mastery over these spirits then one is able to command them to do whatever one desires.”

  “To make things happen?” I hazarded.

  “Precisely. And that is one concise definition of magic . . . to cause change to occur in conformity with will. In other words, to make something happen that one wishes to happen.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “No one can do that,” I said.

  “Have you ever been to a church, a Roman Catholic church especially?” he asked. “And have you not observed there a number of candles burning, not just on the altar . . . ? The practice of candle burning is not restricted to that particular denomination.”

  “Why yes. Of course.” I nodded. “You mean votive candles?”

  “Exactly. These are frequently lit as a form of prayer; an appeal for a higher power to intervene in the case of, for example, the illness of a loved one. Basically, working magic. Making something happen that is desired by the petitioner.”

  “But—but that’s talking to God,” I protested.

  “I am not particularizing the source of power,” continued Stoker. “Merely drawing a parallel so that you may understand the actions of these ceremonialists. The power, or powers, they address are of a far lower order yet can exhibit tremendous influence, if properly approached. Magicians of this ilk believe that they can invoke these infernal spirits and dominate them to grant the rewards they seek.”

  “So what does this have to do with Nell Burton?” I was still somewhat bewildered.

  “I would suggest that someone is seeking to bring about some calamity. This was no audition that Miss Burton believed she had been invited to, Harry. This was a well-organized group of devil worshippers with one goal in mind, although exactly what that goal might be we have yet to determine. In order to gain their desire, to be granted their boon, it would be necessary for them to give of something in return. Since they were asking for something major, they needed to offer something major. A sacrifice, if you will. Miss Burton was lured there to be that sacrifice.”

  My hand went instinctively to my heart. “A sacrifice? You mean . . . they killed her—cut her throat—as part of some macabre ritual?”

  “My guess—and probably theirs also—is that Miss Burton was a virgin. Such is the required form of sacrifice for the major rites of these salacious ritualists.”

  I could think of nothing to say. The whole thing made me think of what we termed the Dark Ages. To think that such practices were still performed in this modern day, in the eighteen hundreds, left my mind in a whirl. Human sacrifices? Was that possible? Yet I knew that Abraham Stoker knew whereof he spoke.

  “How were the chalk drawings tied to this sacrifice?” I asked.

  “They would have been drawn as part of an elaborate ritual,” he responded. “Words and actions—legomena and dromena—would be performed as the squares and circles were drawn and the Words of Power written. A makeshift altar would be placed in the center, on which our young lady would be laid. I think I noticed an old table pushed to the back wall. We should have thought to examine it for blood.”

  “I’ll make a note to tell Inspector Bellamy,” I said.

  He grunted and nodded. “Do that, Harry. Yes, she would have reposed on that. Possibly drugged by that time,
so that she would not protest. Then the leading ritualist would have flourished the sacrificial knife and, as the high point of the ceremony, shed the blood that they see as power.”

  “How many of them were there, sir?”

  Stoker looked thoughtful, his brows knit and his lips pursed. He placed a forefinger alongside his nose, as he was wont to do when thinking.

  “We do not know, Harry, but it would be to our advantage to find out; to see what are the odds against us. There could have been as few as two or three, though for such a major undertaking I think more would have been called for. Perhaps as many as a dozen.”

  “That’s a lot of people,” I said. “Surely somebody would have noticed them?”

  “Good thought, Harry. Alert our police inspector. He should have the manpower to get out there and ask questions. We have other clues to follow.”

  “We do?” I said. “What are they?”

  Chapter Five

  “Before we do anything else, Harry, I have to meet with the Guv’nor, Colonel Cornell, and Mr. Booth and thrash out a schedule for Othello rehearsals.”

  America’s premier Shakespearean actor, Mr. Edwin Booth, had earlier in the year arrived in England ready to treat London to a taste of the Bard as enacted on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. He was accompanied by his manager, Colonel Wilberforce Cornell. They had been enticed here by the proprietor of the Princess’s Theatre, on Oxford Street, who thought that Mr. Booth would be a big draw. Regrettably the manager’s mind was more on the box office potential than on production values, and Mr. Booth arrived to find that he was expected to play melodrama rather than drama, and to work along with pantomime acts and other such nonlegitimate spectacles. A month or so back Mr. Irving had come to Mr. Booth’s rescue, in effect, and invited him to play at the Lyceum. They chose Othello, with Booth in the title role and the Guv’nor playing Iago.

  “It seems that Mr. Booth is becoming quite restless,” continued Mr. Stoker. “According to his manager, ‘he is at his best when busy.’ Is that not the case with us all?”

  It seemed to me that my boss was not overly enamored with Colonel Cornell. I felt the same way. The man was overbearing and seemed to consider Mr. Booth a cut above anyone else, including the Guv’nor. Needless to say this did not sit well with anyone at the Lyceum.

  “Do you need me there, sir?” I asked, hoping that the answer would be in the negative. I was out of luck.

  “It might not be a bad idea, Harry. You have a better grasp than I on what we can do and when; on the use of the theatre and rehearsal rooms. Yes, I think it would be a good idea to have you there. Come along with me this afternoon. We’ll be meeting at Mr. Irving’s home at two of the clock. You know the way. I will see you then.”

  I did indeed know the way. My heart skipped a beat. I now did not mind in the least having to attend the meeting. My inamorata, Jenny Cartwright, was a housemaid at the Guv’nor’s home. It would be like a beautiful break of sunshine in a cloud-covered sky. I went out to lunch fully anticipating a wonderful afternoon.

  * * *

  The Druid’s Head was a favorite watering hole for Lyceum workers. It was an ancient Elizabethan inn ruled over by the tavern keeper John Martin. John was a giant of a man with a deep rumbling voice that could fill a theatre, if he should ever feel inclined to tread the boards. But overseeing the distribution of ale and the serving of some of London’s finest roast beef was more to his liking. And to that of his customers.

  I slipped into a corner near the massive fireplace and waved to Penny the serving girl. She gave me a cheery smile and quickly delivered my usual tankard of porter.

  “Thanks, Penny,” I said. “Let me have a roast beef sandwich, please. How is it today?”

  “Same as all’ers,” she said. “Best in Lon’on.”

  Penny was from the West Country—Devon, I believe—and her soft voice always helped soothe the customers of the Druid’s Head and settle them in their seats. We always had that same exchange, and she was right; it was the best food for miles around.

  I could see John up at the bar, cutting thick chunks off the joint, while young Samuel, his son, slapped them between slices of homemade bread still steaming from the oven. Penny soon returned with my order, having taken just long enough for me to drink my ale down to the level where I would need to order a refill.

  I eventually sat back, patting my stomach, and looked about me with satisfaction. Penny brought me my pipe, and I stuffed it with tobacco, taking up one of the tapers to light it from the logs burning in the fireplace. Life was good, I thought.

  “Well, if it ain’t the ginger man from the bloody Lyceum!”

  I knew immediately who that was, and I almost revised my thoughts on life being so good. I looked around to spy Bartholomew Nugent grinning at me through the blue haze issuing from my pipe. I hated people calling me “ginger” and had since I was a child and was so taunted on the school playground.

  “What do you want, Bart?” I said. “I didn’t know you were out again.”

  Bart Nugent spent almost as much time inside Newgate Prison as he did out of it. He was a petty thief and pickpocket, and I had once had the pleasure of catching him red-handed stealing a gold half hunter watch from one of our theatre patrons. He had done hard labor for that and had sworn he would get even with me. I was not pleased to see him on the loose again.

  “Jus’ bein’ civil like and sayin’ ’ello, Mister Rivers,” he said, still grinning. His mouth was nothing but crooked, blackened teeth with great gaps between them. “’Ow’s it goin’ then? Business good, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I ’ears as ’ow your Lyceum is losing its pretty gals.” He tut-tutted. “Narsty business that, I’m finkin’.”

  I felt a flutter in my stomach. “What do you know about that?” I demanded.

  “Jus’ what’s in the noospapers.”

  “And since when have you been able to read, Bart Nugent?”

  “Oy! You!” John Martin’s deep, powerful voice stilled all the conversation in the crowded room. You could hear a farthing drop. Nugent looked around, for the first time the smile on his face faltering. John gestured toward the exit. “We don’t want none of the likes of you in ’ere,” he said, waving the meat cleaver and jerking his thumb in the direction of the door. “Git out!”

  Bart Nugent gave a nervous laugh, glanced at me again, and then turned away. “Jus’ the start of the season, ain’t it, Mr. Rivers? Jus’ the start.”

  He gave another laugh and went out.

  * * *

  I took the omnibus to the corner of Bond Street. The Guv’nor’s rooms were just around the corner at 15a Grafton Street, over Asprey’s Jewellers. I raised the polished brass knocker on the gleaming black door and let it drop. Almost immediately the door was opened by Timmy, the fourteen-year-old serving boy. He greeted me and led the way up the stairs inside.

  “Mr. Irving and Mr. Stoker is both ’ere, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “Just waiting on the American gents, I think.”

  “Timmy, you mind your business!” Mrs. Cooke, the housekeeper, appeared at the top of the stairs. “Just you take the gentleman’s coat and ’at.”

  Timmy dutifully did as he was told, and I followed the short, stocky housekeeper as she led the way down the passage to the library. I looked left and right in the hopes of spying Jenny, but she wasn’t to be seen.

  “In ’ere, sir.”

  I found Mr. Stoker and the Guv’nor standing side by side, with their backs to the fire, warming themselves. They were deep in conversation and nodded to me, Mr. Irving indicating a chair. I sat down and looked about me.

  I had not been into this room before. On my previous visit I had spent my time in the study, searching for a copy of the Hamlet script that the Guv’nor needed back at the theatre. This room was much larger, though overfilled with furniture: comfortable chairs and
couches, occasional tables, cabinets, whatnots, and pedestals, in a mixture of styles and periods. A variety of potted palms, aspidistras, and other plants filled in the spaces between the furniture. Mr. Irving had an eclectic taste, it seemed. A Renaissance Revival tripartite sofa sat sedately beside a Rococo Revival gentleman’s chair, while a lady’s rosewood parlor rocker rubbed elbows with a caned Grecian rocker that more fittingly belonged in a bedroom. But the one thing that the pieces of furniture had in common was that all appeared comfortable and well appreciated.

  I had hardly sat when it was necessary to rise again as Mr. Edwin Booth and Colonel Wilberforce Cornell were shown in. We had all met before, so introductions were not necessary. The Guv’nor and Mr. Stoker moved across to sit on either side of the American couple.

  Mr. Edwin Booth I thought an interesting gentleman. He was not quite as tall as Mr. Stoker and the Guv’nor—both of whom reached to six feet and two inches—yet was an imposing figure. To one of my slight build, all were “tall gentlemen.” In his youth, Mr. Booth had been described as possessing extraordinary beauty. At forty-seven years of age, he was still handsome, though one would hesitate to use the word “beautiful.” His eyes were dark and striking, but his hair had somewhat receded and was brushed back and parted to the left. To my mind his nose seemed prominent and slightly bulbous over a weak chin. I had heard tales of his gentleness and generosity. It seems he had little business sense and partly because of that had, eight or nine years ago, lost his own theatre in New York to bankruptcy. I could understand why he needed the firmer hand of a manager such as Colonel Cornell. Our own Guv’nor might have taken a similar path had it not been for the steadying and controlling presence of Mr. Stoker.

  Colonel Wilberforce Cornell was almost as tall as the others. He was completely bald (I suspected that he shaved his head), counterbalanced by a longish dark beard and mustache, the latter drooping down on either side of his tightly held mouth. Somehow I could not imagine the colonel laughing, nor even smiling. He had a monocle firmly gripped in his right eye, and the light reflected off it as he turned his head, peering about him in every direction.