Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  I found Aunt Alice to be a delightful lady; short and plump, with rosy cheeks and gray hair pulled back in a bun-chignon. She obviously adored her young niece, and I saw no reason to argue with that. Aunt Alice did not ask a lot of questions but seemed most content to simply smile and nod and look around her with inquisitive eyes that blinked behind a firmly held tortoiseshell-framed lorgnette.

  We admired the Pagoda, designed by Mr. William Chambers, and spent quite some time touring Mr. Decimus Burton’s Palm House: 363 feet long, 100 feet wide, and 62 feet high. It was spectacularly made of iron and curved sheets of glass. A new Temperate House was in the process of being built.

  We were in awe of the most beautiful tropical plants, astonishingly flourishing here in England—ferns, fruit trees, and cacti—with flowers, shrubs, and trees of every imaginable sort. Such was the tropical temperature maintained in the hothouse that we all were obliged to remove our outer garments, though we hastily donned them again on emerging from the building.

  We proceeded to the refreshment pavilion, close by the Winter Garden. There we were able to procure a table overlooking the arboretum, an area of 178 acres that extends down to the River Thames. It is intersected in every direction by shady walks and avenues. I noted that the famous Kew Gardens’ rhododendrons, at the Hollow Walk, would not be in flower until May and June, according to the brochure we had acquired on entering the Gardens, and vowed to bring back both ladies to view them at that time. I ordered tea for all of us, eschewing the popular ices and instead indulging in scones and strawberry jam with Devonshire clotted cream.

  As Jenny and her aunt caught up on each other’s activities, I perused the people making the most of the unexpectedly glorious March day. A familiar figure suddenly appeared coming from the direction of the Pagoda. It took me but a moment to place him. It was Colonel Wilberforce Cornell, and he was accompanied by two other men. He himself was obviously an American, affecting the wide-brimmed hat of the western section of that country, and wearing a large-patterned coat with big fur collar such as you would never see worn by an English gentleman. His companions were more traditionally attired, with bowler hats and well-worn coats, one sporting an Inverness cape.

  They paused under the branches of a huge cedar tree, and the two men, both shorter than the colonel, seemed to be listening carefully, eyes fixed on him as he gave instructions. From where I sat I could see that he frequently waved his cane to emphasize what he was saying and at one point seemed very angry, causing the shorter of the two men to flinch and take a half step backward. Then the colonel reached into his pocket and gave the men what I presumed to be money. They both touched their hats respectfully before turning and hurrying away. It was as the men turned that I recognized the taller and thinner one in the Inverness cape as Bart Nugent. What the devil was he doing with Colonel Cornell? I wondered.

  The colonel looked about him, and I pulled back a little so that I was shielded from view behind Aunt Alice’s large hat. He took out a cigar, lit it, and after standing a moment, apparently in thought, himself strolled away in the direction of Lion Gate, which opens onto the Richmond Road.

  “My brother always loved the theatre, Mr. Rivers,” Aunt Alice was saying brightly. “I think he had a secret yearning to appear on the stage.”

  “You never told me that, Auntie,” cried Jenny.

  “Oh, and please call me Harry,” I said, bringing back my full attention to my two companions. “Tell me, what was your late brother’s background?”

  “Charles—my brother—was a coachman at a large house in Putney. I was a parlor maid there. He used to save up his money to go to the Drury Lane Theatre and get a seat in the pit. Saw a lot of Mr. Edmund Kean, I seem to remember.”

  “How wonderful,” I said. “But he never trod the boards himself?”

  She shook her head, the flowers on her hat bobbing vigorously. “The closest he came was to become one of them Freemasons,” she said.

  “I didn’t know that,” said Jenny.

  “Mr. Irving plans to join that fraternity,” I said.

  “Brother Charles felt that he almost had to.”

  “Had to?” I couldn’t think what she meant.

  “Oh! It was just silly of him.” Aunt Alice smiled and refilled our teacups from the pot on the table. “He would talk of our ancestor, Mr. Thomas Potter, who was a member of Sir Francis Dashwood’s organization back a century ago.”

  “And that was . . . ?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m no good at names, though he did mention it many times as though everyone should know it. Hotfire Club or Hamfire Club.” She smiled. “Quite different from the Freemasons, I gathered, but not something that stayed in my head, I’m afraid.”

  “It was a theatrical endeavor?”

  Again she shook her head. “He always spoke of it as though they performed, but, again, I do not know the details. However, it seemed it made a big impression on Charles, and he felt he should try to follow in Mr. Potter’s footsteps, however belatedly.”

  I resolved to ask Mr. Stoker about it. If anyone would know, it would be my boss. I turned and smiled at Jenny, who seemed to be delighted with the way the day was going.

  * * *

  I hadn’t realized that the police worked on Sundays. For some reason—I suppose I had just never really thought about it—I assumed that they all took off the Sabbath. Apparently I was wrong, for on Monday morning, Inspector Bellamy once again turned up at the Lyceum with the fruits of his previous day’s labor. He appeared in Mr. Stoker’s office bearing a brown paper–wrapped parcel, this one much smaller than the previous one.

  “Another robe, Inspector?” asked my boss.

  “Far from it, sir. We are happy to report that we have recovered the murder weapon.” I thought he sounded justifiably proud.

  “Have you indeed? Well done,” responded Stoker. “Where was it, might I ask?”

  “Oh, it was not easy to find, we can tell you, sir.” Bellamy seemed to stand up straighter and throw out his chest. “It took our men most of yesterday morning to recover it. Thrown down into the river, along with the victim, as it happens.”

  “In the Thames?” I said. “I’m surprised you found it, with all the mud and heaven knows what else that must have been down there.”

  “It was not easy, as we said, sir. Took five of our men groping about in ice-cold water for several hours.” He paused. “But we do not give up. When Scotland Yard is on a case, we are . . .” He seemed at a loss for the appropriate word.

  “Tenacious?” supplied my boss.

  “That’s what we are,” he said, as though he had come up with the word himself.

  Mr. Stoker carefully unwrapped the package. As he pulled aside the brown paper and revealed the contents, he and I both gasped. His eyes quickly met mine. Neither of us spoke.

  “Ugly-looking instrument, is it not, Mr. Stoker? Can’t imagine who would own something like that.”

  Perhaps the Scotland Yard inspector could not, but Stoker and I most certainly could. The ornate, decorative, curved-bladed dagger that lay on the brown paper was owned by none other than the Guv’nor himself, Mr. Henry Irving. It was a most unusual knife that had been presented to him by the Spanish ambassador a year or more ago, and it normally hung on the wall of the Guv’nor’s dressing room. He had used it once when playing Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. It was one of his proud possessions. Neither Stoker nor myself said a word.

  “Looks to us as though it might be some sort of playacting artifact,” continued Bellamy, “which is why we brought it around for you to see. Would make sense, since you say that they were practicing—rehearsing, you call it—in that warehouse. We expect you see a lot of this sort of weapon with all your plays and things, but we thought you might possibly be able to identify it or have some idea as to where it might have come from and who might have used it.”

  S
toker got up from his chair and, apparently examining the dagger, moved over to stand in the light of the window that looked out over the small courtyard between the theatre and the back of the Wellington public house on the Strand. He stood as though scrutinizing the knife, though I could tell that his mind was racing over how it had come to be where it was discovered. I kept quiet and waited for his lead. Eventually he turned back to the policeman.

  “It is an unusual property, Inspector, even for the theatre. I would like to hold on to it for a while, if I may?”

  Bellamy was about to protest, but Stoker quickly continued.

  “I am sure that within a relatively short space of time Mr. Rivers here—our property manager, who deals all the time with such weaponry, among other things—will be able to track down the origin of this particular piece.”

  “I am sure I could, Inspector,” I quickly added. “As Mr. Stoker says, it is an unusual piece but most certainly theatrical in its origins.”

  “We will, of course, keep you apprised of our progress,” said Stoker, and handed me the knife as though the matter were settled.

  Inspector Bellamy stood with his hands out as though to retrieve the dagger but finally lowered them and apparently resigned himself to the situation. He grunted. “You will appreciate the urgency, Mr. Stoker, we are sure. Police work is ever under pressure. We do not have the luxury that a theatre has in preparing its presentations, you know?”

  “Of course. Of course, Inspector. So I am sure you have much more to get on with, and the sooner we can start our own enquiries, the better. Good morning, Inspector.”

  Bellamy stood a moment before, without a farewell, he turned and went out. For a long time we said nothing, and then Stoker spoke.

  “You do recognize it, of course, Harry?”

  “Oh yes, sir. No doubt about it. I’m sure there are not two like this in the whole of London, probably not in the whole British Isles.”

  “So how did it come to be used to slash the throat of one of our young actresses?”

  “It’s as though someone stole it and is now using it to incriminate the Guv’nor,” I said.

  “Precisely my thinking, Harry.”

  * * *

  Other than confirming that Mr. Irving’s knife was indeed missing from its place on his wall—Mr. Stoker took care of that, and said that the Guv’nor had not noticed that it was gone—there was not much I could do right away. I did, however, make a few enquiries around the theatrical property shops and warehouses, as to the possibility of there being other knives available of this ilk. It seemed that this one was, as we thought, a unique form of weapon.

  On examining the knife I did notice that its normally dull blade had been sharpened, apparently by an expert, and now sported the razor-keen edge that had done such damage to Miss Burton’s throat. I reported that to my boss.

  “There is where we might start our enquiries, Harry,” he said. “As you say, the blade must have been sharpened by someone who knew what he was doing. Probably not by one of the usual itinerant knife grinders who push their carts around the West End and offer their services for tuppence a blade. No. This dagger has been ground and honed and brought to a fine edge, without nicks or roughness.”

  I had a sudden idea. “One name springs to mind, sir. Nicholas Lang. He’s on Ludgate Hill, and I happen to know that he is employed, among others, by some of the fencing clubs and private gentlemen who collect knives and swords and the like. I’ve known Nick for a couple of years. I’ll go and have a word with him.”

  “Excellent, Harry. The sooner the better, I’m thinking. Our Inspector Bellamy is not long on patience, it would seem.”

  I set out right away, eschewing an omnibus and hailing a hansom. I was lucky in finding Nicholas in his shop when I got there. His was an establishment on Ludgate Hill and the corner of Creed Lane, with a small entrance on the Hill.

  “Young Harry Rivers!” cried Nick, when I entered. He always referred to me as “young” Harry Rivers, even though he was no more than a year older than myself. “What brings you to this part of the world?”

  He was polishing a fine-looking saber that, to judge by its crested hilt, belonged to an officer of Her Majesty’s Household Cavalry.

  “I have a question for you, Nick,” I said, unfastening the leather pouch I had brought with me and extracting the deemed murder weapon. “Have you seen this dagger before?” I placed it carefully on the table in front of him.

  Nicholas laid down the saber and peered at the knife. He slowly nodded his head, taking his time looking at it in situ before picking it up.

  “Oh yes, Harry. Where did you get this? I haven’t seen it for a few days, but yes, it has been in my establishment before.”

  “Did you sharpen it?”

  Again he nodded. “Not simple, curved as it is. Too easy to end up with a series of short, straight sections instead of following the smooth curve of the blade. And that’s Toledo steel, Harry. Not one of your cheap Birmingham blades or something picked up in Houndsditch Market or over on Cheapside. No! That’s quality, Harry, or I wouldn’t have touched it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “I know it, Nick,” I said, mollifying him. “That’s why I came to you. Now the thing is, who was it that had you work this for them? This is important.”

  He looked hard at me, and I think he saw the resolution in my eyes. “As I recall, it was brought in and later picked up by a young boy—street arab. But I should have a note of the owner. Just a moment.”

  He turned to a shelf of thick ledgers and pulled down the end one. He flicked back the pages and then suddenly stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. A frown had creased his brow, and he turned a page or two back and forth.

  “That’s strange! Some deviltry! Someone has torn out a page from my account book!”

  * * *

  “So that was something of a dead end,” said Stoker, when I reported back.

  He had just finished his Indian clubs exercise regimen and was standing the heavy objects in the corner. I was happy that I hadn’t arrived any sooner. Mr. Stoker whirling clubs about his person always unsettled me. I had visions of him losing his grip and allowing one of them to go flying off through the air to land I knew not where.

  “So far as tracing the person who had it sharpened, yes,” I said. “Though Nick said he would keep an eye out and see if he could spot the street urchin who brought it to him.”

  My boss nodded, pursing his lips and squinting up at the overhead gas mantle. “Harry, it may be as well to acknowledge to Inspector Bellamy that this was somehow stolen from the Guv’nor’s dressing room. At least we may then have it returned to him. I’m sure that even Scotland Yard would not entertain the possibility that Mr. Henry Irving slew one of his own actresses.”

  “You don’t think Bellamy might view it as a terrible accident that we were trying to hide?” I suggested.

  “Possibly.” His auburn head nodded up and down. “But I think we can dissuade him from that line of thinking.”

  “So what is our next move, sir?”

  “We obviously need to find who murdered Miss Burton and their objective in doing so. And we also need to discover why—if such be the case—they are trying to implicate the Guv’nor, if that is in fact their intention.”

  “The cast and crew have been talking of nothing but the murder since it happened,” I said. “John Saxon is of the opinion that the killing of Miss Burton is somehow linked to that recent report about Reginald Robertson’s regrettable comments. John, Anthony Sampson, and Guy Purdy see it all as part of a plot by Robertson to destroy the reputation of the Lyceum and of the Guv’nor in particular.”

  “Yes, well we both know how much thought John Saxon puts into anything, don’t we, Harry? If it’s not wearing a skirt then his mind won’t focus on it for more than ten minutes. And as for Tony Sampson and Purdy, w
ell, they are two of a kind and we both know what kind that is.”

  I had to admit that what he said was true. Messieurs Sampson and Purdy were “very close friends,” as Miss Connelly phrased it, and were easily led by the masculine energy of John Saxon.

  “But is there any possibility of Reginald Robertson actually being involved, sir?” I asked.

  Stoker thought for a moment. “I rather doubt it, Harry. He’s busy with his troupe up in Oxford. It’s one thing to make contemptible remarks to the newspapers but quite another to actually put words into actions, especially when immersed in a theatrical production of his own.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, though I was not entirely convinced. After all, Oxford was only two and a half hours away by the Great Western Railway.

  * * *

  Two days later Inspector Bellamy visited again, to see what progress we had made on the murder weapon. Mr. Stoker told him of the dead end we had reached on following the blade-sharpening route and then acknowledged that the knife did in fact belong to Mr. Henry Irving. He convinced the policeman that the weapon, as a theatrical prop, had long been discarded and forgotten about and that Mr. Irving was as surprised as we were to find it suddenly turn up under such disconcerting circumstances. The inspector, after much hemming and hawing, accepted that no one at the Lyceum seemed to be involved in the actual murder, though he did insist on retaining the knife for the time being, as part of the ongoing police investigation.

  “This spurned boyfriend of the victim would seem to merit further investigation,” said Bellamy, as he hovered in the doorway of Stoker’s office. “Young Mr. Ben Gossett seems to have disappeared. We did find where he had taken rooms, but he has subsequently fled them—also leaving his unpaid account—and gone off without providing a forwarding address. Not an encouraging sign, we would say, sir.”