“The Germans refer to this coming date as Walpurgisnacht,” said Stoker. “Some consider it the most important of the dates, on a par with our All Hallows’. Incidentally, the very first meeting of the original Hellfire Club was held at Sir Francis’s home in West Wycombe on Walpurgisnacht 1752.”
“Have you apprised Inspector Bellamy?” I asked.
Stoker seemed to shake himself and moved back to his desk, sitting and shuffling papers on its surface.
“I somehow doubt that our good inspector would take a great deal of notice until the dreadful deed has been done. No, Harry. I think it will be up to us.”
“You said that I had revealed a clue, sir?”
“Ah yes, Harry. Indeed you have, and I am grateful to you. In your notes on the Liverpool murder, you mention—and show in your meticulous drawings—that there was a particular word written in chalk at the top of the stairs, where one enters the ritual area. That word was ‘primus.’”
His meaning was no clearer. “Sir?”
“Latin for ‘first,’ Harry. Now—was there not a word written at the top of the steps into Miss Burton’s ritual area?”
“Er—I believe so, sir, but don’t ask me what it was.”
“It was ‘medius,’ Harry. Meaning ‘midway.’”
“Midway?” There I was echoing him again.
“Midway. So if we have a ‘first’ and then a ‘midway,’ must we not later come to a ‘last’? Confirmation, I think, of my supposition that there will be three such sacrifices.”
It seemed to make sense, as did all my boss’s suggestions.
“I had wondered about that word ‘medius,’ at our site,” Stoker continued. “To write ‘midway’ at the top of the stairs did not seem to make a lot of sense by itself. Now it does.”
I frowned. “But . . . if there’s to be a third murder, we don’t know who might be involved; what other young lady will be threatened. We don’t even know whereabouts in the whole country the group will act.”
He threw a glance at me. “You are catching on, Harry. But that doesn’t mean we can ignore it, does it?”
“No! No, of course not, sir.”
He directed his attention to his papers, and I rose, realizing that the interview was over. I left and returned to my office feeling far from happy.
* * *
Wednesday morning’s Era sported another headline proclaiming Reginald Robertson’s belief that he was the Crown Prince of Shakespearean theatre in Great Britain and that all “pretenders”—obviously alluding to Henry Irving—should run into the wings of their respective theatres never to reemerge. Unfortunately, at the foot of the same page there was a brief review of Robertson’s Coriolanus suggesting it was underrehearsed, poorly staged, and lacking any sparkle of creativity.
* * *
“Henry is determined. He has made up his mind.”
It was Miss Ellen Terry’s dulcet tones that broke into my thoughts later that day. I had been through the properties room and inventoried items that would be required for the upcoming Othello production. Some things needed to be painted or repaired, and one or two I felt should be replaced. It was a long time since we had last done this favorite of the Shakespearean repertoire, but most of the props were still to hand.
“Then there’s nothing anyone can do or say, it seems to me.”
I recognized the second voice as that of Miss Margaret Grey. Currently playing Queen Gertrude in Hamlet, Meg Grey spent a great deal of time trying to convince the Guv’nor that she should be considered for younger roles. Neither he nor anyone else could see her so cast. Word was that she would play Emilia, wife of Iago, in Othello, though almost certainly she would prefer to be Bianca. Miss Terry would, of course, play Desdemona.
“I really can’t see the point,” continued Miss Terry. “Oh, I know that most of the notable gentlemen—‘anyone who is anyone,’ as Henry puts it—are Freemasons, but one wonders why.”
Just then I came out of the properties room to find the two ladies standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the star dressing rooms.
“Ah! Mr. Rivers,” cried Miss Terry. “The very person, I do believe. You have a firm grasp on most things, or so Henry believes.”
I was pleased to hear of the Guv’nor’s view of me but was somewhat trepidatious as to what knowledge I was about to be asked to divulge.
“Tell me,” she continued, “what is the point of Freemasonry? Oh, I know it’s a nice excuse for the men to get away without female attachments on occasion, but surely there must be more to it than that? I would have thought that Henry would have enjoyed a break from the theatre, but is not this Freemasonry all ritual and stagelike presentation?”
“You must excuse me, Ellen,” put in Miss Grey. “I have a costume adjustment I need to pursue with Miss Connelly. I will leave you in Mr. Rivers’s capable hands, my dear.” So saying, she scurried away.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t know that I’m the best person to elaborate on this, Miss Terry,” I began. “Needless to say, Mr. Stoker is far more informed than am I. But . . .”
“Are you yourself a Mason?” she asked.
“Er, no. No, I am not. But . . .”
“Is Mr. Stoker?”
“I’m not really sure. He certainly is . . .”
“Take me to him, please. I believe in going directly to the source. If you want to know something then . . .”
“He may not be in his office,” I interjected. “I know he has a lot to do before curtain-up tonight.”
Miss Terry smiled as she advanced on me. “I admire your loyalty to Abraham, and your attempt, feeble as it is, to protect him from the ramblings of a madwoman, Harry, but I am determined. Lead on.”
It was not often that Miss Ellen Terry called me by my first name. I felt myself blush and turned to lead her to my boss’s office, hoping that the redness I felt on my face did not extend around to the back of my neck.
“Welcome, welcome!” cried Bram Stoker, when we arrived in his office. “Always such a pleasure to see you, Miss Terry.”
He hurried around to arrange a chair close to his own, beside the desk. To my surprise he produced a cushion for the hard wooden seat and placed it for the actress’s comfort. A cushion! I was astounded. I had never seen one in his office before. He certainly never offered me one! From whence it came I had no idea.
“Harry, make yourself useful and see if Bill can produce a pot of tea for us.”
“You are sweet, Abraham.” Miss Terry sank down onto the plump cushion, and I went out to find Bill Thomas.
I couldn’t help thinking of how Mr. Stoker always seemed to charm the ladies. Perhaps it was something to do with his Irishness? As I understood it, he had snatched his wife, then Florence Balcombe, away from her former suitor, Mr. Oscar Wilde. Florence was a great beauty, and Stoker and Wilde, who had been college students together, had vied for her hand for some time before Bram Stoker won the day. Mr. Wilde had been upset by Florence’s decision but apparently had finally accepted it with good grace. Yes, I reflected, there was a great deal more to Mr. Abraham Stoker than was visible on the surface. I chuckled to myself as I watched Bill brew up the pot of tea, and I bore the tray back to my boss’s office with a smile on my face.
“So, it is like a fraternity of older, generally successful gentlemen who meet together to act out ancient magical rituals?”
Miss Ellen Terry was, apparently, summing up Mr. Stoker’s explanations.
“More or less, yes,” agreed my boss. I felt that he was trying to appease the lady without going too deeply into greatly detailed explanations.
“How do you know of these rituals if you are not yourself of this fraternity, Abraham?”
Stoker gave one of his deep sighs and, opening a drawer in a cabinet behind him, pulled out a small blue clothbound book. He placed it on the desktop, turning it so that
Miss Terry might read the title.
“Freemasonry Exposed by Capt. Wm. Morgan,” she read. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised.
“It was privately printed some fifty-odd years ago. There are virtually no copies of it still available; I just happen to have one of the only ones to be found.”
Just happen to? It was my turn to look at him, but his eyes were on the book.
“Explain yourself, Abraham.”
“When a person becomes a Freemason,” he said, looking her full in the face, “he takes an Oath of Secrecy; a promise to keep the confidences of the organization. This is not uncommon with the majority of secret societies and extends back to the days of the mystery religions of ancient times.”
Miss Terry nodded. “So I understand. Go on, please.”
“The penalty for breaking this oath can be very severe. In fact, the penalty for the Freemasons is spelled out. The ‘Entered Apprentice,’ as he is termed, at his initiation will declare that he is ‘binding myself under no less penalty than to have my throat cut across, my tongue torn out by the roots, and my body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low water-mark, where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours,’ if he should break his oath.”
“My Good Lord,” murmured Miss Terry, her hand going to her heart. I joined her in the sentiment.
“Unfortunately,” continued Stoker, “our Captain Morgan—filled with the excitement of his newfound fraternity—desired to share his wonderful knowledge with one and all. He therefore produced the book you see here, detailing all of the secrets of the Freemasons. To pay for his perceived sins, on the eleventh day of September 1826, he was kidnapped and carried away from the village of Batavia—in America’s New York State, I believe—by a number of fellow Freemasons and cruelly murdered. All known copies of his book were gathered up and destroyed.”
“All except this copy?”
Stoker smiled. “There may be just one or two others somewhere, but they would be very difficult to locate.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “But, ‘may my throat be cut across,’ or whatever the words you said, is that not reminiscent of the murders of our Miss Burton and Liverpool’s Miss Scott?”
“Indeed it is, Harry,” agreed Stoker. “However, the major difference is that they were both of the female gender, and Freemasonry is only available to the male of the species. The ritual nature of their murders is certainly reminiscent, as you say, but I can see no direct connection.”
“So this is the sort of company into which Henry Irving is wanting to insert himself?” Miss Terry sounded alarmed. “Are you going to permit that, Abraham?”
Stoker shrugged. “Regrettably, Miss Terry, I have no influence over the Guv’nor one way or the other. If he has made up his mind then there is nothing I, or anyone else, can do about it. However . . .” He gave another of his calculated dramatic pauses. “I would assure you that the Brotherhood of Freemasons, with the exception of the Captain Morgan incident a half century ago, has an exemplary record, encompassing virtually all of the leading figures of today’s society, not least being the prime minister himself, Mr. William Ewart Gladstone.”
Miss Terry sniffed in a most unladylike manner. “That gives me small consolation,” she said.
Chapter Nine
“I don’t know what has happened to Billy Weston,” I said to my boss just before Wednesday’s matinee performance. “I had told him you felt that he should take off some time, after what happened to his young lady, but he had decided to work through it. He said it was better if he kept his mind busy.”
Stoker nodded. “Quite right. That is exactly what I would have done. So what do you mean, you don’t know what has happened to him, Harry?”
“Just that, sir,” I said. “He didn’t come into the theatre for Monday night’s performance, and there’s been no sign of him yesterday or today.”
Stoker was in a hurry to get to an appointment and had no time to dwell on it. He left the matter in my hands, saying that he had every confidence that I’d find the young man and set him to rights. I wish I had as much trust in myself as he seemed to have in me.
None of the backstage staff seemed to know anything, except that Billy had left them shorthanded. I checked with everyone. It was old Rupert Melville, the scene painter, who gave me my first clue. We were both in the Druid’s Head, taking a quick lunch.
“Billy Weston? After the Saturday matinee I saw him duck out,” Rupert said.
“You mean he wasn’t around for the Saturday evening performance?” I asked. I had not noticed the absence, but it helped explain the annoyance of the other stagehands; there was always plenty to do backstage.
“Reckon not, Harry.” The scene painter tucked into a large helping of shepherd’s pie.
“He should have reported to Mr. Stoker or myself if he was going to be away for even one performance,” I said, not a little annoyed that I had overlooked his absence. “If he missed Saturday evening and then hasn’t been here since, I wonder if he was at his digs at all over the weekend?”
“He’s a good lad. Not one to avoid his responsibilities. But I do recall overhearing him talking to some street arab at the stage door right after the final curtain of the Saturday matinee. I think he was being given some sort of information he’d been waiting for, and he wasn’t too happy about it.”
“What do you mean? What sort of information?” I asked.
Rupert shrugged. “I don’t know. I assumed he’d paid the street urchin to find out something for him and he was getting what he’d asked for. As I say, it wasn’t something that cheered him up at all.”
“Did you hear him say anything?” I quizzed. “Any clue of any sort? Think back, Rupert. After what happened to Nell Burton I think it’s important we check on anybody going missing for any length of time.”
Rupert put down his knife and fork and stroked his grizzled chin. He always looked as though he was in the process of growing a beard, but in the two or three years I had known him it had never fully materialized. His long, stringy hair was a dirty brown color, but the whiskers on his lower jaw were distinctly white. His tall, skinny frame did little to present his well-worn clothes, but I knew he had an active mind, and as an artist, he paid wonderful attention to detail of all sorts.
“He was talking more to himself than to the street arab, it seemed to me. Said something about ‘that damned’—pardon my French, Harry—‘that damned Ben Gossett.’ I think that was the name. Said something about ‘getting him’ and ‘making him pay for what he did.’ Any of that make any sense, Harry?”
He looked at me through red-rimmed eyes, his eyebrows raised as though in surprise.
I felt suddenly uneasy. “Yes. Yes, Rupert. I think it does.” I got to my feet, leaving my pork pie and half-drunk porter on the table. “Thank you. Thanks a lot. I must go.”
I hurried back to the theatre.
Billy had said something about Ben Gossett claiming that if he couldn’t have Nell then no one could. It seemed highly likely that Billy was taking that as evidence that Gossett was responsible for Nell’s murder—something Mr. Stoker and I did not believe. My boss was convinced that the murder showed far too much sophistication to be the hasty action of a spurned adolescent. But if Billy believed it strongly enough, he might well do something he would live to regret. I had to find him and stop him. The life of a simple stage manager was never truly simple, I was coming to realize. I sighed and headed for Scotland Yard.
* * *
“Ben Gossett,” said Inspector Bellamy, his mug of tea halfway up to his mouth. I waited till he had taken a mouthful, cursed the fact that it was almost cold, and then drunk half the mug.
“You said that you had learned that he’d fled his lodgings, bill unpaid, and disappeared. Have you done any further investigation on him, Inspector?” I asked.
Bellamy set down the mug and leaned forward
, peering into it as though he might learn the reason for its lack of warmth. He looked up again, almost as though seeing me for the first time.
“Mr. Rivers.” He sat back and contemplated me. I began to grow impatient.
“One of our young stagehands—the one who was walking out with Nell Burton, the murdered girl—has now gone missing,” I said. “I am a little concerned.”
The policeman got to his feet and crossed to a set of shelves at the rear wall of his office. He moved aside some papers and dragged out a file, bringing it back to his desk.
“Your theatre certainly keeps us on our toes, Mr. Rivers, does it not? You could almost believe that we exist only for your entertainment, rather than the other way around.”
He grunted, and I couldn’t tell if it was an attempt at a laugh at his own joke or if it was a sound of annoyance and frustration. I had a feeling it was the latter.
“Another missing person is a reason for concern, I would have thought,” I said, forcefully. “Even for the likes of Scotland—”
He held up his hand as though stopping traffic in Westminster Square. “Grant us some ability, Mr. Rivers. We are sure you are adept at your profession, so please return the compliment where police work is concerned. Your view of the police is largely shaped by the presentations of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan a year or so ago, but . . .”
It was my turn to interrupt. “The Lyceum does not indulge in musical farce, Inspector. Mr. Irving’s company presents the works of the Bard. Whether or not a policeman’s lot is or is not a happy one is of no concern of ours.” It seemed that the popular comic opera, performed so successfully about London, had hit a sore spot where the Metropolitan Police were concerned. “May we stay focused on the mysteries at hand and especially on this latest disappearance? I am trying to locate our young Billy Weston before he becomes another statistic in your files. I suspect that he has gone chasing after Ben Gossett with a view to doing him harm.”
Dead for a Spell Page 10
