Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  He nodded. “I understand. All right.” He reached behind him and lifted a pile of dusty scripts to reveal the witchcraft book secreted underneath. He placed it in the center of the desk. “Now have a look here, Harry. I’ve been through this grimoire, and there are some very interesting items contained in it.”

  I scurried around to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder as he opened the book. He had slipped Hamlet playbills into the volume at various points to mark pages. He opened at the first of these.

  “See the figure, Harry? Crudely drawn, I grant you, but accurate nonetheless.”

  I looked down at the figure, not really knowing what I was studying. I could see that it was much like one of the chalk designs found at both Nell Burton’s murder site and at Elizabeth Scott’s.

  “Exactly what is it, sir? What does it mean?”

  “It is the sigil for Belial, a king in the hierarchy of demons as recorded by Fromenteau in the early sixteenth century. Belial is second only in importance to Lucifer himself. According to Fromenteau, Belial can bring about promotions of all sorts, but . . .” He paused dramatically. “But he does demand sacrifices be made to him.”

  I was silent for a moment, trying to absorb what he said.

  “Can you explain a little about this, sir?” I asked. “I’ve heard of Lucifer, of course, but this Belial. Who is he, exactly? What’s this all about?”

  Stoker waved me to take a chair. “Of course, Harry. I’m sorry. I was forgetting you know nothing of ceremonial magic. Let me explain.” He settled back in his seat and gazed up at the ceiling for a moment before starting to speak. I could imagine him lecturing at a college, though he did occasionally look directly at me when making a point.

  “As I told you shortly after we found the site of Miss Burton’s demise, magicians—true magicians—would, in the Middle Ages, conjure perceived spirits in order to bring about what they desired. They conducted elaborate rituals that had to be performed with care. Generally, they were for such mundane things as acquiring knowledge of herbs, speaking in tongues, fortifying buildings, or revealing buried treasure. But on occasion an especially ambitious follower of this Art Magical would reach out in a major rite to bring about such an audacious act as would demand, from the spirit concerned, a sacrifice . . . animal or even human.”

  I gulped. I remembered Mr. Stoker implying this when we found Nell Burton’s body, but it hadn’t really sunk in at that time.

  “So, the magician would be trying to get something specific, but in order to bribe the spirit he would have to kill someone?” I said.

  “Precisely, Harry. And I like the word ‘bribe.’ That is exactly what it was.”

  “And you think that Reginald Robertson was behind these two murders?”

  “I find it interesting that Mr. Robertson is trying to establish himself as the premier Shakespearean actor in these British Isles, and now here we find that he holds a book containing the magical rites that could lead him to accomplish that, regardless of his actual competence on the stage.”

  I gasped. “So Reginald Robertson murdered Nell and Liz Scott!”

  Stoker was silent for a very long time. Then he said, “No. I don’t think that he did. I think that was beyond his amateur attempts. I think there is someone much cleverer and very much more dangerous behind those deaths.”

  He got up and moved toward his Indian clubs. Time for his workout, I thought. I beat a hasty retreat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I had spent much of Monday trying to get my mind around the idea of people performing elaborate rituals to bring about the appearance of demons and entities of various kinds, most of which, it seemed to me, were thoroughly unwholesome. Mr. Stoker pointed out how dangerous the practice was, and the fact that many a would-be ceremonial magician had ended up in Southwark at Bethlem Hospital, better known as Bedlam, or at the more recently established Colney Hatch asylum.

  “One wrong move, one incorrect intonation, and the demon can swoop in and seize the very reason of the would-be conjurer,” Stoker had said. “Yet such are the promised rewards of this odious practice that there is no lack of those who would attempt it.”

  To my mind, no magical carrot would ever tempt me into the insane asylum. My head was buzzing around these ideas when I entered my office Tuesday morning to find Miss Edwina Abbott awaiting me. As always, she was clutching her precious tarot cards.

  “Yes, Miss Abbott?” I said.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Rivers, but there is something that I think you ought to know about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, it’s not really my place . . .”

  “Miss Abbott! What is it?”

  “It’s that person as Mr. Irving had us take into our crowd scenes. Mr. Hartzman.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, sir, it’s difficult to put a finger on it . . .”

  “Try, Edwina.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Rivers. Well, he seems to stir things up, if’n you know what I mean.”

  “Stir things up?”

  “Yes, sir. The greenroom used to be a nice place where we could all relax a bit between scenes, but now it seems there’s always arguments going on there. Mr. Hartzman is forever criticizing Mr. Irving and the way he acts; and I mean, him being the Guv’nor and all . . .”

  “But surely no one listens to him, do they?”

  “Well, sir, I’d like to say not, but there’s a few of the new ones—who just came in for Hamlet and as wasn’t in the Lyceum for other productions—well, some of them certainly listen to him.”

  She looked anxious, as though uncertain whether or not she should have said anything at all.

  What was going on? Was this just some petty little squabble among the extras? There would be no good reason for the colonel to knowingly bring a miscreant into the Lyceum. It was not for me to question the Guv’nor’s arrangements, nor even to look askance at the colonel’s employees, but I did have concern for the Lyceum cast and crew. A happy theatre means a successful production. A successful production means profits for the Lyceum. Profits for the Lyceum bespeak a happy theatre. It was a continuous circle. I would brook no interference from outsiders.

  “Thank you for letting me know, Miss Abbott. I will take it from here. I will ask Mr. Stoker to have a word or two with the person concerned.”

  “Should I do anything, Mr. Rivers?”

  “Just keep an ear open, if you would, please? If there should be anything that seems truly out of line, that is showing it might cause a real disruption of the production, then let me know right away. I will appreciate it, Miss Abbott.”

  * * *

  Intermittently since 1705 there had been a so-called Beefsteak Club in London. The first of these had been started by an actor, Richard Estcourt, championing beef. It had developed into a very private club where the members—mainly actors plus a few politicians—wore a uniform of blue coat and buff waistcoat with brass buttons. The buttons bore the symbol of the club, a gridiron motif, which was also found on their cuff links. The steaks were served on hot pewter plates, together with baked potatoes and onions. Porter and port were served, as was toasted cheese. Nothing else was offered. After eating, the table—one long table at which all guests sat—was cleared and the evening given over to revelry.

  After a checkered existence, the Beefsteak Club had finally disbanded in 1867, but Mr. Irving had decided to revive it just a year or so ago. It met sporadically, usually late in the evening after a Lyceum performance. Mr. Stoker was an enthusiastic member, and he had even been instrumental in inviting myself as a guest on occasion. I had always enjoyed the excellent steaks served, not to mention the porter.

  Today my boss informed me that there was to be a Beefsteak Club that very evening and that he would take me along as his guest. The occasion was to make Mr. Edwin Booth a member of the club. I
suspected that Colonel Cornell would also be inducted. As a guest it meant that I did not have to wear the blue jacket uniform as all the regular members did. Such a jacket would be presented to Mr. Booth as part of his initiation.

  The room was one that had been used for such club meetings for many years, when the original Beefsteak Club was still in existence. It was part of the Lyceum Theatre, though tucked away at the back where it had some privacy. The room had its own kitchen, of course, and Mr. Irving’s personal cook prepared the meal. When I was told of the evening’s activity I took the opportunity to pass along Miss Abbott’s concerns to my boss.

  “We have a useful young lady there, Harry,” he said. “It’s good to have someone watching out for the Lyceum’s interests like that.”

  I agreed. “So, what are you going to do, sir?” I seldom questioned him on his intentions, but I was curious as to exactly what could be done.

  “It’s a delicate situation, Harry. As you know, the Guv’nor agreed to this arrangement in return for the colonel’s coaching in matters to do with the Freemasons. I hate to upset any balance there may be. And of course, it could just be Miss Abbott’s overactive imagination. You know how extras can get into mischief when they are confined in the greenroom overlong.”

  “She did seem very credible,” I said. “And apparently she was not alone in her feelings about what was ensuing.”

  Stoker nodded his head. “I understand that, Harry. No, I’m not trying to evade the issue. I think that tonight’s meeting of the Beefsteak Club might be an ideal time to speak to the Guv’nor about this issue . . . if I can find the right moment. I’ll see if I can’t get some sort of an adjustment or at the very least get his blessing on me speaking to the man directly, without slighting the colonel.”

  I was content to leave it in Mr. Stoker’s capable hands and went on about my business for the rest of the day. It has been said that the lot of a theatre stage manager is never a dull one. So it turned out to be this day.

  The Tuesday performance is usually relatively quiet. The house is invariably about three-quarters full, whereas we have full houses for the rest of the week. Exactly why that is, I don’t know. This evening the play got off to a solid start, and audience reaction seemed to be good. I made a point of passing by the greenroom as often as I could, but all seemed quiet there.

  It was as Act Three got under way that I became aware of a problem near the stage door. I hurried back to find Bill Thomas arguing with someone. Bill is not a big man, but he is quite capable of keeping any riffraff out of the theatre. I found him out of his cubicle and standing glaring down at a slight figure in front of him who seemed intent on moving into the main part of the theatre. I started forward and then stopped short.

  “Welly?”

  The short figure’s head jerked up, and he wheeled around to face me. It was my old friend Cuthbert Wellington, from the Oxford Grand Theatre. His grizzled face broke out in a wide-toothed grin.

  “Harry!”

  “It’s all right, Bill,” I said. “I know this gentleman.”

  Bill grumbled and growled and muttered something about people being more polite if they wished for cooperation, then he returned to his seat and his Sporting Times.

  “Come back to my office, Welly,” I said. “We can talk quietly there, yet I can still keep an eye open on what’s happening onstage.”

  When we were safely settled I asked the one question that was uppermost in my mind. “Is everything all right, Welly? Has anything happened to young Rufus?”

  The hunchback’s face grew grim. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Harry. Aye, it’s the boy I’ve come about. I wouldn’t bother you for the world—I know you’ve got your own theatre to run—but I’m afeard that something bad has befallen him.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It were the day after you left.” Welly’s big face was lined, his eyes wide and red rimmed. “Mr. Robertson was in a foul mood. It seems he’d lost his precious book; his grandmother’s one.” He looked at me intently. “You know the one I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me, Harry, did the boy steal it and give it to you?”

  What could I say? Again I nodded. “He did, Welly. He thrust it into my hands just as the train was pulling out. I didn’t realize what it was that he had given me until after I had left Oxford and was on my way back here. I would never have let him give it to me if I’d known.”

  “I’m sure.” He gave a long sigh. “The boy has a mind of his own.” He shifted in his chair and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Oh, I don’t doubt that the wretched book is in far better hands with you than it was with Mr. Robertson. But that doesn’t help young Rufus.”

  I sat forward in my seat. “Tell me, Welly. What has happened? Is he all right?”

  “Somehow I don’t think he is, Harry. And it sure grieves me. Robertson stormed about the Grand for an hour or more—he has a fearful temper—but he seemed to suspect Rufus from the start. He nearly grabbed the boy at one point, but Rufus darted away under his very arms and skipped out of the theatre. We haven’t seen him since.”

  “But he could be safe, couldn’t he?”

  The hunchback looked even more miserable and again slowly shook his head, scratching at his wispy beard. “The next morning Mr. Robertson came into the theatre still mad, but saying that at least he’d seen to it that ‘the wretched arab’ wouldn’t be any more trouble. I asked him what he meant by that, and he said, ‘Don’t think no more about it, Welly. Just don’t go expecting your young friend to show up here again . . . or anywhere, for that matter.’ It gave me the creeps.”

  My heart skipped a beat. It did indeed sound as though Robertson has done some mischief when it came to Rufus.

  “I was wondering . . .” Welly looked hopeful. “I mean, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Harry. More so than me, I don’t mind saying. Is there any chance . . . ? I mean, if you could just come up to Oxford again for a quick visit, like? I’m sure it wouldn’t take long for you to find out exactly what has happened to Rufus.”

  His eyes were so pleading, as was his whole face, that I could say only one thing.

  “Of course, Welly. Of course. I’ll have a word with Mr. Stoker this evening. We have to go to a special meeting after the house closes. I’ll have a word with him then. I’m sure there will be no problem.”

  “Oh, thank you, Harry. You’ve no idea what a relief that is.”

  I held up a hand. “I’ve done nothing yet, Welly. Save any thanks for finding the boy safe and well. Now . . . you have somewhere to stay?”

  “A rooming house down the road. Don’t you worry about me none.”

  “Then I’d suggest you go back there and get what rest you can. You may not get much more for a while. We’ll meet up tomorrow morning and get on Rufus’s trail.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was going to be a late night. Not that this was anything new. I frequently spent uncounted time after a performance checking props, making notes for discussion with Mr. Stoker the next morning, and even helping Sam Green repair and paint a piece of scenery that had been damaged during the play. But tonight was different. As I struggled into a clean shirt and impaled a stiff white collar onto the back stud, I almost salivated thinking of the rich steaks that would be served at the Beefsteak dinner. I did not have a lot of time. Both Mr. Stoker and the Guv’nor had the luxury of changing into their blue coats and buff waistcoats in Mr. Irving’s dressing room. I had to rush back to my rooms on Chancery Lane, to make myself presentable.

  I did not actually own evening dress. It was expensive, and in my case, it was seldom that it was called for. So, as on previous occasions, I had “borrowed” the appropriate attire from the theatre’s wardrobe department. The majority of costumes there were Shakespearean, since that was Mr. Irving’s forte, but in the days when the Batemans owned the
Lyceum, Mr. Philius Pheebes-Watson had presented a disastrous production of Hamlet in our modern-day dress. It was booed off the stage and attacked by the press as being “anti-English.” A number of those “costumes” remained in our wardrobe department, and I felt it my duty to give them the occasional airing. I fixed my cravat, slipped into my frock coat, and hurried down the stairs, eschewing a topcoat despite the briskness of the evening.

  I was relieved to find that I was not the last to arrive in the oak-paneled Beefsteak Room. It was usually a small, select group, but this evening it seemed that every seat would be taken at the long table. I immediately recognized the prime minister, Mr. William Ewart Gladstone, who was an old friend and admirer of the Guv’nor’s. Mr. Gladstone was in his second ministry. He also served as chancellor of the exchequer (this being his fourth time in that position). One or two others of his cabinet I recognized, though I was not familiar with them all. Sir William Harcourt, the home secretary, was often pictured in the newspapers, as was the Earl of Northbrook, the First Lord of the Admiralty. Someone pointed out Lord Glenmont, a crossbencher from the House of Lords.

  I was surprised to see Philius Pheebes-Watson, from Sadler’s Wells, in attendance. He is now the lead actor at that theatre and has long been a rival of the Guv’nor’s. There had been quite a tussle between the two theatres little more than a month ago when it was thought that someone from Sadler’s Wells had tried to poison Mr. Irving. Apparently all was now forgiven, though I doubt forgotten.

  Our own Anthony Sampson, John Saxon, Guy Purdy, and Arthur Swindon were huddled together in a corner, awaiting the call to be seated. I was surprised to see Swindon there since he had quite a reputation as an imbiber of alcohol. I seemed to remember Mr. Stoker intimating that the man would not be allowed to attend any further Beefsteak Club meetings after his performance at the last dinner. At that time he insulted a veteran actor visiting from Edinburgh and managed to fall over the prime minister’s legs. It was a meeting that I had not attended. I noted that Swindon already had a tankard in his hand, which he was waving about as he spoke with his three cohorts.