Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  “Ah! There you are, Harry.”

  Mr. Stoker materialized out of the throng surrounding the Guv’nor and Mr. Booth. I couldn’t see the colonel but had no doubt that he was in attendance.

  “Quite a gathering this evening,” Mr. Stoker continued.

  “Yes, sir. Distinguished company, as always,” I replied.

  At that moment Mr. Irving called the room to order and invited all—members and guests—to be seated at “the long table.” There was a more or less orderly movement, though I noticed that Messrs. Sampson, Saxon, Purdy, and Swindon managed to be the first to sit. Happily they took seats at the far end and did not try to impinge upon the members and honored guests who habitually sat in the center area.

  I recognized two waiters from Romano’s, who had obviously been hired for the occasion, hovering in the background, waiting to start serving when given the cue by the Guv’nor. Not that I was ever able to dine at Romano’s, but on more than one occasion I had been directed by my boss to deliver a note to Mr. Irving, who was there, reminding him of an approaching curtain time.

  I found myself seated across from Mr. Stoker, who sat to the left of the prime minister. The PM, in turn, sat beside Mr. Irving with Mr. Booth on the Guv’nor’s right. I saw that the colonel was on my side of the table, opposite Mr. Booth, with the Earl of Northbrook facing Mr. Irving. I was between Sir William Harcourt (seated beside the earl) and Philius Pheebes-Watson.

  The aroma from the chateaubriand, baked potatoes, and onions was mouthwatering. The steak was to be served with a reduced sauce made from white wine and shallots, moistened with demi-glace and mixed with butter, tarragon, and lemon juice. I understood that originally the Beefsteak Club’s steaks were plain and unadorned, but Mr. Irving’s cook had recently started taking liberties, and no one had complained. I couldn’t wait for the speech making and inductions to be over so that we could eat. But, catching my boss’s eye, I tried to contain myself.

  “When Captain James Cook sailed to the antipodes to observe the transit of Venus, he took with him a large number of casks of porter.”

  I swung around. It was Sir William Harcourt who had spoken. Although not looking directly at me, I presumed that the comment was addressed to me.

  “Really, sir? I didn’t know that.”

  He nodded sagely. “Porter is enjoyed around this globe of ours, thanks to such luminaries as Captain Cook.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Porter was certainly one of the most popular drinks, and I myself was no slouch when it came to disposing of it. I saw that the vast majority of those sitting at the table were quenching their thirst with the black beer. I was about to make some comment about the porter when Philius Pheebes-Watson stuck his head forward and spoke across me to Sir William.

  “I understand that porter is giving way to these newer ales. Milds and pale bitter ales. So I hear.” Pheebes-Watson’s Yorkshire accent was in stark contrast to the refined tones of Sir William Harcourt.

  Sir William turned his head and glared at the speaker. “Where did you hear that, might one ask?”

  Pheebes-Watson was taken aback. “Oh! There—there have been reports in the papers . . .”

  “I saw nothing in the Times.”

  Pheebes-Watson shrank back again. Obviously Sir William was not to be challenged on the subject of porter. I couldn’t help smiling. With a snort Sir William directed his ensuing conversation to the earl, sitting on his far side, completely ignoring Philius and myself.

  “Well, I think we now know where we stand with Sir William.” So saying, Philius Pheebes-Watson lifted his own tankard and drank.

  I was not too happy at being cut out of any further conversation with the home secretary. It meant I was stuck with Philius, though happily Mr. Irving came to his feet at that moment, and all thoughts of conversing were put out of my mind.

  “Gentlemen!”

  The Guv’nor’s “stage voice,” as I liked to call it, resonated around the relatively small room, and all conversation died.

  “Gentlemen, I welcome you here—members and visitors alike—to this our esteemed and historic Sublime Society of Beefsteaks. I venture to state that there is no other of its ilk in the whole of London, and we should feel ourselves blessed to be so intimately associated with it.”

  There were murmurs of approval, one or two mutterings of “Hear, hear!” by the politicians, and a general thumping of the table by several dozen pewter tankards of porter.

  The hint of a smile touched Mr. Irving’s lips. He nodded his appreciation.

  “At our regular meetings here we enjoy the gastronomic delights prepared by our Mr. Cooke . . .”

  Here he stopped and raised his glass—Mr. Irving was a port man rather than a porter aficionado—and all about the table did likewise with their glasses and tankards, acknowledging the somewhat red-faced, white-aproned figure of our chef.

  “. . . and we leave the verbal badinage until our appetites are sufficiently appeased,” continued the Guv’nor. He gave a dramatic pause before continuing, the table hanging on his words. “This evening, however, we reverse that order. I ask you to hold rein on your appetites, gentlemen, if only for a few precious moments. For tonight we have the privilege, nay the honor, if I may so state it, of welcoming into our midst a new member. If only by reputation he is known to us all—especially we of the theatrical fraternity—as a world-class thespian who has made his mark across the waters of the broad Atlantic Ocean. I refer, of course, to our honored guest, Mr. Edwin Booth.”

  Applause, supported by more banging of tankards on the table, broke out around the room. Led by Mr. Stoker, we all came to our feet and decorum swiftly gave way to shouts and whoops of glee, if nothing else attesting to the potency of porter.

  Mr. Booth himself, like all prominent thespians inured to such displays of approbation, stood and raised his own glass, turning first one way and then the other, inclining his head in acknowledgment and appreciation. As the applause died down and we again sat, the Guv’nor waved to Anthony Sampson and Guy Purdy, whom I saw now stood at the back of the room holding bundles of clothing. They moved forward, and I noticed that what they held were the buff waistcoats and blue jackets to be presented.

  “Along with Mr. Edwin Booth,” continued Mr. Irving, “I would like to welcome his manager, Colonel Wilberforce Cornell.” There was a smattering of applause. “Both gentlemen are this evening inducted into our ancient and esteemed brotherhood, the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks. Absit invidia. Gentlemen!”

  I felt hot breath at my ear. Philius’s hoarse voice whispered, “Absent what? What’s he talking about?”

  I was loath to take my eyes off the proceedings but whispered back, “Absit invidia. It’s Latin. It means ‘may discontent be absent.’ Or something like that.” I only knew that courtesy of Mr. Stoker. “Shh!”

  He sat back in his seat, grumbling about people not speaking English. I thought of his pronounced Yorkshire accent and smiled.

  Guy Purdy walked around the table to where the colonel sat, and then he and Anthony Sampson assisted the two guests of honor in exchanging their dinner jackets for the traditional buff waistcoats and blue jackets. When suitably adorned, they turned to face the Guv’nor.

  “Gentlemen, I bid you welcome. Know that any time you visit our fair city you are welcome to join with your brother Beefsteakers and partake of the best that London has to offer. As a token and official insignia—insofar as any of our mutual enjoyment may be official—I would like to present to you a set of gold cuff links, which you will see are emblazoned with the gridiron motif that we have adopted as our emblem. By mutual agreement with the owners of the Waldorf Hotel restaurant . . .” Here he acknowledged an elderly gentleman with bushy white eyebrows, who merrily waved his tankard and smiled around at everyone. “I may advise you that by the simple act of shooting your cuffs and displaying these links, you will experience
what many refer to as ‘the royal treatment’ at that esteemed establishment.”

  There were again loud cries of “Hear, hear!” and once again much banging of tankards.

  Messrs. Sampson and Purdy did the honors of delivering the cuff links, which I noticed were in beautiful silk-lined presentation boxes, to Mr. Booth and the colonel, who graciously accepted them and lost no time in installing them in their cuffs.

  “And now, without further ado, gentlemen, I think we have all worked up an appetite such that can only be abated with the introduction of our prestigious and—if I may wax poetical for a moment—almost apotheosized beefsteaks.”

  To shouts of glee, applause, and the inevitable table thumping by tankards, the waiters moved forward and began serving the meal for which we had waited so long. I ignored Philius Pheebes-Watson’s grumbling about the delay and the quality of service and concentrated on my enormous pewter plate, barely large enough to contain the magnificent chateaubriand and baked potato. There was a conspicuous pause in the conversation, the chatter replaced by the clink of knife and fork and the sound of tankards being repeatedly drained and refilled.

  I was aware of a wide grin spreading and setting on my face, as I gazed about me at the crowded table. Sir William Harcourt, the home secretary, nodded appreciatively and smiled at me, apparently forgetting and forgiving Pheebes-Watson’s earlier faux pas. All was serene, and I felt at peace.

  * * *

  The port and the porter flowed freely, and more extensively as the night wore on. Perhaps I should say the morning, for I knew we would be greeted by the rising sun when finally emerging from the back room of the Lyceum Theatre.

  With the meal over, the table was cleared and the participants, drinks in hand, rose and mingled freely. Those unable to rise sat and digested, imbibed more, or—in a few cases—slumped forward and rested their heads where their plates had been. I found myself chatting variously with an enthusiastic young actor down from Birmingham for a visit to “the big city”; a pale and painfully thin poet who couldn’t stop talking about the quality of the steak we had enjoyed; and the hard-of-hearing politician, Lord Glenmont, who spouted platitudes regarding the Anglo-Afghan War and the war against the Mahdi in Sudan (I thought I recognized several quotes from the prime minister himself but couldn’t be sure). I soon thereafter found myself fending off a loquacious scenery designer from the Drury Lane Theatre. He seemed to think that I might be able to help him gain employment at the Lyceum, despite my protestations that I had no part in any of the hiring.

  As I eventually thought about seeking my bed at Mrs. Bell’s establishment, I found myself in a corner with my back toward Colonel Cornell. He was talking, in his loud American voice, to a group of five or six bleary-eyed celebrants who seemed hypnotized by his accent. I delayed my departure if only to ascertain what information it was that he was imparting.

  “The fella’s a scoundrel! Back home we’d take him out and string him up!”

  Somebody whimpered while another man chortled.

  “If I had my shootin’ irons with me . . .” continued the colonel.

  “You have shooting irons—I mean guns?” asked the man who had chortled, in an unbelieving voice. He had the affected tone of an upper-class man who has limited time for “the little people.” I later learned that he was Clarence, son of the Duke of Oxstone.

  “Why sure! Two pearl-handled beauties. Forty-fives.”

  “B-but you don’t carry them around with you. I mean, are they not dangerous?” asked the timid one.

  The colonel decided to ignore him and went back to the meat of the discussion. “This Robertson fella needs putting in his place. He’s an upstart and an incompetent.”

  I pricked up my ears. Was he talking about Reginald Robertson? I wondered. His following words left me in no doubt.

  “The man’s a ham; an incompetent pretender! He couldn’t act his way out of a whorehouse in a mining town!”

  There was a collective gasp from his small audience.

  “Why, Mr. Booth could act rings around him with one hand tied behind his back.”

  “But surely . . .” began another man. The colonel cut him off.

  “And would you believe the methods he uses to get ahead of the herd?” His voice had dropped an octave, and I leaned inward to catch what he was saying. “The man is not above cutting down any who get in his way, if you follow me.” He looked around accusingly at the inebriated group of blue-jacketed Englishmen. I had turned slightly, the better to see and hear. What I saw was the colonel drawing a finger across his neck, in the time-honored gesture of slitting a throat. The timid man sat down heavily on the bench behind him, while the others drew closer together.

  I was surprised when Mr. Booth’s manager apparently recognized me. He pointed a finger at me. I couldn’t help noticing a slight shake to it; perhaps he had overindulged in the porter himself?

  “Mr. Barry—Larry—whatever, will bear me out. Won’t you, boy? This Robertson is up to no good, wouldn’t you say?”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “I—er—that is,” I spluttered. I had no wish to be brought into the conversation, yet here I was suddenly the center of attention. “Are you speaking of Mr. Reginald Robertson, of the Oxford Grand Theatre?” I asked, just to be sure.

  “None other.” He waited for me to continue.

  “Well . . . he has certainly made some ridiculous claims in the press. Unsubstantiated, I think we can safely say,” I contributed.

  “Pshaw!” A trace of spittle ejected from the colonel’s mouth and landed on the lapel of his closest listener, going unnoticed. “The man is a scoundrel, let’s make no bones about it. A scoundrel and worse!” His heavy eyebrows descended, and he swung his head from one side to the other, directing his dark scowl at all about him. “I am new to these shores, gentlemen, yet what I find here is not all that different from what I have seen in the dens of iniquity in my own country.”

  “Are you, then, familiar with dens of iniquity, Colonel?” I found myself asking, emboldened by my own imbibing.

  His dark eyes bored into me, and I immediately regretted having spoken.

  “Mr. Barry Withers,” he started to say.

  “Harry Rivers,” I corrected.

  “Whatever! Mr. Withers, you will see that my fears are justified. It may already be too late, but I fear Mr. Robertson’s reign of terror is not yet over.”

  Reign of terror? What was he talking about? I looked about me to see where Mr. Stoker might be. He was on the far side of the room deep in conversation with the Guv’nor, Mr. Booth, the prime minister, and the Earl of Northbrook. No help there. In another corner I saw Lord Glenmont in a huddle with some people I did not know. When I turned back I found that one of the gaping gentlemen in our clique had insisted on bringing the conversation back to the subject of six-shooters and the excitement of the American West. Somewhat to my surprise, I saw Mr. Stoker detach himself from his group and cross to Colonel Cornell. After a few quiet words, my boss reached out and the two men shook hands. I took the opportunity to slip away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I studied the face looking out at me from the mirror. It had the shock of ginger hair that I recognized, and the slightly protruding ears that I also recognized. What I did not recognize were the bloodshot eyes, with dark bags under them, the drooping eyelids, and the pasty face. Happily, the mirror did not reflect the throbbing inside my head and the parched throat as I tried to control a swollen tongue.

  My half hunter, lying on the dresser, told me that it was well past my usual time of rising and that I needed to hustle. With a final glance at the stranger in the mirror I made a silent vow to reject any future invitations to carouse at the Beefsteak Club and set off to meet with Cuthbert “Welly” Wellington. Mr. Stoker had said that he would join us, though I didn’t hold out much hope for him being there early. He and his wife, Florence,
lived at number 27 Cheyne Walk, in Chelsea, together with their two-year-old son, Noel, and Stoker’s younger brother, George. Stoker’s normal and regular daily routine was to take the Cadogan steamboat ferry, which stopped a few feet from his front door, to Waterloo from whence he walked to the Lyceum. I was due to meet with Welly at ten of the clock. I really didn’t expect to see my boss before noon.

  Welly had taken a room at a small hotel on Russell Street. Alongside the hotel was a tearoom popular with the ladies of the Lyceum. I joined Welly at this establishment for a late breakfast and was surprised, if not amazed, to find Mr. Stoker there ahead of me.

  “So you have finally emerged, Harry,” he greeted me, the hint of a smile on his face.

  “Good morning, Harry,” said Welly, half rising from the table where they sat near the window.

  “Don’t get up, Welly,” I said, slipping into the seat next to Mr. Stoker. “Good morning, sir. Yes, I have to admit it wasn’t easy crawling out of bed after entering it only an hour or two before.”

  Welly looked from one to the other of us but refrained from asking questions. Instead he poured me a cup of tea from the pot already delivered to the table. “Thank you, gentlemen, both of you, for meeting with me.”

  “That is quite all right, Welly. May I call you that?” asked Stoker, stirring three lumps of sugar into his cup. Welly smiled and nodded. “From what Harry has told me I feel I know both you and young Rufus well.”

  “Ah! Rufus.” Welly gave a deep sigh. “I am that worried about the lad.” His face reflected his concern.

  The waitress came and took our order. Welly declined to eat anything and sat nursing his cup of tea, looking sadly into its depths.

  “Tell us the whole story,” urged Stoker, spreading a thick layer of marmalade on a slice of toast he had taken from the toast rack in front of him. “Do not omit a single detail.”