Dead for a Spell

by Raymond Buckland

  She shook her beautiful blond head. “None whatsoever,” she said. “And I was not altogether surprised.”

  We all looked at her questioningly.

  “Marjorie—Lady Glenmont—told me that first thing tomorrow morning she and her husband are leaving for Sandringham. I was lucky, and honored, that she made time for my visit. The Glenmonts will be spending a few days as guests of His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales. There is a strong possibility that Her Majesty may be there as well, according to Marjorie. She is quite excited.”

  “So Glenmont is going away,” said Mr. Irving.

  “Which means he can’t be leading the group that will be in his caves,” concluded my boss.

  “We are back to the beginning,” I muttered.

  The inspector looked from one to the other of us. More specifically, at the other three. As usual, he ignored me.

  “Where does this put us?” he asked.

  “In the same place,” replied Stoker. “In the Glenmont caves. Just because his lordship won’t be there—it seems highly probable that he is not involved after all—that doesn’t mean that there will be no activity in his caves. Harry, here, was there a day or two ago and saw the preparation.”

  “And anyway, it is the only clue we have, is it not?” asked the Guv’nor.

  My boss agreed. We were all silent for a while.

  “By the way, I’ve canceled my Freemasonry initiation,” said the Guv’nor. “That was set for tomorrow evening.”

  “Canceled it, Henry? But you were so looking forward to that. You went to a lot of trouble preparing,” said Miss Terry. “What happened?”

  “Well, this happened!” The Guv’nor spread his hands to indicate all of us. “This need to rescue our young lady. You surely don’t think that, even for such a momentous occasion as my initiation promised to be, I would abandon my family?”

  “Oh, Henry!” Miss Terry’s eyes glistened with tears.

  I felt a lump in my throat. So often I had thought Mr. Irving to be unfeeling and even unaware of the rest of us. Now here he was making his own very powerful sacrifice on Jenny’s behalf. I was humbled.

  “The colonel, of course, tried his best to talk me out of it,” he continued. “But I remained firm. A new date can be set, I am sure. What we have to do is far more important.”

  “Did you tell the colonel your reason for canceling?” asked Mr. Stoker.

  “I didn’t go into details, Abraham, no.”

  “Good,” murmured my boss.

  The inspector pulled out his pocket watch and made a great show of looking at it. “Well, we have much ground to cover if we are to prepare for this assault tomorrow. At what time do we assemble?” He addressed Mr. Stoker, apparently acknowledging my boss’s leadership. “We take it we need to be in position well ahead of the Hellfire group’s arrival?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Stoker, which brought a surprised look to the inspector’s face. “My thought is that they may be there from early evening. Who knows? The ritual itself will not take place till late evening . . . I’m sure they have in mind a midnight sacrifice. But they would not want to arrive en masse, especially since his lordship doesn’t know of their intended use of his property. And they won’t know that he won’t actually be at the residence, I’m sure. So they will in all probability arrive in ones and twos, slipping onto the property and making for the caves. If we tried to be there ahead of them it would mean being in place and staying securely hidden for many hours.”

  The inspector grunted. “Hmm! We can’t see our men sitting quiet for that long!”

  “Exactly,” agreed Stoker. “So my suggestion is that we get there after all the ritualists are safely tucked into the caves.”

  “But won’t there be guards? Watchmen?” asked Mr. Irving.

  “I don’t think so, Henry. Probably our ubiquitous gamekeeper, but I feel fairly certain he will be alone.”

  “We can easily overpower him, if we need to,” I said.

  Stoker nodded. “Exactly. Then we will quietly enter by way of the rear entrance, we four leading the way, and lie low until I give the signal to attack. Unlike the Hellfire people, we can all arrive together, though assembling some distance from the estate. We will then advance cautiously and quietly slip in to take up our positions.”

  “And they will be?” asked the inspector.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly where will our positions be? We haven’t been there before.”

  I moved forward and unfolded a large sheet of paper I had prepared. I spread it out on the makeup table.

  “I’ve made a rough sketch map of the area,” I said, as they crowded around me. “Here is the main entrance to the caves, in the folly. And here”—I pointed—“is approximately where I remember the rear entrance to be.”

  Inspector Bellamy opened his mouth to say something, but I quickly continued.

  “There is a large bush by the entrance and an oak tree not far from it. The rows of beeches that line the driveway are not far away, and there are plenty of other bushes and underbrush, so there is a good amount of cover. I will determine the exact entrance and wave my handkerchief. Mr. Stoker and Mr. Irving will join me, followed by you, Inspector, together with your men and our stagehands.”

  “I would suggest that some of the men gather at the front entrance,” said Mr. Irving. “I would imagine that when we break up their meeting, they will move to escape by the way they went in.”

  “We’ll be there to arrest them,” assured the inspector.

  “And where do I come in?”

  We all looked up as Miss Terry rose from the sofa and came across to look at my hand-drawn map.

  “You don’t, my dear,” responded the Guv’nor. “We are not going to risk your lovely neck in a possible melee.”

  “But I have to play some part!” she protested.

  “If I may suggest a most important part?” said my boss.

  “Please do, Abraham.” Mr. Irving looked at him hopefully.

  “We will have to leave here in the afternoon; it is a number of miles away. Tomorrow afternoon is the costume rehearsal. Perhaps Miss Terry might take charge of that, thus freeing you to be with us, Henry?”

  “Perfect!” cried the Guv’nor. “And I will urge Edwin to stay also. I have no wish to risk the neck of our American guests, either.”

  Miss Terry sighed and then looked around at each of our faces, finally breaking into a smile. “If it will contribute to the cause, gentlemen. Very well.”

  * * *

  I slept very badly Friday night, though probably much better than did my beloved Jenny. She must have known what lay in store for her, and she had no way of knowing if help was at hand or far, too far, away. I skipped breakfast, telling myself that I would eat a good lunch to compensate. But by lunchtime I had absolutely no appetite at all. I did, however, force myself to take some small repast at the Druid’s Head so that I would be somewhat fortified for what promised to be a long evening reaching late into the night.

  The Guv’nor organized some rehearsing before the main costume rehearsal was scheduled to start, and the theatre became a hive of activity. But after an early dinner break—at which I again ate very little—Sam Green and some of his men slipped away and gathered outside the scenery bay doors. The Guv’nor, Mr. Stoker, and myself quickly joined them. We were all dressed in black. We had ordered two four-wheelers, which stood at curbside, and we climbed into them.

  “What are we waiting for, Abraham?” asked Mr. Irving, as we sat and looked about us.

  As if in answer, three more carriages came around the corner carrying Inspector Bellamy and the men from Scotland Yard. Mr. Stoker acknowledged their arrival and then gave the signal for our cabbie to set off.

  There was very little conversation on the journey. Each of us had our separate thoughts of
how the night would play out. The caravan of carriages passed through Ealing, Greenford, and Uxbridge. As evening drew on, the sun sank down, and night slowly descended upon us. By the time we reached Beaconsfield it was quite dark.

  My mind ran over possibilities of what might take place in the caves. There would be some sort of a ritual, I knew. Exactly what, I had no idea; Mr. Stoker had given no specifics. He had spoken of the possibility of singing and some sort of dancing, though I couldn’t imagine the dancing with which I was familiar taking place in a dark cave, as part of a secret rite. But what did I know? I did know that at some point the leader of this infernal group would approach my beloved, who presumably would be laid out on some sort of altar. There would come the inevitable as he raised a knife . . . dagger? Sword? I had no idea. But I did know that I had to do something!

  I could see myself running across the darkened space, thrusting aside drunken revelers, striking out at all who tried to stop me! I would . . .

  “Harry!”

  Mr. Stoker’s voice broke into my fantasy.

  “Try to relax, Harry. I know what must be going through your mind. Let us just stay with our plan and do nothing rash.”

  He was right, of course. I looked down at the heavy cudgel I had brought with me. I had dug it out of the properties under the stage. It was heavy, but not too heavy for me to wield and break a few heads, if necessary. I smiled and tried to relax. I saw that the Guv’nor had followed along similar thoughts to myself and had a hefty walking stick with a heavy-looking silver knob to it resting alongside his seat. Somewhat to my surprise I saw that my boss had dragged along one of his Indian clubs; the sort he unconcernedly tossed about his office when exercising. He handled them easily, but I knew them to be extremely heavy. I had once tried to lift one. It must have been all of fifty pounds. I sat back and tried to relax for the rest of the journey.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Despite the blackness of the night—it was well past the new moon but still almost a fortnight to the full—I was able to locate the big oak tree that I had remembered. Standing with my back to it, I peered in the direction from which I thought I had originally approached the tree. I was able to make out the dark shape of what I assumed to be the very large bush by the cave entrance. I carefully made my way forward to it.

  At first I thought I was mistaken. I seemed to remember coming out from the cave through a wide section that opened up to the outside world, but I couldn’t see such an obvious passageway. However, the more I looked around the bush, the more certain I was that I was at the correct spot. I risked partially opening the light control on my bullseye lantern just enough to see more clearly. I immediately saw that I was in the right spot. I signaled Mr. Stoker, who had remained by the oak tree. He came across to me, followed by the Guv’nor.

  “This is it, sir,” I said. “You have to squeeze in between the bush and this rock, but then, as you slide around the rock, you’ll come to the way in.”

  “Good. Well done, Harry.” He turned and waved to the inspector, who quickly joined us. I repeated my instructions, and he nodded. I was pleased that he didn’t immediately try to take complete control of our little operation.

  “We suggest that one person—perhaps your Mr. Rivers here, since he is familiar with the layout—might slip in and see how things are going,” said Bellamy. “When he thinks that it’s getting close to what we believe you folks term ‘showtime,’ he can let us know and we’ll all follow him back in.”

  “Actually ‘curtain-up’ is more appropriate, Inspector,” said Mr. Irving, “but no matter.”

  “I think I will go in along with Harry,” said my boss. “I might have a better sense of the progress of any ritual. I can then send him back out to alert you at the best chosen time. When I give the word, Inspector, you can sound your whistle.”

  “Agreed. I will have some of my men posted along by the main entrance so we can descend on them from both ends.”

  As Mr. Stoker and I drew closer to the inner sanctum of the Hellfire Club, the sound of the proceedings grew in volume. My nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a burning of pungent incense. The rock walls had a deadening effect, so that the drumming and chanting that we discovered did not reverberate off the walls as I had imagined they might. I was glad to find that there was sufficient sound to cover any slight noise our shoes might make as we edged in and settled down behind the rock pile. We had brought our respective cudgel and club with us and laid them carefully on the ground. Mr. Stoker eased forward to where he could look out at the activity, and after a moment I joined him. Dressed all in black, we must have been virtually invisible to anyone looking in our direction from the main area.

  The rhythm for the dancing came from a hand drum being beaten by a young man and from the clapping and foot stamping of the revelers. They chanted some monotonous phrase that I could not make out. They seemed well foxed, and I saw that there was plenty of ale available from a firkin set up against one wall.

  Mr. Stoker pointed out the gyrating figure of Miss Sarah Winterbotham, her red hair loose and flying, its color obvious even in the diminished light of the cave. I was glad that I had thought to wear a black knitted hat pulled down over my own head. Some of the dancers were dressed in ritual robes, but many were in ordinary everyday clothes. There seemed no real order to them.

  “I am happy to note that the participants do not appear to be armed,” murmured my boss. “As the third of this trio of sacrifices, I imagine the rite is mainly celebratory. They must believe this to be the climax of whatever cursed sorcery they are attempting. Ah!” He gave a sharp intake of breath, and I leaned over to see what it was that had drawn his attention. “I did not notice the presiding figure at first, Harry. Look. Seated there in the shadows.”

  I was surprised to see a large and ornately carved chair against the far wall. It had not been there when I last visited, and I suspected that it had been dragged down to the caves from the main house when it was found that his lordship was not at home. On the thronelike seat was a figure dressed in deepest purple. He—or she, for I was aware of Mr. Stoker’s earlier comment that the group might well be led by a woman—had his face covered by a mask. The façade was like the head of a bird, with a ravenlike beak. Standing close behind the throne was a second masked figure wearing black robes with scarlet trimmings, his face that of a cat.

  “Note the altar, Harry,” whispered my boss. “It is about to be crowned with the sacrifice. Hold firm now, Harry! The time is not yet ripe.”

  It was as well he had warned me, for suddenly there was a break in the dancing and two men came into the main area half carrying a figure in a white robe. I knew at once that it was Jenny, and despite Mr. Stoker’s warning, I started forward. But a firm grip on my shoulder stopped me.

  “No, Harry! Don’t put her in any greater danger. Just stay calm and wait.”

  I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. I dug my nails into my palms in an effort to control my anger and the desire to wrest my Jenny out from the hands of these demented beings. We watched as they brought her forward to the raised dais in front of the throne. Jenny must have been drugged, or partially so, for she offered no resistance and lay still when they placed her, unbound, on the table that had been set in the center of the stage. The two men stepped back, and all was silent as the masked figure arose from the throne and stood looking all about the crowded cave.

  He was tall. Taller than I had thought, seeing him seated. He stepped forward and up, to stand beside the comatose figure. I shuddered when I saw that he held, down at his side, a large curved dagger whose blade caught the light of the flickering candles. The man said nothing but repeatedly looked around at the silent throng. The second masked figure also moved forward but did not step up onto the dais.

  “Stand by, Harry!” Stoker’s voice was in my ear. “I think now’s the time to get out to Bellamy and have him blow his whistle. Then get back her
e as fast as you can.”

  I needed no urging. I rushed out, not now caring whether or not I made any noise. Apparently I did make some, for I heard a shout from behind me, back in the cave proper.

  I got to the exit, and for the first time in a year I was pleased to see Inspector Bellamy, his ponderous figure hovering just inside the passage.

  “Now, Inspector!” I shouted. “Blow your whistle and get your men in here!”

  I didn’t stop but spun around to rush back to Mr. Stoker. Behind me I heard the police whistle sound and be repeated and relayed off through the trees and brush.

  As I got back to our alcove I saw Mr. Stoker with his arm drawn back and holding the heavy Indian club. Looking past him, I saw the purple-clad figure raising the wicked-looking knife and holding it above the still, white-robed figure of Jenny. Mr. Stoker’s arm came over, barely clearing the cave ceiling, and the club turned end over end as it flew across the intervening space.

  The club smashed into the arm holding the knife, and club and dagger crashed to the ground. A roar of pain and anger came from the tall figure. He tore the mask from his face. To my great surprise it was Colonel Wilberforce Cornell, Mr. Booth’s manager.

  As Inspector Bellamy, Sam Green, and other men came rushing in from outside, I scooped up my cudgel and joined my boss as he charged into the main cave. Swinging my club from side to side, I brooked no interference as I made straight for where Jenny lay. As I approached, I saw the black-and-red-clad figure had retrieved the dagger. He, too, ripped the mask from his face, and I saw him to be Seth Hartzman. I swung my cudgel into his face, fearing to not connect with his arm if I tried for that. I felt it hit solidly and was aware of his shout. But now, tossing the club away from me, I threw myself down on top of Jenny’s still figure, shielding her body from any other attempt at sacrifice.

  I realized that all about me was chaos. Men and women screamed. Police whistles blew, resonating throughout the caves. I thought I caught a glimpse of the gamekeeper, wrestling with one of the Lyceum men. Sam Green was wielding a mallet and doing considerable damage. Mr. Henry Irving, great Shakespearean actor that he was, stood up on the seat of the thronelike chair and with his walking stick hit any head that came within range, while reciting the Act Three, Scene One, speech of Henry V at the top of his voice: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . .”