by Lisa Tuttle
Besides, don’t they say that God helps those who help themselves?
Aided by lamplight, I took stock of my situation.
On the table with the lamp and matches there were also two jugs of water—one was cold, the other warmish. There was a washbasin and a sweet-smelling block of soap, and several hand towels. There were two glasses. I filled one with the cold water and drank it down thirstily before exploring the rest of the room.
I found a chamber pot in the corner beyond the second bed, and there was also a wooden chest. Inside it were more sheets and blankets. I added the blankets to my bed and gave some thought to ripping up one of the sheets to wrap around my feet. They were like two cold bricks now. I couldn’t bear it any longer and retreated to the relative warmth of my bed, where, huddled in the blankets, I sat and shivered and chafed my feet to warm them.
There was a fireplace in the room, but it was cold and bare, with nothing more than the whiff of cold soot to suggest it could be used to provide heat. The only potential fuel in the room was the small wooden chest and some of the bedding. But that wouldn’t last long, and for all I knew the chimney might have been blocked up like the window. I could see nothing that might be turned into any sort of useful tool. I wished my conversation with Mr. Chase had gone in a different way, and that I could have ordered breakfast. If offered another chance, I’d go for kippers—not because I fancied fish for breakfast, but because a fish knife could be useful, and possibly even the bones.
I mourned my clothes. If only I had been abducted when fully dressed! No shoes, no hooks or buttons, no belt or brooch, no coat with any useful items tucked away in a pocket…only my flannel nightgown. I had seen Mr. Jesperson open locks using one of my hairpins, and I was sure that given time enough, and determination, I could do the same. But, alas, I’d let my hair down and braided it before I went to bed, so instead of the pins that usually kept my hair in place, I had only a scrap of ribbon.
After a while, when my feet were a bit warmer, I wrapped them in one of the blankets, draped another one around me like a shawl, and shuffled over to inspect the boarded-up window. The job had been well and thoroughly done, so I could not escape through the window, nor push my head out to scream for help, nor get any idea of where I was. I stood there for some time quietly listening and was rewarded by the occasional sounds of traffic: wheels and horse’s hooves clattering, shouts and distant calls as people went by. I guessed that I was at the back of a house on a quiet street, somewhere in London or one of its nearer suburbs.
Perhaps even not that far from Belgrave Square.
My heart beat a little faster as I thought of Lady Florence’s remark about the house Mr. Chase had been obliged to rent for his servants. Was this it? Were the mediums he had kidnapped imprisoned in other rooms?
Hurrying to the door, I crouched down and peered through the keyhole. The view was not very inspiring—a dim and dusty corridor—but I could see another closed door on the wall opposite. I listened as hard as I could—creakings and a soft whispering sound…skirts, perhaps? Or was it a human voice?
It might, of course, be Mr. Chase and his wife…but hope flared as I thought of other possibilities. Without pausing to worry about it, I gave four sharp determined raps on my own door.
The soft sounds stopped at once; I imagined startled glances. I gave two more raps and then I called out: “Can you hear me? Who is there?”
“Oh,yes!” It was a young female voice. “We hear you.”
“I am Miss Lane,” I cried. “I have been kidnapped.”
“So have we.” Two young voices chimed together.
I sighed and smiled, feeling oddly relieved. “The Misses De Beauvoir, I presume?”
They introduced themselves—Amelia and Bedelia—and told me they shared their room with Miss Hilda Jessop.
Tears started to my eyes. “Thank goodness!” I said and choked up. “Thank goodness you are alive. We have been looking for you—are you all right? Are you well enough?”
Well enough, they assured me, but awfully bored. It was dreadful never being allowed to go out. Although—one of them giggled—Mr. Chase had been a perfect gentleman, really quite charming, and he assured them it need not always be so—he had promised to take them to America, where they would have a very different, and entirely pleasant, life. I had been so caught up in our shouted conversation that I had not heard the footsteps on the stairs; it was only when a huge fist pounded against my door—ONE, TWO—that I knew—we all knew—without a doubt that it was over.
I reeled back from the door at the first blow. The key rattled in the lock, the door was flung upon, and the ghastly, gigantic creature called the Cossack loomed over me once again. I retreated, but in a single stride he was on me; one big hand closed upon my arm and I gave a shriek of pure terror.
Anger flared in his eyes and he shook his head. He raised a finger to his lips, indicating that I should be silent. I nodded rapidly, desperately eager to comply, but I suppose it was not enough, for he gave no sign of being appeased. Swiftly he pulled my arms together behind my back—I was powerless to resist—and he bound my wrists together with some sort of cord. Then he pulled a cloth from his pocket. I remembered the ether-soaked cloth that had sent me into an oblivious sleep, and I could not repress a frightened bleat. “No—please don’t—I’ll be quiet—”
He used the cloth to gag me, stuffing part of it in my mouth and tying it behind my head.
I shook my head desperately, to no avail. He had already turned his back on me and was on his way out of the room. A moment later the door swung shut, and then I heard the key turn in the lock and I was alone.
From the personal notebook of J. J. Jesperson, Esq.
I have found the house.
But it is the Cossack, Pyotr Ivanovitch,who has rented it and he guards it day and night. If I should tell the police of my suspicions, all the prisoners could be free today and the Cossack under arrest—but CC would still be at large.
The loss of his mediums might incommode him, as would the loss of his usefully large and powerful servant, but it would be no more than a temporary hitch. After all, there are plenty of thugs for the hiring, more mediums for the taking, and he clearly feels no inhibitions about using his hypnotic powers for illegal gain.
Miss Lane, forgive me! I long to see you safe and free, but am sure you would agree it is better to hang fire until we have proof against CC—proof the police must accept. I fear he will have ensured somehow that none of his prisoners will be able to give convincing evidence against him—I know too well what confusion a cunning hypnotist may sow. It would be horrible for his prisoners to be forced to bear false witness. And I cannot allow his servants to bear the blame, especially not poor, unwitting Arthur Creevey.
CC must not escape. I have discovered him, and now I must build the case against him. Find undeniable evidence of his criminality.
—
Jewel thefts—all have taken place since CC has been in London. Significant? Find out: Do any/all households have telephone? Family or staff in Paris in last year?
—
The theatre—has been reported in the theatrical columns that CC rented the Alhambra for more than a week, tho will use it for one night only. He paid handsomely for unusual proviso that theatre is to be “dark” until his performance. No other shows, and no one allowed inside—explained that his set would take some time to assemble and he could not risk having it disturbed; nor to have the “surprise” ruined by advance description in newspapers, etc. Cd be mere publicity—every time CC is mentioned in papers, public interest grows—but my curiosity is piqued. And even if he hides no great secrets there, it could be useful to get inside.
Chapter 24
A Worse Imprisonment
I felt the weak, childish urge to cry, but if I gave way to tears, my nose would be blocked and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to breathe. Besides, I was determined not to give in to my captors if I could help it. The Cossack had made it im
possible for me to talk to my fellow prisoners for the moment, but I would not accept him as the final authority. Rather than sit helplessly waiting for Mr. Chase to come back and free me (as I had no doubt he would take some pleasure in doing), I would do my best to free myself.
The way he had tied my hands made it difficult, but not impossible. I was still relatively young and lithe—not so young and lithe as when my boy cousins had been playing Red Indians and made me their captive—but I knew how to escape and, eventually, although it was a sore struggle, I managed. Once my hands were free, I was able to get rid of the gag.
Then I drank the rest of the water in one jug, and used the other (now as cold as the first) to wash myself.
I stared at the door, wishing I dared resume the conversation with my fellow prisoners, who might have more useful information—but it would be too unwise. Next time, the Cossack might tie me hand and foot—or bind me to the bed. No, I would pick my battles carefully.
—
Without a clock or any view of the outside world, I could not tell the time, but by my stomach—which was beginning to feel the lack of breakfast very strongly—I guessed it to be early afternoon when Mr. Chase came calling, bearing a platter of cold meats, pickles, bread and cheese, a glass of milk, and a cup of tea.
If he was surprised to find me unbound, he gave no sign. Perhaps he had no idea of what had happened in his absence and would have been deeply shocked—if not amused—to find me bound and gagged. I wondered again about communication between the brute and his master—undoubtedly Mr. Chase was able to give the Cossack simple instructions, but about the Russian servant’s ability to report back to his master, I was less certain. I guessed that the Cossack had been instructed not to allow the prisoners to make any noise—and how he did so was up to him.
I began eating at once, and Mr. Chase leaned back against the door, arms folded across his chest as he watched me, amused by my greedy haste. “Now you’re sorry you didn’t have breakfast.”
I shot him a frowning look but otherwise made no reply.
“Pyotr will bring you your supper. I shall be busy this evening—Lord Bennington is giving a very select party in my honor.”
Again I did not respond, although I was scarcely able to repress a shudder when he named the Cossack.
“He’ll bring you fresh water and…is there anything else you need?”
I raised my eyebrows and paused deliberately in my eating as if giving the matter careful thought. “Only one thing.”
“Yes?”
“My freedom.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Freedom comes from within. I meant, anything material that would make your stay here more comfortable.”
“Clothes,” I said at once.
“You won’t need them while you’re here. When we leave, then I’ll make sure you have the proper clothes to travel in.”
“Is it really so much to ask?” I glared at him angrily. “You try sitting in here all day in just a flannel gown. If I can’t have a fire—”
“I’m afraid you can’t. I’m sorry. Perhaps a dressing gown and slippers would make you more comfortable?”
I grudgingly agreed. With the edge off my hunger, I could think of other things. I carefully cut a slice of beef into small pieces, wondering if I could use this rather blunt table knife in any way that would aid my escape if—as seemed unlikely—he left it behind.
“Anything else? I do want you to be as comfortable as possible, Miss Lane.”
I patted my hair. “A comb, a brush, and a mirror would be nice. I’d like to be able to do my hair.”
He gave me a knowing smile. “Vanity, thy name is woman. You may have the brush, but your hair must stay down. No hairpins or anything else that might serve to pick a lock. Really, it is for your own safety, my dear. If you managed to get downstairs you would find the exit guarded by a dog much fiercer and far less concerned with your comfort than I.”
His mockery stung. I put down my knife and fork and pushed the plate aside. “How long do you imagine you can keep me locked up?”
“Long enough. Are you finished?”
“You won’t get away with it. Mr. Jesperson will find me.”
“Well, and if he does?” He shrugged, a half smile playing about his lips.
I felt a pang of anxiety. What if this was not about me at all; what if I had been taken only to provide the bait in a trap set for my partner?
“He won’t come alone—he’ll bring the police to arrest you!”
His eyes bored into mine. “All the better. Your friend will be made to look a fool, and the police will certainly not arrest me when you beg them to go away as you swear you are with me by your own free will.”
Although I tried, I could not break eye contact. “What do you mean?”
“I see a demonstration is required. Should your Mr. Jesperson be foolish enough to attempt to take you by force, this is what will happen.”
Without conscious intent, I found I was off the bed and on my feet, and then, as Mr. Chase gave a casual turn of his hand, I sank to my knees before him, clasping my hands in supplication. I was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I appeared to have become a puppet moved by the will of another when something even worse occurred. I heard a voice—my own voice—saying, in the most abject, pleading tone: “Don’t let them take me. Please, I beg you, let me stay with him. Mr. Chase is the greatest man I have ever known. My only wish is to follow and serve him.”
I was looking up at him the whole time, and he wore a look of serene concentration. Much as I should have liked to accuse him of ventriloquism, I knew the voice was my own; I could feel the lying, impossible words emerging from my own mouth. Tears stung my eyes; the sense of helpless horror only increased as I felt one roll down my cheek.
“What a touching picture it is,” murmured Mr. Chase as, leaning down, he caught my tear on his fingertip. “A man should have a heart of stone who could deny your simple wish. And my wife is so fond of you…You may travel with us as her nurse. You’ll be like a member of the family.” Taking out his pocket handkerchief, he wiped his hands.
“Get up, my child. No more tears. Of course you can stay. No one will force you to leave. Now go back to your bed and rest. Relax and rest easy. Sleep, and when you wake, know that you are where you belong. Sleep now. Sleep.”
From the personal notebook of J. J. Jesperson, Esq.
The Alhambra is owned and managed by a consortium who maintain an office in the West End. Upon this office Señorita Garcia y Velasquez—an excessively tall but proportionately buxom Spanish dancer—paid a call to inquire about taking the theatre for a three-week term in February. But before she would agree to sign a contract, she must see the premises for herself, to be certain it was appropriate, for in addition to her own dancing, the stage must accommodate the needs of a high-wire act, several acrobats, and a magician who specialized in sudden appearances and disappearances.
The manager in residence that day was eager to assure her of its suitability, fetching out detailed architectural plans, drawings, even photographs, but she insisted on a personal visit. She would be in London for one day only and did not plan to return before February. If the management of the Alhambra would not gratify her, perhaps she would receive a warmer welcome at the Palace or the Empire…
He decided it could do no harm: a short visit, to get a feel for the place.
There were men (hired by CC) guarding both front and back entrances, but of course they had no authority to forbid the property owner, the man with his own key, from carrying out his necessary duties, and as for the female person who accompanied him…knowing looks were exchanged, and I have no doubt this information will be passed on to CC in due course, but while the unwarranted intrusion may annoy him, I hope it will not alarm him or rouse any suspicion of my involvement.
Our tour was as brief and superficial as expected; he pointed out a few things, e.g., the traps and flying wires I had inquired about, but I was not al
lowed to step onto the stage—the set that occupied it was, of course, property of Mr. C, and the manager hoped I would respect the fact that he was taking a great risk for it was technically a breach of contract for anyone not in Mr. C’s employ even to glimpse it.
That glimpse was most illuminating. Glorious Aphrodite! I now have an idea—mad though it would sound to the police—of the use he means to make of his stolen mediums. And I suspect that he means to abduct one more before the night of his performance.
Our tour, brief as it was, had to be cut even shorter as my guide, feeling he should be rewarded, proved himself no gentleman. Of course the señorita was well equipped to discourage him, and I think he may be more respectful—or at least more cautious—when next he is alone with a lady who carries a fan. (n.b. Fan more damaged than he was; M not best pleased.)
The guard at the door burst out laughing at the sight of management in futile pursuit of the amazingly swift, tall Spanish lady, storming off in high dudgeon, oblivious to his pathetic wailing: “But the contract? Forgive me? You haven’t signed…Won’t you come back to my office and sign?”
—
Who will be his next victim? Can—or should—I foil this attempt?
I know that CC has been introduced to at least 20 people who claim psychic or spiritualistic gifts. He has already captured four (plus AL)—leaving 16. Of those I may perhaps disregard the 3 not presently in London, leaving a list of 13, of whom 8 are female. Until now it had not struck me how women predominate over men in this field. CC would seem to have a preference for females, but does that reflect the natural division, or his choice to go for smaller, physically weaker victims?
My strong suspicion is that he will try to take Sra. Gallo next, and that he will make the attempt very soon. I could foil him in this, and it would give me pleasure to do so, but I must hold back, for the same reason that I’ve refrained from rescuing AL and her fellow prisoners. It is not enough to deprive him of his servants if CC remains able to get clear away. He already plans to leave London after the show, to go on to conquer New York and the rest of his native land. That must not be allowed to happen.
