“Yes, sir,” I said.
With Sam Green’s help we discovered the sliding stone panel. It was cleverly arranged and, even knowing of its existence, was far from obvious. In fact it took Sam’s prying with a crowbar to eventually reveal it.
“’Ow on earth did you come to know about this, then, Mr. Rivers?” Sam asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Weren’t no easy thing to see.”
“We had been furnished with certain information,” said Stoker. “It is some ancient passageway long since fallen into disuse and disrepair, Sam. Time, I think, to close it up permanently.”
“Oh yes, sir!” he cried. “I’ll get some of the boys onto it. Though seems to me a bit of a shame to put an end to a quick way into the old tavern!” He chuckled to himself.
“That’s as may be, Sam,” I said. “But by the same token we don’t need half-drunk tipplers finding a quick way into the theatre, do we?”
“Ah, you’re right there, sir.”
Chapter Eleven
It was quite by chance that I bumped into Jack Parsons, the Sadler’s Wells scene changer, as I was taking a quick bite of lunch at the King’s Arms on Carey Street.
“’Arry Rivers, I do believe!”
Jack seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I remembered that he lived with his invalid mother somewhere close to Fleet Street. He obviously hadn’t recognized me in my disguise when I had visited Sadler’s Wells so recently.
“How have you been, Jack?” I asked. “How’s your mother?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Not much change there, I’m afraid.”
We spent our lunch time catching up on each other’s recent activities.
“I ’eard about your man’s death,” Jack said. “Run down by a growler! I swear, the traffic these days is somethin’ terrible. Omnibuses, cabs, carriages, carts . . . it’s never ending!”
“How goes it at Sadler’s?” I asked, always hoping to hear something that might contribute to our investigation.
He shrugged. “Twelfth Night is going all right, I s’pose. Old Pheebes-Watson still thinks ’e’s the cat’s meow. And ’er ladyship Miss Stringer is right up there with ’im.” He sniffed. “Never a word of thanks for us backstage folks. And that young Mr. Bateman is another thing, believe me!”
“Oh?” I pricked up my ears.
“Like a bear with a sore ’ead, ’e is! Lost a lot of money thanks to your Lyceum, so they say.”
“What do you mean?” This was starting to sound interesting, I thought.
“Speaking of your man what got run down, ’e was the one as put Mr. Bateman on to betting on things.”
I laid down my knife and fork and held up my hand. “Whoa, Jack. You’ve lost me. What’s going on? Who is betting on what?”
Jack gave a loud belch, which was ignored by the serving girl passing by.
“You know ’ow our two theatres are, with Mrs. Crowe’s mother, Mrs. Bateman, ’aving been running your Lyceum until your Mr. Irving took over?”
I nodded. “Yes. The two have been at each other’s throats ever since,” I agreed. “And it seems Mrs. Crowe has taken up her mother’s torch in trying to out-do the Lyceum. Our getting Hamlet going before your Twelfth Night could not have gone over well.”
“That’s it. That’s the ’ole thing,” said Jack. “It seems your man—what was ’is name? Richmond, or something . . . ?”
“Richland,” I said. “Peter Richland.”
“That’s ’im. Well, your Richmond tells our Ralph Bateman that there’s no way the Lyceum can get going afore Sadler’s. So what does young Mr. Bateman do? ’E puts a big fat bet on it! Thinks to make a lot of money ’cos your Richmond man works at the Lyceum and should know what ’e’s talking about.”
I began to see the whole picture. Richland had tried to delay the opening of Hamlet, thinking that the Sadler’s Wells’ production would then be first. Ralph Bateman, on Richland’s word, had placed a large bet on that assumption, probably hoping to make money both for himself and for Richland. But when Henry Irving refused to lie down, Hamlet opened and Bateman lost his bet. A thrill ran through me. Did this then mean that Peter Richland was the one who had poisoned the Guv’nor? Did Richland, perhaps, kill himself when his plan didn’t work? I couldn’t wait to get back to the theatre and run this by Mr. Stoker.
* * *
“It’s an interesting theory, Harry. But there’s more here than just the poisoning of the Guv’nor. Someone has been in the theatre, dropping sandbags on you and lights on our American guest, climbing our rigging, and running over our roof. They have even sneaked in to perform black magic rituals, as we well know. All this after Peter Richland’s death. How does that fit your story?”
“It could be Ralph Bateman trying to make us pay for him losing his bet,” I suggested. “Bateman and his cronies. You said yourself that if they could close us down then they’d be ready to leap into first place.”
He nodded his head. “Quite right, Harry. So I did. But I don’t think any of this can definitely lead us to the conclusion that Richland was the poisoner, not without some help at least. Perhaps Herbert Willis had some hand in it, as you suggested. But I think you’re right that the would-be murderer is the one behind the sandbag and the lights falling.”
I had to agree. Richland was dead, but someone was still hard at work, and it didn’t look as though there would be any immediate end to it. As if to make my thoughts prophetic, there came a commotion in the passageway outside Mr. Stoker’s office.
“See what the fuss is, Harry, would you?” he said.
I went out to investigate.
John Witherspoon, one of the stagehands, was there talking excitedly to Margery Connelly. He looked up as I came to them.
“I was just on my way to Mr. Stoker,” he said. “It’s old Mr. Turnbull. I think he was taking a cup of tea to the Guv’nor when he suddenly dropped his tray and fell down. Sam Green said to come and get Mr. Stoker. Looks as though the old gent has played his last house.”
I rushed past him and up the stairs toward Mr. Irving’s dressing room. Broken crockery lay on the steps, with the tea tray at the bottom. Mr. Turnbull’s body was in a crumpled heap at the top of the stairs, close to the main dressing room. The door was open and the Guv’nor himself stood there looking down at the old gentleman.
“Alas!” he said, as I arrived on the scene.
Offstage Mr. Irving never seemed to display a lot of emotion, but I saw that he now wore what I thought of as his “tragedy face.” His hand rested on his chest to complete the effect.
With scarcely a glance at him, I knelt down by the body and tried to listen for a heartbeat. There was none. Poor old Mr. Turnbull breathed no more. Unexpectedly, a wave of sorrow swept over me. I did not know Mr. Turnbull well. I don’t think anyone did. He kept very much to himself, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible yet still be a part of the theatre and its operation. I would miss seeing his stooped figure and snow-white hair pass by my office area. I would miss his wrinkled face and watery blue eyes.
As I got to my feet again I heard the Guv’nor quietly close his door. Life—the life of the theatre—must go on. I made my way back down the stairs and then sent John Witherspoon around the corner for Dr. Cochran. When the doctor came, he confirmed that Mr. Turnbull was dead.
“What was it, doc?” I asked. “Heart attack?”
He stood for a long moment, thinking. “It would seem so, Harry. Certainly at his age . . . But he was into my office just last week, for a minor sore throat. I took the opportunity to give him a complete physical at that time, since it had been a while. He was fit as a fiddle, considering his age. A little unsteady on his feet perhaps, but he was better than many of the young men you have working here. His heart was strong.” He pulled on his lower lip and wrinkled his brow. “I will have to let you know after I get the body out of here and have a good look
at it. And I’ll have to let Dr. Entwhistle, the coroner, take a look. Such a shame. A really nice old gentleman.”
After the shock and the commotion, I eventually got back to my boss’s office to bring him up to date.
“Dr. Cochran said it could be a heart attack,” I said, “but he sounded a little uncertain.” I explained what the doctor had said about Mr. Turnbull’s earlier examination. “I know Mr. Turnbull was old and frail, but it seems strange that he should suddenly drop dead, especially after he had been declared ‘fit as a fiddle,’ as Dr. Cochran put it.”
Stoker sat back in his chair and did his trick of pursing his lips and squinting his eyes as he gazed into space, obviously thinking hard.
“What is it, sir?” I could see doubts forming all about the big man.
“What did I tell you about Voudon magic, Harry?” he asked. Before I could reply, he continued, “I told you of the Boko, I recall, and the creation of a zombie.”
I nodded.
“Did I tell you of the working of magic and, especially, of curses?”
I shook my head. “No, sir. You didn’t.” I wondered what, if anything, this could have to do with the death of Mr. Turnbull. I waited. Stoker obviously had some other thoughts on the matter that he wished to share.
“In Voudon there are often unexplained deaths,” he continued. “A boko will obtain something belonging to his intended victim and use it in some way to focus his evil magic on that person. Shortly afterward, the person dies mysteriously and for no apparent reason.”
“Good Lord,” I murmured. Then something struck me. The old silver cup we had originally found in the basement, in the circle that contained the chicken blood . . . That cup was old Andrew Turnbull’s! I remember it now; he used to drink three cups of water a day from it, he once told me. Belonged to his grandfather. How had it got down into the under-stage area, and into that infamous circle?
There followed a very long silence. Finally, Stoker continued.
“If a person in the Caribbean has an enemy, or wants to get rid of someone for whatever reason, he can employ a boko to do so magically. The boko, being a good businessman, will then go to the intended victim and explain that a curse has been placed on him and offer, for a fee, to remove that curse. Then the boko will return to the original man and say that he will reinstate the curse for a higher fee! So he will play one against another, ending with the demise of the underbidder.”
“Enterprising,” I said.
“At other times the boko may simply place the curse, especially if the victim is not easily accessible.”
“And does the curse actually have any effect?” I asked.
“Oh yes, Harry. Yes, it does. The victim may suddenly drop down dead and with no apparent explanation. Doctors have examined such cursed people and not been able to find any hint of poison or trauma of any kind.”
“This is beginning to sound very much like the death of Mr. Turnbull,” I said.
“Exactly, Harry. And did we not witness a Voudon ceremony for the dead just last night?”
“But you’re surely not suggesting that someone paid to get rid of Mr. Turnbull?” I was aghast. “Whoever would do that?”
“I am not suggesting anything, Harry. Merely observing. I am certainly not, for one moment, suggesting that there was such bargaining involved in Mr. Turnbull’s death . . . I am merely acquainting you with the ways of Voudon.”
He thought for a long moment. “I think we need to track down Herbert Willis,” Stoker finally said, “and see exactly what he is about, now that he is no longer in the Lyceum’s employ. Perhaps we can eliminate him as a suspect.”
Once again I heard Mr. Stoker say that “we” needed to do this . . . and knew that he meant me. I sighed. Well, that was what I was here for: to assist Mr. Stoker and do a variety of jobs for him. Track down Herbert Willis? It could be a challenge, I thought, but a rewarding one, and I loved a good puzzle. I repaired to my office and decided upon a plan of action.
I first went to talk with Bill Thomas, tucked away as usual in his cubbyhole by the stage door entrance.
“Bill, you’re a betting man,” I began.
“Here! Who’s been talking?”
I glanced down at the Sporting Times that was spread out in front of our doorman, as it always was. I tapped my finger on it. “It doesn’t need anyone to talk,” I said. “Your choice of literature speaks for itself.”
He grinned and rubbed the stubble on his unshaved chin. “Just joking, Harry. What do you need to know? The two thirty at Sandown? Three fifteen at Kempton Park? I can give you a good tip for Hurst Park if’n you’ve a mind?”
“No, nothing like that, Bill. Though I do appreciate your offer. No, I need to know with whom Ralph Bateman might have placed a bet, and whether I might be able to get information from that gentleman, if I can locate him.”
Bill scratched the top of his head with one hand and pushed his spectacles up on his nose with the other. “Not really your territory, I wouldn’t think, Harry. And not very salubrious surroundings for the likes of you, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do indeed,” I said. “And I thank you for your concern, but I would like to speak to such a person if possible.”
Bill was quiet for a few moments, obviously shuffling thoughts through his head. He finally drew his mouth into a tight line and looked me hard in the eyes. “The sort of person who would handle bets from someone such as Ralph Bateman is not your regular bookie, Harry. As you well know, such things as bear baiting, bull and badger baiting, cockfighting, ratting, cudgels, and even good old bare-knuckle fighting have been banned these many years.”
I nodded.
“That’s not to say that such things are no longer indulged in by those cognizant of such sports.”
His eyes wavered away from my face. I got the distinct feeling that Bill was himself one of those “cognizant of such sports.” I encouraged him to continue. “Go on, Bill,” I murmured.
“Well . . .” He seemed to regain his self-assurance. “For them as is into such things, there are certain individuals as will take bets on, shall we say, unusual wagering opportunities.”
“Like, which theatre will open first?”
“Even that.” He nodded. “Though that’s somewhat ‘tame,’ you might say, compared to some I might mention. Still, it isn’t your usual wager.”
“So who handles these bets?”
“A flash cove that goes by the name of Ernesto Arroyo y López. Spanish!” He spat out the word.
“Spanish?”
“So he claims. I’ve heard rumors that he’s been no farther from Piccadilly than Brighton, but live and let live I say.”
I nodded. “Quite right, Bill. Now, where am I likely to find this character?”
“Oh, that’s not easy. He’s not one as can be pinned down. But, as it happens, I have heard of a—er—not quite proper confrontation between two gentlemen that is due to take place this very afternoon. I think you might find your Mr. Arroyo y López in attendance for that.”
I understood. “Thanks, Bill. I really appreciate it.”
“Not that I think you should go there, Mr. Rivers. It could get out of hand—some of them fights do, you know. And also, it could be raided by the police, and then you’d find yourself wearing a nice pair of darbies and riding a Black Maria to Brixton prison. We couldn’t have that now, could we, Mr. Rivers?”
“Don’t worry, Bill. I’ll be careful. Now, where exactly is this confrontation to take place?”
Chapter Twelve
The underground railway let me off at the Angel in Islington. The bare-knuckle fight—and I had gathered from Bill that that is what it was—was due to start at three thirty of the clock. I should just make it in time, I thought, and hopefully get back to the theatre before curtain-up. I exited the station and made for the road through the old turnpike gates.<
br />
I knew of Islington principally from the Collins Music Hall, a conversion of the Lansdowne Arms public house. It backed onto an old burial ground called New Bunhill Fields. I made my way there, following Bill’s directions. It seems that on the far edge of New Bunhill Fields there stood an old stone barn, much run-down and seemingly abandoned. But as I came in sight of it, I saw a number of sportingly dressed fellows, along with many obvious locals, making their way into the barn through the old cattle doors on the end. When I got to the doors I was looked over closely by a big bruiser of a man, obviously keeping an eye open and touting for the police.
I followed the others into the foul-smelling structure and up a set of rickety wooden stairs to the upper floor. I could hear the crowd already there talking and arguing about the respective merits of the two combatants. These I discovered already in the makeshift ring: a thick rope stretched around rotting hay bales that marked the corners. One man, billed as the Camden Town Mauler, was dressed in the traditional silk drawers, in this instance bright crimson. His hands, hardened with lemon and vinegar, were coarse and red, the knuckles enlarged. His trainer was down on his knees working on the Mauler’s legs, massaging his thighs and calf muscles.
Across the ring was his opponent, the Bermondsey Basher, said to have killed a man in one of these illegal brawls. His drawers were a dirty green. While his trainer worked his thighs, the Basher glared around at the crowd and sneered at his opponent. I wouldn’t have wanted to get in the way of either of these combatants. To step into a ring with them would have been suicide. But I wasn’t there for the fight.
I climbed up on a rusting piece of farm machinery, alongside several other men, and looked all around the barn. The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke. It made my eyes water, though it seemed not to bother the two pugilists. I spotted three men, each with a satchel over his shoulder, working amongst the crowd. They were obviously taking the wagers. One was a black man with a cheery grin and a battered brown bowler at a rakish angle on his head. The second was a thin-faced, bald, hatless person who kept his eyes down on the money being passed back and forth. The third I took to be my mark, Mr. Ernesto Arroyo y López. He wore a top hat and black frock coat, a fancy waistcoat, and had a diamond pin flashing from his cravat. Despite the crush, people seemed to pull back as he passed. He kept to the side of the crowd that seemed to be the better class of punter. I got down from my perch and started making my way around to where Mr. Arroyo y López operated.
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