“What are you talking about?” I repeated. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Are you saying that I’m responsible for Peter Richland being run down? I wasn’t even there when it happened. Also, I was not onstage when the head came flying out of the scenery. And now this body of Mr. Charles Vickers . . . why would I be associated with that?”
Sergeant Bellamy tried to look stern. “We are just saying, sir, that things are very suspicious. We have you in our sight, Mr. Rivers, and are keeping a close watch on you.”
“Well, enjoy the view, Sergeant!” I sniffed and walked away. But I didn’t feel comfortable. Sergeant Bellamy seemed to have an uncanny knack of putting together two and two and coming up with five. I had enough to do without worrying about a suspicious policeman watching my every move.
* * *
It was later that day I found myself at the Silent Woman on Cochran Street, with Jack Parsons, paying for two very mouthwatering pork pies with peas and new potatoes. Since Mr. Stoker had given me the money for this repast, I was happy to add two large porters to wash down everything. The Silent Woman was well-known for its ancient sign outside showing a headless woman, but it was equally well-known for its pork pies. I had sent a message to Jack asking him to meet me there, rather than at the Bag o’ Nails, which was frequented by so many of the Sadler’s Wells crew.
“So what’s this all about then, ’Arry?” Jack asked, after sinking his teeth into his pie and chewing for a while. He spoke with his mouth still full, spewing bits of excellent flaked pastry over the table.
“Just trying to keep up with everything,” I said. “I was wondering how things were going at Sadler’s.”
“’Ow come this sudden interest?”
“Not really sudden, as you well know, Jack,” I said. “But we have heard rumors of some sort of disagreement among Ralph Bateman’s cronies, and I was wondering if you knew any details?”
He chewed for a while, his brow wrinkled, and then he filled his mouth with porter. Swallowing and then giving a belch, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked hard at me.
“That’s funny,” he said. “You’re the second fella what’s been asking questions like that.”
“I am?” I wondered who else could be interested in the affairs of our two theatres.
“Yes. Young fella give me an ’and with torn flats a while back. Bit strange looking ’e was. Just somethin’ about ’im; about ’is ’air. Funny color. Anyway, ’e was full of questions.”
I broke out in a sweat. Obviously he was talking about me, when under the influence of Mr. Archibald’s transformation. I raised my tankard in front of my face and took a long drink.
“You and me, we got a lot in common, ’Arry,” Jack said. “You seem to know what’s ’appening backstage, as it were, and I seem to ’ave the way of over’earing what ain’t exactly none o’ my business.” He grinned.
“Care to share some of that eavesdropping?” I asked, lowering my drink.
There was another belch. “Seems as ’ow young Mr. Bateman ain’t keepin’ too firm an ’old on ’is workers. Mind you, ’e ain’t exactly one of the theatre crew, so what ’e does with ’is cronies shouldn’t be no nevermind to anyone else, if’n you follow me?”
“Oh, I follow you all right, Jack.” I nodded to encourage him to continue.
“If’n Mrs. Crowe ain’t worried about what ’er brother gets up to, then ’oo am I to question it? Right?”
“Right, Jack.”
“Take that little runt Charlie Vickers. ’E’s been nothing but an ’eadache as long as e’s been around Sadler’s. Was a time ’e was up in the flies, all legit like, but ’e couldn’t ’old down a job like that for long. Then ’e was doin’ God knows what for Mr. Ralph. Then ’e got too big for ’is britches there, too. Next thing I knew they was all ’aving a right old barney.”
“Fighting?” I asked.
“Matter o’ fact it did come to fisticuffs,” said Jack. “Charlie Vickers and that ’Erbert Willis was the worst. They ’ad a right up-and-downer just a couple o’ days ago. Left deep scratches all over Willis’s face, which didn’t improve it.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Jack,” I said. “Thanks a lot. That seems to follow what we had guessed.”
“Care to let me in on it, then, ’Arry?”
I wondered if I should let him know about finding Vickers’s body on our stage and decided, why not? He was bound to find out eventually anyway, and it was useful to maintain good terms with him, so I told him.
“So someone finally snuffed ’is candle, did they? Huh! I’m not surprised.”
“Any idea who?”
He shrugged. “Could be any of a dozen or more,” he said. “’Erbert Willis ’eads the list, from ’ow I sees it, but it could o’ been anyone. Willis was only the latest ’e rubbed the wrong way.”
“Any idea why Vickers’s body was dumped on the Lyceum stage?”
Again he shrugged. “Can’t see Willis, or any of them lot, trying to leave any sort of a message for you with summat like that. They’d just as soon leave ’im where ’e dropped. But ’oo knows, eh, ’Arry?” He returned to his porter.
* * *
On my way to the theatre on Tuesday morning, I looked in at St. James’s Division police station to follow up on Sergeant Bellamy’s report regarding the headless body. I was not a little relieved to discover that Sergeant Bellamy was not himself there but “out on a case,” according to the sergeant who was apparently in charge. He stood behind the enquiry counter.
“The unidentified torso recovered from Lambeth, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He went to a large, untidy clipboard and started thumbing through the dog-eared and grubby papers attached to it.
“Sergeant Bellamy?”
“Correct.”
“Ah! Here we are, sir. Yes. Yes, it appears there is a report here.” He read from the scribbled notes. “Reported by one Arthur York, rag-and-bone man of . . .”
“Yes, yes, Sergeant,” I interrupted. “I am somewhat familiar with the rudiments of the case. I was just wondering if it has been ascertained that this torso and the previously discovered head that fell out of the scenery at the Lyceum Theatre were in fact of a pair?”
“Of a pair, sir?”
The sergeant was tall and thin but with a pronounced stoop that diminished his height by a good three or four inches. He was elderly—too elderly to be an active policeman by my estimation—with a bald pate thrusting through nearly pure white hair that ran down the sides of his face and pooled in a ragged, once-trimmed beard and mustache. There were prominent bags under his eyes, and his nose told the story of evenings spent at the nearby Rose and Crown tavern. I learned that his name was Sandler.
“Did the head actually belong to that body? Did they, together, make up the complete corpse?” I never in my wildest dreams would have imagined myself standing here having this conversation.
“I see, sir.”
I rather wondered if he did see. Perhaps it would have been better if Bellamy had been there. At least he would know what I was talking about.
“One moment, sir. I will just step down to the morgue and have a word with the officer in charge of that department. I am sure he will be able to answer your questions, sir.”
He disappeared through the opening behind his desk and I heard his hobnail boots slowly and laboriously descending to the lower regions. I had no desire, myself, to go back down to that cold, ascetic, white-tiled basement with its sheet-covered corpses, and I took a seat on a hard wooden bench against the wall to await the sergeant’s return.
I had a long wait, but eventually he reappeared clutching yet another clipboard, this one folded back to the relevant page.
“It is the opinion of the Metropolitan Police, sir,” he said, while trying to recover his breath from the exertion of descending to the
basement and returning, “that the headless body discovered by the Lambeth rag-and-bone man did, in all probability, go with the bodiless head that had apparently jumped out of your theatrical scenery.”
I was not going to get into an argument as to whether or not the head actually did jump out of the scenery. “You say, ‘in all probability,’ Sergeant,” I said, rising and coming forward to the counter behind which he had installed himself. “Surely it would be very straightforward to determine whether or not the two fit together? I mean, how many possibilities are there? Do you have a number of severed heads on hand?”
He fixed me with what I think was meant to be a steely gaze, but regrettably, his left eye had a habit of twitching and the other eye was inclined to water profusely.
“I merely report what I have on hand, sir, and that is the determination of the coroner, sir. He it is who uses the phrase ‘in all probability.’”
Something wasn’t right. I had had enough dealings with the police to know when they were evading a straight answer. I took a very deep breath and drew myself up to my full height . . . a good six or more inches shorter that the sergeant.
“I think I would like to have a word with your coroner, Sergeant Sandler.”
Chapter Seventeen
My initial visit to the police station morgue had been to identify Peter Richland’s body. I had not been overjoyed to be there and nor was I overjoyed at this return visit. The place was cold—understandable with dead bodies littering the area—and still reeked of carbolic soap. I had originally been entertained there by the stoic Sergeant Samuel Charles Bellamy. The coroner himself had not been present on that occasion, but on this visit he was there. Dr. Rufus Entwhistle was a short, stocky man, even shorter than myself, which gave me a little more self-assurance. He was what might be described as mild-mannered, spoke with a soft voice that demanded I lean in toward him the whole time, and had a strong Lancashire accent that equally demanded my full attention to make out what he was saying. His head was completely bald but had any number of red lines across the top of it where he habitually scratched his head as he talked. I suspected some sort of skin infection.
He was clean shaven but wore his sideboards in the old-fashioned muttonchops style. The hair was a brilliant white, though his eyebrows were gray and bushy, casting shadows over his pale blue eyes.
“Sergeant Sandler tells me you ’ave questions, lad?” he said. At least, I think that’s what he said.
“Yes, sir.” I risked a quick glance around the tiled room. I saw only two sheeted figures in evidence . . . one apparently the headless corpse and the other some obese and nameless man whose feet protruded from the bottom of his sheet. “The sergeant tells me that your report says you feel the severed head that rolled onto the stage of the Lyceum Theatre a while back ‘in all probability’ belongs to the headless corpse discovered by the rag-and-bone man.”
“Aye, lad. That’s reet.”
“Forgive me, sir,” I said, “but I feel my boss would have trouble with the words ‘in all probability.’ He is inclined to be fastidious and will want to know categorically whether or not the head did indeed go with that body.”
He gave a long, sad sigh, shaking his head. “Aye, well . . . we would all like to know that, I’m betting. But truth be told, lad, it cannot be done.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because we don’t ’ave the ’ead.”
“What?”
“Nay, lad. It seems that the ’ead—not appearing to be of any use to anyone anymore—was disposed of. And afore you ask, that means it was in all probability burnt.”
I was aghast. “Burnt? But—but now that we have the body as well it should have been put back in the grave from which it was robbed!”
He scratched his head as it nodded up and down. “Aye, lad. ’Indsight is a powerful tool and nay mistake. What we might do if we all could ’ave it at all times.”
“But surely you don’t get that many severed heads, even here in the morgue? You must have known that it belonged to someone, somewhere?”
“Aye, well. What’s done is done.” He gave another long sigh, shook his head, scratched it again, and then seemed to perk up. “Was there anything else, lad?”
“The torso,” I said. “When the body was intact, when it was first brought in here, Sergeant Bellamy mentioned that he had determined that the person run down by the growler was an actor because of the stage makeup on the face. Have you found traces of such makeup on the torso?”
“There was no sign of any of that stage makeup grease on the ’ands,” the doctor said. “We normally look carefully under fingernails for clues such as that. As you say, we did make mention of the presence of said grease on the face when we first received the complete body after it was trampled.”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you saying, then, that there was no sign of greasepaint under the nails of the original body? I remember the greasepaint on the face—that was how you came to believe it to be our Peter Richland—but I don’t recall you talking about the fingernails at that time.”
Doctor Entwhistle looked slightly uncomfortable, or as uncomfortable as he was likely to look. I felt he was a man who believed himself to be in possession of all the facts.
“The grease on the face was—at that time, lad—sufficient for our identification. Further checking, such as under fingernails, was not then necessary . . . or so we believed. It was not, at that time, expected nor foreseen that the ’ead would be separated from the rest of the body.”
It was my turn to sigh. It was extremely annoying but it seemed there was nothing I could do about it. “So it probably is Richland’s body but there’s no guarantee. I wonder who else could it be?” He did not respond.
I continued, as much to myself as to him. “Mr. Stoker should see the way this police station is run! Now he is a stickler for order.” I spoke petulantly. But then I thought of the “order” of Mr. Stoker’s desk. I moved on. “I think I’ll take a trip out to Lambeth and Blackfriars and have a word or two with Mr. York . . . just in case there’s anything that may have been missed.”
The coroner sniffed and once again scratched the top of his head. “You must do as you think fit, lad,” he said stiffly. “We do our job to the very best of our abilities, understaffed as we may be.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.
* * *
The days seemed to get shorter, with all the running around I was obliged to do. I just wasn’t getting all my theatre work done as efficiently as I would have liked. To save some time on Wednesday morning I took a hansom, rather than an omnibus, over Blackfriars Bridge to Webber Street, off Blackfriars Road. This wasn’t a prosperous neighborhood by any means. In fact it was very much run-down, to the point where the hansom, as soon as it had dropped me, turned around and made off at a good trot back to the City.
I stayed in place for a moment, studying the line of attached houses. They stood uniformly shoulder to shoulder, with the only distinctions being the amount of dirt on the walls and the number of broken panes of glass at the windows. Rubbish mixed with horse droppings, abandoned trash, and detritus of all kinds filled the gutters and overflowed onto the pavement and roadway. Nearby, grubby, barefoot children in ragged clothing sat on doorsteps and played listlessly in the street. A knife grinder sat pedaling his sharpening stone, sparks shooting from the pair of scissors he was working on. A crippled boy crouched on a crudely made box on wheels and sang as he shook a hat with a couple of coins in it.
On the far corner of the street hung the three brass balls of the pawnbroker, though one of the balls was missing. Next to it was an abandoned stable and then, next to that, I could just barely read the faded letters for the rag-and-bone man’s business: Arthur York & Son—Rags, Bones, and Bottles. I made my way there, passing around the crippled boy. I dropped a sixpence in his hat. It was immediately grabbed up
and disappeared into his pocket. He didn’t miss a beat of the tuneless song he sang in his high-pitched voice. I ducked into the dark doorway, stepping over a pile of moldy clothing and worn leather boots.
“Wotcha want?” demanded a young voice as I entered the shop.
I stood inside the doorway surveying the mountains of rags covering all available floor space. Hanging from nails driven into the wooden walls was a huge variety of clothing, men’s and women’s. Hats stretched out along high shelves and shoes covered lower shelves. A single oil lamp hung suspended in the midst of it all, its light failing to reach all four walls. From somewhere in the murky background a short figure approached. It materialized into that of a young boy, no more than ten years of age by my estimation. He was well covered by a great number of woolen pullovers, the elbows ripped and the hems unraveling. On his head was a brown bowler hat with a rip in the side. He wore it at a rakish angle. Oversize hobnail boots covered his sockless feet, and his knee-length shorts shone, in the light of the lamp, from the grease and dirt they had acquired.
“I’m looking for Mr. York,” I said.
“So’s a lot o’ people,” he said, wiping his running nose on his sleeve. “You sellin’ or buyin’?”
“Neither,” I said. “Where is Mr. York?”
“I’m right ’ere.” A raspy voice came from off to one side. Its owner struggled into the light. He was a man of my own height, though he appeared much shorter due to his pronounced stoop. He moved laboriously, hindered by a clubfoot. His suit—if I can so describe it—was of the same hue as the boy’s trousers; it was difficult to tell the color under the accumulation of dirt. He wore a dustman’s hat, the long leather peak hanging down his back. Incongruously, he wore a bright red bow tie, probably from a recent ragbag. Uncontrolled whiskers covered his face and chin, the spaces between filled in with grime.
“Mr. Arthur York?” I asked.
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