There was a small drop-front writing desk by the window, and I moved across to that. I was surprised when I opened it to find letters and invoices addressed to none other than Peter Richland. Was I in Richland’s home? If this was the house I had visited out at Twickenham, then his mother had obviously kept his room much like a shrine to her departed son. It appeared as though nothing had been moved since his untimely death. I ran a finger along the top of the desk. The maid still kept the room clean.
I peered out of the window and tried to recognize whether or not it was the Twickenham house, but the light was insufficient and there were no immediate street gas lamps to illuminate the area and cut through the mist that came off the river. I could not afford to linger; I needed to get out of the house and away.
It seemed to me that my best bet would be to use the back stairs, where I would only meet servants, if anyone. I listened at the top of the stairs and then cautiously made my way down. When I arrived at the kitchen door I became aware of the murmur of voices within. I could make out several male voices plus two female ones. I presumed the latter to belong to the maid and the cook. I had no idea if there were other servants. The male voices could have been the kidnappers or they could have been male servants, but judging from what I had seen when I had visited Mrs. Richland—if this was indeed the same house—I didn’t think she had more than a maid and a cook.
I saw the pantry off to my right and made my way to that. Supplies were sparse, it seemed, but what caught my eye was a small window high up in the outside wall. It wasn’t large, but then neither was I. If I could get up to it, I thought there was a good chance I might be able to climb through it and get away.
I heard the chink of crockery coming from the kitchen. I carefully dragged a tea chest over underneath the window and balanced a wooden crate on top of that. I clambered up and reached across to the window. It was stiff and obviously had not been opened in a while. As I pushed to move it, it made a screeching sound. I stopped and stood balanced, not daring to move. From behind me the sounds from the kitchen stopped. I hardly dared breathe. Then the conversation started again, and the sounds of plates and teacups continued. I could almost swear that I heard one of the ladies say the word “cat,” but it may have been wishful thinking. As I clawed my way up, a bag of flour tumbled to the tile floor and burst open. It didn’t make much noise, and this time I didn’t stop to see if anyone had heard anything. But as I reached across to get my head and shoulders through the window, behind me the pantry door opened.
I swung around, ready to throw whatever might be at hand so that I might make my escape. Standing staring at me was the larger of the two men with whom I had fought in the boathouse. He clutched a blanket about him, and his hair, although now dry, was still plastered about his head. He stood stock still for a long moment, just staring at me.
I could almost see the images passing through his head, like a miniature play being performed. The scene of his falling through the ice, the panic that must have ensued, the rescue from certain death by myself when his own partner ignored his cries for help. He stood and studied me, and then he turned away and returned to the kitchen, closing its door firmly behind him.
I sent a quick prayer of thanks up to whatever deity watched over me, then spun around and dragged and pushed to get my head and shoulders through the window opening. With some wriggling and kicking—I heard other items fall—I eventually slid out into the open, dropping a few feet onto my head and shoulders into a privet hedge. I wasted no time. I rolled out of that and got to my feet. I thought I saw the light of a lantern being carried into the pantry behind me, but I ran off across the frozen lawn and along the iron railing to a gate that opened onto the road.
* * *
By the time I got back to the Lyceum it was nearly noon. It was indeed Sunday; I had missed the Saturday performances and, more to my chagrin, had missed my meeting with Jenny.
Despite it being the Sabbath morning, I found Bram Stoker standing by the stage door, fiercely looking up and down the street. I descended from the growler I had procured in Twickenham and asked him if he could pay the driver, since my wallet and all of my money seemed to have disappeared. He did so—with some muttered comment about this becoming a habit—and then, to my immense surprise, he threw his arms about me and hugged me to him. Such was the warmth of his embrace I was afraid that, after surviving the many trials of my abduction, I would be suffocated by my boss.
“Come inside, Harry,” he said, his voice strangely husky. “Come along in and get warm. I’ll send out one of the lads to get you a good meal. Come and tell me all about it.”
I was touched. I knew Bram Stoker to be an emotional man. At one of his earliest meetings with Henry Irving, in Ireland, he had been invited to dinner with the Guv’nor in response to writing an exceptionally favorable review of Hamlet at Dublin’s Theatre Royal. At the dinner, Irving recited Thomas Hood’s popular and extremely poignant poem The Dream of Eugene Aram, giving a histrionic performance. At the end of it Irving affected a theatrical swoon, but Stoker joined him in a very real swoon, being so overcome by the recital. He was never one to hide his emotions.
I related to my boss all that had transpired, pausing only briefly to start eating a late breakfast of eggs, bacon, kidneys, sausage, fried potatoes, and tomatoes. I downed several mugs of tea, all brought in from a nearby restaurant by the attentive Bill Thomas, who dawdled long enough to listen to the end of my story.
“So you did not recognize any of these men?” Stoker asked.
“No, sir. I had a good look at them before they put the bag over my head, but I’m sure I had never seen any one of them before.”
“Rogues hired by that young Bateman, no doubt,” muttered Bill as he gathered up the empty plate and utensils. Bill went out and Stoker sat with a deep frown on his face.
“This is not good, Harry. Who knows what their intention was? I spent the day awaiting perhaps the arrival of a blackmailing note, but they made no contact.”
“Perhaps they were waiting a day or more to make sure my being missing was really noticed?” I offered.
“Hmm. Maybe. I did let your Sergeant Bellamy know, however.”
I looked up, surprised. “You did? Well, thank you, sir. What did the good sergeant have to say?”
Stoker sighed. “He said to wait a day or so, since you just might turn up.” He sighed again. “And so you have.”
“No thanks to the Metropolitan Police,” I murmured. I finished off the last of the mug of tea.
“What did you determine of the house where you were kept? You mentioned that you thought it was the home of Mr. Peter Richland and his mother.”
“Yes, sir, I did. In fact I am certain it was. I do remember that, on my original visit there, I noticed an old boathouse out in the garden. That must have been the one where they first placed me.”
“But you saw no sign of Mrs. Richland?”
“No, sir.” Memory came flooding back. “But I did find what used to be Peter Richland’s room. Upstairs in the house. She keeps it as it was when he was alive. No surprise, I suppose, considering that our queen keeps whole palaces as they were when Prince Albert was alive. Oh, and when I looked in some of the drawers there, I saw no sign of silk undergarments, just plain cotton ones.”
“Interesting.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Richland even knew that her house and boathouse were being used,” I said, after a few moments’ thought. “I suppose that it’s possible she was away from home and Ralph Bateman—being an old friend of Peter Richland—had his men make use of that facility.”
“As a convenience?” asked Stoker. I nodded. “I don’t know, Harry. But it should be easy enough to find out whether or not Mrs. Richland was in residence this weekend.”
I yawned. I couldn’t help myself. I was tired and my head was still sore.
“Take yourself off home, Harry. You look a mess. Ge
t some rest. It’s Sunday so I don’t want to see you here again until late tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, sir. Yes.” I got to my feet. Sunday, I thought! What about Jenny? I had to get to her and explain my absence. I think Stoker read my thoughts.
“Oh, and I sent a message around to Jenny for you, Harry. Told her that you had been delayed.”
I was both surprised and delighted. “You did? Oh, I cannot thank you enough . . .”
He pooh-poohed my thanks, flapping a hand at me. “Get yourself cleaned up and see her when you can, Harry. Now, off with you! Oh, and one more thing, Harry.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get yourself another cane—a good stout one—and be ever vigilant. We don’t want you snatched away again.”
* * *
I had thoughts of bathing and getting into some clean clothes. It wasn’t Friday—the traditional “bath night”—so I couldn’t count on Mrs. Bell heating water for me. I decided to visit the public baths, and there I soon felt refreshed and able to look life squarely in the face again. I went back to my rooms, put on clean clothes, and left the house. Still feeling hungry, I felt that I could not face one of Mrs. Bell’s culinary disasters but made my way to the King’s Arms on Carey Street. There I lunched on a platter of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, Brussels sprouts, and roast potatoes, together with a tankard of porter. I dug into a freshly baked loaf of bread laden with recently churned butter. By the time I had finished, I felt considerably better, if not overindulged. I had persuaded Mrs. Bell to let me have one of her precious supply of Dr. Clark’s Pills for Nervous Headache. I don’t know that my headache was especially “nervous,” but it was most certainly a headache. I washed down the pill with a healthy swallow of porter.
It was exactly two of the clock when I finally arrived outside 15a Grafton Street. I had stopped briefly at Mortimer’s on Regent Street and, as Mr. Stoker had suggested, purchased a new cane. Jenny must have been watching for me from the upper windows. She emerged from the gleaming black-painted front door wearing the same ensemble she had worn on the previous Sunday. I’m sure it was her only good outfit, but she looked wonderful in it. Her eyes were bright and gleaming, her mouth in a delightful smile.
“Mrs. Cooke was kind enough to let me change the hour of my time off,” she said.
We set out to enjoy a few short hours together. She clung to my arm and urged me to tell her all of my adventures.
“All in good time. Let us enjoy the day for a while first,” I said, a smile on my face. I looked about me, feeling both happy and lucky. How easily things could have gone wrong and I might never have seen my dear Jenny again. I beamed at her, feeling blessed. Her eyes sparkled as she returned my smile.
The weather continued to be relatively fine for the time of year. The sun peeked intermittently through the clouds and there was no wind to speak of. We made our way over to Green Park, on the far side of St. James’s Park. Piccadilly was on its north side, and we stopped briefly to listen to an old man playing a hurdy-gurdy at the end of Queen’s Walk.
“Has the Lyceum been busy?” asked Jenny, her hand in the crook of my arm. There was no snow and I carried no umbrella, so there was really no necessity for her to hold on to me, but I squeezed my arm to draw her tight against my side. She smiled up at me and my heart beat loudly enough that I was sure she would hear it.
“Hamlet is doing very well,” I said. “The Guv’nor keeps them in their seats. Mr. Stoker said that people do not come to the Lyceum to see Hamlet, they come to see Henry Irving playing Hamlet.”
“I wish I could see it,” said Jenny wistfully.
“Oh, you will, if I can manage it,” I said, mindful of my promise to her.
We had just turned from Queen’s Walk to go up Constitution Hill when I saw a man striding purposefully toward us. He had come out of the trees along the wide walk leading up to the Palace, and with a start I recognized him as one of the men who had held me captive the previous day: the third one in the carriage, not one of the two who had been at the boathouse. Before I knew what was happening he had reached out and grasped Jenny’s arm. She screamed.
I had gone a step farther when following Mr. Stoker’s advice. The newly purchased cane I now carried was in fact a sword-cane. With a quick pull, I drew the blade and lunged at the man.
Jenny had given a cry when he took her arm, but it was his turn to cry when I stabbed him just above the wrist. Blood spurted and he leapt back, releasing Jenny. I may be small, but I was fencing champion at the Hounslow Institution for Boys; it was the only sport at which I did excel. This ruffian was tussling with a fiery redhead and my blood was up! I stepped forward in front of Jenny and jabbed again with the blade. It pierced the man’s forearm. He pulled back, turned, and ran. I was tempted to run after him but was mindful of my companion.
“Jenny! Are you all right?” I asked.
“Oh, Harry!” she cried. “My hero!” She threw her arms about my neck and kissed me full on the lips. I almost dropped the sword-cane but had the presence of mind to wrap my arm, still holding the weapon, about her slim waist and draw her to me. It might not have been the gentlemanly thing to do, but I felt very much the knight in shining armor.
The kiss was all too brief and Jenny stepped back, her face flaming red and her eyes cast down.
“Who—who was that, Harry?” she gasped. “Where did he come from? What did he want?”
I had sheathed the blade and now, straightening my bowler hat, I took a firm grip on Jenny’s arm and started us in the direction of St. James’s Park.
“First things first, Jenny. I think we need to find somewhere to sit down and have a cup of tea. There is a small refreshment stand in the park, I believe. Let us repair to that and I will tell you a story . . . a story of my adventures yesterday.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Ellen Terry, the darling of the Shakespearean theatre and leading lady to the Guv’nor, has been on the stage since the age of eight, when she first appeared with Charles Kean at the Princess’s Theatre. Bram Stoker had many times related to me her brilliant career. I think the fact that Miss Terry’s father was of Irish descent made her special in his eyes. She had been married three times and had caused some scandal along the way. It was just at the beginning of the present year that she had separated from her third husband, Charles Kelly. Yet such was her acting and stage presence that she was forgiven much that others would not have been. Her second husband was the architect-designer Edward William Godwin . . . though in fact they never actually married since she was separated but still married to her first husband, the eminent artist George Frederick Watts. But with Godwin she had two children, a daughter, Edith, and a son, Edward.
Edward was now nine years of age and Edith was twelve. Edward usually accompanied Miss Terry to the theatre and had taken on the role of callboy, he who alerts the actors as to when they need be in the wings, ready to go on. Edward took the job very seriously and was much loved and appreciated by all.
On Monday, after my so pleasurable Sunday sojourn with Jenny, I had reported the attempted attack in the park to Mr. Stoker but then got on with theatre work. It was early evening that the day started to unravel.
Sam Green came to me two hours or so before curtain-up. Actors were drifting in and backstage staff was checking and double-checking scenery, lighting, and props. I had just started on my rounds when Sam accosted me.
“Mr. Rivers! ’Arry! Any idea why the scenery bay doors should be unlocked?”
I was surprised. The big doors were only opened when newly built flats were being brought into the theatre or, at the end of a run, when old flats were being taken out. Some of the scenery could be quite tall, and appropriate doors are necessary. Throughout the entire run of a production there is no necessity for them to be opened.
“What do you mean, Sam?”
“Jus’ what I says, ’Arry. Them doors is unlock
ed. I found one of ’em swingin’ in the breeze, as it were . . . wondered where the cold draught was coming from! It’s a rum do an’ no mistake.”
That was his favorite expression. I hurried off in the direction of the scenery bay, Sam stretching his long legs to keep up with me. I found the doors shut but not locked.
“I shut ’em,” volunteered Sam. “Keep the bleedin’ cold out. But I ain’t locked ’em cos I didn’t know what was goin’ on.”
“Quite right,” I said. I scratched my head. “Who has a key to these doors?” I asked, though I knew the answer. I was just playing for time while I considered the possibilities.
“As you know, ’Arry,” Sam said, well aware of my tactic, “you, me, Mr. Stoker, and Fred Summer, the electrician. ’E’s somewhere up in the flies, if’n you wants ’im.”
I bent over and examined the locks. It looked as though someone had used a betty on the lock, or otherwise forced it. A betty was a skeleton key and the tool of a burglar. I was no police detective, but I could make out scratches all around the keyhole of the one door.
“All right, Sam,” I said. “Get some of your lads and make a run through the theatre. Look everywhere. Someone either got in, got out, or both. I want to know if anything is missing. Keep your eyes open for any stranger. My guess is that whoever it was couldn’t get past our Bill, up by the stage door, so they decided to get in from here.”
“Right, ’Arry!” He went running off and I headed for Stoker’s office.
Nearly an hour later Sam came to find me and to report. I was still with my boss.
“No sign of anythin’ missin’, ’Arry; Mr. Stoker, sir. No sign of anyone wot don’t belong ’ere. O’ course, it could be someone’s been and gorn by now.”
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