Stoker, uncharacteristically, smacked the side of the wall. “Of course! How could I not have foreseen this!”
“Sir?”
“The tide, Harry. The tide.”
Edward and I remained silent, neither of us understanding. Stoker gave one of his long sighs.
“From the mouth of the Thames all the way up to Richmond, the river is tidal. The level rises and falls with the turn of the tide, even in the winter. At this time of year high tide is very high; much more so than in the summer and autumn. It must be high tide now, or is approaching it. The water has risen high enough to flow into the end of the pipe and is now flowing inward and upward, from the river, and filling the pipe!”
“And the iciness of the river water is overcoming the heat that was flowing down from the gas works,” I murmured, finally fully comprehending.
Edward, despite himself, let out a sob.
“Here, Edward.” I heard splashing as the big man moved around. “Climb up on my back. Help him, Harry. I’ll carry you pickaback. You won’t drown.”
Thoughts ran through my head. I was only five feet and six inches; quite a bit shorter than my boss. What would happen if the water rose to the top of the sewer?
“It is a whole lot colder,” I said.
“As you say, Harry, the water from the icy river is overpowering the heated water from the gas works. Let us just pray that we get out of here both before it grows too cold and before it covers our heads.”
Wonderful! I thought. We can either drown or freeze to death!
Chapter Twenty-four
The cold water was up to my chin as I struggled on after my boss. He seemed not to be affected by Edward on his back, and the boy had fallen silent. I wondered if he was asleep; it was growing further into the early hours, after all, probably almost dawn. My neck was beginning to ache from holding my head back to keep out any influx of water.
“Sir!” I called out.
“Yes, Harry?” Stoker sounded very weary.
“Sir, here on my right. There’s something sticking out of the wall.”
As he turned back to me, he created a small wave that splashed into my mouth. I coughed and spat.
“Let me feel, Harry. Where’s your hand. Ah!”
I felt his big hand on mine and tried to guide it to the object I had encountered.
“Dá fhaid é an lá tiocfaidh an tráthnóna, as my old granny used to say,” he cried.
“Excuse me?” I said. “Is that good or is that some kind of Irish swearing?”
“It’s good, Harry. It’s very good. It means something like ‘no matter how long the day, the evening will surely arrive.’ I don’t have the exact English of it, but that’s close enough.”
“So, what is this on the wall?”
“Not on the wall, Harry. In the wall. It’s a step. It’s like those iron rungs we climbed down back at the warehouse. Feel up above it, Harry. There should be another. It’s a way out, Harry! There must be a manhole cover up above us somewhere.”
Edward stirred. Now the boy was awake and wanted to know what all the noise was about.
“Reach up, Edward,” I said. “I can’t reach any higher myself, but you can probably feel higher up the wall from where you are. See if you can find one of those iron steps built into the wall.”
“I’ve found one!” he cried. “Shall I climb up?”
“Best let Harry go first,” said Stoker. “There will be a cover to move at the top and I don’t think you’ll have the strength for that.”
I just hope that I have the strength for it, I thought. I took hold of the iron step and first of all felt around below it. I found another and, getting my foot on that, was able to start the climb upward. I couldn’t believe how weak I felt, but I forced myself to climb. It seemed like an age, with Stoker and Edward shouting encouragement from below, but eventually I came up against the roof and felt the shape of a metal cover. I got my feet as firmly on the last step as I could and pressed my shoulder up against the lid. I pushed and pushed but nothing happened.
“Take a breath, Harry,” called Stoker.
I did, and then tried again. Still no movement from the cover.
“I’m coming up,” said Stoker. “Edward, you hold on firmly to the steps behind me but let me go up first.”
He clambered up. I could sense that he, too, was exhausted. But soon he was on the step below the one I was on and was reaching up around me to the cover.
“On the count of three, Harry. We’ll both push together. One . . . two . . . three!”
The manhole cover came loose and popped off, rolling back with a clang.
I don’t know what I expected, but there was no sudden glare of light. It seemed as black outside as it had been in the sewer. There was no moon or, if there was, thick cloud must have hidden it. One thing that did strike me—the tang of the salt air coming off the river; such a relief after breathing that putrid bad-egg smell.
Thankfully it had stopped snowing. From the glimmer that came from the snow on the ground all about us, it looked as though we had come up at the side of a road. I climbed out, followed by Stoker, who reached back to pull out Edward. We rolled the manhole cover over and set it back in place. There was a street lamp burning not far from us, and we sent Edward to see if he could see a street name anywhere near it. He came trotting back apparently somewhat renewed in energy, if still shivering, at our escape from the sewer.
“It’s the corner of Brook Street and Butcher Row.”
“Close to the river,” said Stoker. “I know Brook Street. Come. We need to find transportation and get out of these wet clothes before we freeze to death.”
“Down to the river or away from it?” I asked.
“If memory serves me right, we follow Brook Street and it will lead us into Commercial Road. That will certainly have traffic, even at this hour. Going down to the river wouldn’t help. The wharfs hold nothing but warehouses that, as we know, are not inhabited.”
“There might be an occasional night watchman,” I said, “but I agree that Commercial Road will be better.”
We were all three of us shivering by the time we reached the main thoroughfare. Stoker had insisted that we walk briskly and even run for short bursts, to keep warm, but we were all on our last legs. I was amazed that Edward was still standing. He was a brave boy.
We eventually saw a hansom and all of us shouted as we hailed it. The driver pulled up beside us and took in our bedraggled appearance.
“’Ere! Wot’s wif you, then? You looks as if you bin swimmin’ in the river an’ no mistake! Bit on the cold side for that, innit?”
“It was something like that,” said Stoker. “An accident. I am very concerned about this young lad. Is there anywhere close by that you can take us, where we can get warm and perhaps dry our clothes? I don’t think the boy will last on a drive all the way back to the City.”
“Lord love ya! You get inside my cab an’ I’ll ’ave you right in no time!”
We all three of us squeezed in, and he set off at a fast trot.
“You gents is lucky you caught me,” he said, opening the trap and talking to us through it as he drove. “I was just on my way ’ome; done for the day. Bin a long ’un, believe me.”
“We are extremely grateful,” said Stoker. “Where are you taking us?”
“My sister lives close by ’ere, on Bromley Street. Troof be told, I was finkin’ of stoppin’ by there myself anyway, for a cuppa Rosie.”
“Will she up at this hour?” Stoker asked.
“She will be when I bangs on ’er door, won’t she?” He laughed uproariously and cracked his whip. The horse moved faster as though realizing the urgency.
In short order we arrived at a small house on a street off Commercial Road East. I got out and Stoker handed me Edward, who seemed to have fallen asleep again. The cabdri
ver climbed down off his box and led the way up to the front door.
“I’ll take care of Lady Jane after I’ve got you lot fixed up,” he said, nodding toward his horse.
It took a number of thumps on the door by the cabbie, together with him bending down and shouting through the letter box, before there came any sign of life from inside. Eventually the door was pulled back by a tiny little lady, shorter even than myself, clutching a gingham wrapper about her and with her hair bound up in a scarf of some type. She wore overlarge slippers and greeted us with a yawn. I got the feeling that this was not the first time our savior had come calling on his sister in the early hours of a morning.
“Come on, come on, sis! This ’ere’s a matter of life and death. Poor kid is like to turn to an icicle at the rate you’re movin’! Get the kettle on and I’ll bring ’im through.”
She dutifully turned back into the house without even giving us a second glance. The cabbie took Edward from me and strode after her. Mr. Stoker and I followed on, unbidden.
Half an hour later we were all sitting around a warm fire that had been coaxed back into life and banked up with coal. Each of us, including my boss, clutched a mug of hot cocoa. Edward was now fully awake, gazing around the room with his eyes wide. He was wrapped in a thick blanket, only his head and hands protruding.
We had learned that the cabbie’s name was Percy. His sister insisted we simply call her “Sis,” as did her brother. We never did learn her true name.
“We cannot thank you enough, Percy,” Stoker was saying. “You have, without doubt, been the instigator of a new lease on life for young Edward here, not to mention Harry and myself. I would like to extend—along with the thanks of the entire Lyceum company—an invitation to your good sister and yourself to attend any and all performances of our productions that you might wish. Do you attend the theatre a lot, Sis?” He turned to the diminutive figure beside him and beamed at her.
“Just the occasional pantomime, and I do like the music hall. I sometimes goes to the Pavilion, up on Mile End Road. They has some right gigs, I can tell you. And o’ course there’s the penny gaffs once in a while.”
“Ah! Yes.” Mr. Stoker glanced at me but said no more on the subject.
“I’m not above the occasional drama myself, sir,” said Percy. “I seen Mr. Beerbohm Tree a year or more past. ’E was good, as I recall.”
“And what play was that, Percy?” I enquired.
“Hoh! I don’t know what its name was, bless you. Can’t quite keep them fings in my ’ead, you know?”
“No, of course not,” I said. I pulled out my half hunter and looked at it. “Upon my word! Do you see the time, sir?” I addressed Mr. Stoker, who I saw had now finished his cocoa and was beginning to look more than ready to depart.
“Yes, Harry. Time moves on apace.” He stood up and stretched. “Mr. Percy, Miss—er—Sis. Thank you once again for your wonderful hospitality. Without you I don’t quite know what might have become of us. Percy, might I prevail upon you just a little more? This time directly in your line of work. The boy’s mother must, of course, be worried more than we can know. Would you be available to drive us home to the Lyceum Theatre . . . at your full rates, of course?”
Edward’s clothes had been set to dry in front of the fire. He now put them on as we prepared to leave. Mine and my boss’s clothes were still damp but a far cry from the soaking state in which we had been found. Sis insisted that we take the big blanket to cover us on our journey. Percy assured her he would bring it back. We were soon outside and trotting toward the City, under a clear but still dark sky. The snow had stopped falling and the stars seemed to me to be especially bright, but perhaps that was my imagination.
Chapter Twenty-five
“I think enough is enough,” said Stoker. “It’s time we went to meet the enemy face-to-face and to have it out with him.”
Edward had been delivered to his mother, to her relief and undying gratitude. The Guv’nor himself had shaken both our hands and expressed his delight. Both Stoker and I had managed a few hours sleep . . . We had not got to bed until a little after daybreak. Now we were once again in the theatre manager’s office reviewing events.
“Face-to-face?” I repeated. “You mean, you think we should go to Sadler’s Wells and confront them?”
“Most decidedly! It’s something I should have done long ago, and it would have saved young Edward and his mother much discomfort.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t know, sir. I rather think that Edward considered it a first-class adventure. I understand that he ate an extra-large breakfast this morning and claims he may just forgo being an actor and become an explorer instead.”
“Yes, well, his mother will soon change his mind on that!” Stoker stood up and moved to get his topcoat, recently hung on the stand by the door. “Come, Harry! Let us suit action to words. Get your own overcoat and we will hie us to Sadler’s.”
“Yes, sir.” I could tell when his mind was made up.
We took a hansom to Clerkenwell. It was a fine morning, with a weak sun reflecting off the recently fallen snow. The virgin whiteness was rapidly giving way to a dirty gray because of the morning traffic, but the roofs and gardens we passed still glittered and shone.
Alighting at the theatre, we lost no time in entering the stage door. There, George Dale blinked at us as we moved past him in the direction of the front office.
“Mrs. Crowe, George,” I called to him as we passed.
It took him a moment, but he finally understood what was happening.
“Just let me tell ’er . . .” he started, but we were past him and on to the lady’s door.
Stoker tapped on it with the head of his cane and then, without waiting for an answer, flung it open.
The lady was in conversation with a man wearing a green eyeshade and with his sleeves held up with black garters. When she saw us, she dismissed him.
“Leave us, Wilson. We’ll take this up again later.”
He left the room, eyeing us suspiciously.
“Come in, gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Mrs. Crowe was a small woman with her prematurely graying hair up on top of her head in a bun-chignon. Her face looked pinched, and her mouth was set in a tight line. Her gray eyes matched her hair, and they glinted at us over the top rims of the pince-nez spectacles she had clipped to her nose. She wore a nondescript black dress and no jewelry. When we entered she had been standing, but now she deliberately sat down. She did not invite us to do the same.
Unperturbed, Stoker crossed and sat in one of the two chairs in front of her desk. I joined him in the other.
“Madam. We are here to throw our cards on the table and to bring to an end your juvenile and, in many respects, pusillanimous attempts at destroying the good name of the Lyceum Theatre.”
“What, pray, are you talking about, Mr. Stoker?”
“To take them numerically,” he said, “there is first the attempt to poison Mr. Irving. A diabolical plot that merited police action . . . a course that may yet be followed. Had it been successful the person responsible would have been facing a charge of murder and the English stage would have lost its finest actor.”
Mrs. Crowe sniffed, unimpressed. “Our Mr. Pheebes-Watson might take issue with your last statement, Mr. Stoker, but to your point . . . there has been no attempt on the part of anyone at Sadler’s Wells to interfere with your theatre’s well-being, least of all to try to poison anyone, whether or not a competent actor.”
“Are you denying that you knew of the poisoning before it was reported in the newspapers?”
“Of course not. You know as well as I do, Mr. Stoker, that there is a network of gossip, and cast and management innuendo, throughout the London theatre scene. I believe everyone knew of the unfortunate incident long before the evening papers.”
“Do you then deny any
active participation in this occurrence?”
“I most certainly do.” She turned to a ledger lying on the desk and started turning pages in it, as if to dismiss us. “Now, I have work to do even if you do not, Mr. Stoker. My theatre does not run itself!”
“We are not done, madam!” Stoker roared, banging his fist on her desk. “There is much to discuss, not the least of which concerns your brother, Ralph.”
At that she sat up straight again and had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “My brother? What, pray, does my brother have to do with anything?”
“With everything, I am believing,” responded Stoker.
I was relieved that he was doing all the talking, for I would have withered under Mrs. Crowe’s formidable gaze.
“There are a number of incidents where someone has gained unauthorized entrance to the Lyceum in order to do mischief,” he continued.
“Mischief?” she echoed.
“Causing scenery sandbags and lighting units to fall and injure, or nearly injure, persons on the stage below.”
“Oh dear!”
“Oh dear, indeed, madam! And we have good reason to believe that your brother is at the root of this. If it is not he, in person, who is making this mischief, then he is most certainly directing it. Again, madam, actionable if I should call upon the Metropolitan Police Force.”
“The head, sir,” I murmured, wanting to use all of our ammunition.
“Ah yes!” He picked up on that immediately. “And an incident that has already, of necessity, passed from myself to the constabulary . . . the interference with a buried corpse and the transportation of that corpse’s head to our theatre.”
“What!” Mrs. Crowe came to her feet, her hand going to cover her heart. “What are you saying? You are accusing my brother of grave robbing?”
“Indeed I am. One of our actors had the misfortune to die in a traffic accident—an occurrence of which I am sure you are aware—and subsequent to his burial his coffin was violated and robbed of its corpse. The head of that corpse then appeared on the Lyceum stage in the midst of a public performance.”
Cursed in the Act Page 25
