Mrs. Crowe sat down again, seemingly calmer. “And what makes you think that my brother had anything to do with that, might I ask?”
“All indications are that he was the instigator, madam. He and his cronies.”
“Cronies? I must warn you to watch your language, sir, or it is you who will face the members of the police force.”
“You have knowledge of an ‘associate’ of your brother’s who is from the Caribbean Islands?” Stoker persisted.
“If you refer to Mr. Ogoon, yes. He is our houseguest. When Ralph returned from his visit abroad, Mr. Ogoon came with him. He is an esteemed resident of the Republic of Haiti, to my understanding. They have become good friends. What, Mr. Stoker, are you implying about this gentleman?”
“He and your brother, as recently as yesterday, kidnapped the son of Miss Ellen Terry.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Have you seen your brother this morning, Mrs. Crowe?”
“Just briefly, yes. Though what concern that is of yours I do not know.”
“Was he well?” asked Stoker.
“Well? What mean you, sir?”
“How was his head?”
There was a long pause. Mrs. Crowe pursed her thin lips to the point where they seemed to disappear. She moved uneasily in her chair, less confidant than she had been a moment before.
“His—his head? Why, as it happens he does have some injury, a swelling. He accidentally walked into a wall, he says. What do you know of this, Mr. Stoker?”
“He would have to have been walking backward into a wall to raise a swelling on the back of his head. It is on the back of his head, is it not, Mrs. Crowe?”
She said nothing. Stoker continued.
“In rescuing the kidnapped child I had to hit your brother over the head. It was necessary in order to effect the rescue. I am not surprised that he has a swelling this morning, and it does indeed confirm that he was the instigator of the abduction. He was accompanied by your Mr. Ogoon and others.”
There followed a very long silence. I noticed that her head sank down toward her chest. She gave a long sigh before, finally, looking up again at my boss.
“I must face facts, Mr. Stoker. Ralph has always been a difficult boy. Yes, I admit that I have long been aware of his, what I tell myself are ‘misadventures.’ He is no longer a child. He must start taking responsibility for his actions. He is very easily led, though I know that is no excuse. Recently, it would seem he has been heavily influenced by someone; someone other than Mr. Ogoon. But kidnapping—if indeed he was responsible, and it would seem from what you say that it is indisputable—is inexcusable. I will admit that he may have been waging some sort of war against your theatre. As you well know, since my mother left the Lyceum and Mr. Irving took over, there has been no love lost between our two venues. Ralph has seen himself as ‘avenging his mother’s honor,’ or some such; though how he feels about mine, I am uncertain. But professional rivalry is one thing; this is something else and I find it inexcusable.” She got wearily to her feet. “I do not expect you to understand, let alone sympathize with, the feelings of a mother for her son nor an older sister for her younger brother. If you would be kind enough to leave this matter with me, I will attend to it.”
“Regrettably, madam,” said Stoker, “before coming here we were obliged to apprise the police of the kidnapping. This was at Mr. Irving’s urging, since it was a most heinous crime.”
She once more was silent for a space, before again sighing and nodding her head.
“I understand, Mr. Stoker. I understand.”
Stoker stood up. “Is your brother available?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He and Mr. Ogoon left home about an hour ago or more, shortly after I first spoke to him this morning and before I came to the theatre.”
“Do you know where they have gone?”
“I believe he mentioned having to go out to Twickenham, though I’m sure I don’t know what business he has there.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Crowe,” said Stoker, coming to his feet. He turned to me. “Come, Harry! We must hurry. There is work to be done at Twickenham!”
* * *
We stopped at St. James’s Division police station and picked up Sergeant Bellamy. I swiftly found myself squeezed in the middle of the cab, between him and Stoker. A hansom is built for two passengers, though it can take three in a pinch. I gave silent thanks that I am so slight of build, since Stoker is large and Bellamy no rake. A second hansom, containing two obese constables equally squeezed together, fell into line behind ours. As we headed west out of the city, we discussed everything we knew and believed concerning Ralph Bateman, Ogoon, and the past events at the Lyceum. Bellamy listened in silence. I could imagine him having a mental notebook open with its pencil busily scribbling.
“You realize, I hope, sir, that we have no jurisdiction out at Twickenham,” he finally said.
“I surmised as much,” said Stoker. “We did, however, want to bring you up to date, since so much of this has taken place in or around the theatre. What would you advise, Sergeant?”
“Well, sir.” I could sense his satisfaction at having been brought into our confidence and at being asked for his advice. “When we get to Twickenham, we can make contact with the Thames Valley Police and request that they accompany us to wherever it is we are bound, and effect whatever actions are necessary.”
“Excellent,” said Stoker. “Excellent, Sergeant.”
* * *
The Twickenham police station was in a tiny building on Church Street, perhaps conveniently situated next door to the Fox and Grapes, which sat on the very bank of the Thames. Indeed we were directed to the tavern to speak with Inspector Maurice Gulley, an old-school policeman who seemed not to feel the pressures of his duties, such was the bucolic setting of his post. He wiped the froth from the white walrus mustache that overhung his full lips and allowed a soft belch to escape his mouth before setting down his tankard and looking us up and down. He addressed himself to Sergeant Bellamy.
“’Tis a grand morning for the time o’ year, is it not, Sergeant?” He stretched out his legs under the rustic table at which he sat, on the back lawn of the tavern.
The water of the river gently lapped not far from our feet, and an enthusiastic young student, well wrapped against the still chill weather, glided past in a punt. The sun had deemed to grace us with its presence, though there was little warmth coming from it.
Mr. Stoker tapped his foot impatiently. Bellamy, very conscious of my boss’s actions, nodded to the officer.
“A fine morning indeed, Inspector,” he said. “And I am sorry to have to intrude upon it, but there is important, and very immediate, action to be taken.”
“Oh? Explain yourself, Sergeant.” He again raised the tankard to his lips and allowed his mustache to disturb the head of the ale.
“Yes, sir. We have to request your assistance in apprehending a group of miscreants who have driven down here from London.”
“And their alleged crime?”
“Their crime, sir,” snapped Mr. Stoker, whose patience had come to an end, “is that of kidnapping. Kidnapping a small child and, further, of placing said child together with two adults in grave danger. There are possibly further charges that might be brought should we be successful in breaking through this lethargy of the Thames Valley Police and actually apprehending them.”
The inspector carefully and deliberately set down his ale and came to his feet, attempting to fix my boss with a steely gaze. Unfortunately the inspector was a good head shorter than Mr. Stoker and, if I was to make a judgment, a trifle unsteady on his feet.
“And you, sir, are . . . ?”
Bellamy had the good sense to intervene. “This is Mr. Abraham Stoker, manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, Inspector. We really do need to be about our business as promptly a
s possible. I have a carriage full of my own men out front and we simply look for a few of your good men to join us.”
When the inspector still hesitated, Stoker added, “We would, of course, Inspector, deem it an honor if you yourself would join us and help lead the exercise.”
* * *
We approached Mrs. Richland’s home cautiously. Behind our hansom came a four-wheeler carrying Inspector Gulley and three of the Thames Valley Police’s finest constables . . . their only constables, as it turned out. We stopped at the end of a road opposite the line of houses that stretched along the riverbank. From there we advanced on foot.
At the head of the Richland driveway I looked toward the river and could see the boathouse that had held me several days before. Its door still hung sadly sagging on its rusty hinges. There was no sign of life either at the boathouse or at the main house.
Bram Stoker led the way up the driveway and banged loudly on the front door. When the elderly maid I had encountered on my first visit responded, he asked to see Mrs. Richland.
“I am sorry, sir, but Mrs. Richland is not at home,” she said, her eyes cast down.
“Are you sure?” snapped Sergeant Bellamy.
“Oh yes, sir. Mrs. Richland is not at home.”
“I see,” he said. “We would like to come in and check for ourselves.”
Inspector Gulley pushed forward. “We don’t have a search warrant,” he muttered to Bellamy and Stoker.
“No, sir, we don’t,” agreed Bellamy. “But we’re thinking this lady may not question that. Is that right?” he demanded of the maid.
She looked up, obviously terrified to find so many policemen at her door.
“I—I—I’ll have to go and ask,” she said, turning tail and fleeing into the house.
“Ask whom, one wonders?” said Stoker. “If the mistress of the house is truly not home, then whom is she questioning?”
“Let’s find out!” snapped Bellamy.
He pushed forward into the entrance hall. With the briefest of pauses, Gulley followed, Stoker, myself, and the five policemen right behind him. We moved quickly up the staircase to the living room, which was empty. Above us we heard the sound of voices—that of the maid and more than one male voice.
“Come on!” cried Stoker.
We turned away from the living room and continued on up the staircase, coming to a stop partway up the next flight as a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. I blinked my eyes and then rubbed them.
“Damnation but I knew it!” cried Stoker.
There, looking down on us, his face distorted in fury, was the supposedly dead Peter Richland. Behind him stood Ralph Bateman, Ogoon, and Herbert Willis.
“Well! The late Mr. Richland,” said Stoker. “Might I say how well you are looking?”
“Damn you!”
Richland bent and swiftly picked up a potted palm tree that stood at the top of the staircase. He flung it down to strike Stoker. The big man fell back a couple of steps, and the rest of us, bumping into one another, also fell back, some of the police constables literally losing their balance, falling to the stairs, and rolling back down them. Richland and his followers turned and disappeared.
“They’re making for the back stairs!” I shouted. “We must get down and around to the kitchen.”
What followed was chaotic. Constables tried to pick themselves up while those on the upper stairs tried to get past them to lead the way down. Valuable time was lost getting back to the ground floor and then around and down to the kitchen. We arrived to find the outer door open and the miscreants gone.
* * *
“Jackson, Ingram, and Rogers! Go through this house with a fine-tooth comb. Any person or persons you find you will apprehend and hold until my return. The rest of you, come with me,” cried the inspector.
The other two constables, Sergeant Bellamy, Stoker, and I followed the inspector out to the back garden. We had a quick look in the boathouse and another constable was left there. The five of us then hurried back up to the roadway.
“Over there!” cried Stoker, pointing to a house two doors along.
There was a man working in the front of the house, clearing snow from the path. Stoker advanced on him.
“You, sir! Did you see some men—at least three of them—hurry from this house a short time ago? One of them was tall, almost as tall as myself. Possibly they would have been without overcoats.”
The man, who was elderly, stuck his finger in one ear and wiggled it as though to stir up his memory. He knit his brow and squinted his eyes. It seemed obvious he was making a great effort to report, with accuracy, anything he had seen.
“Well now, young man,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “You say at least three men?”
“Yes. Yes,” said Stoker.
“And without topcoats, even in this inclement weather?”
“Did you see them?” snapped Inspector Gulley. “Speak up, man. This is urgent police business.”
“Don’t fluster him,” urged Stoker quietly.
“Three men in a hurry?” He scratched the top of his head. “You know I do believe I did, don’t you know. Though in point of fact there were four of them. I wondered why they were running.”
I heard the inspector growling.
“Yes,” continued our witness. “I did not observe the lack of outer attire initially, though it did eventually strike me. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Why would any man, no matter his station, pursue his business in such inclement weather as we have seen of late—although one must acknowledge that the day is a fine one for the season—why would any man exit his house thus sparsely clad . . . ?”
“Oh, get on with it, man!” cried Bellamy.
The older gentleman gave the sergeant a brief hard look and then continued undaunted. “They ran out from the back of the house, continued around to the front, and then hailed a four-wheeler that was passing,” he said.
“They got a growler?”
“Not many of them along here at this time of day,” continued the old man. “They were lucky there.”
“Tell me, sir,” Stoker spoke quietly but firmly. “Were you close enough? Did you happen to hear where they asked the driver to go?”
We all hung on his words.
“Oh yes.” He nodded his head several times. “That was not difficult.” He chuckled. “The old driver must have been a mite deaf, don’t you know! They had to shout it out more than once.”
“What did they say!” screamed the inspector.
“Teddington,” said the man. “Yes, Teddington. Just down the road, don’t you know. Only about a mile . . .”
We didn’t wait for him to finish but ran across to where we had left the police growler. A constable climbed up onto the box and the rest of us bundled into the carriage. The hansom had long since departed. With a lurch, the four-wheeler rolled out of the side road and turned westward toward the neighboring town of Teddington.
“Why would they be going there, sir?” I asked.
“I’m not certain,” said Stoker.
“The lock, I wouldn’t mind betting,” said Inspector Gulley. “They can cross the river over the lock gate and then they’ll be in Surrey . . . and out of my jurisdiction.”
“Not if we catch up with them first,” said Bellamy, through clenched teeth.
We all clung on tightly as the policeman in the driver’s seat whipped up the horses to a gallop.
“I still can’t get over the fact that Richland is alive,” I said. “How can that be? There were witnesses that saw him run down and killed—why, I even went and identified the body—and then we all went to his funeral.”
“Except that the coffin was empty,” said Stoker. “I have to admit that I began to have my doubts when you reported that his mother was keeping his room in situ, Harry. Not unknown when a mother loses a so
n, certainly, but enough to draw out my suspicions in this instance.”
“So why did he fake his death?” asked the inspector.
“And whose body was it that we were chasing after?” said Bellamy. “There certainly was a body, as we all know. Sometimes with a head and sometimes without, but a body nonetheless.”
“Oh yes. There was a body,” replied Stoker.
Gulley stuck his head out the side of the carriage and shouted up to the driver, “Turn left along here, Constable. Ferry Road, right off Manor Road.” He drew back in and turned to Mr. Stoker. “Pray continue, sir.”
Stoker did so. “Don’t forget that Richland was in the company of another man at the Druid’s Head. They both left the tavern, apparently very much the worse for drink, or so it appeared. I have a feeling that Richland was actually quite sober. And I am pretty certain that the body we took to be Richland—and that he wanted us to think was him—was in fact the body of the stranger he had befriended at the public house. A visitor to the city who would not be easily missed.”
“But how could that be?” I asked. “The police—Sergeant Bellamy here—said that they knew the victim was one of our actors because of the traces of makeup on his face.”
Bellamy nodded. “That’s correct, sir.”
“Oh, our Mr. Richland planned it all carefully, Harry, I’m sure. Someone observed that at the scene of the accident one man dragged the victim over to the far side of the road and then down an alley.”
“That’s right!” acknowledged Bellamy.
“In case there was any chance of identification,” continued Stoker, “our man put makeup on the other’s face, shaved his mustache, if he had one, and then smashed his face so there could be no absolute recognition.”
“I have to admit,” I said, “when I was at the police station to identify the man, I was not able to really study him . . . my stomach wouldn’t allow it.”
The four-wheeler skidded to a halt and the inspector flung open the door. “Here we are. Let’s get after the blighters!”
Cursed in the Act Page 26
