by P. N. Elrod
Edward stood in silence, staring at the fallen casket and its unaccountable contents. He could not bring himself to move. What was earth doing inside a coffin? he asked himself, and found no answer. Very slowly he let his breath out, unaware until that instant that he had been holding it. He noticed that this coffin was one of the ones that had been tagged to be picked up by the drayage firm the next day, and that made him more puzzled than ever. Who wanted the earth, and what would he do with it? He had no answer, so he approached the matter from a different angle: why should any undertaker buy a coffin filled with earth? To whom was Carfax selling these coffins, and why?
The sound of a carriage in the street brought him back to himself. He swore obscenely and comprehensively under his breath as he resisted the panic that threatened to overcome him. He was aware that he had to clean up the dirt and make some attempt to repair the coffin before Mister Carfax could see what a mess had been made. This galvanized him into action: in a flurry of activity, he removed his jacket and turned up his sleeves in preparation for all he had to do, searched for the wide broom he used every night before he left to make a pile of the dirt, and he improvised a dustpan to collect it and stuff it back in the carved wooden box. The lock was a trickier problem, and it so engrossed him as he glued the various bits back together that he did not notice when the door opened and Carfax himself slipped into the warehouse, taking refuge in the shadows where Edward could not see him.
When he was satisfied that he had repaired the worst of the damage, Edward hurried off to the washroom to clean his hands and neaten himself up. He combed his hair with his fingers and patted cold water on his face to diminish the flush of exercise, then straightened his collar and tie before going to fetch his jacket. He stopped still when he saw Carfax standing in the doorway. "Good afternoon, sir," he said nervously. "I did not hear you arrive."
"I daresay," said Carfax, strolling into the center of the warehouse, his voluminous European-style cloak swinging around him. "Is all well?"
"The police still haven't caught the murderer, but your business is thriving," said Edward uneasily. He hoped that Carfax would not notice that the caskets were not stacked as they had been.
"Five bodies, is it?" Carfax asked.
"Four, actually," said Edward.
"Oh, yes. Four." He paused beside the first stack of coffins. "How sad." Then he turned abruptly. "If you will fetch the accounting books down from the office? I want to assure myself that our records are accurate. There have been enough orders for these coffins for a review of our stock."
Glad to be doing something useful, Edward bolted for the stairs; he did not see Carfax open the nearest coffin, take rumpled, stained clothing from under his cloak, and thrust the clothing inside; he closed the lid carefully, making almost no sound. Smiling slightly, he waited for Edward to come down with the account book.
"Here it is," said Edward, holding out the ledger. "You'll see I've ticked off all the coffins and caskets you have already shipped, and entered the date they were shipped here—" he pointed out the place in the columned paper.
"Ah, yes," said Carfax. "A good arrangement." He pointed to the inventory numbers of the next lot that would be shipped. "These are the ones that will be transported tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir," said Edward, unable to keep from glancing at the earth-filled casket.
"Very good," said Carfax, and turned his attention to other matters, which quieted Edward's dismay.
"I'll see the coffins get off all right and tight," Edward promised Mister Carfax shortly before that worthy left him that evening. "It will be good to have them gone," he said with genuine emotion.
"He denies everything. He claims to know nothing about the clothing or the earth. If you had not told us where to search, he might have got away with it," said Inspector Ames as his men struggled to return some order to the chaos they had created. "We expect that of such criminals. This one was no different, claiming someone had planted what we found, to fix the blame on him. I am sorry that we had to do this." He nodded as an indication of why he was apologizing: coffins and caskets were strewn about, most of them opened, as if a terrible desecration had taken place in an unlikely graveyard. The constables were doing their best to restack the coffins and caskets now that Hitchin had been taken into custody.
Carfax heard this out with every sign of distress. "But what did you find?" '
"Enough to give the hangman employment," said Inspector Ames heavily. "In his drawer in the office there were some things he had hidden—of course, he denies any knowledge of them. They will be enough for the Queen's Counsel to make an unbreakable case."
"Are you so certain he is the man?" Carfax shook his head.
"Well," said Inspector Ames knowingly, "it's often the cooperative ones who prove the most dangerous in the end. No doubt he holds the police to blame for his father's death and his mother's decline." He held out his hand to Carfax. "And speaking of cooperation, I thank you for all you have given us, sir. Without your help, this case might not have ended so quickly."
Carfax accepted the inspector's hand. "I must admit I did not think it would come to this when I first admitted you to my warehouse." He sighed. "I can hardly stand to look at the place now."
"Give it time, sir; give it time," Inspector Ames recommended with a touch of sympathy.
"No doubt that is excellent advice." Carfax nodded as he looked about in mild distraction. "At least my business will keep me away from here for a while, so I may accustom myself to what has happened here." He stared up at the office above them. "I shall have to find someone else to manage this place for me, someone who can assume more of my duties in my absence."
"I can recommend an agency, sir," said Inspector Ames. "I feel a bit to blame for all the disruption you have endured."
"You have only done as you must. It is the murderer who has brought all this." He gestured to the disarray of coffins and caskets.
"Right you are, sir," Inspector Ames agreed. "But we're the ones as did the search, and we're the ones to put it right again." He did not add that this was a courtesy rarely extended to men in the visitor's position: had the search been unsuccessful, or had the owner of D. Carfax been less imposing, the police would have left the disorder for him to deal with.
"For which I am most appreciative," said Mister Carfax. "I could not look upon dealing with this without being appalled. I fear I should have had to hire others to do it."
"Understandable, sir," said Inspector Ames.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them.
"Inspector," said Carfax suddenly, "do you need me for anything more? If you do not, I will give you a key and ask you to lock up when you and your men are done."
"Of course, sir," said Inspector Ames, thinking that these foreigners were odd coves, going queasy over the damnedest things. "I'll return your key as soon as you ask for it."
"Thank you, Inspector." He turned his back on all the activity, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out his key on a long chain. "I will go into the country for a few days, I think. To recruit myself. This has left me quite shaken."
"More's the pity, sir," said Inspector Ames, taking the key-and-chain from the visitor. "Just you rest up a bit. Don't let this unpleasantness spoil your taste for England." He wanted to ease Carfax's mind, so he added, "Hire an experienced manager and let him handle the business for a while. Take your time."
"Time," Carfax echoed. "You give excellent advice, Inspector. I have other matters to attend to just now. I would be imprudent to neglect them." He pressed his lips together, musing. "Your point is well-taken. With a competent manager, this place should prosper, whether I am here to run it or not."
Inspector Ames smiled. "Sounds the very thing." Very probably, he thought, there was nothing more pressing than the desire to get away from this place, but he could not blame Carfax for that, after such a grisly discovery. He would have patted the foreigner on the arm, but that would have been much too familiar a ges
ture. "What did Hitchin say you call this place—a long-term investment?"
Carfax paused in the act of leaving. "That's right, Inspector," he said with an expression that was not a smile, "so I did."
"Places for Act Two!"
Bradley H. Sinor
"Blimy, mate! You're out of your bloody mind!"
Liam Gideon stared down the length of his sword at the pale face that moments before had been a blustering, menacing figure.
"Crazy or sane, it doesn't matter," he said. "Because I am the one who has a sword at your throat. So I wouldn't be advising that you move too quickly or count on any help from either of your friends."
The pale-faced man's eyes darted to the far side of the alley where another man, dressed as shabbily as he, lay. This one was still breathing, but with two teeth dangling over the edge of his lip it was obvious he was coming to no one's aid. A second fellow lay on the ground, conscious, but not moving. A heavy black boot was planted across his chest. The boot belonged to a tall dark man, dressed in elegantly cut clothes, who the three had been attempting to rob.
"Now, sir," Liam said to the stranger. "I think it only right and proper that you make the decision about what to do with our friend, here. Should I run him through, perhaps cut him just a bit, say, remove certain portions of his anatomy; or should we just hold him and the others for the arrival of the police?"
"My first inclination would be to give them a long, very slow, very painful death. A public impalement might be a beneficial lesson to others." The man's dark eyes glittered with a strange redness to them. He spoke with the slightest hint of an accent, each word clearly, crisply, and evenly pronounced.
It occurred to Liam that perhaps English was not his native language.
"It would be an interesting sight, but consume far more time than I am willing to give to it." With those words the man lifted his boot from the thief's chest and half turned away from him. Liam had the impression of someone who had done with a matter, though he did notice that the stranger never fully took his eyes off the three thieves.
Liam drew his sword away from the first man's neck. The other one scrambled to his feet, watching Liam and the stranger with the look of a trapped animal. A moment or two passed as both men stood frozen, rain washing across their terror-striped faces. Then they grabbed their unconscious companion, dragging him down the alley.
"I imagine they will have quite a tale to tell once they hit the pub," said Liam.
"It is always wise to spread news of your prowess among an enemy. The story will grow with each retelling," said the stranger. "You never know how it might help you in the future."
"Hopefully, neither of us will have to deal with them again," said Liam.
"True, but with that sort of ilk it never hurts to have a reputation."
The stranger turned toward Liam. This was the first time he had had a chance to get a good look at him. His dark, somewhat disheveled hair, combed across the tops of his ears, gave him an almost feral look. There was something intense and controlling in his manner.
"Now, if I may inquire, who is it who stood to battle at my side?"
"Gideon. Liam Gideon, late of Dublin, Edinburgh, and parts beyond."
"Liam Gideon. I thank you for your assistance. It came at a most propitious time."
Liam had been minding his own business, hurrying to get back to the Strand Theatre on the west side of London. Passing an alley, hearing the sounds of a fight, he turned and saw three men attack a lone figure. He had hardly thought about it before he was plunging into the middle of the melee.
"You were holding your own pretty well against these fellows. I suspect that you didn't need that much assistance from me."
"None the less, you chose to ally yourself with me in battle. That is something that among my people means much. So do not doubt that you have the gratitude of Vlad Tsepes, Count Dracula."
"Thank you, Count. It wasn't that much of a decision for me. It was simply something that seemed needed doing. Something that I didn't think about, just did, my duty, and I am but a slave to duty," he said with a smile.
"A slave to duty?" Dracula looked at Liam oddly.
"Your pardon, Count. I was quoting a line from a play that I am in. It seemed fitting, somehow," said Liam.
"A play? You are an actor, then?"
"At times," he said.
"And what is this play?"
"The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert & Sullivan."
"Gilbert & Sullivan? I am new to London, recently arrived from my native Transylvania, so I'm afraid that I am unfamiliar with either of these gentlemen. I must admit that they sound more like a law firm than playwrights."
"A law firm? That's novel," laughed Liam. "They are the creators of the most popular operettas in the last dozen years."
"Indeed? I may have to seek them out," he said. "That may, perhaps, explain your sword. Seeing a young man carrying one is a common thing in my homeland. But here in England, except for military ceremonies, I have seen none."
Liam held up the sword for his friend's inspection. Its surface was shiny as a teapot, the grip emblazoned with a dozen brightly colored stones amid Celtic knotwork.
"At first glance, it does appear to be a formidable weapon," said Dracula.
Liam could see that the Count had discerned the blade's true nature.
Liam cupped his left hand and sharply slid the edge of the blade along it. Then he turned his palm where Dracula could see it. Both men were smiling and not surprised that the flesh was uncut. "I'm afraid I couldn't have done much real damage to those three. It's a prop intended for the character of the Pirate King."
"The thing is, our enemies didn't know that. Their own imaginations were very potent weapons against them."
"Thank you, Count. Our company manager asked me to pick up a replacement for one of our principals, who broke his this morning. Since it was only a slight detour from where I was going, I was glad to do it." Liam pulled out his watch and flipped the cover open.
"Damn! I was due at the theater a full ten minutes ago. I'm sure that Mr. Bunberry will be snarling like a banshee!"
"Fear not, friend Liam. I am in your debt. You have stood to combat at my side. So I shall not abandon you. I will accompany you and explain about the delay to this Mr. Bunberry," he told Liam.
"Thank you, Count, but that isn't necessary."
"I feel it is," observed Dracula. "Besides, along the way you can tell me more about this Gilbert & Sullivan."
By the time Liam and his companion reached the theater, what had begun as a light rain had turned into a torrential downpour. As they rushed up to the stage entrance, Liam noticed that the new advertising poster had been put in place.
GILBERT & SULLIVAN'S
THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE
A SPECIAL LIMITED RETURN ENGAGEMENT
A theater in the midst of rehearsal a few days from opening night could resemble chaos personified. That evening the Strand was no exception. Yet to Liam's experienced eye there was an almost musical order to the whole scene, though he imagined Count Dracula found it quite confusing.
An entirely new operetta, Utopia (Limited), the first by Gilbert & Sullivan in some years, was scheduled to open in October.
Yet at the last minute the decision had been made to reprise Pirates, using the group of actors who had been touring with it for well over a year and only recently returned to London.
"It is a matter of publicity, Liam," observed Alexander Bunberry, the company manager. "We will still open with Utopia in October, but a brief reprise of Pirates can only help to generate interest."
"Liam! Liam Gideon! Where the hell have you been! I expected you back by half past four!"
The voice belonged to a tall skinny man, with muttonchop sideburns that seemed to cover half or more of his face. He came charging toward Liam from behind a huge Greek column that was part of the Pirates set. He seemed to be on the edge of pure fright. Hands were constantly in motion, pointing this way and that or f
lipping through the pages of a libretto that had seen better days.
"I'm sorry I was delayed, Mr. Bunberry. It couldn't be helped," said Liam.
"Couldn't be helped! You know that Everett is screaming that he can't rehearse unless he has his new sword," said Bunberry.
"I well know all his complaints, sir," said Liam.
"Then why were you dawdling about! I'm still expecting him to fall in the pit deliberately, just to spite me!"
"I doubt that."
"Sir, Mr. Gideon was not as you say it, dawdling about," said Dracula.
"And who would you be?"
"I am… Count Dracula." Dracula's eyes fastened on Bunberry's. Neither man blinked. "Had it not been for the timely intervention of Mr. Gideon when three thieves were attacking me, I would have found myself in a grave situation. He did the only thing that a man of honor and duty could do."
Bunberry stood there for a moment, his eyes glassed over, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Well, if it was something like that I can understand the delay," he said. "Just get that sword to Everett. The old hen will be fretting his life away, sure that his performance will be ruined and his career over, until he gets it. Then run down to the costume shop. They need to measure you for your new Frederic costume."
At that, Bunberry whirled on his heels and headed off in the direction of the pirate ship set that filled much of stage left. Just before he got there, a large fat man that Liam didn't recognize, dressed in a tailored waistcoat with a top hat and cane in hand, stopped him. The two men began to speak in whispers.
"I expected him to be quite a bit more vehement about the whole thing," muttered Liam.
"Perhaps it was something I said," mused Dracula.
"Look, you blinking Irishman. If you don't stand still, Effie is going skewer that pretty little bum of yours with a very long needle!"
With those words ringing in his ears, Liam made a conscious effort not to move. If Effie Ferguson made a threat, she meant it. Looking somewhere between thirty and sixty, she was the absolute mistress of the Strand Theatre costume shop. She had the reputation of being able to make a gunny sack, four buttons, a flower, a skein of thread, and some glass beads into the fanciest ball gown. Facing the mirror, Liam could see the woman's hands moving swiftly, marking with a long piece of chalk on his pants leg. Then she produced a rather formidable-looking shaving razor and slid it along the cloth from the back of his knee to his ankle. He could feel the cloth parting, but never once felt the touch of the metal.
