Dead for a Spell (6 page)

From then on we seemed to make headway, and a little over an hour or so later the meeting broke up. Timmy was sent out to call up hansoms, and I soon found myself sharing a cab with my boss, rattling over the streets on our way back to the theatre.

“What did you make of our American cousins?” Stoker enquired.

I hesitated.

“Be honest, Harry,” he added.

I took a deep breath. “Well, sir . . . I think I liked Mr. Booth. He seemed to be all business, which as we know is what the Guv'nor appreciates. But as for his manager . . .” I let my voice trail off.

Stoker chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “He does rather take some getting used to, does he not? I don't know if this is typical of American businessmen, but he has an eye for details.”

“And he certainly looks out for Mr. Booth.”

“He does that, Harry. But then, that is his job.”

We continued in silence for a while, and then I had a thought.

“Oh, by the way, sir. I had an unexpected encounter at lunchtime, just before our meeting.” I went on to tell him about Bartholomew Nugent.

“That man is poison,” said Stoker. “I thought he'd been put away for longer than this.”

“He certainly should have been,” I said. “And I don't know how he knew about Nell Burton. The man is illiterate, so he could not have read about it. And what business is it of his, anyway?”

“Keep an eye out for him, Harry. Keep an eye out.”

*   *   *

T
wo days later I was accosted by Billy Weston, as soon as I entered the theatre.

“Mr. Rivers, sir. Might I 'ave a word?”

“Yes, of course, Billy. How are you holding up? Everything all right?”

“Well, yes, sir, and no, sir, as it were.” He looked uncomfortable. “It's summat I found out about Nell.”

“Something about Nell? The police . . .”

“No, sir. Nuffin' the police 'as to know. Not yet, anyway.”

We were standing outside my office. I beckoned him inside. Open as it was, it was still a little more private than standing in the passageway with stagehands and actors squeezing past all the time.

“Here. Sit down, Billy. Tell me all about it.”

He perched on the edge of the chair and scratched the top of his head. He made a face as though uncertain of what he was doing and then tugged on his ear. “There's this . . . this Ben Gossett.” He paused.

I was puzzled. I knew of no one by that name associated with the Lyceum. I was about to ask who he was, but Billy suddenly continued, the whole story pouring out at once.

“It seems as 'ow Nell 'ad this 'ere ‘young man' when she lived up north. Not to really be steppin' out wif 'im, like, but just to know. She told me about 'im once. Nufink special, she says. I fink 'e lived next door to 'er, there in Derby. 'E was a bit older than 'er. Anyway, 'e suddenly turned up 'ere and 'e said as 'ow they 'ad been goin' to get married, but then she got bitten by the playacting bug and took off for London. Of course, she'd done a bit of that stuff at the Nottingham Royal, but nothin' real serious like.”

“Whoa! Slow down, Billy,” I said. “You are saying that this Ben Gossett claims he was engaged to Nell before she came here?”

“'Sright, accordin' to 'im! But she weren't never engaged to 'im, neither. She was frightened of 'im.”

“She told you this?”

“Hoh yes! She said as 'ow 'e 'ad threatened 'er. Said as 'ow if 'e couldn't 'ave 'er then no one could!”

This sounded serious. Serious enough that I thought perhaps Inspector Bellamy should know of it. “What is he doing here?” I asked. “You have seen him, I take it?”

“You might say that.” Billy scowled. “'E grabbed me by the coattails as I come out of the Red Lion one night, and waved 'is fist in my face.”

“This was before Nell . . . before she was . . .”

“Afore she was done for, Mr. Rivers, sir. Yes.”

“Why didn't you let me know this earlier?” I asked.

“Never thought no never mind. Jus' 'im blowin' steam, I thought. It was a week or more afore what 'appened. Then I kinda forgot all about 'im what wif Nell gettin' . . . you know.”

“Yes. Of course,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Is he still about? Still in the area?”

Billy shrugged. “Dunno. Ain't seen 'im since then. I just suddenly thought of 'im and 'ad to tell you. You know, just in case, like?”

I knew exactly what he meant. “I'm glad you did, Billy. Let me speak to Mr. Stoker, and then I think it might be a good idea to let the police know.” Billy started to protest, but I stopped him. “No. This is important, Billy. Let's see what Mr. Stoker has to say. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

*   *   *

I
nspector Bellamy dropped a brown paper–wrapped package onto Abraham Stoker's desk. My boss looked at it then up at the policeman.

“And this is . . . ?”

“The two robes, Mr. Stoker. One white; one black. Both heavily bloodstained. You did say that your costume lady might be able to help.”

“Miss Connelly. Yes. Our wardrobe mistress. Harry, would you get these to her right away, please? Meanwhile, I will apprise the inspector of this recent turn of events you learned from Billy Weston.”

I took the package and went backstage and downstairs. Next to the greenroom, in Wardrobe, I found Miss Connelly in her usual position behind the very latest sewing machine. As always, she was surrounded by yards of fabric, ribbons, lace, reels of thread, balls of wool, and assorted shears, tape measures, chalk, pins, needles, and all the many accoutrements of the theatre costumier.

“What have we here, Mr. Rivers?” she asked, peering at me over the rims of her pince-nez spectacles.

I explained. “Mr. Stoker thought that maybe if you examined these robes—and we do apologize for the condition in which you will find them—you might be able to make a guess as to who it was who made them. Or where they came from. One was worn by Miss Nell Burton. Perhaps you can tell if they both were made by the same person? Or were they made for some production that we might be able to pinpoint?”

She drew the package to her and began untying the string. “One was worn by our Nell, you say?”

I nodded.

“So sad,” she said quietly, and sighed. “Well, if I can help bring her killer to justice, Mr. Rivers, it will be as much as I can hope for.”

She stood up and cleared a space on the big wooden worktable. Drawing out the two robes, she pushed the bulk of each away temporarily so that she could examine the bottom hems. She pursed her lips and nodded.

“Yes. Handmade and no mistake. Nice stitchwork. Flesh basting.”

“Were they both made by the same person?” I asked.

“Oh yes. No doubt about that, Mr. Rivers, sir. Now let me think. I know this diagonal stitching.” She squinted up at the gas mantle above her head, her brow wrinkled, slowly shaking her head. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to me, her eyes bright behind the lenses. “Old Penelope Proctor!” she cried. “As I live and breathe, I'd know her stitching anywhere. Lor' but I thought she was dead and gone these many years.”

“You know her?” I asked.

“Knew her,” she corrected me. “She was wardrobe mistress at the old Elephant and Castle Theatre a lifetime ago. I worked there with her for a brief period before I went on to the Princess's and then from there to here at the Lyceum. Last I heard she had retired.”

“But both these robes were made by her?”

“I'd swear to it,” said Miss Connelly. “She did this fine fore-stitching on her hems. No one else would take the time, especially since it was for stage work. But she was proud of it. And so she should be. Beautiful work it was.”

I reported the identification to Mr. Stoker. “Should I let the inspector know?” I asked.

He did not even pause to consider. “No, Harry. Not right away, I don't think. Plenty of time yet. We don't want to interfere with Inspector Bellamy's questioning of the staff. I think that perhaps we can first investigate a little further ourselves . . . just so that we will be able to present him with a more complete picture, of course.”

“Of course, sir,” I said, a smile creeping across my face. “So you want me to follow up on this and track down Miss Penelope Proctor?”

“You are very good at mind reading, Harry. You should be on the stage.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Yes. Pop down to the Elephant and Castle and start there. You know the way, as I recall.”

It was little more than a month ago that I had visited that theatre trying to trace an elderly actress who had thoughts of blackmailing the Guv'nor, so it was a strange sensation when I once again boarded the light green omnibus and paid my fourpence fare. Alighting at the Elephant and Castle Hostelry, I hurried around the corner, tugging my topcoat close about me as a cold gust of wind blew down the New Kent Road as though aiming directly for the old theatre.

The theatre had been badly damaged in a fire some three years ago and still awaited repairs and renovations. I pushed past the unlocked stage door, sagging on its hinges, and found my way to the manager's office.

“Hello! Ain't I seen you afore?” The little figure, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, no jacket but sporting a bowler hat, looked up from where he sat behind a well-worn desk, covered with papers. His striped shirt looked clean but it was minus the collar. His sleeves, as the last time I encountered him, were pulled back with black armbands. Most of the papers on the desk, from where I stood, looked to be unpaid bills. He made no attempt to hide them. “Don't tell me,” he continued, pausing to chew thoughtfully on his straggly mustache. “Ain't you the gent from the Sadler's Wells?”

“The Lyceum,” I said.

“That's right. You was here after one of our young ladies.”

“Enquiring,” I said. “And she was far from young!”

“Oh yes.” His face broke out in a grin. “Our Miss Daisy Middleton. I remember. Is that who you want this time?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don't blame you. Anyway, she's moved on. Given up treading the boards and is now treading the pavement full-time, if'n you take my meaning.”

I decided to come straight to the point. “I have been led to believe that you have, or had, a wardrobe mistress named Miss Penelope Proctor?”

“
Mrs
. Proctor.” He stressed the title. “She never liked to be called Miss, though I came to find out that she'd never actually been married. Just thought it made her sound more distinguished or something, I think.”

I nodded. “Is she still employed here?”

“Lor' no! She retired a goodly time ago. Just afore the fire, I think it was. Good thing, too, if you ask me.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Well, it was the wardrobe room where the fire started, wasn't it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea. “So do you know where she is now?” I asked.

“She was always talking about buying a nice little cottage down at Margate or Ramsgate or one of them seaside places. A lot of old actors and theatre folks do that, as I'm sure you know. But it weren't to be for old Mrs. Proctor.”

“Oh?” I was beginning to feel the effort of drawing out all these facts and wanted to get to the final curtain, as it were.

“No. Had a nephew what ran off with her savings, poor old dear. She had to start taking in sewing work to makes ends meet.”

“Could she not have come back here?” I asked, even though I knew I was prolonging the story.

“We'd already filled her place, hadn't we?”

I wished he wouldn't keep asking me questions like that. I sighed. “So where is she now?” I asked.

“Newington Butts, or just off it.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“There's a graveyard alongside Newington Butts, just south of here. Mrs. Proctor is planted there.”

“She's dead?”

He laughed. “I hope so. Otherwise there'll be hell to pay with the gravediggers!” He laughed at his joke.

I moved forward and slapped my hand down hard on his desk. He looked startled.

“This is no laughing matter. When did she die?”

“All right, all right! No need to get shirty.” He started sorting papers into piles as though he had no more time to spend with me. “Just a few days ago, as it happens. She was hit and run down by a brewer's dray that came out of George's Road faster than he should have done. Made no effort to stop, from what I hear.”

I
t could not have been a nicer day to spend with Jenny and her aunt Alice. Miss Alice Forsyth was from Bermondsey, on the south side of the River Thames, and she informed us that not since the days of her youth had she visited Kew to enjoy the nearly three hundred acres that comprised the Royal Botanic Gardens, generally known simply as Kew Gardens. There we found swathes of immaculate lawns dotted with rare trees. Although it was only the end of March, the sky was clear and the sun shone down. However, it had little warmth so we all sported our topcoats.

I found Aunt Alice to be a delightful lady; short and plump, with rosy cheeks and gray hair pulled back in a bun-chignon. She obviously adored her young niece, and I saw no reason to argue with that. Aunt Alice did not ask a lot of questions but seemed most content to simply smile and nod and look around her with inquisitive eyes that blinked behind a firmly held tortoiseshell-framed lorgnette.

We admired the Pagoda, designed by Mr. William Chambers, and spent quite some time touring Mr. Decimus Burton's Palm House: 363 feet long, 100 feet wide, and 62 feet high. It was spectacularly made of iron and curved sheets of glass. A new Temperate House was in the process of being built.

We were in awe of the most beautiful tropical plants, astonishingly flourishing here in England—ferns, fruit trees, and cacti—with flowers, shrubs, and trees of every imaginable sort. Such was the tropical temperature maintained in the hothouse that we all were obliged to remove our outer garments, though we hastily donned them again on emerging from the building.

We proceeded to the refreshment pavilion, close by the Winter Garden. There we were able to procure a table overlooking the arboretum, an area of 178 acres that extends down to the River Thames. It is intersected in every direction by shady walks and avenues. I noted that the famous Kew Gardens' rhododendrons, at the Hollow Walk, would not be in flower until May and June, according to the brochure we had acquired on entering the Gardens, and vowed to bring back both ladies to view them at that time. I ordered tea for all of us, eschewing the popular ices and instead indulging in scones and strawberry jam with Devonshire clotted cream.

As Jenny and her aunt caught up on each other's activities, I perused the people making the most of the unexpectedly glorious March day. A familiar figure suddenly appeared coming from the direction of the Pagoda. It took me but a moment to place him. It was Colonel Wilberforce Cornell, and he was accompanied by two other men. He himself was obviously an American, affecting the wide-brimmed hat of the western section of that country, and wearing a large-patterned coat with big fur collar such as you would never see worn by an English gentleman. His companions were more traditionally attired, with bowler hats and well-worn coats, one sporting an Inverness cape.

They paused under the branches of a huge cedar tree, and the two men, both shorter than the colonel, seemed to be listening carefully, eyes fixed on him as he gave instructions. From where I sat I could see that he frequently waved his cane to emphasize what he was saying and at one point seemed very angry, causing the shorter of the two men to flinch and take a half step backward. Then the colonel reached into his pocket and gave the men what I presumed to be money. They both touched their hats respectfully before turning and hurrying away. It was as the men turned that I recognized the taller and thinner one in the Inverness cape as Bart Nugent. What the devil was he doing with Colonel Cornell? I wondered.

The colonel looked about him, and I pulled back a little so that I was shielded from view behind Aunt Alice's large hat. He took out a cigar, lit it, and after standing a moment, apparently in thought, himself strolled away in the direction of Lion Gate, which opens onto the Richmond Road.

“My brother always loved the theatre, Mr. Rivers,” Aunt Alice was saying brightly. “I think he had a secret yearning to appear on the stage.”

“You never told me that, Auntie,” cried Jenny.

“Oh, and please call me Harry,” I said, bringing back my full attention to my two companions. “Tell me, what was your late brother's background?”

“Charles—my brother—was a coachman at a large house in Putney. I was a parlor maid there. He used to save up his money to go to the Drury Lane Theatre and get a seat in the pit. Saw a lot of Mr. Edmund Kean, I seem to remember.”

“How wonderful,” I said. “But he never trod the boards himself?”

She shook her head, the flowers on her hat bobbing vigorously. “The closest he came was to become one of them Freemasons,” she said.

“I didn't know that,” said Jenny.

“Mr. Irving plans to join that fraternity,” I said.

“Brother Charles felt that he almost had to.”

“Had to?” I couldn't think what she meant.

“Oh! It was just silly of him.” Aunt Alice smiled and refilled our teacups from the pot on the table. “He would talk of our ancestor, Mr. Thomas Potter, who was a member of Sir Francis Dashwood's organization back a century ago.”

“And that was . . . ?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I'm no good at names, though he did mention it many times as though everyone should know it. Hotfire Club or Hamfire Club.” She smiled. “Quite different from the Freemasons, I gathered, but not something that stayed in my head, I'm afraid.”

“It was a theatrical endeavor?”

Again she shook her head. “He always spoke of it as though they performed, but, again, I do not know the details. However, it seemed it made a big impression on Charles, and he felt he should try to follow in Mr. Potter's footsteps, however belatedly.”

I resolved to ask Mr. Stoker about it. If anyone would know, it would be my boss. I turned and smiled at Jenny, who seemed to be delighted with the way the day was going.

*   *   *

I
hadn't realized that the police worked on Sundays. For some reason—I suppose I had just never really thought about it—I assumed that they all took off the Sabbath. Apparently I was wrong, for on Monday morning, Inspector Bellamy once again turned up at the Lyceum with the fruits of his previous day's labor. He appeared in Mr. Stoker's office bearing a brown paper–wrapped parcel, this one much smaller than the previous one.

“Another robe, Inspector?” asked my boss.

“Far from it, sir. We are happy to report that we have recovered the murder weapon.” I thought he sounded justifiably proud.

“Have you indeed? Well done,” responded Stoker. “Where was it, might I ask?”

“Oh, it was not easy to find, we can tell you, sir.” Bellamy seemed to stand up straighter and throw out his chest. “It took our men most of yesterday morning to recover it. Thrown down into the river, along with the victim, as it happens.”

“In the Thames?” I said. “I'm surprised you found it, with all the mud and heaven knows what else that must have been down there.”

“It was not easy, as we said, sir. Took five of our men groping about in ice-cold water for several hours.” He paused. “But we do not give up. When Scotland Yard is on a case, we are . . .” He seemed at a loss for the appropriate word.

“Tenacious?” supplied my boss.

“That's what we are,” he said, as though he had come up with the word himself.

Mr. Stoker carefully unwrapped the package. As he pulled aside the brown paper and revealed the contents, he and I both gasped. His eyes quickly met mine. Neither of us spoke.

“Ugly-looking instrument, is it not, Mr. Stoker? Can't imagine who would own something like that.”

Perhaps the Scotland Yard inspector could not, but Stoker and I most certainly could. The ornate, decorative, curved-bladed dagger that lay on the brown paper was owned by none other than the Guv'nor himself, Mr. Henry Irving. It was a most unusual knife that had been presented to him by the Spanish ambassador a year or more ago, and it normally hung on the wall of the Guv'nor's dressing room. He had used it once when playing Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice
. It was one of his proud possessions. Neither Stoker nor myself said a word.

“Looks to us as though it might be some sort of playacting artifact,” continued Bellamy, “which is why we brought it around for you to see. Would make sense, since you say that they were practicing—rehearsing, you call it—in that warehouse. We expect you see a lot of this sort of weapon with all your plays and things, but we thought you might possibly be able to identify it or have some idea as to where it might have come from and who might have used it.”

Stoker got up from his chair and, apparently examining the dagger, moved over to stand in the light of the window that looked out over the small courtyard between the theatre and the back of the Wellington public house on the Strand. He stood as though scrutinizing the knife, though I could tell that his mind was racing over how it had come to be where it was discovered. I kept quiet and waited for his lead. Eventually he turned back to the policeman.

“It is an unusual property, Inspector, even for the theatre. I would like to hold on to it for a while, if I may?”

Bellamy was about to protest, but Stoker quickly continued.

“I am sure that within a relatively short space of time Mr. Rivers here—our property manager, who deals all the time with such weaponry, among other things—will be able to track down the origin of this particular piece.”

“I am sure I could, Inspector,” I quickly added. “As Mr. Stoker says, it is an unusual piece but most certainly theatrical in its origins.”

“We will, of course, keep you apprised of our progress,” said Stoker, and handed me the knife as though the matter were settled.

Inspector Bellamy stood with his hands out as though to retrieve the dagger but finally lowered them and apparently resigned himself to the situation. He grunted. “You will appreciate the urgency, Mr. Stoker, we are sure. Police work is ever under pressure. We do not have the luxury that a theatre has in preparing its presentations, you know?”

“Of course. Of course, Inspector. So I am sure you have much more to get on with, and the sooner we can start our own enquiries, the better. Good morning, Inspector.”

Bellamy stood a moment before, without a farewell, he turned and went out. For a long time we said nothing, and then Stoker spoke.

“You do recognize it, of course, Harry?”

“Oh yes, sir. No doubt about it. I'm sure there are not two like this in the whole of London, probably not in the whole British Isles.”

“So how did it come to be used to slash the throat of one of our young actresses?”

“It's as though someone stole it and is now using it to incriminate the Guv'nor,” I said.

“Precisely my thinking, Harry.”

*   *   *

O
ther than confirming that Mr. Irving's knife was indeed missing from its place on his wall—Mr. Stoker took care of that, and said that the Guv'nor had not noticed that it was gone—there was not much I could do right away. I did, however, make a few enquiries around the theatrical property shops and warehouses, as to the possibility of there being other knives available of this ilk. It seemed that this one was, as we thought, a unique form of weapon.

On examining the knife I did notice that its normally dull blade had been sharpened, apparently by an expert, and now sported the razor-keen edge that had done such damage to Miss Burton's throat. I reported that to my boss.

“There is where we might start our enquiries, Harry,” he said. “As you say, the blade must have been sharpened by someone who knew what he was doing. Probably not by one of the usual itinerant knife grinders who push their carts around the West End and offer their services for tuppence a blade. No. This dagger has been ground and honed and brought to a fine edge, without nicks or roughness.”

I had a sudden idea. “One name springs to mind, sir. Nicholas Lang. He's on Ludgate Hill, and I happen to know that he is employed, among others, by some of the fencing clubs and private gentlemen who collect knives and swords and the like. I've known Nick for a couple of years. I'll go and have a word with him.”

“Excellent, Harry. The sooner the better, I'm thinking. Our Inspector Bellamy is not long on patience, it would seem.”

I set out right away, eschewing an omnibus and hailing a hansom. I was lucky in finding Nicholas in his shop when I got there. His was an establishment on Ludgate Hill and the corner of Creed Lane, with a small entrance on the Hill.

“Young Harry Rivers!” cried Nick, when I entered. He always referred to me as “young” Harry Rivers, even though he was no more than a year older than myself. “What brings you to this part of the world?”

He was polishing a fine-looking saber that, to judge by its crested hilt, belonged to an officer of Her Majesty's Household Cavalry.

“I have a question for you, Nick,” I said, unfastening the leather pouch I had brought with me and extracting the deemed murder weapon. “Have you seen this dagger before?” I placed it carefully on the table in front of him.

Nicholas laid down the saber and peered at the knife. He slowly nodded his head, taking his time looking at it in situ before picking it up.

“Oh yes, Harry. Where did you get this? I haven't seen it for a few days, but yes, it has been in my establishment before.”

“Did you sharpen it?”

Again he nodded. “Not simple, curved as it is. Too easy to end up with a series of short, straight sections instead of following the smooth curve of the blade. And that's Toledo steel, Harry. Not one of your cheap Birmingham blades or something picked up in Houndsditch Market or over on Cheapside. No! That's quality, Harry, or I wouldn't have touched it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“I know it, Nick,” I said, mollifying him. “That's why I came to you. Now the thing is, who was it that had you work this for them? This is important.”