Dead for a Spell (12 page)

There was a sudden silence. Cuthbert Wellington had been vigorously stirring sugar into his second serving of tea, and his hand stopped, causing tea to splatter over the rim of the cup.

“What do you mean, you've seen it?”

“Just what I says. I seen it. In 'is dressing room.”

“When were you ever in Mr. Robertson's dressing room?”

The young boy looked defiantly at the hunchback. “When there was that water leak what 'e complained about. You remember! Some pipe cracked, or something, last winter, and 'e claimed 'is 'ole dressing room was flooded.” He sniffed. “Flooded, my arse!”

“Here! You watch your language, young man.”

“Sorry. But it's true. You remember now?”

Wellington went back to his tea stirring and then sat down with the fresh cup. “Hmm. Yes. I do remember. But you weren't in there for long. Just had to move some things for him and then the plumber went in there.”

“I was in long enough to see what I seen,” mumbled Rufus, and he flung himself down in a corner.

“Exactly what was this book?” I asked, looking at both Wellington and the boy. “What did it look like? Was it open? Did you see inside it? Have you seen it yourself, Welly?”

The hunchback seemed reluctant to answer but finally did. “Long time ago I saw it. Didn't take much note of it at the time. Wish I had done. It's an old leather-bound book. Dark red leather. Looks real ancient. My guess is it was his grandmother's.”

“I seen in it,” volunteered Rufus.

Wellington looked surprised.

“You did? What was in it?” I asked, truly curious.

The boy shrugged. “Dunno. I can't read.”

Welly and I looked at each other for a moment, and then we both burst out laughing.

“So much for the secrets of magic!” cried the hunchback, wiping a tear from his eye.

“What do his fellow actors think of Mr. Robertson?” I asked.

He gave me one of his noncommittal shrugs. “They're glad to be employed. Of course, there's Mr. Renfrew. He's very long-suffering.”

“Mr. Renfrew?”

“Mr. Stewart Renfrew. He's Mr. Robertson's understudy. He's treated something cruel. I don't know how he puts up with it. One of these days he's going to fight back, don't you know it.”

I raised my eyebrows. Welly took it as a sign of interest and continued.

“Robertson will pretend to have a sore throat . . .”

“Or a bad cough,” put in Rufus.

“Mr. Renfrew will go on in his place and then Robertson will claim that he made a mess of the whole play and blame him for every bad review we get, even when they refer to Robertson himself.”

“Is Mr. Stewart a bad actor?” I asked.

Rufus vigorously shook his head.

“He's much better than Robertson,” said Welly.

Rufus disappeared shortly after that, and I didn't see him again until I was taking my leave. There was a train back to London in the late afternoon, and I felt that if I could be on it then I'd have all of Sunday morning to report my findings to Mr. Stoker, and I would be assured of meeting with Jenny come the afternoon. I thanked Welly Wellington for his time and his company, assuring him that any time I found myself back in Oxford I would look him up. I returned to my hotel and packed my bag.

I was at the railway station boarding the train when I heard a shout. The guard had blown his whistle, and the engine was blowing steam and spinning its wheels as it strained to start moving the carriages. I was leaning out of the window and saw a small figure that I recognized dart under the arms of the stationmaster, trying to check for tickets, and hare along the platform to where I was starting to move.

“'Ere, 'Arry!” Rufus gasped, thrusting a soiled newspaper-wrapped package up at me. “Take it. You can do summat with it, I'm sure.”

As I took the package from him he twisted away, dodged the stationmaster again, and ran off out of the station yard. The London train bore me away, and I couldn't help smiling. I would miss both the hunchback and the waif.

As the train left Oxford and settled into a steady rattle over the rails, I sat back in the carriage, which I had to myself, and unwrapped the precious package. I gasped at what was inside. It was Reginald Robertson's grandmother's book of magic. Rufus must have stolen it out of his dressing room while they were all busy reading
Julius Caesar
.

“S
o this is Reginald Robertson's grandmother's famous book of witchcraft?” Abraham Stoker sat at his desk looking down at the dark red leather-bound book that I had laid in front of him. “Your young friend took quite a chance, taking this from the man.”

I nodded. “I know it, sir. And to tell you the truth, I'm somewhat worried for him. If Robertson finds out that Rufus took it, there will be hell to pay, pardon me for saying so.”

“I agree.”

Stoker sat back in his chair and fingered his beard. I was anxious for him to open the book, that I might listen to his appraisal of it, but he seemed in no hurry to do so.

“Have you contact with the boy?” he continued. “If harm should come to him, would you have any way of knowing?”

“Welly—Cuthbert Wellington—would, I'm sure, find some way of getting word to me,” I said, hoping that what I said was true. “He seemed to take an almost paternal interest in the boy. I have no idea what the true relationship is between them, but he does seem to care.”

“Hmm.” Stoker nodded his head and then returned his attention to the book in front of him. He opened it, not at the beginning as I would have done, but in the middle. He then turned pages back and forth, investigating various entries at random before finally settling on the early pages.

“Much as I anticipated,” he murmured.

“Sir?” I edged around behind him so that I could see what he was seeing.

The pages were covered with thin, spidery handwriting that wavered across them in irregular lines. Here and there short articles and paragraphs, on pieces of paper clipped from other books or periodicals, had been pasted in. Diagrams and formulas dotted the pages. Many were the inkblots and smudges.

“There is a great deal of folklore here,” said my boss, tapping the pages with his forefinger. “Probably passed down from generation to generation. Along with that is much ‘borrowed' material—to put it kindly—from such traditional works as
The Greater Key of Solomon
and
The Lesser Key of Solomon
,
The Arbitel
,
The Red Tree of Gana
,
The Heptameron
. Here!” He stabbed a crudely drawn illustration. “The ubiquitous Seal of Solomon.”

“Looks a bit like that chalk drawing where we found poor Nell Burton,” I suggested.

“Very similar, Harry. Very similar. Good.”

I felt pleased. “But what does it all mean, sir?” I asked.

“What, indeed?” He ran his fingers through his beard and then scratched the top of his head. “Robertson's grandmother seems to have accumulated a hodgepodge of high and low magic. Now how much of it she understood, and could safely use, I don't know. And that must apply equally to Robertson. He has this inherited wisdom—and believe me, Harry, there is a great deal of true wisdom buried in here—but is he capable of allowing it to work for him?”

“Work for him?” I echoed.

The big head nodded slowly up and down. “Oh yes, Harry. A definition of magic says that it can cause events to bring about the very course that the magician desires.”

I frowned.

“He can make things happen that he wants to happen,” Stoker elaborated. “You remember, I told you something of this when we first found those chalk markings at the site of poor Miss Burton's murder.”

I felt uncomfortable. “I remember, sir,” I said. “But surely no man can really do that?”

Again he tapped the pages before him with his forefinger. “This is no more nor less than a book of instruction for that very ideal.”

“So how would this apply to what Robertson is trying to achieve in the theatre?”

“If he knows what he is doing—
if
he can manipulate the forces that may be conjured—then Mr. Robertson could wield tremendous power not only over his own career but also over those other careers that he wishes to curtail.”

“Mr. Irving's?” I was incredulous.

“Oh, most decidedly, Harry. Most decidedly.”

*   *   *

S
unday afternoon came at last, and I hurried over to Grafton Street. Jenny was just coming out of number 15a as I got there, and with her on my arm, we proceeded in the direction of Grosvenor Square, our final destination being Hyde Park. It was a beautiful April day, with the sun warmer than we deserved and hardly a cloud in the clear blue sky. Jenny wore a cream-colored dress highlighted with pale green ribbons, and she carried a matching parasol. On her head rested a straw turban trimmed with dark green taffeta silk and quill. She looked a picture of loveliness, I thought.

I listened as Jenny related how her week had gone. I sensed that she needed to speak of it in order to relieve any small tensions that may have built within her. There was nothing, apparently, of any great consequence, but she seemed to delight in sharing with me the many little crises of belowstairs life and the far fewer triumphs in the duties of a maid. Apart from her releasing any stress, I just enjoyed listening to Jenny's sweet, melodic voice and found myself with a wide smile of satisfaction as I beamed at all about me.

“But I prattle on,” she said, with a small giggle. “Tell me about
your
week, Harry. How is Mr. Stoker?”

“He is well,” I replied. “In fact, I have never known him as anything but well. The man has an iron constitution, it would seem.” I went on to tell her, in general terms, of my visit to Derbyshire and then on to Oxford. She listened, enthralled, as I told her of Reginald Robertson, Welly, and Rufus.

“You lead such an exciting life, Harry,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Far more so than mine.”

“Are there not moments to relieve the boredom?” I asked.

“Actually, now that I think of it, there are occasional little changes. That is the delight of working in Mr. Irving's home. For example, during the time you were away the American gentlemen came to lunch one day. Tuesday, I think it was.”

“Mr. Booth?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yes. He and his manager—is that what he is?” I nodded. She continued. “I don't like that man. A colonel, they call him. He doesn't seem much like a military gentleman to me.”

“Why do you not like him?”

“It's the way he looks at me,” she said. “He seems to look me up and down whenever he sees me. He doesn't look at the other maids like that.”

“Well, Betsy and Susan are nowhere near as pretty as you, Jenny.”

She blushed and shushed me. “No, really, Harry. He
looks
at me. He doesn't just notice me or glance at me, as you would expect with a gentleman and a maidservant. I don't like it.”

I didn't like it, either, but I didn't want to upset or worry Jenny. “I'll mention it to Mr. Stoker,” I said. “But I suspect that he will just say you should feel flattered.”

“Oh no!” she cried, her hand going to her throat. “No, don't say anything to him, Harry. Please. It's really nothing to make a fuss about. Probably just my imagination.” She flashed me a smile. “I don't want Mr. Irving thinking I'm a blatherer. Just let it go. I'm sure it's nothing.”

We entered Hyde Park through the Grosvenor Gate and strolled in the direction of the Serpentine. We were not alone in being drawn to the clear blue water on such a beautiful day. My plan was to take out Jenny on a boat on the Serpentine River, but every single one of the vessels was in use, so we strolled on over the bridge and into Kensington Gardens.

“Is this Mr. Robertson really able to harm Mr. Irving?” Jenny asked, as we walked through the beautiful greenery amidst the freshly blooming flowers.

I had a momentary flash of the big leather-bound book I had last seen sitting on my boss's desk.

“No,” I said, perhaps a little too forcibly. “No, of course not.” I laughed. “Why, he is just a young upstart Shakespearean actor trying to establish himself in the minor towns and villages. He has a loud mouth, and the Oxford local papers use his ill-considered utterances as fodder for their publications. I'm sure Mr. Irving pays him no heed.”

“Yet you say Mr. Stoker had you visit there?”

Jenny was smart, I granted her that.

“Look!” I pointed to the south. “There's the Albert Memorial.”

The ornate pavilion, over the seated figure of his late royal highness, had been erected less than a decade ago, memorializing the queen's idolized husband. The figure sits facing south, toward the elaborately styled Royal Albert Hall. I doubted that Jenny had actually seen it before.

“Are you changing the subject, Harry?” she asked, with a smile.

As I had thought, Jenny was smart. We found a seat in the shadow of a weeping willow, and I told my beautiful lady friend the whole story. Suddenly I felt that I could best protect her—if, indeed, she needed protecting—by sharing with her all that was in my thoughts. She deserved to be treated as an equal, to my mind, and I intended to do that.

“Is there really danger from that book that Rufus stole for you?”

I didn't like the word “stole,” and yet it was accurate. I shrugged. “At least the book is safer in Mr. Stoker's hands than in Reginald Robertson's. I'm waiting for Mr. Stoker to go through it and appraise it, Jenny. He knows all about those things. With that business a few weeks back, with that Peter Richland, Mr. Stoker proved to my satisfaction that he knew far more about these supernatural happenings than anyone else I have met.”

She nodded. We sat in silence for a while. It was she who eventually broke it.

“What about Rufus, Harry? What will happen to him?”

She had hit on the very thing that had been worrying me; lurking at the back of my mind ever since I got back from Oxford.

“I don't know, Jenny. I must admit that I have a very bad feeling about this. Rufus was acting on his own, of course, when he decided to take the book. I think he did right in doing so. I think it needed to be removed from Robertson's hands, and if anyone can handle it and the power it may possess, that person is Abraham Stoker.”

We found a small tearoom on the Kensington Road, shared a pot of Earl Grey and enjoyed a scone apiece, and then I walked Jenny back to her place of employment. The day remained fine, but both our spirits had been dampened by thoughts of young Rufus. I determined to send word to Welly first thing the next morning to enquire as to circumstances at the Oxford Grand Theatre.

*   *   *

I
nspector Samuel Charles Bellamy had not been in my thoughts for quite some time, but he seemed to have the knack of popping up and reintroducing himself at irregular intervals, just often enough to mentally throw me off balance. On Monday morning I knocked on Mr. Stoker's door and entered without waiting for his bidding, as was my wont. He liked to start the day by running over possible problems with me and letting me know of any upcoming changes to our plans. This morning, instead of finding the big man in his usual place, I was confronted by the policeman standing over my boss's desk and looking down at all that was on its surface. A quick glance told me that the witchcraft book was not in evidence.

“Inspector! What are you doing here? Where is Mr. Stoker?” I demanded.

Bellamy had not the courtesy to look embarrassed. Instead he peered at me with his beady brown eyes and pursed his lips.

“Mr. Rivers,” he said, as though confirming my presence.

There followed a long silence. I finally cleared my throat and moved forward, trying to assert myself. “Does Mr. Stoker know you are here?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Yes . . . or so we presume. Your doorman said to wait for him.”

I couldn't imagine Bill Thomas directing anyone, not even a Scotland Yard policeman, to enter Mr. Stoker's office without the big man's permission. But perhaps there had been some sort of miscommunication. I was saved from further rumination by the arrival of the man in question.

“Harry! Good morning.” Stoker paused momentarily on seeing Bellamy but gave no further sign of query. “Inspector Bellamy. To what do we owe this visit?” He moved around, adroitly taking up position between the policeman and the desk. “Have you news of some import?”

Bellamy backed up slightly and then stood contemplating various old framed playbills hanging on the wall. He took his time answering.

“Nothing really new, from the Yard's point of view. We are aware, however, that your young assistant here has been running around the crime scene up north.”

“Up north?”

“Warrington.” He turned to face Stoker. “Oh, Inspector Whittaker keeps the Yard apprised as to what is going on up there, have no fear.”

“But you knew I was going there, Inspector,” I protested.

He shrugged. “To Warrington, yes. But we knew nothing about your going to Derbyshire and then to Oxford.” He looked at me accusingly.

“Mr. Rivers's work in both those places—and especially in Oxford—was theatre business,” said my boss icily. “I do not think it necessary to connect with Scotland Yard on all Lyceum affairs.”

Bellamy gave a grunt that could have meant anything, and then started to change the subject. “We seem to recall telling you specifically
not
to go running off up north in search of your missing actor, but . . . no matter.”

“He was just a scene shifter, not an actor,” I murmured. He ignored me.

“We have reports that both that young man and the other one, Ben Gossett, have been poking about near the scene of the Elizabeth Scott murder,” the inspector continued. “What, might we ask, has that to do with Lyceum business?”

“You will have to ask them, when and if you manage to connect with them,” said Stoker. “And now, unless you have something of importance to impart, I'm afraid we have much work to do even if Scotland Yard has not.”

“Importance?” Bellamy could be infuriating when he repeated what was said to him with no further comment. Mr. Stoker and I waited.