Dead for a Spell (15 page)

As I eventually thought about seeking my bed at Mrs. Bell's establishment, I found myself in a corner with my back toward Colonel Cornell. He was talking, in his loud American voice, to a group of five or six bleary-eyed celebrants who seemed hypnotized by his accent. I delayed my departure if only to ascertain what information it was that he was imparting.

“The fella's a scoundrel! Back home we'd take him out and string him up!”

Somebody whimpered while another man chortled.

“If I had my shootin' irons with me . . .” continued the colonel.

“You have shooting irons—I mean guns?” asked the man who had chortled, in an unbelieving voice. He had the affected tone of an upper-class man who has limited time for “the little people.” I later learned that he was Clarence, son of the Duke of Oxstone.

“Why sure! Two pearl-handled beauties. Forty-fives.”

“B-but you don't carry them around with you. I mean, are they not dangerous?” asked the timid one.

The colonel decided to ignore him and went back to the meat of the discussion. “This Robertson fella needs putting in his place. He's an upstart and an incompetent.”

I pricked up my ears. Was he talking about Reginald Robertson? I wondered. His following words left me in no doubt.

“The man's a ham; an incompetent pretender! He couldn't act his way out of a whorehouse in a mining town!”

There was a collective gasp from his small audience.

“Why, Mr. Booth could act rings around him with one hand tied behind his back.”

“But surely . . .” began another man. The colonel cut him off.

“And would you believe the methods he uses to get ahead of the herd?” His voice had dropped an octave, and I leaned inward to catch what he was saying. “The man is not above cutting down any who get in his way, if you follow me.” He looked around accusingly at the inebriated group of blue-jacketed Englishmen. I had turned slightly, the better to see and hear. What I saw was the colonel drawing a finger across his neck, in the time-honored gesture of slitting a throat. The timid man sat down heavily on the bench behind him, while the others drew closer together.

I was surprised when Mr. Booth's manager apparently recognized me. He pointed a finger at me. I couldn't help noticing a slight shake to it; perhaps he had overindulged in the porter himself?

“Mr. Barry—Larry—whatever, will bear me out. Won't you, boy? This Robertson is up to no good, wouldn't you say?”

All eyes turned to me.

“I—er—that is,” I spluttered. I had no wish to be brought into the conversation, yet here I was suddenly the center of attention. “Are you speaking of Mr. Reginald Robertson, of the Oxford Grand Theatre?” I asked, just to be sure.

“None other.” He waited for me to continue.

“Well . . . he has certainly made some ridiculous claims in the press. Unsubstantiated, I think we can safely say,” I contributed.

“Pshaw!” A trace of spittle ejected from the colonel's mouth and landed on the lapel of his closest listener, going unnoticed. “The man is a scoundrel, let's make no bones about it. A scoundrel and worse!” His heavy eyebrows descended, and he swung his head from one side to the other, directing his dark scowl at all about him. “I am new to these shores, gentlemen, yet what I find here is not all that different from what I have seen in the dens of iniquity in my own country.”

“Are you, then, familiar with dens of iniquity, Colonel?” I found myself asking, emboldened by my own imbibing.

His dark eyes bored into me, and I immediately regretted having spoken.

“Mr. Barry Withers,” he started to say.

“Harry Rivers,” I corrected.

“Whatever! Mr. Withers, you will see that my fears are justified. It may already be too late, but I fear Mr. Robertson's reign of terror is not yet over.”

Reign of terror? What was he talking about? I looked about me to see where Mr. Stoker might be. He was on the far side of the room deep in conversation with the Guv'nor, Mr. Booth, the prime minister, and the Earl of Northbrook. No help there. In another corner I saw Lord Glenmont in a huddle with some people I did not know. When I turned back I found that one of the gaping gentlemen in our clique had insisted on bringing the conversation back to the subject of six-shooters and the excitement of the American West. Somewhat to my surprise, I saw Mr. Stoker detach himself from his group and cross to Colonel Cornell. After a few quiet words, my boss reached out and the two men shook hands. I took the opportunity to slip away.

I
studied the face looking out at me from the mirror. It had the shock of ginger hair that I recognized, and the slightly protruding ears that I also recognized. What I did not recognize were the bloodshot eyes, with dark bags under them, the drooping eyelids, and the pasty face. Happily, the mirror did not reflect the throbbing inside my head and the parched throat as I tried to control a swollen tongue.

My half hunter, lying on the dresser, told me that it was well past my usual time of rising and that I needed to hustle. With a final glance at the stranger in the mirror I made a silent vow to reject any future invitations to carouse at the Beefsteak Club and set off to meet with Cuthbert “Welly” Wellington. Mr. Stoker had said that he would join us, though I didn't hold out much hope for him being there early. He and his wife, Florence, lived at number 27 Cheyne Walk, in Chelsea, together with their two-year-old son, Noel, and Stoker's younger brother, George. Stoker's normal and regular daily routine was to take the Cadogan steamboat ferry, which stopped a few feet from his front door, to Waterloo from whence he walked to the Lyceum. I was due to meet with Welly at ten of the clock. I really didn't expect to see my boss before noon.

Welly had taken a room at a small hotel on Russell Street. Alongside the hotel was a tearoom popular with the ladies of the Lyceum. I joined Welly at this establishment for a late breakfast and was surprised, if not amazed, to find Mr. Stoker there ahead of me.

“So you have finally emerged, Harry,” he greeted me, the hint of a smile on his face.

“Good morning, Harry,” said Welly, half rising from the table where they sat near the window.

“Don't get up, Welly,” I said, slipping into the seat next to Mr. Stoker. “Good morning, sir. Yes, I have to admit it wasn't easy crawling out of bed after entering it only an hour or two before.”

Welly looked from one to the other of us but refrained from asking questions. Instead he poured me a cup of tea from the pot already delivered to the table. “Thank you, gentlemen, both of you, for meeting with me.”

“That is quite all right, Welly. May I call you that?” asked Stoker, stirring three lumps of sugar into his cup. Welly smiled and nodded. “From what Harry has told me I feel I know both you and young Rufus well.”

“Ah! Rufus.” Welly gave a deep sigh. “I am that worried about the lad.” His face reflected his concern.

The waitress came and took our order. Welly declined to eat anything and sat nursing his cup of tea, looking sadly into its depths.

“Tell us the whole story,” urged Stoker, spreading a thick layer of marmalade on a slice of toast he had taken from the toast rack in front of him. “Do not omit a single detail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can tell Mr. Stoker what you told me yesterday evening, Welly, if you would?” I said.

“Of course, Harry.” He cleared his throat and then focused his attention on Bram Stoker. “The morning after Harry, here, had departed on the train, Mr. Roberston came storming into the theatre in an even fouler mood than he usually has, though perhaps I shouldn't say that, sir?” He looked anxiously at my boss, who gave a slight shake of the head and waved a marmalade-laden knife to indicate Welly should continue. “I suppose he's not
always
in a bad temper but, well, more often than not. Anyway, that morning he certainly was. And why? He started shouting that someone had stolen his book.”

“His book?” asked Stoker.

“That thing he says his grandmother gave him. The book with all them magic spells and stuff. He treated it like it was a Bible, if I may say so?”

“So he had discovered that it was gone?”

“Yes, sir. He stormed about the theatre all morning, pulling open drawers, upturning boxes; he made a fine old mess. He was screaming that someone had robbed him, and he made no secret of the fact that he believed the thief was young Rufus.”

As the hunchback leaned forward, the breakfast order arrived, and Welly took the opportunity to top up his teacup. I saw that my boss had ordered a mixed grill of fried eggs, tomatoes, bacon, kidneys, mushrooms, sausages, and potatoes. My own bowl of porridge paled by comparison, but there was no way my stomach could sustain such an onslaught after the previous evening's extravagance. Mr. Stoker waved his fork at Welly as an indicator that he should proceed.

“As I told Harry, here, sir, I firmly believe that the book is in far better hands now, though it were certainly wrong of young Rufus to take it and no mistake. But anyway, Mr. Robertson would listen to no one, and when he later spotted Rufus, he charged at him like a raging bull, he did. He nearly managed to grab the boy, but Rufus ducked under his arms, dove between his legs, and scampered out the door.”

Mr. Stoker paused in his eating to nod several times approvingly.

“Mr. Robertson stayed mad, and I heard as how he gave a terrible performance onstage that night. Not that there was much of a house to witness it, anyway.”

“Did you catch up with Rufus?” asked Stoker.

“No, sir. Never saw hide nor hair of the boy. Then the next morning Mr. Robertson came into the theatre but with a bit of a smile on his face. I wondered what was going on. I didn't dare ask him, but he volunteered the information. He said as how he'd seen to it that ‘the wretched street arab,' as he put it, wouldn't be any more trouble. Then I asked him what he meant by that and he said, ‘Don't think no more about it, Welly. Just don't go expecting your young friend to show up for a cup of tea anytime soon.' He was still mad, and from time to time throughout the day he cursed Rufus and kept searching everywhere he could think of in case the boy had stashed the book somewhere.”

“And you haven't seen Rufus since?” asked Stoker.

“No, sir. Like I said, not hide nor hair.” He took a long drink of his tea, which I thought must surely be cold by now. “It gives me the creeps,” he said. “Then I thought of Harry and, after a few more thoughts about things, I just left the theatre and took the train down here.”

“Quite right, Welly. Quite right,” Stoker acquiesced.

“What do you think, sir?” I asked.

Mr. Stoker took his time answering. He chewed thoughtfully for some moments then sat back and looked hard at the hunchback.

“A systematic search must be undertaken, Mr. Wellington. We must obtain the services of as many of your local lads as we are able and put them to work tracking young Rufus's last movements. Someone must have seen something; seen in which direction he went. Did he have any favorite haunts that you know about?”

“No, sir. He was always a very secretive lad. Not given to making friends easily, if you know what I mean? I don't even know where he lived. He was always slipping away, sometimes for days at a time.”

“Did he have a regular job at the theatre?”

Welly shook his head. He went to take a drink from his cup but, finding it empty, pushed it away.

“He had just turned up one day, out of the blue you might say, and struck up a conversation with me. I liked him right away, and we would chat on this and that. It got to where he knew when I would be brewing a cuppa and he'd make sure to drop in about that time.” Welly smiled as he recollected. “Nice kid. Not like many of them these days.”

“So he wasn't actually employed by the Oxford Grand Theatre?”

“Lor' no, sir! I got to giving him a sixpence once in a while for doing odd jobs, and most others there got to know him and he'd run errands for them.”

“I see.” My boss's great head nodded up and down as he digested the information. He returned his attention to his breakfast, very soon wiping the plate clean with a crust of toast. Welly and I said nothing, waiting for him to speak.

Mr. Stoker looked up at the clock on the tea shop wall and then pulled out his gold pocket watch. He studied that before signaling the waitress for the bill. As he gave her some coins he looked at me.

“Harry, we must take some action. I cannot get away immediately, with the rehearsals for
Othello
ongoing, but I feel you must go on ahead of me and accompany Welly back to Oxford. I will join you as soon as I am able. You know what to do. Get a search party organized. You have money to pay them?”

I nodded. I always had something set aside in my office for emergencies.

“Good.” He got to his feet. Welly and I both stood up. Mr. Stoker extended his hand to the hunchback, who seemed a little taken aback as he took it and shook it. “Have no fear, Welly. We are on the case. You can rely on Harry, here. I know I do. We'll find your missing boy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get on to my own theatre.”

*   *   *

I
sent a message to Jenny, just in case I shouldn't be able to make it back by the weekend, and I briefed the necessary people at the Lyceum, though things were moving like clockwork there. Finally, I went back to Mrs. Bell's and packed my valise. I had arranged to meet Welly at Paddington Railway Station. There was a train to Oxford by way of the Great Western Railway leaving at 1:37
P.M.
The return fare was fourteen shillings, and I thought the least I could do was to also pay for Welly's one-way fare of eight shillings. I had learned that he had come rushing down to see me barely able to cover his Oxford-to-London conveyance.

I took the omnibus to Praed Street, the station lying between that thoroughfare and Bishops Bridge Road. I had arranged to meet Welly on the concourse, at the statue of Brunel, the designer of the imposing terminal, and was pleased to see him there ahead of me. He was gazing up at the huge glazed roof, supported by wrought-iron arches in three enormous spans.

“Ah, there you are, Harry,” he said. He waved a hand over his head. “We've got nothing like this in Oxford. Must be very grand, living in a big city like London.”

“It has its moments, Welly,” I admitted.

We traveled second-class and had a carriage to ourselves. It seemed that early afternoon on a Wednesday was not a busy time on this railway line. There was the usual jostling and shaking as the engine got up steam and started pulling its load out onto the track. After just over fifty miles there was a brief stop at Didcot, where the Oxford branch diverges to the right of the main line. Didcot is a little town dating back to the Iron Age. The river there is known as the Isis and there are countless beautiful views to be enjoyed as the railway line crosses a fertile and pleasing area. Beyond Radley the line again crosses the Isis, with Bagley Woods on the left, and to the right there is a fine view of the city with its towers and spires.

“You see, Welly,” I said, pointing, “you have much here that we don't get to see in the bustling metropolis of London.”

“I suppose you are right, Harry. What is it they say about the grass being greener?”

Welly had said that he would love to have me stay with him while I was there, but regrettably he just didn't have the room in his small flat. I didn't press him on that and assured him that I would stay where I had on my previous visit, at the King's Arms hotel. If and when Mr. Stoker arrived, that would be his choice, too, I felt.

After checking into my room I returned downstairs to the lounge area. Welly had gone back to the theatre to see if there was any news of Rufus and was going to join me at the hotel for dinner. I settled into one of the comfortable chairs near the fireplace and picked up a copy of the local paper. The
Oxford Bugle
was a low-key publication reporting on local events. On page three there was another of Reginald Robertson's rants against the English stage and its failure to recognize his genius. The fact that it was on page three seemed to indicate to me that even in his hometown they were tiring of his tirades.

I was suddenly disturbed by a commotion at the front door. The voice of the landlord, Mr. Timothy Carstairs, boomed through the lobby and into the lounge. I got to my feet to discover Cuthbert Wellington and a group of ragged, grubby children advancing over the carpet in my direction. Mr. Carstairs protested at their dirty boots and general appearance.

“Welly! What is this? Who are these children?” I asked.

The hunchback grinned at me and totally ignored the protests of the landlord.

“Mr. Stoker said to get onto it right away, Harry. I've done what he suggested and rounded up several of the street arabs from around the Grand and thought you'd like to direct us on how to go about the search.”

“So no word on Rufus, eh?” He shook his head. “It's all right, Mr. Carstairs,” I said to the landlord who, with a glare at Welly and the children, returned to the inner room behind the front counter.

“No word at the theatre,” said Welly. “No sign of Mr. Robertson. Curtain-up isn't till this evening so I thought—bearing in mind what Mr. Stoker said—that I should get things moving. I just can't sit around, Harry.” His eyes were wide and appealing.

“You are right, Welly. I should have been onto this myself. I think the journey lulled me into a lazy place. Well done! Let's see what we can do.”

We all marched outside, the children looking at me intently. I gathered them around me and explained about Rufus's disappearance.

“We are very concerned about the boy,” I said.

“We knows Rufus,” said the tallest of the children, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “'E's a good'un.”

“Yeh. Everyone knows Rufus,” said another one. There was a murmur of assent.

“Good,” I said. “Well then, you are probably the best people to look for him. You know where he might go. Perhaps somewhere he might hide?”

“No one knows where Rufus goes,” said a young girl dressed in a boy's trousers and shirt and with dirty blond hair sticking out at all angles from a filthy cloth cap pulled down over one ear. “'E don't talk much . . . but I like 'im.”

“Well, you all have a better idea than myself or even Welly here. I want you to spread out and look everywhere. There's a shilling in it for the first one to find him, or sixpence to find where he has been, even if he's moved on from there. Report back to me here at the hotel or to Welly at the theatre.”