Dead for a Spell (21 page)

“Sir?” I felt the slightest hope from my boss's reassuring voice.

“If, as we both must suspect, young Jenny has been taken to play the part of the next victim for the Hellfire group, then we can rest assured that she will be held in good state until that appointed night. They will not harm her—in all probability will treat her well—until they need her for their shameful rite on the eve of May. That is yet a week away. We can accomplish a lot in a week, Harry.”

I did, indeed, feel some small consolation from that thought. Mr. Stoker was right. For some strange reason I had had a certain dread at the back of my mind that my Jenny might be the chosen one; that she would somehow be spirited away by these demons. There was no logic to my fear. Why would Jenny be chosen, out of all the young women in London? And yet I had felt very strongly that there was a connection of some sort. I shared my thoughts with Mr. Stoker.

“I think you are right, Harry.” His big head nodded with the motion of the hansom passing over the cobbled street. “I blame myself for not acting on such a supposition in a more timely manner. Nell Burton was one of our own. If, as I suspect, this whole trio of rites is being aimed at the Lyceum and—as I am becoming more and more certain—at our Henry Irving, then it would make sense that there would be a strong connection between the victim and their center of focus.”

“But Elizabeth Scott had no direct connection with us, sir,” I said. “She was a simple flower seller, not even in London, never mind part of the Lyceum.”

“Very true, Harry. And I have my own theory as to why she became the first victim of these tragedies. Ah, here we are. Let us get back inside and to my office. I find I think best in my own milieu.”

We both descended from the cab and hurried back inside the Lyceum to prepare for the final performance of
Hamlet
. The theatre was full.

S
aturday night saw
Hamlet
go out in a blaze of glory. The Guv'nor took ten curtain calls and could have squeezed several more out of the enthusiastic audience if he had wanted to. Everyone seemed delighted. Mr. Irving took the principals out to a very late dinner at Romano's. Mr. Stoker was invited but declined. His mind was on other things.

The next day was a most unusual Sunday. It had been a sleepness night for me. There was to be no meeting with Jenny that afternoon. Yet the day started like a regular weekday morning . . . I went in to the theatre and met with Mr. Stoker in his office.

“I've been thinking, sir,” I said. “The Nugents. Just where do they fit into this whole scheme of things?”

“I've been trying to sort out that myself, Harry. They are both obviously involved in some way, and I think I might have it fathomed. Tell me again the name of the second man that Newgate Prison said would occasionally visit Bart Nugent.”

I had to turn to my notebook for that. I'd come to realize that there were some things Inspector Bellamy did that were worth copying. I now wrote down any and all items I might possibly forget. I'd always kept such a workbook for my theatrical duties, but now I kept a second one for the many diverse happenings that seemed to bubble up all about me in the blink of an eye . . . tarot cards, railway timetables, directions thither and yon, and many, many names. Even with the notebook I found it difficult to keep the names in any sort of order. I had to record what each name was associated with and how I had encountered it. I now ran my finger down a page and stopped under the Newgate Prison heading.

“William Higby,” I read out. “The assistant warder said that he only visited Bart once or twice.”

“And what was the name of Lord Glenmont's gamekeeper? He of the double-barreled shotgun?”

I turned a page or two then turned back.

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't make a note of that. Should I have done?”

“I can tell you, Harry. It was Bill Higby.”

My mouth fell open. “It was? Was there any connection between the two Higbys?” I asked.

“There were not two Higbys, Harry. Just one—I'm certain of it. The gamekeeper was the man who visited Bart Nugent in prison.” Mr. Stoker sat back in his chair and looked pleased with himself.

“Well I'm . . . I'm speechless,” I said.

My boss looked even more pleased with himself. “I knew I'd heard the name before somewhere, when Lord Glenmont's man said it. I just couldn't place it right away.”

“So why did he visit Bart?”

“It was clever and it tells us a lot, if my reasoning is correct, Harry.”

“It does, sir?”

“It most certainly does. You know, of course, that we had two young ladies murdered. One up north near Liverpool and the other right here in London. Both were ritual slayings. Ergo, both required a number of participants. Now don't you think it would be a very large coincidence if there just happened to be operating two separate and distinct Hellfire groups—for want of a better name? Don't you think it much more likely that it was in fact two parts of one single group responsible for both deaths?”

I nodded. It was persuasive.

“Two parts of a whole,” he continued. “And consequently a need to coordinate their actions.”

“So, how . . . ?” I started to say.

“The leader, or the spokesman, for the northern half—Jacob Nugent—would report to his brother Bart, in Newgate Prison, on a visiting day. Then the spokesman, or coordinator, for the southern half—William Higby—would collect that information from Bart on another such day and take it on down to his group. Bart would act as go-between, being useful despite his confinement. The two groups could thus coordinate their actions to get together for the third big event . . . the
Walpurgisnacht
slaying.”

“So Jacob Nugent is the leader of the northern half . . .”

“Not the leader, to my mind, Harry. The leader is the mastermind behind it all, and I do not think either of the Nugents so capable. Most certainly not our gamekeeper, either. No, Harry. They are merely pawns in this mighty game of chess.”

“Why didn't both murders take place in the London area, sir? Why pick a young woman up near Liverpool?” I had been wondering this for some time. “Surely then there would have been no need for coordinating and go-betweens.”

Mr. Stoker nodded his head slowly as though thinking things through. “Good question, Harry. I do have a vague sort of idea that is still germinating. It seems ridiculous on the face of it, but then so do many things about murder when first contemplated.”

He did not elaborate, and I knew he would not do so until he was more certain of things. I asked him what he would like me to do.

“I know you want to keep busy, Harry, and I think it best you do. There is nothing calling for your immediate attention here at the Lyceum today, now that
Hamlet
has taken its final bows. Starting tomorrow we will be deep into
Othello
rehearsals, but this afternoon I would like to suggest that you call upon Lord Glenmont.”

“Call on him, sir?”

“Not literally, Harry. I still hesitate to associate that gentleman with the satanic group, though I have not scratched him off my list. I think it more likely that the true mastermind is taking advantage of his lordship. But we cannot take anything at face value. I'd like you to make enquiries at the House of Lords, and at his lordship's club, to get some idea of Lord Glenmont's movements at the times in which we are interested. Perhaps even see if you can discover if his lordship has any special plans for May Eve? I, myself, have things to do.”

“Yes, sir!” I jumped to my feet. Here was something I could immerse myself in, however temporarily, to take my mind off thoughts of Jenny being held and possibly abused. “I'll get onto it right away.”

*   *   *

T
here was little information I could extract at the House of Lords. I could not even gain access there. The Palace of Westminster, of which it is a part, is closely guarded, and I had to do some fast talking in order to speak with the steward of the palace, Sir Gregory Ford. I was lucky to find even him there on a Sunday.

“The crossbenchers are under no obligation to sign in or out,” he told me. “They are invariably on hand when there is a vote expected or even for strong discussion, but the very fact of their being crossbenchers precludes any obligation on their part. I am not even sure that Lord Glenmont has been here at all this week. Now if you will excuse me?” He bustled away, looking about him as though searching for someone.

I returned through the great gates of the palace and started walking down Great George Street toward St. James's Park. It was turning into a beautiful day, and my mind kept straying to thoughts of strolling with Jenny around that park or Hyde Park. I tried to put such thoughts out of my head. Mr. Stoker had warned me that to dwell on Jenny's abduction would do her no favors and that I needed to keep my brain active.

I cut across the park, walked along the side of St. James's Palace, and came out at the junction of Pall Mall and St. James's Street. My destination was number 60 St. James's Street, the home of Brooks's, the leading Liberal club for gentlemen. I had learned from Debrett's that this was the club favored by Lord Glenmont. When the House of Lords was in session many of the politicians lived in their respective clubs, traveling home only at the weekends. The accommodation at such establishments is without parallel, and the cuisine is nothing but excellent. Baedeker claims that the wine and viands at the West End gentleman's clubs attain excellence unequaled by the most elaborate and expensive restaurants. Who, in his right mind, would want to go home? I thought, my mind briefly visiting Mrs. Bell and her cold kippers and lukewarm tea.

I knew that I could not hope to gain entrance to Brooks's, being neither a member nor a member's guest, but it was not admission that I sought. It was information, and a Sunday seemed the ideal day to acquire it.

A commissionaire was to be found at the entrance to all such gentleman's clubs. He was usually a retired army sergeant major; big and burly enough to keep out any undesirables yet educated enough to be able to converse intelligently with the members and their guests. At Brooks's I encountered Sergeant Major Oliver Martingale, formerly of the Coldstream Guards. His dress uniform gleamed in all the right places; his boots and belt reflected the sunlight; and the paired brass buttons of his jacket dazzled the eyes. His bald pate gleamed to match the boots, and I briefly wondered if he polished that, also. It wasn't difficult to get into conversation with the commissionaire, there being little coming and going at Brooks's on this Sunday.

“I don't think there's a man in England who does not look twice, and with pride, at the uniform of the Coldsteam Guards, Sergeant Major,” I said. I sensed rather than saw that he pulled himself up a little straighter and thrust out his chest.

“Crimean. Waterloo. Napoleonic Wars. Wilhelmstal. Siege of Namur.” He counted them off as though he had fought in all of them, though I happened to know that the siege had taken place two hundred years ago. Still, it was by such benchmarks that a soldier defined his regiment.

“Amazing,” I murmured, sufficiently loudly for him to hear and appreciate my awe. “Surely you must find this gentleman's club a far cry from your past glories.”

“Oh, you would be surprised at some of the goings-on I've witnessed 'ere,” he said, leaning in toward me in a confidential manner.

I raised my eyebrows and tried to look surprised.

“Many of them as is supposed to be gentlemen fall far from the mark, to my 'umble mind, when they've got a drink or two in 'em.” He pursed his lips and nodded his bald head. “Wouldn't have done back at the regiment, I can tell you.”

“No, I'm sure not,” I agreed.

In no time I was able to bring the conversation around to certain members of the club, Lord Glenmont in particular. I expressed my particular interest in that gentleman and his movements, implying a desire to discuss certain investments with his lordship. By then the sergeant major was much more relaxed, and I could tell he seldom got to be at ease and to just chat. We quickly came to be on first-name terms. I soon learned that his lordship was one of the few members for whom he had any respect.

“Never seen 'is lordship falling down drunk, 'Arry, which is more than I can say for most of 'em. 'E always bids me good day and stops to comment on the weather. Nice old gentleman.”

It transpired that the sergeant major kept a register of the members' comings and goings together with any guests that they admitted.

“You must see some very important people come and go, Oliver,” I said.

“Just feast your eyes on this,” he said.

We stood in the foyer of the club, at the foot of the marble staircase that curved away up to the main club rooms. The book lay open on the desk where the commissionaire normally sat. He flipped a page or two back and pointed to the signatures of the prime minister and various well-placed members of his party. Just then a carriage bearing a discreet coat of arms on its door pulled up at the club entrance.

“No rest even on a Sunday!” said the sergeant major. “'Old on, 'Arry. I'll be right back.” He tugged his uniform jacket straight and marched across to open the doors for the party descending from the carriage.

I wasted no time. I quickly turned the pages in the book, back to the date of Nell Burton's slaying. I ran my finger down the signatures. There was no sign of Lord Glenmont's name. I turned back farther.

“What you looking for, 'Arry?”

With a start I realized that the sergeant major was back beside me. I couldn't believe I had not been aware of his heavy boots marching across the foyer. I glanced down at the thick carpet.

“I can't believe some of these names, Oliver,” I said. “Lord this and Earl that. Did I see a duke in there?”

“Could well be,” he smirked. “Could very well be.”

*   *   *

“N
o, sir,” I said. “I could see no indication that Lord Glenmont went out from his club at the time of Nell Burton's murder. Apparently he was in residence there at the time. Does this mean he's clear of any involvement?” I stared at Mr. Stoker to see his reaction.

“We cannot jump to any hasty conclusions, Harry,” he said. We were back in his office late on Sunday afternoon. “I must admit, I find Lord Glenmont a bit of a puzzle.”

“Sir?”

“Everything seems to indicate that he really is all he seems to be . . . a benign elderly gentleman with a smile for everyone. But is that truly him, or is he a consummate actor—good enough for the Lyceum family—who is secretly the mastermind of this terrible satanic group intent on destroying life?” He shook his head. “I just don't know, Harry.”

“But you have your suspicions, sir?” I urged. “You always have your inner feelings. Your grandmother's senses?”

“I don't know who you've been listening to, Harry. I'm sure I would never lay claim to such paranormal abilities.”

I stifled myself. Mr. Stoker could be almost laughable at times, I thought. I kept a straight face. “Any second thoughts then, sir?”

He pursed his lips and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, gazing off into space. “I must admit that I am inclined to take his lordship at face value. I think he may well be an unwitting link in the chain. I think it possible that others have made use of him without his knowledge. But time alone will tell, Harry, and we cannot sit around and wait for that time to pass. Come!”

He got to his feet and reached for his overcoat on the mahogany clothes tree.

“Where are we going, sir?” I asked.

“Out!” came the enigmatic response.