Dead for a Spell (25 page)

D
espite the blackness of the night—it was well past the new moon but still almost a fortnight to the full—I was able to locate the big oak tree that I had remembered. Standing with my back to it, I peered in the direction from which I thought I had originally approached the tree. I was able to make out the dark shape of what I assumed to be the very large bush by the cave entrance. I carefully made my way forward to it.

At first I thought I was mistaken. I seemed to remember coming out from the cave through a wide section that opened up to the outside world, but I couldn't see such an obvious passageway. However, the more I looked around the bush, the more certain I was that I was at the correct spot. I risked partially opening the light control on my bullseye lantern just enough to see more clearly. I immediately saw that I was in the right spot. I signaled Mr. Stoker, who had remained by the oak tree. He came across to me, followed by the Guv'nor.

“This is it, sir,” I said. “You have to squeeze in between the bush and this rock, but then, as you slide around the rock, you'll come to the way in.”

“Good. Well done, Harry.” He turned and waved to the inspector, who quickly joined us. I repeated my instructions, and he nodded. I was pleased that he didn't immediately try to take complete control of our little operation.

“We suggest that one person—perhaps your Mr. Rivers here, since he is familiar with the layout—might slip in and see how things are going,” said Bellamy. “When he thinks that it's getting close to what we believe you folks term ‘showtime,' he can let us know and we'll all follow him back in.”

“Actually ‘curtain-up' is more appropriate, Inspector,” said Mr. Irving, “but no matter.”

“I think I will go in along with Harry,” said my boss. “I might have a better sense of the progress of any ritual. I can then send him back out to alert you at the best chosen time. When I give the word, Inspector, you can sound your whistle.”

“Agreed. I will have some of my men posted along by the main entrance so we can descend on them from both ends.”

As Mr. Stoker and I drew closer to the inner sanctum of the Hellfire Club, the sound of the proceedings grew in volume. My nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a burning of pungent incense. The rock walls had a deadening effect, so that the drumming and chanting that we discovered did not reverberate off the walls as I had imagined they might. I was glad to find that there was sufficient sound to cover any slight noise our shoes might make as we edged in and settled down behind the rock pile. We had brought our respective cudgel and club with us and laid them carefully on the ground. Mr. Stoker eased forward to where he could look out at the activity, and after a moment I joined him. Dressed all in black, we must have been virtually invisible to anyone looking in our direction from the main area.

The rhythm for the dancing came from a hand drum being beaten by a young man and from the clapping and foot stamping of the revelers. They chanted some monotonous phrase that I could not make out. They seemed well foxed, and I saw that there was plenty of ale available from a firkin set up against one wall.

Mr. Stoker pointed out the gyrating figure of Miss Sarah Winterbotham, her red hair loose and flying, its color obvious even in the diminished light of the cave. I was glad that I had thought to wear a black knitted hat pulled down over my own head. Some of the dancers were dressed in ritual robes, but many were in ordinary everyday clothes. There seemed no real order to them.

“I am happy to note that the participants do not appear to be armed,” murmured my boss. “As the third of this trio of sacrifices, I imagine the rite is mainly celebratory. They must believe this to be the climax of whatever cursed sorcery they are attempting. Ah!” He gave a sharp intake of breath, and I leaned over to see what it was that had drawn his attention. “I did not notice the presiding figure at first, Harry. Look. Seated there in the shadows.”

I was surprised to see a large and ornately carved chair against the far wall. It had not been there when I last visited, and I suspected that it had been dragged down to the caves from the main house when it was found that his lordship was not at home. On the thronelike seat was a figure dressed in deepest purple. He—or she, for I was aware of Mr. Stoker's earlier comment that the group might well be led by a woman—had his face covered by a mask. The façade was like the head of a bird, with a ravenlike beak. Standing close behind the throne was a second masked figure wearing black robes with scarlet trimmings, his face that of a cat.

“Note the altar, Harry,” whispered my boss. “It is about to be crowned with the sacrifice. Hold firm now, Harry! The time is not yet ripe.”

It was as well he had warned me, for suddenly there was a break in the dancing and two men came into the main area half carrying a figure in a white robe. I knew at once that it was Jenny, and despite Mr. Stoker's warning, I started forward. But a firm grip on my shoulder stopped me.

“No, Harry! Don't put her in any greater danger. Just stay calm and wait.”

I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. I dug my nails into my palms in an effort to control my anger and the desire to wrest my Jenny out from the hands of these demented beings. We watched as they brought her forward to the raised dais in front of the throne. Jenny must have been drugged, or partially so, for she offered no resistance and lay still when they placed her, unbound, on the table that had been set in the center of the stage. The two men stepped back, and all was silent as the masked figure arose from the throne and stood looking all about the crowded cave.

He was tall. Taller than I had thought, seeing him seated. He stepped forward and up, to stand beside the comatose figure. I shuddered when I saw that he held, down at his side, a large curved dagger whose blade caught the light of the flickering candles. The man said nothing but repeatedly looked around at the silent throng. The second masked figure also moved forward but did not step up onto the dais.

“Stand by, Harry!” Stoker's voice was in my ear. “I think now's the time to get out to Bellamy and have him blow his whistle. Then get back here as fast as you can.”

I needed no urging. I rushed out, not now caring whether or not I made any noise. Apparently I did make some, for I heard a shout from behind me, back in the cave proper.

I got to the exit, and for the first time in a year I was pleased to see Inspector Bellamy, his ponderous figure hovering just inside the passage.

“Now, Inspector!” I shouted. “Blow your whistle and get your men in here!”

I didn't stop but spun around to rush back to Mr. Stoker. Behind me I heard the police whistle sound and be repeated and relayed off through the trees and brush.

As I got back to our alcove I saw Mr. Stoker with his arm drawn back and holding the heavy Indian club. Looking past him, I saw the purple-clad figure raising the wicked-looking knife and holding it above the still, white-robed figure of Jenny. Mr. Stoker's arm came over, barely clearing the cave ceiling, and the club turned end over end as it flew across the intervening space.

The club smashed into the arm holding the knife, and club and dagger crashed to the ground. A roar of pain and anger came from the tall figure. He tore the mask from his face. To my great surprise it was Colonel Wilberforce Cornell, Mr. Booth's manager.

As Inspector Bellamy, Sam Green, and other men came rushing in from outside, I scooped up my cudgel and joined my boss as he charged into the main cave. Swinging my club from side to side, I brooked no interference as I made straight for where Jenny lay. As I approached, I saw the black-and-red-clad figure had retrieved the dagger. He, too, ripped the mask from his face, and I saw him to be Seth Hartzman. I swung my cudgel into his face, fearing to not connect with his arm if I tried for that. I felt it hit solidly and was aware of his shout. But now, tossing the club away from me, I threw myself down on top of Jenny's still figure, shielding her body from any other attempt at sacrifice.

I realized that all about me was chaos. Men and women screamed. Police whistles blew, resonating throughout the caves. I thought I caught a glimpse of the gamekeeper, wrestling with one of the Lyceum men. Sam Green was wielding a mallet and doing considerable damage. Mr. Henry Irving, great Shakespearean actor that he was, stood up on the seat of the thronelike chair and with his walking stick hit any head that came within range, while reciting the Act Three, Scene One, speech of
Henry V
at the top of his voice: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . .”

But then my attention was caught by Mr. Stoker. He stood toe-to-toe with Colonel Cornell. The colonel had somehow managed to retrieve the dagger while my boss had similarly rescued his Indian club. They moved first one way and then another, fencing, feinting, each trying to gain the advantage. The colonel's monocle had long since gone, and his bald pate was scratched and bleeding.

Slowly the noise died down in the caves. I saw that the battle was over. Policemen were leading Hellfire members out and away. Soon there was only myself, the inspector, the Guv'nor—who had come down off the chair—and Sam Green to form a loose circle about the dueling duo. I perched on the edge of the altar table, my arm around Jenny, who clung to me and was very slowly returning to normalcy. I heard her murmur my name and my heart skipped a beat.

I think that the colonel knew there was no escape. He paused and looked at each of us.

“All of this to take down one man!” he cried. He glowered at the Guv'nor. “Mr. Booth is a far, far better actor than are you, sir! He is the best in America, and I am determined to see that he becomes the best in the world.” He suddenly lunged forward and stabbed at Mr. Irving. The Guv'nor's years of onstage fencing stood him in good stead. He reacted immediately, though not quite quickly enough to escape completely. The dagger slashed down and tore into his arm before an almost equally immediate swing of Mr. Stoker's Indian club sent the colonel to the ground.

We took both Mr. Irving and Jenny up to Knowl Hall to be treated by Cook and others of the hall staff still in residence. I was determined not to let Jenny out of my sight. Mr. Stoker said that he would give Inspector Bellamy a hand with sorting out the gang of miscreants and ensuring that Colonel Cornell and Mr. Hartzman were sent safely off to Scotland Yard.

I
t was Sunday morning before we were able to make any sense out of the
Walpurgisnacht
Hellfire debacle. Before starting the rehearsals—full costume was to take place that afternoon—I was ushered by Mr. Stoker onto the stage. I had been assured, before parting company last evening, that Jenny was safe and would spend a few days with Aunt Alice in Bermondsey. I was reluctant to be away from her but realized I couldn't stand at her side permanently. The conspirators had been apprehended, and everyone should now be safe. I was elated that Jenny had come to no real harm. She had not been abused nor treated badly in any way, just badly frightened and confused. I was so thankful and filled with joy.

Mr. Irving came onstage with his arm heavily bandaged. He did, however, seem to be in good spirits, pooh-poohing the attentions of Miss Terry.

“Everyone here, Abraham?” he asked, looking around.

I saw that a select group had been assembled. It included Sam Green and the stagehands who had been at the caves with us, Edwina Abbott (I was surprised to see her included), Bill Thomas, Billy Weston, Miss Connelly, Mr. Edwin Booth, and Inspector Bellamy.

“I think this is all concerned, Henry.”

“Good! Good.” The Guv'nor cleared his throat as he did when preparing for one of his addresses to an assembled cast. This was a relatively small group, but he gave it his full attention.

“Firstly, I must congratulate all of you, and thank you, for your contributions to the events of last evening. What we were involved in was nothing less than a situation that might have been penned by the Bard himself. Shades of
Macbeth
,
Othello
,
Julius Caesar
, and many of the other tragedies. Yet by your efforts, a real tragedy was averted.”

There were some murmurings among the stagehands, who stood with wide grins on their faces. I believe they had almost enjoyed the set-to with the Hellfire congregation.

“The subject of this unique event was, of course, a young lady in my employ; a young lady who had done nothing to be drawn into this nightmare. She was being used as a pawn to get to myself. I am sure she would wish me to pass along her own gratitude for your efforts.” He gave a moment for that to sink in before continuing. “Much that transpired is still something of a mystery, to myself and I am sure to many of you. I would therefore ask our more knowledgeable theatre manager to run over the events and to explain, as fully as he is able, their sequence and reason. Thank you, Abraham.”

He went to gesture with his arm, in Mr. Stoker's direction, but I saw him wince. Obviously his wound was more severe than “just a scratch,” as he had dismissed it. Miss Ellen Terry must have caught his brief flinch and crossed to stand close beside him. He gave her the briefest of smiles as he took a step back and waved Mr. Stoker to center stage.

My boss was always reluctant to be the center of attention but, when forced into it, was well able to rise to the occasion. I had often thought that he could have made a more than adequate living as an actor.

“Where to begin?” he asked, of no one in particular. “You are all familiar with the tragic murder of our own Miss Burton in late March. Some of you are also aware of the earlier murder of a Miss Elizabeth Scott. The dates of those two events led me to surmise that there might well be a third murder attempted last night, and that was how it turned out. Happily, we were able to prevent that.”

“Not to interrupt, Abraham,” said the Guv'nor, interrupting my boss. “But you had made mention of being able to explain why that first young lady, so tragically taken, was not of the theatrical persuasion?”

“Indeed.” Stoker turned to the figure on the far side of Miss Terry. “Edwin, you had said that you and the colonel arrived in Liverpool on the thirty-first of January.”

“Two days late,” agreed Mr. Booth. “Aboard the SS
Germanic
. As I think I told you, it was a very rough crossing.”

“I believe that if you had arrived on time,” continued Stoker, “it would have given the people concerned time to settle on someone directly connected with the Lyceum, in the London area and in time to become the first sacrifice. Your delayed arrival precluded that, and they had to settle on a young lady conveniently on the scene; the scene of your arrival.”

“Forgive me,” said Mr. Booth. “I am still somewhat in shock at this whole recent chain of events. Despite his being caught in the act, I am appalled to discover that my very own manager was the mastermind behind this series of murders.” He looked around at everyone and then, more specifically, at the Guv'nor. “Believe me, Henry, I cannot apologize enough for what I have brought to your shores. I am in shock!”

Mr. Irving held up his hand—the uninjured one—and shook his head. “We are all in shock, Edwin. That Colonel Cornell should have felt so strongly is, perhaps, understandable, yet to take such drastic action . . .” His voice trailed off. The first time I think I have seen the Guv'nor at a loss for words.

“If I may ask, Edwin?” picked up Mr. Stoker. “Were you aware of the colonel's activity in the so-called Hellfire Club?”

“He never discussed it at any length, though on occasion he did make passing reference to it. I knew he was an active Freemason. I know that he also had a great interest in ancient magic and magicians. I seem to recall his mentioning Paracelsus, Merlin, King Solomon, and others. I also knew that there were one or two Hellfire clubs dotted about the New York and Pennsylvania area. A legacy of our Mr. Benjamin Franklin. Though I do believe that most, if not all, were simply an excuse for drinking and revelry.”

“I agree,” said Stoker. “As was the case on this side of the Atlantic, though these were more directly sired by Sir Francis Dashwood himself. Incidentally, I have some doubts as to the colonel's true attachment to the ancient body of Freemasons. I think it may have been a cover for his more frequent activity with the Hellfire group and as a connection with the practice of ritual.”

“What makes you say that?” asked the Guv'nor.

“Simply that at the last Beefsteak dinner I made a point of shaking hands with the colonel, and he didn't seem to know the supposedly secret handshake of the Freemasons. But that is perhaps neither here nor there. I think he claimed to be able to coach you in matters Masonic in order to be able to exercise some sort of control over your activities.”

“Where did Seth Hartzman fit into it, sir?” I asked. I had been wondering that for a long time. “We saw that he was acting as the second in command at the ritual last night.”

“He was the key figure to connect the two sides of the Atlantic,” Stoker said. “We knew he had been to America. He admitted as much himself. But I took the trouble to check the passenger lists of the White Star Line's ships berthing here just prior to the arrival of Mr. Booth and the colonel. Hartzman arrived just two weeks prior to them, on the smaller SS
Celtic
. He had been primed by the colonel before leaving America, and his job was to organize the Hellfire group for the ritual on this side of the Atlantic. I believe that as time grew short he settled on the group in Warrington, since it was so close to where the colonel would land.”

“And why did he become a part of our crowd scenes?” I asked.

“Possibly so that if all else failed he would be on hand to attack the Guv'nor directly.”

“Not by any magical method, you mean?” asked Mr. Booth. “But why not just do that anyway? Why not simply murder Henry if he felt it necessary to get rid of him, rather than go through all this magical rigmarole?”

Mr. Stoker gave one of his long sighs. “I think the main reason was that to murder Henry would have led to a murder investigation, almost certainly by Scotland Yard. It would produce a trial and all that attends that scene. Whereas to bring about the Guv'nor's death by magical means—if indeed that is possible—would result in a mysterious death, certainly, but no obvious killer, no crime scene, probably no recriminations.”

Inspector Bellamy finally spoke up. I had almost forgotten that he was present, which was very nice.

“We would like to point out, gentlemen, that Scotland Yard is most definitely implicated now, and we can promise that those involved—
all
of those involved—will be brought to justice.”

“But are all of those poor people who were in the caves truly guilty?” asked Miss Terry. “Were they not simply part of the scenery, as it were?”

“We must view them as accomplices to the murders, ma'am. That is the law.”

“In effect, tricked into it, in my opinion,” said my boss. “But I am sure that all will be sorted out at the trial.”

“Please, sir?”

I recognized the voice of Edwina Abbott. “Miss Abbott,” I called. “You have a question? Won't you please step forward?”

She did so, and Mr. Stoker gave her his full attention.

“My cards, sir? I'd just like to say as how they was right in the end, then.”

“Right?”

“You remember, Mr. Rivers. The Chariot and the Hanged Man.”

My mind went back to when Edwina pulled cards to see if there was anything regarding the end of the run of
Hamlet
. She had drawn those two cards. “What about them, Miss Abbott?”

“I think I can answer that,” said my boss. He acknowledged Edwina with a nod of his head and then addressed the assembly. “I believe that Miss Abbott has quite a talent for prediction, with her pasteboards. She did, as she has reminded us, pull two cards. One of these—the Hanged Man—speaks for itself in that both Colonel Cornell and Seth Hartzman will almost certainly swing for their parts in these heinous murders. But the other I find interesting. Won't you please tell us about the Chariot, Miss Abbott?”

Suddenly finding herself the center of attention, especially with both Mr. Irving's and Mr. Booth's eyes on her, she blushed and took a step backward.

“Come now, Edwina,” said Mr. Stoker. “We are all friends here. We would be delighted if you would elucidate.”

She gave a nervous cough and then stepped forward again, groping in her reticule as she did and producing her cards.

“It was like I told Mr. Rivers at the time. The Chariot is rushing forward with an important man at the reins. He is unstoppable.”

“And he almost was,” murmured Mr. Booth. “Important? I suppose being a colonel might qualify.”

“There was good and evil there,” continued Edwina.

I saw, in my mind, the image of Mr. Stoker battling the colonel. Good and evil indeed. And with people like my boss, I knew that good would always triumph.

“Is there anything else of which we should be made aware, Abraham?” asked the Guv'nor.

“Nothing of any great importance,” Stoker replied. “But one small item that I found fascinating. Perhaps one or two others of you may do the same. Perhaps a reason why Colonel Cornell felt that this was the opportune time to make his play to depose the Guv'nor and install Mr. Booth as premier Shakespearean actor. It was, or is, the year. This year.”

“What do you mean, this year?” asked Mr. Irving.

“It is 1881. A magical year. According to numerology we have 1, 8, 8, 1. Add those together—1 + 8 and 8 + 1. That equals 9 + 9 which, in turn, equals 18. 18 is 1 + 8 which again equals 9. The number 9 has always been regarded as a magical number, and so this year of 1881 is very much a magical year. Nine, by the way, is regarded as a fire sign; emotional, active, and impulsive. I think we have seen all of that.”

“Lot of what someone called rigmarole, if you ask us,” said the police inspector. “We think that we will stick to plain crimes and criminals and leave the magic and mathematics to others.”

“Gentlemen! And ladies,” cried the Guv'nor, his gold pocket watch in his hand. “Fascinating as all this may be,
tempus fugit
! Tomorrow sees the opening night of
Othello
. We are honored to have Mr. Edwin Booth with us and know that this will be as successful a production as was
Hamlet
. But to doubly ensure that success, we must now break up this verbal autopsy and focus our minds and efforts on a good dress rehearsal. I know I can count on you all.” He waved his watch. “It is the time for some repast. Take a good lunch, for we may not manage another break for some hours. I want to see you all, plus the rest of the cast, in makeup and costume onstage here by two of the clock. Thank you.”

He turned and swept Mr. Booth and Miss Terry ahead of him as he left the stage. The others broke up and headed out of the theatre and toward the Druid's Head.

“Come, Harry,” said Mr. Stoker. “The Guv'nor gives good advice. Let us take a good meal. Tomorrow is the start of another life.”

“Happily, one that will include Jenny in it, sir,” I said. I promised myself that for much of the morrow I would find myself in Bermondsey and would do everything in my power to make up to Jenny for all that she had been forced to endure. Life was indeed starting afresh.