Cursed in the Act (17 page)

“Sir?” I was not too certain what was meant by the occult, though it gave me an uneasy feeling.

Stoker glanced down at a piece of notepaper where he had apparently been making notes about his visitor. “A decade ago William Westcott became a Freemason. As you know, many prominent men today are of that brotherhood.” I nodded. “In fact the Guv'nor is desirous of entering that fraternity at some point. But, from University College Dr. Westcott had gone on to become a partner in his uncle's medical practice in Somerset. Two years ago his uncle died and the good doctor took a suitable retirement at Hendon so that he might devote some serious time to study of the Qabalah, Hermetics, and alchemy.”

He was losing me, but I remained with my attention fixed on his face and hoped he wouldn't notice any glazing of my eyes as I tried to follow him.

“He has just completed that study and was kind enough to visit me, at my request, before returning to the West Country.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” I had to say. “I don't quite see . . .”

“Just bear with me, Harry. Among the many disciplines with which Dr. Westcott is familiar is the West Indian religion of Voudon. I went over my own thinking with him and, in fact, took him below stage to see the inscription on the wall of the secret room there.”

“What did he think of it?” I asked.

“He agreed with me, Harry. The fact that the vévé drawn on the wall is that of Guédé would seem to indicate that the rituals performed here are of the black magic variety. Negative, Harry. Of no benefit to the theatre; in fact quite the reverse.”

“I think we gathered that, did we not, sir, from witnessing that ritual?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, Harry. And I am still not comfortable with the apparently inexplicable death of our dear Mr. Turnbull, since Dr. Cochran attested to his previous good health. That was just the sort of thing that might—and I do say ‘might,' Harry—have been caused magically. There are many examples of such murders in the literature. Dr. Westcott concurs. It is not, however, the sort of conundrum that I believe our Metropolitan Police friends are capable of solving.”

I was uncertain what to say. Here was my boss, a university-educated man, talking blithely about magic as though it were an everyday occurrence. Did he really believe in it, or was he letting his Irish superstition get away from him, I wondered?

“So, what does all this mean, sir?” I asked.

He looked at me in his characteristic pose of one eye closed and a forefinger alongside his nose. “What indeed, Harry?” he said enigmatically. “What indeed?”

“There's something you'd like me to do?” I asked, still uncertain of his intentions.

“I don't think there's anything you
can
do, Harry. Not at present. We will have to see where all of this leads us. No. I think that for the moment we will continue to focus our energies—outside the theatre performances, of course—on tracking down our poisoner and determining exactly why Richland's body was removed from its coffin and the head deposited on our stage.”

“But you do think there was some connection between that body snatching and any mumbo jumbo performed
under
our stage?” I persisted.

“I do, Harry. But before we can connect all the dots, we need all the facts. Now! You say that there is no absolute answer on whether or not the head and body were a match?” I shook my head. “Very well. We'll just try to keep everything in mind.”

He reached for some papers and I felt dismissed.

In fact I didn't have the time to do any more extracurricular activity that day. Someone had managed to step on Yorick's skull and crush it. It was not a real skull but one made of papier-mâché, constructed in our props department. When John Whitby had earlier dropped it onstage—not the first time he had done that—it hadn't helped. It was time to build another fake skull and I got someone busy doing that. Other small crises kept me busy till the evening curtain-up.

* * *

T
he following morning, a Thursday, Mr. Stoker was out of the office on some business of his own and I was able to spend time catching up on my paperwork, plus double-checking the properties list and going through Miss Price's prompt copy.

At lunchtime I took a cab to Little Vine Street and the St. James's Division police station to see if Sergeant Bellamy had any further news. As I had half expected, I found him to have gone around the corner to the Stag's Head to have his lunch. I went there to join him.

“How's the bread today, Sergeant?” I asked, as I slipped down onto the chair opposite him. “Stale again, or is it a fresh batch?”

He didn't look up but answered as though we had been in conversation for some while.

“They've got a good ham they're slicing, if you fancy something other than cheese,” he said. “The bread is all right. But then just about anything is all right if you wash it down with enough ale.”

“I'll drink to that,” I said with a chuckle. I nodded toward his newspaper. “Still checking the horses?”

“The horses are running well enough to pay for this ham sandwich, Mr. Rivers. Now we're sure you didn't come here to chitchat. What can we do for you?”

“I was wondering about the headless corpse,” I said, waving down the serving girl and giving her my order. “It has been intimated that there was a possibility of it not being Peter Richland's body, based on the absence of greasepaint under the fingernails.”

“‘Possibility,' Mr. Rivers. That was the word used. There is the possibility that it is not your Mr. Richland's body, but there is also the possibility that it is.”

I sighed and cut in half the thick sandwich the girl placed in front of me.

“If not Richland's, then whose? Do you get a lot of headless corpses, Sergeant?”

“No, sir, we do not. Most unusual, in fact. All the more reason to believe that it probably
is
the late Mr. Richland. We do get a lot of unknown corpses though, we must admit. There are a great number of crimes committed in the East End, with bodies left in alleyways, stuffed into privies, and dumped in the River Thames. But very few of them—in fact we can't think of one other one—that are without the head.”

“Your Dr. Entwhistle said that you had disposed of the head?”

“Yes, sir. Possibly we were a mite hasty in that, but you can only sit for so long waiting for a body to turn up.”

“I suppose so,” I said. I took a bite of my sandwich. Bellamy was right; the ham was excellent. “I went to see the rag-and-bone man,” I said. “He showed me the underclothing that the corpse had been wearing. I don't think there's any doubt in my mind that the body had been trampled by horses.”

“There you are correct, sir. Yes. It most certainly had that appearance.”

“Then surely that would confirm that it was Richland's body?”

“As we said, sir, there is still that possibility.”

I took a good drink of the dark ale and then shook my head at the cautiousness of the police. They would admit to nothing and deny everything, if it suited them. But it was a shame that we couldn't match up the head and the body. I'm sure Mrs. Richland would wish for a complete corpse to rebury.

“Do you know anything of Voudon, Sergeant?” I asked, on impulse.

His hand stopped halfway up to his mouth. He looked at me over the edge of his bread.

“Hoodoo and mumbo jumbo?” he asked. He took a bite from the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully for a while. “No, we don't get much call for that. Now the yellow men in Limehouse, they've got their own sort of mumbo jumbo. Very mystical and very ancient, so we've been told. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said, not willing to draw the sergeant into everything going on in the Lyceum. “Just wondering.”

He fixed me with his police sergeant eye and continued chewing thoughtfully. I turned my attention to my own lunch. Then I was struck by a thought.

“Sergeant, if someone was run down by a hansom, much as our Mr. Richland was by that growler, where would the body be taken?” I was thinking of the crossing sweeper that the rag-and-bone man had mentioned.

“Where did this accident take place, Mr. Rivers?”

“Off Blackfriars Road, just south of the bridge.”

“Well, normally the body would go to Lambeth Division—L Division—on Kennington Lane, but we happen to know that they are ‘indisposed,' we think the term is, at the present time. Their drains have all backed up. Nasty mess!”

“So where would the body go?” I persisted.

“On to our own excellent premises at Little Vine Street, sir. Why do you ask?”

I thought of the morgue I had recently visited there, with its two corpses. No sign of any other victims. No sign of a young crossing sweeper. Something was not right. I decided not to immediately pursue it with the sergeant.

We exchanged remarks about the weather, the amount of traffic on Oxford Street, and the unreliability of racehorses before the sergeant, with a belch and a sigh, got to his feet and bade me farewell. I finished my own lunch, drained my beer glass, and thought about where I should next direct my feet.

Before I could leave, a well-dressed figure stopped at the table, pulled out the chair recently vacated by Sergeant Bellamy, and sat down. It was Mr. Ogoon, the West Indian friend of Ralph Bateman.

“Mr. Rivers,” he said. He removed his top hat and laid it on the table. He ran his hand over his smooth scalp and glanced about him. “My sources tell me that this is a worthwhile eatery. Good food and honest ale, I am told.”

I said nothing. What did he want, I wondered?

“One cannot exist for any length of time on nothing but scraps,” he said, his dark eyes suddenly boring into me.

Was he referring to the feeding of zombies, I wondered?

“You are strangely silent,” he said. “Yet but moments ago you were conversing freely with one of the Metropolitan Police's officers. Why now this reticence?”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Who said that I wanted anything, Mr. Rivers? No. As a visitor to your fair city I am but enjoying all that it has to offer. I understand that the entertainment here is exceptional. The theatre district is one of the best in the world, I understand.”

“That it is.”

“Yet theatre-going is not without its risks, I hear?”

What did he mean exactly?

“The Holborn Theatre. The Grecian. Astley's. The Olympic. Covent Garden. The Royal Coburg . . . all destroyed by fire. Your own Lyceum, Mr. Rivers, burned to the ground less than fifty years ago. The Royal Brunswick a few years earlier, with many people killed and injured. The Elephant and Castle just three years ago. Tragic! And how easily these theatre fires start, Mr. Rivers. But you must be well aware of that, are you not?”

“Are you threatening us, Mr. Ogoon?” I asked. I tried to remain calm, but my heart had started to race. Did this man plan on setting fire to the Lyceum? Surely not. Then I had a thought. “Is your magic not powerful enough, then, Mr. Ogoon, that you have to resort to incendiaries?”

He again ran his hand over his head, and he smiled at me. “Magic, Mr. Rivers? Do you believe in magic?”

I didn't know what to say. Suddenly he replaced his hat on his head and stood up.

“I think I was misinformed,” he said, looking about him. “I think that this establishment is not as salubrious as it had been made out to be. I fear I must go in search of other means of satisfaction. Good day to you, Mr. Rivers.”

He strode away and I was left with an empty feeling in my stomach, despite the meal I had just finished.

Chapter Eighteen

I
was greatly disturbed at Ogoon's suggestion that the Lyceum might experience a devastating fire. It was true that a number of English theatres had suffered such a fate. The Lord Chamberlain, the statutory authority over theatres, had never bothered much with such matters as sanitation and fire protection. He was the one who licensed all theatres . . . all except Drury Lane and Covent Garden, which were under royal patents. But just three years ago the new Metropolitan Board of Works had been given authority, by Parliament, over new theatre construction, and they did emphasize fire safety. Gas lighting had been a major factor in several of the fires. Now many theatres, as with the Lyceum, were converting to the new electricity, which was much safer. Indeed, later this year the Savoy Theatre was to open as the first London theatre lit entirely by electricity.

The main objection to this new source of lighting was the noise of the steam engines and dynamos used to create it. Each structure had its own, and these were usually housed outside the theatre rather than inside, though not always. Happily, they were so placed at the Lyceum.

I caught up with Mr. Stoker in the late afternoon, when he returned to his office. I told him of my encounter with Ogoon and my concerns about his implied threat.

“It is indeed a very real threat, Harry,” he said. “As you know, these wooden theatres are highly combustible. It's a constant worry, believe me. We must alert the staff and keep our eyes open. But unfortunately, there's nothing more we can do.”

I was kept busy for the rest of the time till the evening performance, though the worry about fire never left me. I found myself checking every dark corner.

* * *

F
riday morning saw me riding the light green–colored horse drawn omnibus from Ludgate Hill over Blackfriars Bridge to the south side of the Thames. I walked along Southwark to the corner of Gravel Lane Crescent and then stood and looked about me. There was not a lot of traffic, and I couldn't imagine a hansom cab, going fast, swinging around the corner and hitting a crossing sweeper, especially in the early hours of the morning. I had a special fondness for crossing sweepers, if only because I had been one myself when I first came to the City. Many newcomers to London start out that way, especially those who, like myself, have no family and little money. I had been but fourteen years of age. Some are as young as ten.

Crossing sweepers are found at all of the main intersections, ready to run out into the road and sweep it clear of dirt, mud, garbage, and horse droppings so that ladies and gentlemen—the ladies especially, with their full skirts—may cross the street in comparative cleanliness. Major crossings, such as at Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square, have gangs of boys and men who stake their claim to the areas, while every large crossing is fought over. On a good day a sweeper can earn a shilling or more in tips. A new broom, which may be needed once a month, costs threepence.

On hotly contested crossings a sweeper may take a chance and dash out between horses in order to stake a claim to the hoped-for tip from the pedestrian. Some boys and girls have been knocked down in that way. But it is almost unheard of for a cab to deliberately run down a sweeper. I felt there was more to this “accident” than met the eye.

A sad-faced girl of about twelve stood leaning on her broom at the curbside. As I approached her, she prepared to run out into the street.

“No! Wait!” I cried. “I'm not crossing. I just want to ask you something.”

She looked wary. “You a bluebottle?” she demanded, dark eyes looking up at me from under a man's cap pulled down over her auburn hair. She wore fingerless gloves and a too-large boy's jacket buttoned and pinned over a dirty, checkered dress that hung down to her booted feet.

“No,” I said. “I'm just trying to find out about the boy who got run down here the other morning. Do you know anything about him?”

“Billy White. Why ya wanna know for?”

“It's important,” I said. I let her see a sixpence in my hand. “What can you tell me about it?”

Her eyes locked onto the coin. “What ya wanna know?”

“How did he come to be run down?”

She shrugged. “'E didn't get out of the way quick enuff, I'm finkin'.”

“Was he taking chances? Was he running between cabs?”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, her eyes still on the sixpence. “Nar! Bleedin' cabbie was a devil. Din' even slow down. Just 'it poor Billy and took off. Bloody magsman!”

“Was Billy killed?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nar! But 'e ain't goin' nowhere. Busted 'is legs, they says.”

“So the police didn't come and pick up Billy?”

“Nah. Ain't never 'ere if'n you needs 'em, is they?”

“Who said that Billy's legs were broken?” I asked.

“The two old dears wot took 'im in.”

This was indeed news. So the boy had not been killed and had been taken in by two old ladies. If I could speak to him, perhaps I could find out why he had been run down and by whom. There might well be a connection to the headless body left across the road for the rag-and-bone man.

“Where can I find them?” I asked.

The girl looked up and down the road, as if afraid of losing customers. But there was no one looking to cross the street. She stared hard at the sixpence.

“Don't know!”

I gave her the coin, which she snatched and tucked into a coat pocket.

“There's another tanner if you can remember,” I coaxed.

She gave me a quick look. “You sure you ain't no blue?” she asked.

“Certain,” I said, and produced the second sixpence, which I held up in front of her.

She wavered just a moment, her loyalty to her neighbors being weighed against the easy money. “The Cooper sisters,” she said, with another quick glance about her. “Just up the road, corner o' Lavington Street, 'ouse wif a blue front door.” She snatched the coin from me and hared off across the road to take up a post on the far side.

It took me but a minute to find the blue-doored house. The paint was faded and badly flaking but recognizable from its neighbors. I knocked on the door and waited. There was no response and no sound from inside the house. I knocked again with my cane, twice more, but still no response.

“We don' wan' none, whatever it is you're 'awkin',” came a voice from behind me.

I turned to find an old woman approaching, pushing a battered perambulator, its inside stuffed with sticks, pieces of wood, and a variety of odds and ends apparently gathered up from the local gutters and scrap heaps. The woman herself would have been tall if she had stood upright, but she was stooped with age. Her hair was a yellowish gray and escaped her cap, sticking out in all directions. Her face was lined and dirty, her nose large and hooked. One eye favored her left shoulder while the other eye looked to the right. It was difficult to know which one to focus on.

“Are you one of the persons who took in Billy White?” I asked.

“'Oo's Billy White?” she asked.

“I would like to speak with him,” I said.

She mumbled something I didn't catch and busied herself straightening the various items in the pram.

“I don't mean him any harm,” I said. “I just want to speak to him.” I flashed yet another sixpence. This was getting really expensive, I thought.

She froze, the left eye latching onto the coin.

“I have heard of how he was run down. I would like to hear from him exactly what happened. I want to find out all the details. I am not a policeman, nor am I connected with them.” I turned the sixpence in my fingers.

She pressed her mouth into a tight line and twisted her head one way and another before nudging the perambulator closer to me. But however much she wanted the coin, she resisted it. I admired her for that.

“Look, I believe that Billy was run down because of something he saw. Perhaps something to do with a bundle of rags being picked up by a rag-and-bone man. Do you know anything about that?”

Again she mumbled something to herself. Then she pushed the perambulator along to the faded blue door and painfully climbed up onto the doorstep, starting to tug on the pram handle. I moved forward and helped her lift it. She stood with one hand resting against the door for a long moment before starting to tap repeatedly on it with her long, soiled fingernails. I don't know if it was some sort of a signal or just her way of getting the attention of the person in the house, but eventually the blue door was edged open. It revealed another old lady but much shorter and, if possible, skinnier than the first one. Her eyes were firm in her head and immediately locked onto mine. Then she looked back and forth between myself and the taller woman.

The cross-eyed lady pushed the pram to the side and took a loop of string hanging from the handle and dropped it over one of the cast-iron railings, ensuring that the vehicle didn't roll off the step. Then she pushed into the doorway, causing the second woman to withdraw. She disappeared inside, leaving the door open. I took it as a signal and followed her inside.

The hallway was dark and dingy, and I followed her through it and into the front parlor. There, lying on a horsehair-stuffed settee, with tufts of stuffing sticking out, was a white-faced young boy, his legs covered by a filthy, once-colorful tartan blanket. On a small occasional table pulled up beside him sat a cracked bowl of grayish-looking gruel and a spoon. I suspected the liquid was cold.

“Are you Billy White?” I asked.

He looked fearfully at the women, his eyes wide.

“It's all right,” I tried to reassure him. I nodded at the women and gave the sixpence to the taller one. She grasped it, but her eyes—both of them—did not leave my face.

The shorter woman seemed to take her cue from the taller one. No words were spoken, but she cleared bits and pieces off the only chair visible in the room and gestured toward it. I pulled it close to the boy and sat down.

“I need your help, Billy,” I began. “I was wondering about the hansom that ran you down. Was there a reason he did so?”

“I dunno.”

“But it wasn't just an accident, was it? Did he try to kill you, do you think?”

The boy shrugged.

“What happened immediately before it?” I persisted. “Did you see something? What was going on?”

He shrugged again. “Dunno,” he said. “There was these two men what stopped in this 'ansom and pulled out a big bundle of rags.”

“Two men? Can you describe them?”

“One was real tall. 'E seemed to be the boss, I guess.”

“How was he dressed?” I asked.

Another shrug. “A toff. 'Ad the other one do all the work.”

“Then what happened, Billy?”

“They got back in the 'ansom and was about to drive off when the toff saw me lookin' at 'em. Nasty piece of work, I thought. I turned away and started sweepin'.”

“Then what?”

“Next fing I knew the 'ansom comes galloping down on me and sends me flyin'. Then it takes orf. Din' 'alf 'urt, I can tell you. I fink he run over me legs, both of 'em. Wot 'e done that for? Mrs. Cooper says 'as 'ow 'e broke me legs! Wot the bleedin' 'ell was 'e up to?”

The boy tried to sit up straighter but the effort hurt his legs. He cried out and his face creased in pain.

“'Ere! Enough!” cried the tall woman, and she moved forward, grasping my arm.

“No! No, it's all right,” I protested. I turned back to the boy. “My guess is that the man didn't want any witnesses to him dumping that bag of rags.”

“Witnesses?”

“He didn't want anyone able to tell the police what he looked like,” I explained. “One more thing, Billy. Was this tall man black? Was he dark skinned?”

“Nar!” He shook his head. “I told you, 'e was a toff.”

I felt excited. Could Billy have caught sight of the mastermind behind all the plots against the Guv'nor and the Lyceum?