Cursed in the Act (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

“I
think enough is enough,” said Stoker. “It's time we went to meet the enemy face-to-face and to have it out with him.”

Edward had been delivered to his mother, to her relief and undying gratitude. The Guv'nor himself had shaken both our hands and expressed his delight. Both Stoker and I had managed a few hours sleep . . . We had not got to bed until a little after daybreak. Now we were once again in the theatre manager's office reviewing events.

“Face-to-face?” I repeated. “You mean, you think we should go to Sadler's Wells and confront them?”

“Most decidedly! It's something I should have done long ago, and it would have saved young Edward and his mother much discomfort.”

I couldn't help smiling. “I don't know, sir. I rather think that Edward considered it a first-class adventure. I understand that he ate an extra-large breakfast this morning and claims he may just forgo being an actor and become an explorer instead.”

“Yes, well, his mother will soon change his mind on that!” Stoker stood up and moved to get his topcoat, recently hung on the stand by the door. “Come, Harry! Let us suit action to words. Get your own overcoat and we will hie us to Sadler's.”

“Yes, sir.” I could tell when his mind was made up.

We took a hansom to Clerkenwell. It was a fine morning, with a weak sun reflecting off the recently fallen snow. The virgin whiteness was rapidly giving way to a dirty gray because of the morning traffic, but the roofs and gardens we passed still glittered and shone.

Alighting at the theatre, we lost no time in entering the stage door. There, George Dale blinked at us as we moved past him in the direction of the front office.

“Mrs. Crowe, George,” I called to him as we passed.

It took him a moment, but he finally understood what was happening.

“Just let me tell 'er . . .” he started, but we were past him and on to the lady's door.

Stoker tapped on it with the head of his cane and then, without waiting for an answer, flung it open.

The lady was in conversation with a man wearing a green eyeshade and with his sleeves held up with black garters. When she saw us, she dismissed him.

“Leave us, Wilson. We'll take this up again later.”

He left the room, eyeing us suspiciously.

“Come in, gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Mrs. Crowe was a small woman with her prematurely graying hair up on top of her head in a bun-chignon. Her face looked pinched, and her mouth was set in a tight line. Her gray eyes matched her hair, and they glinted at us over the top rims of the pince-nez spectacles she had clipped to her nose. She wore a nondescript black dress and no jewelry. When we entered she had been standing, but now she deliberately sat down. She did not invite us to do the same.

Unperturbed, Stoker crossed and sat in one of the two chairs in front of her desk. I joined him in the other.

“Madam. We are here to throw our cards on the table and to bring to an end your juvenile and, in many respects, pusillanimous attempts at destroying the good name of the Lyceum Theatre.”

“What, pray, are you talking about, Mr. Stoker?”

“To take them numerically,” he said, “there is first the attempt to poison Mr. Irving. A diabolical plot that merited police action . . . a course that may yet be followed. Had it been successful the person responsible would have been facing a charge of murder and the English stage would have lost its finest actor.”

Mrs. Crowe sniffed, unimpressed. “Our Mr. Pheebes-Watson might take issue with your last statement, Mr. Stoker, but to your point . . . there has been no attempt on the part of anyone at Sadler's Wells to interfere with your theatre's well-being, least of all to try to poison anyone, whether or not a competent actor.”

“Are you denying that you knew of the poisoning before it was reported in the newspapers?”

“Of course not. You know as well as I do, Mr. Stoker, that there is a network of gossip, and cast and management innuendo, throughout the London theatre scene. I believe everyone knew of the unfortunate incident long before the evening papers.”

“Do you then deny any active participation in this occurrence?”

“I most certainly do.” She turned to a ledger lying on the desk and started turning pages in it, as if to dismiss us. “Now, I have work to do even if you do not, Mr. Stoker.
My
theatre does not run itself!”

“We are not done, madam!” Stoker roared, banging his fist on her desk. “There is much to discuss, not the least of which concerns your brother, Ralph.”

At that she sat up straight again and had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “My brother? What, pray, does my brother have to do with anything?”

“With
everything
, I am believing,” responded Stoker.

I was relieved that he was doing all the talking, for I would have withered under Mrs. Crowe's formidable gaze.

“There are a number of incidents where
someone
has gained unauthorized entrance to the Lyceum in order to do mischief,” he continued.

“Mischief?” she echoed.

“Causing scenery sandbags and lighting units to fall and injure, or nearly injure, persons on the stage below.”

“Oh dear!”

“Oh dear, indeed, madam! And we have good reason to believe that your brother is at the root of this. If it is not he, in person, who is making this mischief, then he is most certainly directing it. Again, madam, actionable if I should call upon the Metropolitan Police Force.”

“The head, sir,” I murmured, wanting to use all of our ammunition.

“Ah yes!” He picked up on that immediately. “And an incident that has already, of necessity, passed from myself to the constabulary . . . the interference with a buried corpse and the transportation of that corpse's head to our theatre.”

“What!” Mrs. Crowe came to her feet, her hand going to cover her heart. “What are you saying? You are accusing my brother of grave robbing?”

“Indeed I am. One of our actors had the misfortune to die in a traffic accident—an occurrence of which I am sure you are aware—and subsequent to his burial his coffin was violated and robbed of its corpse. The head of that corpse then appeared on the Lyceum stage in the midst of a public performance.”

Mrs. Crowe sat down again, seemingly calmer. “And what makes you think that my brother had anything to do with that, might I ask?”

“All indications are that he was the instigator, madam. He and his cronies.”

“Cronies? I must warn you to watch your language, sir, or it is you who will face the members of the police force.”

“You have knowledge of an ‘associate' of your brother's who is from the Caribbean Islands?” Stoker persisted.

“If you refer to Mr. Ogoon, yes. He is our houseguest. When Ralph returned from his visit abroad, Mr. Ogoon came with him. He is an esteemed resident of the Republic of Haiti, to my understanding. They have become good friends. What, Mr. Stoker, are you implying about this gentleman?”

“He and your brother, as recently as yesterday, kidnapped the son of Miss Ellen Terry.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Have you seen your brother this morning, Mrs. Crowe?”

“Just briefly, yes. Though what concern that is of yours I do not know.”

“Was he well?” asked Stoker.

“Well? What mean you, sir?”

“How was his head?”

There was a long pause. Mrs. Crowe pursed her thin lips to the point where they seemed to disappear. She moved uneasily in her chair, less confidant than she had been a moment before.

“His—his head? Why, as it happens he does have some injury, a swelling. He accidentally walked into a wall, he says. What do you know of this, Mr. Stoker?”

“He would have to have been walking backward into a wall to raise a swelling on the back of his head. It
is
on the back of his head, is it not, Mrs. Crowe?”

She said nothing. Stoker continued.

“In rescuing the kidnapped child I had to hit your brother over the head. It was necessary in order to effect the rescue. I am not surprised that he has a swelling this morning, and it does indeed confirm that he was the instigator of the abduction. He was accompanied by your Mr. Ogoon and others.”

There followed a very long silence. I noticed that her head sank down toward her chest. She gave a long sigh before, finally, looking up again at my boss.

“I must face facts, Mr. Stoker. Ralph has always been a difficult boy. Yes, I admit that I have long been aware of his, what I tell myself are ‘misadventures.' He is no longer a child. He must start taking responsibility for his actions. He is very easily led, though I know that is no excuse. Recently, it would seem he has been heavily influenced by someone; someone other than Mr. Ogoon. But kidnapping—if indeed he was responsible, and it would seem from what you say that it is indisputable—is inexcusable. I will admit that he may have been waging some sort of war against your theatre. As you well know, since my mother left the Lyceum and Mr. Irving took over, there has been no love lost between our two venues. Ralph has seen himself as ‘avenging his mother's honor,' or some such; though how he feels about mine, I am uncertain. But professional rivalry is one thing; this is something else and I find it inexcusable.” She got wearily to her feet. “I do not expect you to understand, let alone sympathize with, the feelings of a mother for her son nor an older sister for her younger brother. If you would be kind enough to leave this matter with me, I will attend to it.”

“Regrettably, madam,” said Stoker, “before coming here we were obliged to apprise the police of the kidnapping. This was at Mr. Irving's urging, since it was a most heinous crime.”

She once more was silent for a space, before again sighing and nodding her head.

“I understand, Mr. Stoker. I understand.”

Stoker stood up. “Is your brother available?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He and Mr. Ogoon left home about an hour ago or more, shortly after I first spoke to him this morning and before I came to the theatre.”

“Do you know where they have gone?”

“I believe he mentioned having to go out to Twickenham, though I'm sure I don't know what business he has there.”

“Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Crowe,” said Stoker, coming to his feet. He turned to me. “Come, Harry! We must hurry. There is work to be done at Twickenham!”

* * *

W
e stopped at St. James's Division police station and picked up Sergeant Bellamy. I swiftly found myself squeezed in the middle of the cab, between him and Stoker. A hansom is built for two passengers, though it can take three in a pinch. I gave silent thanks that I am so slight of build, since Stoker is large and Bellamy no rake. A second hansom, containing two obese constables equally squeezed together, fell into line behind ours. As we headed west out of the city, we discussed everything we knew and believed concerning Ralph Bateman, Ogoon, and the past events at the Lyceum. Bellamy listened in silence. I could imagine him having a mental notebook open with its pencil busily scribbling.

“You realize, I hope, sir, that we have no jurisdiction out at Twickenham,” he finally said.

“I surmised as much,” said Stoker. “We did, however, want to bring you up to date, since so much of this has taken place in or around the theatre. What would you advise, Sergeant?”

“Well, sir.” I could sense his satisfaction at having been brought into our confidence and at being asked for his advice. “When we get to Twickenham, we can make contact with the Thames Valley Police and request that they accompany us to wherever it is we are bound, and effect whatever actions are necessary.”

“Excellent,” said Stoker. “Excellent, Sergeant.”

* * *

T
he Twickenham police station was in a tiny building on Church Street, perhaps conveniently situated next door to the Fox and Grapes, which sat on the very bank of the Thames. Indeed we were directed to the tavern to speak with Inspector Maurice Gulley, an old-school policeman who seemed not to feel the pressures of his duties, such was the bucolic setting of his post. He wiped the froth from the white walrus mustache that overhung his full lips and allowed a soft belch to escape his mouth before setting down his tankard and looking us up and down. He addressed himself to Sergeant Bellamy.

“'Tis a grand morning for the time o' year, is it not, Sergeant?” He stretched out his legs under the rustic table at which he sat, on the back lawn of the tavern.

The water of the river gently lapped not far from our feet, and an enthusiastic young student, well wrapped against the still chill weather, glided past in a punt. The sun had deemed to grace us with its presence, though there was little warmth coming from it.

Mr. Stoker tapped his foot impatiently. Bellamy, very conscious of my boss's actions, nodded to the officer.

“A fine morning indeed, Inspector,” he said. “And I am sorry to have to intrude upon it, but there is important, and very immediate, action to be taken.”

“Oh? Explain yourself, Sergeant.” He again raised the tankard to his lips and allowed his mustache to disturb the head of the ale.

“Yes, sir. We have to request your assistance in apprehending a group of miscreants who have driven down here from London.”

“And their alleged crime?”

“Their crime, sir,” snapped Mr. Stoker, whose patience had come to an end, “is that of kidnapping. Kidnapping a small child and, further, of placing said child together with two adults in grave danger. There are possibly further charges that might be brought should we be successful in breaking through this lethargy of the Thames Valley Police and actually apprehending them.”

The inspector carefully and deliberately set down his ale and came to his feet, attempting to fix my boss with a steely gaze. Unfortunately the inspector was a good head shorter than Mr. Stoker and, if I was to make a judgment, a trifle unsteady on his feet.