Dead for a Spell

Book 2: Bram Stoker Mystery

by Raymond Buckland

Genres: Historical Fiction; Mystery

Synopsis

Bram Stoker, business manager for London’s Lyceum Theatre, is never surprised to find the supernatural waiting in the wings—especially when a chilling murder appears to have origins in the occult…

March 1881. The Lyceum is abuzz with the news that American actor Edwin Booth is going to be sharing the stage with their own Shakespearean star, Henry Irving. But stage manager Harry Rivers has other matters preoccupying him. One of the regular actresses has disappeared, and after a disturbing tarot card reading, Harry’s boss, Bram Stoker, is convinced that something wicked is coming their way.

When the poor girl’s body is found, Stoker’s suspicions prove to be founded—the murder scene is riddled with strange clues that Stoker recognizes as the trappings of an occult ritual. Someone is conjuring up a pernicious plot against cast and crew of the Lyceum, and if Harry doesn’t track down the slaying sorcerer quickly, it could spell disaster for those he holds dearest…

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter One

LONDON, MARCH 22, 1881

I got up from where I sat, near the door, and moved around to stand facing the boy. “So what makes you think that she’s missing?” I asked.

“We was to meet for breakfast, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “We always do; every mornin’. At the ’ot chocolate stand on the corner down the road. Just a cuppa and a slice of bread but, well, it was a start to the day, you might say.”

“All right, Billy. Take it slowly and go over it one more time,” said Stoker, studying the young man who sat on the edge of the straight-backed chair in front of his desk.

Abraham “Bram” Stoker was theatre manager of the Lyceum Theatre, and I, Harry Rivers, was stage manager. I was also a personal assistant to Mr. Stoker, running any number of errands for him, Lyceum business and otherwise.

“It’s Nell, sir. Nell Burton.” Billy Weston ran a dirty finger around the frayed neck of his collarless shirt. “She’s done mostly crowd scenes since she’s been ’ere, which ain’t long. She’s one of the Players in Act Two of ’Amlet. But, sir, she’s gone missin’.”

Mr. Stoker gave me a quick glance, one eyebrow raised.

“After last night’s performance she ’urried away; said that she ’ad a most important fing she ’ad to do. She wouldn’t say what it was, but I took the thought that it was somefin’ for the Guv’nor; for Mr. Irving, sir.”

“Of course.” Stoker nodded understandingly. “So Miss Burton did not appear this morning?”

“No, sir. She ain’t never missed before, and she said as ’ow she’d tell me all about last night’s ‘adventure’—that’s what she called it, sir, an adventure—when she saw me this mornin’.”

“She was most likely delayed in some way, Billy,” I said. “I think it may be a little soon to start worrying.”

“No, sir! . . . Beggin’ your pardon, sir. When she didn’t come to meet me I went ’round to ’er lodgings. Old Mrs. Briggs on West Street. She said as ’ow Nell ’adn’t come ’ome last night. She ’adn’t seen ’ide nor ’air of ’er.”

Stoker glanced at me again then back to the young stagehand. “Is there anyone she might have gone to? Any close friend, or a relative, perhaps?”

Billy Weston shook his head. “She ain’t got no relatives, sir. She’s an orphan, or so she says. And I’m ’er closest friend, so she would o’ come to me, wouldn’t she?”

I could see that Stoker was concerned, but he tried to ease the boy’s mind. “I think you can leave this with us for now, Billy. Mr. Rivers, here, will look into it more thoroughly. I’m sure there’s just some misunderstanding. You let Mr. Rivers know if you hear of anything else, and he, in turn, will get back to you.”

“All right, Billy.” I opened the door and held it as a signal that the boy should now leave. With a last pleading look at both of us, he went out, and I closed the door behind him.

“What do you think, sir?” I asked, taking Billy’s place on the seat in front of Stoker’s desk. “Not very encouraging, is it?”

Stoker shook his great head, the sunlight streaming in through the small window catching the red, along with the silver, in his auburn hair. He sat back and steepled his fingers, his elbows on the arms of his chair.

“There are gangs about the London streets that will abduct a young woman and sell her to traffickers in the white slave trade, Harry. I’m sure you know that. I wouldn’t want to think that a young woman of our Lyceum family had been so interfered with. What do you know of this Nell Burton?”

“Not much, sir,” I said. “She joined us a month or so back, when one of the female extras had to leave because of family problems. Miss Burton had come to London from up north . . .”

“Like so many,” sighed Stoker.

“. . . seeking fame and fortune,” I continued. “She had little experience but seemed to take to the boards very quickly. She’d done a few walk-ons at the Theatre Royal, Nottingham. I think she actually came from Derby; close by there. John Saxon noticed her and drew my attention to her. I was watching Miss Burton with a view to possibly bringing her to your attention at the end of the Hamlet run.”

“Our Mr. Saxon always notices the young ladies.” Stoker pursed his lips and sat in silent thought for a moment. “We cannot afford to lose good young material, Harry.”

“What would you like me to do, sir?”

“You might take a walk around to this Mrs. Briggs and question her, Harry. Young Mr. Weston was obviously too upset to get all available information. See if there is any clue as to where this mysterious assignation was to take place yesterday evening.”

“I know of Mrs. Briggs,” I said. “She runs a respectable boardinghouse used by girls from both here and other theatres in the central London area.”

“You might, then, see if any other of our extras board there. I find it difficult to believe that this Miss Burton knows no one—other than our young stagehand, of course.”

I nodded and then hurried off. At twenty-two, I, Harry Rivers, had been delighted to obtain employment at London’s famous Lyceum Theatre, home of England’s prominent Shakespearean actor Henry Irving. I had dabbled in stagecraft during my education at the Hounslow Masonic Institution for Boys, which I attended courtesy of the Honorable Gregory Moffatt. I should explain that I am not of that class, by any means, but my father, a blacksmith, had done a great deal of work for the Hon. Mr. Moffatt (third son of Baron Runnymede), and that gentleman had looked kindly upon me.

My mother died trying to bring my brother into the world, and my father passed soon after that, so, at the age of fourteen, I was forced to come to London to seek my fortune. After a few rough years as crossing sweeper, errand boy, newspaper seller, and cab driver, I met the owner of the small Novelty Theatre on Great Queen Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields (he was one of my cab fares), and I obtained the job of theatre doorman—so much preferable to sitting up at the back of a cab in all sorts of weather. When I later heard that Mr. Irving was to take over the running of the Lyceum—a much more prestigious theatre—I applied for a position there. Apparently Mr. Irving had brought over from Ireland a Mr. Abraham Stoker, a theatre critic who had written very favorably of Mr. Irving’s performances in that country. Mr. Stoker became the Lyceum’s business manager, and I became stage manager . . . a job with which I fell in love.

I worked closely with Mr. Stoker and also became a personal assistant to him. I came to admire him a great deal, although even after three years I could still be caught off guard by some of his idiosyncrasies. He was not afraid to display his emotions and, despite a fine business sense backed by years at the best Irish university, was easily swept up by tales of ancient Irish lore and legend. He openly believed in ghosts, sixth sense, and even “the little people,” and spent what spare time he had writing his own stories. I must admit, however, that I would not change my employment for any other.

It didn’t take long to find out that several of the Lyceum’s young ladies boarded with Mrs. Briggs. In fact, Miss Tilly Fairbanks was Nell’s roommate. I found Tilly sitting in the greenroom by herself, studying the Hamlet script. She was young—about five years younger than myself—and not unattractive. Her dark brunette hair reminded me of my inamorata, Jenny Cartwright, though Tilly’s hair was shorter and, at this moment, in some disarray. She sat with the fingers of one hand tugging on a ringlet. For whatever reason I was suddenly conscious of my own carrot red hair.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Rivers,” she said, glancing up. “Just looking over my lines. Sarah Jenkins is off with a sore throat, so I’m doing the Player Queen for a bit.”

“I’m sure you’ll do the part proud, Tilly. I just wanted a quick word with you.”

“Nothing wrong, is there, Mr. Rivers?” She looked worried.

I shook my head. “I hope not. I understand you room with Nell Burton?”

She nodded. “Why d’you ask, Mr. Rivers?”

“Haven’t you heard?” I said. “Nell seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” she echoed.

“Did she return to your room last night?” I asked. “I understand she went out somewhere in the late evening. What time did she get back?”

Tilly turned very red. She brought her script up to cover the bottom of her face, as though she wished she could hide behind it. There was a long silence before she replied.

“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Rivers. I . . . I mean . . . You see . . .” Then, in a rush, “I didn’t sleep at home last night, Mr. Rivers! I don’t make a habit of it. I’m not a bad girl. It’s just that . . . well, last night me and my young man—Sammy Cooper. You know him. He works the curtains. Well me and him has been stepping out together for some time and . . .”

I held up my hand. “You don’t have to tell me, Tilly. You know as well as I do that you’re on very dangerous ground there. But I’m going to ignore it for now because there are more important things to look at. You are saying, then, that you don’t know when or even if Nell Burton slept in your room?”

She nodded mutely, still clutching the script in front of her.

“It seems unlikely that she was up to the same shenanigans that you were, since it was her young man who reported her missing.” I had a sudden thought and looked hard at Tilly. “By any chance does Nell have more than one young man? Would she be likely to . . .” I didn’t get a chance to finish.

“No!” Tilly sounded shocked and almost dropped her script. “No, Mr. Rivers. Nell is very serious with Billy. She wouldn’t be untrue to him. Her and Billy and me and my Sammy, why, we often go out together. None of us would ever deceive the other.”

“Thank you, Tilly,” I said. “You don’t know, then, where Nell might be?”

She shook her head. I turned to leave.

“Just behave yourself,” I said over my shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Rivers.”

By rights I should have reported her impropriety to Mr. Stoker, but I decided to overlook it. There were times when I had extremely strong feelings toward my Jenny, but, thankfully, I had so far kept them in check. I could, however, acknowledge and understand such feelings in others. I headed for West Street.

*   *   *

Jenny Cartwright was a housemaid in the home of the Guv’nor, Mr. Henry Irving. I had met her quite by chance when I had been sent to the residence to collect a book belonging to Mr. Irving. Somehow Jenny and I had taken a shine to each other, and I had, on more than one occasion, met with her on her afternoon off and we had spent a few precious hours together.

As a youngster at school the other boys had teased me about my red hair, calling me “Ginger.” Also, my ears were a little prominent, and I had to endure endless jokes about being cautious in a high wind in case I was lifted off the ground. My freckles did not go unnoticed, either. But I had survived the ragging of my fellow students and found that such idiosyncrasies were not dwelt upon in the adult world. Jenny seemed not to notice them at all, or if she did she was too kind to comment.

I thought her extremely beautiful and had not been slow to tell her so. She had blushed with pleasure and denied the charge, though she was obviously secretly pleased. I looked forward to the coming weekend when we had planned to take Jenny’s aunt Alice to Kew Gardens, now that the weather was a little less cold. Miss Alice Forsyth had raised Jenny when her parents died, and Jenny was very fond of her. Aunt Alice had been instrumental in getting Jenny placed in the Irving household. I had not yet met the lady and looked forward to it. But Sunday was still several days away, and I had work to do.

I focused my attention on the immediate problem, the disappearance of Nell Burton. I approached the front door of Mrs. Briggs’s establishment on West Street. It was a plain-looking house typical of the area. A black-painted wrought-iron fence stood around the basement; the front doorsteps had been scrubbed clean and whitewashed—a good sign of pride of ownership on Mrs. Briggs’s part—and the brass door knocker gleamed in the sunshine that fought its way through the ever-present traces of fog coming off the river. I walked up the steps and knocked.

A tiny, frail-looking lady with wispy gray hair escaping her cap opened the door and appraised me. She wore a high-neck black dress that, although somewhat worn and faded, was obviously clean and smartly pressed. A cameo brooch sat in the center of the neckline; her only adornment. She looked up at me. I am but five feet and six inches of height, so this attested to her slight frame. She squinted slightly as her eyes studied my face. I wondered if she needed spectacles.

“Good morning,” I said, smiling and raising my hat. She did not return the smile. “Mrs. Briggs?” I asked.

“What do you require, young man? I will have no callers for my young ladies at this hour of the day.”

“Oh no! No, Mrs. Briggs, I am not here to call on any of your tenants. At least, not directly.”

“What are you blathering about? Oh, come in! Come in. We can’t have you standing on the doorstep inviting talk from the neighbors. Come on inside and explain yourself.”

She turned and led the way into the house. I followed, looking around in the dark hallway. The walls were vaguely discernible in the dim light, covered with ancient flock wallpaper. There were a number of small colored prints of country scenes in gaudy gilt frames, together with matching framed silhouettes of a man and a woman, and an overlarge etching of a stag at bay. A massive walnut Renaissance Revival hallstand projected from the wall into the hallway and had to be carefully negotiated. It was festooned with ladies’ coats, and its outer arms held an assortment of umbrellas on cast-iron drip pans. Mrs. Briggs hurried on, opening a door and ushering me into the parlor.

The parlor furniture was dark—mahogany and darkened oak; I got the sense that the whole house was dark if not dingy—and overfilled with chairs, tables, and potted plants. I ducked around an aspidistra and found myself facing Mrs. Briggs as she stood in front of the imposing marble fireplace. There was no fire burning in the hearth, but the heavy curtains pulled only slightly apart at the windows seemed to keep out much of the cold. A single gas lamp burned low over the mantel shelf. My eyes were drawn to an ornate clock with two overly pink cherubs supporting it, one on either side, the small hands permanently pointing to two of the clock. The timepiece itself rested between two large glass globes covering dusty and mangy-looking stuffed birds, once colorful.

“Now, young man. Your name and business.”

“Of course.” I fumbled for a calling card but couldn’t find one. “I, er, I am Mr. Harold Rivers, stage manager and assistant to the Lyceum Theatre manager, Mr. Abraham Stoker.”

“I know the gentleman.” She nodded her head. “I have a number of Mr. Stoker’s young ladies who reside here. Have been suffering them for many years now.”

“You have one named Miss Nell Burton,” I said.

“A model young lady . . . or was until today. I do not stand for my young lady tenants who play it fast and loose. She did not return to her room last evening, as was the case with her roommate Miss Fairbanks. I shudder to think where they might have been. This will be their first warning—each young lady receives only three warnings before she finds herself out on the street.”

Mrs. Briggs’s lips were pressed together in a tight, thin line. She may have been small, but she obviously ruled her house with a will of iron.

“Miss Burton apparently is missing,” I informed her. The tight lips remained. “We—Mr. Stoker and myself—have some concern regarding her safety.” The lips relaxed a trifle. “I would be greatly obliged if you would allow me to see her room, in case there be any clue there as to her present whereabouts.”

“Miss Fairbanks . . .” she started to say.

“Her roommate has agreed to it,” I said. “She is as concerned for Miss Burton as are we all.”

It was with grim determination and obvious disapproval that Mrs. Briggs preceded me up the staircase to the second floor, where she selected a key from the large key ring at her waist and unlocked one of the doors on the left.

“I should stay and watch you, Mr. Rivers, but I have work to do. I hold you and Mr. Stoker responsible should anything later be found amiss in this room.”

She looked at me sternly, her eyes still squinting slightly, her head tipped back that she might look me full in the face.

“I thank you, Mrs. Briggs, and I assure you I shall merely look and take note. I will not be removing anything, however slight its value, from the room.”

“Hrrmph!” She snorted and then turned and retraced her steps down to the lower level.

I looked about me. The room was small, with two iron-framed beds side by side filling most of the space. Both beds were neatly made up. A worn wooden chest of drawers stood against the wall at the foot of the beds, and a washstand bearing washbowl and jug was on the adjacent wall, next to the door through which I had entered. Two small, framed watercolor pictures of birds and flowers were hung, one over each bedhead. A tiny window looked out over neighboring narrow backyards, and even with the window closed as it now was, I could detect the faint smell of the privies lining the ends of those yards.

I hesitated a moment, feeling uncomfortable examining the bedroom of two young ladies. But Mr. Stoker had sent me to do a job, and I would not fail him.

I saw that one of the young women had apparently taken off her clothing—in a hurry, I would guess—and simply dropped the garments on the floor. Her underthings were there also, and I was aware of myself blushing as I glimpsed them, although I was alone in the room.

I turned to the chest of drawers and gently opened and closed each drawer, trying not to disturb the intimate apparel within. In one drawer, lying atop the obviously well-worn blouse bodices, was a bundle of letters tied up with a red ribbon. They were addressed to Miss Tilly Fairbanks. There was no sign of any other correspondence; nothing addressed to Miss Nell Burton.

I returned down the stairs and found Mrs. Briggs in her kitchen, stirring the contents of a large cast-iron pot with a wooden spoon. The smell issuing from the pot made my mouth water.

“I like to have a good offering of soup for my girls when they come home,” she said. “Poor twists! A pair of them are only at gaffs, so you know they don’t have much money for eating.”

I began to see a softer side to Mrs. Briggs’s stern exterior.

“What can you tell me about Miss Burton’s coming back from the theatre last night?” I asked.

She stopped her stirring for a moment and screwed up her face in thought. Then she started stirring again. “I remember now. There was a dress—a white dress—that was dropped off here for her yesterday. In the late afternoon. I guessed as how it was for some play your theatre must be doing?”

I shook my head. “Nothing that I am aware of. Who delivered this dress?”

It was her turn to shake her head. “Just some street boy who’d been given a ha’penny to bring it. He didn’t know anything—I asked him.”

Mrs. Briggs was nobody’s fool.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. She stopped stirring again and looked at me intensely. “Miss Burton must have changed into the dress right away, when she came back from the theatre, for she came running down the stairs in it and out the door. I had to shout after her to shut the door behind her, but she didn’t hear me. I went to close it and would you believe, there she was getting into a hansom. It must have been waiting for her.”

“Getting into a hansom cab?”

“As I live and breathe.”

Chapter Two

“Mr. Rivers!”

I had returned to the Lyceum and reported my findings to Mr. Stoker. I was then approaching my office when I was accosted. It was Edwina Abbott, one of the extras. Miss Abbott was a reliable young actress. She would never rise above bit parts and crowd scenes, and I think she knew it, but she seemed content just to be a part of the theatre and especially one of the greater Lyceum “family,” as both Mr. Stoker and the Guv’nor termed it.

My so-called office had walls on only three sides, the fourth being open to any and all who passed by. In truth, it was no more than a large closet with no door and no privacy. Mr. Stoker was always talking of finding me better quarters, but there was not a great deal of available space in the theatre, especially close to the stage, as I needed to be. I had contemplated taking possession of the properties room and swapping contents, but I realized that the properties needed to be somewhere that could be locked securely. With a sigh—which I invariably gave when considering my office space—I beckoned Miss Abbott to follow me in and find a seat as close to my desk as the piles of assorted props, scripts, set layouts, and books would allow. I turned up the single gas jet that protruded from the back wall, the electrification of the theatre not yet having reached my humble quarters.

“Now, Miss Abbott?” I said, sliding a pile of papers off my chair and sitting. I glanced down at the desktop in front of me to see the cold remains of fish and chips that had been resting there since the previous night. I vaguely remembered abandoning them when some small crisis occurred toward the end of last evening’s performance. I swept the newspaper-wrapped bundle into the rubbish bin.

“Tilly Fairbanks suggested I come to see you, Mr. Rivers.” She spoke hesitantly, obviously unsure as to whether or not she was doing the right thing.

I nodded and tried to look welcoming, even though I was aware of a hundred and one things that cried out for my attention. “My door is always open, Miss Abbott,” I said, and then smiled at the literal meaning of my words.

“It’s the cards, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The cards.” She dug into her reticule and pulled out an ancient deck of playing cards, which she set down on the edge of my desk. “They was given to me by my aunt Jessica, God rest her soul. She had ’em from a French sailor, begging your pardon.”

“Cards? French sailor?” I felt as though I had landed in the middle of a pantomime scene at the Princess’s Theatre.

“They’re tarot cards, Mr. Rivers. Not found a lot on this side of the Channel, as I understand it. My aunt used to say that the Froggies was into them a lot. O’ course, she weren’t really my aunt, you understand. Just took me and my kid sister in when things was rough.”

I held up my hand to signal silence and reached out to take the cards and examine them. They were well-worn, obviously having been used a great deal. One or two were missing corners, and a few were torn, but I recognized them. Tarot cards were used for telling fortunes and—so it was claimed—for seeing into the future. I recalled Mr. Stoker describing them once to Miss Ellen Terry, when she was reading a play by Molière. I didn’t remember much about them except that there were far more of them in a deck than would be found in regular playing cards.

I fanned them and saw mysterious scenes, along with symbols of swords and cups, coins and cudgels. I stopped at one of the more colorful cards depicting a skeleton wielding a scythe and slicing heads that protruded from the ground like so many cabbages. It was titled La Mort. I glanced up at my visitor, but her face was serious, her eyes locked on the pasteboards I handled.

A large moon with a grotesque face looked down on two foxes standing one on either side of a river. An ancient tower rose behind each of the canines, and a crustacean of some sort menaced them from the waters. I studied a harlequin juggling two large coinlike balls embossed with multipointed stars. On one card a hand floated in midair wielding a sword; on another an ancient crone staggered out of a forest weighed down with fagots. A windmill struck by lightning spewed forth the figures of the miller and his wife, and various knights on horseback wielded swords, cudgels, large coins, and goblets.

“What do you want me to do with them?” I asked.

“Nothing. No, Mr. Rivers. I just sometimes read ’em for the girls backstage, when things is quiet. Just funnin’, you know?” She looked anxious.

I nodded for her to continue.

“Well, Tilly said as how Nell has gone missing, and Janet Broad said why didn’t I ask the cards where she might be.”

“You thought they could tell you?” I tried not to sound as incredulous as I felt.

She nodded. “I done a quick reading . . . I’m not good at this. My mum was, God rest her soul. So was my auntie Jessica. You should have seen her. Anyway, I done a five-card spread and the two ending cards was these.” She reached out and took up the deck. Quickly she shuffled through them . . . I could tell she was more familiar with handling them than she was willing to admit. She stopped and put one of the cards down on the desk in front of me, followed by a second. I stared at them.

The first depicted a young woman standing bound and blindfolded in the midst of a large number of swords stuck into the ground. The other card showed a large red heart with three swords sticking through it. Blood dripped from the heart to the ground beneath. Neither of the cards could be viewed as propitious, in my humble opinion, though I knew nothing of tarot card interpretation. I decided to play dumb.

“So what do you see these cards as meaning, Miss Abbott? And how do you attribute whatever it is to our missing Miss Burton?”

Her mouth gaped. “Ain’t it obvious?” she cried, and then cupped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Rivers. It’s just that . . . well, to someone as reads these cards on a regular basis—well, occasional, p’raps I should say—it’s as though these pasteboards are screaming out to me. That’s why Tilly says I should come and see you.” She was silent a moment, and then, with her face growing red, she reached forward and started gathering up the cards. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Rivers, sir. I shouldn’t have come and wasted your time. I can see . . .”

“No!” I held up my hand to stop her. “It is I who am sorry, Miss Abbott. Edwina, isn’t it?”

She looked at me from beneath lowered brows and nodded.

“Edwina. You are obviously something of an expert with these cards, compared to myself. I can see that what you have recognized as being represented here is important to you.”

“Nell was our friend, Mr. Rivers.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure.” I got to my feet. “Come with me, Edwina. I’d like you to repeat what you have said, and shown, to Mr. Stoker. He is far more attuned to such arcane lore than am I. I think he would find this well worth his attention.”

I took her to Mr. Stoker’s office and tapped on the door.

“Come!”

I eased open the door and peered inside. I was relieved to see that he was alone. I advanced inside,