Free Dead for a Spell by Raymond Buckland

Lion one night, and waved ’is fist in my face.”
    â€œThis was before Nell . . . before she was . . .”
    â€œAfore she was done for, Mr. Rivers, sir. Yes.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you let me know this earlier?” I asked.
    â€œNever thought no never mind. Jus’ ’im blowin’ steam, I thought. It was a week or more afore what ’appened. Then I kinda forgot all about ’im what wif Nell gettin’ . . . you know.”
    â€œYes. Of course,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Is he still about? Still in the area?”
    Billy shrugged. “Dunno. Ain’t seen ’im since then. I just suddenly thought of ’im and ’ad to tell you. You know, just in case, like?”
    I knew exactly what he meant. “I’m glad you did, Billy. Let me speak to Mr. Stoker, and then I think it might be a good idea to let the police know.” Billy started to protest, but I stopped him. “No. This is important, Billy. Let’s see what Mr. Stoker has to say. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
    *   *   *
    I nspector Bellamy dropped a brown paper–wrapped package onto Abraham Stoker’s desk. My boss looked at it then up at the policeman.
    â€œAnd this is . . . ?”
    â€œThe two robes, Mr. Stoker. One white; one black. Both heavily bloodstained. You did say that your costume lady might be able to help.”
    â€œMiss Connelly. Yes. Our wardrobe mistress. Harry, would you get these to her right away, please? Meanwhile, I will apprise the inspector of this recent turn of events you learned from Billy Weston.”
    I took the package and went backstage and downstairs. Next to the greenroom, in Wardrobe, I found Miss Connelly in her usual position behind the very latest sewing machine. As always, she was surrounded by yards of fabric, ribbons, lace, reels of thread, balls of wool, and assorted shears, tape measures, chalk, pins, needles, and all the many accoutrements of the theatre costumier.
    â€œWhat have we here, Mr. Rivers?” she asked, peering at me over the rims of her pince-nez spectacles.
    I explained. “Mr. Stoker thought that maybe if you examined these robes—and we do apologize for the condition in which you will find them—you might be able to make a guess as to who it was who made them. Or where they came from. One was worn by Miss Nell Burton. Perhaps you can tell if they both were made by the same person? Or were they made for some production that we might be able to pinpoint?”
    She drew the package to her and began untying the string. “One was worn by our Nell, you say?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSo sad,” she said quietly, and sighed. “Well, if I can help bring her killer to justice, Mr. Rivers, it will be as much as I can hope for.”
    She stood up and cleared a space on the big wooden worktable. Drawing out the two robes, she pushed the bulk of each away temporarily so that she could examine the bottom hems. She pursed her lips and nodded.
    â€œYes. Handmade and no mistake. Nice stitchwork. Flesh basting.”
    â€œWere they both made by the same person?” I asked.
    â€œOh yes. No doubt about that, Mr. Rivers, sir. Now let me think. I know this diagonal stitching.” She squinted up at the gas mantle above her head, her brow wrinkled, slowly shaking her head. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to me, her eyes bright behind the lenses. “Old Penelope Proctor!” she cried. “As I live and breathe, I’d know her stitching anywhere. Lor’ but I thought she was dead and gone these many years.”
    â€œYou know her?” I asked.
    â€œKnew her,” she corrected me. “She was wardrobe mistress at the old Elephant and Castle Theatre a lifetime ago. I worked there with her for a brief period before I went on to the Princess’s and then from there to here at the Lyceum. Last I heard she