“I earned it, din’t I?”
“Aye, just about you did.”
The tapster’s disbelief was patent. One or two pairs of eyes turned their way and Perkin began to wriggle. His instinct was to run, but that would give him away. He countered with a hope of deflecting the fellow.
“Where’s Missus Tetsy?”
“Who wants ter know?”
The boy lifted his chin. “Perkin. Missus Tetsy knows me, she does.”
The tapster’s lip curled. “Does she now?”
“She does too. You call her and you’ll see.”
Doubt partially obscured the tapster’s sceptical look. Perkin held his ground, staring the man out despite the attention he’d attracted from nearby drinkers.
“Be here in a minute, she will. Then we’ll see.” The tapster closed his fist about the coins and moved off to serve someone else.
Breathing more easily, Perkin buried his nose in his jug of ale and took a deep draught. By the time he emerged, those who had been watching had turned their attention elsewhere. The boy’s unease grew. He’d made a mistake, showing too much silver. Missus Tetsy might prove as suspicious as the tapster. He was more than half inclined to finish his drink and leave. Find another tavern, where he weren’t known. He hadn’t the knack of doing it right, that was the trouble. He’d scratched a living all his life. Until the night he still could not recall without a shudder.
He swallowed half the contents of his jug and set it down. Best leave now while he still could.
“Gracious goodness, it is you!”
Missus Tetsy! He glanced wildly round and found that stout dame had planted herself, arms akimbo, before the counter.
“What’s all this then, young Perkin? John here tells me you’re waving silver about. And how did you come by those clothes, I should like to know?”
Perkin swallowed, the rhythm of his pulse in disarray. “I had a bit o’ luck, missus.”
“Looks like a pailful of luck to me, my lad. What have you been about?”
Aware his voice was shifting up in register from nerves, the boy embarked upon his well-rehearsed explanation. “I done a job fer a gennelman, missus.”
“Some job it must’ve been to get you enough to fig yourself out like a beau and have money over.”
“Well, it were that, missus. I toiled fer days.”
“Doing what, may I ask?”
The sceptical note was not lost on Perkin. He could not sufficiently regret having taken this route, but it was too late now. He had either to convince the woman or make good his escape. The patrons closest had fallen silent, watching the byplay with interest. To the boy’s chagrin, old Moses took a hand.
“You ain’t got no silver off of me, that’s sure, my lad. He done a job or two fer me, Tetsy, but nothing like.” He nodded towards Perkin, indicating the clothes. “Never seen you in other than rags, boy. Where’d you get them togs?”
“Off of Mr Throcking, sir. They ain’t nowise nowt but old ’uns.”
The landlady seized Perkin’s shoulder, looking him up and down. “Are you telling me you got money enough to pay for them from a job for a gentleman?”
“I did, missus, I promise.”
“And what gentleman would employ a scrawny rat like you, I’d like to know, for you looked no better nor a beggar when last I saw you, young Perkin.” She shook a finger in his face. “Tell the truth now. You taken to thieving?”
Perkin shrank away, heart thumping and feet itching to run. “I ain’t never, missus, honest. The gennelman give me a guinea or two is all.”
A huge guffaw emanated from old Moses. “A guinea or two? Why, yer ain’t worth a groat, yer young varmint. Lying ’e is, Tetsy, that’s sure.”
“I ain’t, I ain’t, I swear it!”
By this time, the surrounding clientele were dividing into two camps, one seemingly as amused as old Moses, the other siding with Missus Tetsy in scandalised disbelief.
“Turn ’im upside down and shake ’im,” suggested one of the chairmen, his broken teeth showing in a grin. “Soon find out ’ow rich ’e really is.”
Perkin made a spirited bid for freedom, but Missus Tetsy had him fast. “No, you don’t. You ain’t going nowhere until we get to the bottom of this. Come on, lad, where’d you get the money?”
Desperate, Perkin improvised. “The gennelman had me dig an ’ole, that’s what.”
“Dig a hole? And he paid you two guineas for it?”
“That’s a loud one, if ever I heard one,” said old Moses, chuckling. “Two guineas to dig an ’ole! Yer’d best come up with summat better nor that, lad.”
“It’s true,” Perkin’s voice was a squeak as the submerged memories began to surface, the image of the dark hole he’d watched opening up looming in his head. “I dug and dug fer days, I did.”
Amid the laughter and raucous comments, a deep and cultured voice penetrated.
“Excuse me, sir. May I come there, if you please?”
Missus Tetsy’s stern tones distracted the boy. “Now, you listen to me, young Perkin. I’ve had about enough of your lies as I’m prepared to listen to. Tell me the truth, or so help me I’ll hale you off before that colonel of militia.”
Perkin blenched. As if he hadn’t seen enough of the militia to last him for years, stamping about the town like they had been. And out at the fatal cemetery too. The images were roiling in his head as he glanced about, looking for a way of escape. There were too many between him and the door, and most far too attentive to his altercation with Missus Tetsy.
“You, boy!”
It was the deep voice again. Perkin looked up. A huge man had pushed his way in. Tall, broad in the shoulder and his face blacked out.
Remembrance swept into Perkin’s mind. It was him. The man in the mask. Stark terror gripped him and he lost all power to think.
The man’s hand reached out towards him, black like his face. Spots danced in the boy’s vision and his ears buzzed. The world went blank.
The Reverend Duddenhoe was coming to the end of his eulogies over the coffin. Throughout the service, George, standing at a little distance so as not to intrude in his military capacity, found his gaze straying to Cecile, alone among the mourners dry-eyed and stoic. She did not look much at the lead-lined elm box that contained the sad remains of her friend, but rather kept her gaze upon the skies as if she sought the spirit of Dulcie in the heavens. A fanciful notion struck George that perhaps his Cecile looked also for the decimated souls of her family, ranged in support alongside the murdered girl.
His mind shifted, catching on a detail. When had he begun thinking of her as his Cecile? She had given him no encouragement to suppose she returned his regard. Or had she? One or two instances he cherished when he thought she looked or sounded tender, but he wavered between certainty and doubt.
As if she felt his preoccupation, Cecile abruptly turned her head, briefly caught his eye and as swiftly dropped her gaze to the coffin. The fillip of response in George’s breast sank along with his spirits. Someone twitched his sleeve and he was almost relieved to find Sullivan at his elbow. A low murmur reached him.
“Had a little set-to with the coachmen, sir, but I silenced them by all but accusing them of the murder.”
George snapped back to duty. “Unless one of them drove the murderer here, I doubt they’ll be of use to us.”
“No use at all, sir. Nothing found in the carriages, Puckeridge says.”
“No drop of blood?”
“A few old stains, but Puckeridge tasted ’em and swears they are nothing like. They smell mouldy, he says. I don’t doubt him. Musty old chariots they are, sir.”
The players had arrived in two ancient lumbering coaches. Along with a wagon, so The Grand Ferdinando had told him, these constituted the company’s transport in their journeys from town to town. Ferdinand had instructed the livery stables to fig them out for the occasion and taken opportunity to harangue George.
“We ought by this to be preparing fo
r our departure to Poole, my dear Colonel, for our engagement in Bournemouth. We cannot be delayed in this. I must insist you let us go, sir, I must indeed.”
George was in no mind to permit the players out of his jurisdiction until this wretched murder was solved and he said so. The impresario was more than chagrined.
“This cannot be, Colonel, indeed it cannot. We are promised, sir, promised. The company of The Grand Ferdinando always, always keeps faith. It is an unwritten law of the theatre, Colonel. Would you have me break it for this?”
“This, Mr Ferdinand, is the murder of your actress, who, I may remind you, is about to be buried here.”
The brutal truth had its effect. Ferdinand blenched and threw his hand to his head. “You are right to censure me. If my brain was not so full, if my heart less so, I might realise the unintended callousness of my preoccupation. My dear Colonel, I must beg your indulgence.” Nevertheless, he leaned in close, lowering his voice. “But think of it, I pray you. We must be gone early next week or we will renege on our contract at Bournemouth which, as I am sure you must appreciate, Colonel, is bad for business. Very bad indeed. Think on it, I implore you.”
He had then reassumed his woeful mien and moved away to his wife’s side, re-joining the cavalcade moving slowly towards the designated graveside. George had immediately detailed his second-in-command to have Puckeridge and his men take opportunity while the service was in progress to make a surreptitious search in the coaches for anything that might indicate one had been used for the purpose of bringing Dulcie to this place on the fatal night.
“Afforded a rare treat for the curious, sir,” observed Sullivan. “At least it gave them something to do besides sticking their stupid heads through the railings. It’s a good thing you thought of detailing the men to keep them out.”
“Inevitable the villagers would come crowding the place.”
Mrs Ferdinand, when informed the Coroner had released the body for burial, had requested his aid to ensure the funeral was private. George had done more, offering to make the arrangements on her behalf.
“Will you? Can you? I confess it is a task that fills me with dread.”
“Leave all to me, ma’am.”
She had been a trifle shocked when he told her the burial would take place in the very cemetery where the murder had been committed. However, as George pointed out, there was no other convenient burial ground within the parish where a non-resident might be laid to rest. The grave chosen was at a far end, well away from the fatal spot, and within a pretty tree-lined grove with a number of flowering shrubs along its edge.
George was glad of the opportunity to observe how the male players reacted as they entered through the gates. He was looking out for one who might be tempted to cast his eyes to the place where Dulcie had lain, for the murderer would know just where it was, despite all having been made good in the violated grave.
Yet though each glanced around in a manner that suggested they all knew this was the fateful cemetery, none displayed the furtive hunt for which George was alert. Fitzgerald was the only outsider present, aside from the militiamen and ghoulish onlookers beyond the railings, and he merely nodded in recognition of George and passed on, walking with the Ferdinands. But the impresario had detached himself and come across, distracting George’s attention. He hoped he had not missed any little giveaway in the rest.
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes…”
The weeping rose in volume as Dulcie was delivered to the earth and George instinctively looked to Cecile. She was not sobbing like the other women, but the sun picked out a glistening upon her cheek. George yearned for the right to give comfort.
Within minutes the ceremonial side of the business was over and the tableau began to break up as Jane Ferdinand moved to talk to the officiating cleric. Lewis Payne had an arm about Hildegard Larkin, who was applying a pocket handkerchief to her eyes. The girl Kate, still weeping, leaned heavily on the arm of Robert Collins, of all people, who was red-eyed and woeful in the extreme. Genuine grief? It certainly looked like it.
George’s gaze shifted to Fitzgerald, conversing a little apart and in low tones with the impresario. Nothing to be learned there. The giant Aisling, together with Wat and young Jasper Jefferies were already moving swiftly in the direction of the gates, talking in a manner that looked to be already shifting away from the solemnity of the occasion.
“Monsieur le colonel?”
A jerk in his pulse threw George into disarray for an instant. He turned fast.
“Cecile!”
A tremulous smile trembled on her lips and he flooded with warmth.
“I have startled you, I think. Forgive, I beg.”
George struggled for composure. “Not at all. I’m sorry. I was distracted.” More so at sight of her continuing distress evident in the speaking eyes that had first struck him. “This was hard for you, I fear.”
“It is so.” She looked away and back. “But better I have this chance to say farewell. This was not granted me with — with ma famille. Even my mother when she left me, all was confusion in my mind and I did not say it.”
Scarcely surprising, and the trace of regret affected him not a little. Yet he forbore to speak of it, tactfully keeping to the present event.
“I am glad if it has helped you.”
Her gaze remained upon his face, a questioning look appearing. “It would help more, Georges, if you can lay to rest the pain of suspicion.”
“I cannot, Cecile. Not yet. I wish I could, for your — for all your sakes,” he corrected himself.
“This Madame Fan she has not found the truth?”
George wished it was within his power to allay her fears and remove the tiny lines of discontent from between her brows. But one thing he could say with confidence.
“She will. She has not failed yet.”
The frown persisted and puzzle came into her eyes. “It is strange that a woman can do this thing. How is it she may find who killed Dulcie but you cannot?”
A rueful laugh escaped him. “I wish I had her insight. I don’t know how it is but Ottilia has a knack. She sees things that escape a mere man.”
“Even this her husband?”
“Ah, Fan — or Francis rather — is her champion. He shields her and comforts her and does his part as she requests.” He could not resist a speaking look. “I would I had a like pleasurable duty for a deserving woman.”
To his intense delight, a trifle of colour crept into Cecile’s pallid cheeks and her glance flicked away as the tip of a pink tongue came out to wet her lips. George was obliged to tamp down a demon of longing. To relieve her embarrassment, he changed the subject.
“I understand the company is supposed to leave for Poole and Bournemouth. Ferdinand is anxious for my permission to depart Weymouth.”
Cecile’s colour faded as her gaze came back to him. “And you will give it?”
“I suppose I must in the end.” An idea occurred and he glanced across to where the impresario and Fitzgerald had begun to follow Hilde and Lewis who were walking towards the coaches. Mrs Ferdinand had fallen in behind, still deep in conversation with the vicar.
“May I escort you, Cecile? I must speak with Ferdinand.”
She set her fingers in the proffered crook of his elbow. “You will tell him we may go?”
“Upon conditions.” He looked down at her. “How long will you be away?”
Cecile swept him a speculative look. “Better you ask when we may return, mon colonel.”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Ah, no.” A secretive little smile curved her mouth. “Not in the mind of a woman, tu sais?”
The intimate version of the French “you” gave him a leaping hope. He lowered his voice to a murmur. “As a mere man, I can hardly be expected to interpret such finer shades of meaning. Enlighten me, I beg.”
A tiny laugh escaped her. “I do not think I will do so.” An unprecedented look of mischief was thrown at him. “You may ask o
f your Lady Fan what it means, Georges, mon pauvre homme.”
Greatly intrigued, his ambitions buoyed, George determined to get her alone before the players left the town. But the pleasant little interlude was brought to an end as they closed with the impresario. Cecile released herself and went directly to Mrs Ferdinand, who caught her in a convulsive embrace.
“In good time, Colonel. Have you thought on the matter I raised with you, sir?”
With reluctance, George pulled his attention off Cecile and turned to Ferdinand and Fitzgerald, who had both halted. “I have thought of it, Mr Ferdinand. I propose, if this matter has not been resolved, to send a couple of my men along with you.”
“Your soldiers? Good heavens, sir, are you serious?”
George ignored the affronted note. “Perfectly serious, sir. Either my lieutenant, or more likely my sergeant, will be with the men.”
Fitzgerald’s brows were raised. “Guards, Colonel? For what purpose?”
“To ensure none of the party absconds.”
“Absconds? Absconds?” Ferdinand all but spluttered. “What do you mean, Colonel? You cannot be still suspecting this murderer to be among my people?”
By this time, Mrs Ferdinand had come up with Cecile and the Reverend Duddenhoe who was looking astonished. None spoke, but George was conscious of both the matriarch’s keen regard and the impassioned eyes of his inamorata. Damnation. He might have guessed she would be infuriated by this move. Well, it could not be helped.
“Those are my terms, Mr Ferdinand. My men go with you or you stay here.” He executed a formal bow and threw his hand up in a salute. “If you will excuse me.”
Straight-backed, George strode back towards the graveside to where Sullivan was overseeing the men filling in the grave. He seethed at the exigencies of his duty as the headway he thought he had made with Cecile dissipated.
“He’s coming round, I think.”
A vague memory of fear pushed into the boy’s swimming head and he struggled feebly.
“Easy, boy. Easy now.”
The voice thrust into his mind as remembrance surfaced. Perkin opened his eyes and found the room was going round. He closed them again, but not before he saw the black face again. He tried to push away the hand that was gently tapping at his cheek.
The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 23
