Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins

by Amy Myers

  *

  ‘I call him Mr Pickwick,’ Clara laughed, when I asked her that afternoon where Mr Chalcot lived, and I was amused that we shared the same impression of him. I was still intrigued as to how he would have continued his observation on the value of the missing Tarlton play at Mrs Harcourt’s ‘business reception’. Judging by the sudden burst of conversation that interrupted him it seemed that no one had wished him to finish his sentence — or to be heard, if he did. There might lie not only the secret of the script but the key to the murder of Mr Harcourt, as it seemed to me there was a disproportionate amount of interest in this supposedly valueless manuscript. These gentlemen of Paternoster Row did not convince me that passionate concern for the contents would overrule that which they had for their pockets.

  ‘Mr Chalcot lives and works in the Churchyard,’ Clara told me. ‘You’ve probably seen his store. He sells old and new books, especially children’s, under the name of Chalcot Books.’

  ‘Is he as convivial and jolly as Mr Pickwick?’ I asked.

  ‘He is indeed. Like Mr Timpson, only shorter and plumper.’

  I was not sure that Mr Timpson was at all jolly, although he tried to appear so. I set out for Mr Chalcot’s premises, confident that I might be a step further along in my hunt. I found the bookstore with some difficulty as it did not boast its presence, but it had a pleasing display in its bow window. As I entered, I saw him at once, waving his arms enthusiastically while his high-pitched voice was excitedly engaged in persuading a lady of the virtues of Mr Kingsley’s The Water Babies.

  ‘A fine book, madam,’ he was saying. ‘A most worthy story for your children.’

  He caught sight of me at that point and beamed. ‘It is,’ he continued to his customer, ‘a little hard on chimney sweeps, but they are not all as evil as Mr Grimes in Mr Kingsley’s splendid novel.’

  ‘Indeed we are not, madam, though he is quite right to draw attention to the appalling treatment of children still being forced to climb chimneys.’ I thought I should add my contribution here, as the lady was viewing me with some trepidation. Caught with the book in her hand she had little choice but to purchase it, and then she hurried past me on her way back to a world where sweeps keep to the kitchen quarters, boiler rooms and chimneys.

  I was much gratified that Mr Chalcot had recognised me.

  ‘My dear sir, pray take a seat,’ he invited me. ‘I cannot leave the premises as my wife is indisposed and cannot tend the counter. But if you would take tea with me I would be most appreciative.’

  I replied in kind. ‘I’d be much obliged, sir.’ I took the armchair that he had bustled round the counter to indicate, then he paid a brief visit to the inner part of the house, and a maid duly appeared with a tray of tea and sponge-cake, which she deposited on the counter; she then curtseyed and left us.

  ‘Now, my dear friend, how can I assist you?’ he asked me anxiously. ‘Mrs Pomfret tells me you are aiding the poor man in Newgate whom you believe is innocent. Indeed the talk of the Row is that you are assisting the police in this matter.’

  ‘Both statements are true, sir,’ I explained. ‘There are those in Scotland Yard’s Detective Department who believe Mr Snook is innocent of the murder of Mr Harcourt.’

  ‘Why do you so believe, Mr Wasp?’

  ‘He is a man of peace, he brings joy to this world of ours.’

  ‘Joy,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Too many seek to reform the world with most Christian-like charity but will not speak of its joys. Our police are seldom interested in joys, nor are our preachers and publishers of religious books and tracts. What other evidence is there, Mr Wasp, that Mr Snook is innocent?’

  ‘False witness, sir,’ I replied, thinking that this choice of words would please a literary bookseller.

  ‘The ninth commandment. Very well, Mr Wasp, let us assume Mr Snook is innocent. What do you require of me?’

  ‘This Richard Tarlton —’ I began.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Mr Chalcot beamed. ‘Richard Tarlton did indeed bring joy. A great deal of it, both to the common folk and to the court. A hundred years later he was still known as the king of mirth.’

  ‘And this play, sir, about the seven deadly sins. Was that joyous?’

  ‘Who can tell? It was reputed to be a comic drama and certainly for the greatest jester in English history to write a play without a fool’s part would be strange indeed. Fools have their role in Shakespeare’s Othello and King Lear, for example. It was the custom of the day that comedy lived alongside tragedy.’

  ‘As it does in life,’ I added sagely.

  ‘Indeed, but our modern taste is far different. As I may have mentioned at Mr Harcourt’s funeral gathering, in Tarlton’s day the players wrote plays as well as acted in them, playwrights would act as well as write, and it was taken not as an insult but as a tribute to add to another’s work. In short, English drama is a merry mixture, my dear Mr Wasp.’

  That was all most educational, but I was here for a purpose. ‘At the late Mr Harcourt’s gathering, Mr Chalcot, you said —’

  ‘A shocking affair, shocking.’ He shook his head gravely.

  ‘When speaking of the manuscript’s value —’

  ‘— Ah, the lost play. But who can tell when something is truly lost. It can, like sheep, be lost and found again, and —’

  My turn to interrupt as gently as I could. ‘You spoke of the value of this manuscript, which Mr Splendour thought so low, and —’

  ‘— That fellow,’ Mr Chalcot said disparagingly. ‘I am inclined to think that he had his own interests at heart and not those of literature.’

  I pressed on. ‘You began a sentence with unless of course but I did not hear the end of it.’

  ‘A frequent problem with provisos. Yes, indeed. Tarlton’s play of the Seven Deadly Sins is your concern, is it not? Why then, my point on the merry mixture of English drama is proven, as there were other plays of the same name.’

  ‘Is there no copy of Mr Tarlton’s play other than this missing manuscript?’

  ‘Alas, no. When he was writing in the 1580s, very few plays found their way into print. Richard Tarlton died in 1588 and his play, although it had been performed by the Queen’s Men about 1585, was then lost, although a few of his other works still exist at least in fragments. Ah yes. I recall —’

  I tried again. ‘You spoke of the lost manuscript’s value —’

  ‘— Indeed. Seven Deadly Sins. Which of us has not sinned to one degree or another? Tarlton, as you may know, once claimed his favourite sin was lechery. Of that I fear he was often guilty. It is said he died in Shoreditch in a fallen woman’s arms. Her name was Em Ball, if I remember a’right.’

  I saw my opportunity. ‘Lechery was a sin committed by Mr Harcourt, I’m told.’

  I thought Mr Chalcot might not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I was mistaken.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. You refer to his partiality for young ladies and one in particular. And there is Mrs Fortescue, of course. Dear me, what a subject when his death is so recent. She and Mrs Harcourt were undoubtedly both troubled by his lecherous nature, seeking comfort from the Bible. As did Adam and Eve in the book of Genesis — they were comforted by the voice of the Lord God as they walked together in the garden. Until Mr Harcourt’s terrible murder divided them of course. Mrs Fortescue and Mrs Harcourt, that is. But I digress,’ he added in alarm. ‘You tell me that you believe Mr Snook is innocent of that and yet is to stand trial, and so it is my duty to impart anything that might be of help. I considered Mr Harcourt’s behaviour to Miss Pomfret alarming and that to Mrs Fortescue disgusting. Miss Pomfret had confided some interesting news to Mr Harcourt, so he told me, only a week or so before his death.’

  ‘Of a personal nature?’ I asked in horror. A cold dread crept over me as to what this might have been.

  ‘Dear me, no,’ he replied to my relief. ‘Had it been so he would not have mentioned it at all. He did not tell me what the news was and indeed there were other items he shared
with us about that time.’

  This needed consideration, but I had to remember my reason for being here. ‘You began to speak of the value of Tarlton’s play,’ I tried once more.

  He looked at me in mild surprise. ‘Indeed, but what of it? I merely observed the low valuation Mr Splendour was placing on it was justified.’

  ‘But you added a proviso,’ I almost howled at him.

  He gazed at me in mild reproof. ‘My dear sir, there is no need for excitement. I no doubt added that the valuation would of course have been much, much higher had the script included additions from the hand of William Shakespeare.’

  *

  I am a great admirer of the plays of Mr Shakespeare, even though I suspect that the performances I see at the penny gaffs are not the best of his work. I have seen his plays in the pleasure gardens at the Eagle tavern too and very gripping they are. I was beginning to think that if this Tarlton play did include additions by Mr Shakespeare, as Mr Chalcot suggested, it could indeed have been a reason for Mr Harcourt’s death. Could all the Ordinaries have known of its possible value? If so, it would explain their reluctance to talk about it, hoping to confine the secret within their own circle, while in the meantime each of them might be planning to buy or otherwise acquire it at the cheapest possible price.

  I was still considering this as I walked along the Row to Queen’s Head Passage and Dolly’s. I was just passing Dolly’s front entrance on the way to the rear yard when Mr Manley came out of the door. To my surprise, he rushed to greet me with a cry of pleasure, which is not my usual experience of a gentleman’s reaction to my presence.

  ‘My dear man,’ he cried. ‘The very man.’

  'For what, Mr Manley?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘I believe you have seen Mr Snook. Is there any news?’

  If Mr Chalcot was Mr Pickwick, then Manley was Mr Snodgrass, and the look of pleasure on his face did not entirely disguise his usual soulful expression.

  ‘None,’ I told him.

  ‘But has he not confessed?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Why would he? I believe he is innocent.’

  ‘Yet it was a crime of passion, was it not?’

  ‘Not yet known,’ I said correctly, as I had to bear in mind that the manuscript might have nothing to do with Mr Harcourt’s murder, and my job was to secure Phineas’ release from prison. I still had to challenge William and Jericho, as their stories about that afternoon were so different to Phineas’, and bearing in mind that they had ample reason to wish Mr Harcourt dead. ‘Do you know Mr Snook, sir?’ I added. ‘Is that why you are concerned for his wellbeing?’

  He flushed. ‘I saw him once performing at the Tower. Very fine, very fine. He was singing When That I Was and a Little Tiny Boy. Such poetry. Shakespeare’s song of course, but it is thought he wrote it for Tarlton.’

  ‘Did Mr Shakespeare know Tarlton well?’ I asked, in view of my conversation with Mr Chalcot.

  ‘Tarlton was his hero. A father figure. Shakespeare’s fools are based on him. And of course in Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote a lyrical tribute to Tarlton when Hamlet picks up Yorick the fool’s skull. “Alas, poor Yorick,” he writes so movingly. “He hath borne me on his back a thousand times,” he tells us. Such poetry.’

  ‘Did Tarlton carry Shakespeare on his shoulders?’

  Mr Manley was only too eager to enlighten me. ‘It is possible. In Shakespeare’s youth many troupes visited Stratford and some say Tarlton, before he came to fame, joined Lord Leicester’s Men who visited Stratford when Shakespeare would have been seven and again three years later. Indeed there is a story that when Shakespeare was a lad of eleven his father took him to Kenilworth, Lord Leicester’s castle, where the Queen herself was staying and Tarlton himself might even have been one of the players who entertained her.’ My informant paused for breath, awarding me a nervous smile.

  ‘Shakespeare undoubtedly knew him well,’ he continued, filled with renewed enthusiasm. ‘It is generally accepted that he probably joined the Queen’s Men, to which Tarlton belonged, in 1587, but many believe, including myself, that he was with them much earlier. Tarlton died in 1588 so how could Shakespeare have built up such a close relationship with him if he’d joined only a year earlier?’

  ‘And might he have helped Mr Tarlton with his playwriting?’ I asked innocently.

  His face was suddenly ashen. ‘Quite ridiculous. Tarlton needed no such assistance. No, no.’

  ‘But if Mr Shakespeare did contribute to the play,’ I continued earnestly, ‘and if it were valuable, that could be why the cracksman was so eager to break into Mr Harcourt’s bookstore. It’s my belief the police should be told,’ I finished virtuously.

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ he snapped. I just looked at him and he flushed again. ‘I’ve not seen the manuscript,’ he added feebly, ‘so how can I know what’s in it? My colleagues Mr Timpson and Mr Splendour may know more of it.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Harcourt’s murderer might have known too.’

  His expression changed. ‘Be careful, Mr Wasp. I plead with you. It is true we owe it to literature to find this manuscript. It is true Mr Harcourt boasted about having bought it that afternoon, but its theft was not dependent on his death. That was indeed a crime of passion — of that I am sure. Mrs Fortescue had reason enough to commit such a crime. Or indeed Mr Snook or others who were angry at his treatment of Miss Pomfret.’ He glanced at me as he added hopefully, ‘Perhaps the fence Mr Harcourt dealt with committed the crime.’

  He hurried away, leaving me glad that I was a chimney sweep and working in a trade that is black and white. I’m not suggesting that our life is other than a hard one in this crowded world where everyone fights for their own and the seven deadly sins are all too much with us, but we can play our part in making things better. Is that how Mr Tarlton saw it too? I wondered. He made people laugh, and yet he wrote a play about the seven deadly sins. Perhaps that was his way of dealing with the soot in life.

  X

  The Chimney Darkens

  I still could put no name to the voice I had heard, save that I was certain it must have been Flint’s. Danger does its work best when it’s unrecognised, as fear strikes tenfold when it taps you on the shoulder. Was Flint behind me in the crowds that flock around the Row and the Churchyard? Would he be waiting to pounce on me when I reached Hairbrine Court this evening? Was he in the carriage that had clattered past or already inside Dolly’s enjoying one of Jericho’s mutton chops?

  Tom Wasp, you’re losing your grip, I told myself. Choose a different chimney. There was a play by Mr Shakespeare I’d seen at the penny gaff about one of our kings called Henry who won a big battle in France at Agincourt. He hadn’t merely relied on his generals’ plans for the fight ahead; he’d gone out the night before wrapped in a cloak so that he wasn’t recognised and had a word with some of his foot soldiers, listening to what they had to say. Did Flint do that? He left all his violent evil deeds to Slugger and more delicate matters to Lairy John, so how did he know what was going on? Sometimes he would need to see for himself, not just sit in a tavern or swell coffee house counting up his money.

  Like King Henry, Flint must be very near me. He was also likely to be close to whoever had paid him for the job, which brought the unwelcome thought that he might be connected to Dolly’s or, more likely, to the Tarlton Ordinaries. I might have been chatting to him unknowingly. Assuming the manuscript was the reason for Mr Harcourt’s murder, could Mr Harcourt have come to know Flint himself during his dealings with Lairy John?

  I wondered whether I might have stepped half an inch nearer to the truth, but if so in which direction was I stepping? Towards the Ordinaries? Or Jericho and William? I looked up at Dolly’s welcoming façade that still beckoned all comers, despite the violent murder in its yard. Nevertheless, I still had to talk to Clara, however hard it was, given that one of Dolly’s staff or customers was almost certainly guilty of it.

  Clara looked worried to see me here so unexpectedly after my visit
to Mr Chalcot, and even more concerned when I asked if I might have a word with her daughter. ‘The girl’s not herself, Tom. She’s blaming herself for Phineas being in prison. Every day she insists on taking his food up herself, even though she knows she won’t be allowed to see him. Cruel it is, cruel, the way they treat those prisoners. And Phineas not even had his trial yet.’

  ‘She could be upset because there’s more she hasn’t told us, Clara.’ I saw fear in her face. There was no answer she could give but she took me upstairs to the coffee-room where we saw Hetty clearing plates away. She looked frightened to see both of us together.

  ‘Tell him everything you’ve been holding back, my pet,’ Clara said gently — and bravely, considering she had no idea what the everything might be.

  Hetty looked fearfully from her mother to me and back again. ‘I can’t tell you, Mr Wasp. It would make things worse for Phineas, and I have harmed him enough already.’

  The poor girl was trembling and Clara put her arms round her. ‘How would it be if you just whispered it to your mother?’ I suggested. ‘She’ll know whether I need to hear it too.’

  Clara was not happy about this, but Hetty wavered. At last she did whisper to her mother and I saw Clara’s face change. She darted a warning look at me as though I were about to clamp handcuffs on her daughter. ‘Tell him, Hetty,’ Clara said.

  ‘That missing Tarlton manuscript everyone’s talking about,’ Hetty blurted out. ‘I didn’t realise at first what it was. Then I did. It came from Phineas.’

  So that was why Clara’s face had turned white with shock and mine would have followed suit if it could. I summoned up my courage.

  ‘When did he tell you that, Hetty?’ I said. I made it sound of little importance, but that wasn’t the case. I was flabbergasted. After the talk of Mr Harcourt’s dealings with fences, I’d assumed that Mr Harcourt had obtained the script through Lairy John, so how did Phineas come into the picture? ‘You’re sure this was the manuscript of the Tarlton play, Seven Deadly Sins?’