Marc nodded and stepped down into the crush below. After he had handed up a glass to Aunt Catherine, Marc nudged his way through the throng and thickening pipe-smoke to where Cobb and Dora were standing at the foot of the ladder to the gallery, munching on apples they had brought with them. They had not spotted him yet, so Marc stopped for a second to have a long look at Cobb and gain some first impressions of his wife.
Cobb looked much the same as he always did, a sinewy troll of a man with a face that could have played Nym or Bardolph on the Regency’s stage without makeup, and an incongruous pot-belly that had no forewarning slope to it, top or bottom: it was as abrupt as a butte on a prairie. Tonight, though, it was partially camouflaged by the waistcoat of the suit he was wearing, one that had probably been his wedding attire, with the trousers now let out several inches and lapels that were a good foot from meeting each other. A bowler hat concealed the uprising of his soot-black hair. And while the angular features were softened by shadow, the mellow but flickering candlelight accelerated the glow of his big nose and the wart blinking nearby.
Mrs. Dora Cobb was something else again. Marc thought instantly of Mr. Spratt and his missus, for Dora was as round as she was high (which wasn’t more than four foot ten), but her obesity was modulated by the perfect neatness of her dress and person, by the tightly curled black hair, by the Indian-bead necklace placed just so, by the exact meridian of her wide leather belt, by the creaseless fit of her blouse and skirt, and by the trim shoes on surprisingly tiny feet. She so resembled a child’s bulbous top that Marc was chary of bumping against her for fear he might set her rolling out of control. Her expression peered out at the world from a penumbra of cheeks and chins that merely accentuated the cheerful kindliness of her whole demeanour, while the eyes alone signalled that here was a woman who, when challenged, would brook no nonsense and give no quarter.
“How nice to see you again, Constable,” Marc said heartily.
“Evenin’, Major,” Cobb said, using his nickname for Marc. “Enjoyin’ the carryin’s-on?”
“And this must be—”
“Dora Cobb,” said Mrs. Cobb in a rich alto voice, amplified no doubt by her diva’s lungs and bosom. She darted a critical glance at her husband for his lapse of manners.
Cobb winced, but kept his smile going.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” Marc reached out to take her hand preparatory to bussing it. Before he could accomplish this standard gesture of courtesy, Dora latched onto the offering with both of her ample palms and began levering it up and down, as if she were trying to prime a balky pump.
“Well, it’s bloody well time we met,” she boomed. “I was beginnin’ to suspect Mr. Cobb was deliberately keepin’ you to himself. Either that or you had two heads an’ three eyes!”
“Now, Missus Cobb, you know that ain’t—”
“Truth is, you’re as high up an’ as handsome as the ladies of the town—if I may defer to them as such—have been tellin’ me. You’re enough to make a gal’s knees buckle.”
“Now, Missus Cobb—”
“I’d be pleased, Mr. Cobb, if you’d desist and decease from ‘Missus-Cobbing’ me like some woodpecker with his peck jammed!”
“Are you enjoying the play?” Marc said quickly.
“A powerful lot of jumpin’ in an’ outta bed, wasn’t there?” Dora said approvingly, “accompanied by a great deal of ‘pleasure inta-ruptured’!” She shot a teasing glance at Cobb to be sure he had caught her mimic of his habitual play on words.
Cobb was about to protest but thought better of it.
“I am pleased to see so many people come out to the theatre,” Marc offered.
“And I see you’re a mite surprised to spot the likes of us here?” Dora said with a wry grin.
Marc denied any such thing, while silently remarking that little in the behaviour of those around Dora Cobb would go unnoticed or unappraised.
“In my case, curiosity, more’n anythin’ else,” Cobb said.
“Nonsense, Mr. Cobb, an’ you know it!” She turned to Marc, pivoting her entire person to do so. “Why, old James Cobb was a regular thesbian in his day. He’d rather jump on a stump an’ recite a bawdy ballad than he would haul it away to make room fer his corn. And at our weddin’ in Woodstock, the old rapscallion hopped on a table durin’ the toasts an’ spieled out every last verse of Mr. Gray’s ‘ Eligible in a Country Church’!”
“Now, Missus Cobb, do not eggs-agitate—”
“An’ this crab apple here—warts an’ all—didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Dora began a chuckle somewhere deep within, and while it worked its way out, Cobb said to Marc, “Funny, but we ain’t had a gen-u-wine murder in town since you an’ young Hilliard skedaddled off to the fort last year.”
“Then I must be sure to stay put.”
“So, when are you gonna come to our place for supper?” Dora said loud enough to turn heads ten feet away. “All I get is feeble excuses from Mr. Cobb, but now I’m lookin’ right at the flesh-an’-blood—”
“You’re embarrassin’ Marc,” Cobb said, part plea and part warning. “Ain’t she, Major?”
“Not in the least. I’d be pleased to come,” Marc said, initially out of politeness and good breeding, but then with a growing sense of enthusiasm. Why shouldn’t he have supper with these good people? Who was he, pretending to be a gentleman, when he himself was the offspring of a gamekeeper and his peasant wife, and one who had had the undeserved fortune of being raised up by a lonely bachelor and member of the petty aristocracy?
“How about Wensd’y? Say, six o’clock? I’ll hide the chickens an’ make the pig stay outside till we’re done.”
“Missus Cobb!” The constable’s wart ignited.
Marc laughed. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Long as they don’t wake the goat!”
At this point Cobb was spared any further discomfort by the reappearance of the players upon the stage, announced by three blasts of a trumpet from the wings. Jeremiah Jefferson making a wayward, joyful noise, perhaps?
WHEN THE PLAY ENDED AND THE last of six curtain calls was gracefully acknowledged, Marc led Aunt Catherine towards the exit onto Colborne Street. “I’ll walk you home, then come back here for my horse,” he said.
“Sure you won’t come up to Mrs. Thedford’s room for a nightcap?” Owen Jenkin called out just behind them. “We’ve all been invited.” He looked imploringly at Marc, who suddenly got the message.
“Both Aunt Catherine and I have had a long day, Owen. And some personal excitement I’ll tell you about later.”
“Yes,” Aunt Catherine said agreeably. “It’s past ten-thirty and I’ve a full work-day tomorrow. We’re mending some costumes for the company here.”
“Where’s Rick, then?” Marc said.
“Probably in the ingenue’s boudoir, if I know him.”
“I sincerely hope he behaves himself.”
“I’ll see to it, Marc.”
“I’ll wait for you outside when I come back from the shop in about half an hour, and we can all ride home together.”
“That should work out well for everybody. See you then.” And he trundled off to throw himself at the feet of the prima donna from Philadelphia and New York.
Just as Marc and Aunt Catherine started along Colborne, Cobb popped out of the alley leading to the stables. He had his bowler in both hands. “You don’t haveta come,” he said with acute embarrassment. “Dora gets carried away sometimes.”
“I’m coming on Wednesday because I want to, old friend,” Marc assured him.
MAJOR JENKIN WAS WAITING AT THE livery stable with two horses in hand.
“Where’s Rick?” Marc wondered, a rhetorical question in the circumstances.
Jenkin nodded up towards the theatre. “He swore to me as an officer and a gentleman that he would have one drink with Miss Guildersleeve and leave when she asked him. Mrs. Thedford was very gracious with me: I was utterly charmed by her. But I�
��m afraid I may have inadvertently misled her into thinking Rick was going to leave when I did. Tessa is really like an adopted daughter to her, and it’s hard enough for actresses to gain respect without having footloose soldiers dallying in their rooms. But I wasn’t going to go barging in on the youngsters like an outraged papa.”
“I think Rick believes he’s truly in love with the girl. The odds are he won’t do anything to harm her reputation. But you’re right: Rick’s a grown man, and I’m sure he realizes that Tessa’s guardian is next door. Come on, let’s be on our way.”
The two men, so recently and unexpectedly friends, rode out together towards the garrison a meandering mile or so west of the city centre under a splendid moon and a backdrop of stars. They fell into easy conversation.
“I thought the days of this old war-horse dreaming about a particular woman were over, Marc. But Annemarie is really something.”
“So I gather. I must say she impressed me tremendously. In a motherly way, of course,” he added with an appropriate chuckle.
“I asked her about Merriwether, for example, because the man intrigues me. Unlike her, I got the feeling he was acting out a role for himself, perhaps because he wasn’t happy with who he really was. Well, she told me the whole story. Seems he was a great star of the Park Theatre for twenty years, before his wife died and he hit the bottle. By the time Annemarie arrived in New York from Philadelphia and established herself, about fifteen years ago, Merriwether was on the way down. She’d met him while she was doing bit roles at the Park and admired his talent. Five years later she had become a star and part owner of the Bowery, and took it upon herself—when everyone else in the theatre world of New York was shunning him—to take a chance on the man, on condition that he give up the drink and attempt to regain his former lustre.”
“As Tessa remarked, the woman has a weakness for strays.”
“That’s an approach I’ll have to consider.”
“Well, it’s obvious she succeeded in rehabilitating him.”
“Almost. But she admitted to me, after assuring me they had never been, ah, intimate, that while Merriwether did regain much of his lost talent, he remained a difficult and often unattractive human being.”
“I expect she did what she could. And as professionals, they have certainly worked well together, as the mounting of the farce tonight showed. I’ve seen pieces like that botched many times in Drury Lane itself.”
“She seems a very giving person to me. She was kind enough to ask me about my experiences in the war, knowing full well, I trust, that such an opening is in danger of never being closed thereafter. Anyway, I did chatter on about Sandhurst and Portugal and Paris and the exploits of the Iron Duke.”
“I envy you that,” Marc sighed.
“Please, don’t, son. War is tolerable only when you’re well away from it.”
• • •
MARC WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF a dream in which Beth was floating somewhere just above the foot of his bed, beckoning to him as her nightdress sailed away behind her, when a cold finger on his chin brought him reluctantly awake.
“Beth?” he murmured.
“It’s Corporal Bregman, sir. Sorry to wake you up at this hour. I’ve come straight from Colonel Margison.”
Marc sat up, shivering in the cold room. It could be no more than 2 a.m. Why would one of Margison’s orderlies be rousing him in the middle of the night?
“What is it?”
“Instructions, sir. For you.”
“At this hour?”
“I’m afraid so. A fast horse is being saddled for you right now. You are to proceed at once to the Regency Theatre.”
“What’s happened?”
“One of the actors has been murdered.”
Mark glanced quickly at Rick’s cot. It was empty.
“Is Hilliard all right?” Marc asked.
“Not quite, sir.” Bregman had turned white.
“What do you mean, ‘not quite’?”
Bregman gulped hard, and said almost in a whisper, “They’re saying he done it.”
EIGHT
Marc did his best to shut down his naturally speculative mind as he rode furiously towards the city from the fort, soon leaving behind the young messenger who had brought the disturbing news. But until he knew which actor had been murdered and whether Bregman’s comment about Rick Hilliard’s being an accused killer was itself speculation or fact, there was no point in fretting unnecessarily. Nonetheless, there was no denying that something terrible must have happened for Colonel Margison to have become involved and issue commands in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning. It was with a genuine sense of dread that Marc pounded up Colborne Street towards Frank’s Hotel.
He was about to wheel into the alley that led to the stables when he spotted someone in uniform waving at him from under the false balcony in front of the theatre. It was Ogden Frank, still in his militia outfit. Though the street was silent and utterly deserted, Frank was motioning him to dismount quickly, while glancing left and right as if he expected shutters to be flung open all along the thoroughfare.
In a hoarse, frightened whisper, he said to Marc, “My boy’ll see to your horse; just leave it here and come inside right away. Nobody else knows what’s happened upstairs, and we’d all like to keep it that way.”
All? Who else had arrived ahead of him?
“They’re waitin’ fer ya inside.”
Marc followed Frank through the double-doors, which Frank was careful to secure with a bar, and into the theatre itself, now steeped in gloomy shadow. The proprietor seemed able to navigate without benefit of light, and led the way through the curtained door at the right side of the stage and up the stairs towards the actors’ rooms above.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a calamity as this,” Frank was muttering ahead of him. “If this news gets out, I’ll be ruined. I’ll have to store hay in the pit.”
On the landing—with a candle-lamp in hand, a uniform more dishevelled than usual, and hair rearing up at all angles from a helmetless head—stood Constable Horatio Cobb.
“Thank Christ you’re here, Marc. This is the worst bloody mess I’ve ever seen. It’s like an abattoir up there.”
“Where’s Hilliard?”
“He’s in the tavern, through that door at the foot of the stairs, in the charmin’ arms of General Spooner.”
“Spooner?” Lieutenant Barclay Spooner was the governor’s current aide-de-camp, the man who had succeeded Marc in Bond Head’s office. “Sir Francis is in on this? What the hell has happened?”
“I’ll show you in a minute, though it ain’t pretty. Doc Withers is upstairs an’ Sarge is in the tavern herdin’ all them hyster-ect-ical actors an’ makin’ sure General Spooner don’t set off another war with the States.” “Sarge” was Cobb’s colleague, Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges.
So that was it, Marc thought: one of the American actors had been murdered and one of ours—a British officer—had been accused of the crime. That would be more than enough to bring the governor wide-awake with his political antennae twitching.
“Go on back to the tavern, Ogden,” Cobb said not unkindly to Frank, who was dry-washing his hands in futile frenzy, “an’ help Sarge keep a stopper in Spooner’s gob, if you can.”
Frank nodded, thankful to be doing something other than contemplating his imminent financial ruin.
“Who is the victim?” Marc asked as he and Cobb reached the hallway on the second floor. The name he had been repressing for the last half-hour now forced its way into his consciousness: Tessa Guildersleeve.
“The fella who played the whorin’ husband,” Cobb said, pointing the way towards the far end of the hall.
“Jason Merriwether?” Marc asked, astonished. How in the world could Hilliard have been involved in murdering Merriwether?
“That’s the fella. Stabbed through the chest with Hilliard’s sword.”
Yes, Marc recalled, Hilliard had strapped on his sabre before leaving
earlier in the day in order to impress the girl. “I can’t believe that, Cobb.”
“Me neither, Major. But they claim he was found with both hands on the haft.”
Marc froze in his tracks. Whatever he had been steeling himself for, it was not this.
“In here,” Cobb said, easing open the door to Tessa’s room. “Brace yerself.”
Someone had brought one of the Argand lamps from the stage to illuminate Tessa’s room, in addition to several other lit candles. Marc was unprepared for the sudden light that greeted him when he entered. He blinked, then slowly directed his gaze towards the horrors on the carpeted expanse before him.
Jason Merriwether lay flat on his back, as if he had just made the perfect theatrical pratfall and was waiting for a burst of applause before popping up to take a bow. But the famous tragedian and farceur had taken his last curtain call. Like a stake driven through a vampire’s heart, Hilliard’s battle-sword was sticking straight up out of Merriwether’s chest and, in the unsteady candlelight, appeared to be still quivering from the force of the blow. The details surrounding this pièce de résistance Marc took in at a single glance. Blood had geysered out of the wound, splashed indiscriminately over the victim’s nightshirt from throat to crotch, trickled down his bare thighs, and was still seeping into the beige carpet. Angus Withers, physician and surgeon to the rich and highborn, the governor’s personal doctor, and county coroner, was crouched beside Merriwether’s head. With his fingertips he was probing a vicious wound at the base of the cranium. That area of the skull appeared to have been crushed by a blow made either by a heavy, blunt object or something lighter delivered with tremendous force. From his vantage-point several feet away, Marc could see pieces of bone protruding through matted hair and blood. Had the man been attacked twice?
Dr. Withers looked up and flashed Marc a grim smile of recognition and welcome. They had met briefly during Marc’s second investigation and taken an instant liking to each other. “Looks like somebody wanted to make sure he went straight to his Maker,” Withers said, and picked up from the pool of blood on the far side of the body a large, bronze ashtray. “This could’ve been used on his skull, but I can’t be sure. It was already covered with blood when I found it here.”
Vital Secrets Page 9
