Vital Secrets

by Don Gutteridge

“Well, as long as you’re not upset, then I guess I can’t be, can I?” Cobb smiled, sat down opposite Marc, and offered him his tobacco pouch. “I just figured the English gentle-tree was a stickler for good manners.”

  Marc took the pouch, packed his pipe, and soon both men were smoking with meditative satisfaction. The aroma of some kind of meat stew grew more enticing.

  “You didn’t get the lad to change his story, then?”

  “No. And now it’s too late. We can’t keep the troupe here any longer when there’s a confessed murderer already in custody. I’ve talked Spooner into waiting until the morning before taking Rick down to your chief and the magistrate. Thankfully, Sir Francis has been incommunicado all day and Spooner, I suspect, is afraid to have Rick charged without the governor’s explicit approval.”

  “You still think one of them actors did it?”

  “That seems less and less likely. But one of them knows more than he’s saying.”

  “Shall I bring in the supper, Dad?”

  Marc turned to see a girl of nine or ten years standing under the curtained archway between the parlour and the kitchen. Marc blinked and stared. She was beautiful: tall and willowy with long brown hair, large brown eyes, and a freckled grin. How she had contrived to be born from the union of Horatio and Dora Cobb was a mystery, Marc thought, one of those miracles of generation that keep humans humble and awe-struck.

  “This here’s Delia,” Cobb said proudly. “My first-born. Say hello to the officer, girl.”

  Delia performed a brief, under-rehearsed curtsey, blushed, grinned, and said, “How d’ya do, sir?”

  “Now that you’ve gone an’ inter-ruptured us, ya might as well bring the other one in fer viewin’,” Cobb rumbled with mock annoyance.

  “Fabian wants to see the soldier,” Delia said, and rolled her eyes.

  Fabian was duly ushered in so that he and Marc could carry out a mutual inspection. The boy was a masculine copy of his sister: bright-eyed, handsome, and shy without being self-effacing.

  “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Marc asked him.

  “A grenadier,” said Fabian smartly.

  “And you?” Marc said to Delia.

  “A grenadier’s wife,” she said promptly.

  “I warned you kids not to start yer teasin’ ways ’round our guest,” Cobb said. “Now get out there an’ bring in the food.”

  Brother and sister exchanged grins, bowed theatrically, and pranced out of the room.

  Amused, Marc said, “You disapprove of grenadiers on principle?”

  “They do that just to aggra-grate me, Major. They’re both smart as a whip on a bare bum! The common school up the street ain’t seen nothin’ like ’em since it opened.”

  “And you don’t need your sums and Greek declensions to be an officer in Queen Victoria’s glorious army?”

  Cobb gave an invigorating pull on his pipe. “I wouldna thought so,” he said.

  • • •

  SUPPER CONSISTED OF A TASTY VENISON stew, replete with vegetables from the garden and cellar—turnips, parsnips, potatoes, onions, carrots—and crowned with dumplings. On the side there was bread baked earlier in the day and butter from the market. An apple pie capped off the feast. The children served the meal, mimicking and perhaps mocking their notion of what waiting on high table entailed, but they ate quietly on their own out in the kitchen.

  When he had finished his pie, Marc said, “I’m still puzzled about how that bottle of laudanum got from Thea’s possession into the spittoon where Merriwether or the killer left it. If Rick is to hang, then the least I can do for him is to prevent his being thought a rapist.”

  “Well, Major, if that silly actress was befuddled enough to try an’ do herself in with loud-numb— I figure she’d’ve needed two or three bottles fer the job—then heaven knows what she might’ve—” “What actress’re you talkin’ about, Mr. Cobb?”

  The two men swung around to face Dora Cobb, who now filled the lower portion of the curtained archway. Her round cheeks glowed red from an exertion she had not yet fully recovered from.

  “You wasn’t supposed to hear that, Missus Cobb.”

  “Well, Mr. Cobb, I could stuff me thumbs in me ears, but it wouldn’t wipe away the words. Now, tell me, what actress an’ what laudanum?”

  “Now, you know, Missus Cobb, we agreed to keep our oars outta each other’s canoe—”

  “Or else you’d’ve known I had one of them actresses here in the house last Saturd’y.”

  DORA COBB DEMANDED TO BE FED and watered before she would elaborate on a remark that had elicited gasps from her husband and guest. So they waited patiently until she wiped the gravy from her lips with a delicate pinky, gave Cobb a reproachful look, and started in on her tale.

  “This Dorothea person comes knockin’ at my back door about two o’clock in the afternoon. She looks like Death’s daughter, so I ask her in. Even before she starts talkin’, I recognize the symptoms, so I ain’t surprised when she tells me she’s pregnant.”

  “We already know that,” Cobb said.

  “An’ that’s all you’ll be knowin’, Mr. Cobb, if you have the impudence to butt in one more time.”

  Cobb flushed, but decided not to risk retaliation.

  “Please, go on,” Marc said soothingly, but he, too, found his heart beating with anticipation.

  “‘Well,’ says I, ‘it’ll be a few months down the road before ya need my services.’ At that, she busts out cryin’. An’ pretty soon I get the whole sad story. Seems this actor fella got her in the fambly way an’ then, havin’ had his fun—like most men—he tells her to bugger off. Seein’ her life is now ruined, she decides to do away with herself an’ the unborn child, so she goes to old Ezra fer some ‘poison.’ When she gets outta the shop, she changes her mind—goes back in and asks Ezra’s wife if she knows of a midwife in town. That brings her here. What she wants now, of course, is to do in the bairn but not herself, an’ she reckoned I’d know how to go about it—fer a fee.”

  “Missus Cobb don’t have nothin’ to do with that sort o’ sin!” Cobb said. “Do ya, sweet?”

  Dora acknowledged his defense of her integrity with a dip of her chins, and went on. “I told her just that, an’ she sets inta bawlin’ somethin’ terrible. I was glad the kids was out. Anyways, I set her down an’ let her talk and talk. An’ by the time she left, she was feelin’ a whole lot better. I told her that men often reacted that way at first, but if she gave him a little time an’ space an’ was real patient, he’d probably come around. ’Course, that was a wad of malarkey, but I didn’t want the woman’s suicide on my hands.”

  “You obviously did well for her,” Marc said. “She is suffering, but I believe she’ll be all right.” He didn’t think it prudent to mention the brutal death of the child’s father.

  “I know, luv. Me an’ Mr. Cobb saw her last night: she was warblin’ like a robin after a good rain.”

  “Missus Cobb’s the one fer curin’ any ailment that’s female,” Cobb boasted.

  “Just to make sure, though,” Dora said, “I did sneak that bottle outta her pocket before she left.”

  • • •

  “WELL, MAJOR, WE NOW KNOW THERE was two vials of that stuff,” Cobb said as he fingered the bottle of laudanum that Dora had taken from Thea. The children had gone out to play, and Dora was getting herself “prettied up” for the theatre later on.

  “And the only person with any motive for drugging Tessa’s sherry is Merriwether. I figure he put it there in the afternoon and hid the bottle in the spittoon when he came out of Tessa’s room, expecting to dispose of it permanently at a more auspicious time. But, damn it, Cobb, that vial had Michaels’s name on it, just like this one. I’m convinced that Merriwether bought the drug here in Toronto, on Saturday or perhaps Monday morning.”

  “But I showed that picture of Merriwether’s head in every place that might peddle the stuff.”

  “And you saw the names on Michaels’s ledger t
hat neither he nor his staff nor you recognized?”

  “I did. Besides Thea Clarkson, there was only three of ’em, mind you, ’cause we was only lookin’ at Saturd’y an’ Monday, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I even took them names along with the picture inta the dives where my snitches hang about.”

  “You have the list of names Michaels gave you?”

  “Right here, Major.” Cobb got up, went over to his greatcoat on a nearby chair, rummaged through one of the deep pockets, and fished out a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it skeptically to Marc, who scanned its contents:

  Chas. Meredith

  Martin Acorn

  Claude Kingsley

  “What is it, Major?”

  “Merriwether was at Michaels, all right. In disguise.”

  “How do ya figure that?” Cobb was amazed, as a child is before a magician.

  “Claude Kingsley is King Claudius—Merriwether’s little joke.”

  “But Ezra never forgets a face.”

  “True, but he didn’t see the face in the sketch you showed him. He saw the one on the playbill: Claudius with his black wig, bushy eyebrows, and beard. I’ll bet Merriwether even hunched over to lessen the effect of his height.” Marc looked at Cobb. “You did mention his height, didn’t you?”

  Cobb took offense. “I said he was a big bugger about so high, but I didn’t think I needed to go on an’ on about the body parts when Michaels had a picture of the fella’s mug starin’ up at him!”

  “It’s still two hours till the show starts at eight-thirty,” Marc said. “That should give you time to fetch that portrait of Claudius from Merriwether’s dressing-room and show it to Ezra. But I have absolutely no doubt that we’ve traced the drug to the villain who violated Tessa.”

  “I can do that, Major. Dora’ll be some time gettin’ herself harnessed up.”

  “Don’t you see what this means, Cobb? We have incontrovertible proof that Rick Hilliard is not a rapist.”

  Cobb grimaced. “That oughta make his mama feel a whole lot better.”

  FIFTEEN

  The third evening of performances by the distinguished Bowery Touring Company began much as the first two had. Carriages ferrying the self-proclaimed gentry from their august domiciles to the distinction of a theatre-box with padded seat and unobstructed view started to arrive shortly after eight o’clock. By eight-fifteen there was a crush of tardier arrivals along the north side of Colborne Street and, on the south side, a similar crush of gawkers offering gratuitous comment. Under the false façade of the balcony, Ogden Frank, rotund and obsequious, greeted friend and stranger alike and passed them along to Madge, who checked their bona fides with steely-eyed precision.

  The air of normality was deliberate. Marc was certain that those seeking to make contact with the gunrunning tragedian would be scrutinizing the situation from within and without. Spooner’s scouts and spies had, so far, kept a discreet distance. By 8:25 the box seats, the gallery, and the pit were full. The Regency was abuzz with anticipation. An evening of the Bard’s best comic and tragic bits performed by seasoned actors from New York City was an experience not to be missed in colonial Toronto, one you might wish to tell your grandchildren about, should they be so polite as to listen. For the next two hours or so, the rumours of rebellion and rumblings of discontent could be forgotten.

  Marc was with his fellow actors in the dressing-room area to the left of the stage. On a rack next to his mirror hung the two costumes he would need after his initial role as Hamlet: Antony’s imperial Roman togs and Macbeth’s royal robes, the latter complete with wig, chin-beard, and ersatz eyebrows. Thea Clarkson graciously assisted him with his makeup for Hamlet. There was no wig or full beard, but his own sandy hair and eyebrows were powdered to look as blond as a Viking’s, and a small goatee of similar hue depended from his chin. He hoped that these changes and the costume would be enough to deceive whoever might be watching for reasons unconnected with the stage. At least he would be tested early on. And if his cover were blown, his assumption was that the rebels would merely vanish, smarting but unlikely to risk exposure by exacting any revenge. Just how the contact would be made was still anyone’s guess, as Merriwether was supposed to know its nature and Marc did not. Nevertheless, he felt he had to try to anticipate it. His intuition told him that the most obvious opportunity for receiving instructions for a rendezvous would be during that fifteen-minute period after the performance ended when well-wishers pushed onto the stage to meet the stars and press gifts upon them. One such gift could easily contain the clandestine message. But just in case a surreptitious entry to the dressing rooms was attempted, Marc had Wilkie placed where he could keep an eye on them as well as upon the door that led to the Franks’ quarters. On the other side of the stage, Chief Constable Sturges stood guard over the tavern-entrance and the stairway to the upper rooms.

  Marc checked his Hamlet image in the watery mirror, then joined the others in the wings.

  “No need to be nervous, Marc,” Mrs. Thedford said, touching him on the forearm. “I can’t imagine you requiring a prompt, but if you do, watch my lips.” She leaned across and gave him a phantom peck on the cheek, exposing, as she did so, the upper-halves of her unmotherly breasts. Then she was sweeping onto the stage as the first scene from the play got under way to welcoming applause.

  From his position in the wings, Marc could see the boxes on the far wall of the theatre. Dora and Horatio Cobb, along with Owen Jenkin, were in the one most distant, which afforded the constable a wide view of the pit, the gallery, and the other boxes. On the opposite side, Marc knew, Lieutenant Spooner and his guests occupied a middle box. There was nothing any of them could do now but allow the drama to unfold.

  Dawson Armstrong delivered Claudius’s soliloquy at prayer with such spit and verve that the audience brought him back for two bows. Marc cooled his heels and trembled in the wings. Mrs. Thedford, as Gertrude, stood beside him again, but she was fully in role now and said nothing. He could hear her taking deep, rhythmic breaths. Then it was their turn and Marc, feeling as if he were stepping into the cauldron of battle for the first time, walked with knees aquiver into a blaze of light. When he turned to the audience to deliver his opening lines, the words, mercifully, came out. The hundred pairs of eyes appraising him in his nakedness—for so he felt—were, with equal mercy, invisible, drowned in the sea of black set up by the footlights.

  HAM: How now, what’s the matter?

  GERT: Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

  HAM: Mother, you have my father much offended.

  The quality and pitch of their long rehearsal yesterday was instantly rekindled, and Marc soon forgot the audience, himself, and why he was doing this. He was the Prince of Denmark excoriating his faithless mother. The applause, as their scene ended, came more as a shock than an expectation, so engrossed was he in Hamlet’s angst. On the other hand, Gertrude dissolved immediately and Mrs. Thedford took her formal, practised curtsies as a matter of right, while tugging him into his hesitant bows. Then, as they were leaving the stage, the adrenaline of praise struck: he felt as if he might float down the steps to his dressing-room.

  “Well done,” Mrs. Thedford said. “You were to the manner born.”

  “I’ve still got Antony and Macbeth to negotiate,” Marc said with a modesty he didn’t actually feel. “Oh, here’s your looking-glass: I know what it means to you.”

  During the Hamlet scene, when Hamlet holds the hand-mirror up to his mother and her sins, Mrs. Thedford had insisted that they use the one she kept in her room upstairs, “for good luck,” she had said. He was happy now to return the treasure intact.

  “Solid work, young man,” Armstrong said, and meant it.

  Apparently Marc had passed more than one test out there on the boards.

  MARC HAD NO MORE SCENES UNTIL after the interval, but he did return to his dressing-room to change into Antony’s toga and sandals. Although unbearded, Antony sporte
d a close-cropped black wig and charcoal eyebrows with artfully darkened skin, effectively camouflaging Marc’s fair complexion and light brown hair. As he waited anxiously for the interval to begin, he could hear laughter and spontaneous applause as the scenes from Twelfth Night completed the first half of the evening. Wilkie came over to report that no one had tried to enter the premises under his watch. Minutes later, the other actors hurried past to their individual cubicles to rest and prepare for the second half.

  Meanwhile, Ogden Frank and his assistants made sure no spectator got backstage from the pit through the doors to the left or right, but they did not discourage the relaying of messages and bonbons under the auspices of Madge Frank. Tessa, whose performance of Ophelia had brought audible sobs from the viewers, received a box of sweets and a proposal of marriage. Thea Clarkson as Cordelia was rewarded with a bouquet of chrysanthemums, and Mrs. Thedford with an array of cards and billets-doux. There were no messages for either Hamlet. At one point before they resumed, Cobb managed to catch Marc’s eye from his position near the refreshment stall, and shook his head slowly. Perhaps no contact would be made, either because the rebels had simply got cold feet or they had begun to suspect subterfuge and betrayal.

  While Marc flubbed a line or two as Antony, as he had predicted, Mrs. Thedford’s Cleopatra was so sensual, sardonic, and touching, with quicksilver shifts in mood and tempo, that few in the audience cared what kind of Antony provoked such a complex woman into being, so long as he had. Mother and whore, wanton lover and calculating bitch, goddess and little lost girl—she played them all within a single body with a singular voice. When she rose from her death-scene to accept the approbation raining down upon her, Antony, long dead and forgotten nearby, remained where he was.

  Marc returned to his dressing-room to change into his Macbeth costume, but sensed something amiss as soon as he stepped inside. It took him several seconds to realize that there was an extra costume on the rack beside the other two. He reached into one of the pockets of the tunic and, unsurprised, drew out a plain envelope. Inside was the note he had been expecting, printed by hand in block capitals: