The mechanics’ parts had been excised, except for Bottom the weaver, and Sir P., having offered to stand in for the latter, went at the role with gusto – in a commoner’s accent no Cockney would have recognized as English. Thus it was that the initial read-through staggered to a grim halt some fifty minutes later. By this time Sir. P. looked as if he had been martyred at the Battle of Moraviantown, but he continued to smile and proclaim that satisfactory progress was being made. Towards the end, however, he kept glancing at the hall door, where Chivers was expected to appear with a tea-trolley and refreshments.
“We’ll have a break, ladies and gentlemen, and then try one more read-through before we bring the curtain down on our evening,” he said to the troupe as soon as his ear detected the familiar footfall of his butler.
The hall door did indeed open, but Chivers was not there gliding behind his trolley. Instead he stood blocking the doorway, a look of consternation on his face.
“What is it, Chivers?”
“There’s a vagabond at the door, sir, dressed up in a peeler’s uniform, asking to be let in.”
“Then, show him the road,” Sir P. said sharply, standing up.
Chivers never got a chance to reply, for he was abruptly pushed aside, and the aforesaid vagabond barged into the theatre, blinking in the glare of its chandeliers.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Sir. P. thundered.
All eyes were now upon the intruder, none of them welcoming.
“I am a policeman, sir. And I’m here on official police business,” Cobb shouted across the room.
Sir Peregrine converted his scowl into a thin smile. “Then, you’d better come in, constable,” he said.
NINE
Cobb found himself comfortably seated in the den adjacent to the platform the Shakespeareans were calling a stage. In here the chairs were leather and the fire cosy. On the sideboard a crystal decanter of sherry winked back at the scented, blue candles. Following Marc’s advice, Cobb planned to interview the four club members who might provide him with useful evidence, emphasizing that they were considered to be potential witnesses – not suspects. Further, he was advised to indicate that their testimony could be vital in determining the fate of a fellow club member, Brodie Langford. That one of them might be the actual murderer, and lie through his teeth, was to be kept in mind, but that was all. “If we spook them, we’ll get nothing,” Marc had warned.
Cobb himself had decided on the order in which he would see the “witnesses.” After informing Sir Peregrine in the presence of the whole troupe that Brodie Langford was in imminent danger of being charged with murder, Cobb indicated the purpose of his visit, and announced that he would start his questioning with the baronet, then move on to Dutton, Fullarton and Crenshaw. The proposed second read-through of The Dream Sequence was indefinitely postponed, and as Cobb and Sir Peregrine had made their way towards the den, the others drifted, muttering unpleasantries, towards the dining-room and the remains of supper. Cobb had thought it best to interview the baronet first because he wished to have Gillian Budge’s account of the members’ departures either confirmed or disputed. And since the chairman usually left the meeting last, he should be able to recall exactly when the others had departed.
“You were the last person to leave the meetin’?” Cobb began.
Sir Peregrine, who had settled his bulk in a chair opposite Cobb, decided to adopt a bemused expression, as if he were the director watching himself play a scene. “Always, constable. I invariably have papers to collect and re-organize. And as captain, I feel obliged to be the last man to abandon ship, so to speak.”
“I see. So you’d remember when the other gents left?”
“There were only four of them – three after young Brodie departed prematurely – just before half past the hour.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“I am. I requested Mrs. Budge to bring us materials for a toast – at precisely nine-twenty-five. She was three minutes late by my pocket watch.”
“So you an’ the fellas still there – Mr. Dutton, Mr. Fullarton an’ Mr. Crenshaw – went on with yer toastin’?”
“We did. But toasting is not an indefinite sporting event, constable. We toasted our success at launching an exciting new dramatic project, the fruits of which you may have observed in the next room, and then we toasted the Queen.”
“An’ this would take how long?” Cobb had his notebook open and his pencil poised, but he was mainly concerned with checking the time-line he had sketched there, the one he and Marc had worked out.
“Oh, about five or six minutes. Then I asked the others to bring their scripts to up to me as I had some last-minute alterations to pencil in on them, thoughts that occurred to me only after hearing the members read their parts for the first time.”
Which must have been quite a shock, Cobb mused.
“So they didn’t leave right away?”
“No. Andrew Dutton came and stood beside me, we went over two brief excisions, he said goodnight to us and left.”
“Through the coatroom an’ down the back stairs?”
“Yes.”
“Riskin’ any riffraff that might be in the alley just to avoid the taproom?”
Sir Peregrine’s gaze narrowed slightly: he could detect the intimation of an impertinence at fifty paces. “We never experienced any difficulty in exiting via that route,” he said coldly.
“So Mr. Dutton left about a quarter to ten?”
“Or a minute before, perhaps.”
“I’m curious, sir, why you gents, all belongin’ to a chummy club, seem to leave by yerselves. Didn’t you ever walk home together? Or share a carriage?”
The baronet offered Cobb his well-oiled, condescending smile. “But none of us have become friends yet, you see. It is our intense interest in the Bard and his glorious works that have brought us together. Except for Fullarton, whom I saw often this past summer, I have met the others only at these meetings and, at a distance, waved to them from my pew at St. James. Moreover, we take different routes when we leave. I like to walk up Peter Street in this fine weather and over to the Government park, where my driver waits for me with the brougham. Dutton goes east along Front to Jarvis. And Crenshaw usually rides his horse here, leaving it in a stable around the corner.”
“What about you an’ Mr. Fullarton, though? You’re friends of a sort, aren’t you?”
“We might have been, but, since August, I’ve seen him only here and at St. James. He has an invalid wife, you know, and rarely socializes. Ordinarily he leaves here quite early in order to be home with her. Last night was an exception because of our play-reading. Still, he was next to consult with me, and as we had only minor changes to his part, he hurried out – through the cloakroom – at about, say, ten minutes to the hour.”
“That’s very helpful, sir. So that would leave just you an’ Mr. Crenshaw?”
“A salient deduction, constable. Crenshaw, I could see, was unhappy about having been assigned the role of Bottom, so I did not go over his part. I merely spent two or three minutes explaining that it was the plum role.”
“Then he skedadelled?”
Sir Peregrine smiled. “I think that Yankeeism aptly describes the nature of his departure.”
“So Mr. Crenshaw leaves through the coatroom at about five minutes to ten?”
“A little before that, I believe. I know that I immediately began sorting my papers and putting them in my leather case. I looked at my watch as I got up to leave, and it was three minutes to ten.”
Which, if the baronet were telling the truth, would bring him into the cloakroom too late to be of any help to Brodie. “Think carefully now, sir. When you were in the coatroom, near that window, did you see or hear anythin’ from the alley?”
“I don’t have to think carefully, constable. I did glance out the window as I put my cloak on.”
“What did ya see?”
“I saw someone running north up the alley.”
/> Cobb’s mouth went dry. “Any idea who it might’ve been?”
“It was dark and shadowy with swatches of moonlight here and there. I can only say for certain that it appeared to be a young person of slim build who could run with some nimbleness.”
“A ruffian?”
“Hard to say. He was wearing a gentleman’s coat, I’m pretty sure, from the way it was flopping. And proper boots, I’d say.”
“You didn’t see anythin’ else?”
“No. That was all. I just assumed it was someone in a hurry – nothing to do with me or the club.”
“An’ you went down the stairs and onto Front Street through the narrows at the side of the tavern?”
“I did. And took my usual route to the Government park.”
Cobb thanked Shuttleworth, who offered to send along Andrew Dutton. While he was waiting, Cobb looked again at the time-line in his notebook. Brodie had bumped into Cobb on Wellington Street about ten o’clock – the fact that he didn’t know the exact time was maddening – so Sir Peregrine saw either Brodie or the murderer running away. Duggan had certainly been dead when Cobb arrived on the scene shortly thereafter. Or else the baronet was simply lying. If so, it could be because he himself was the killer, having spotted the comatose Duggan in the alley and slipping out there after the others had left to bludgeon him to death. But Shuttleworth didn’t know who Duggan was, and was definitely too late to have witnessed the altercation and deduced from it the identity of the blackmailer (assuming, of course, he was being blackmailed). On the other hand, maybe Shuttleworth did know who Duggan was – he could have hung around his drop-point as Brodie had – but had lacked the courage to deal with him until last night. If so, the situation in the alley was tailor-made for a safe, secret kill.
Cobb’s head was still spinning with these ideas when Andrew Dutton entered the room and sat down where the baronet had been.
Dutton was a distinguished-looking fellow, Cobb thought. He had a full head of grey hair that had bleached evenly with age. With his trimmed goatee, well-cut clothes and compact build (no pot-belly here), Cobb could see how he might have attracted two wives. As a barrister he had never been considered more than competent, but his father had been a successful member of the ruling Family Compact and had made sure his son prospered from that association. Now, though, there was more of a hangdog expression in his face than the settled satisfaction one might have expected in a comfortably retired worthy. Having twice been made a widower may have taken its toll.
“How may I be of help, constable? Broderick Langford is a young man of sterling character, and I would stand up in any court and say so.”
“We need to know, sir, what you saw or heard when you left the meetin’ last night.”
“Right. The answer is, alas, brief. I was the first to leave, perhaps fifteen minutes after Brodie. I did look out the window in the cloakroom but saw only the moonlight and thought about how pleasant my walk home might be.”
Cobb pressed Dutton further, but there was nothing he could add. Dutton said how sorry he was, and left the room.
Well, Cobb mused, if the fellow was lying – an unlikely event – he could have heard the very beginning of the altercation between Brodie and Duggan as he was descending the stairs, grown curious, and hid in the shadows near the alley until the other gents passed by onto Front Street, then slipped out and used Brodie’s walking-stick on the blackmailer. And Dora might get her girlish figure back!
Fullarton was next. He was eager to quiz Cobb about Brodie’s situation, the concern clearly visible in his face, but Cobb gently reminded him that the best way to help his young protégé was to state exactly what he saw and heard as he was leaving the clubroom.
Fullarton took a deep breath. “Right you are, constable. Well, as I was reaching for my cloak, I heard voices raised in anger – coming from the alley below. I looked out and saw two figures grappling.”
Cobb stared at the banker. “But you told Marc Edwards this mornin’ that you saw nothin’ when you left the meetin’!”
Fullarton sighed, and looked down at the carpet. “I am sorry about that. I told Mr. Edwards the truth – in a way. I said I didn’t see anything that would help my young friend. I was upset and confused.”
“Then you better tell me the whole truth. Right now. You seen two men grapplin’, you say. Was Brodie one of em?”
“That’s just the point, constable. I wasn’t sure. Their faces were not in the beam of moonlight, but for an instant I thought one of the two might be Brodie. Then I thought: it couldn’t be because Brodie had left fifteen or twenty minutes before and would be halfway home by now. I assumed – and I have spent a sleepless night regretting it – that it was a pair of drunks brawling in the alley, a not-uncommon occurrence around that tavern. Had I gone back to assist the lad, none of this tragedy might have happened.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, the voices had stopped or become inaudible. I just continued on down to Front Street.” He stared down at the carpet again. When he looked up, he said, “But you don’t really believe Brodie Langford could kill a man?”
“It don’t matter what I believe, sir. Duggan was beaten to death with Brodie’s walkin’-stick.”
Fullarton paled. Marc Edwards had not given him this damning detail. “I see. But there must be some plausible explanation – ”
“I hope so.” Cobb felt his own voice beginning to wobble. “Thank you, sir, for yer help.” He wanted to offer Horace Fullarton some comfort, but knew that his duty lay in being calm and objective.
Fullarton slumped out.
Cobb did not have to reflect very long before realizing that, so far, he had not uncovered any evidence to exonerate Brodie. Dutton had seen nothing. Fullarton had heard the beginning of the altercation, but was unable or unwilling to identify Brodie as one of the participants (though Brodie himself had already done so in his ill-considered “confession”). Shuttleworth had seen someone (possibly the killer) running away up the alley. What they needed was a witness who had seen Brodie punch Duggan once and immediately take flight, without his cane. Cyrus Crenshaw was the last hope.
Crenshaw was not terribly forthcoming. He appeared to resent Cobb’s intrusion into their gentlemanly frivolities. But, then, Brodie Langford was hardly known to him, and as a Legislative Councillor and self-appointed Tory, he may have felt little sympathy for the Yankee émigré and former ward of the much-maligned Richard Dougherty.
“You left the meetin’ shortly after a quarter to ten?” Cobb began.
“I don’t keep track of the time, sir. But I suspect my fellow club-members have already supplied you with such details.”
“So you don’t really know?”
Crenshaw grimaced, but said nothing.
“Did you look out the window when you went fer yer coat?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you see?”
“An alley, lit up by moonlight.”
“Anythin’ else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Cobb was losing patience. “I want ya to tell me, Mr. Crenshaw, what you seen an’ heard there. Mr. Langford’s life may depend on what you have to say.”
This stern reminder had an immediate effect. “I’m sorry, constable. I’ve been distracted all evening. But I see now the seriousness of your questions. Still, I’m afraid what I have to tell you may do Langford more harm than good.”
Which might explain his initial reluctance, Cobb thought. He braced himself.
“I saw two men in the alley. It was too dark to see their faces. One was lying on the ground and the other was crouched over him.”
“Doin’ what?”
“My impression was that there might have been a punch-up between them – two fellows from the tavern with too much drink in them. But the crouching one seemed concerned, the way his hands were moving gently over the other one, who was knocked out, I believe.”
“Y
ou didn’t think to go out an’ help?”
“Not really. I’m a respectable citizen and member of Her Majesty’s colonial parliament. I do not go into alleys where brawls are taking place.” His whole body stiffened.
Cobb was neither surprised nor shocked. It was exactly the sort of behaviour he expected from the gentle classes and their hangers-on.
“But I could not swear – and would not – that Brodie Langford was one of the men down there,” he said, as if to undercut the callousness of his previous remark.
That wouldn’t matter, Cobb sighed to himself. Brodie’s own statement not only put him there, it placed him in a crouching position over Duggan, whom he had just punched.
“You didn’t see the fella run away, then?”
“No. He was still hunched over the fallen man when I headed for the stairs and carried on out to Front Street.”
That was not what Cobb hoped to hear. “Thank you, sir. That’s all,” he heard himself say.
Crenshaw left quickly. Cobb sat for several minutes in a near stupor. He had failed to uncover the single piece of evidence he needed to get Brodie released. No-one had seen the lad strike once with his fist and leave. Cobb could not bring himself to reassemble the pieces he had turned up. He’d let Marc do that depressing work later.
By the time Cobb re-entered the “theatre” the Shakespeareans had gathered once more around the long table. They were studying their scripts, or pretending to.
“Constable,” Sir Peregrine said heartily from his position at head of table, “we are about to start a second read-through of our playlet. If you wish, you’re welcome to have a cup of tea and a pastry in the dining-room. You must have had a long day.”
What the hell, Cobb thought: I’m thirsty and hungry. He nodded his thanks to the baronet, tipped his helmet at the ladies, and walked slowly into the dining-room. He sat down at the table, where he was plainly visible to Sir Peregrine, and picked out an apple tart. A smartly dressed servant arrived to pour him a cup of tea. The rich were certainly experts in pampering themselves.
Desperate Acts Page 13
