‘Halloran expects I’ll rearrange my activities to keep the mayor from pestering him,’ he complained. ‘He never considers the amount of time I’m forced to devote to his investigations; nor the stupidity of young men in getting themselves murdered. Viscount Penngrove is a pompous, arrogant bully and his son was a useless fool. Lord Aylestone, curse him, was too idle to devote himself to anything worthwhile and too dim-witted to do anything else. If I’m to be honest, I’d have to say that whoever killed the fellow did the world a favour.’
‘You only dislike him because he tried to get the theatre closed down,’ Brock said mildly. ‘He’s typical of the youngest sons of the aristocracy. They know they’ll have to support themselves eventually, given that the eldest always inherits the title, the estates and almost everything else. Yet their families never think to equip them with any skills beyond dancing, drinking, horse riding and gambling. Unless they manage to marry an heiress, most of them spend their lives in well-deserved obscurity. Few actually prosper.’
Foxe ignored him. ‘It’s my own fault,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have tempted fate by saying I wanted a good case to occupy my mind. As soon as I had one — the death of Dr Danson — along comes Halloran. The fellow tells me — almost orders me — to leave that alone. Instead, I’m to rush off and investigate the death of this blue-blooded nitwit. A man who was worth little to himself or anyone else. I should have refused, of course, but I’m too easy-going.’
Brock had by now had more than enough of listening to Foxe whine.
‘Pull yourself together and stop behaving like a spoiled child!’ he snapped. ‘Whoever the victim was, he didn’t deserve to be murdered, did he? Besides, everyone knows you can’t resist poking your nose into any unexplained killing. You’d have been furious if Halloran and the mayor hadn’t called you in or had gone to someone else. Now, behave yourself or I’m going to go home right now. All this self-pity is enough to curdle any sensible person’s stomach. My dear wife and I attended that masquerade ball, even if you didn’t. If you’ll stop ranting, I’ll tell you exactly what I saw.’
Foxe could be a self-regarding misery at times, but he was never a fool. He closed his mouth and waited to hear what his friend had to say.
‘For a start, everyone knew Viscount Penngrove had forced his son to attend in the hope some suitable young woman would take his fancy. Aylestone was still single and his father was well aware of his shortcomings. His son’s best hope of making anything of himself was to marry a woman with brains, backbone and money as well. Someone who would take her husband in hand and stop him wasting his life on religious bigotry.
‘Naturally, it proved to be an abject failure, as you would expect. Aylestone was morose and uncommunicative from the start of the evening. Far from meeting any potential brides, he lurked on his own at the edge of the dance area. He refused to join in the dancing or go to the card-room and socialise. One or two hopeful mothers attempted to introduce their daughters to him. All were snubbed, often rudely. The only time he became animated was when he saw a couple dressed as a shepherd and shepherdess and learned they were an actor and actress from the Norwich Company of Comedians. Adam Bewell, I think it was, and a Miss Catherine Marsh. The sight of them made Aylestone furious. He demanded that they should be ejected, saying they polluted the occasion and disgraced the others present by their attendance.’
‘How did the Master of Ceremonies deal with that?’ Foxe asked, becoming intrigued despite himself.
‘Despite the efforts of those around him,’ Brock replied, ‘Lord Aylestone could not be quieted. Anyone else making such a commotion would have been turned out into the street. The Master of Ceremonies didn’t dare do that to Viscount Penngrove’s son. Instead, he quietly asked the other two to leave of their own accord for the sake of peace and good order. I understand he promised to refund what they had paid for their tickets and give them more tickets, gratis, for the next assembly ball. He was almost certain Aylestone wouldn’t be present again. His father would be too embarrassed by what was happening and would make sure he stayed away. Since, by this time, Miss Marsh was in tears, the two agreed and left. I imagine Bewell escorted the lady home.’
‘What about Lord Aylestone?’
‘His father was furious and bundled his son out of the main room and into a small annex as quickly as he could. Aylestone’s outburst had caused a kind of stunned silence. Even the musicians had stopped playing. We could therefore hear a good deal of the tremendous rebuke the young man was getting for his behaviour. In the end, Viscount Penngrove ordered Lord Aylestone to return to the event and behave in a more seemly manner.’
‘Did he?’ Foxe asked.
‘If he did, he stayed well out of sight,’ Brock told him. ‘Even he must have realised that he’d made himself a public spectacle. Whatever he did, I didn’t notice him for most of the rest of the evening. Nor, I imagine, did anyone else.’
‘You didn’t see him again at all?’
‘Almost at the end of the evening, most of us caught a quick glimpse of the fellow. He was standing at the edge of the stage where the musicians were playing, staring glumly into the main hall. At that point, he was still wearing his mask.’
‘How did you know it was him then?’
‘His Harlequin costume was quite distinctive. None of the other people dressed as a Harlequin looked anything like he did.’
Foxe considered this for a moment, then posed a final question. ‘Do you know how and when his body was found?’
‘It must have been about the time the final dances of the evening started,’ Brock said. ‘Two people went into the room where Viscount Penngrove had taken his son earlier. Probably to indulge in some amorous activities behind a curtain which hangs there. You’ll recall it. It covers a space where chairs and tables are usually stored.’ Foxe nodded in agreement. ‘That’s where they found Lord Aylestone. He had been stabbed in the chest and was quite dead.’
‘How long was this after you’d all seen him at the side of the stage by the musicians?’
‘I’d estimate about fifteen or twenty minutes. Certainly no more.’
‘Pah!’ Foxe said. ‘To think Halloran dragged me away from a sensible mystery just for this!’
‘Are you telling me you’ve solved it purely on what I’ve told you tonight?’ Brock’s voice was heavily tinged with scepticism.
‘Not everything, but the main part. It’s blindingly obvious.’
‘Not to me it isn’t.’
‘Look, it’s perfectly plain who killed Aylestone and why it was done. I don’t yet have enough to convince miserable sceptics like you and Halloran, but that’s just a matter of digging a bit deeper in the right places.’
‘Who did it then? If you’re so clever, explain who it was and how you know.’
‘How I know is because I listened carefully and used my brain. Reasoning, Brock. Simple reasoning from cause to effect. You could do the same if you tried. In fact, I’ll leave you to do just that while I work out the rest.’
‘Which is?’
‘Exactly how the killer went about producing what he hoped would convince everyone it had nothing to do with him. Once I have that, I’ll have enough to take to Halloran and give Viscount Penngrove the explanation and the evidence he needs to ensure a conviction. You’re right. No one deserves to be murdered, however much better off the world will be without him. If I didn’t believe that, I’d keep my ideas to myself and avoid sending another poor fellow to the gallows.’
After Albert, his valet, had collected Foxe’s clothing and left him alone to settle down for the night, Foxe found himself too anxious in his mind to find sleep right away. He wasn’t thinking about Lord Aylestone’s murder. What he’d said to Brock contained a good deal of bravado, but he was still convinced he knew what had happened. All that was left was to be able to prove it to a jury. What was worrying him was he couldn’t delay the boring business of collecting that evidence. He’d get no peace from Halloran and the mayor until
he could present them with the complete answer.
In the meantime, poor Mrs Danson would think he had lost interest in investigating her husband’s death. It was a measure of the esteem in which he held her that he determined the very least he could do was to visit the lady himself and explain the circumstances. At the same time, there were at least three important questions he’d failed to ask on his earlier visit. What could she tell him about the letter the butler had mentioned? Did her husband have any regular visitors and, if so, who they were? Oh yes. Did she know he had a weak heart?
As soon as it was late enough in the morning to make his visit with proper politeness, Foxe went back to the house in Pottergate. He needn’t have worried. The moment he began to explain to Mrs Danson what must draw him away temporarily from his search for her husband’s killer, she interrupted him.
‘Mr Foxe. I’d guessed before you came that you’d have to look into the death of Lord Aylestone. The needs of the aristocracy and upper gentry always take precedence over everything else, don’t they? That’s the way of the world. You needn’t apologise.’
Such clear-headed logic left Foxe somewhat in awe, and he hurried on to cover his confusion. What could she tell him about the mysterious letter her husband had received? Was he correct in assuming it had told him his visitor would come on that particular day?
‘I know nothing about any such letter, Mr Foxe,’ she said. ‘I would not have seen it when it arrived, and my husband never discussed any of his correspondence with me. If he kept anything of that nature, it would be in the desk in the library. I’ll ask Gunton to bring you the keys, so you can look for yourself.’
‘Thank you, madam,’ Foxe said. ‘I cannot stay long enough to do that this morning, but I will take you up on your kind offer as soon as I am free to do so. My second question is quite simple. I believe your husband was stabbed with a dagger he owned. Do you know where it was kept?’
‘He was killed with such a weapon, Mr Foxe. A small dagger of foreign make he’d been given at some point in the past. You’ll need to ask Gunton where it was kept. I’m afraid I have no idea. I’ll call him.’
The butler was called, confirmed what his mistress had said and explained the implement in question was usually kept on the master’s desk.
Mrs Danson dismissed Gunton with a nod and turned to Foxe. ‘Do you have any further questions?’ she asked him.
‘Just two more, madam. Did your husband have any regular visitors?’
‘I believe I said before that my late husband was a reclusive man. Generally speaking, visitors of any kind were not welcome. Gunton was instructed to inform any who did come that his master was too engaged in his studies to receive anyone. The only regular visitor was Mr Craswall, the apothecary. He came perhaps once each month and sometimes spent an hour or more with my husband.’
‘So, you knew about his heart? You were aware your husband was in poor health?’
Mrs Danson smiled. ‘He imagined he was. He was always complaining about one ailment or another. I doubt there was much wrong with him. There’s a saying that a creaking door lasts longest, Mr Foxe. In my late husband’s case, he creaked and groaned sufficiently to make himself immortal. He never mentioned heart problems though.’
‘May I ask if the apothecary was treating him?’ Foxe said. ‘Some people who think themselves ill consume various medicines in large amounts.’
‘I can be quite certain in saying he was not being treated by Mr Craswall,’ Mrs Danson replied. ‘My husband had strange ideas about medicine, as about so much else. He would never have paid for the services of a physician or purchased any medicines from the apothecary; neither for himself nor for me. He preferred to rely on various strange concoctions based on recipes taken from the old books he read. Sometimes he mixed them himself in the kitchen, much to the cook’s annoyance. Most smelled dreadful!’
‘He gave them to you?’ Foxe was appalled by the thought.
‘I can assure you I would have nothing to do with such nonsense. I either managed to collect enough from my pin-money to pay for my own treatment or consulted Mistress Tabby, the Wise Woman. I understand that you know her, Mr Foxe?’
‘Indeed, madam, I do, and hold her in high esteem.’
‘The feeling is mutual. After your previous visit, I sent my maid to ask her what she could tell me about you.’
Seeing the surprise on Foxe’s face, she wagged a finger at him, like a schoolmistress giving a slow pupil a playful rebuke as encouragement.
‘You aren’t the only one who can enquire into people’s backgrounds, as I’m sure you have been doing in my case. Happily, for you, the reply I received from the Wise Woman was quite positive. Had it been the other way, you would have found the door to this house closed firmly against any further entry on your part.’
5
Later the same day, Foxe returned with the greatest reluctance to the matter of the murder at the masquerade ball. He decided to pay a visit to the nearby Theatre Royal — now re-christened “The Grand Music Hall” to avoid sanctions from the authorities. That was thanks to Lord Aylestone’s strident reminders that the venue had neither received an official licence to charge entry to the public to see the plays presented there, nor sought approval from the monarch before styling itself “Royal”. The name change dealt with the latter point. The former was handled by claiming the public were paying only to watch various musical interludes — now grandly entitled “concerts”. The plays were given gratis between the music.
Foxe was an important patron of the theatre, so the manager was delighted to receive him. He remarked that they had not seen enough of him in recent weeks, adding that several of the young, female members of the company were more than eager to make Foxe’s acquaintance.
In the past, Foxe would have been pleased by such a comment. That day, however, it was not to his liking. He replied somewhat stuffily that his time had been much occupied with other matters. He also felt sure the actresses concerned had better things to do than think about him.
The manager, bewildered but swiftly aware that he had made a serious gaffe of some kind, bowed and merely enquired how he could be of assistance.
‘Tell me what you know of Lord Aylestone,’ Foxe demanded gruffly.
‘The poor fellow murdered at the masquerade?’ the manager said. ‘All too much, I’m afraid. Lord Aylestone used to be something of a devotee of the theatre, until he had his heart broken by an actress. She accepted his gifts and led him to believe she doted upon him, then eloped with a sergeant in the militia. Instead of reflecting upon the fickle affections of young ladies, his lordship blamed the theatre, for some incomprehensible reason. He convinced himself her mind had been warped by the need to play heartless jades in certain plays. That and the continual changes of character demanded by taking a variety of roles as the programme demanded.’
‘An odd explanation,’ Foxe observed. ‘Does that particular actress still perform here?’
‘She does not. As I told you, she eloped, and we have not seen her since. I imagine she must have left the stage entirely. It all happened perhaps five or six years ago. Lord Aylestone was maybe fifteen at the time. Sixteen perhaps. The loves and hates of youth tend to be violent, do they not?’
‘And the man she ran away with?’
‘A Welshman, from Pembrokeshire, I believe. Not an actor at all, as I mentioned. Men of that type seduce silly girls wherever they go and leave them behind just as readily.’
Foxe scowled. ‘From what you tell me, the noble lord was becoming eccentric even in his youth,’ he said. ‘Not that he didn’t have legitimate cause for complaint.’
‘Had he stopped at holding such obviously silly beliefs — aimed, I’m sure, at avoiding the need to accept he had never actually engaged her affection — the matter might have been shrugged off. He was hardly the first to suffer such a fate, nor will he be the last. Sadly, he next fell under the influence of a dissenting preacher with strong puritanical ideas. Members of that part
icular preacher’s congregation had already become a decided nuisance. They were always trying to accost people coming to the theatre and handing out pamphlets denouncing plays as works of the devil. With Lord Aylestone now amongst their number, they grew ever bolder. They persuaded him to write to the Lord Chancellor, claiming the theatre was putting on plays in defiance of the law …’
‘Which you were,’ Foxe said drily.
‘Of course, Mr Foxe. As you well know, nearly all the theatres in the land do the same. They get around the law, as we do, by claiming to promote and charge for musical concerts. They just happen to have “dramatic entertainments” provided, entirely gratis, in the course of the evening’s programme. What Lord Aylestone was doing was trying to make the authorities enforce the law in literal terms. If he could do that, the theatre would be closed down and the shareholders fined. All the actors and actresses would also be put out of work. It’s unthinkable!’
‘Did you fight back?’
‘What could we have done? In legal terms, he was correct. We kept our counsel and hoped the authorities would see sense. Fortunately, that proved to be the case.’
‘Did that make Lord Aylestone and the others give up?’ Foxe asked.
‘Far from it. They had scurrilous pamphlets printed, denouncing the theatre as “the source of all evils and abominations” and “the devil’s recruiting ground”. These they tried to hand out to our patrons as they arrived. Our players have been insulted in the street and called harlots and molly-boys. We thought it would finally die down and the bigots find other targets for their bile. Now, I expect, they will be back in double measure.’
‘What did the players themselves think of Lord Aylestone?’
‘Exactly what you might imagine. They invented scabrous names for him and rained down ever more imaginative curses on his head. But actors are usually cheerful and resilient folk, Mr Foxe, as you know. They have to be able to cope with the constant ups and downs of their profession. Of late, they had turned the noble lord into a figure of fun; a bogeyman to be mimicked, not a serious threat to anyone.’
A Sickness in the Soul Page 6
