A Sickness in the Soul

by William Savage

  ‘Is that what happened?’ she said.

  ‘I am sure of it,’ Foxe replied. ‘Nothing else makes sense.’

  At once Mrs Crombie forgot her anger and began to feel excited. ‘But you have no proof?’ she said. ‘Nothing to back up your belief?’

  ‘Not a shred.’

  ‘What of the captain or sergeant or whatever he was? The one who stole Lord Aylestone’s love? Didn’t he say he’d seen him at the ball and was going to give him a good hiding? Might that man not have killed him in fighting back?’

  ‘I suppose it’s still possible,’ Foxe admitted grudgingly, ‘but it’s all too vague for me. No one admits to seeing this person. Nor did anyone hear any argument or fight. Surely some kind of struggle would have taken place. At the very least, they must have shouted at one another. You don’t confront someone and start a quarrel which ends in the death of one of you, while keeping your voices down and making no noise. No, I’m sure it had to be as I said. Aylestone was killed by someone who was present that evening, then went away and returned later.’

  ‘And no one saw this man. Was it a man?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. A man and alone. I’m sure someone must have seen him. The most likely reason no one has spoken of it is that they have not been asked. That and the likelihood they would have been convinced it was someone else. The murderer, you see, relied on convincing everyone he’d either left long before or never left at all.’

  ‘Which of those do you think is true?’ Mrs Crombie asked. She was struggling to follow Foxe’s reasoning. He had been thinking about this for many days. She had only just been presented with the possibility.

  ‘I favour the idea that the killer had been seen leaving earlier. No one would suspect him, since all believed he was long gone. In fact, if I’m right, he came back.’

  ‘Why don’t you question the servants who might have been about the entrance at the time?’ Mrs Crombie said. ‘If anyone returned, they would surely think it was odd at such a late stage in the evening.’

  ‘Not necessarily. They might have thought it was a servant coming to fetch their master in the coach. There are few places to leave coaches about the door to the Assembly House. Most people send them away and tell the coachman to return at a certain hour to collect them again.’

  ‘So, this man came in, killed Lord Aylestone, and left again. All without drawing attention to himself.’

  ‘Possibly. That must be the case, so long as you accept Aylestone was seen alive when everyone says they saw him.’

  ‘How could so many people be mistaken?’ Mrs Crombie protested. ‘They knew what they saw and will be willing to swear to it.’

  ‘They knew what they thought they saw, Mrs Crombie. What if our man crept in, dressed to impersonate Aylestone? The person so many saw peering into the hall would then have been him, not Aylestone. The murder could have taken place earlier, just as the unknown doctor who first saw the body said.’

  ‘But Lord Aylestone’s costume was distinctive,’ she protested. ‘Everyone said that.’

  ‘Distinctive, yes. Unique — no. You see, it was made as an exact copy of one held in the storeroom of the theatre. I’ve spoken to the person who made it.’

  ‘I am bemused,’ Mrs Crombie said. ‘This man killed Lord Aylestone earlier that evening, hid the body and left. Somewhere, he got hold of a costume matching the one worn by Lord Aylestone …’

  ‘Not somewhere,’ Foxe interrupted. ‘From the theatre. The original on which Aylestone’s costume was based.’

  ‘Very well, but I thought you told me the place was locked up.’

  ‘It was. Never mind that for the moment. Go on with your reconstruction.’

  ‘The killer returns in the Harlequin costume … no, stop. Anyone at the door would have seen him wearing it and wondered, when Lord Aylestone had already left, why he was returning.’

  ‘Our man would have hidden the costume under his cloak. If it was noticed, at a swift glance, a costume under a cloak might be mistaken for livery. Servants are invisible on such occasions. All eyes are on their masters and mistresses. The lateness of the hour practically guaranteed much coming and going of servants and coachmen. Those at the door might easily have failed to notice anything.’

  ‘The man’s mask?’

  ‘Kept out of sight under his cloak and assumed once inside. Plenty of corners and unused rooms in the place where it could be done.’

  ‘He would have been cloaked, you say?’

  ‘Assuredly. He needed to conceal the costume until it was needed.’

  ‘The hat, then!’ Mrs Crombie said in triumph. She was not going to let Foxe’s wild idea carry her away without a struggle. ‘Wasn’t the hat for the costume also distinctive? You couldn’t hide that so easily.’

  ‘Why not? Much can be hidden under a cloak — including a suitable weapon!’

  ‘I can’t believe no one would have noticed if a man came in wearing a sword,’ Mrs Crombie said. ‘No servant wears a sword.’

  ‘I agree,’ Foxe said. ‘He couldn’t have brought a sword, nor was one used. The weapon which killed Lord Aylestone was under him when he was found. A dagger . . . a very oddly shaped dagger . . . large hilt, small, insignificant blade . . . more like a penknife. Yes . . . Why didn’t he bring a better weapon?’

  Wherever Foxe’s mind was now, it was far, far away from the bookshop. Mrs Crombie kept quiet and waited.

  ‘Because it wasn’t needed! That’s why!’ Foxe cried out. ‘Surprised at the state of the body . . . our missing physician . . . what did he come back for then? To hide what he had done? Too late for that . . . already done . . . an alibi . . .’

  At that point, Charlie burst into the shop, breaking the spell.

  ‘Master! Listen! Two of the street children just called me to the back gate. They say they saw a man wrapped in a cloak coming late to the Assembly Hall on the night that toff was killed.’

  ‘When?’ Foxe snapped.

  ‘The clock in St Peter Mancroft ’ad rung out midnight not long afore. That’s what they said.’

  ‘They’re sure he went to the Assembly House?’

  ‘Quite sure, master. They was ’anging about outside, ’oping to cadge a few coppers off of the drunken gentry as they left.’

  Charlie’s newly-acquired politeness of speech had deserted him in his excitement.

  ‘Why did they notice this fellow in particular? There must have been several servants arriving about then to collect their masters. He could have been one of those.’

  ‘They says the bloke were trying to keep to the shadows, as if he wanted to avoid being seen. Friggin’ furtive, they called ’im.’

  ‘Charlie!’ Mrs Crombie scolded. ‘Language!’

  She was ignored.

  ‘I was right!’ Foxe said quietly. ‘I knew I had to be.’

  He turned back to Charlie and asked another question.

  ‘Can they describe this man, boy? Where are they? I’ll go and speak to them on the instant.’

  ‘They’ve gone, Master. An’ the answer to yer question is they couldn’t, beyond saying as it were a man.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too dark, too far away. ’Sides, ’e were keepin’ to the shadows as I said. All muffled up an’ ’ead down. ’E even had the ’ood o’ the cloak pulled up to ’ide ’is face, like.’

  ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Foxe pulled himself up sharply. ‘My apologies, Mrs Crombie, only it’s so frustrating. This proves I was correct in reasoning someone must have returned that night. He was muffling himself up not just to hide his identity — which it seems he did most successfully — but to hide the costume he was wearing until he got inside. Then he would have wanted everyone to see it.’

  ‘Was this costume the one identical to the costume Lord Aylestone was wearing that night?’ Mrs Crombie asked. ‘Was this murder planned far in advance, knowing what Lord Aylestone would be wearing?’

  ‘I’m certain it was not,’ Foxe said, ‘Is there a performance at the
theatre this evening, do you know?’

  ‘Nobody has talked of such an event. I did hear from several customers that one is to take place there tomorrow,’ Mrs Crombie replied, mystified once again by Foxe’s sudden change of direction. ‘There is also to be a rout at the Assembly House tomorrow evening, I believe. I assumed you were attending.’

  ‘No time,’ Foxe said. ‘A rout you say? Excellent. The theatre staff will all be present and so will most of the people at the Assembly House. Preparations . . . rehearsals . . . is there time? Yes, just. Charlie, go through to the kitchen and tell the cook I shall be late for dinner tonight.’

  Then he vanished to get his coat and was out through the door moments later.

  Foxe had gone to the theatre. As expected, the place was a hive of activity. Fresh scenery was being erected for the upcoming production. Men were moving to and fro, carrying parts of painted backdrops and the various other items that would be needed the next day. Those not on stage at the start had to be placed somewhere convenient behind the stage or in the wings, so they could be found swiftly when they were needed. Ropes were being lowered and raised from the flies to lift unwanted backdrops out of the way and lower others. The air was full of dust. The noise was appalling. Shouting, cursing, the squeaking of pulleys and stamping of feet; to say nothing of the din made by the hammering and sawing of the theatre carpenters as parts of the scenery were adjusted. Visiting companies usually provided their own scenery and costumes. This was to be a local production by the Norwich Company of Comedians. A good deal of scenery was stored and brought out when needed, but it was always having to be adjusted to suit the many different programs the public demanded.

  In the midst of all the noise and chaos, some of the company were on stage. This was their last chance to run through those parts of the production that were proving especially difficult for them to get right. Now they were being shouted at by the actor-manager of the troupe when someone stumbled over a line or moved to the wrong part of the stage.

  Foxe retreated swiftly backstage, away from the noise, where he sought out Mrs Vickers, the wardrobe mistress.

  Her small workroom was a good deal quieter but a little less cluttered. Piles of costumes lay on all sides. She and her assistants were checking them to see if they needed any last-minute repairs. There might also be stains which needed to be cleaned away.

  ‘I won’t interrupt you for long,’ Foxe assured her. ‘I just need to see the theatre’s version of the Harlequin costume you made for Lord Aylestone. I’ve heard a great deal about it from others, but I’ll feel easier in my mind if I can compare what I’ve been told with the original thing.’

  Several of the woman’s assistants looked up hopefully, doubtless hoping to escape the drudgery of stitching up torn hems and gaping seams for a few minutes. They were disappointed.

  ‘I’ll get it for you myself, Mr Foxe. I know where it is. These lazy girls would make going an excuse to linger and make eyes at the lads they met along the way. Then they’d come back and claim they couldn’t find what they were seeking, just to be sent a second time.’

  However, it was Mrs Vickers who took some time to return. Foxe was starting to wonder if she too had a sweetheart amongst the other theatre servants whose company she preferred to his. Eventually, after some fifteen minutes, she came bustling back, her face red and angry.

  ‘It wasn’t where it ought to have been, Mr Foxe. Someone must have moved it. Messing with my arrangements! I’ll have the hide off the back of whoever meddles with the costumes in such a way!’

  She glared furiously at the girls about her, so that they all bent over their work in haste. ‘It wasn’t hung up properly either.’

  ‘It’s not been out of the theatre since you saw it last?’ Foxe said.

  ‘It better not have been! Anyone who dares to take one of the costumes without my permission will be on the street faster than they can speak my name!’

  Another ferocious glare at the girls about her.

  ‘Remember that!’

  ‘I’m sure you take care of the costumes with every attention, Mrs Vickers,’ Foxe said in his most soothing tones. He’d already discovered what he needed to know, but he’d better make certain.

  ‘Do any of the theatre’s patrons know about the range of costumes kept here? Anyone asked to see one or more of them recently?’

  ‘No one, save yourself, Mr Foxe. Though I’m sure anybody who’s knowledgeable about theatre matters would know we keep many costumes here, certainly anyone who’s a member of the board of directors. Not so many would know where to find them or which particular costumes are in storage. Only myself, these worthless girls, the dressers and the actors, of course. They would know exactly which costumes the theatre owned and kept. Most of the visiting troupes bring their own costumes. They’re always kept separate from ours and taken away when the visiting troupe leaves. Sometimes we borrow costumes from another theatre on the circuit and they from us, but I always keep a careful tally. It’s expensive to replace costumes, Mr Foxe. The manager would soon be at my door if I couldn’t account for every penny I spend.’

  Foxe inspected the costume carefully but could find nothing wrong with it. No stains, rips or tears. If it had been worn to commit Aylestone’s murder, there was a good chance it would have been stained with blood, yet he could find none. Wanting to be certain, he once again asked the wardrobe mistress to confirm that Mr Bewell had borrowed a costume for the masquerade ball.

  ‘Lord bless you, sir! Both he and Miss Marsh did. I dressed them up as shepherd and shepherdess. Very handsome they looked too. Miss Marsh is a pretty lady, Mr Foxe. She has just the face for a country maiden. You know, the kind who doesn’t realise how lovely she is until the hero has her dressed up in fine clothes, instead of rags. Good costumes they were too. We use them quite often for characters in bucolic dramas.’

  ‘Those costumes were returned in good order?’ Foxe said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Miss Marsh returned her costume the very next morning. Most upset she was too about the way she’d been abused by that Lord Whatever-His-Name. Mr Bewell forgot his, he said. In fact, he didn’t return it for several days. It was all an excuse, as I very well knew at the time. When he did bring it back, I looked it over and, sure enough, he’d got something on the sleeve of the shirt and tried to clean it off himself. When I asked him, he said it was wine, but that weren’t true. Blood it was. Not so much, but it was there. I soon got it off, off course. Cold water you need for bloodstains, Mr Foxe. Soaking in cold water.’

  ‘You didn’t mention this when I asked you about the return of costumes before.’

  The woman hung her head. ‘I forgot,’ she said.

  ‘Is Mr Bewell in the theatre now do you know?’

  ‘He is right enough, Mr Foxe. Probably on stage, trying to run through his part. He’s to play the leading role in tomorrow’s production. First time in the lead! The dear young man’s so proud!’

  Foxe smiled. ‘He’ll not want to be bothered with me then,’ he said. ‘Not today. He’s part of the company, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I can find him at another, more convenient time. Oh, just one more thing. This dagger and sheath are part of the costume?’

  ‘Just for the look of it, Mr Foxe. Harlequins don’t usually kill anyone on stage. Still, to be on the safe side, I always put a trick dagger in that sheath. You know. One with a short, wooden blade that fits up into the handle. Paint it silver and it looks like the real thing from far enough away. The sheath’s too long for the blade in it, just to make it look as if it’s holding a real dagger.’

  Foxe had no more questions. As he left the theatre he was torn between satisfaction and regret. The case was just about sound enough, he supposed. Only circumstantial evidence, but it would have to do. Still, he’d let Bewell have his moment of glory on stage the next night. He deserved that.

  In the meantime, it was time to turn his attention once more to the other two deaths. Hallo
ran and the mayor would have to wait another day for relief from being pestered by Viscount Penngrove.

  12

  Three days had passed since Foxe left the encrypted letter from Danson’s library in the custody of Mr Lavender, the cathedral librarian. It was high time to discover if his friend had been able to make any progress with deciphering its contents.

  With this intention, Foxe set out immediately after breakfast to walk to Cathedral Close and visit the man again. It was a fine morning, though with a stiff breeze blowing as so often is the case in Norwich. Just the time for a brisk walk down through the market to Tombland and the cathedral. Foxe always enjoyed the sights and sounds of the stallholders, many of whom would have been up since dawn getting their stalls ready for what they hoped would be a busy day. Not the smells, though. Fortunately, the wind was blowing much of the reek from the fish market in the other direction. The stench of blood, offal and dung from the beasts in the meat market could not be avoided so easily. Nor could the frantic bellowing of cattle and the squealing of pigs as they saw others falling before the poleaxes of the slaughterers.

  Thankfully, he was soon past the market and heading down the hill towards the quietness of the precincts of the cathedral. Much of Tombland was occupied by substantial houses, set either side of the road from the north. Good, solid buildings mostly occupied by families of whom the same things could be said. Then he was into the Close itself; a world within a world, one tied more to the rhythms of the ecclesiastical year than the secular one outside its gates.

  He found Mr Lavender busy repairing a book, which looked as if it had been violently attacked by some deranged critic of its contents. The covers had been torn away from the spine. The title page was torn nearly in half, and two at least of the signatures within the page block itself had been wrenched from their proper places. The librarian was close to tearing his hair out.

  ‘I can hardly deny the Archdeacon the facility to borrow books, however much I’d like to,’ he said to Foxe. ‘Unfortunately, he’s becoming increasingly vague and absent-minded in his habits. He also has several large dogs, whom he treats more like sons than animals. He even allows them to wander where they will in his house! Look what they have done to this volume! Bite-marks on the covers, pages torn, several of the groups of pages — the signatures, which are bound together to make up the text part as a whole — ripped from the spine. It’s going to take me days to make good the damage. Days!’