‘It must be getting quite crowded in there.’
‘And there’s still the rest of Traddles around somewhere waiting to get in,’ said Mearns with grim humour.
‘I feel a bit nervous, Sir.’
‘We’ve been in worse places, Sergeant.’
‘It’s not myself I’m worried about … It’s Mindy. Felix was probably going to walk her home, but now he’s bound to stay for a bit and Mindy will have to see herself back to the Castle.’ He fixed the Major with his knowing eyes. ‘Don’t like to think of her doing that.’
Mearns passed over knowingness; it never paid to let Denny feel how clever he was (although in his mind Mearns acknowledged that Denny was exceedingly sharp – which was why he valued working with him). So yes, Denny had noticed how the Major’s feelings for Mindy had grown into love.
For that matter, Mearns knew one or two things about Denny that he did not talk about. Denny certainly had a wife in Cripplegate, but he also had one in Winchester, and probably another in Worcester, and another in Widness – all places where his army life had taken him. Mearns wondered if he had always taken care that none of his wives could write so they could not pester him.
But no, that was too devious for Denny. In his own way he played a straight game. And after all, thought Mearns, perhaps they had been glad to lose Denny. He remembered Denny’s relief when he met an early romance in Windsor, now a plump commanding school virago.
‘Well, Mindy hasn’t gone,’ said the Major, looking across the stage. ‘She’s still here. I reckon she wanted to know who was dead. We’ll walk her home together and tell her what we know.’ Which wasn’t much, he thought.
‘She’ll be safe enough in the Castle,’ assured Denny, giving Mearns another knowing look.
‘Safe enough from me?’ thought Mearns. ‘What the hell does the beggar mean?’ Denny always meant something by his looks.
‘There’s one in the Castle who’s been seen looking at Mindy.’
‘She’s a handsome woman,’ said Major Mearns.
‘Aye, and this is one who knows it.’
‘Yes,’ thought Mearns, ‘me too.’
They were walking towards Mindy, who had seen them coming and was smiling.
‘And this one is hard to deny.’ This was Denny again.
By now they had caught up with Mindy.
‘I don’t want to stay,’ she told them. ‘Let’s walk up the hill together, please.’ She was always polite.
‘I came with Felix but he …’ she shook her head, ‘he can’t leave yet.’
The Major nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Felix sent a message back to me; a poor soul has been strangled. He didn’t say more, but all around people were saying it was a woman called Dol. Mr Pickettwick says so.’
‘How did he know?’
‘The boy Charlie told him.’
‘Oh, he’d know all right,’ said Denny. ‘Can’t keep anything from that one. Not anything he wants to know anyway.’
‘Denny doesn’t like Charlie,’ announced Mearns.
‘Oh, I do like him; he’s a taking lad. But he frightens me …he looks through me. Like he could see a joke the other side.’
As Denny had aged, so his voice had got deeper and more uneven; he was a great smoker of a large pipe, which had probably contributed to this. But as well as deepening, so his voice had become gruffer.
‘Oh, you’re barking,’ said Mindy with amusement.
‘Like a dog, he can do that!’ Mearns smiled.
‘A nice little terrier, though, Denny,’ said his friend Mindy – ever anxious not to hurt his feelings.
Charlie watched the Major and Denny leave with some wistfulness. He liked Miss Fairface and he enjoyed the atmosphere of the Theatre, but he also felt drawn to the Major and his Sergeant. They were men. He knew this was what he would be one day, but he had not quite got there yet.
Now Charlie had something important to consider: just how safe was it in the Theatre? There had been one murder, perhaps there would be more. He knew it depended on the nature of the killer and his reason for killing.
Charlie had lived and worked in a rough part of London by the river where he had seen violence, and heard of much more, so he was informed about death. He remembered one old fellow he met in the house where he lodged in London saying that there was never just one murder; another always followed, and perhaps another still. ‘Remember what I tell you boy,’ the old man had said, ‘and it may save your life one day.’ Even if Charlie did not believe all the old chap had said, and on the whole he did not, he remembered those particular words. So he told himself perhaps he should be wary in the Theatre. And he had another reason for unease: he thought he might know who the killer was.
He stood watching as the Major, Denny and Mindy walked out of sight, and then he turned back to what he was beginning to think might be a dangerous sanctuary.
‘I know what I’ll do,’ Charlie said to himself, ‘I’ll write it down. Make a story out of it. Then I might show it to someone.’
As Mindy and her escorts approached the Castle, Denny looked up. The first set of windows he saw belonged to Princess Augusta, and next to those were the rooms of Princess Amelia. The two sisters were close in age, unmarried still, and not likely to marry now. The old King, their father, had not encouraged them to think of husbands. They kept themselves old-fashioned in clothes and manner, wearing the hoops and ruffles that the smart ladies of the ‘ton’ had long since abandoned. They knew they were out of date, but considered that they looked as princesses should.
A few yards further on, and the lights showed behind the silken curtains of His Majesty’s suite.
‘Wonder how he is,’ said the Major, looking up.
‘Well, I believe I saw him yesterday,’ said Mindy, ‘and he bowed at me.’
‘Smiled at you too, did he?’ barked Denny. ‘And blew you a kiss?’
‘No,’ said Mindy indignantly, ‘of course not! He is the King. He just bowed his head. He remembers me from my work with Miss Burney; he was always fond of her.’
At the end of the corridor Princess Amelia appeared. She held a hand out to Mindy. The Princesses too had loved Miss Burney, so that now they had transferred the affection to Mindy. But this had its exacting side, as now she wanted to speak to Mindy and, being a Princess, she wanted a response at once. With a muttered ‘goodbye’ Mindy went to her.
‘And not only Miss Burney did the King like,’ thought Denny; a mad king and now a drunken rake for a king. He shook his head. ‘But then they were all Germans, not a drop of English blood in them.’
Then he remembered the arrival of the Germans at the Battle of Waterloo, and how well they had fought after their forced march, and the relief it had been to all, including himself and the Major.
‘So we were grateful for Blucher,’ he conceded to himself. ‘Of course Napoleon must have felt less pleased. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Germans we might all be French by now!’ Denny grinned. ‘Not a chance; Napoleon had to go down so we could have our mad king, and our drunk one.’
‘What are you grinning at?’ demanded the Major.
‘Just life, nothing more.’ As if that wasn’t enough.
‘I was thinking about death,’ said the Major.
‘We’ve had a bit of that around,’ admitted Denny.
‘I’d like to get someone inside the Unit,’ said Mearns. ‘Find out how it works. Check on Felix’s progress.’ He looked speculatively at Denny. ‘You might be able to do it.’
Denny shook his head. ‘Not me.’
‘Tosser could do it. He’ll be helping the Unit anyway on account of holding the dead body.’
‘He’s got a bit of Traddles that he might see fit to mention,’ warned Denny.
‘We’ll have to do something about that.’
‘Like finding the rest of Traddles?’
‘Something like that.’
‘The best person to get inside the Unit is you,’ said Denny, ‘no one better
, and Felix would take it as a compliment.’
‘You think so?’
‘Do it the right way; ask it as a favour, and yes.’
It was probably true that Felix wanted to get a foothold inside the Castle – be known as a useful man in Royal circles.
‘The big problem for us,’ said Mearns, ‘is Traddles. Where is the rest of his body? Why are only bits of him being sent to us? Of course, Dol’s murder might have nothing to do with Traddles’ death, but for now we have to consider that they might be connected. How did she come to be in the playhouse? What did the look mean that Miss Fairface cast on Beau? What is the reason for the killing? And who is behind it?’
‘Watch yourself,’ said Denny uneasily.
The light from the Royal window shone down on the two soldiers as they passed by. Inside the Castle, His Majesty – a late riser, day and night seeming alike to him – was being helped into his silken dressing gown, a rumpled bed hung with brocade behind him, while he considered what he should wear for that evening’s entertainment with the lady of the moment. Lady Jersey was no longer prime beloved; nor Mrs Fitzherbert. But their memories hung around, like the others …
The silk of his gown came from China, its execution was French. Peace with France made such luxuries possible. The silk was blue with deeper blue stripes, with embroidered flowers lurking in the shadows between the stripes. The King’s favourite scent of jasmine and rose hung in the bedroom.
His two dressers, both men of some muscle as His Majesty was putting on weight, put a hand under each elbow and helped him to the door, out of the bedroom and into his large, well-lit dressing room, which was also a beautifully appointed sitting room.
While he was the Prince of Wales, and then Prince Regent as his father’s health grew worse, he had bought fine furniture – some antiques, some made especially for him. He had exquisite pieces of furniture made by French cabinet makers; he had developed and indulged in a love of Chinoiserie. His suite of rooms in the Castle was so sumptuous, so rich in their decoration (this was only one of his homes) that there had been riots in the streets because of his debts.
And as King, George was no less extravagant.
The dressers helped him to a chair by a small round table, just as another manservant appeared with a tray of coffee. Timing is all-important in Royal circles.
King George leaned back in his chair. ‘Those roses are the wrong shade of yellow,’ he said petulantly. ‘Get them changed. More white in the yellow, and not so much red.’ One dresser picked up the bowl of roses and, with a bow, departed. The man who had brought in the coffee poured it from the silver pot into a delicate china cup, then he too bowed and departed. The third stood there until the King waved him away.
The Royal manners were usually good; gentle and polite to everyone, but they lapsed on occasion. Early morning, after a night with too much claret, was a bad time. ‘Early morning’ with King George often meant, as now, eight o’clock or later in what was the evening for most of his subjects.
His Majesty drank his coffee, then picked up the delicate silver hand bell on his tray.
John, his top dresser, came in bearing a pile of newspapers. The King received them with pleasure. ‘Anything interesting, John?’
‘Not in the papers, Your Majesty.’
‘You are a great news bucket, John, so what is there?’
‘A murder in the Theatre tonight … You might have been there yourself, Your Majesty. You did say you’d go up.’
The old King George III had been a true admirer of the Theatre in Windsor; he went often and usually insisted on his family accompanying him. The present Majesty tried to keep up the habit; although he was more sophisticated than his father, he still went when there was a particular favourite of his performing.
Miss Fairface was so pretty and beguiling that a visit to see her play, either here or in London, often took place.
‘Not when I discovered it was that Scottish play …don’t care to see a King murdered.’
‘And you were very drunk, and Lady Webberly was with you. Drunk also. Her ladyship has departed, if that is of interest to you, Sir.’
‘Who was the victim?’ He was interested – or half interested at least.
‘A woman, Your Majesty.’
‘Not Miss Fairface, I trust?’
‘No one you would know, Your Majesty. A woman of the town called Dol.’
Into the pause, the King spoke sadly: ‘Doll Tearsheet, perhaps?’
‘I don’t think so, Sir.’ John was puzzled.
The King rose and walked to the window; he drew back the heavy silk which covered the pane. Through the glass he could see that the Great Park lay bathed in moonlight. ‘Get me some claret, John.’
John bowed and departed, shaking his head. Outside in the antechamber, he met the other two dressers.
‘Is it the black jacket or the deep red to lay out?’ asked one, a pair of dark narrow trousers hanging over one arm. The King’s former love of rich brocades and silks had been changed by Beau Brummell into a quieter elegance.
John shrugged. ‘Leave it.’
‘How is he then?’
‘Bad,’ said John, ‘very bad. He asked for news and I told him about Dol’s killing. He didn’t like what he heard.’
‘But did he know her?’
‘I don’t think he knew her; he has the pick from the top of the pile – which poor Dol wasn’t, as we all know – but I think any drawing near of death disturbs him.’
He knew, as did the other men, although it was never to be touched on, that this King had inherited more than a crown from his father.
I have been — between ourselves — very ill indeed, the King had written to the Countess of Elgin, and it is little known how ill I have been. He gave her no details.
He had to pretend, to act a lie, even when he felt mortally ill; for had not the Duke of Cumberland spread a lie that he was mad?
Mad?
But, of course, it was known.
At Court people knew or guessed. It was inevitable that the word should spread around at Windsor, from the highest to the low. But it was risky to whisper the word ‘madness’.
‘Keep a still tongue in your head about it,’ John warned his fellow dressers. ‘For I swear I think he will kill anyone who speaks out of turn.’
Or have them killed.
Chapter Five
That evening, over several glasses of mulled burgundy (by courtesy of the unknowing but generous King), it was decided that the Major should go down the hill to the Unit, making some excuse which he could surely think up, and have a good look round.
He knew where the Unit was housed; he had made earlier enquiries and it had not been difficult getting the address. Gracious Street, which lay towards the little town of Egham, was not one of the more prosperous or grander streets of Windsor; but nowhere in this Royal town was really poor, so the small houses of Gracious Street were well cared for.
The Unit rented a room at Number Seven.
‘Do you know the landlady’s name?’ asked Denny.
‘I do. She’s Mrs Brewer,’ answered the Major.
‘Brewer is it?’ said Denny. ‘She were Brown once,’ he said reminiscently, ‘besides various other names.’
‘Like that, is it?’
Denny shrugged. ‘I daresay she might have known Dol. Not saying for sure because I don’t know for sure. But that’s all in the past. Or I daresay it is,’ he finished, hedging his bets. ‘Now she’s got Felix in the house it would be better if so,’ he ended.
‘You’re a well of interesting knowledge, Sergeant, or should I say sink? I must remember that.’ But he spoke amiably; he had known for years the sort Denny was – indeed, what he was had made him more useful.
‘Perhaps I should send you down to Gracious Street after all!’
Denny grinned. ‘I haven’t seen her for years, and she didn’t live in Gracious Street when I knew her.’
‘Don’t go on.’
‘I
think they knocked down where she did live, turned it into a hospital.’
‘I’ll get down there in the morning,’ Mearns said. ‘Do you know how they are getting on?’
Denny did. ‘Felix has three helpers, all old soldiers, including John Farmer, who might be useful. Brewer would like them; she always had a turn for soldiers. They go out and walk the town while he stays inside, unless one of them comes back with a tale to bring him out. But sometimes he just goes out – when they’re not expecting it, like.’
‘To check up.’
Denny nodded. ‘It’s what I’d do. You too, I daresay.’ Thoughtfully, the Major said: ‘I’ll go to Gracious Street first. Early. Talk to Felix if he’s there and then take a walk round the town myself.’
‘I could do that part for you,’ Denny offered.
‘No, you stay here. In case another bit or two of Traddles turns up.’
‘Wonder if Mindy’s been down there for a look?’
‘It wouldn’t interest her.’
‘No, you’re quite right …that’s not what interests her.’
The Major bit back the retort that came to mind, while resisting the temptation to give Denny a sharp kick. Instead he said: ‘So I’ll be off early tomorrow. Shall I give your love to Mrs Brewer?’
‘She’d never remember me, Major. And you don’t think I let her know my real name?’
‘As long as you use it to me, Denny.’ He looked into his glass. ‘Another glass of burgundy, please. I don’t think His Majesty would grudge us it.’
‘No, he’s a generous man,’ said Denny, his speech slurring slowly. ‘A gentleman.’
The definition of what made a gentleman, indeed the very idea, had been changing slowly over the last few decades. Certainly not a knight in armour; more a man who had a feeling of respect towards those lower in the social scale. The Major’s view on what made a gentleman was one who looked after his men, and cared for them in the battle – and after it – as well as he could. And who would see that their wounds, lodgings and victuals were taken care of before his own.
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