“And where will Mr. Jefferies go?” inquired Jarrett.
“He’s had a better offer.” Lucy—for he could not help thinking of Mrs. Sugden in that part—had a trick of making the simplest sentence sound suggestive. “He has high ambitions.” The actress laughed, displaying her plump bosom before him in a preening movement.
“He’s played Astley’s, in London, you know,” contributed Mrs. Monk.
“In the old days, when he could hold his liquor,” murmured Greenwood.
“Perhaps you can help me with a wager,” said Jarrett. “The other night, while we were watching your opera, I bet my friend that Jefferies was a Lancastrian. He thought him a Yorkshireman but I think I have the better ear.”
“Jefferies?” Sugden looked puzzled. “Can’t say I know where he was born.” He appealed to his companions.
“Liverpool,” Mrs. Monk frowned thoughtfully. “Yes. He was born in Liverpool; he once told me a story about his boyhood there.”
“So do you win your wager, Mr. Jarrett?” asked Mrs. Sugden in her arch way.
“Perhaps.” Jarrett changed the subject. “Have you been together long? As a company I mean.”
“Our little family?” Sugden surveyed his cast with the air of a complacent papa. “We’ve been together near three years now.” The others nodded and murmured in agreement. “I hesitate to boast, but I don’t believe the company has changed a member of it for more than a twelve-month. We are a happy band.”
“Except for Jefferies of course,” said Greenwood.
“Is he a recent addition?”
“He played a season with us a couple of years ago. He met us again here when we arrived for the fairs. We’ve been up in Newcastle,” the manager replied.
“A successful engagement?”
“Three weeks of decent houses.”
“So Mr. Jefferies rejoined you only for this engagement?” asked Jarrett curiously.
“He was to stay with us for a northern tour, but he has changed his mind.” Mr. Sugden cast a quick glance at Greenwood. His tone turned brisk. “So what can we do for you, Mr. Jarrett? In truth, we were hoping to make a last sally before the fairs are entirely packed up. I spotted a smart jacket with military togs on a second-hand stall. A perfect fit for a lady. The theatrical wardrobe, you know, it must be kept up.” It’s now or never, thought Jarrett to himself. He took the plunge.
“The night my cousin was found murdered,” he began, “your company was playing The Beggar’s Opera.” It was as if a steel rope circled those present and he had tightened it.
“Of course, of course,” murmured Mr. Sugden.
“The performance, as I recall, ended at eleven o’clock, or thereabouts. I was wondering, what did your people do after that?”
“Do?” asked Sugden airily.
“Did you go to your beds?”
“Well, no.” The manager tucked his thumbs in his waistcoat. He seemed to plump up, like a bird under threat. “It may seem odd to those not familiar with our profession but an actor leaves the stage exhilarated,” he expounded. “Even when exhausted by giving one’s all, sleep does not beckon directly.” Out of the corner of his eye Jarrett saw Mrs. Sugden and Greenwood exchange a glance, half impatient, half indulgent. “On Thursday night, however,” continued the manager, oblivious, “our generous patron treated us to a dinner.”
“Justice Raistrick? A dinner?”
“Here. At the Queen’s Head, in Mr. Bedlington’s assembly room.”
“You were all present?”
“The entire company: every one of us down to the call boy.” They all nodded in unison.
“We keep ourselves pretty close in towns like this,” Dick Greenwood explained. “You can never be sure of your reception in out-of-the-way places. You cannot count on a welcome from the natives. If you happen to stray into the wrong tavern there’s always the danger of someone picking a fight. And it detracts from the art, you know, if Romeo must make love with a black eye.”
“So Justice Raistrick entertained you. Did he stay long?”
“Quite late.”
“And when did these festivities end?”
“Oh the early hours,” Mr. Sugden replied off-handedly. “I seem to remember the church tower striking three as we made our way to our beds. Is that not right, my dearest?”
“Sugden always likes to be the last one up,” returned his heart’s delight, dimpling.
“And you?” Jarrett asked Greenwood.
“Will and I carried Jefferies to his room. He was insensible.”
“Around the same time?” Greenwood shrugged.
“Maybe quarter of an hour earlier. I had drunk quite liberally myself.”
“Can anyone outside your company confirm this?”
“Well, there was Jo …” Will Vaughan spoke up from the floor. The others started as if they had forgotten him.
“Jo?” demanded Jarrett.
“A Yorkshire youth,” Mr. Sugden waxed sentimental, “another young spark who rubbed against the flats and smelt the lamps and lost his heart,” he declared, tapping his breast in the region of his heart with blunt, white fingers.
“To our Bess, more like …” murmured Greenwood. Mrs. Sugden flashed him a warning look.
“He spent the night in the wings,” continued Mr. Sugden, ignoring the interruption. “Do you remember his name, my love?”
“Jonas Farr,” replied Mrs. Sugden serenely.
“I beg your pardon?” exclaimed Jarrett.
“A moth gathered to Miss Tallentyre’s flame.” Greenwood’s manner was playful. He seemed to be teasing someone. Jarrett thought of the last time he had laid eyes on Bess, Thursday night at the play; the night Grub died. He saw himself attempting to keep his countenance while she postured and ogled him an arm’s breadth away, making a laughing stock of them both. Mrs. Monk shifted her weight and the wicker hamper creaked in protest.
“This Yorkshireman, Farr—he was with you during the whole performance?” Jarrett pressed.
“Watched from the wings,” repeated the manager, slipping him a curious look. “Was quite helpful, in fact. Lockit’s shoe sprang a seam and he made an excellent repair during one of my exits,” he reminisced, speaking of his part as if the character were a separate entity.
“And Farr remained in attendance throughout the dinner afterward? What time did he leave?” The actors looked at one another.
“Can’t say I noticed,” responded Sugden. “I was entertaining the Justice.”
“And when did the magistrate leave?”
“About midnight.”
“A disappointed man,” chuckled Greenwood. Mrs. Sugden glared at him. Greenwood smiled back. “Like many others, he had hopes of our leading lady,” he explained jauntily.
Bess was playing hard to get, was she? So Raistrick had not bedded her yet. At least there was some satisfaction in that.
“And when did Jonas Farr leave?” Jarrett asked. He had a flash of memory. Miss Lippett’s servant turning up his face as Bess made her entrance on the gallery in the yard outside. Mischief hitched up the corners of Greenwood’s mouth and eyes.
“We-ell,” he began.
“Dick Greenwood!” Bess’s voice rang out. “That’s more than enough from you!” The screen wobbled and folded back upon itself. Her cheeks flushed and arms akimbo, Mr. Sugden’s leading lady confronted her mischievous Macheath. Her eyes slid to Jarrett. She bit her lip.
“La!” she exclaimed, with an exaggerated gesture, as if they were playing a scene from some farce. “We are discovered!”
“Now that’s what I call an entrance,” murmured Dick Greenwood.
Jarrett was staring at the figure that stood a step behind her: a medium-sized young man, dressed in a low-crowned hat and a long-waisted coat.
“Mr. Jarrett,” Miss Lippett’s manservant greeted him.
“Mr. Farr. I’ve been looking for you.”
Jarrett sought some privacy at the back of the barn by the door, where Duffin joined them.
Bess tucked her hand under Jonas’s arm and would not be separated from him. The rest of the company, left behind on the stage, clustered, with their backs turned, around the hamper murmuring to one another. Farr glanced at the woman at his side now and then; a mild astonishment glossed his face, like a man in a dream he did not care to wake up from.
“The magistrate, Colonel Ison, is looking for you, Mr. Farr,” Jarrett said. His breath misted in the cold air between them.
“Looking to arrest me. I know it, Mr. Jarrett. But you must believe me: I am no murderer.”
“Of course he’s not! He never left this inn that night.” Bess tossed her copper curls over her shoulder, holding Jarrett’s eye defiantly. He noticed her squeeze Farr’s arm. “He was with me. All night.”
“All night,” echoed Jarrett. Bess always had had a tender spot for lost dogs.
“All night,” she repeated defiantly. He turned back to Farr.
“Your mistress left the evening’s entertainment early. She had a headache. She did not go to the play but returned home by Quarry Fell. Surely you escorted her?”
“Miss Lippett dismissed me,” he said with an uneasy glance at Bess. “She’d hired a coach. She gave me permission to stay at the play.”
“You are a playgoer?” Jarrett’s manner was skeptical.
“When I can, sir.”
“I did not see you.”
“And yet I was there. They can all vouch for me.” He indicated the actors huddled on the stage.
“And will,” stated Bess violently. Farr flicked a startled look at her then back to Jarrett. “What is it, Captain Fred?” Bess’s voice was sugar sweet. “After all we’ve been to one another, don’t you trust my word?”
“Stay out of this, Bess. This is not one of your games,” Jarrett said low. He had rolled naked with this woman. How could he ever have been so unguarded? She heard the iron in his voice. Her jaw tensed, almost as if she was going to spit at him, then she subsided.
Farr was staring down at the hat he held in his hands. It was of good quality, with a fine glossy nap. It had been well cared for although the shape was a bygone fashion. The cut of the coat, too, was out of style but well made. Jarrett glanced at Duffin.
“These are the clothes the man wore?”
“Aye,” replied the poacher.
“So how do you explain that?” Jarrett asked Farr. “Mr. Duffin here saw a man on Quarry Fell that night not far from where my cousin lay dying. That man wore the clothes you wear. That hat, that coat …”
“That is a lie!” Bess’s face flushed red. “He was with me!” she insisted.
“So you say,” Jarrett threw out dismissively. “But how can you answer that, Mr. Farr?”
“I cannot, but I tell you—”
“Hold on, now,” Duffin interrupted. “Hold a piece.”
“What is it?” snapped Jarrett. The poacher leaned forward. He reached out grimy fingers and pinched the lapel of Farr’s coat.
“Man I saw had his coat buttoned tight. It was a bitter night as you’ll recall. And his sleeves covered half his hands. I saw that from the way he held the lamp. Now look at this young fella here, and look at them sleeves.”
The coat hung open over Farr’s chest. He made no complaint as Jarrett attempted to draw the coat together. It would not button up—and the sleeves were tight. They stopped at his wrists.
“Where did you get these clothes?” Jarrett demanded. The young man met his eye.
“I cannot tell you that, sir,” he replied.
Jarrett thought of Mr. Hilton sitting on the cart bench speaking of old Mr. Lippett, Miss Josephine’s father—He was a well-dressed man. Nothing but the best for him. Everything neat and proper to the day he died. The garments were of a style that had been in fashion thirty years ago. Had someone kept old Mr. Lippett’s clothes?
“Did a friend give them to you? Did you find them?”
“I will not say.” For a young man of twenty he was remarkable in his self-possession. It seemed unshakeable.
“Did you steal them?”
“No!” Jonas Farr lowered his head, as if he bent it before a storm. He did not raise his voice or protest. “I am sorry to disoblige you, Mr. Jarrett,” he said steadily. “I cannot in good conscience say more.”
“Good conscience!” exclaimed Jarrett.
“Only believe me, this suit of clothes has nothing to do with the murder of young Favian,” he said sincerely.
Jarrett frowned at him, perplexed. “You know but you will not tell,” he repeated softly. “Very well. Tell me this—why are you accused of this murder, do you think?”
“I know I am accused, but I do not know why.”
“I’ve heard a lot of things: talk of radicals and insurgency and Luddite plots. What do you say to that?”
“Nothing. I know nothing of such things.”
“I was warned about a Yorkshireman, come from Leeds—a known conspirator.”
“That must be some other man.”
“Is your grandfather not a convicted Jacobin?”
Farr’s open face twisted in a resigned look. He sighed. “He was twice imprisoned for distributing unstamped material,” he conceded. His words followed one another evenly, as if he had repeated himself many times and no longer expected to be believed. The attentive way Jarrett listened gave him courage, and his voice warmed. “It was back at the start of the French wars. My grandfather published works of Thomas Paine and others. A local magistrate was hot against him … They never saw eye to eye.”
Jarrett leaned back in his seat contemplating the sturdy young man wearing his borrowed clothes with his head held high. His life had often depended on his judgment of men. He relied on it. His every instinct told him the youth was honest.
“So you swear to me that you have carried no messages to workers here in Woolbridge?” he asked. “You have administered no illegal oaths, or attended secret meetings, nor otherwise made attempts to promote combinations or dissent against the legitimate authorities?”
“Listen to you!” jeered Bess. “I remember you when—” Farr put his hand over hers a moment. She fell silent. He gave her a sideways, private smile. Poor fool! thought Jarrett fleetingly.
“No sir,” Farr answered. He leaned forward, meeting his eyes directly, his hands on his knees. “I have sung ballads—and I will do so again. But that is not against any law. God created man as a creature of reason—I believe that; and I believe every man, be he pauper or a lord, has the right to inform himself. It is knowledge mends injustice. When men are pushed to riot, it is them that suffer. The high are too mighty and they will not abide it. No.” He paused and took a breath as if such extended exposition was unnatural to him. “Decency cannot exist without law.”
“And if the law is unjust?” asked Jarrett.
“Then I will raise my voice against it, if I can.”
“I have heard you charged with taking part in seditious combinations in Dewsbury.”
Farr snorted. “I was no more than five years old when my family moved from Dewsbury. My grandfather, he belonged to a Friendly Society there and was active in it; it was a charitable association. But that was many a year ago now. We’ve lived in Leeds since then.”
They were quiet. The sun had almost gone. They sat in twilight. Duffin caught Jarrett’s eye and signaled with a jerk of his head. They were expected in Powcher’s Lane. There was a clatter of movement from the stage. Mr. Sugden led his band toward them. He pulled a conciliatory face.
“Not wishing to disturb, but we must get on. There’s packing to be done. The wagons go out tonight, after the fair traffic has died down.” The actors clustered about their leading lady and her protégé. Greenwood stood behind Bess, one hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her own.
“What will you do?” Farr asked Jarrett.
“Do? He’ll let you be,” declared Bess. The actors stared at him defiantly.
Jarrett got up. “Do you go with them?” he asked Farr. Farr nodded. “How do
you plan to get him past the soldiers?” Jarrett asked Bess. “They are searching wagons on the roads out of town.”
It was Greenwood who replied. “We have a false-bottomed trunk—phantasmagoria and other optical illusions …”
“It’s been Dick’s salvation more than once,” Mrs. Sugden chuckled, “when pursued by cuckolded husbands and love-mad spinsters.”
“And this time there’s no reward posted, so no one will be tempted to betray him,” returned Greenwood, meeting her eye significantly. They both laughed.
They were right about there being no reward posted, thought Jarrett. That was odd, given Ison’s apparent determination to pursue his culprit. Either the colonel was uncertain of his ground or too mean to pledge his funds.
Jarrett reached out his hand and Farr took it. A grin transformed Jarrett’s face. An answering one dawned in Farr’s.
“Maybe I shall hear you sing again one day, Mr. Farr.”
“May be so, Mr. Jarrett.” Jonas’s face turned solemn. “And I hope you find your cousin’s murderer. He was a good lad, that Book Boy.”
“Thank you. And I will find the villain. You can be sure of that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dusk filled the alley. The fading sky above blended into the shadow of the walls. Duffin indicated a half-court to the left. They climbed stone steps to a door standing half open to the pale gray light. Through it, lit by a fire burning in the hearth, Jarrett saw a woman sitting at a table with her arm about a young boy. Their heads were bent together, his soft cheek resting against her coarsened one. The woman looked up with laughing, youthful eyes. They darkened warily as they fell on him.
“Mrs. Watson?” Jarrett ventured. “Your son Dickon said we might find him here.”
“You are Mr. Jarrett, then,” she said.
“Yes. And this …” He turned back to Duffin who followed him. Her face lit up.
“I know him,” Mrs. Watson responded. “How are you, Ezekial?”
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