by Deryn Lake
‘Couldn’t he let them have their moment of glory?’ John whispered to Serafina.
‘Obviously not. I told you he was a peacock.’
The act ended with Mrs Delaney alone on the stage, Lucy having given Macheath the keys to Newgate gaol in order that he might escape. Sinking down on the bare boards, the actress sang one of the most moving arias in the entire piece. There was absolute silence in the theatre, even the gallery quiet, as her beautiful voice soared out with the words:
‘I like the Fox shall grieve,
Whose mate hath left her side,
Whom Hounds, from morn to eve
Chase o’er the country wide.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Serafina, and slipped her hand beneath her mask to wipe away a tear.
‘One would almost think she meant it,’ remarked the Comte, obviously also affected.
‘She probably does,’ John answered, and smiled to himself at the way of the world.
It was time for the interval again, but on this occasion nobody left the box except to answer the calls of nature in the Office Houses provided for that purpose. Instead, the Comte de Vignolles and his guests surveyed the audience and in turn were surveyed.
‘There’s David Garrick,’ said Samuel, pointing.
‘Where?’
‘In that stage box high up.’
‘Is that his wife with him or his mistress?’
‘It’s Madame Violetta, of course. He would hardly flaunt his light-o-love in public.’
‘But she’s most certainly here,’ put in Serafina, and gestured towards a box in which the celebrated actress Peg Woffington sat alone.
John, staring from one lovely woman to the other, came to the conclusion that actors must be greedy when it came to matters of love and lust. The company of the dancer, Madame Violetta, Garrick’s lawful wife, would have been quite enough for him without throwing the charming black-haired Miss Woffington in for good measure. Then he took himself to task for being too sober and dull and decided that it was in the nature of mankind to flirt. With this in mind he took Serafina’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘Neither of them is as exquisite as you.’
‘Oh come now,’ she answered, but the Comtesse was smiling behind her mask and he knew that he had pleased her.
‘Are you dallying with my wife?’ asked Louis.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, you are sometimes far too serious for your own good.’ And with that the Comte refilled everyone’s wine glass. ‘Here, we’re going to need this. Mr Harcross is about to wring our withers.’
‘Oh dear!’ said John, and then, just for the briefest second, the strange feeling of fear swept over him once more. Determined to ignore it, the Apothecary concentrated hard as the curtains parted for the last act.
Once again the dismal scene of Newgate revealed itself, but it was not long before there was another of Mr Garrick’s wonders. As the action changed to a gaming house, the barred window was hauled up out of sight and an elegant velvet curtain dropped in its place. The two flats, meanwhile, were unhooked and turned on their casters to reveal a painted representation of a grand saloon with chandeliers. At the same moment the stagehands dashed on at speed carrying with them card tables, cards and dice. A thunderous cheer broke out and Mr Garrick, in his box, winked at his wife. Jasper Harcross appeared in a fine tarnished coat and threw himself into a rendering of Lillibulero, which John considered far too long drawn out.
Greatly to his relief, the scene changed to Peachum’s Lock, a cant word for a warehouse in which stolen goods are received. Unable to do much with such a quick change, David Garrick had merely loaded the set with properties representing booty and directed the actors playing Peachum and Lockit to examine them as they discussed the goods lifted at the coronation of George II in 1727.
It was at this juncture that Mr Garrick dispensed with a theatrical tradition which the Apothecary, having an extremely neat and logical mind, had always thought quite ridiculous. The scene between the two men was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Diana Trapes, the tally woman, a part played at the original performance and ever since by the actress who had taken the role of Mrs Peachum. When he had first heard the opera, John had wondered for a second why Peachum’s wife had come on dressed as someone else, then had seen through the device. But tonight, mercifully, a different woman appeared, a tall thin creature with auburn hair swept up beneath a saucy hat.
‘Why have they done that?’ asked Samuel.
‘Because Mrs Martin is too damned fat,’ answered Louis with Gallic honesty. ‘Nobody could mistake her, were they a mile off.’
‘I wonder if the harpsichordist is her husband,’ John said thoughtfully. ‘Because, if so, he looks mighty small for the job to me.’
This amused the Comte who gave a snort of laughter which fortunately was drowned by the trio singing, ‘In the days of my youth I could bill like a Dove’, during which he recovered himself.
The opera had one more highlight, Lucy’s attempted murder of Polly. In a very funny scene, the wronged and pregnant girl gives her rival a drink laced with ratsbane which, in true theatrical lore, the intended victim refuses to touch. After this the mood became extremely solemn as both young women begged Peachum and Lockit, their respective fathers, to spare Macheath’s life, the highwayman being behind bars yet again, recaptured in bed with one of the whores.
The setting changed once more, this time to the Condemned Hold, where Mr Harcross was discovered in a melancholy posture. To achieve a truly dismal effect, David Garrick had ordered the side flats to be pushed in even further, thus giving the impression of a dark hellhole. As Jasper bemoaned his fate there were cries of sympathy and sobs from the ladies. Well aware of this, the actor turned his best profile to the audience as he brokenly sang the words of his farewell to the world.
For no reason John, who considered Jasper a conceited popinjay, was intensely moved by them and felt his throat constrict. The actor had succeeded in convincing him that, arrogant poser though he might be, he really was staring death in the face and was consequently filled with grief. And this emotion persisted to haunt the Apothecary throughout the scene in which Macheath bade farewell to his friends and his two sweethearts. Then came the last of Mr Garrick’s spectacular effects. The Condemned Hold was rolled outwards and backwards and vanished, whilst wheeled forward, amidst tumultuous applause, came a wooden gallows. This consisted of a box-like shape into which had been built a staircase with a platform above it. Standing on this platform was a post with a noose attached, looking very sinister as its dark outline reared against the lights. There was an audible shudder from the audience. Macheath was to be hanged in full view, it would seem.
In the original production the actual execution had been omitted, probably because of the difficulty of staging such a thing. The condemned highwayman had simply marched out to suffer his fate, then had reappeared triumphantly as the cry of ‘Reprieve’ had gone up. But tonight the onlookers were to get their money’s worth. Every head craned forward as Macheath cried, ‘Tell the Sheriff’s officers I am ready,’ and mounted the wooden steps, accompanied by two gaolers, Lockit, and a priest, to where the hangman awaited him on the platform above, a black mask concealing his face.
Mr Garrick was not stinting with the crowd either. Every character in the piece, including Mrs Peachum, who had not reappeared after the first act, stood at the foot of the gallows to watch the hero die. The actors playing the Player and the Beggar entered surreptitiously from the wings, for it was on their command that the reprieve was called. Then, dramatically, there was a roll of drums from the orchestra. Jasper Harcross, in true heroic style, refused to have his eyes bandaged by the hangman and stood unflinchingly while the rope was put about his neck. Then he stepped forward as the drums continued to roll. Just for a moment the actor appeared frozen in time, or so it seemed to John, and then there was the sickening sound of splintering wood. With a sudden rush, the rope extended to its ful
l length as Jasper Harcross crashed through the planking of the platform and dropped into the centre of the wooden box, his feet kicking wildly. In the terrified and terrible silence that followed, the Apothecary could have sworn he heard the sound of his breaking neck.
Pandemonium broke out. Half the audience, particularly those furthest away, took this dramatic turn of events to be Mr Garrick’s ultimate and greatest theatrical effect and applauded wildly. This encouraged some in the stage boxes, who had seen what had happened distinctly and yet still could not comprehend it, to do likewise. Then, above the cheers, rose the sound of a thin high scream as the masked woman in the box opposite the Comte’s got to her feet then swooned, her limp body falling to the floor like a broken toy.
Almost without knowing what he was doing, John rose from his chair and vaulted over the loge’s parapet onto the stage. Rushing to the wooden contraption inside which Jasper Harcross was hanging, his head and shoulders still visible, swaying slackly from side to side, the Apothecary shouted, ‘Lower him down! For God’s sake lower him down! There might still be a chance.’ Then looking up at the high stage box from which a white-faced David Garrick was staring downwards in horror, John added, ‘You must order the curtains closed, Sir. This event is not for public display.’
Another voice cut in, that of the actor playing the hangman. He had whipped off his mask, beneath which the poor fellow had blanched the colour of chalk. ‘We can’t lower him. There isn’t the mechanism.’
‘Then cut the rope for pity’s sake. Let me tend to him. I am an apothecary.’
Mr Garrick’s famous tones came from above. ‘Do what the fellow says for the love of God. Dick? Where’s Dick?’
‘Here, Sir,’ said one of the shirt-sleeved men whom John had noticed earlier helping to change the set.
‘Get the curtains closed and the poor soul cut down. And clear the stage and send everyone home while you’re about it.’
‘Wait, Sir,’ John called out to Garrick. ‘I don’t think the actors should go, not just yet.’
‘Why not?’ asked Clarice Martin belligerently, between heaving sobs.
‘Just in case,’ answered the Apothecary enigmatically.
And with that warning he hurled his shoulder against the box bearing the gallows and was pleased to hear the planking give. It was hollow inside, constructed round wooden scaffold poles, the whole thing running on concealed casters so that it could be pushed easily round the stage. As he tore at the wood with his bare hands, trying to make a hole big enough to step through, John could glimpse Jasper Harcross’s dangling legs in their high boots, and the very limpness of the way they hung told him the actor was dead. Yet still he strove, until at last the Apothecary was able to squeeze inside and stand within the wooden shell. With a desperate move, he grasped Jasper round the knees in order to take the weight off the poor man’s neck.
Looking up, John could see through the broken platform that Dick was now standing on what was left of it, held by the Hangman so that he did not topple forward. With his left hand he held the rope and in his right a knife, which he was using to hack through the rigging.
‘Is he dead?’ he called down to John, seeing his upturned face.
‘I’m sure he is,’ the Apothecary answered quietly.
‘But how could it happen? The scene worked perfectly at the dress rehearsal.’
‘Perhaps the boards have rotted since.’
‘No, there’s no chance of that. We always use new planking at Drury Lane. Particularly with an effect as dangerous as this one.’ His voice became business-like. ‘The rope’s almost cut through. Do you want someone to help you catch him as he drops?’
‘There’s no room in here. I’ll have to manage on my own. But once he’s down can you get this thing lifted off us? I daren’t move him, you see.’
‘I’ll tell the stagehands to stand by. Now, are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ said John, but he wasn’t, not at all.
He had only been freed from his indentures during the summer of 1754, just past, and all the teachings of his old Master were fresh in his mind. Therefore John Rawlings knew well that to fear the dead was ridiculous, for only the living could harm a mortal man. Yet there was something about the way in which Jasper Harcross crashed into his arms, so heavily and so dead a weight that it sent him flying, that made the Apothecary’s flesh seethe upon his bones. Lying flat on the stage with the dead man on top of him, his blind eyes gazing into John’s own, it was all he could do, trained apothecary or no, to stop himself letting out a cry of pure terror. Yet old instincts die hard. Longing as he was to push the corpse away, John slid out from underneath it as gently as he could, knowing that to disturb the evidence was the very last thing that anyone investigating the death would wish.
There was a great sound of heaving and the box was suddenly lifted up and away. John blinked in the glare of the lights, then began his examination, able to see clearly at last. Very gently turning Jasper Harcross over, he put his hand on the actor’s heart, simultaneously bending low to listen for any sign of breath. Much as he had expected, there was nothing. Steadfastly ignoring the crowd of actors and backstage staff who had gathered round to watch, John delicately eased the noose from the dead man’s neck.
In cases of hanging there were two ways in which an individual could die, the most common being by strangulation. Criminals who met their end at Tyburn all perished by this relatively slow means, having first kicked out the dance of death at the end of the rope. However, it was not unknown for a victim to overcome such an ordeal. Occasionally, when the crowd had dispersed and they were alone, friends of the villain would cut him down and save his life. John had heard of one such highwayman who, only recently, had survived hanging with little more than permanent damage to his vocal cords. Yet, when the victim fell several feet with the noose around his throat, it was an entirely different matter. Such a drop would dislocate the neck and crush the vital centres in the medulla, putting a swift end to life.
Knowing this, the Apothecary, his fingers light as a bird, examined the bones of Jasper Harcross’s neck to gauge their condition. Sure enough, the mass at the base of the skull had broken through its ligament. The actor had died at the moment of his fall through the shattered platform.
John glanced up to see that David Garrick had come onto the stage and was angrily waving away the crowd of onlookers. The great actor-manager crouched down beside him as the Apothecary turned his attention once more to the corpse, closing the staring eyes and looking round for some kind of cloth to put over him.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘But how did it happen?’ asked Garrick, repeating an earlier question of Dick’s.
‘I don’t know,’ John answered grimly. ‘But I intend to find out.’
Straightening up, he walked towards the box bearing the gallows, now standing innocently at the back of the stage. Then before anyone could question his actions he ducked his head and once more stepped inside. The wooden planks which had formed the platform were directly above him, hanging down where they had broken beneath Jasper Harcross’s feet. Carefully, John raised his quizzing glass to examine them. At the top of the break the wood was rough and jagged, like a smashed spar, but underneath, most curiously, it was neat and orderly. Standing on tip-toe, John brought his magnifier to within an inch of the broken planking. Then he gave an exclamation as everything became horribly clear. Very sombre now, he stepped out of the box and addressed himself to the actor-manager.
‘Mr Garrick, can you tell me what has happened to the rest of my party please?’
‘The Comte and Comtesse have returned home, but your friend Mr Swann insisted upon remaining. He said he might be required to help.’ David Garrick assumed a stern and somewhat officious face. ‘Now, if you’d be so good, I’d be obliged if you would kindly tell me what you are doing, Sir. I would have thought you to have stepped outside your province as an apothecary, if I may say so.’
/> ‘You are right of course,’ John answered shortly. ‘But the fact of the matter is I have now adopted my other role.’
‘Which is?’
‘To act from time to time as one of Mr Fielding’s Runners. And in that capacity, Mr Garrick, I would indeed like to call upon the assistance of Samuel Swann.’
‘To do what?’
‘To go to Bow Street and ask for one of their representatives to come here immediately.’
‘Are you saying that Mr Harcross has met with foul play?’ asked Garrick, bolt-eyed.
John nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, I believe so. As far as I can see, and I am certain Dick will confirm this, the platform upon which the poor wretch tried to stand was deliberately sawn through. In short, Mr Garrick, we are not dealing with a case of accidental death after all.’
‘You can’t mean Jasper was murdered!’ said an unidentifiable female voice.
‘I’m afraid,’ answered John, turning to face the group of actors, who still stood huddled upon the stage, ‘that that is precisely what I do mean.’
Chapter Three
It was the proud boast of Mr John Fielding, Principal Magistrate of the lawless town of London, that he could despatch a set of Brave Fellows in pursuit of a criminal to any part of the metropolis, or even the kingdom, at a quarter of an hour’s notice. Indeed, so confident had he been of this claim that a month earlier, on 17 October, 1754, the Blind Beak had promoted this service in the Public Advertiser, ending with the words, ‘It is to be hoped, that the late success of this plan will make all persons for the future industrious to give the earliest notice possible of all robberies and robbers whatever’. His November advertisement had amended the wording to ‘crimes and criminals’. More aware than most of John Fielding’s power, Samuel Swann, at John Rawlings’s behest, had gladly sprinted the short distance between Drury Lane and Bow Street to seek the great man’s help. Just before his friend left the theatre, the Apothecary had scribbled a note. It simply said, ‘It seems that our paths are fated to cross once more, my very dear Sir. Last night, it being past midnight as I write this, there was a fatality on stage during a performance of The Beggar’s Opera. Jasper Harcross, playing the part of Macheath, met his death in highly suspicious circumstances. I will guard the evidence until your Runners come. Meanwhile, I have been forced to indulge in the small falsehood that I, too, am one of your men, though on an ad hoc basis. This was to silence David Garrick who had the air about him that he might throw me out on my ear. Your servant …’ And he had appended his signature.
