by Deryn Lake
‘Steady now! Breathe deeply. Whatever he did is not worth upsetting yourself about to this extent,’ he said gently.
Once again, the actress fought for restraint and found it somewhere in the depths of her being. Wiping away tears with the back of her hand, she stood up, her face ravaged and streaked.
‘Can I go now?’
‘I’m afraid there are still one or two questions I have to ask – but they can wait. I think you should return home and rest. Do you have a carriage?’
‘My husband’s coach has been here for the last hour.’
‘Then with your permission I will call on you within the next day or two so that we can go over the last few points.’
‘Come in the afternoon when my husband is out. I do not want him to be drawn into this tragic business.’
‘I quite understand. I shall visit you shortly, Lady Delaney.’
‘I prefer to be called Mrs when I am in the theatre.’ She gave the Apothecary a sudden, sad smile which made her look extremely vulnerable, then headed for the door. ‘Good night to you, gentlemen.’
John bowed courteously, Samuel attempting to do likewise in the small area at his disposal. As soon as the actress was out of earshot, however, the two friends turned to one another.
‘Is it possible that Jasper Harcross kept the fact of his marriage a secret from all of them?’
‘It would certainly appear so.’
‘And David Garrick said nothing about it?’
‘Why should he? He is the great actor-manager, beyond gossiping with his company of players.’
‘None the less,’ said Samuel, ‘it strikes me as odd.’
‘No doubt we will learn more as the evening proceeds. By the way, did you notice anything missing from Mrs Delaney’s costume?’
‘The red bow on her left cuff had gone.’
‘Yes, though I could have sworn it was there during tonight’s performance.’ The Apothecary frowned as his pictorial memory came into play. ‘Yes, it was, for sure.’
‘Then it doesn’t count, does it?’
‘Everything …’ But John got no further as there was a knock on the door and Joe Jago put his head through the opening.
‘Ready for the next one, Mr Rawlings?’
‘Who is it?’
‘Jack Masters, who played Lockit.’
‘Please send him through.’
In a swirl of pipe smoke, the granite-faced actor took his place on the other side of the table and the interview started.
A pattern began to emerge, the basis of which had come from Mrs Delaney. Jack Masters, craggy and imperturbable individual though he might be, appeared equally surprised that his erstwhile friend had been married, though once he had got used to the idea it certainly seemed to strike him as amusing.
‘What a cool customer,’ he said, slapping his thigh. ‘There he was, with half the women in London in love with him, yet secretly having a wife all along.’
One of John’s mobile brows rose. ‘Ah, but look where that cool customer ended. Obviously the game that he played was a highly dangerous one.’
Jack nodded, suddenly serious. ‘You’re right of course. There must have been several who would like to have seen him dead.’
‘Do you include men amongst that number?’
‘Jealous husbands, do you mean?’
‘That, or lovers.’
Jack stroked his chin. ‘Well, it’s known that Sarah Delaney, Seaton as she used to be, was close to Jasper at one time.’
‘Are you saying that Lord Delaney had a motive for murdering him?’
The ragged face became uneasy. ‘I’m not one for common gossip, Mr Rawlings.’
The Apothecary nodded. ‘I respect that. So can you answer me something else, Mr Masters?’
‘That depends.’
‘It is rather important, I fear. As you are no doubt aware by now, the platform on which Mr Harcross stood had been sawn through so that the very next person to walk on it would fall. As no one else used that section of the planking but the victim, I think we are safe in presuming the trap was set for him.’
‘Yes? Well?’
‘Dick has assured us that the device worked perfectly at dress rehearsal. Therefore, it seems obvious that the gallows were tampered with after that time. Because of this I must know, Sir, where you were last night.’
Jack Masters looked decidedly ill at ease. ‘I think that’s my affair, don’t you?’
John sighed. ‘As you wish. In the end you will have to answer, one way or t’other.’ His face changed. ‘My dear Sir, I have been asked by Mr Fielding to help him out tonight, the reason being that I assisted him, quite successfully, on another occasion. Believe me, I do not enjoy prying into the lives of others, their business is their own. But surely we all have a common interest in finding the murderer of Jasper Harcross.’
The actor nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘You’re right, of course. Well, the truth is that I was visiting a lady.’
‘And she will verify this?’
‘I would rather you did not approach her.’
John sighed once more. ‘Sir, I will most certainly not do so. That remains with Mr Fielding. He is in overall charge of us all.’
‘Oh dear!’ said Samuel spontaneously, obviously perturbed by Jack Masters’s attitude, and both friends were relieved to hear Joe Jago tap on the door once more.
‘Mr Rawlings, Mr Fielding presents his compliments and asks that you meet him on the stage. It seems that there has been a new development in this matter.’
John stood up, extremely glad to remove himself from the stuffy confines of the little room.
‘Tell him that I will attend him in just a few moments.’
The actor got to his feet. ‘Are you finished with me?’
‘Only one word more,’ answered John. ‘Whatever further information Mr Fielding might ask you to give him will be treated in the utmost confidence, I can assure you of that.’
Masters gave him a penetrating glance. ‘You think a great deal of that man, don’t you?’
‘Yes. He is as honest and true an individual as I have ever come across.’
Jack drew on his pipe. ‘That’s as well with all the dark secrets this killing is going to lay bare.’ And with those words he withdrew, leaving a cloud of blue smoke behind him.
A strange scene awaited John on the stage. The Blind Beak and Joe Jago were sitting on two chests, specially brought in for that purpose. Behind them stood one of Mr Fielding’s Fellows, a sketch pad in his hand and an important look on his face. At the back of the stage, stretched out fast asleep, was Will the theatre boy, the wooden gallows that he was meant to have been guarding, quite unattended. All three of the adults had a conspiratorial air about them and John guessed at once that something had been discovered.
‘Ah, Mr Rawlings,’ said the Blind Beak, hearing John approach and obviously recognising his tread. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Would you mind entering the wooden contraption with my Brave Fellow? There’s something he would like you to see.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked the Apothecary, as he stepped once more into the claustrophobic confines of the box in which Jasper Harcross had met his death.
‘Mr Fielding asked me to sketch the cuts made by the saw so that we could have a record of them. And it was while I was doing so that I noticed this.’
And he produced from his pocket a scarlet bow which he handed to John with a flourish.
‘Um, from Sarah Delaney’s costume, I imagine. Where was this?’
‘Snagged on a piece of wood lower down, hardly visible in fact.’
‘Strange that I did not notice it.’
‘It could easily have been missed in the hurly burly.’
‘There was certainly a great deal going on,’ answered John, and had a cruelly vivid recollection of Jasper Harcross’s dangling legs in their high leather boots, and how he had held them tightly to his chest.
‘So what do you think, Sir?’ the Runner
went on.
‘A most interesting find.’
But he would be drawn no further and said nothing more until the Blind Beak asked him the same question. Then John gave his honest opinion.
‘I don’t quite see how, Sir, but I believe that bow has been put there recently in order to incriminate Mrs Delaney.’
The black bandage hiding John Fielding’s blind eyes turned sharply in the Apothecary’s direction. ‘And why do you say this?’
‘For two different reasons. One is that I didn’t see the bow when I was inside the gallows, though I admit that is easily explicable. The other is that Mrs Delaney’s costume was intact during tonight’s performance, yet the bow was missing when I questioned her.’
‘You’re sure of this?’
‘Absolutely positive.’
‘Then that means it was planted after the murder.’
John motioned towards the sleeping child. ‘How long has he been like that?’
‘At least half an hour. And during that time most of the actors were either being questioned or were in their dressing rooms. There must have been several periods when the stage was completely deserted, leaving anyone with a strong nerve free to tamper with the gallows.’
‘Then we have a murderer who is trying to implicate another.’
‘It would indeed seem so, yes.’ The Blind Beak stood up, his commanding height dominating the group around him. ‘Mr Rawlings, I suggest that we bring tonight’s questioning to a close. I shall see the rest of the players in the morning while you go to visit Mr Harcross’s widow. Then perhaps we could meet at Bow Street in the evening in order to compare notes, if you and Sir Gabriel would care to dine.’ Mr Fielding cleared his throat. ‘My young friend, I do realise that I am imposing on you by asking you to be away from your shop, the source of your livelihood. It weighs heavily upon my conscience.’
John nodded. ‘It does create certain difficulties, I must admit. Perhaps we could come to a compromise, whereby I work for the Public Office on alternate days, or something of that sort.’
‘I think that might well be the answer,’ said the Blind Beak. He turned to his clerk. ‘And now, Jago, if you would tell the actors that we are done with them for the night and to be back here in costume at ten o’clock.’ He called out to Dick, who had just reappeared on stage and whose footsteps he clearly recalled. ‘Is Mr Garrick still in the theatre?’
‘No, Sir, he’s gone home. But the orchestra and stagehands want to know what to do. They have stayed on.’
‘I’ll see them in the morning as well. Now what about that boy? Where does he live?’
Dick stared at the Blind Beak in obvious surprise. ‘Why here, Mr Fielding. He’s the theatre boy, a foundling, he lives on the premises.’
‘Does he sleep here?’ asked John, with quickened interest.
‘Yes.’
‘Then he will be well worth talking to.’
The Blind Beak interrupted. ‘Joe, put that on your list of things for Mr Rawlings to do. The child will be far less frightened of him than he will of me.’
‘Very good, Sir. Then I’ll go and get those rum cove actors shifted.’
‘And I’ll arrange for one of the Runners to stay here overnight,’ the Magistrate added in an undertone. ‘If one attempt has been made to distort vital evidence, who knows what might happen next.’
The empty theatre began to echo with the noise of footsteps descending the stairs leading from the dressing rooms, and then came the sound of people bidding each other farewell. Voices were hushed out of respect for the newly dead, and the occasional sob added its mournful note to the palpable air of gloom. Mr Fielding, sombre in a dark cloak, left for the stage door, guided by Joe Jago, while John watched the last of the players make their way out. It was only then that he heard his name called and spun round to see that Coralie Clive still prowled in the shadows. Motioning Samuel to go ahead of him and call a hackney, John went up to her.
‘Miss Clive! Is anything wrong?’
‘I just wanted a private word, that’s all.’
Staring at her closely, the Apothecary saw that she was as pale as glass, her skin blanched and stretched so tightly over her cheekbones that her face looked almost mask-like.
‘You’re ill,’ he said quietly. ‘Come and sit down.’
She shook her head violently. ‘What I have to say can be said as well standing.’
‘Then how can I assist you?’
‘Once, long ago, in a very clumsy way, I helped to save your life. Now it is my turn to ask a favour.’
‘What is it?’
‘I know that Mr Fielding admires and respects you …’
‘Yes?’
‘So I want you to persuade him that I did not kill my lover.’
John’s heart lurched wretchedly. ‘I take it you mean Jasper Harcross?’
A tear trickled from one of Coralie’s glorious eyes. ‘Oh yes. You see I was fatally attracted to him at one point. Indeed it was he who took away my innocence, more’s the pity. But my only reward was to be discarded cruelly. To him I was a toy, a trifle, a mere bagatelle. You can well imagine that I wished him dead, Mr Rawlings.’
‘I would rather not hear this.’
‘Why, are you afraid of what I might be about to tell you?’
‘Yes,’ said John simply, ‘I think I could be very afraid indeed.’
‘None the less …’ started Coralie, and then in the darkness of the stage something moved behind them.
‘Who’s there?’ called the Apothecary, wild with fright.
But there was only the sound of the theatre boy sighing as he turned in his sleep, and the closing of the stage door as somebody unseen went quietly out.
Chapter Five
The villages of Chelsea and Kensington, lying only a few miles from the City of London, yet both being places of unequalled rural splendour, had a simple charm about them which John Rawlings had always found utterly captivating. With the river lapping against its shores, Chelsea had once been a fishing village and nothing more pretentious than that. Yet nowadays, with the building of the great Ranelagh Gardens, the most exclusive of all the pleasure gardens with its exorbitant entry fee of 2/6d., the beau monde came to Chelsea in droves, mainly for the somewhat boring delight of walking round and round Ranelagh’s Rotunda in order to see and be seen. Kensington, however, could boast no such grand entertainment, not lying on the river and therefore not having the easy access provided by the waterway. Instead it lay, small and unassuming, in the midst of sweet green meadowland, geographically near to the metropolis but a million miles from its noise and strife.
The rich and famous had long since discovered these idyllic retreats. Sir Thomas More had moved to Chelsea whilst still Chancellor of the Exchequer; King Charles II had built The Hospital of Maymed Soldiers there; Jonathan Swift had taken lodgings near the river because he enjoyed the stroll into London. Kensington, in turn, could boast a palace, built by Wren for King William, who had shared a crown with his wife, Mary. Also situated outside the village was Holland House, owned by the politician Henry Fox, one of the most impressive buildings for miles around. But it was to a much smaller residence, standing just a little way from the cart track running through the centre of Kensington, that John, together with Samuel and a Beak Runner, now made their way, their unpleasant duty to inform Jasper Harcross’s wife that she had only a short while ago become a widow. They had left London early after very little sleep, returning to Nassau Street in the small hours, then being too excited to rest. Over and over again, John had thought of Coralie Clive and her urgent, whispered words, and had shuddered to think of their implications. That she had been the dead man’s mistress was alarming enough, but the idea that the actress was guilty of murder and might be using her scant acquaintanceship with the Apothecary to attempt to clear herself, frankly appalled him.
‘God dammit,’ he had exclaimed angrily over a hastily snatched breakfast, causing Sir Gabriel Kent, up early to find out what was going o
n, to look at him quizzically, while Samuel raised his jolly eyebrows until they almost met his wig. In the carriage sent by the Principal Magistrate to take them to Kensington, John’s mood had not improved a great deal. Staring out of the window, he soon relapsed into silence and left it to Samuel and Benjamin Rudge, the Runner, to exchange pleasantries. Even the journey through countryside that grew ever more pastoral and remote, failed to excite him, enthusiastic traveller though the Apothecary normally was. In short, he felt worried and depressed and could hardly wait to see Coralie Clive again, to ask her to explain herself more fully.
‘Well,’ said Samuel, rubbing his hands together in somewhat nervous anticipation and dragging John’s attention back to the ordeal that lay before them. ‘I wonder what Mrs Harcross is going to be like.’
‘I wonder if she’s going to be our killer,’ added Benjamin cheerfully.
John shook his head. ‘I doubt it, somehow. It would be quite a feat to come across country during the night, then make one’s way to the theatre in order to saw the gallows floorboards through.’
‘But think of her motive, or motives!’ Samuel replied. ‘Why, her husband seems to have been sleeping with everybody.’
‘I don’t know where some people get the energy,’ said the Runner, roaring and slapping his thigh at this fairly unfunny remark.
‘I expect he took pills,’ answered Samuel earnestly. ‘There are tablets for that sort of thing, aren’t there, John?’
‘Indeed there are. I should say a good third of my income comes from mixing compounds to keep the ageing male population of London performing lustily in the boudoir.’
‘What a depressing thought.’
‘Yes, isn’t it.’
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said the Runner, grinning broadly. ‘There’s no need to be upsetting yourselves. You’ve time on your side, which is more than those old goats have. And as for Mr Harcross, well, his time ran out, didn’t it?’
‘I wonder what his wife’s going to be like?’ Samuel repeated, sounding bewildered and slightly nervous.
‘We’ll know in a minute,’ John answered grimly. ‘Isn’t that the house described to us over there?’
