Death at the Beggar's Opera

by Deryn Lake

  After he had gone, John sat in silence for a few moments, wondering what could possibly have caused the musician’s peculiar change in manner. But before he had had time to think the matter through there was a gentle tap on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  Will the theatre child stuck his head through the opening. ‘You wanted to see me, Sir?’

  ‘Certainly. Come in and sit down. There’s nothing to be nervous of, you know.’

  ‘I’m more scared than nervous if you want the truff, Sir. But I ain’t done nuffing naughty – except for falling asleep when I should have been guarding the scaffold.’

  ‘That’s hardly your fault. I expect you were tired.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Will answered instantly. ‘It’s my belief me milk was doped.’

  John stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Me milk, what was standing backstage in me beaker, I fink it had been interfered with. I never felt so sleepy as after I drunk it. I just couldn’t keep me eyes open.’

  ‘I’ll come back to that,’ said the Apothecary determinedly. ‘You must forgive me, Will, but I’ve got one of those brains that likes to do things neatly. So let me start with your story. How old were you when you went to the Foundling Hospital?’

  ‘I dunno exactly, Sir. I was dumped on the steps as a baby. St Swithin’s Day, it was. That’s how I got me name, William Swithin.’

  ‘But wasn’t it Mr Harcross who took you from there and set you up in a job at Drury Lane?’

  ‘Yes, Sir, it was. And wiv that kindly action he won me eternal gratitude.’

  ‘Um,’ said John reflectively. ‘But why did he choose you, do you think? Had he met you before somewhere?’

  ‘No, Sir. Never clapped his eyes on me.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Will rubbed his squat little nose and John found himself thinking what an unattractive child the boy was, pallid through being constantly indoors, his mouth lined with the grooves of early suffering, his only redeeming feature a pair of large china-blue eyes. Yet even as the Apothecary considered these things, he had a momentary flash that Will reminded him of someone, though by the time it came to the front of his mind, the connection was gone.

  ‘I dunno, Sir,’ the child continued. ‘Perhaps he just liked me ’andsome face.’ And he laughed heartily, obviously used to making fun of himself.

  The Apothecary joined in, thinking how pathetic it all was. ‘Did Mr Harcross treat you well?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir. Not in a doting way, you understand. He was more like a rough-and-tumble father. Whereas Mr …’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘Mr …?’

  Will went slightly pink. ‘Several people treated me like their son. I suppose they felt sorry for me. The ladies tried to mother me too.’

  ‘But you were about to say a specific name then, weren’t you?’ John had a moment of inspiration and took a chance. ‘Was it Mr Martin?’

  The boy had obviously received no acting training as yet, for his jaw dropped and his blue eyes widened. ‘How did you know?’

  The Apothecary became ultra casual. ‘Because he mentioned to me that he has a protégé. A boy to whom he gives clothes and food. I simply guessed that it was you.’

  Will’s cheeks went a raw-looking shade of red. ‘Well, you’re not to tell.’

  ‘I won’t. Though why is that?’

  ‘Cos Mr Martin don’t want anyone to know. But he’s ever so good to me. Brought me extra clothes and food all the time I’ve been here.’

  ‘I wonder why he wants it kept so secret,’ John muttered to himself. Then he frowned as an unpleasant thought came to him. ‘He doesn’t want paying for what he does for you, does he?’

  ‘How could I pay ’im? I ain’t got no money.’

  ‘Don’t come the innocent with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. Does he make any demands on you, demands of any sort?’

  ‘No he don’t,’ Will answered hotly. ‘He’s good and kind, so he is.’

  ‘Tell me about the night of the dress rehearsal,’ answered John, unruffled. ‘Who was the last to leave the theatre?’

  ‘Dick Weatherby. He always checks that everything is clean and tidy before he goes ’ome.’

  ‘And did you help him?’

  ‘I swabbed out the dressing rooms, then straightened round. Then I come downstairs and he was just getting ready to leave.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I ’ad me milk, Mr Garrick always insists I do that, then I went to bed. I’ve got a place where I sleep in the properties room.’

  ‘And did Mr Martin come in once everyone had gone?’

  ‘Yes, he did. But please don’t tell on me for saying so. He wanted the meeting kept quiet.’

  ‘It’s strange that he’s so secretive regarding your friendship.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I never really thought about it.’

  ‘Ah well! So let us proceed to the night of the murder. You say that you believed your milk was tampered with.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Mr Rawlings. You gave me the job of guarding the mobile, that’s the technical term for the wheeled platform bearing the gallows. Well, I’d ’ave never let you down normally. But I was ever so thirsty, what with the shock an’ all, and after I drank the stuff I just couldn’t keep awake a moment longer. That proves it was doped, don’t it?’

  Remembering that evidence in the shape of Lucy Lockit’s bow had been planted while the theatre boy slept, John considered the possibility of a sleeping draught having been slipped into his drink.

  ‘But who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘Anyone, Sir. Me beaker stood backstage for all to see.’

  ‘Um,’ said the Apothecary again, wondering if the boy had drunk the milk too early and was really meant to have slept deeply all night long.

  ‘Do you want me for anything further, Sir?’

  ‘Only to ask Miss Clive to step this way.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch her.’ Will hesitated in the doorway. ‘You won’t say nuffink about Mr Martin, will you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best to be discreet.’

  ‘Gawd bless you,’ the boy answered, and disappeared.

  Tremendously aware that he must share all this information with the Blind Beak soon, John decided to call in at the Public Office before he paid a visit to Mrs Delaney, and was just envisaging Mr Fielding’s reaction as he heard the latest strange twists in the tale when there came yet another knock on the door. Certain that it was Coralie, John straightened his wig and brushed at his coat, only to feel rather foolish when David Garrick came into the room.

  Today, to John at least, the great man was the very essence of charm itself, urbane smiles flashing, eyes kind and considerate, every movement of his body exuding tolerant good humour. He made the Apothecary a courteous little bow.

  ‘My very dear young friend, may I throw myself headlong upon your mercy?’

  ‘By all means. How can I help you?’

  Garrick gave a smile, the quintessence of the word deprecating. ‘Nobody could understand more than I the necessity for the murderer of Jasper Harcross to be found, and quickly at that.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yet despite this, alack, the theatre must remain open. It is the great tradition of we thespians that the play continues whatever the odds.’

  ‘Of course, I quite understand.’

  ‘But do you? So I must ask myself.’

  John saw a glimmer of light. ‘My questions are getting in the way of your rehearsal, is that it, Sir?’ Garrick made a dismissive moue. ‘I, you must believe me Mr Rawlings, am the very last soul alive to impede the course of justice. But the decision to abandon The Beggar’s Opera has created its own set of difficulties. We must bring another play into the repertory with haste.’

  Wishing that the actor would say what he actually meant, the Apothecary attempted to do so for him. ‘You would like me to go away for a while, perhaps? To leave you in peace for a few hours?�
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  The great man’s eyes shone with humble gratitude, assumed, the Apothecary felt certain. ‘Oh how well you understand, my dear friend. For someone so young and …’

  John stood up. ‘How long would you like me to be absent?’

  David Garrick seemed on the point of tears. ‘Would four hours be asking too much?’

  The Apothecary looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the other people I shall return to question them at three o’clock.’

  The actor-manager gave a florid bow. ‘Certainly, but of course.’

  ‘Then I will say au revoir,’ John answered, irritated despite himself at the break in his concentration.

  Striding across the stage, he gave a flamboyant bow to the rest of the company, called out, ‘Goodbye everyone. I shall return,’ and made his exit to an audience of startled faces, wondering exactly how he was going to spend the next few hours productively.

  Chapter Nine

  Once outside the theatre, John took a deep breath, but so horrid was the stink from the gutters that he did not repeat this natural response to being cooped up within the confines of Drury Lane most of the morning. Instead, he turned right into the street after which the theatre was named and strode briskly along its not inconsiderable length until he eventually bore right once more into Great Queen Street, then on to the delights of Lincoln’s Inn Fields where the air was indeed much sweeter Suddenly deciding what he was going to do, the Apothecary merely cast his eyes on the Theatre Royal which stood on the south side of the Fields, nowadays quite empty and deserted. Paradoxically, The Beggar’s Opera had made its owner, John Rich, so very wealthy that he had opened a new playhouse at Covent Garden. Cursing the railings which had been put up some twenty years earlier, to keep out the beggars and prostitutes who were using the Fields as a place in which to both dwell and work, John made his way through a festering little alleyway into High Holbourn.

  Before him lay a straight, long, piece of road, Red Lyon Street, and dimly in the distance the Apothecary could glimpse his destination lying in the very heart of Lambs Conduit Fields, which stretched away, green and fresh and fine, as far as the eye could see. With a pricking of anticipation, John Rawlings set off along the direct route to the Foundling Hospital.

  It was a stately building with a curving outer wall in which was set a towered gatehouse. Beyond this wall lay the Hospital itself, as grandiose and gracious as any royal residence despite a slight smack of the institution about it. Well aware that without its presence thousands more children would have died deserted and alone, abandoned in empty rooms or dumped on the streets of London to perish, the Apothecary approached it with a great sense of respect for all the charitable good the Hospital did.

  A porter in the gatehouse asked him his business in a somewhat officious manner and John, simply to avoid explanations and arguments, showed the letter of authorisation given to him by Mr Fielding for just such an occasion as this. To the Apothecary’s cynical amusement there was a prompt change in attitude and the next moment he was ushered through the wicket gate and into the large carriage-sweep beyond. On either side of this great arena were walkways leading to the Hospital, which stood imposingly at the far end. Somewhat tired by now, for he had journeyed a long way, John set off on the last lap towards the offices, situated beside the chapel, a classical building running crossways immediately opposite the gatehouse.

  It seemed that he was too late to see the governor who had stepped abroad about his business an hour earlier. But after a few minutes’ delay a small birdlike woman with dark bootbutton eyes entered the parlour into which John had been shown. The avine gaze appraised him rapidly, obviously indicating approval of his elegant clothes but mistrustful of his youthful appearance. The curtsey which followed summed all this up to a nicety, not too deep but respectful enough to show that she regarded him as a member of the professional classes.

  ‘I am Mrs Carter,’ she said by way of introduction. ‘How may I help you?’

  John gave a straightforward bow, thus indicating that her assessment of him was correct, and adopted his thoughtful face.

  ‘Madam, I am here on behalf of Mr John Fielding, Principal Magistrate of London. Here is his letter of authorisation.’

  He handed it to her and Mrs Carter read it at a glance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ was her only comment.

  ‘I am here regarding a child who was deposited at the Hospital as a baby, then taken away some time last year to become a trainee at Drury Lane. His name is William Swithin. Do you know the boy?’

  She shook her head. ‘Thousands pass through our doors, Mr …’ Mrs Carter glanced at the letter again. ‘… Rawlings. In the past the flood of mothers with their bastards was so great that we had to introduce a balloting system to permit admission. Can you tell me a little more about this particular child?’

  ‘Apparently he was deposited here on St Swithin’s Day, 1745, or round about then.’

  ‘That was the year in which we first opened our doors …’

  ‘And the year in which the Pretender marched south.’

  Mrs Carter ignored this aside. ‘Naturally, we have records. Would you care for me to look him up?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Then step this way.’

  In the next door office everything was tidy to the point of being clinical, not a speck of dust anywhere, not even a mote whirling in the pallid sunshine. Stacked on a shelf on one wall was a series of volumes, bound in red with gold embossing, each representing half a year in the history of the Foundling Hospital, all of them equally dust free. Mrs Carter lifted down the second and flitted through the pages.

  ‘Let me see now. St Swithin’s Day, 1745. Ah yes, here it is. Baby boy found outside gatehouse, guessed to be about six months old. Healthy. Baptised William and given the surname Swithin.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Only a list of the items he was wearing. Shawl, bonnet and so on.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said John, suddenly deflated.

  ‘The note attached to him has been stored, however, though his clothes have long since been passed on to some other poor mite.’

  ‘A note?’ asked the Apothecary, a ray of hope returning.

  ‘Yes, it will be in one of those boxes over there. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Indeed I would.’

  Marvelling at the efficiency of their record keeping, John watched in admiration as Mrs Carter, after looking at an index of some kind, went straight to the box in question and lifted it down.

  ‘All the notes and letters for that year are kept in here.’

  ‘Does every abandoned creature have something with it, then?’

  The snapping eyes looked at him sharply. ‘Of course not, only those with a kindly heart bother about their young. Most mothers can’t wait to get rid of the evidence of their shame.’

  ‘What a depressing thought.’

  ‘Here it is. Swithin, W. Note attached to basket and a man’s handkerchief dropped nearby.’

  ‘May I see them?’ And suddenly there was a ring of excitement in the Apothecary’s voice at the thought of what he might be about to discover.

  ‘This is still with Mr Fielding’s authority?’

  ‘Certainly it is.’

  ‘Very well.’ And Mrs Carter handed him the items in question, each bearing a label with the theatre boy’s name written upon it.

  He looked at the letter first. It simply said, ‘Care for this poor child, William. His mother cannot keep him with her. It breaks my heart.’

  He handed it back to Mrs Carter. ‘What do you conclude from this?’

  She studied it carefully. ‘Well, it sounds to me as if the mother did not write it.’

  ‘Precisely as I thought.’ John unfolded the handkerchief. ‘Where was this found exactly?’

  ‘It says on the cobbles. A foot from the basket. Someone with foresight picked it up in case it happened to be relevant.’

  ‘T
hen thank God for them, for it bears a set of initials.’

  The bright eyes peered. ‘Why, so it does! J.M. I wonder whoever that might be.’

  ‘I think,’ the Apothecary answered slowly, ‘that when the answer to that is provided we will have advanced somewhat in untangling this extraordinary web of deceit which threatens to ensnare all those who try to unravel it.’

  Chapter Ten

  It was only after a great deal of reassurance that John persuaded Mrs Carter to release the note and the handkerchief into his safe keeping. Furthermore, he was asked to guarantee that the items would be returned as soon as Mr Fielding had finished with them, and to promise that he would be personally responsible for taking the evidence back to the Foundling Hospital. Even so, there were receipts to be signed and a written pledge to be made. Yet finally, well pleased, John left the Hospital, the note and the handkerchief in a small parcel beneath his arm, and, tired by the long walk and lack of food, climbed with relief into a hackney carriage which was by the gate house, plying for hire. Leaning back against its somewhat uncomfortable upholstery, he sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

  ‘Where to, Sir?’ called the driver from the seat above.

  ‘The stage door, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,’ John called back, and received an inquisitive glance from the cabman, who obviously thought he was an actor. ‘I need to be there by three o’clock,’ the Apothecary continued, and added mysteriously, ‘rehearsals, you know.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ the driver replied, clearly impressed, and cracked his whip.

  But willing as both he and his horse obviously were, there was not much that could be done about the teeming streets, and it was a good half hour before the conveyance stopped outside the theatre. Glancing at his watch, John saw that it was almost three o’clock and congratulated himself that everything had turned out so well. And indeed, on setting foot inside, he saw that the rehearsal was still going on and tempers were getting even more frayed. In fact everyone turned towards him with a sigh of relief and there were cries of, ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings, you’re back with us.’ Thinking that the break might actually have done good, and that sheer relief at getting away from the play could make everyone more cooperative, John hurried into the Green Room.