That alone didn’t make her a whore. ‘Can she act? She does a good swoon, I think.’
‘She speaks prettily enough,’ Sugden said, overhearing our conversation. ‘She’s playing some of the better parts now, especially in the after-pieces.’
Molly gave a small grunt. ‘Course she is. Still, the longer she’s fucking every friend of Garrick’s, the sooner she’ll be lying back and swooning as Ophelia.’
I failed to swallow a giggle.
‘It’s how most of them get the better parts,’ said Molly. ‘Some of them are good, really good, but it always helps to have a generous patron. Kitty Suckley, on the on the other hand, is no better an actress than Ketch’s monkey, so she relies on her other talents.’
‘Why does she want to be an actress, then, if she’s not very good at it?’ She wasn’t a beauty, but she was pretty enough to make a decent income as a harlot in a fancy bawdy house, certainly. I thought of Lucy, who flattered and simpered better than any of us at Berwick Street and who wore the finest silks as a result.
Molly shrugged. ‘She wants a husband. Or a man to keep her as his mistress, at least. A gentleman, a nobleman even, who might fall in love and set her up for life. It happens here.’
Sugden leaned over, his face near to Molly’s. ‘And I gather there’s a grand person in the audience tonight, although she’ll be fighting Mrs Hunter for this one.’
Molly pushed him away, but she was as keen for the gossip as I was.
‘What have you heard, Joe?’
Ketch’s monkey jumped onto the table and began scratching itself in a lewd manner.
‘There was some talk among the spares that Mrs Hunter’s particular patron, Mr Astley, is bringing an old friend with him tonight. This one’s an earl.’
I had taken a duke to bed once but managed to look impressed with this news.
‘You could put good money on Hunter pushing his wife in an earl’s direction,’ Ketch said, pulling the monkey’s tail.
Molly said, for my benefit, ‘Mr Hunter is keen that his wife engages all the right people. She’s seeing Mr Astley at the moment, but if Astley’s friend is an earl, then Hunter will steer little Lucy under his nose.’
I sat back to take in what Molly was telling me. Lucy Hunter, young, pretty and almost a decent speaker of verse, was being pimped by her own husband, even as she was trying to bring the lines of Shakespeare to life. I was as impressed by her versatility as I was appalled by her circumstances.
‘Poor old Kitty,’ Molly laughed. ‘For all the flirting, she won’t hold a candle to Lucy Hunter.’
‘Poor old you, then,’ said Sugden with a grimace. ‘It’ll be like a battleground in the dressing rooms and you and Lizzie will be caught in the crossfire. You remember what it was like when Kitty told everyone she’d set her sights on taking Astley from her?’
Molly groaned. ‘Lizzie, it’s going to be hell for us, sweetheart. The vicious cats will turn on us when they’ve scratched each other’s eyes out. Nothing we do will be good enough. I’ve still got the bruises from their last spat.’
‘I’ll do my best not to irritate either of them, miss,’ I said.
‘Who’s the earl, Joe? Did you hear?’ Molly asked.
‘Hawkridge, Hornridge, something like it,’ said Sugden, the precise details of this juicy gossip escaping him.
‘Hawbridge?’ said Molly.
‘That’s it. Hawbridge. How do you know the name?’
‘Oh, I know all the quality,’ Molly said, smiling brightly. ‘I’ve been about, remember?’
The name was familiar to me too, but I couldn’t recall how.
Ketch scooped up his monkey and began to tickle its ears – which the monkey didn’t like. It gave a funny little squeal and climbed back onto Ketch’s head.
‘Ho, here comes trouble,’ said Sugden, nodding towards the door. ‘It’s the Hunters.’
I recognised Mrs Hunter immediately from her performance the other night. But, whereas on stage she had seemed fragile and even a little lost, here she was at ease, confidently bestowing her hand to all who wished to kiss it. She was small and neatly made, wearing a gown of lavender silk that was cut to perfection, displaying her shape. Her face was delicately composed and a gentle pout played across her lips. Her fair hair had been persuaded into a cascade of curls. Such effortless beauty must have taken her hours to achieve. Her blue eyes, though, were hard.
The man who had her arm was, I took it, her husband. He was older than she was by some years, but he seemed more so because he walked with a stick. He was a large man, dressed in a purple coat embroidered with so much gold that it spoke of money rather than taste. The sizeable ruby on his right hand told the same story. It was brash, ostentatious. He leaned heavily upon the stick, his face set in a frown, as though some part of his body was causing him pain. His skin bore the unmistakeable colour of a man who drank too much. He scanned the room, looking for someone. He gripped the top of his stick and scowled when he caught sight of Garrick.
‘The poor thing.’ The words left my mouth in a whisper. I meant Lucy Hunter. I could see what sort of a life she was leading with a man like that as her husband.
Molly snorted. ‘She’s as bad as he is. Just you wait and see. They deserve one another.’
The Hunters had separated. Mr Hunter was shuffling towards Garrick, collecting a glass of wine and knocking it back as he went. When Garrick hailed him, he responded with a beaming smile and open arms. Mrs Hunter made her way to a gathering of players, who parted gracefully to admit her. She greeted them as dear friends, and they returned with kisses and comments on her gown and necklace.
‘That’s Nan Collyer,’ said Molly, pointing out another woman in the group. ‘She’s not so bad as the others. Quiet off stage, noisy on it. She’s playing Regan, the other sister in Lear.’
She was older than Mrs Hunter and Kitty Suckley. She was shorter than them too. A little stout around the middle and with hair beginning to grey, I expected that she was nearing the end of her career in the greater roles. I recalled her performance. What she lacked in height, she had made up for in volume, her booming voice carrying well into the auditorium.
‘What happened to Mr Hunter?’ I asked Molly. ‘Why is he carrying a stick?’
‘Damaged his leg in a fight,’ she said, pouring herself another glass of wine. ‘It ended his acting career.’
‘A fight?’
Sugden and Ketch took up the story from Molly. Once regarded as a talented actor from somewhere in the north, Hunter had come to London to seek his fortune and would have made it, had it not been for his temper. He had been part of John Rich’s company at the theatre in Covent Garden, but had fought with another player. The men had been spoiling for a while, but a lost wig proved so incendiary that the pair tore into each other.
‘Hunter plunged a sword into the other man’s shoulder and very nearly killed him,’ said Ketch. ‘He himself was left with a broken hip that was poorly set and he was forced to walk with a stick.’
Rich had thrown the two of them out of his company. No one knew what had become of the other man.
Hunter was a quick-tempered man contained in a weakened frame. He was conversing amiably enough with Garrick, but it would not take much to turn him violent even now, I thought, if something as frivolous as a lost wig had caused him to attack a man. I could imagine him breaking up a chair with that stick or slashing at a costume, if his anger got the better of him. I watched him with interest.
‘Where does his wife come into this?’ I asked.
‘She met him in the provinces, when he was the rising star and she was an unremarkable strolling actress. She hitched herself to him in a bid for associated fame and fortune and then found herself burdened with the responsibility of bringing in the money,’ said Sugden.
‘Hunter coached her in stagecraft until she was tolerable,’ said Molly, ‘and then guided her towards the wealthiest audience members, where she could exercise her real talent. He’s schooled h
er in that, too. She loves the jewels even more than the applause.’
The women of Mrs Hunter’s group laughed along readily enough at her witticisms, but their faces displayed little natural jollity. The men were more interested. I didn’t need to hear the conversation to know that she was flirting. She kept tilting her head and laughing, touching the arm of whichever man had made a comment.
Her gaze lifted briefly from the small crowd of admirers and she caught sight of our table. Frowning a little, she made her excuses to them and swept her skirts over to us. Now that I was nearer to it, I rather admired the lavender silk covered with tiny cream and blue flowers. No one would have guessed, from the mud-coloured sack that I was wearing, but I would have looked ravishing in lavender silk.
‘Molly Bray, why haven’t you mended my gloves?’ The voice snapped me out of my reverie.
‘Sorry, Mrs Hunter, we’ve been clearing the green room for most of the day. Things were in a state after…’
‘We?’ Mrs Hunter’s mouth pinched into a rosebud tighter than any of those on her lavender silk. She cast a swift glance in my direction and then swung back to Molly. ‘If you had assistance with the cleaning, I fail to see why my gloves have been neglected. I expressly wanted them for tonight.’ She picked up Molly’s glass and poured the dregs of wine on the floor. ‘All I can see is a girl idling about and drinking the day away with a grubby little trull.’
She thought me the lowest of the low, and she didn’t even have the courtesy to make my acquaintance. What a charming woman.
‘See to my gloves without delay, or I’ll see you lose your place here.’ She twirled away to greet another actress, but not before pinching the top of Molly’s ear.
‘Can she really have you put out for the sake of a glove?’ I asked in a low voice.
Molly was unmoved by the insult she had received, although the tip of her ear was glowing red. ‘Well, she’s thick with Garrick, and her current lover would probably make it his business to throw me out if she wished it. So yes, she can. Still,’ she sniffed, drawing herself up, ‘she knows there’s no one else who can dress her like I can.’ She leaned across the table, picked up my glass, helped herself to the last mouthful of wine, and wiped her mouth with a smile. ‘She’s terrified, you know. Of being on stage. It’s why she forgets her lines. I am the one who calms her down as I’m fastening her costume. She needs to be on the stage in order to attract the lovers, after all.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘So, she’s probably conning, the stupid slut.’
Lucy Hunter, then, was vain, grasping, and rude to the one person who helped her walk onto the stage. And I would never forgive the woman for calling me grubby.
Chapter Ten
Molly sloped off to find and repair the gloves, leaving me alone with Sugden and Ketch. I stayed still, not wanting to leave the green room while it was filling with such interesting people. Even as I was trying to assess which of them might be scheming against Garrick, I might enjoy the show. At present, they all seemed to be trying to ingratiate themselves.
‘Mr Garrick is like a king in his court,’ I said to Ketch. ‘It’s wonderful to see how everyone flocks around him.’
‘They’re all hoping that some of his magic rubs off on them,’ he said, like me, transfixed by it all.
‘The actors are all hoping for another role,’ said Sugden, who had the benefit of greater experience. ‘The spares and the stage hands are hoping to be paid. Garrick is doing his best to reassure them all, with his most sincere looks and his handshakes.’
‘But he is magnificent, sir, you must agree,’ I said. ‘He’s so graceful as he walks.’
Sugden gave a small grunt. ‘That’s not grace, girly. He minces about in that dainty fashion, in case, by some lapse of concentration, he lets out a fart by accident. He’s that tight, he wouldn’t even grant his own wind willingly.’
Ketch sniggered, cracking a whisper of a smile at last.
‘That’s what we all say, when he’s forgotten to pay us again,’ Sugden said, as he took a mouthful of wine. ‘Ah hell. Looks like I’m needed.’
Mr Dinsdale, watch clasped in a meaty hand, was looking over and Sugden, recognising that he was being summoned, put his drink down. ‘Gather up some of the glasses for washing,’ he said this to me, and not to Ketch. ‘There are trays somewhere.’ He waved a hand towards the large trestle bench at the side of the room. I knew the trays were there – I had tided them earlier. ‘They go to the Shakespeare tavern – through the door over there.’ He jerked his head to a side door – a fourth entrance to the theatre that I had not noticed. A servant’s door.
‘Yes, Mr Sugden.’
He went off in the direction of the stage. A group of actors was laughing at a joke – one man so heartily that tears were streaming down his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, scattering a couple of coins from the pocket as he did so. He didn’t notice them falling because he was now wiping his face and being slapped on the back by his friends. As Sugden neared the door, he stooped down and picked up the coins. He slipped them into his pocket, unseen by the men, and carried on his way, his pace quickening a little.
I might have been irritated at being forced to clear tables like a tavern wench, but this was the perfect opportunity to pay closer attention to some of the conversations. Now I had the chance to do Davenport’s work, as well as Sugden’s. No one paid me heed, except to put a glass down on my tray, or to ask for fresh wine or beer and could I possibly bring some bread, or a plate of those little sweetmeats?
I threaded my way about the clusters of painted men and women until I reached the place in the corner where Dinsdale had been. His seat had been taken by a fair-headed young man with a bandaged leg. I took this to be Tom, whose fall from the ladder had ended the performance of King Lear. He was cupping a glass to his lips and watching the green room from his seat. He shifted slightly, and I saw him wince. The way in which he threw back the liquid suggested he was trying to dull the pain. I nodded to his leg.
‘What you do to it?’
He squinted at me, a newcomer with a tray full of empty pots. I gave him a wide-eyed look; the picture of innocent inquiry.
‘Your leg. What did you do?’
‘Fell off a ladder,’ was all he said, but he didn’t turn away. I took this as an invitation to ask another question.
‘Does it hurt?’
He shrugged. ‘Not much,’ he lied.
I smiled at him. Although slightly built, his arms were strong. By now, he would usually be carrying scenery or lighting candles or moving furniture in readiness for the performance. As an active man, forced to sit and watch the fashionably witty, he was bored. I decided to sit next to him – and not just to ease his boredom. I wanted to know what had happened.
‘Are you the one Molly told me about? The one they thought was dead?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘It was Peg’s screaming that did it. Peg West, the girl laughing over there,’ he nodded over to one of the girls still playing cards, a cheap-looking redhead in a gown that wasn’t quite containing her breasts. ‘She was shouting that I was dead.’
I giggled. ‘You are not dead, then?’
A small smile crept over his face. My gentle flirting was beginning to have an effect.
‘Nah, not dead. Tom Firmin, by the way. You’re new here. Not seen you before.’ He shook my hand as I gave him my name. ‘A fall from a ladder don’t kill you, Lizzie Blunt. I wasn’t too high up… but…’ His voice dwindled a little.
I raised an eyebrow to encourage him.
‘But the ladder was broken. I should have checked, but we were in a rush as always.’
‘Broken?’
‘One of the rungs near the top. I’m usually sent up the ladder because I’m light and quick. I’m not too fond of heights though, so I take my time and take care. That night, I was being hurried by Mr Dinsdale and I didn’t see that the rung was loose.’ He shook his head. ‘Should have checked. Stupid, really.’
‘What were you doing up the ladder?’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorting the hangings out.’ He saw my puzzlement. ‘There’s a big drape that covers the background scenery at the end of the play, to signify something or other. I have to throw it over the top from the back – Mr Garrick prefers us not to keep walking on and off the stage. Lots of theatres have stage hands walking on, but Garrick says it spoils the flow of the play. I have to climb the ladder instead.’
He had been behind the painted background, then, with a ladder leaning against the scenery, and carrying an armful of fabric. I risked the question that was burning.
‘Why did you say you should have checked the ladder rungs? Are they often loose?’
‘Sometimes. I expect it was rotten. Not that I was in any state to look at it afterwards, of course. I hit my head and knocked myself out. But I’d say it was rotten. Not repaired, probably, or bought too cheap and badly-fitted. Garrick won’t spend money on anything that isn’t seen on stage.’
He had not examined it, then.
‘You don’t think that someone could have broken it? Weakened it?’
‘What? On purpose? Why would anyone do that?’ He stared at me, confused. Then his face softened, comprehending. ‘Oh, I see. Someone’s been telling you stories, haven’t they? Broken furniture, slashed costumes, props going off for a walk by themselves?’
I nodded.
‘No. I don’t think anyone’s got it in for me. I’m too useful to damage.’ He gestured to his leg and gave a wry smile. ‘Well, when I’m on two feet I’m useful. No, this is all Garrick’s doing,’ he said, his face hardening. ‘If he paid for proper ladders, not rotten ones, I’d be on stage with the lads, setting up for tonight. He’s too tight. One day it’s going to cause a real injury, I reckon.’
He wasn’t the first person to complain about Garrick’s reluctance to spend money. Joe Sugden had been similarly disgruntled.
‘I’ve been told not to expect any wages.’ I didn’t ask him about the note that had been found near his fallen body. He didn’t speak of it, or deem it worthy of mention, and I only knew of it from Davenport. It seemed wise to hold my peace, at least for now.
The Corpse Played Dead Page 5
