A tall footman in bright blue livery strode up to Mr Fielding, bowed to him and to Garrick and quietly informed them that Mr Astley and Mr Callow had arrived. They had come, it seemed, to remove their friend’s body. They had brought undertakers with them. As if this were not enough, the footman also informed the magistrate’s table that the Countess of Hawbridge was outside, in her coach. He tried hard not to say it, but it appeared that the widow had insisted on visiting the theatre. An excited whisper ran around the room.
Mr Fielding was not happy to learn of her presence, judging by the look on his face.
Davenport moved to greet Mr Astley and Mr Callow, and then drew the two gentlemen to Mr Fielding’s table. He explained in a low voice that the earl’s body was still on the stage and guarded by one of the magistrate’s men. In the meantime, he hoped that they would assist with Mr Fielding’s questions, so that Lord Hawbridge’s movements that night could be understood.
They readily consented.
Fielding began comfortably enough, by asking about the play, how they had come to see it, and how they had found it.
Astley, the older of the two, took the lead in answering.
‘I’m often here,’ he said. ‘To my mind, there are few events finer than a Shakespeare play as performed by Mr Garrick and his company.’
Garrick inclined his head in acknowledgement at this.
‘It was my idea to invite Lord Hawbridge,’ Astley went on. ‘Thought he might enjoy the evening…’ his voice drifted a little as if he only now realised how Hawbridge’s evening had ended.
‘Was he enjoying it, sir?’ Mr Fielding asked. ‘How did he appear to you?’
Astley shrugged. ‘He was exactly as he usually is: good and affable company and, by and large, the centre of attention. Except,’ he added, with a look at Garrick, ‘when we were in the audience, of course. There, even greater lights shine.’
‘Had you known one another for a long time?’ Davenport asked.
Astley sat a little taller in his seat. ‘I’ve known him since boyhood. We were at school together, and then Oxford.’
‘You would count yourself as a friend, then?’
‘Of course I was a friend,’ Astley said, testily, looking down his large beak of a nose at Davenport. ‘Else why would I still be in his company after these years?’
Davenport said nothing more but wrote something on his paper. He might have been reflecting, as I was, that people may keep company with one another for years, without any bond of true friendship. And here was another man who my own father would know. It was a pity that he was no longer speaking to me. If I had been able to call on him, he might have made a useful witness to the relationship between Astley and Hawbridge.
‘And you, sir,’ Fielding directed his unseeing eyes in Mr Callow’s direction, ‘were you so long acquainted with Lord Hawbridge?’
Callow gave a wan little smile. What Mr Fielding could not see was the evident youth of his witness.
‘No sir, I am only lately in his lordship’s circle. I am a family friend of the Countess of Hawbridge, being distantly related to her.’
Mr Fielding, hearing the younger, chattering tone in Callow’s voice, nodded, now comprehending.
‘But you were invited to the theatre by Lord Hawbridge? Or did you happen to be here last night by yourself?’
‘Lord Hawbridge asked for my company. Astley had invited him, and I joined the party.’
‘And would you agree with Mr Astley, that Lord Hawbridge was in his usual mood?’
Callow cocked his head to one side. ‘He was as he always is: charming to the ladies, and at ease with the gentlemen.’
Neither of them liked Hawbridge. The answers were too polite and bland. Perhaps they had been on the receiving of his temper at some point.
The magistrate was keen to press on. He turned back to Astley.
‘Mr Astley, can you tell me what happened at the end of the performance? Where did Lord Hawbridge go, and with whom?’
There was a pause. Around the room, there was a sense of expectation. Was this the moment when we discovered that the earl had spent the night with Mrs Hunter, or had she returned home with her husband, as she had already said?
Astley cleared his throat. ‘I am of little use to you, I’m afraid, Mr Fielding. I decided to return home before the after-piece began.’
‘You went home before the second play?’
‘Yes. I came to see King Lear and I did not care for Love’s Expense. I left Hawbridge and Callow here at the theatre. My servants will tell you what time I arrived home, but it wasn’t late.’
Fielding nodded to Callow. ‘You remained here with Lord Hawbridge for the after-piece?’
‘I did. I didn’t care for it either, but Hawbridge wanted to see it. The galleries loved it, of course. That sort of thing appeals to the late-comers.’
‘And after Love’s Expense?’
‘We parted. I went to the Rose with him, at first, but the food is unpleasant there, so I took a chair to the Bedford Head on Southampton Street.’
Fielding smiled. ‘It is still the better place to eat, then? You were alone?’
There was a brief hesitation. Fielding caught the whiff of discomfort and guessed at its probable cause. He decided not to press the point. Callow had picked up a girl somewhere near to the Bedford Head tavern, if he had taken a chair alone. I imagined that the girls at the Bedford were of better quality than the girls at the Rose – just like the food.
‘Do you know what happened to Lord Hawbridge when you parted?’
There was another hesitation. ‘We were certainly at the Rose together, as I say. That’s where Hawbridge wanted to go. But he found different company. I decided to leave, giving word to one of the tavern girls to tell him I’d gone.’
‘You left him at the Rose?’
‘Yes. He was alive and in good spirits the last time I saw him.’
Davenport cut across again. ‘Did he tell you of his intentions for the remainder of the evening?’
Callow fidgeted. ‘I had the impression he was planning to meet someone, but he didn’t say whom.’
‘A woman?’
‘He didn’t say. And it really was just an impression.’
We didn’t hear any more about Lord Hawbridge’s intentions.
His wife had arrived.
The Countess of Hawbridge was veiled and in black and accompanied by her maid as well as a male servant. As she came through the door, all eyes turned to her. I saw her brace herself slightly, readying her spirit for the inevitable scrutiny of dozens of eyes.
Garrick and Davenport leaped to their feet. Garrick flew to her and there was a great deal of fussing – from him, but not from her. Once the magistrate knew what was happening, he too sought out the widow. The three men gathered around her, like a trinity of protective fathers.
She had come to claim her husband from the rabble of players and whores with whom he had chosen to spend his final hours. This was brave. No one expected a noble widow to venture out in public so soon. She would usually mourn in private while others dealt with matters on her behalf. It would have been her decision to come. Watching Callow and Astley, I thought that she was acting against their advice. That, in itself, was remarkable.
As if suddenly seeing us for the first time, the dissolute and vice-ridden lot we surely were, she raised a small white handkerchief to her lips, her courage failing for a second. I felt a pang of sympathy for her; now confronting, in public, an aspect of her husband’s life that she might have ignored.
Discreetly, the undertakers slipped into the room behind her, and made their way to where the dead man lay, accompanied by Dinsdale, Sugden and another of the stage hands. Mr Astley, now also at her side, guided the Countess of Hawbridge as she stepped unsteadily towards the chair that had been pulled for her and sat down. A glass of wine was brought, but she waved it away.
‘Don’t fuss. Please don’t fuss. I am quite in possession of my senses,’ she said to h
er protectors. ‘I needed to come. To be here. To see where it was that he…’ her voice drifted a little, but only because she was considering how best to phrase her intention. ‘I wished to see where my husband died.’
She lifted the veil and looked again around the room at us. We, in our turn, looked at her. I had expected her to be a mouse. Old, perhaps, or at least beyond her glorious years. I imagined that the Earl of Hawbridge, who dangled after actresses – and tried to screw second seamstresses against tables – would have been married to a plain but dutiful wife. Lady Hawbridge was anything but plain. She was dazzling; and all the more so for her grief.
The heavy black lace veil had hidden a lovely face. She was younger than the earl. If he was as old as my father, then his wife was easily thirty years his junior. A second marriage, then, for I knew he had grown up sons. Her face was unlined, the little flush of colour on her cheeks brought about from being gazed upon added a delicate pink to the creamy skin. A halo of blonde curls made her look like a heavenly being. She was, in everyone’s estimation, a beauty.
Ketch, still between me and Molly, gave a soft sigh. Davenport, I noticed with irritation, was smiling at her. I imagined that he was sighing too.
She put a small white hand out towards Mr Fielding, touching him on the wrist. ‘Thank you, sir, for all that you are doing to bring his murderer to justice.’ Her voice was clipped, crisp. ‘I am truly grateful to you.’
Mr Fielding cocked his head. He could not see her face, but I knew that he would be taking in her voice, her scent and the reaction of the room. He would know that she was beautiful. He would also know that even though she was young, she was a lady of rank and confidence. She had strength, too, to come here.
‘Lady Hawbridge, your courage at coming here is exemplary,’ he said, echoing my thought. ‘Your presence has, I know, touched us all. Please accept not only my condolences, but my firm pledge to find your husband’s murderer as soon as I can.’
Garrick murmured something to the same effect and she nodded stiffly to him, as well as to the magistrate.
The footman drew close and spoke to Mr Astley. He, in turn, bent to Lady Hawbridge and said something to her that we were not privy to hear. She nodded and gave him her hand as she stood.
‘Mr Fielding, my dear friend advises me that my husband has been carried from the stage.’ She raised the lace handkerchief to her nose again, as if fending off the stench of death. ‘We shall take him home and make arrangements for the burial.’
‘Of course, my lady.’
Mr Fielding would not ask her whether she had known of her husband’s plans for the previous evening – not in public, certainly. If Lord Hawbridge had told her that he was visiting the theatre, I doubted that he would have shared his intentions for the remainder of the night – gaming house, brothel, mistress. It was hardly the sort of thing one discussed over the breakfast table. Even so, she might have guessed.
She pulled down the veil once more as Mr Astley offered her his arm. Nothing more was said as the party left the building, the countess leaning on Mr Astley as she went. Mr Callow, blushing and boyish, fell in behind them.
We had learned little from her about her husband, or what she felt for him. Lady Hawbridge would have been bred to contain her emotions. I doubted, having encountered him, that she could have held much fondness for him, but his death was a shocking one. There would be a scandal, shouted of in the press, and – worse – talked of behind hands and fans in drawing rooms and ballrooms up and down the country. The beautiful Lady Hawbridge was calm enough, but she would forever be marked as the woman whose husband was butchered in a theatre.
My memories of the noble families I had encountered in my childhood told me just how vicious people of quality could be to one another. She was arming herself with the story she would tell to counter her critics. I was truly sorry for her, not for what was past, but for what was yet to come.
Mr Fielding’s work appeared to be complete for the day. Davenport, looking weary, began to fold his papers and pack away his ink pot and quills. The conversation began to swell once more in the room until Garrick banged on the table and called for attention.
‘Friends, Mr Fielding thanks you for your time and your willingness to give your account of the dreadful events of last night. I too am grateful. Mr Fielding’s men are, even now, searching for William Simmot, whom we know has threatened this theatre with violence. I will not rest until they find him. We will close the theatre this evening – I know, I know, but the stage is in need of repainting,’ this to cries of ‘no’ from the players. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday, so we have two days for repairs. We will open as usual on Monday evening. I will not be cowed or beaten.’
At this the company, stage hands as well, gave a cheer.
‘The season is coming to a close. A few more weeks and we will break for the summer. We will not allow Simmot to threaten us. We will act, and act in defiance.’
Another cheer. Like Henry V rousing his troops, Garrick was stirring his company out of their fear and into bravery – even if they were not quite storming the walls of Harfleur.
Fielding clapped him on the back, to quieten him rather than to encourage him.
‘Garrick, my friend, I shall hear Mr Simmot’s account when he’s found. I promise to keep you informed.’
Davenport gave the magistrate an arm to help him find his way around the tables, until he could walk aided only by his long cane.
It was still not yet noon, according to the clock on the wall, but we were all exhausted by the events of the morning. Dinsdale and Sugden, who had accompanied the undertakers, were talking to the stage hands, no doubt sharing their observations.
‘What did you make of all that, miss?’ I asked Molly.
‘Well, I agree with everyone here, I expect,’ she said. ‘It must be something to do with Simmot. That thing about his play having a hanging…’
‘What about that Mr Callow?’ I asked. ‘Mr Fielding should have pressed him further, I think. He wouldn’t say who he was with in the Bedford Head. It might have been him who killed the earl.’
She laughed. ‘Mr Fielding didn’t press him because he’s a gentleman, Lizzie, and his friend’s death has nothing to do with him. It was clear enough that he was with a harlot, and he would rather not admit it in public.’
‘But will the girl say that he was in the Bedford Head?’
She snorted. ‘You think Mr Callow needs to account for his whereabouts? Girls like that will say anything if you pay them. Besides,’ she leaned in, ‘I might tell the magistrate myself, but I saw Mr Callow in Southampton Street, I’m almost sure of it.’
I stared at her. ‘Really?’
She nodded, squinting as she remembered. ‘Joe and I went out that way. Mr Callow’s not the only one who finds the Rose too noisy. I wanted something a bit more refined as well.’
I hardly thought Southampton Street refined, but then, I live in Soho. I said nothing.
‘He was wearing a bright green coat last night, wasn’t he? Lighter than Mr Astley’s. I liked the look of it and, when we were near to the Bedford, I swear I saw him in there.’
‘And was he with a girl?’
She pulled a face. ‘I can’t say. I didn’t notice. I just saw the coat.’ She shrugged. ‘Comes of seeing clothes and costumes all day, I expect. I recognise what people are wearing more than I see what they’re doing.’ She laughed at this, then she put a hand to my shoulder.
‘Speaking of clothes, there’s work to do, Lizzie.’
I tried not to sigh too heavily. There was nothing I wanted less than to mend clothes. ‘I’m tired, miss.’ I wasn’t tired at all; I was frustrated.
She gave a half-smile. ‘We’re all tired. But you have, I suppose, had the worst shock of all of us. I’ll tell you what,’ she stood up to leave, ‘we’ll work until the middle of the afternoon and then we can rest. Lie down in the costume room and have a sleep – it’ll be quiet enough. As Mr Garrick says, we’ve two days before we op
en again.’
I gave her the most grateful smile I could.
I wanted to be out of the theatre. If Mr Fielding was content simply to wait for William Simmot to tell his story, then I was not. I wanted to know more about Mr Astley and Mr Callow, and what they had been doing while their friend was being hung upside down. I was not going to find out by stitching. I could not, of course, wander over to visit Lady Hawbridge in whichever charming street or square was her London home. I could no more visit the gentlemen themselves, certainly not when I was dressed as a second seamstress in a gown that looked like mud.
I would go to the one place where I could be sure of information about gentlemen of fashion and consequence.
I would go home to Berwick Street.
Chapter Twenty
I slipped out of the theatre unseen. Molly had left me dozing in the costume room, so she thought, but I had sneaked out of the back door as soon as she had gone to find Sugden and Ketch. None of them could know where I was going.
The tall, dark-skinned door man at Mrs Farley’s decided not to recognise me. Foolishly, I had gone to the main entrance rather than to the kitchen at the back of the house. Habit took me up the four steps, to the large black door. I smiled, as I always did, at the sign proclaiming that we were milliners – a nod to a respectable life that fooled no one. Anyone who came to this door knew what we were selling – and bonnets played a very small part in our trade. But usually I skipped up the steps in a fine gown and an elegant cloak, with my copper curls piled high and a hat threaded with silk ribbon. Today, I looked like a street walker down on her luck.
‘Sydney, don’t be foolish. It’s me, Lizzie.’
Sydney peered at me in the condescending way that only he can manage. Sydney came to London from France with Ma. Having worked with her in the finest brothels of Paris, he is always immaculately dressed, and strongly disapproves of anyone who does not meet his standards. He has been known to send me back inside if a cuff or a ruffle is in need of mending.
‘Miss Hardwicke?’
‘Exactly. Let me in.’
His mouth began to form a thousand questions. He had not been party to dressing me as a seamstress – it would have distressed this elegant creature to let me out of the house in such a state.
The Corpse Played Dead Page 12
