I pushed past him before he could stop me and made my way to the back parlour.
It was not a busy hour of the day, and even before I opened the door, I could hear Lucy and Emily having an argument. Ah, the sweet sound of home.
My entrance settled whatever the dispute was about. However much they rubbed each other the wrong way, they were united in their delight at seeing me looking so dreadful.
‘Lizzie! How well you look,’ Lucy cooed. ‘That colour really suits you.’
‘Shut up, Lucy, and pour me some tea.’ I sat down, not before smacking her gently across the back of her head. ‘I’m worn out.’
‘You’ve been working the Strand?’ Emily asked, a nasty sneer on her lips.
I threw her my most evil look.
‘There was a murder. At the theatre.’
That quietened them.
‘Death tends to follow you around, darling,’ said Lucy, pausing with the teapot. ‘I’m beginning to think Ma should throw you out as bad luck.’
Emily sniggered. ‘Did you tup this one as well?’ A previous customer of mine had been murdered. It was a heartless comment and typical of Emily to ask it. Especially as, after a fashion, I had only just avoided it.
‘I found the body.’
‘You found the body?’ Lucy repeated.
‘Hanging from that large chandelier over the stage. Upside down, with his throat cut. There was a lot of blood.’
They said nothing. There was nothing to say. Lucy poured my tea in silence. Both of them looked appalled.
‘I’m not surprised you’ve come home,’ said Lucy in a quiet voice. ‘You should never have let Mr Davenport persuade you to go. Your face looks battered and you’re covered in dirt. You belong here.’
I beamed at her, ignoring the pain this caused to my cheek. ‘Right where the two of you can make my life hell. It’s the place I choose to call home.’ I took a large mouthful of tea. It was good to be drinking something that had a taste to it. Ma always has the best that money can buy. Emily pushed a plate of sweetmeats towards me, in a fit of uncharacteristic generosity. I didn’t hesitate and helped myself to the largest confection.
‘I came home,’ I said, mouth full of sugar, ‘to seek your advice, as it happens.’
‘Mine?’ Lucy sat back. ‘Or Emily’s?’
‘Both. I want some information and I know the two of you have all the best gossip.’
Both girls prided themselves of being bearers of news.
‘Two very high-born gentlemen. One is Mr Astley and the other a Mr Callow. Astley’s older, a man in his fifties. Callow is, I think, nearer twenty-five or thirty.’
Emily shook her head. ‘Neither of them has been to me. Not using those names, at least. They don’t always, of course. What are they to the dead man?’
‘They were with him at the theatre last night,’ I said, reaching for another candied fruit. ‘The dead man was the Earl of Hawbridge. He was the same age as Astley, in his fifties. They were sitting together for the performance and drinking with Mr Garrick in the interval.’
Lucy was looking thoughtful.
‘Mr Astley? The one who’s taken up with one of the actresses at Drury Lane? What’s her name? Lydia? No, Lucy Hunter.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I’ve not seen him here, but he was at a party in Grosvenor Square a month ago. That was a very lovely party.’ By which, she meant that the men were wealthy, and they paid her a lot of attention.
‘What do you know of him, Lucy?’
She shrugged. ‘I know that he has known Lord Hawbridge since school.’
‘I know that already.’
Lucy was rubbing her temples, trying to remember something. ‘I don’t think he was a friend, though, Lizzie.’
‘Well, he was sitting drinking with him last night…’ I said.
‘Oh, people can drink together without being close friends. Look at us.’
It confirmed what I had thought.
‘True. Go on.’
‘The story’s coming back to me now. Rumour has it that Mr Astley had been on the point of asking a woman to marry him, when Lord Hawbridge stepped in and proposed to her himself. The present Lady Hawbridge, I mean.’
This was interesting. I thought of how Astley had taken the countess on his arm and led her away from the green room. The care, the tenderness. Had he held her in such high esteem that he had wanted to marry her?
‘So, Astley wanted to marry Lady Hawbridge, but Lord Hawbridge got there first?’
‘Stole her from under his nose, someone said. And it was a very big nose. She’s younger than he is, you know.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen her. Extremely beautiful.’
‘And extremely wealthy, more to the point. She has an impressive fortune, so the story goes.’ Lucy was warming up. She loved gossip, loved sharing her privileged information, gleaned from the most fashionable parties – and the most noble beds. ‘Hawbridge had been widowed for a while. His first wife gave him two sons, and he had no need to marry, but he does like to live well. A fondness for gambling and expensive women.’
‘Lived,’ I corrected her. ‘He lived well. He’s very dead now.’
Emily snorted.
‘Oh yes. So he is,’ said Lucy, thrown off her stride. ‘But when he was alive, he racked up enormous debts. He married… oh what was her name before…? Harriet Elsom. He married Harriet Elsom, whose father has an extraordinary amount of money and pretentions to greatness. And, as you say, she is exquisite. And probably docile,’ she added as an afterthought.
Was she docile? I had thought her controlled, contained.
‘So this other one, Astley, he wanted to marry her?’ Emily, stirring sugar into her tea, was interested now. She and Lucy could tear each other’s hair out like wild cats, but both enjoyed the intrigues of society. ‘Is he impoverished too?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Lucy. ‘I think he genuinely wanted to marry Harriet Elsom. But, Lord Hawbridge… he has a title, you see. However well-born Astley is – and I think he is – he’s not an earl.’
This put a new complexion on Hawbridge’s death. I had wondered whether George Hunter had been jealous of the earl, even as he intended to make his own wife Hawbridge’s mistress, but now there was, potentially, another jealous lover in the wings.
‘You know, Hawbridge was beginning to make eyes at Astley’s mistress,’ I said, my thoughts emerging out loud. ‘Mrs Hunter spent most of last night wrapped around Hawbridge, when she wasn’t on the stage as Cordelia.’
‘Poor Mr Astley,’ said Lucy. ‘He loses the woman he loves to the earl, and then his mistress is taken from him too.’
A silence fell as we contemplated the implication of what Lucy had said. The first situation was tragic, the second was an affront. It would make anyone nurse a grudge.
‘Is Astley really that ugly?’
‘Emily!’
‘What? I’m only asking. He can’t have much to commend him if two women abandon him for this Hawbridge.’
I laughed. It was good to laugh again.
‘He’s not that bad. A pompous old prick with an enormous nose – you’ve entertained far worse, Emily. But he’s not got a title.’
‘Well, if he feels like paying, I’ll be happy to make his acquaintance. I’m not fussy about their titles or looks as long as they pay handsomely enough.’
That was true for all of us.
Chapter Twenty-one
Conversation with Lucy and Emily had given me food for thought. I climbed the stairs to my own room and sank down on the bed. The pain in my shoulder was easing, but it still throbbed, and it was good to lie flat in comfort and think.
There was enmity between Hawbridge and Astley, then. I could see no way of discovering more about it by myself, but I was convinced that such a ghastly murder would have more to do with Hawbridge’s relationships than it did with Garrick’s theatre. The death had been made to look dramatic, but it was, at heart, a nasty thing. It spoke of a
deep hatred rather than a fit of pique. Had Astley nursed his resentment over the years? One might assume that he had, if he had indeed loved Harriet Elsom. But to be bested twice by Lord Hawbridge? To find his own actress falling for Hawbridge’s noble charms? Had that angered him enough to kill the man he had known since childhood?
William Simmot bore a grudge against Garrick, and Garrick was convinced of his involvement in the murder. But from the brief glimpse I’d had of him, Simmot appeared to as someone who would shout a lot, and make threats, but shy away from physical violence. I recalled the small red-faced man, inflated with his own importance in his ridiculous pink coat. He might, for dramatic effect, throw papers at Garrick, or write a critical piece for a scandal rag, but I couldn’t see him hanging a man by his ankles, still less cutting his throat.
And then there was George Hunter, whose dissembling bothered me. He was hiding his contempt for Garrick behind wide smiles and false laughter. He was forced to contain his talent and temper in a weak frame, while, at the same time, he watched his wife taking roles on stage that were, in truth, beyond her capabilities. They could not make money from her acting alone – she was not that good – so he threw her in the way of rich men, knowing where her real ability lay. He wasn’t the only man in London to pimp his wife, and it was easier for her to take Astley to bed than to memorise lines of Shakespeare. Had Hunter overreached himself with Lord Hawbridge? Had there been a quarrel, a misunderstanding? Had his wife tied the rope?
I couldn’t see any of them killing Lord Hawbridge. Something nagged me, though. Something I had seen or heard. I couldn’t recall what it was.
I washed my face and brushed my hair. I was desperate to bathe and change my clothes but knew that Davenport would be annoyed if I did. If I was going back to the theatre, I had to return as Lizzie Blunt.
The bruise on my cheek bone had spread to cover my right eyebrow. I pressed it gently, wincing a little at the pain. If it grew any larger, my eye would start to close. From the drawer of my table I pulled a glass jar of ointment – a comfrey leaf salve that Emily made for us, for when, inevitably in a brothel, we found ourselves bruised or sore. I dabbed a small amount on my face and sighed. Lord Hawbridge had showed me no kindness; quite the reverse. His death was but the end of a violent and badly-lived life. I had no reason to seek out his killer. But I had stood in the man’s blood and seen his body swaying above me and thought that we were, strangely, connected. I had to know what had happened.
I had to speak with Davenport.
I made my way downstairs again, meeting Polly and Ma in the hall. They had been shopping and had returned ready for the evening’s work. Polly squeaked with delight at seeing me. Ma was not at all delighted.
‘I thought you were supposed to be in Drury Lane. I don’t want you in my house dressed in such a pitiful state. You’ll drive the gentlemen away.’
I glanced down at my gown as if it had not occurred to me that I looked like I’d been rolling in dirt and blood.
‘This old thing? And Lucy told me that brown suited my complexion, the spiteful cat.’
‘Get out of my house or change into something decent,’ she raised her voice. ‘I am not running a bawdy house for sailors.’
I might have thrown back another quip, but at that moment there was a knock on the front door. The gentlemen, who were not sailors, were arriving already. I knew better than to banter with Mrs Farley where her business was concerned, so I scrambled for the kitchen – and left by the back door.
* * *
It was not yet dark, but the streets between Soho and Covent Garden were beginning to shed their small claims to respectability and take on their customary night-time appearance. I hurried to the theatre. A well-dressed harlot might wander these streets in the dusk, assured of comments, calls and offers of business, but she could also command the help of passers-by if she felt alarmed or unsafe. A small, badly-dressed girl could be pulled into a dark passageway and attract no concern at all, even if she screamed murder. Around me, the sort of women I never usually had cause to notice were walking quickly to get home, to be safe. The poorer sort, the sort that no one really missed if they never made it to their destination. I was one of them, for now. I pulled the shawl across my shoulders, ducked my head and matched their speed.
I had turned from Bow Street into Russell Street when I saw them; two burly men I recognised were in conversation by a cart. I checked my pace. Dinsdale and Hunter. They did not see me, not only because I was beneath notice, but because their heads were close, and the street was busy. Dinsdale looked up and glanced around, scratched his cheek and turned his scowling face back to Hunter, shrugged his shoulders and said something. They looked like two halves of the same coin.
I walked past them, almost touching them, but I was unable to hear even a snatch of the conversation, it was conducted so furtively.
Ahead of me now there was a scuffle. Several men were jostling together. Someone was shouting; more than one person was shouting. These men were also known to me. Snowy, Grimshaw and Carter – Fielding’s men – were dragging a gentleman towards a neighbouring tavern. The portly young man was protesting noisily. It was William Simmot.
I looked back. Dinsdale and Hunter had vanished.
The shouting men bundled Mr Simmot through the door of the Rose tavern.
The Rose has a certain notoriety. It is loud, brash and usually full of young men drinking strong punch. In the Rose, on a wild night – which is most nights – clothes are optional. Women dance naked on the tables, men lose their dignity, along with their money, their silk handkerchiefs, and their pocket watches, courtesy of wily, quick-fingered harlots. A gentleman who walks through the doors of the Rose is assured of a night he will never forget – because he is unlikely to remember it in the first place.
It was, though, still early in the evening. There was a buzz of conversation, and the sound of laughter, but the serious debauchery of a night at the Rose had yet to begin.
I grinned as soon as I saw Davenport, sitting at a table, waiting calmly for Mr Simmot to cease his raging. I slipped in behind the men of Bow Street and found an empty alcove from which to watch what was going on. Unhindered by the formality of Mr Fielding, Davenport would question Simmot in his own way: patiently, thoroughly, unsparing of the man’s sensibilities. I had seen him do this before and settled back.
The young man raged and protested; Grimshaw’s meaty hand planted on his shoulder, the pistols tucked in Snowy’s breeches barely inches from his face. Davenport glanced in my direction as if he knew I was there. I offered only the smallest inclination of my head, and received nothing in response, but he had seen me. Of that I was certain.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘Do you know who we are?’ The voice was civil, but sharp as a razor.
Simmot stared at Davenport across the table.
‘Thieves, rogues, murderers?’ His response grew louder with every guess.
‘We work for the magistrate, Mr Fielding,’ said Davenport. ‘My name is William Davenport. You’ve already become acquainted with my colleagues. We’d like to ask you some questions about a murder. I see you know the murder of which I am speaking.’
Simmot was beginning to squirm under Grimshaw’s hand. Grimshaw was not letting go. He enjoyed making people squirm.
‘I had nothing to do with it. Terrible business.’
‘Terrible indeed,’ Davenport agreed. ‘A man found hanging from a chandelier is very bad. A man found hanging upside down is even worse.’
‘What?’
Simmot appeared not to know the details. Or he was a better actor than he was a playwright.
‘What?’ he repeated faintly.
‘The Earl of Hawbridge was suspended from the girandole over the stage. He was tied up by his ankles and someone opened his throat with a knife. Almost took his head off.’
I felt the bile rise in my own throat at the memory.
‘No.’ Simmot’s voice was barely a whisper. He slumped u
nder Grimshaw’s hand. The fight had gone from him. He went white.
‘Now, I understand, Mr Simmot, that you were in the theatre last night. In the green room,’ Davenport spoke in that easy tone he used when he already knew the answers to his questions. I began to feel sorry for Mr Simmot. ‘You were in the green room during the long interval and you were overheard making threats against the theatre manager, Mr Garrick.’
Simmot could hardly deny it. Instead he went for the obvious riposte, offered in the offhand manner of a man who has no idea how much trouble he is in. ‘I fail to see what my argument with Garrick has to do with anything. Or even if it is your business.’
‘Oh, it’s my business, sir, when you make threats against him in his own theatre, when he is seated next to a man who is murdered later that night and when the play that you throw in his face contains a hanging.’ Davenport favoured him with a cold smile. ‘That’s what makes it my business.’
Simmot ran a finger under his cravat. His chubby hand was shaking slightly, as if he knew what was coming next. Davenport did not disappoint him.
‘Indeed, I understand that the character in your play is suspended upside down and left to die? An unpleasant way to go in a piece of make believe; far worse in real life.’
Simmot made a choking sound.
‘So, perhaps you’d like to tell me where you were last night?’ Davenport said. ‘And whether anyone can vouch for you.’
The choking sound continued and became a wheeze and then a cough. Davenport, irritated, called for the tavern boy to bring a pot of beer and waited for Simmot to compose himself. His eyes never left his face.
Another man, young, red-cheeked and with his wig slightly askew, tried to sit next to me – or on my lap. He was drunk. Experience tells me that it’s better to be polite to drunken men than to push them rudely away, so I told him, very cheerfully, that I was waiting for a prize fighter from St Giles who was twice his size and prone to be quick-tempered. He gave me a lop-sided grin and stumbled away. Davenport’s lips twitched.
The Corpse Played Dead Page 13
