by Amy Myers
‘A burglary, Mrs Pomfret,’ I began (formally, as Mrs Fortescue was present), once we were all settled in Clara’s greeting room. ‘Mrs Harcourt thinks a manuscript has been stolen and she made unfortunate accusations against Mrs Fortescue.’
Clara looked grave. ‘I don’t like this, Mr Wasp. A robbery at his bookstore when Mr Harcourt was murdered so recently — and when we had so many booksellers and publishers here that night. It can’t be a coincidence.’
I saw a light shining on the situation. ‘Phineas Snook can’t be connected with that, Mrs Pomfret. He has nothing to do with books.’
‘That terrible woman accused me of murdering Mr Harcourt,’ Mrs Fortescue moaned. ‘But I could not have done so. I merely asked him to escort me to my home on the corner of the Churchyard that Wednesday night. He agreed, so the other gentlemen left, but then after walking a short way along Queen’s Head Passage Mr Harcourt changed his mind and said he was returning straight home, which of course is in the opposite direction. That left me alone, and I ran through the Passage to Newgate Street where seeing my distress a gentleman and his wife kindly escorted me home. My maid will confirm that. Mr Harcourt turned towards the Row, but,’ she sobbed, ‘met his tragic fate instead.’
I saw an opportunity to find out more about why Mr Harcourt might have been crowing that evening as William Wright had told us. ‘Did Mr Harcourt mention anything unusual about his work that you might not have known about?’
‘He was always boasting about some great find,’ she replied snappily. ‘It’s possible he expected one to arrive, but if so it did not do so before I left.’
Clara looked at her sympathetically. ‘You come with me, Maria, and I’ll settle you down with a nice cup of tea in my parlour.’
After she had done so she returned to me sitting in state alone. ‘This could mean trouble, Tom. It looks as if that murder must have been connected with the Ordinaries’ meeting. Phineas Snook can’t have had anything to do with it because he wasn’t here.’
I braced myself to be tactful. ‘But anyone who was here could have killed him.’
Clara looked at me steadily and not very warmly. ‘You’re thinking of William, aren’t you, because he cares so much for Hetty? But he wouldn’t, Tom, and nor would any of the rest of my staff. And no woman, certainly not Maria, could have strangled him.’
I had to point out the other possibility. ‘As we said earlier, Clara, there’s Flint’s mob.’
‘That brings us back to the Ordinaries,’ Clara retorted. ‘They could have hired Flint and they’re coming for luncheon today. That’s not usual, Tom, and I believe they’re gathering to talk over what’s happened. They know which of them killed Mr Harcourt. They probably know about the burglary at Mr Harcourt’s shop and this missing manuscript.’ She broke off and looked at me in a most meaningful manner. ‘Do you think you …’
I caught her drift. ‘They won’t welcome a chimney sweep, much as I’d like to be there.’ I would indeed. If Clara was right, and one of the Ordinaries was Mr Harcourt’s murderer, then that would lift the shadow over Dolly’s. Not that that had done any harm to trade; customers were flocking in, drawn by the ghoulishness of the crime that had taken place in the yard. But that didn’t help Clara, presiding over an establishment where everyone looked at his neighbour wondering whether he was working or dining with a murderer. Suspicion eats away at the heart of a place like Dolly’s.
‘I wouldn’t be welcome either,’ Clara replied. ‘But women can be invisible and so can you.’
‘How’s that?’
‘That serving room next to the coffee room where the Ordinaries meet,’ she continued. ‘A dumbwaiter brings food up from the kitchen, and there’s a hatch to the coffee room for quick service. The waiters collect it from the sideboard inside the room. You could sit in the serving room, well out of sight. I’ll do the serving both from the dumbwaiter and the sideboard.’ She managed a laugh. ‘They’ll be disappointed that I’m not Hetty, but that can’t be helped.’
‘Clara, you’re a golden nugget to a mudlark,’ I said thankfully, as I followed her up to this serving room. I knew enough about the mudlarks on the banks of the Thames to know that treasure like that was rare indeed — and so was Clara.
The smells arising from the kitchens made me hungry while I was waiting for the gathering to begin. At last Clara bustled in, to warn me that the Tarlton Ordinaries were arriving and I should be sure to keep out of sight. Luckily the aromas of Jericho’s steaks and mutton chops would override any slight odours from my clothes, and anyway the Ordinaries would be more interested in their tankards of ale.
Minutes crawled by but at last I heard one or two of them coming up the stairs, then the rest like marching soldiers. Seven of them, Clara had told me, now that Mr Harcourt was no more. I mentioned earlier that I’d once seen Mr Harcourt at Dolly’s; on that occasion Hetty had pointed out to me with great awe this tall gentleman with piercing eyes and a haughty manner. I had also heard that night the booming voice of one of the other Ordinaries and been told it was that of Mr George Timpson. Now I heard it again; he was introducing the luncheon. I had been expecting an urgent discussion of Mr Harcourt’s murder, but instead he declared loudly:
‘Gentlemen, let tabor and pipe commence.’
There followed the sound of the tabor and the shrill noise of a pipe. The tune was familiar — perhaps I had heard Phineas play or sing it. I leaned forward as far as I dared and glimpsed Mr Timpson at the head of the table and one of the other gentlemen on the far side of the table, who was on the plump side with rosy cheeks. I could also see the backs of the two gentlemen on the near side of the table. There must have been two other gentlemen, whom I could not see without disclosing my presence, and the seventh member seemed to be progressing around the room with a tabor and pipe.
The unusual aspect for a gentlemen’s gathering was that the members — I presumed all of them — were wearing green and red floppy fool’s caps, like the jesters of old. The seventh member was wearing a large old-fashioned cap just as Richard Tarlton did in the drawing of him hanging in the coffee room. Gentlemen in clubs often have rituals, but this one seemed strange indeed, especially for a luncheon meeting. They must take their commitment to Richard Tarlton very seriously. The music from the tabor and pipe was stirring and I wished I could have been inside the room to see more clearly all these grave and important gentlemen wearing their floppy ears. Gentlemen are all boys at heart.
The music came to an end, but it seemed the ritual was not yet over. Surely Mr Harcourt’s death deserved more urgent attention?
‘A toast,’ declared Mr Timpson, who was a large and corpulent gentleman. ‘A toast to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.’ I saw him standing and the other gentlemen were following suit as he held his tankard aloft. ‘And a toast to our beloved clown, Richard Tarlton.’ Then: ‘You may sing, gentlemen, you may sing.’
I had thought he made a mistake over the queen’s name and that our Queen Victoria might not be pleased, if she had known, but then I realised that Queen Elizabeth was as much as queen to Mr Tarlton as Queen Victoria is to us. The song they chose was no wistful melody as Phineas sings, but the round Clara had mentioned, with all seven voices coming in in turn with:
He that will an alehouse keep
Must have three things in store
ending up with a rousing: Nonny hey nonny, hey nonny no. This must be a tribute to Mr Tarlton and to his Castle tavern, that was on this site until the Great Fire so many years ago. It was joyous singing, and not as lewd as the tavern songs heard at Paddy’s Goose on the Highway, but even so I was mystified by its light-hearted tone, considering the circumstances. Perhaps such levity was a mask. With each of them being suspects for Mr Harcourt’s murder, there would be unease at any open discussion.
Clara was distributing the first of the dishes now, a fine selection of whelks and mussels, and it was only when these were disposed of that Mr Timpson addressed the meeting again — seemingly reluctantly.
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‘We are here,’ he told his fellow diners, ‘to mourn the loss of Mr Arnold Harcourt.’ A pause, with a tentative ‘hear, hear’ from one of the two gentlemen with their backs to me.
‘We were all here that fateful evening,’ he continued, ‘and we have doubtless all spoken to the City of London Police. I take it that we can assume that none of us saw who killed Harcourt?’
No one replied and Mr Timpson was forced to continue himself.
‘As you know, four of you were ahead of Mr Harcourt, and walked through the archway to the Row, whereas Mr Manley, Mr Splendour and myself remained briefly, supporting Mr Harcourt. However, you may all wish to clarify your movements.’
It appeared, from what I could hear, that the group of four had gone their separate ways after reaching the Row, and despite the best efforts of the other remaining three, seemed therefore to be excluded from immediate suspicion. Mr Manley and Mr Splendour seemed to be the two gentlemen with their backs to me on the near side of the table.
‘We were only with him because he was tipsy,’ one of them said anxiously. ‘We were concerned that he might take a fall, having dined well. Then it turned out that he was well enough to escort that woman to her home. We three left him then.’ A pause. ‘Didn’t we?’
‘I certainly did,’ Mr Timpson boomed. ‘I left you two gentlemen with Mr Harcourt and that woman and decided to take a short walk to the Churchyard to admire the cathedral by night.’
‘I do not recall that,’ the gentleman with his back nearest to me replied instantly. ‘I myself was the first of us three to leave. You will remember, Mr Manley —’ He turned to the neighbour between himself and Mr Timpson ‘— I had unfortunately left my umbrella behind and went back into Dolly’s, leaving you two with poor Harcourt. When I returned there was no sign of any of you.’
‘You were most definitely there when I left,’ Mr Timpson boomed in response. ‘Wasn’t he, Mr Manley?’
Mr Manley was most anxious to assure the company that he really could not recall this. All he remembered was that he had departed the very instant that Mrs Fortescue and Mr Harcourt had begun the walk to her home in the opposite direction.
‘I,’ he concluded, ‘always take a breath of fresh air by the Thames when out during the hours of darkness. It is most inspiring.’
The Thames air is not the kind of breath I like for refreshing my brain, but the murmur of the six other gentlemen suggested they were in complete agreement. A heated discussion now broke out between the three men as to who had departed first after Mr Harcourt had agreed to escort Mrs Fortescue to her home. All they agreed on was that none of them was anywhere near Queen’s Head Passage after Mr Harcourt had abandoned Mrs Fortescue.
If one of those three gentlemen had been Mr Harcourt’s murderer, I reasoned, they would have been expecting him to return through Queen’s Head Passage after leaving Mrs Fortescue’s house and might have waited there; his decision to leave her at such an early point would have made this a much shorter interlude. It occurred to me, however, that there was only Mrs Fortescue’s word for it that she was indeed abandoned. And where, in all this, might Flint have played a part? He, or Slugger, could also have been lurking in the shadows for an opportunity to pounce on their victim.
The argument was continuing. Everyone was shouting at once, which was most inconsiderate of them as I could not distinguish who was saying what.
When they at last fell silent Mr Timpson looked most grim. ‘To our muttons, gentlemen. We now know that there was a burglary at Harcourt’s store last night and a manuscript is apparently missing. Once it is found, who is going to approach Mrs Harcourt on behalf of us all? Or — dare I say it? — does one of us know all too well what the position is?’
I expected another outcry, but none came. Instead there was what seemed an appalled silence.
At this unfortunate moment, Mrs Fortescue must have tired of her lonely position in Clara’s parlour, for I had heard the door open and her voice proclaimed loudly, ‘Gentlemen, if you are referring to the manuscript which the late Mr Harcourt was so delighted to receive, there is still no sign of it.’
There was a startled pause, perhaps because a lady had once again dared to interrupt their grave and ordered proceedings, but perhaps because they were assessing the situation with all speed, as chairs were scraped back to rise to their feet in tardy politeness.
Mr Splendour, who by elimination I discerned was the second gentleman on Mr Timpson’s right, broke the shocked silence. ‘My dear Mrs Fortescue, we can hardly take your word for that. Mr Harcourt might not have taken you into his confidence over where he had put the manuscript on receipt.’ Another pause. ‘I have heard that one item was taken during the burglary. What was that?’
Mrs Fortescue was clearly about to make the most of this moment, judging by the sudden tension in the room. ‘Only poetry thought by Mr Harcourt to be by Christopher Smart. Nothing else. Either Mrs Harcourt is correct that the manuscript in which you are interested was stolen or its existence was a tale concocted by Mr Harcourt to fool you all.’
At that there was an outcry of ‘Nonsense.’ Amongst the babble that followed, however, I thought I heard the name Phineas Snook. If so, no one commented, but it filled me with fear. Whatever this mystery was — if there was one at all — I could not see how Phineas could be involved. And yet the City of London police knew his name and so did Constable Peters. How could a street entertainer, even one in love with Hetty Pomfret — be connected with these gentlemen? I listened uneasily, but there was no further mention of him.
When the rumpus died down, someone I could not see asked for further information about the burglary. ‘Madam, are you sure the folder of poetry that was taken was by Smart?’
‘I am,’ Mrs Fortescue replied firmly. ‘It was acquired by Mr Harcourt only recently from a prominent Spitalfields dealer. The robber paid tuppence for it.’
There seemed an air of relief in the room, as like Cockalorum they smoothed their ruffled fur, and sank back into their seats although she had not invited them to regain them.
‘Christopher Smart,’ Mr Timpson declared in an offhand manner. ‘A friend of Dr Johnson of course.’ Then he added, ‘Is it not possible that the same person who acquired that for tuppence also stole this other manuscript?’
‘Perhaps,’ Mrs Fortescue snapped.
Mr Timpson was not deterred. ‘Or as you were such a valuable assistant to Mr Harcourt, you would know if he had kept the manuscript in some secret place. You knew his most private business.’
I heard Mrs Fortescue hiss with fury. ‘You, sir, are not a gentleman.’
‘And you, madam, are no lady to keep the truth from us,’ Mr Manley, the anxious gentleman, declared passionately. ‘We have a stake in this matter. We are the Tarlton Ordinaries.’
Who all, I thought to myself, seem remarkably unconcerned that one of their number had been brutally murdered and that at least three of them must be under investigation by the City of London Police.
‘Ordinaries?’ Mrs Fortescue jeered. ‘Very ordinary. You, gentlemen, are the clowns, not Richard Tarlton. If there’s anything missing you exalted booksellers and publishers would surely know what it was, whereas a mere assistant would be kept in ignorance. Perhaps Mr Harcourt was murdered because of this imaginary manuscript — and by one of you.’
With that challenge, she departed, judging by the sound of the door slamming, and there was silence. I could see Mr Timpson looking round the table and the other gentlemen in my restricted view leaning forward to look at their neighbours, just as paintings show the Disciples at the Last Supper. Whom to trust? Whom to doubt? Was this too a case of betrayal by friends? Was Richard Tarlton in the portrait on the far wall peering down sadly at his Ordinaries? Did he feel betrayed?
IV
Meeting the Ordinaries
I spent an uneasy night dreaming of being pursued up a chimney by an army of angry gentlemen wearing fool’s caps, jerkins and hose. When Ned bounded into the room
to wake me up, though, it was Phineas who came immediately to mind. Why was his name cropping up so often?
Being Sunday, there were no chimneys today and Ned had announced his intention of enjoying the pleasures of Victoria Park. I had suggested the pleasures of the public baths, but they did not appeal. I decided to face my fears and find Phineas again.
Even though it was Sunday, he would probably be at work, so I once again set off to Great Tower Hill to see if he was a-dancing there. The only way to settle my mind was to question him more closely on his movements. I had been told he hadn’t been seen at Dolly’s that day, but had he been in the Row? He would tell me, as he doesn’t know the difference between truth and a lie — this because he doesn’t know what a falsehood is.
As I reached the Hill I could see him in the distance, dancing with his pipe to his lips. Seeing him so cheerful in the morning air made it hard to believe that anything might be amiss with him.
He stopped as I approached. ‘Good morning, Tom. Two peelers came to see me yesterday at my lodgings, just as you said.’
‘What did they ask you?’ At least Phineas was still here, not taken off to Newgate prison. Fortunately this was Metropolitan Police territory, which meant the City of London would have to consult before they acted.
‘Whether I had killed Mr Harcourt, but I told them I hadn’t.’
This was alarming. ‘Why did they think that? Did they have evidence or just because you didn’t like his behaviour to Hetty?’
‘Yes.’ Phineas began to look worried. ‘Hetty was upset because she told the police that I disliked Mr Harcourt.’