The actor’s mask dropped for a moment. ‘I cannot, Carver. I am frightened. I am certain that someone is following me.’ Montague looked over his shoulder as if he believed his pursuer might have followed him into Adam’s rooms. ‘I do not know what to do. I am entirely at the end of my rope.’
‘Speak to the police.’
‘I cannot,’ Montague repeated.
‘You have spoken to me.’
‘That is a very different matter.’
‘Speaking to me might be worse than speaking to the police. How do you know it was not I who murdered the girl?’
‘My dear! Perish the thought.’ Montague gave a short, half-hysterical laugh. It was clear that he had not heard that Adam had been arrested, however briefly, in York.
‘I was asking about Dolly’s whereabouts. Might I not have been in pursuit of her in order to kill her?’
‘I may not be the man I was, my dear, but I have not completely lost my powers of judgement. You’re no more a killer than I am. No, it’s someone else and I swear he’s following me.’ Again, Montague looked wildly around the room as if his possible pursuer might even now be hiding behind the furniture. ‘I have only spoken to you,’ he said, ‘because I needed to unburden my conscience. The girl was a sweet girl in her own way, and it was because of me that she was in the theatre to meet her death.’
There was a clatter from outside. The actor made a sudden high-pitched, whinnying noise, something between a laugh and a cry of fear. He jumped to his feet and almost ran out of the door. As he did so, he nearly collided with Quint, who was entering the room from the hall.
‘Where’s the bleedin’ fire?’ the manservant asked indignantly, but Montague had already left the flat and his steps could be heard on the staircase.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘What do you think you’re doing round ’ere?’ Quint spoke quietly to himself as he watched the man he had been following for two hours. The object of his attentions was standing at the corner of Piccadilly Circus and the Quadrant, outside one of the entrances to Swan & Edgar’s. ‘This ain’t your beat, is it? You’re a long way from home.’
The man Quint was eyeing so suspiciously was Job Benskin. Before he had left him to make further enquiries into Dolly Delaney’s past history, Adam had set his servant a task: ‘Now we are back in town,’ he said, ‘I cannot have the sword of Damocles hanging over my head in the shape of this wretched man Benskin and his wild stories. I must know more about him. Where does he live? What does he do with his days? My time is still taken up by this Dolly Delaney affair, so I am trusting you to find answers to these questions, Quint.’
‘’Ow the ’ell am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know what the cove looks like.’
‘You saw him at the Three Pigs. When I emerged from the back room, he followed me.’
‘I ain’t sure I’d know ’im again. We was out the door into the street like scalded cats through a back window, remember.’
‘I have faith in your powers of recall, Quint. Go back to the Three Pigs. Try to avoid that lout Baines but make enquiries about Benskin. I must know if he truly does have the knowledge of my father’s last days, as he claims. And the only way to discover that is through knowing more of Benskin himself.’
So, very reluctantly, Quint had returned to the pothouse in Whitechapel where they had last seen the down-and-out clerk. By a stroke of luck, there was no sign of Jem Baines when he arrived. One of his associates was there, propping up the bar with a pint pot clasped in his ham-like fist, but he did no more than snarl in Quint’s direction and turn back to his drink. It was only just after one o’clock, and perhaps too early in the day for fisticuffs.
Quint had ordered himself a pint of half-and-half and settled into a seat as far away from the man at the bar as he could. There was no need to be deliberately provocative. He had not had long to wait: he had been there no more than ten minutes when the door to the Pigs opened and Benskin walked in. Although he had caught only a glimpse of him on his previous visit, Quint knew him immediately. He did not look a happy man. ‘Face as long as a fiddle,’ Quint had said to himself.
Benskin had ordered a brandy and water which he nursed to his chest as he stared morosely around the bar, his eyes passing over Quint with no sign that he recognized him. For a minute or two, he continued to clutch the brandy, like a mother nursing her sleeping child, before abruptly lifting it to his lips and swallowing it in one gulp. He had banged the shot glass on the counter and marched out of the alehouse.
Quint had waited the briefest of moments and then followed, anxious that he should not lose his prey so soon after finding him. The thug at the bar watched him go, hurling a half-hearted insult at him as he left.
Outside, Benskin had still been in sight, heading up Leman Street towards the high street at a surprising pace. Quint set off in pursuit and was twenty yards behind him as the former clerk turned towards the city. Despite the crowds, he was able to keep his man in sight without too much difficulty. Through Aldgate and Leadenhall Street, Cornhill and Cheapside, Benskin passed, unaware of the figure tracking him. Along Newgate Street and on into High Holborn, his pace had showed no sign of slacking. After reaching Oxford Street, he turned abruptly to the left and Quint had nearly lost him in the warren of Soho streets and alleyways – he had been forced to move forwards until he was scarcely more than a few steps behind his quarry. On several occasions he was sure that the man would turn and realize that he was being followed, but Benskin had seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He had a destination in mind and he was determined to reach it.
And now he was standing in front of one of the West End’s largest shops, scratching his backside and attracting disapproving looks from several of the customers who entered it.
‘You’ll be getting yourself moved on, if you keep loitering there with your fingers ’alfway up your arse,’ Quint said to himself, as he watched from a vantage point further along the Quadrant.
Indeed, one of the shop’s doormen was already eyeing Benskin with suspicion. It was only a matter of time before the shabby vagrant was told to be on his way. ‘Any minute now,’ Quint whispered, and then noted with surprise that one of the gentlemen exiting Swan & Edgar’s had stopped to talk to Benskin. What was he doing? Was he a charitable soul who was handing him a few coins? Did he want Benskin to carry his goods to a waiting carriage? No, he had nothing with him apart from a walking cane. Quint moved nearer to the pair.
The gentleman was dressed in a light-coloured paletot and dark trousers. He was tall with a black beard that looked too luxuriant for his thin face. He was talking to Benskin, who was listening intently and nodding from time to time. The man in the paletot raised his cane and pointed up Regent Street, and the two unlikely companions began to walk towards Oxford Circus. ‘This is a turn-up, ain’t it?’ Quint remarked to himself and proceeded to follow them.
* * * * *
The bells of a nearby church were striking six as Adam let himself into the house in Doughty Street and peered cautiously along its entrance hall. The first door which opened off it, he noticed to his relief, was closed. He had no wish to encounter his landlady at present. He had spent the day in extensive and entirely fruitless enquiries into Dolly Delaney’s life in London and he was a frustrated man. The very last thing he wanted was a conversation with Mrs Gaffery.
He began to tiptoe carefully up the stairs. He had almost reached the top when he came to a sudden halt. The door to his rooms was ajar. Was Quint at home? Adam imagined that his servant would still be in pursuit of Job Benskin. The young man mounted the last two stairs even more quietly than he had done the rest and approached the entrance to his rooms. He pushed open the outer door.
The door to the living room was also half-open and Adam could hear the sounds of someone moving about inside. He pushed open the second door and was faced with
a scene of chaos. Chairs were overturned. The table had been moved and the carpet beneath it had been rolled back. His books had been pulled from the shelves and flung to the floor.
So intent was he on his task, the man responsible did not see Adam. He crossed the room from the bookshelves and now crouched by a small cabinet under one of the windows. He pulled out the cabinet’s bottom drawer and began examining its contents.
The man was not Quint. He was dressed in a black corduroy suit that had seen better days, and a battered billycock hat. A dirty black muffler was wrapped around his face. Adam recognized him immediately. He did not know the man’s name but it was undoubtedly the same man who had attacked him with a knife when he was leaving the German Gymnasium. The man was muttering beneath his breath as he pulled reams of paper from the cabinet. The paper, Adam realized, was his manuscript for Travels in Ancient Macedon which he had stored there two years since and forgotten. The intruder was clearly uninterested in it. Cursing, he cast the sheets of paper to one aside. He was looking for something else.
Adam was suddenly outraged by this invasion of his home. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re doing?’ he shouted.
The man, taken utterly by surprise, started as if he had glimpsed a ghost. Before he could turn to see who had entered the room, Adam was upon him, the young man’s left arm curling around the trespasser’s neck.
The man in corduroy twisted as best he could in Adam’s grip, making choking noises as he did so. His hat fell off. He threw back his arms and pushed Adam off-balance. Both men tumbled backwards but the young man continued to cling to him. The pair rolled around the room, Adam still with his arm clamped firmly around the other man’s neck but the intruder’s weight fully upon him. His uninvited guest struggled furiously to be free, lashing out his arms and legs in all directions. His elbows caught Adam several blows in the ribs and, winded, the young man was eventually obliged to release his captive. The man immediately jumped to his feet and ran from the room.
After a moment’s delay to recover his breath, Adam followed him. Taking the stairs three at a time, he reached the street and looked wildly one way and then the other. A figure in black was disappearing down Doughty Street in the direction of the Foundling Hospital. Adam began to chase after him, but soon realized that the man had too great a head start. The young man saw the figure run past the street gate and its porter and turn into Guilford Street. When he reached the corner himself, the intruder had vanished into the London crowds. There was little point in continuing the pursuit. He looked at the porter, an elderly Crimean veteran called Knibbs, with a bristling beard and a wooden leg.
‘Did you know that man?’ Adam asked.
‘Know ’im, sir? ’E sez you did. That’s why I lets him through the gate. Mr Carver’s expectin’ me, ’e sez.’
‘Did he have the appearance of someone with whom I might be acquainted?’ Adam, exasperated, raised his voice. ‘A villainous-looking rogue dressed in corduroy?’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Carver, but you has some odd sorts visitin’.’ The porter was offended. ‘’E didn’t seem any worse nor better than some you’ve told me to let pass.’
‘You are right, Knibbs.’ Adam, still looking down Guilford Street in vain hopes of catching a glimpse of his intruder, recovered his temper. ‘My apologies. I did not mean to cast aspersions on your judgement.’
The old soldier was perched on a three-legged stool by the street gate, his false leg outstretched and an unlit pipe clamped in his mouth. ‘I’d ’ave stopped ’im jest now, when he comes runnin’ past me,’ he said, ‘if it weren’t for this.’ He tapped on the wood of his lower right limb. ‘If it weren’t for the fact that me leg lies buried in a pit afore Sebastopol, where I left it for me queen and country, I’d ’ave stopped ’im.’
‘I am sure you would,’ Adam said, wondering, not for the first time, what the point was in employing a one-legged man as a gate porter. However, Knibbs was not someone worth antagonizing. For all kinds of reasons, the young man thought, it was more useful to have him look on you with favour rather disfavour. He pressed a coin into the porter’s hand and returned to the house.
Inevitably, Mrs Gaffery was standing at the door to her rooms. She must have heard the commotion as Adam pursued the intruder into Doughty Street. She was in a state of voluble outrage and it took the young man several minutes to soothe her. Eventually, with a last suggestion that he could find new accommodation if he did not wish to live like a respectable person, Mrs Gaffery retired and slammed shut her door.
Adam trudged back up the stairs and entered his own rooms. He looked about the ruin of his sitting room. He noticed a black object lying amidst the pages of his manuscript and he reached to pick it up. It was the man’s billycock hat. He turned it over in his hands. It had lost much of its shape and hardness but there was a dirty white band running around the inside of its brim. Letters, now very faded, had long ago been inscribed on the band in black ink. The letters were ‘JB’.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘He’s in the room at the back, sir. It ain’t up to much but it’s the best dressing room in the house.’ He followed the stolid man in an ancient cutaway coat as he made his way further into the depths of the Royal Pantheon Theatre, Holborn. The man was clutching a cheap cigar in his right hand and plumes of rancid-smelling smoke surrounded him. His name was Albert Danvers and he was the manager of the theatre in which Cyril Montague was scheduled to perform.
Adam had decided that he needed to talk to Montague once more. The man knew more of Dolly Delaney than he was telling, and he must be made to speak. Adam was not sure how he was going to force the truth from him but was determined to do so.
The two men reached a green door and Danvers grabbed at its handle. The door was locked. The theatre manager knocked loudly. ‘Montague!’ he called, ‘there’s a gentleman to see you. Name of Carver. Says he needs to see you before you go on.’
He knocked again, even more noisily than before. ‘I was warned about this, Mr Carver. I was warned. He’ll let you down, they said. He’ll get himself so hazed with the smoke that he won’t know where he is.’ The manager continued to bang on the door and shout Montague’s name. ‘But I decided to take a chance on him. He’s a fine actor, Cyril, an artist in his own way. Looks like he’s let me down, though. Just like they said. He’s dead to the world, if you ask me. We’ll never get him coherent by curtain up.’
‘He’s definitely in there, is he?’ Adam asked.
‘Saw him go in to put on his slap about forty-five minutes ago. He was a bit bleary but I thought he’d liven up when he saw the house. Nothing like a good audience to get Cyril going. Now he’s out cold, I reckon.’ Danvers fell to his knees and peered through the keyhole. ‘Oh God, he is! He’s flat out on his dressing table. I can see his back. Cyril! Cyril! Wake up, you bastard! I’ve got half of Holborn sitting in the stalls and waiting for you to play a star-crossed bloody lover!’
The manager struggled to his feet, still cursing. ‘We’ll have to break it down,’ he said with sudden decision. ‘Give it a bloody good kick, sir. The doors in the theatre are all as thin as paper. One blow from an athletic young man such as yourself and it’ll be matchwood on the floor.’
Adam raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t so sure. The door to Montague’s dressing room looked solid enough. However, Danvers was gesturing impatiently for him to do as he had been asked. Lifting his leg, he struck the panel just beneath the lock with the heel of his boot. Nothing happened.
‘Again, sir,’ the manager urged him. ‘And harder. It is about to splinter.’
Adam kicked at the door once more. This time the wood did give way slightly, a small gap appearing between the door and its frame.
Danvers, excited by the success, began to shout further insults at the comatose actor inside. ‘Wake up, damn you, you posturing sot! You powder-faced nin
ny! You’ll pay for the damage to this bloody door, Cyril. It’s coming out of your cut of the box, I can tell you. One more go, sir, and we’re through to him.’
This last remark was addressed to Adam, who leaned back slightly to add more thrust to his kick. As his foot hit the woodwork, the door collapsed inwards, falling to the floor with a tremendous crash.
Montague, slumped over the table in front of a mirror, still made no move. The contents of his make-up kit were strewn around him.
‘He’s about as lively as a boiled owl, ain’t he?’ Danvers said, stepping over the shattered remains of the door. He looked thoroughly disgusted with his star performer. ‘I can’t recall ever seeing him in a state as bad as this. Usually he can crawl on stage no matter how many pipes he’s had, but we’re not going to get a Romeo from him tonight, that’s for certain.’ The manager moved across the room and stubbed out his foul-smelling cigar in a bowl of pigment on the dressing table. He grabbed the actor roughly by the shoulder. ‘Come on, Cyril. For the last bloody time, look lively.’
Still standing by the broken door, Adam could see Montague’s body move as Danvers shook it. There was no sign of life.
‘Is it only the opium that has felled him?’ he asked.
‘What else could it be, sir?’
‘Drink?’
‘He ain’t much of a drinker. Not for an actor.’
Adam followed the manager into the dressing room, kicking aside a panel of wood that had broken off the door. He walked up to the actor, who was still sprawled, head down, on his dressing table. Adam reached out his hand and pulled back one of Montague’s eyelids. He lifted his wrist and felt for a pulse.
‘I do believe, Mr Danvers,’ he said after a few moments, ‘that the poor man is not drugged but dead.’
‘Dead?’ The manager seized hold of Montague’s other wrist. ‘He can’t be dead! I’ve got three hundred people out there, waiting for the balcony scene.’
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