Death of a Dancer

by Caro Peacock

  ‘He’s arresting Marie.’

  ‘Why Marie?’ I said. ‘What’s the proof?’

  Blake glanced towards the policeman with the bowl.

  ‘They think that is.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Columbine’s syllabub,’ he said. ‘Marie says it’s the only thing she ate or drank all evening, and then only a spoonful or two.’

  ‘But why would Marie admit that, if she’d poisoned it?’

  By now, Blake was following the police constable and Marie down the corridor. I fell in behind them.

  ‘Cab,’ the leading policeman said. ‘Somebody call a cab.’

  Bow Street police office was so close that they could have walked to it in a few minutes, but the policeman was trying hard to do things properly. He clung to Marie’s wrist as if scared she’d escape although she had no more energy in her than a ragdoll. Billy went to the door and let out a piercing whistle, and almost at once an old cab came rattling down the street. The policeman bundled Marie into it, got in beside her and signalled to the cab driver to close up the apron on them both. At the last minute he remembered the bowl and gestured to his colleague to hand it over.

  ‘Bow Street,’ said the policeman, clutching the bowl like an invalid with a basin of gruel.

  Pauline suddenly appeared beside us, in her outdoor cloak, hair tucked under her feathered bonnet. She stared at the bowl.

  ‘What’s in it? Is it arsenic?’

  There was something brutal about her curiosity. Blake must have felt it too, because he snapped at her to go back inside.

  ‘Why should you think it was arsenic?’ I said.

  Her cold eyes swept over me.

  ‘Just interested.’

  The cab driver swung himself back into the driving seat and they clattered away over the cobbles.

  ‘I don’t believe Marie did it,’ I said to Blake. ‘Besides, she seemed to like Columbine.’

  ‘As it happens, I agree with you. Marie was entirely devoted to Columbine.’

  ‘Then why did you let him arrest her?’ I said.

  ‘I had no choice in the matter. When a police officer is called to a murder, he can hardly leave without arresting somebody.’

  ‘Even if it’s the wrong person?’

  Blake sighed. He looked tired, as I suppose we all did, and possibly he’d even liked Columbine. He certainly liked the money she’d brought in.

  ‘I don’t believe Marie will spend long in the cells. The police will have to bring her before a magistrate and he’ll have a higher standard of proof than an inexperienced constable.’

  I hoped he was right. He walked rapidly towards the stage, telling the various by-standers who were crowding the end of the corridor to get out of the way. Gradually they dispersed, with the smell of Hardcastle’s vomit still poisoning the air.

  The rest of the performance was cancelled. Toby Kennedy insisted on escorting me home, though he’d have a long walk back from Mayfair to his lodgings in Holborn. We left the theatre along with a dazed crowd of artistes, all talking nineteen to the dozen. There wasn’t much grief for Columbine expressed and, now that the first shock had worn off, most of them seemed full of excitement at having first-hand knowledge of an event that would be the talk of the town.

  Kennedy didn’t say anything until we were clear of the rest.

  ‘Do you think it was Suter that the trombone fellow saw earlier?’

  ‘It might have been,’ I said. ‘Daniel wanted me to ask the women about Jenny. Perhaps he hoped to see some of the dancers on their way in and ask them himself.’

  ‘If Blake’s right and the magistrates let the maid go, the police will have to ask more questions.’

  We walked in silence for a while, thinking about it.

  ‘What is it about the syllabub?’ I said. ‘Isn’t that a strange thing to have in a dressing room?’

  ‘Exactly to Columbine’s taste, I should think: whipped cream, sugar and sherry,’ Kennedy said. ‘It was all part of her affectation. She insisted it was the only thing she could eat on rehearsal or performance days. The maid always prepared it at home and brought a big bowl of it in with her.’

  ‘And everybody at the theatre knew that?’

  ‘Of course. It was a standing joke.’

  Columbine had been altogether a joke, or perhaps something worse than that. But I couldn’t get out of my mind the picture of those silk-stockinged feet sticking out.

  ‘Do you know anything about her? Was she always like this?’

  Kennedy had been part of London’s artistic circles most of his life and had a love of gossip.

  ‘There’s usually been some scandal circulating round her. I remember when she first appeared on the London scene – must have been twenty years ago. She was about seventeen at the time and bewitchingly pretty.’

  ‘Where did she come from?’

  ‘Nobody knew. She simply turned up on an old lord’s arm at the opera one night, dressed in red satin and more diamonds than all the rest of the women put together. He put it about that she was the daughter of an Italian count, but there were rumours that she was a milkmaid from his estates in Dorset.’

  ‘Did she try to get him to marry her?’

  ‘He had a wife already, also down in Dorset.’

  ‘Were he and Columbine together long?’

  ‘Almost a whole season, until he killed himself.’

  ‘Killed himself?’

  ‘Got out of his carriage and jumped off London Bridge one night. She said he was drunk and trying to show her how he used to dive off a bridge at home when he was a boy.’

  ‘Did people believe her?’

  ‘There was no proof to the contrary, and he was always eccentric. The town said suicide but the jury brought in death by misadventure.’

  ‘Do you think she pushed him?’

  ‘No. She had a lot to lose by his death. While he was alive he could cut down his forests to buy her more diamonds, but the estate was entailed, so once he died it went to his heir.’

  ‘What happened to her then?’

  ‘That was when she decided to become a dancer. She was never very good, but people would always pay to look at her because of her beauty and her reputation. And of course various men became her protectors. She always had the best in houses and carriages.’

  We crossed Leicester Square, trying to keep clear of the worst of the mud. A chanter was still hawking the Columbine ballad by the light of a guttering tallow candle. In an attic somewhere, a man who’d dreamed in his youth of being a poet was no doubt already working on its sensational sequel.

  ‘You said people paid to look at Columbine because of her reputation,’ I said. ‘There are plenty of scandalous women. Why was she special?’

  Kennedy thought for a while before answering.

  ‘You know the fascination cliffs or precipices have for some people? All the more if poor fools take to flinging themselves over them. It was like that with Columbine.’

  ‘The old lord wasn’t the only one, then?’

  ‘No. There was one scandal not so long ago, about a cavalry officer who turned to forgery on her account.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About five years, I think. It’s a strange thing that, now and again, even women like Columbine can fall for a man’s looks instead of his money. Maybe it’s a kind of a holiday for them, who can tell? Rainer, the name was. Major Charles Rainer of the Household Cavalry. He was a handsome devil, all the swagger in the world, best horseman in London, killed two or three men in duels. All the usual nonsense.’

  ‘What did he forge?’

  ‘Bills. You know what a bill is?’

  ‘A legal promise to pay. They’re what they keep passing around to each other in the City.’

  ‘Just so. Forging them’s a serious business. In theory, you could still hang for it. This man took to forging them to pay for all the presents he was giving Columbine. At least, that’s what he said in the dock at the Old Bailey. He trie
d to get the jury’s sympathy, saying he’d been tempted away from his honourable career by a wicked and ungrateful woman. It goes without saying that she’d taken up with another man by then.’

  ‘And did it get the jury’s sympathy?’

  ‘Of course not. He was found guilty and sentenced to ten years’ transportation. He yelled out from the dock, cursing her.’

  Five years since Rainer was transported, nearly twenty years since the old lord died. It didn’t seem likely that either of those scandals would be of interest to Disraeli and his friends now. We walked in silence along Piccadilly, up Berkeley Street and through Grosvenor Square. Candlelight glowed softly behind the curtains of the great houses. It was quite possible that in one of them Mr Disraeli was sitting with the gentlemen over their port, no more than a few yards away. Well, I had some information for him, and some questions.

  When Kennedy and I parted at the foot of my stairs in Abel Yard, he promised to get word to me as soon as he had news. He patted my arm and told me not to worry.

  ‘And you – are you taking your own advice?’ I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next day, Tuesday, brought no word from Kennedy or anybody else. It was the dreariest of days, the grey sky seeming to press itself against the window, and the smell of sewage coming up through the building along with the damp.

  It was raining on Wednesday morning when I went out and bought the Morning Chronicle. The report was there on page three, a column and a half.

  Police are continuing to investigate the poisoning on Monday night of the popular dancer, Madame Columbine, who died in her dressing room at the Augustus Theatre. The deceased’s maid, Marie Duval, was arrested at the scene but the magistrate at Bow Street ordered her release yesterday on the grounds that there was no evidence that she was involved in the crime. She was generally believed to be devoted to her mistress.

  After her release, Mademoiselle Duval was among those called on to give evidence at the inquest yesterday afternoon on Madame Columbine (whose baptismal name was Margaret Priddy). Mademoiselle Duval’s distress was so evident that the coroner at one point halted proceedings and ordered that she should be brought a glass of brandy and water. Thus fortified, she testified that she had been with the deceased all day, at home and at the theatre. On days when she was performing, Madame Columbine would eat nothing but a cream-and-sherry syllabub, personally prepared by Mademoiselle Duval. After her arrival at the theatre, she had eaten a few spoonfuls in her dressing room. She performed the first ballet of the evening, but was taken ill immediately afterwards. When the severity of her symptoms made it clear that she was suffering from more than a passing indisposition, a boy was sent running for a doctor.

  Dr Alfred Barry, who is frequently consulted by the police and lives nearby, was attending another patient and arrived within twenty minutes. He testified that by then there was little to be done for Madame Columbine, who was delirious and slipping in and out of consciousness. He believed that her symptoms were consistent with some form of narcotic poison such as belladonna. Asked by the coroner whether Madame Columbine had accused anybody of poisoning her, he replied, ‘No, sir. She was delirious.’ The coroner asked him if he had examined, at the police station, a bowl of syllabub brought by a police officer from Madame Columbine’s dressing room. He replied that he had, and found in it some flecks of ground-up black seeds. When a small sample was fed to a rat, the animal expired.

  Mr Barnaby Blake, the manager of the Augustus Theatre, testified that he had met Mme Columbine on her arrival there and she seemed in reasonable health and spirits. He was also asked by the coroner whether, in his hearing, Mme Columbine had accused anybody of poisoning her. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. To his knowledge, did anybody in the company bear enmity against her? ‘No, sir.’ A stir among the jurors, rebuked by the coroner. Had there been an incident involving Mme Columbine and another dancer on stage on Saturday night? Mr Blake replied that there had been some small misunderstanding in the heat of the performance. Laughter from a juror, also rebuked. When asked the name of the other dancer involved, Mr Blake, with some reluctance, identified her as one Jenny Jarvis. On further questioning, he said he had not seen Jarvis since Saturday night and did not know her present whereabouts.

  Police Constable John Morrow, of Bow Street, testified that he had called at the lodging house in Seven Dials where Jarvis resided that morning (Tuesday) but found no trace of her. Efforts to find her were continuing as the police were anxious to question her. After further evidence, the coroner instructed the jurymen on the possible verdicts they might bring in. If they decided that Margaret Priddy had been unlawfully killed they might bring in a verdict of murder. It was open to them to name the person they believed guilty of the deed but, in the absence of firm evidence and in light of the fact that police inquiries were proceeding, he would suggest that a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was more appropriate. After some deliberation, the jurymen gave their verdict accordingly.

  ‘Is that today’s paper?’ Mrs Martley said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind the ink doesn’t come off on my ironing. And I wish you’d take that basket of yours upstairs. It’s in my way.’

  Her eyes went to the floor in the corner. Jenny’s basket. I’d put it there on the night of the fight and hadn’t given it a thought since. I snatched it up and took it upstairs to my half of the bedroom, slipped the wooden peg from its loop and opened the lid. It was mostly filled with small glass jars and bottles and packages of folded brown paper. On top of them was a little pile of letters, tied with a green ribbon. I hesitated before undoing the ribbon, then told myself that the more I knew about Jenny, the better. The first one was a jolt to my heart, not because of the words but because it was in a hand I knew almost as well as my own.

  Dear Miss Jarvis, I think we may snatch a little time for voice practice tomorrow, if you would care to come in half an hour before rehearsal.

  No more than that, in Daniel’s handwriting, but she’d kept it. The next treasure was a piece of music manuscript, but the staves had been drawn much wider than usual and the notes were large, as if for teaching a child. Looking closer, I saw that they were in fact tiny feet in black pumps, dancing out their own tune across the paper. I followed them, humming, and it came out as a scrap of a Hungarian Gypsy tune that I knew was dear to Daniel’s heart from childhood. The next letter was thicker and began Dear Jenny … A glance confirmed that it had been meant for only one pair of eyes, and those wide and grey. I tied up the bundle in the green ribbon, trying to ignore an ache in my heart. I’d known he loved her. Why should it hurt to see it written?

  I turned my attention to the other contents of the basket. The jars were stoppered with cork and carefully labelled in neat school-girlish writing: ointment of comfrey, ointment of cucumber, marigold lotion. Four narrow bottles that would have held about half a pint when full, now more than half empty, were labelled in the same writing: tincture of mallow, tincture of witch hazel, tincture of feverfew, syrup of woundwort. Most of her stock was in dried form, either leaves or chips of root, wrapped in brown paper packets with the contents noted on the outside: wormwood, fleabane, valerian root, sage, centuary, melissa, elecampane, pennyroyal, Solomon’s seal, selfheal, woundwort. A paper package at the bottom of the basket rustled when I poked it with my finger. It was less tidy than the rest, as if it had been opened and reclosed hurriedly. The writing on the creased paper said thornapple. Inside was a flat meshed thing about the size of a teaspoon bowl, like the skeleton of a leaf, and as delicate as fine lace except for sharp thorns at the tips. Coarse black seeds spilled out from it over my bed coverlet.

  While I was looking at them I heard steps coming up the stairs and the boards creaking under Mrs Martley’s feet as she entered her half of the bedroom. The curtain was drawn across and there was no reason why she should come into my side, but guilt and fear made me start sweeping the seeds back into their paper.
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  ‘If you’ve got those damp stockings off, I’ll take them down and put them in front of the fire for you,’ she said.

  The curtain quivered and she was on my side of it. No time to hide the basket or its contents spread out on my bed.

  Always eager for something new, she pounced on it.

  ‘I didn’t know you had this. Where did it come from?’

  Uninvited, she sat down on the end of my bed.

  ‘Marigold – nothing better for clearing up ulcers. What’s in the bottle? Tincture of feverfew. That’s good for insect bites. I remember when my cousin’s little boy got stung …’ She was practically caressing the jars and bottles, her voice turned to a purr like somebody meeting a long-lost friend. ‘Valerian root’s good for calming the nerves. I used to make a tea from it for my ladies when they were in labour. Pennyroyal’s for clearing the blood. I’d get them to take it with a little honey as soon as they could sit up, and I never lost one of them to an infection of the blood, not one.’

  Since Mrs Martley was a midwife by profession, it should have occurred to me that she’d have a good working knowledge of herbs. I watched as she opened the packets, tipped crushed leaves or shredded roots into her palm and sniffed, closing her eyes with pleasure.

  ‘You should have told me you were taking an interest in herbs. There’s so much I could tell you, and it’s a thing every woman should know about. Where do these come from?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘She knows what she’s about. They’re all last summer’s gathering and nicely kept.’

  ‘They’re all herbs for curing people, then?’

  ‘Of course, what else would they be for?’

  I picked up the crumpled paper with a few black seeds inside it.

  ‘What’s this good for?’

  She looked at the name on it and tipped the seeds into her palm without any special concern.

  ‘Thornapple’s good for a lot of things. It helps stop coughs if you burn the leaves and inhale them. It’s good for burns and inflammations too, if you grind up the leaves and seeds and mix them with hog’s lard. I always kept some thornapple ointment by me.’