Death of a Dancer

by Caro Peacock

  This to a man who’d been standing on the landing for most of our conversation, trying to attract his attention. He turned back to us.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m engaged in Court Two this morning as well. One last word –’ He looked directly at Daniel for the first time in the conversation. ‘Once the case begins, I must impress on you that any word – even so much as a sound – from one of you in court will have the gravest consequences. It would result in your own imprisonment for contempt and inevitably turn the jury’s mind against Miss Jarvis. You understand that?’

  We nodded. Phillips was already making his way downstairs with his train of followers in tow.

  There was a queue of people waiting to get into the spectators‘ gallery of Court One. There were twenty or so, mostly men but two or three women amongst them, chatting quietly to each other like seasoned theatre-goers. I saw nobody I recognised so I guessed they were ghouls who attended murder trials from morbid interest. When the doors of the spectators’ gallery opened, they had coins ready to slip into the palm of the man who showed us in and barged through, jostling each other up the stairs, eager to get good seats. We hadn’t realised that we’d have to pay for the privilege of watching justice done, so by the time we’d sorted out the necessary money and climbed the stairs, only a small space on the back bench was left. We crammed ourselves into it and I had my first view of the most notorious criminal court in the land.

  Opposite us was a line of windows, below them two empty rows of high-backed benches like church pews. To our right, a high curved table and three chairs for the judges dominated the room, with the royal coat of arms and a symbolic sword of justice behind them. Most of the rest of the court was taken up by a horseshoe-shaped table covered in green baize, which was piled high with thick legal books and stacks of papers tied up in pink tape. Several barristers were already in attendance, sitting on the benches alongside the table and chatting among themselves in a friendly and relaxed way, as if they were discussing the weekend’s jollities rather than the legal battle that lay ahead.

  Since nothing seemed to be happening in court yet, I let my mind go back to the idea that had been running around it since the ride back from Hampstead. I hadn’t talked about it to anybody. Mr Phillips had been annoyed enough by our theories as it was. If I’d as much as mentioned this idea to him, he might have parted company with us altogether. Kennedy had come closest to it when he’d said that Hardcastle’s family would disapprove of the marriage, but even he wouldn’t guess the rest. Naturally, any family with a position to keep up would be dismayed if their eldest son married a woman ten years or so older than he was, who had several notorious affairs to her credit, earned a living from showing her figure on stage and had started out in life squeezing the udders of cows. If the head of the family happened to be a distinguished statesman in the House of Lords, the prospect of the family coronet sitting on the milkmaid’s head would be ten times worse. Still, once the marriage was made, there was nothing they could do about it. Or rather, only one thing …

  If I’d never met Hardcastle’s mother, my thinking would have stopped at that point. I’d have assumed that she was an ordinary example of her class, incapable of the ruthlessness and quickness of mind that makes a successful criminal. But I had met her, and I couldn’t forget the intelligence in her eyes, or her quick-thinking when she’d lied to me. I remembered her voice, too: Everything’s predictable, if only you know enough. Perhaps a mind that found no difficulty in going backwards or forwards nine hundred years to hold the planets to account would scarcely have to exert itself in planning how to poison a dancer.

  A stir in the courtroom below ended my reverie. The jury were filing into the pew-like benches, twelve men in dark suits with solemn faces, moving slowly as if weighted down with their own temporary importance. They looked what they probably were: moderately successful tradesmen and householders. The youngest of them was perhaps thirty, the majority middle-aged. One with silver hair and a bony forehead looked as if he might be intelligent; a pale wispy one seemed kind but ineffectual; a plump one bad-tempered and inclined to indigestion. But these were no more than passing differences; once settled in their two rows they became a collective creature, as much a part of the courtroom as the carved judges’ chairs or the green baize table.

  ‘Please be upstanding.’

  A shouted command from an official we couldn’t see from the gallery brought lawyers and spectators to their feet as the three judges came in and took their places. Mr Phillips arrived in the room with only seconds to spare, grabbing his wig and gown from a peg at the back of the room. Because I was looking at the judges I missed the event on the opposite side of the courtroom. Only the turning heads of the more experienced spectators in the front row gave notice that the object of all this solemnity had arrived. When I looked in that direction, Jenny was standing in the dock.

  She seemed simply too small for the part that events had forced on her. Her slimness and fragility made the whole courtroom seem like an over-sized stage set built by carpenters who’d misread the plan. The dock that would have held three burly ruffians side by side was a world too wide for her. She stood there expressionless, as if she’d been lowered into it like a puppet on strings. A lamp that must have been placed deliberately close to the dock so that the prisoner’s face could be clearly seen emphasised the blue hollows round her eyes and the sharpness of her cheekbones. Its cruel light made the natural copper colour of her hair, still streaked with black dye, look like a garish wig. Beside me, I felt Daniel’s arm go as hard as stone.

  We all sat down, then the barristers and clerks sprang to their feet, said a few incomprehensible words, sat down again. Another voice, from a man we couldn’t see, announced: ‘Regina versus Jarvis’, the charge was read and Jenny was asked to plead guilty or not guilty. She managed ‘Not guilty’ in a firmer voice than I’d expected, but still with that blank look on her face.

  Then the prosecuting barrister began to set out his case. He had an eagle’s beak of a nose and was so fierce-looking that I’d expected thundering denunciations or bullying. The ordinariness of his delivery came as a surprise. At first, he didn’t seem to take any notice of the woman in the dock as he quietly took the judges and jury through the known facts of Columbine’s death. The only hint of drama came when he described Jenny’s arrest, making much of the fact that she had been hiding in a cupboard and had gone to some trouble to avoid being recognised by dyeing her hair. Throughout, he referred to her as ‘the prisoner’. As the trial went on, I realised that this was general practice, but it seemed unfair to me. Of course she was a prisoner, but the repetition of that seemed to suggest guilt ahead of the verdict.

  The first witness was the doctor called in by the police, who gave his opinion that Columbine – now referred to under her given name, Miss Priddy – had died from ingestion of a narcotic poison, probably atropa belladonna or datura stramonium. Prompted by the barrister, he told how he had been shown a sample of syllabub at the police office, with ground-up dark fragments in it which might have been from the root of atropa belladonna or the seeds of datura stramonium. Either would have been quite readily procurable since, in lower doses, both were used to treat inflammations or other common conditions.

  Mr Phillips rose to cross-examine the witness.

  ‘In the case of either poison, would not the victim have had to consume some quantity to cause death?’

  ‘No, sir. Both substances are highly poisonous. There are cases of death resulting from the ingestion of a few seeds.’

  ‘Have they a taste?’

  ‘The taste would be bitter.’

  ‘Does it surprise you that the victim should not be conscious of the taste?’

  ‘To some extent yes, sir. But if the syllabub were highly sugared and made with sherry, that might disguise the taste enough for a lethal quantity to be ingested.’

  ‘But it does surprise you?’

  ‘As I said, to some extent.’

  Phi
llips sat down, looking more satisfied with that small victory than I thought he should be.

  The next witness was Barnaby Blake. Somebody had to tell the story of what happened backstage at the Augustus, and the manager was the obvious person. The prosecuting barrister led him through the events of the night Columbine died, simply confirming what the court had heard already. Then we came to what we all knew would be the dangerous part.

  ‘Mr Blake, can you tell the court of the circumstances in which you first met the prisoner.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was about three and a half months ago, early December. We were seeing dancers for our pantomime and Miss Jarvis presented herself and was engaged.’

  I liked the fact that he called her Miss Jarvis.

  ‘Did you know anything of her background?’

  ‘I knew she came from the country and had not danced on the London stage before, but she had some ability.’

  ‘And when the pantomime season was finished, you engaged her for other productions?’

  ‘Yes. Her performances had been satisfactory.’

  He hadn’t looked at Jenny, but I hoped and believed he was doing his best for her.

  ‘Was her behaviour off-stage equally satisfactory?’

  ‘Yes. She was punctual and respectful. I never heard any complaints.’

  ‘Was she helpful to the other dancers in any way?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a simple question, isn’t it? Did the prisoner perform any particular services for her fellow dancers?’

  ‘Do you mean her ointments and lotions?’

  ‘Answer the question, please.’

  ‘Dancers are always suffering sprains and bruises. She had some skill with herbs and would treat them.’

  ‘You are telling the court that the prisoner had knowledge of herbs?’

  ‘That’s what I said, yes.’

  ‘Did she keep a stock of herbs by her?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Did she keep a basket of herbs with her?’

  ‘I think I may have seen her taking remedies out of a basket.’

  ‘Think you may have?’

  Blake let annoyance show in his voice.

  ‘I am the manager of a busy theatre, sir. I can hardly be expected to know about every possession of every dancer.’

  ‘But you knew that she treated other dancers’ injuries. I repeat, did she to your knowledge possess a basket of herbs?’

  ‘I may have seen her with a basket. I can’t be sure.’

  The barrister looked satisfied at having planted the basket well and truly in the minds of the jury. Beside me, Daniel stirred uneasily.

  ‘At what point were you aware of enmity between the prisoner and Miss Priddy?’

  Blake looked worried and hesitated before answering.

  ‘I was not aware of any enmity at first.’

  ‘At first?’

  ‘I mean, when we first engaged Miss Priddy as a soloist, in early February.’

  ‘But you became aware of enmity later?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘On the night that everybody knows about.’

  Some of the people round us laughed. The judge sitting in the middle leaned forward and spoke quite courteously.

  ‘Mr Blake, this court knows nothing of the circumstances except what it is told in evidence. Please answer the question.’

  So Blake had to go through the wretched business of the fight on stage. It seemed artificial to me. Even judges must have heard about it at the time. Blake gave his evidence as neutrally as possible, but there was no disguising the facts. I could feel the people around us settling comfortably in their seats and something like a silent sigh of satisfaction went round the gallery. This was what they’d paid their money for.

  ‘Did you know of any reason for this enmity?’ the barrister asked.

  ‘There is quite often bad feeling and jealousy between artistes, sir.’

  Blake must have known much more than that. Was he trying to protect Jenny, or Columbine’s memory, or Hardcastle?

  ‘But it doesn’t usually lead to murder, does it?’ the barrister said.

  ‘Objection,’ said Phillips, rising halfway to his feet.

  The judge told the prosecuting barrister to withdraw the question. He nodded and tried another.

  ‘Did you speak to the prisoner after the altercation on stage?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She wasn’t there to speak to.’

  ‘In other words, she’d run off.’

  ‘Objection.’

  Again, Mr Phillips’ objection was upheld by the judge. The prosecution asked a few more questions without producing much additional information, then Mr Phillips took his turn at cross-examining. He got to his feet, adjusted his gown, then smiled at Barnaby Blake as if they were friends who had happened to meet in the street.

  ‘You told us, sir, that Miss Jarvis’s performances were satisfactory enough for you to continue her engagement?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘And until the incident which you described, her performance and her general behaviour were to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The court has heard that she used her skills to help her fellow dancers. Would you say she got on well with them?’

  Blake hesitated again. ‘In the main, yes.’

  ‘You have reservations?’

  ‘She was quite shy, for a dancer. And, as I said, she came from the country while most of our girls are Londoners. I think they may sometimes have laughed at her a little.’

  ‘Did she appear to resent that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In other words, she struck you as an innocent country girl, not used to the ways of the big city.’

  The prosecuting barrister seemed about to object to the word ‘innocent’ but thought better of it.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You described the altercation on stage for us. One thing you neglected to say was which of the ladies struck the first blow.’

  Laughter. One of the judges glared at the gallery. Blake looked towards the middle judge, as if for rescue, and was told to answer the question.

  ‘I was not aware of what was happening on stage until somebody called my attention to it. I didn’t see the start of it.’

  ‘So you can’t comment on reports that it was Miss Priddy who opened hostilities?’

  ‘Objection.’

  The objection was upheld. Phillips smiled, knowing at least he’d reminded the jury of the gossip at the time, and moved on.

  ‘Whoever began it, may I take it that Miss Jarvis would have been in serious trouble as a result of her actions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She would have faced your anger and probable dismissal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the light of that, and of her admitted shyness, do you find it surprising that she should have left the theatre precipitately?’

  ‘Objection. My learned friend is asking the witness to express an opinion.’

  ‘Very well, I withdraw the question. Did you see Miss Jarvis again after that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you, as manager, hear any reports from other people that she entered the theatre at any time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see her in or near the theatre on the night of Miss Priddy’s death?’

  ‘No.’

  Mr Phillips smiled as if he’d made a significant point. He went on with his sympathetic questions to establish two more things that seemed to satisfy him. The first was that anybody who’d worked backstage at the Augustus while Columbine was there could have known about her habit of eating syllabub every day. The second was that, with a performance in progress, the backstage area was a crowded and busy place, with nobody keeping records of who came or went.

  Finally Barnaby Blake was allowed to leave the witness box. He seemed visibly rel
ieved as he stepped down.

  ‘I think he did the best he could for her,’ Kennedy whispered to me.

  The next witness for the prosecution was one of the two police constables who had arrested Jenny at Daniel’s lodgings. He was a self-satisfied man and managed to make the capture of an unresisting girl sound as if he’d put life and limb at risk. When asked what colour her hair had been at the time, he replied, ‘Black, sir, jet black,’ in a tone that made it sound like a sin in itself.

  I looked across at the jury, hoping they’d recognise him for the pompous fool he was, and was disconcerted to see them drinking in every word. Up until then, the calmness of the proceedings had lulled me into thinking that things might be all right after all, but this sent a chill through me.

  Phillips, cross-examining, asked a question which we all knew was treading on dangerous ground.

  ‘Did Miss Jarvis attempt to resist arrest?’

  ‘There were people throwing things and carrying on like …’

  ‘We’re not talking about other people, Constable. We’re talking about the young woman in the dock. I ask you again: did she try to resist arrest?’

  ‘No, sir, not as such.’

  ‘Did you seize any of her possessions when you arrested her?’

  ‘Her basket, sir.’

  ‘Did she identify it as hers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it this basket, Constable?’

  The barrister nodded to a court usher, who carried a wicker basket over to the witness box. Jenny’s basket, the one that had sat unregarded for four days in the corner of our parlour.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you examine its contents?’

  ‘We did when we got it back to the station, sir.’

  ‘Did the contents include this –?’

  Drawing out the drama, the barrister walked slowly over to the usher, opened the lid of the basket and pulled out an untidy brown paper package.