Death of a Dancer

by Caro Peacock

  ‘They’re IOUs,’ I said, fanning out a disorderly handful of them.

  ‘All people who owed her money?’ Mrs Martley said.

  ‘I suppose … no.’

  I put them down on the table and started studying them more closely. Columbine’s, or Margaret Priddy’s name, didn’t appear on any of them. The sums owed were to various people and at various dates. As for the debtors who had signed the IOUs, they were even more amazing than the sums involved. Most of them were people I’d heard of. They included five politicians, two Whigs and three Tories, several members of the House of Lords, a famous actor and a minor member of the royal family.

  ‘What in the world was Columbine doing with a bundle of IOUs?’ I said.

  ‘Looks as if she’s been buying up paper,’ Amos said cheerfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gentleman gets into debt and gives his note of hand to somebody for so many thousand. Then the gentleman the money’s due to gets tired of waiting for his money, or maybe needs some himself in a hurry, so he sells the bit of paper on to somebody else, for less than what’s on the face of it, and the first gentleman owes the person who’s bought it for the same amount he did in the first place to the other gentleman.’

  I stared at him, trying to keep pace. I’d forgotten he’d become such an expert on the economics of fashionable debt.

  ‘So if Columbine had let it be known that she was prepared to buy up IOUs, she could have all these people owing her money?’

  ‘That’s the size of it, yes.’

  ‘Would the people who’d written the IOUs in the first place know that the debts were now owing to her?’

  ‘Not of necessity. Probably not until she told them to brass up.’

  ‘And they hadn’t paid up, otherwise she wouldn’t still have the IOUs.’

  ‘That’s right. When the gentleman brasses up, he gets his bit of paper back in his hand.’

  ‘What would be the point of having them if she wasn’t getting any money for them?’ Mrs Martley said.

  ‘Revenge,’ I said.

  Fashionable society had laughed at the milkmaid and thought she could do nothing about it. It had taken time, patience and some skilful investments, but Columbine had put herself in a position where she could do society damage – within reach of a title that went back to the Conqueror and in possession of enough IOUs to embarrass a lot of important people. So far there’d been one attempted suicide and, if she’d been dropping hints, a lot of people must have been very nervous about who she might choose to visit next. Mrs Martley looked at me, puzzled, but it was too much to explain.

  ‘What are you going to do with all this?’ Amos said, looking at the papers covering the table.

  ‘Take them to a lawyer.’

  Amos seemed content with that and said he’d better go. He had to be on stable duty at five in the morning, less than three hours away. We agreed to do without our ride in the park, but he said he’d bring a steady cob in the morning to take back the phaeton and try and calm Morris about the ripped seat. As we parted at the entrance to the mews I asked him to give my love to Rancie. I’d thought of several other things that he must tell the new owner about taking care of her, but from excitement and tiredness they’d slipped my mind.

  Mrs Martley had gone to bed by the time I got back upstairs. I sat at the table, read through all the documents, then placed them in the portfolio and tied the tapes in a bow. After a moment’s thought, I untied it again and took out two pieces of paper. For the remaining few hours of darkness I kept the portfolio and the knife within reach beside my bed. When I carried them to Toby Kennedy’s house as soon as it was light, the two pieces of paper stayed where I’d hidden them, at the bottom of my clothes chest.

  I had to wait in the cubbyhole that passed for Kennedy’s study until he was out of bed and dressed. He came down, sleepy-eyed, but the sleepiness vanished when he looked at the top papers in the portfolio.

  ‘And Hardcastle inherits all this?’

  ‘As her husband, I suppose he does. But look at the rest.’

  His eyes widened as he leafed through the IOUs.

  ‘Ye gods, she was a dangerous woman. She could have done more damage to society with these than a mob with axes and firebrands.’

  ‘I think that’s what she probably intended. But if people owe that much money, wouldn’t they be in danger anyway, whoever had the IOUs?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not in the same wholesale way. People who lend money have an interest in keeping the roundabout going. Now and again the money-lenders may let a man go bankrupt as an example, but it’s in their interest to keep most people spinning and spending. They know that, sooner or later, fathers will die and estates get sold, so they’ll have their money and interest. But if serious debts come into the hands of somebody who wants to do damage, it would be like thrusting an iron bar into the workings of the roundabout.’

  ‘From what you’re saying, it would be in the interests of anybody in that portfolio to have Columbine killed.’

  ‘Yes. And that’s dozens, including some very highly placed people.’

  ‘And a little dancer from the country is the one they’re going to hang for it. You must show this to Mr Phillips.’

  ‘Yes, I shall, this very morning.’

  ‘And you’ll tell him about Hardcastle trying to steal it from the phaeton? I have two witnesses, if necessary.’

  ‘Is that his knife?’

  I’d put it down beside the portfolio. Kennedy picked it up and tried the edge with his thumb.

  ‘It’s not very sharp, is it?’ he said.

  ‘No. That’s the only thing that’s worrying me. The person who was looking for something in her dressing room must have had a knife as sharp as a razor. You could tell from the way he’d sliced into the muff and the couch. Why should a man who’d used a sharp one suddenly choose a blunt one?’

  ‘Perhaps he’d lost it.’

  ‘In that case, why not buy another sharp one?’

  But it seemed to worry me more than it did Kennedy. He was staring at the papers, obviously thinking hard.

  ‘We should tell Daniel about this.’

  ‘Perhaps after you’ve seen Mr Phillips. We don’t want to raise false hopes. Where is Daniel?’

  ‘Asleep upstairs. He was pacing about into the early hours. Normally I’d agree with you, but as things stand, if there’s even the slightest glimmer of hope, we should let him know as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why? Has something else happened?’

  Kennedy looked at me as if wondering whether to tell me or not.

  ‘He’s seen Jenny again.’

  ‘To speak to?’

  ‘No. There’s a chapel inside Newgate. They let visitors in on Sunday – for a fee, of course. The visitors sit in the gallery looking down at the prisoners. The prisoners have to be there, they have no choice. According to Daniel, they’re marched into the pews and sit there staring down at the floor, knowing the people in the gallery are gawping at them.’

  ‘That’s barbaric’

  ‘The condemned murderers have a pew of their own, a kind of cattle pen with seats, right in the middle of the chapel, so that people in the gallery can look down and know who’s going to be hanged in a few days.’

  ‘Poor Daniel. How did Jenny look?’

  ‘Like a mouse, when the cat’s got it between her paws, he says. It just sits there, looking quite calm, only it’s not calm at all, it’s just accepted everything’s all over.’

  ‘Did she know he was there?’

  ‘He doesn’t think so. A warder told him they should be grateful it isn’t worse. Until a few years ago there was a black-painted coffin in the middle of their pen, so they all had to sit round looking at the empty coffin and be prayed over.’

  ‘It must have driven him nearly mad.’

  ‘It did. I was up all Sunday night with him, trying to persuade him not to …’

  His voice trailed away.


  ‘Not to do what he was going to do at the Old Bailey?’ I said. ‘Go to the police and say he killed her?’

  Kennedy nodded.

  ‘So you can see why I want to give him some sort of hope. He’ll do it if he has to, you know. He won’t let her hang.’

  I tied up the portfolio, impatient now for him to take it upstairs and show Daniel.

  I listened to his footsteps going upstairs, his voice on the landing saying Daniel’s name, softly. Then more steps. I imagined him putting the portfolio on the bed, perhaps touching Daniel’s shoulder to wake him with the first news for weeks that – if not good yet – had at least some hope in it. But something was wrong. Kennedy called Daniel’s name again, this time more sharply, then his footsteps went quickly into another room.

  ‘Daniel, are you in there?’

  By the time Kennedy came back downstairs, my heart was thumping.

  ‘He’s not there,’ Kennedy said. ‘He must have gone out while I was asleep. Oh God, I thought I’d talked him out of it.’

  ‘How can we find out if he …?’

  ‘We can’t go to the police,’ Kennedy said. ‘If he hasn’t been to them yet, we don’t want to put the idea in their heads.’

  ‘How, then?’

  ‘If he has, Phillips will have heard by now. I’ll go round to the Old Bailey.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, Libby. We need one of us to wait here, just in case Daniel comes back.’

  There was sense in that, so I helped Kennedy on with his overcoat and reminded him to take the portfolio to show Mr Phillips.

  Kennedy was away for nearly three hours. As he walked through the door he said, ‘At least he hasn’t done it yet, Libby. Not as far as I can make out.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve been hoping against hope that I’d find him back here.’

  ‘What about his own lodgings?’

  ‘I tried there on my way back. They haven’t seen him for days.’

  I’m sure he was imagining, as I was, Daniel walking the pavements, nerving himself to walk into a police office.

  ‘Is it worth trying some of the theatres?’ I said.

  ‘As well that as anything else, I suppose. But he hasn’t worked since her trial.’

  We did the rounds of Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the Augustus. Nobody had seen him.

  We stood for some time opposite Bow Street police station, hoping against hope that he wasn’t already inside, talking his life away.

  ‘Did you show Mr Phillips Columbine’s portfolio?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he’s keeping it for the while. He said it was interesting.’

  ‘Interesting! No more than that?’

  ‘He admitted that, if it had come to light before the trial, he’d have been strongly tempted to put it in evidence. But once the verdict’s been given, the standard of proof rises. He has to be able to argue that if the jury at the trial had known about it, they couldn’t reasonably have reached the verdict they did.’

  ‘Surely that’s the case?’

  ‘No. He admits it proves that quite a number of people, including Hardcastle, might have had a motive for killing her. But that’s a country mile from proving that any of them did.’

  We started walking aimlessly. It was early afternoon by now, the streets crowded. I suppose we were both clinging to the hope that we’d suddenly see Daniel coming towards us.

  ‘I suppose it’s just possible that he’s had an accident of some kind,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘How could we find out? We daren’t risk asking the police.’

  ‘We could check the hospitals.’

  The nearest we could think of was the Middlesex Infirmary, just to the west of Tottenham Court Road. We went there and were directed to an admissions clerk in a small room. He ran his finger down a ledger.

  ‘Five emergency admissions since eleven o’clock last night: a woman in childbirth, an elderly gentleman run over by a carriage, two inebriated tinkers who’d been fighting, and a boy with suspected appendicitis.’

  Kennedy asked if he might be allowed a look at the tinkers, just to make sure. The clerk raised his eyebrows.

  ‘If my friend had been attacked or had had an accident, he might look like a drunken tinker,’ Kennedy explained.

  The clerk opened the door for him and their steps receded along the corridor. They were back in a few minutes, with Kennedy shaking his head.

  ‘If a person happened to be attacked around Fleet Street, what hospital would he be taken to?’ I said.

  ‘Probably the new Charing Cross Hospital in Villiers Street,’ the clerk said.

  We thanked him for his help and left, crossing back over Tottenham Court Road.

  ‘Why did you ask about Fleet Street?’ Kennedy said.

  ‘He spent a lot of time there when he was looking for Rainer.’

  ‘I think he’s given that up now. I told him about the wretched Maine, so he knows it wasn’t Rainer at the theatre. It was mostly Marie he was looking for.’

  A harassed-looking doctor at Charing Cross Hospital had been on duty since ten o’clock the night before and couldn’t remember a man of Daniel’s description being admitted. He added that he was so tired that his patients were pretty much a blur, so called an orderly to make sure. The result was the same. When we asked what other hospital we might try, they suggested the Westminster, opposite Westminster Abbey. Again, it was quicker to walk. We hardly talked to each other on the way. I guessed that Kennedy was as fearful as I was by then and didn’t want me to know it.

  At the Westminster, there was a brief flare of hope when a doctor said a dark-haired gentleman with a broken leg had been admitted around midnight. Kennedy was taken to look, but again came back shaking his head.

  We crossed the road and stood outside the abbey, with a sharp wind blowing wisps of straw and paper round our feet. When a cab came in sight, Kennedy raised his arm and signalled to it.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I said.

  ‘Back to my lodgings. With luck, he’ll have come home by now.’

  He hadn’t. Kennedy called to the maid to make tea.

  ‘I don’t want tea,’ I said.

  ‘Yes you do.’ He walked me over to a chair and made me sit down. I sat gazing at the unlit fire in the grate, thinking it was all my fault. If I hadn’t been so greedily intent on keeping my freedom and Rancie, I might have saved Daniel from all this.

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to check the mortuary,’ I said.

  ‘It hasn’t come to that yet. There are still some more hospitals. If anything had happened to him south of the river, he’d be at St Thomas’s.’

  ‘And there’s St Bartholomew’s, by Smithfield market,’ I said.

  It was the nearest one to Newgate and the Old Bailey. We decided to go there first, then cross the river.

  The cab journey seemed to go on for ever. Near Smithfield, all the traffic had come to a tangled and bad-tempered halt because the roads were crammed with beasts being driven to market. In the end, we paid the cab off some way from the hospital and went on foot, picking our way along thoroughfares slimed with cattle droppings.

  St Bartholomew’s has been looking after London’s casualties for five hundred years or more, and with a special ward set aside for emergencies brought in from the streets. We stood in a cubbyhole of an office near the entrance to the ward while another clerk ran through another long list of admissions for the previous night, murmuring to himself and running his pen down the entries.

  ‘Woman, too young, too old, workshop accident.’

  His pen stopped suddenly.

  ‘Man. Admitted half past one in the morning, found by passers-by outside St Sepulchre’s in Snow Hill, unconscious, with head injuries. Brought in on porter’s cart. Respectable appearance, thirties.’

  St Sepulchre’s was just across the road from the Old Bailey. Kennedy asked to see the man. The clerk rang a bell and an orderly came to take him to
the ward. The clerk offered me a seat and went on checking his ledger. Kennedy was back within minutes, accompanied by a young doctor with a wooden stethoscope tube sticking out of his top pocket.

  ‘It’s him, Libby. We’ve found him!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I felt like jumping up and hugging Kennedy, but he looked more worried than triumphant.

  ‘He’s badly hurt, conscious, but doesn’t seem to recognise me. The doctor says he’s been giving them trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  The doctor perched on the edge of the clerk’s desk.

  ‘He’s received a serious blow to the head and there’s certainly evidence of concussion. There’s some damage to his right arm too, but that’s only bruising. Please excuse me for asking this, but has your friend any history of mental disturbance?’

  ‘He’s as sane as anybody,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘It’s the effect of the blow, then. He’s tried several times to get out of bed, and keeps asking for his clothes. He says he has urgent business to attend to. Then he keeps calling for liberty. Is he politically inclined?’

  ‘It’s my name,’ I said. ‘Can I go to him?’

  Kennedy shook his head.

  ‘The doctor and I were discussing whether he should be taken home.’

  ‘I shouldn’t normally recommend it so soon,’ the doctor said. He had a pleasant voice with a West Country burr. I could sense he was doing his best for us. ‘But the essential for recovery in these cases is that the patient should be kept as calm as possible, and these outbursts aren’t helping him. If he can be cared for at home …’