Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  For Mr Robert Gorrie, a prosperous merchant of that city, there was the prospect of a further five or six days of uncomfortable travel before he finally reached the Bull & Mouth, St Martins-Le-Grand in London. His fellow passengers had not so far to go.

  Young George Laidlaw was making for York to take up the King’s Shilling. George’s father was a staunch Hanoverian and felt his son should join the King’s colours to reassure the authorities that he was one Edinburgh citizen who was loyal to the throne. Memories of the ’45 Rising were still fresh: Bonnie Prince Charlie – “King over the water” – was still being toasted behind many a closed door.

  Miss Charlotte Bellingham was returning to Durham after visiting her brother, who was a captain in the garrison of Edinburgh Castle. No longer in the first flush of youth, travel was a disquieting experience for a lady of her acute sensibilities. At least her servant, perched precariously on the roof of the coach with her mistress’s trunk, could look after her creature comforts at each stopping place.

  Jack had discovered the identities and the purposes for the journeys of his fellow travellers when they had rested the previous night at Wooler. Yet when they asked him his business, he had been most reticent. How could he explain his reason for being on the coach? Fortunately, none of his companions had been at the New Concert Hall in the Cannongate two nights before.

  The audience had not been as large as West Digges had hoped for. In fact, the season had not got off to a good start and Digges’ creditors were growing impatient. But the performance of the Beggar’s Opera was receiving much raucous approval from those who had turned up. The scene was the tavern in Newgate. Digges was giving one of his richest interpretations of MacHeath and he, Jack, was enjoying his role as one of MacHeath’s gang, Jemmy Twitcher. A minor part it has to be said – only two short speeches to be exact – but for a young man of twenty with little experience of the boards, it was being tackled with bravado. Then, above the din of the audience, a voice was raised that suppressed even the fine, clear delivery of Digges. ‘That man there is the devil himself!’ Digges tried to continue. ‘The Lord will strike thee down foul lecher, defiler,’ cried the voice, now closer to the stage.

  The gentry and the well-to-do, who were sitting on the stage itself as was the custom, began murmuring at this unwarranted interruption. Digges could not compete. Jack turned in annoyance to see who was causing the fracas. To his horror, he realised the man, recognisable as a minister of the Kirk by his austere garb, was pointing and shouting at him. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood to frightened attention when he recognised the mad, piercing eyes and the furious, distorted features of his detractor, who was now screaming like an inmate of Bedlam.

  By now, the madman had forced his way through the throng and into the midst of the orchestra, who were about to launch into MacHeath’s next song. Strings twanged, followed by the breaking of wood. A cry of anguish went up from the distraught viola player. The violinist came to his aid by smashing his own instrument over the deranged cleric’s head. However, this manoeuvre failed to stop him gaining the stage. His shouts were now being drowned out by the general uproar. Scuffles were breaking out among the more excited and inebriated sections of the audience. Three of the actors rushed forward to restrain the intruder, but he broke free and lunged at the paralysed Jack. For a moment, the lunatic’s hands were about his throat. It was at this point that West Digges grabbed Jack from the man’s manic clutches and deftly spirited him from the stage, out of the theatre and into the street.

  The clergyman was called Knoxland Dodds. He was an outspoken critic of the theatre. Officially, the Kirk did all it could to close down any form of entertainment within Edinburgh’s city boundaries. Unofficially, some members of the clergy had been known to surreptitiously enjoy the pleasures of the New Concert Hall. Not Dodds. To him, such diversions were an abomination. He saw the theatre as a Roman Catholic plot to corrupt the minds of his Calvinist flock. But why had Dodds singled out Jack Flyford? Somehow, he had found out, Jack reflected uncomfortably. She must have broken down and confessed.

  Well, what did the sanctimonious old goat expect? Marrying a girl half his age – arranged by her parents no doubt. Mollie was attractive in her way, with an ample pair of breasts that were just asking to be squeezed as they pressed firmly against her dowdy black dress. With a husband who constantly preached against the horrors of fornication and who did not believe in indulging in the practice himself, even in the name of procreation, poor, bosomy Mollie had no outlet for her basic urges. Enter Jack, whose aim is to bring a little pleasure into people’s drab lives, and Mollie’s urges were given free reign. Jack could not see why Dodds was so upset. Mollie had prayed for it, and he had answered those prayers on several enjoyable occasions. And anyway, she liked it best when on bended knees; the position should be familiar to Dodds, even if the activity was not. The silly hussy. Why spoil everything by telling her wretched husband? But even if she had, Jack felt Dodds’ reaction was rather excessive – and his timing appalling.

  What would become of the theatre? Would the Kirk put pressure on the authorities to close it down? Where would that leave Digges? Jack hoped that Digges would not suffer. He had been so good to Jack throughout that awful night and had not for one moment blamed him for the riot. That was typical of Digges. From the moment Jack had joined his band of players, the great actor-manager had taken him under his wing. He had looked after the young man who had run away from his theological studies at Lincoln College, Oxford to take up the life of an actor. Jack’s father, a canon at Worcester Cathedral, had immediately denounced his son as a heathen, and decreed that Jack’s name never be uttered in his presence again. Maybe he should introduce his father to Dodds some time; they would have more in common than they might imagine – Jack appeared able to offend both high and low denominations. His father’s bishop had had a nice country living lined up for Jack when he became ordained. Suddenly, one day, Jack realised that he didn’t want to do exactly what was expected of him. A lifetime of being suffocated by high-church hypocrisy filled him with dread. A few days later, he had walked out of the college gates and into a totally different life. Jack no longer cared a fig what his intolerant father thought, though he missed the company of his sister Rachel, who had run their father’s household since their mother had died when Jack was only five years old. After his mother’s death, Rachel had been the only source of genuine love in the lonely, cloistered years that followed.

  Digges had taken the innocent student of life and shown him the ways of the world, particularly the pleasures of the flesh. Jack had proved an enthusiastic pupil and Digges had introduced him to numerous young ladies – and older ones – who were most willing to further his education. When he was not chasing after a trollop or two, Digges tried to impart the skills needed to impress a theatre-going public; the graceful flow of the hands, the strutting stances, the clear diction, and the eye-rolling looks to the audience to show them that you were letting them in on a secret. Once the audience was on your side, you were safe. Bore them or upset them and you had better leave the stage tout de suite before they started to throw the nearest object that came to hand. In his short career, Jack had been on the receiving end of fruit (various), ale jugs (mostly empty) and, during one of his less noteworthy performances, a large bench (wooden). Yet none of these experiences had deflected him from his new calling.

  Though he had a long way to go before he was hailed as the next David Garrick, or even West Digges, Jack had picked up much of the latter’s charm and had also learned how to economise with the truth – two qualities essential for survival in a hostile world.

  The wheels rattled over the cobbles, and with a ‘Whoa’ from the driver, the stagecoach came to a gradual halt. ‘The Queen’s Head, Newcastle,’ called out the coachman. ‘We depart at six of the clock on the morrow.’

  Ostlers quickly appeared and the weary horses were unharnessed and led away to the stables. A fresh four would take the coach as far as
Durham the next morning. Miss Bellingham’s servant was helping her mistress down and into the warmth of the inn. Mr Gorrie had already disappeared inside and was most probably bringing the circulation back to his posterior in front of a roaring fire. George Laidlaw, who had taken a liking to Jack, tried to persuade him to come in and sup with them before seeking lodgings for the night. Jack was sorely tempted. The fourteen miles since their halt in Morpeth had taken them several hours. In Morpeth, the genial proprietor of the Black Bull, Mr Sunderland, had provided beef steaks, cold ham, tarts, potted trout and gooseberry pie, washed down with strong ale. Though Jack’s hunger had returned, he wanted to use his letter of introduction and call on his contact before the hour became too late and a visit unwelcome. Besides, it might save having to pay out for lodgings that night. Once counted, the money Digges had pressed into his hand the morning before had not been as much as he thought.

  III

  Newcastle may still have looked medieval, but this was a modern, prosperous city. Sloping steeply upwards from the River Tyne, from which much of its wealth was generated, it was learning to assert itself. The surrounding area was rich in coal, a priceless commodity that was ruthlessly exploited for the betterment of the few and at great human cost to the many. The black gold passed down the Tyne to keep the fires of London burning and, in turn, fuelled a roaring reciprocal trade in indigo, tallow, spices, corn, victuals, and much besides. The ships that came and went up and down the river were growing in number, and trading links were being extended ever further afield.

  The merchant classes were beginning to move from the teeming, overcrowded, filthy, narrow streets down by the quayside up the hill to more elegant residences. Some, like Lazarus Bowser, had actually moved beyond the stout, encircling town walls. The defences that had for centuries protected the tightly packed community against invasions from north of the border were now being breached from within by the new men of business who saw no barriers to the commercial possibilities that a truly united kingdom offered them. Not even the war and the spectre of invasion by the French seemed to dent the confidence of the more enterprising.

  Thomas Acorn had gone out of his way to make an impression on the society he was going to entertain. And to show he was more than a mere actor-manager, he had taken a large, three-storeyed house on the edge of Nuns Field, the site of the former St. Bartholomew Nunnery. The house fronted a cobbled street of similarly extravagant merchants’ homes. The expense was crippling, but Acorn calculated that it was worth it. It gave him credibility, and credibility had given him the backing of Lazarus Bowser. Also, the location was ideal for his theatre, which was on the south side of Nuns Field. Attached to a tavern, it bordered on the busy Bigg Market, a popular destination for the type of patrons he was trying to attract.

  It was on the front door of Acorn’s house that Jack rapped hard to gain attention. After some minutes, the door was opened by a thin, exceedingly plain servant girl – the only one that Acorn could afford besides the cook – who, on seeing a young man standing without, put on her best smile. Her blackened teeth did not increase her allure, thought Jack uncharitably. She eyed Jack up. The man standing before her was squat and thick-set, though not fat. His dark hair was scraped back and tied with a black bow. The firm jaw and slightly large nose prevented him from being conventionally handsome. Yet the boyish smile, with dimpled chin, and twinkling, mischievous blue eyes could be called attractively disarming. Unlike Digges, he did not cut a dashing figure that immediately caught the eye but, once noticed, he was not easily forgotten.

  ‘Does Mr Acorn live within?’ Jack asked in the deepest voice he could muster. Frighten her with a sense of authority and she would not bar his way to Acorn and possibly his next source of much-needed income.

  ‘He does.’ She smiled again.

  ‘Good. I have come to see him.’

  ‘Is he expectin’ you, like?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘So what’s your business?’

  ‘None of yours for a start,’ Jack snapped in annoyance. He did not like the thought of having to explain everything to this unprepossessing maid servant – and he didn’t think he could keep up the ridiculously deep voice for much longer.

  The smile disappeared instantly. ‘It’s me duty to ask,’ she said sulkily. ‘I have orders from him. Nobody comes in wi’oot statin’ their business.’ She tried to slam the door shut. Jack instinctively jammed his foot into the disappearing gap. Hiding the pain that shot up his leg, he flashed his brightest smile.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I have been on a long journey and I am weary. Please forgive me.’ The door was half opened. ‘I have a letter of introduction.’ He showed it to the girl.

  She looked at the letter for a few moments before taking it. She still hadn’t forgiven Jack, and was about to shut the door on him and leave him waiting outside. ‘Now a pretty girl like you with such a warm heart would not leave a young man stranded out in the cold night air.’ The grisly smile returned and she beckoned him inside.

  When he was ushered into the warmth of the parlour, Jack wasn’t sure which of the two men sitting by the fire was Acorn until he noticed that one had West Digges’ letter in his hand. The man rose in one smooth movement and stood before him. He was taller than Jack. And thinner, Jack noted with a touch of envy. This helped to create the impression of grace which Jack himself was trying hard to cultivate. The aquiline face was handsome and the brown eyes piercing and shrewd. They were at that moment taking in the visitor. Jack felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Suddenly, Acorn spoke. The greeting was cool. ‘Mr Flyford. Take a seat. This is my good friend, Mr Bowser.’ Acorn indicated his companion with a flourish of the hand.

  Jack gave a half bow. ‘Sir.’ Bowser grudgingly returned the gesture but said nothing, and took a loud swig from his wine glass. Jack pulled up a chair. After freezing in the coach, the reassuring crackle of the fire was a blessing. He took courage from it despite the indifferent reception.

  ‘Mr Digges refers to you in glowing terms. And we must heed his word, for his reputation has reached us in Newcastle.’ Which one? thought Jack. Actor, lecher or debtor? ‘He says that your diction is clear, your stagecraft is excellent, and you bring out great drama in the tragedies and wit and charm in the comedies. There seems no role that you cannot play,’ said Acorn unsmilingly. Typical of Digges to go too far. Made him sound like bloody Garrick! The sarcasm was still in Acorn’s voice when he continued. ‘There is one thing that puzzles me, Mr Flyford. If you are an actor with such bounteous gifts, why have you left Mr Digges’ theatre near the beginning of the season to come and join our humble group of players?’ It puzzled Jack too. It was a nasty little question to which he had not had the foresight to prepare an answer. For a few moments, he stared blankly at Acorn. Then the supercilious grimace on Acorn’s face galvanised him into action. What the hell – do what West Digges would do. Lie. But lie extravagantly.

  ‘Well, sirs,’ Jack said slowly and deliberately, ‘I have Mr David Garrick to blame for this.’ The name of the most famous thespian in the land acted like a thunderbolt from the heavens. Acorn looked astonished. Bowser sat upright in his chair. Right, that has got their attention, thought Jack as he frantically wondered how he could plausibly follow up such a dramatic statement.

  ‘You know, of course, that David…’ – clever touch this, thought Jack – ‘…was educated in Lichfield.’ This was common knowledge and the one fact from which he could launch into a world of total fiction. Jack waited for his audience to nod agreement. Acorn did. Bowser did not, though his interest was intense. ‘My father, before becoming a prebendary at Worcester Cathedral, held a living in Lichfield. David, as a boy and in his early manhood, attended my father’s church. Of course, he left for London, and the theatre captured his heart, leading to fame and fortune, but he has never forgotten to correspond with my father or failed to pay visits, irregular though they became because of his commitments, to our home in Worcester.’ Jack paused and tentativ
ely looked round to see if his tale was falling on receptive ears. The enthusiastic gleam in the eyes of his audience was ample confirmation. This gave Jack the confidence to embroider even more stunning colours into the fabric of his creation.

  ‘On the last visit, I took advantage of a walk by the riverside with David to consult him on a seed that had been sown in my mind some months previously. I remember well the waters of the River Severn glinting in the early evening sunlight.’ At this point Jack stood and began to walk around the room. He found it easier to be expansive on his feet, and while he wandered, it gave him more time to think by painting a few irrelevant mental pictures.

  ‘The water lapped against the bank as a rough-hewn boat rowed past us and the great cathedral bell tolled the hour. Yet in such peaceful surroundings, I found it hard to broach the matter which was troubling me so. David must have sensed it. Don’t you think this is a gift great men possess?’ Jack glanced at Acorn in the confident knowledge that he had never met a great man in his life. For the first time, Acorn averted his eyes. This was a contest that Jack was starting to win with ease.

  ‘David put his arm about my shoulder and asked gently if there was anything that was worrying me. It was then that I confided in him that I, too, would like to tread the boards. He turned me round, his hands upon my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “Jack, my boy, I will do what I can to help you.”’ God, even Digges would find it hard to better this performance. ‘“But first you must serve an apprenticeship. Travel the length and breadth of this land and learn your craft in the theatres of the provinces for two years. Then I will call you to London and you will act upon the stage at Drury Lane, and society will have another name to laud.”’ The last sentence was delivered like the climax of an epic Shakespearean speech. A dismissive wave of the hand, and Jack quietly took his seat once more. ‘The rest of my tale is simply told. David gave me a letter of introduction to Mr Digges in Edinburgh, and now I have come to your door in the hope that you, Mr Acorn, will help me further my education.’ The modest end and the touch of flattery were equally brilliant, Jack decided. Acorn would have no choice but to employ him.