Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  There was a pause as Acorn and Bowser exchanged delighted glances before Acorn spoke. ‘Mr Flyford, we would be more than pleased for you to join our company. It may not match that of Drury Lane, but we give of our best.’ There was no trace of cynicism in his voice now. Grovelling sincerity had taken over.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am sure that David… that Mr Garrick will remember your kindness to me when I pass on the good news.’

  Acorn’s face lit up. He raised a hand. ‘No need, sir.’ Which translated as “tell him as soon as possible”. ‘Knowing that I am helping a fresh talent on the way to success is reward enough.’

  ‘Give the young man a drink.’ This was the first time that Bowser had spoken since Jack had entered the room.

  ‘I am a poor host indeed.’ Acorn was now all excited fluster. He shakingly poured a glass of wine and hastily pressed it into Jack’s hand. ‘Have you had any sustenance since arriving in Newcastle, Mr Flyford?’

  ‘I am afraid not, sir. I thought after I had made myself known to your good self that I would find a tavern and then seek lodgings for the night.’

  ‘I will not hear of it after your arduous journey. You will sup here and stay under my roof until suitable lodgings can be found. Unfortunately, Mr Bowser and myself must leave shortly to attend the theatre. I will fetch my daughter, Bessie. She will see to your every need.’

  It was hard to ignore her bosom, teasingly squeezed up by her dress, as she leant over to replenish his glass. In fact, everything about Bessie Acorn was hard to ignore. She was no over-pretty Rubens nymph; taller and thinner for a start. Her face was chubbier than her father’s, the hair lighter brown, her mouth that bit fuller, though the green eyes had all his sharpness. In front of Acorn, she had been demure in her round-eared cap. But she was fashionably attired with panniers supporting a white linen dress with floral design, and she had an air of knowing it suited her well. Jack had hoped that in her father’s absence, she would be more forthcoming and flirtatious. Most young women of her age – Jack reckoned she was about seventeen – tended to be, once he had put them at their ease. Well, the ones he had met in Edinburgh anyway. But Bessie seemed different. Even his obvious peek at her breasts had elicited no response. He could not fault her politeness, though it was cooler than he would have cared for. His tales of Edinburgh produced disinterested smiles. In desperation, he retold his Garrick story. The enthusiasm shown by her father was not repeated.

  At length, she suggested that he must be tired and that she would show him to his room, which Hilda, the servant girl, had prepared. The candle she held aloft cast shadowy figures about the darkened stairway. Jack followed obediently, his eyes mesmerised by the swaying of Bessie’s skirts. On the landing, there were four doors. She led him to the one at the far end.

  Without ceremony, Bessie left him in a comfortable-looking room. A recently lit fire was blazing, though the warmth had not had time to spread. After standing by the fireplace for a few minutes contemplating his success with Acorn, he quickly disrobed and slipped into bed. Clean sheets! Jack could not remember the last time he had slept in any. Certainly not since leaving Oxford. By the candlelight, he read a few verses from the bible that his sister had given him when he had first gone up to university. In her last letter, Rachel had implored him to read it every night. He had always found it difficult to refuse Rachel anything and he had periodically complied with her wish. Though spiritually the Bible did very little for him now, he still enjoyed the Old Testament stories and knew where to find most of the “begatting” bits.

  He must have dozed off for he was awakened by a light tapping on the door. The fire had burned down, as had the candle, and the bible had dropped to the floor. The door opened slowly, and Bessie stepped silently in. Jack blinked, his eyes not yet accustomed to the dim light. Bessie closed the door behind her. The dress she had worn earlier was gone, replaced by a long, flowing nightgown. At first Jack was somewhat alarmed. ‘Miss Acorn, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you might be cold. This room has not been slept in since the summer.’

  ‘No. No, I am warm under these sheets.’

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Bessie reached down to the hem of her nightgown, lifted it over her head and let it flutter to the floor. Jack audibly gulped. She was totally naked. Her young breasts thrust out confidently. Jack was used to fashionably plumper bodies, but there was still enough to get one’s teeth into here. ‘But I am cold. If your bed is warm, that is where I should be.’ Digges had warned him that it was impossible to fathom the workings of a woman’s mind. He had told him that they ran up flags like a sea captain sending a message from his ship. Sometimes you interpreted them wrongly, and a slap in the face was the penalty. But this? No flags. Now no clothes. What could Jack do? He did what any gentleman would do when seeing a lady in such a predicament – he pulled back the sheets and made room for her.

  It was only when she started to cry out that it suddenly occurred to Jack that it might not be a good idea if Acorn found his daughter naked and sitting astride his newly arrived guest. He stopped in mid-thrust and breathlessly asked if her father might not hear them. In an aggressive pant, she assured him her father would not be back until early morning. He happily let her push him violently back down and decided that maybe Newcastle was not such a bad place to spend a few weeks in after all.

  IV

  Hamlet. Acorn seemed pleased with the rehearsal. He was effusive in his praise for Jack, almost to the point of embarrassment. Ever since he had introduced Jack to the rest of the company a week previously, Acorn had treated him as though he were Garrick himself. He had related Jack’s Garrick story with undisguised glee to whomever they came across. To Jack’s surprise, everyone seemed impressed. Well, that was not entirely true. In fact, that point niggled. Mr Tyler Courtney, the undoubted leading attraction of the Theatre in the Bigg Market, had been very taken with the tale. So had the corpulent, merry Mr Southby. Mrs Edith Trump, an actress of some repute in her heyday, was quite overcome. But Miss Catherine Balmore? She had smiled her beautiful smile and said all the right things yet Jack knew she did not look upon him with the awe the others did. Which was a pity as he wanted to impress her more than anyone. She was young (maybe a little older than himself), vivacious, exciting to be with. Her long, black hair, parted in the middle, cascaded either side of an exquisite, fashionably pale face. The cheek bones were proud and high, the eyes dark and bewitching and the mouth… the mouth, full-rounded and inviting. And Miss Balmore had a gift no man could resist. She listened. She made him feel that he was the centre of her undivided attention. No man left her company without feeling uplifted, an image of her parting smile firmly planted in his mind.

  Miss Balmore’s Ophelia promised to have the audience crying at her death. Not because she was a good actress, but because she was so easy to like. Tyler Courtney, though nearly forty, would do Hamlet fair justice. Mrs Trump, who would have given her missing eye teeth to play Ophelia, had to content herself with Gertrude, while the portly Mr Southby was a far-too-jovial Claudius. Jack wondered whether Southby would survive the energetic fight with Hamlet that Acorn had planned. For his part, Jack had volunteered to play the more minor role of Horatio. Acorn took this for modesty. Jack took it for self-preservation. He did not want to run the risk of showing himself up until he had gauged the standard of his fellow actors. He need not have worried himself unduly.

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’ cried Acorn, clapping his hands enthusiastically. ‘We will adjourn for something to eat and then we will continue with Act Three in an hour.’

  The actors began to disperse. Mr Southby, quicker than most, took his regular place in the tavern which shared the building with the theatre. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement: the tavern attracted the public to the theatre and the theatre attracted the public to the tavern.

  ‘Miss Balmore,’ Acorn simpered, ‘your portrayal of Ophelia is a delight.’ He held out his hand and helped her from the stage. ‘Shakes
peare must have had one such as you in mind when he wrote the part.’

  Miss Balmore’s eyes opened wide and swallowed him in. ‘You are too kind, sir.’

  There was a great snort of derision from behind her. ‘Far too bloody kind.’ And with that, Mrs Edith Trump stumped noisily off stage left.

  Acorn flashed an angry glance after her, then his smile returned just as quickly. ‘You must forgive Edith. She is jealous of your beauty and your talent. Unfortunately, she seems to have lost both.’

  The altercation came as no surprise to Jack. He had heard Acorn and Mrs Trump arguing after the previous day’s rehearsal. Realising that he had forgotten his Hamlet text, he had returned to the communal dressing room. As he was about to enter, he had heard raised voices. He thought it wiser not to proceed.

  Trump’s deep cackle was unmistakable. ‘You are a pathetic creature, Thomas Acorn. As soon as that harlot makes moon eyes at you, you chase after her like a little boy lost. That talentless sow has you drinking from her trough.’

  ‘Catherine, I mean Miss Balmore, will be a great actress one day. That is why you hate her so.’

  ‘Great actress,’ Trump laughed coarsely. ‘You think the larger the paps, the greater the actress!’

  ‘Then you must be the greatest actress of them all with that grotesque, flabby, wrinkled bosom. Look at yourself! Your beauty’s withered. You are fat and disgusting. Miss Balmore is everything that you are not.’

  Judging by the silence that followed, Acorn had taken the wind out of Trump’s sails. Her voice trembled when she spoke again. ‘Thomas, do not cast me aside. I love you. She does not and never will. She will only lead you into trouble. Leave her be, please.’

  Jack heard the rustling of Trump’s dress. ‘Do not touch me, hag!’ Acorn’s tone was cold and vicious. ‘Be grateful that I keep you on here. No one else would take you. And if you interfere further, I will throw you onto the streets. I doubt if whoring at your age will keep you fed for long.’

  A moment later, Acorn marched from the room and down the corridor in the opposite direction from where Jack stood transfixed. Trump rushed to the doorway and screamed ‘Bastard!’ Acorn did not turn about and disappeared round the corner. ‘You bastard,’ she repeated, though the venom had drained away.

  She turned and spotted Jack. He coughed to hide his embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping. She eyed him up and down slowly, increasing his feeling of insecurity. Then she laughed. ‘So you heard all that. He will soon tire of his silly trollop when he realises she has no intention of spreading her legs for such as him. She plucks at his hopes while it suits her, but I think she is already playing a different tune. She has been seen in the company of Captain Hogg. How can an ageing actor of lowly birth fight against a younger man of wealth and position who is held in high regard in military circles? His father is a lord, so I am told. When the message is trumpeted loud and clear into Thomas Acorn’s thick skull, he will come scuttling back to my bed as he always does.’

  Jack was at a loss as to how to respond to this rather one-sided conversation, so he just said that he had to pick up his text. He slipped past her into the dressing room, which was scattered with quickly cast-off costumes, masks and wigs. As he looked for the text, he had the uncomfortable feeling that Mrs Trump was staring at him. At last he found it under a discarded coat. Clutching it nervously in his hands, he found her barring his exit. ‘Why should Acorn have all the diversions? You have a pleasant enough figure, even if your face is not exactly the most handsome I have seen. Ears too big. The thighs look strong and well muscled. I expect the chest also.’ Jack found this frank evaluation of his physical features most disconcerting. She was making an inventory as though he were some prime beast.

  Jack made a movement towards the door. She shut it. ‘Do you not find me pleasing? Many have found me so.’

  “Pleasing” was probably the wrong word to describe Mrs Edith Trump. Even now she was in her middle forties, it was easy to detect that once she must have been most striking, if not classically beautiful. Though her figure had run to fat and her face was puffy and lined, there was still a primitive attraction about her. She certainly did not merit Acorn’s savage appraisal. According to Southby, she had walked the London stage in her youth and had been chased – and caught – by many an ardent admirer. Three bastard children, all dead at birth, drink, her waning looks and lack of money (Mr Trump had absconded with that) had forced her into the provinces, where she had been taken up by the ambitious Acorn. She became his lover while he unashamedly used her “London” name to further his cause. Now that he had his own theatre and stunning leading lady in Catherine Balmore, Edith Trump was losing her usefulness.

  All Jack could do in reply to Trump’s question was nod.

  ‘Then it will be no hardship to roger me, young man.’ Was there something in the Newcastle water that made the women so forward? wondered Jack.

  ‘Well, no,’ he stammered uncertainly. ‘Where do you wish to go?’

  ‘We will go nowhere,’ she cackled loudly. ‘If an actress’s dressing room was good enough for the Duke of Crabwater, it is bloody good enough for the likes of you. And he brought his friends to watch!’

  Three quarters of an hour later, Jack walked unsteadily out of the dressing room. He was exhausted but exhilarated. He had done things with Edith Trump that he had never done before. He didn’t even know the name of some of them. The only conclusion he had drawn was that Acorn was very stupid to cast aside a woman of such ingenuity and dexterity. He would try some of his new skills out on Bessie, who was now a regular visitor to his bedchamber.

  V

  Jack joined Mr Southby at his favourite table. He found the portly actor immensely enjoyable company. A couple of nights previously, they had spent a raucous evening visiting the numerous taverns down by the river. Like the rest of the town, they had been celebrating the arrival of Major Grant, who had that very afternoon been met on the quay by the Right Worshipful Matthew Bell, newly elected mayor of Newcastle. Major Grant, aide-de-camp to the King of Prussia, was on his way to London to report the details of Frederick’s great victory against the French near Leipzig. Where Leipzig was, few knew or even cared so long as it was the excuse for many a loyal and hearty toast. In these dangerous times, there was precious little to cheer about. Bells rang out from all the churches, and, as the festivities began, the facts of the battle spread throughout the heaving taverns. Fifteen thousand enemy slain, three generals and eight thousand common troops captured along with a hundred and fifty pieces of cannon. As the night progressed, so these figures multiplied until Jack lost count and, eventually, consciousness. Next morning, Jack’s memories were vague, though his head gave him a constant reminder of what must have taken place. Yet Ezra Southby showed no signs of having courted over-indulgence. In fact, he was supping ale at nine in the morning prior to the day’s rehearsal.

  ‘Another, Jack?’ asked Southby as Jack slumped onto the bench opposite.

  ‘I have not started one yet,’ replied Jack, putting his brimming tankard on the table.

  ‘That is the trouble with the youth of today. No ambition. Silas!’ Southby called loudly across the tavern, ‘two more tankards. Play-acting is thirsty work.’

  ‘Do you not think that you should limit the ale if you are sword fighting with Mr Courtney this afternoon?’

  ‘Sir, unless I am drunk as a monarch, I will not be able to fight like one.’ This was accompanied by a snorting hoot of high-pitched laughter.

  Several tankards later, the conversation came round to Tyler Courtney. Jack hadn’t seen many fine actors in his short career, but he was learning enough about his new craft to recognise those who transcended the mediocre. Digges and Love in Edinburgh were two. Tyler Courtney was decidedly another.

  ‘I greatly admire Mr Courtney. Yet I am much baffled that he only struts upon the provincial stage. Surely London would be a far better place to display his many skills?’

  Southby belched and drew a c
hubby hand across his moist lips. ‘Now that is a matter that has not only vexed you, my young friend. I have travelled this rain-soaked land for many years and I have seen no one to compare with Courtney. Not that I have ever seen your friend Garrick.’ Jack’s eyes instinctively shifted from Southby’s gaze. ‘Or Digges for that matter. So why is he so reluctant to woo the fine citizens of London? The answer is Acorn.’

  ‘Acorn?’ Jack repeated the name in some surprise.

  ‘Yes, or so I believe. Our beloved manager has been a friend of Courtney’s for many years.’

  ‘I have only seen them together a short time, but they do not strike me as friends. They are most cordial to each other, yet I sense that all is not well between them.’

  ‘It is so.’ Southby pulled from his waistcoat pocket a battered metal box. He offered it to Jack, who declined. He took a pinch of stale-smelling snuff, sniffed and sneezed, and returned the box to his pocket. ‘I use the word “friend” loosely. What I should have said is that they have been together for many years, since they were young actors in Portsmouth. From that time on, Courtney has attracted the audiences, Acorn has taken the money. He has used Courtney as he has the dear, divine Mrs Trump.’ Here Southby paused, and anger momentarily flitted across his rotund face. ‘And now his sights are set upon the lovely Miss Balmore since she replaced the rather plain Miss Hogarth. She fell in the river. Drunk most probably.’ Absently, he took another swig of ale and wiped his mouth. ‘Aye, Courtney has not broken free because Acorn has him chained. How? I do not know. The answer lies in the past. And it is not for the likes of you or me to pry. Acorn is not a man with whom to cross swords. I warn you, he can be dangerous. At present, you are his Joseph. It flatters his vanity to think that he is helping a friend of the great David Garrick. He also sees you as a stepping stone to his future advancement. Do not forget that.’