Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  Jack stopped putting on his jacket. ‘He knew?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘Of course. It was his idea.’

  Jack was dumbfounded. ‘I thought you came to my bed because you wanted to.’

  ‘Not at first. Now I have grown fond of you – and your appendage,’ she added with a smirk. ‘Why else do you think you are here tonight?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he replied huffily, pulling his jacket over his shoulders. The bitterness he felt broke through. ‘Have you done this sort of favour for your father before?’

  Bessie did not answer. Jack sat on the bed and slipped on his stockings and shoes.

  ‘You have to leave. I would not have you harmed.’

  ‘Do you really care?’ He sounded like a spoilt child who had just had his favourite toy taken from him. ‘And, pray, how shall I go?’

  ‘Out of the window and down the tree.’

  ‘You jest! I cannot do that.’ The thought was too horrific to contemplate. Even being horsewhipped by Acorn seemed the more attractive option. ‘If you think—’

  Bessie held up her hand to silence him. They stood completely still. An inner door opened. Then the front door. They heard it close.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that; they have gone,’ said Jack with relief. ‘I will slip out the front.’

  ‘Wait. I will go down and make sure my father has definitely gone.’ Quietly, she left the room.

  What a fiasco! What a day! What a night! The sooner he left Newcastle, the better. He would never come back. What really upset him was that Acorn had sent Bessie to his bed. Why was he always being used? Suddenly, his fuming self-pity was cut short by a rasping scream. Followed by another.

  Jack rushed down the stairs into the hall and towards the open doorway of the parlour. There, he halted abruptly. Bessie was not screaming any more; just sobbing uncontrollably. Her figure hunched, her shoulders pumping up and down with grief, bent over a still body. Blood trickled from under the white wig – torn and askew, and partly embedded in a gaping wound – to form a crimson halo around Acorn’s head. Jack felt sickness rise in his throat. He turned away, fighting for breath. How sheltered his life had been! Last winter in Edinburgh, he had passed a man sitting in a close, frozen to death by the bitter cold. The sight had not frightened him. The man seemed to have retained his dignity; he could have been asleep. This was different – the body crumpled; fresh, oozing blood. So arrogant in life, so humbled by death. This was someone he had talked to this morning! And Bessie’s outpouring of emotion made it horribly real.

  Real, too, were the implications as they slowly began to thaw the numbness that had enveloped his mind. Acorn murdered in his own house. You didn’t need to be a Dictionary Johnson to work out it was murder: a large brass candlestick lay close to the slumped body, the extinguished candle on the floor by the table, a pool of wax still shiningly warm. Jack also in the house. Not easy to explain. In bed with the man’s daughter. Acorn returns unexpectedly, discovers him – fight ensues. Acorn dead, Jack guilty. Bessie could vouch for him. But would she compromise herself by admitting that they were in bed together in the first place? If it was her word against his, his head was as good as in the noose.

  Another unpleasant thought flashed through his mind. The dead man had only that morning dismissed him from the company. Had Acorn told anyone else? If he had, then the finger could also be pointed in Jack’s direction. Certainly some would see it as sufficient motive. This would teach him to think twice before diving into a quick dalliance. The safest course was to get out of the house and out of the town as swiftly as possible.

  But what of Bessie? He couldn’t leave her like this. She turned her puffy, tear-stained face towards him. Jack instinctively went to her side and gently raised her to her feet. He looked into her eyes, the haughty self-confidence replaced by touching vulnerability. She tried to speak but the words failed her. Jack’s protective embrace grew firmer, to still her shaking body. ‘Bessie, I must be gone from here. To get back to the theatre. I dare not be found in this house.’ The words came out in a rush.

  Bessie pushed herself away, her eyes in wild panic. ‘Jack, you must not leave me. Please, Jack, please.’

  She had never used his Christian name before. Now the helpless pleading made him feel guilty for wanting to save his own skin. ‘I cannot remain. If I am discovered here, I will be in grave trouble. I cannot tell them why I am here. It will look bad for me… and for you.’ Would the authorities suspect Bessie? He immediately dismissed the thought.

  She fell back into his arms, crying once more. Between each sob, she kept repeating the word ‘please’. Jack could not desert her – yet. He stroked her hair gently while he desperately thought what to do. ‘Listen, Bessie, I must go back to the theatre before anyone misses me.’ He felt a sudden tightening of her arms around him. ‘Do not worry. After the performance, I will return as though I am still living here. With luck, your father will not have told anyone of my banishment. While I am away, you must gather up your courage and go and tell someone in authority… whoever is entrusted with upholding the law in these parts. Tell them that you found your father’s body.’ This produced a further wave of tears. ‘Tell them the truth about hearing someone coming in with your father and then leaving. But do not mention my being here. Now listen carefully. The clock on the mantel says the hour is eight. Wait about thirty minutes before you go out. Say that you heard the other person departing the house, that you came down straight away, discovered your father and left immediately to seek help. That will enable me to say that I was at the theatre at the time the murder took place.’ Bessie said nothing. ‘Bessie, do you understand me?’ Her head, pressed against his chest, nodded twice. He prayed to God she did. Why, oh why had he walked away from Oxford and the quiet life?

  Out in the cold street, Jack reflectively pulled up his collar. The dead body was not the only thing that preoccupied his thoughts. What was it about the scene in the parlour that pecked at his brain like a persistent bird as he hurried towards the theatre? For the very life of him, he could not put his finger on it.

  X

  Jack found it difficult to concentrate on the rest of the performance. Not that it mattered. The audience was so well fortified with strong drink that they paid little heed to the play. At times, it was almost impossible to hear the actors above the clamour, especially whenever Miss Balmore appeared. Then the place resounded with hoots, whistles and vulgar comments. Miss Balmore carried on as though oblivious to the tumult. Her final, exaggerated curtsey at the end of the play almost sparked off a riot as her breasts fought to free themselves from her low-slung bodice. Tyler Courtney was far from pleased that Catherine Balmore had received louder cheers than himself. Mrs Trump’s look was that of unfettered hatred.

  As they changed afterwards, Mr Whitlock asked if anyone had seen Acorn. Jack’s head jerked up guiltily, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to answer.

  Mrs Trump came storming in. ‘Did you see that trollop? Now she is outside surrounded by her sycophants.’ She spat out the words. ‘They are like a pack of panting hounds, their tongues hanging down to their knees.’

  ‘She’s only jealous ’cos her own tits sag down to hers,’ Angel Bright smirked under his breath while giving Jack a conspiratorial wink. Jack returned an unconvincing smile and hurried out. Though he was loath to return to Acorn’s house, he knew he must see if Bessie was coping.

  A brutish fellow stopped him at the door. ‘Where do you think you’re gannin’?’ he said roughly.

  ‘I am living under Mr Acorn’s roof at present. So let me pass.’

  ‘Not his roof no more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack asked innocently

  ‘He lies deed wi’in.’

  Jack managed to muster a look of disbelieving horror. ‘He did not appear to be suffering any illness.’

  ‘’Tis not illness that killed him, ’twere a blow that split his heed open.’ The man’s glee was unpleasant.

  ‘Oh, my Lo
rd, I must go in at once.’ Without hesitation, Jack pushed his way past the man and into the hall. There, Bessie sat slumped in a chair. She glanced up as he entered.

  ‘Bessie, what is this awful news I hear? Are you all right?’ He could see the relief flood into her face; he had come back as promised.

  ‘Oh, Jack, it is most dreadful. Father is dead.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘A grievous blow to the head.’ The answer was not Bessie’s. ‘And who might you be?’ The owner of the soft-spoken, rather arrogant voice was a small, anonymous man. His dress was immaculate and expensive, though his shortness of stature made his blue coat appear slightly too long. The features were unremarkable save for his lack of chin, which had the curious effect of making his face slide into his stubby neck. His mouth, downturned at each side, heightened his doleful demeanour. Behind Sheriff Ridley stood his lieutenant, Sergeant Axwell. He was broad-shouldered with a bush of straggling, unkempt hair. His face was hard and uncompromising; the battered nose was eloquent testimony to the difficulties of upholding the law on the streets of Newcastle.

  ‘This is Sheriff Ridley, Jack,’ Bessie put in.

  ‘Sir, I am Jack Flyford and I am in the employ…em… was in the employ of Mr Acorn.’

  ‘An actor.’ Sheriff Ridley did nothing to disguise his distaste.

  Jack nodded. ‘I have recently come from Edinburgh and while I was seeking lodgings in the town, Mr Acorn kindly let me rest awhile in his house.’

  The sheriff showed scant interest in this information. ‘And where have you been this night?’

  ‘At the theatre. We have been performing Hamlet by William Shakespeare.’

  ‘I do know who penned the play, sir,’ Ridley replied with some annoyance. For a few moments, he stared at Jack, his creased expression one of dislike. Then he turned to Bessie. ‘I have seen enough. Sergeant Axwell, remove the body. Burial will take place the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘What of the murderer?’ Jack asked.

  Sheriff Ridley continued to address Bessie. ‘Miss Acorn, the perpetrator of this evil deed will swing, have no doubts upon that score.’ He gave Jack a pointed, sideways glance. ‘Now, do you want me to leave a guard upon the door?’

  ‘There is no need, Sheriff Ridley. I am sure Mr Flyford will keep watch over me this night.’

  ‘Do you think it is prudent to be alone with this fellow? Can he be trusted?’ By his tone, the sheriff didn’t think so.

  ‘My father trusted him, therefore I have no reason not to.’

  ‘Very well.’ The sheriff was not convinced, but he raised no further objections. With a curt bow, ‘I bid you goodnight, Miss Acorn. As for you,’ he looked at Jack, ‘I am confident that our paths will cross again.’

  XI

  The first visitor next morning was Lazarus Bowser. He saw Bessie alone. Later, she related how Bowser had been most kind and sympathetic. He had assured her that she could stay on in the house and he would pay for the rent. He explained that Acorn’s debts had already been met when the partnership was struck.

  ‘How has he taken the events of yesternight?’ Jack asked her. This was in the dining room as Bessie could not bring herself to enter the parlour.

  ‘I think he is badly shaken. He and my father had been partners only a short while.’

  Jack was astonished at how Bessie was so in control of her feelings. The spontaneous flood of grief that had poured out when she had found her father’s body had now been dammed up. She showed little outward emotion, which Jack found unnerving in one so young. Yet, he reflected, in many ways she was older than her years.

  ‘Will he continue to back the theatre or will he give way to Thirsk?’ What was to become of her? Jack wondered. She had lost the one stable element in her life. At least Bowser would see to it she was cared for in the short term. But thereafter?

  ‘He did not say directly, though he did mention that he had people to see concerning the theatre.’

  She looked so appealing with her hair tied back. The effect was of the classical elegance of the Greek statues he had seen illustrations of in books at Oxford. And behind the green eyes, an inner strength he had never noticed before.

  ‘If Bowser can persuade Courtney to stay, then he will have a business that makes him a profit.’

  ‘He asked about you.’

  ‘Me?’ Jack’s exclamation came out higher than he intended. Had Acorn had time to expose him?

  ‘When I said that you would not be leaving, he appeared pleased.’ Jack puckered his lips trying to suppress a smile of relief. ‘Was I right to say such a thing?’

  Those green eyes were trained on him. ‘Of course. Of course you were.’ He hoped his reply carried the conviction he did not feel. He wanted to leave that minute. Murder was a stranger that frightened him. It was making him face up to the fact that his life had always been shielded from unpleasantness and real sorrow; he had been too young to be greatly affected by his mother’s death. He didn’t like what he was discovering about himself. Running away had always been the easiest solution, though he knew, deep down, he could not abandon Bessie just yet. Not out of love or even affection, for he felt little of either; it was his damned conscience.

  As he was committed to staying in Newcastle, for a while at least, he would require funds. To earn them he would have to act. If Bowser kept the theatre going, it seemed that his position was secure. However, if Bowser did not, should he make overtures to Crichton Thirsk? Trotting out his Garrick story would be sufficient to win over the rival manager. Unfortunately, Bessie would see that as disloyal. Yet he couldn’t live on her charity as she was living off Bowser’s. Well, not for too long. The key was Bowser.

  Jack started to walk round the big oak dining table. ‘Why ever did Bowser throw in his lot with your father? It cannot be the best way to make one’s fortune.’

  ‘Lazarus Bowser has no need to make his coin from the theatre. He makes so much more from all his other enterprises. My father said it was out of revenge.’

  ‘Revenge? I do not understand.’

  ‘Bowser is a man of new money. He has risen from obscurity. The old families of commerce in the town do not like him and, I suspect, the way he does business. They have stood in his way and done much to stop his social advancement. One man in particular, Mr Ralph Carr. Two years ago, Carr set up a bank in Pilgrim Street. I am told it is the first of its kind outside London. Carr needed partners in the enterprise to raise the necessary capital. Bowser was keen to join. Carr snubbed him and sought partners elsewhere. Bowser has never forgiven him, especially as the bank has turned in a most handsome profit, so my father said. And the mayor-making of Mr Bell. All the people of importance in the town were summoned. No invitation was issued to Bowser. Mr Bell is one of Carr’s three partners.’

  ‘But the theatre?’

  Bessie smoothed out her skirts. ‘Two summers ago, father was invited to bring his company to Newcastle by Crichton Thirsk, who was then the manager of the Theatre in the Bigg Market. We were at York at the time. It was only for a week to coincide with Race Week on the Town Moor, which attracts people from all over the North. The week was a great success and we were invited back last summer. Then it was an even bigger success. Father decided that instead of letting Thirsk make capital out of his troupe, why did he not forsake acting and become manager of the theatre himself? It would at least give us a settled life, and father a position of importance in the town. Ambition always burned brightly in his heart. He set about courting men like Carr and the other wealthy merchants who supported Thirsk. He soon outmanoeuvred Thirsk.’

  ‘No wonder Thirsk has… had no love for your father.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Father had a disagreement with Carr. Thirsk, encouraged, formed a new theatre down at the Moot Hall. With the return of his supporters and with Father’s mounting debts, it appeared our days would be numbered. That is when Lazarus Bowser came to our rescue. The debtors were paid. The season could continue.’

  ‘So by helpin
g your father, Bowser thwarted Carr and his associates.’

  ‘I believe it has caused them much aggravation.’

  ‘Then your father’s…’ – Jack couldn’t bring himself to say ‘murder’ or even ‘death’… – ‘it has come at an untimely moment. Bowser has much self-esteem to lose and, from what you say, that matter is more important to him than any other. For that reason, he will find a way to keep Thirsk at bay. I am also sure he will not rest until the man who committed this vile crime is caught.’ He now stood behind Bessie. Gently, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Without looking up, she raised her hand to touch his and squeezed it tightly.

  The wind whipped up the hems of the coats. Those with hats had difficulty keeping them in place. The ribbon that secured Bessie’s flapped against her neck, while the wide brim tried wildly to break free. Not that many had braved the bitter blasts to see Acorn’s body laid to rest in the churchyard of St. Andrew’s.

  The medieval church stood squat and aloof. The dark expanse of town wall, broken only by dashes of lighter stone – evidence of hasty repairs carried out during the rebellions of 1715 and 1745 – shielded the north and west sides of the churchyard like a cloak. To the right, ran New Gate Street, the passers-by never venturing a second glance at the burial party as they scurried about their business. Just beyond could be seen the chunky, imposing New Gate, northern entrance to the town, which also doubled as home to incarcerated local villains and vagabonds.

  The frozen ground underfoot was like unforgiving rock, and Jack wondered how the gravediggers had managed to make such a large hole. He stood next to Bessie: she wore a dark dress and cloak, and had tied a crape ribbon around the crown of her straw bergère; and, like all the mourners, she was wearing white chamois gloves. His own garments were plundered from the theatre for the occasion. On the other side was Tyler Courtney, tall and straight. Opposite were Mrs Trump, Mr Southby, Mr Whitlock and Mr Thrapp – all the older members of the company who had been with Acorn for some years. Catherine Balmore was said to be too upset to attend. The only representative of the local community, apart from the parson and the gravediggers, was Lazarus Bowser. With the exception of Mrs Trump, who from time to time dabbed her eyes with a dainty handkerchief, no one seemed to be shedding any tears. Not even Bessie. She fixed her gaze upon the roof of the church beyond.