The shivering clergyman went through the motions with unseemly haste, and the coffin was quickly swallowed up by the ground. One by one, the mourners pulled themselves away from the graveside as though it was still difficult to break free from Acorn’s hold over them. Then a figure not far distant caught Jack’s eye. Jack wasn’t sure if he was the first to see him. Certainly Courtney and Bowser did within seconds. Leaning on an upright gravestone was Crichton Thirsk. In the light of the day, he was even smaller than Jack remembered. The expression on his pitted face was passive. No hint of gloating to see a rival out of the way. He was on the point of leaving when Bowser shouted his name.
‘Come here to admire your handiwork?’
‘Sir, what do you mean by that remark?’
‘’Tis not you that has put Acorn in that hole?’
‘Pray be careful what you say, Mr Bowser,’ entreated Courtney.
Bowser was having a problem suppressing his anger. ‘Sir, you shall never have the theatre.’ Courtney made an effort to pull Bowser back. His restraining hand was flung aside. ‘Your murderous scheme has failed.’
Thirsk remained calm in the face of this outburst. ‘I have no reason to resort to your low methods, sir. I do not need to stoop to conquer.’ What a great title for a play, thought Jack.
‘Murderer! You should be rotting in yonder New Gate Gaol.’
Thirsk smiled. Bowser launched himself towards the manager and caught him a glancing blow on the chin. Thirsk lurched backwards, hand cupping his jaw as Courtney and Jack each grabbed a Bowser arm.
‘Go Thirsk, go now,’ commanded Courtney breathlessly as he and Jack struggled to contain Bowser. Thirsk obeyed without a further word and quickly stepped out onto New Gate Street.
Bowser shook himself free and yelled after him, ‘I will see you swing upon the gibbet for this!’
Silence followed as the shocked burial party stood around, hiding their embarrassment. Then Bessie began to cry softly.
XII
All around was noise. The mindless calls of drunken men and women, the uneven rattle of carts, the shrill oaths of urchins, the splash of slops thrown from upper windows, the loud entreaties of vendors, the pathetic pleas of beggars, the yelps and moans of frightened livestock, the steady thud of marching militiamen, the high-pitched neighs of impatient horses, the bickering of trollops over a potential client, the growls of skinny dogs mooching in the gutters, the screams of circling gulls. A heavy, pressing mass brought out onto the streets after the sudden thaw. Jack buffeted his way through the milling throng down The Side, the steep thoroughfare that knifed its way from the upper town to the bustling riverside. Near the bottom, The Side opened out at Sand Hill, and before him stood the Guildhall, a fine Tudor structure with a central square clock tower giving way to a spire with a now-twirling weathercock atop. Steps ran from either corner of the front to a central archway below the clock. To the right and left were further arches with balustrades. A confident building. A building that reflected the self-assured attitudes of commercial men. Beyond was the reason for their self-belief, optimism and wealth – tall masts, like a leafless forest above the solid quayside wall, swaying to and fro on the river. The Tyne was the town’s lifeblood.
Jack didn’t cross the open space in front of the Guildhall. Instead, he furtively dodged into Katy’s Coffee House, a popular establishment run by the formidable Catherine Jefferson. At that hour in the morning, the aroma-filled, cubicled room was full of talkative businessmen. Ten o’clock, the man had said. Go straight to the back room, knock on the door three times and he would be waiting. Why had he come? Curiosity, he supposed. Was he being disloyal to Bessie? Yes. Well, he had to keep his options open, had he not? The man – he said his name was Winkle – had accosted him outside the theatre after the funeral and had been most insistent. Nothing ventured…
Jack rapped on the door as instructed and entered. The low-ceilinged room was dark. The one small window let in only a little of the morning brightness; the main source of light came from a merrily sparking fire. Beside it stood the only occupant of the room. ‘I was not sure whether you would come,’ he said, taking a long-stemmed pipe from his mouth. His lace sleeve rustled as he did so.
‘I was not sure either.’
‘Please sit, Mr Flyford.’ The voice was strong – a voice that commanded respect. Jack had admired it that first time when he had heard Thirsk challenging Acorn at the theatre on the night of the latter’s death. Jack sat on the settle drawn up in front of the fire. ‘A coffee? Miss Jefferson’s is the finest in the whole of Newcastle.’
‘No, thank you. I do not think I should even be talking with you, let alone sharing a drink.’
Thirsk smiled. ‘Bowser? That was mere wind from the bellows.’
‘That is not the impression I formed. He obviously believes you are responsible for Mr Acorn’s death.’
‘The man has lost his partner. He wants to protect his interests, so what is more convenient than to shift the blame onto the very person who threatens those interests?’ Thirsk drew on his pipe.
‘Surely he has cause. You appear to be the person who is likely to gain most from Acorn’s death. The theatre.’
‘True,’ he conceded with another disarming smile.
‘You had a public disagreement with him shortly before he was murdered.’
‘Yes, he tore a perfectly good coat. Acorn could never stand a little lively competition.’ With a wave of the pipe, he dismissed further discussion of the topic. ‘I have not asked you here so that you can interrogate me. I have a proposal to make to you.’
‘Very well, but I must warn you that I am not inclined to throw my lot in with someone who may have…’ Jack stopped abruptly, trying to find a more delicate way to phrase the accusation.
‘Killed your paymaster,’ Thirsk completed the sentence for him. ‘I can assure you, Mr Flyford, that I am innocent of Acorn’s death.’ Jack was unconvinced, though he saw no point in pressing the matter. He had made his feelings known, and this helped to salve his conscience at being there in the first place.
Thirsk’s thick eyebrows framed a thoughtful frown. ‘As you have already pointed out, I am likely to gain from my rival’s unfortunate demise. I believe I am set to return to the theatre from which Acorn so skilfully ousted me. Mr Carr and his partners at the bank are once again behind me. That includes the mayor, Mr Bell. I count on Sir Walter Blackett’s support, too.’
‘I do not think Mr Bowser will let you have the theatre without a fight.’
‘He will soon lose interest. I think it will prove to be a passing fancy. After all, he has no one to manage it.’
‘Why not Mr Courtney? He would make a fine actor-manager. And he is the actor all the town wants to see. With respect, from what I hear, the players you have currently assembled at the Moot Hall cannot compare to those in the Bigg Market. As long as Bowser has Courtney, I think you will have to wait longer than you anticipate to regain your theatre.’
Thirsk waited patiently for Jack to finish. ‘Bowser does not have Courtney.’
‘Do not tell me that he has come over to your side!’ Jack was shocked at his own suggestion.
‘No. I have already spoken to him and he stated that it was his intention to go to London before Christmastide. His eyes are fixed upon a greater stage than we can offer him here in Newcastle. The wonder is that he has not done so before.’ Jack’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Southby and an uncomfortable thought started to form. ‘That is why,’ Thirsk continued, ‘I have no fears about Bowser. Without Acorn and Courtney, why should he carry on? He will begin to lose money, and that he will not tolerate. From the gossip on the quayside, I hear he has other problems too. One of his London-bound colliers was taken by a French privateer off Flamborough Head. That is the third this year. It will cost him a pretty penny to ransom it back.’
‘So you get back your theatre. Where does that leave the rest of us?’
‘That is why I want to speak to you.
I hear that you come from Edinburgh with a considerable reputation.’ That would make Digges laugh, thought Jack. Acorn’s pompous enthusiasm had created that mistaken impression – certainly it was not based on his acting since his arrival. ‘I need someone I can build a strong company of players around. It is you that I have in mind.’ Jack was astonished and flattered. ‘You and Miss Balmore, of course. The two of you would be most excellent together. I have great plans for the opening. Mr Charles Avison has promised to compose a piece for the concert we will give. Have you read his treatise, An Essay on Musical Expression?’
‘No, I seemed to have missed that one.’ The name of the town’s famous composer and St. Nicholas’ Church organist was unknown to Jack.
‘To tell the truth, so have I. Anyway, I think we will perform something very popular and boisterous. Gay’s Beggar’s Opera would be perfect.’ This brought back recent painful memories, but Jack was finding it difficult not to get caught up in Thirsk’s excitement. The ash from his pipe was flying everywhere as he waved his arms around. ‘You could play MacHeath. Can you sing?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Miss Balmore would make a most decorous Polly Peacham. We would invite the most important people in the town to see you. Two young, vibrant talents. Antony and Cleopatra, Dido and Aeneas. What a success you will be together!’
This was beginning to sound wonderful. Jack’s mind raced ahead. He saw them upon the stage, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, smiling at the audience, and adoringly at each other. Afterwards, the plaudits of the leading folk of the town, the invitations to fine entertainments, the balls where they would turn every head, and then the moments when they would be together in one another’s arms – the passion, the…
‘Miss Balmore has not agreed as yet,’ he heard Thirsk say, ‘but when she sees which way the wind blows, I am sure she will.’ This brought Jack’s flights of fancy winging swiftly down to earth. ‘Naturally, if you were the leading man in my theatre, I am sure your friend Mr Garrick would favour us with a visit to see how you were progressing.’
So that was it. His Garrick story must have reached Thirsk’s ears. And Thirsk wanted him to attract Garrick. All the flattery and leading man rubbish was just to smooth the path to his request. Not even Acorn had asked him outright if he could tempt the famous actor north. He could imagine Thirsk rushing off to his backers with the promise that the country’s most famous theatrical talent would perform in humble Newcastle. What a coup for Thirsk! What a moneymaker! What a let down when Garrick failed to appear.
Thirsk saw the doubt in Jack’s face and immediately misinterpreted it. ‘Of course, as my leading man you would be handsomely paid. I will match the sum that Acorn was paying Courtney.’ Still no response. ‘And I am sure Mr Carr and his associates would find you a fine house in which to reside.’
He was just as scheming as Digges, Acorn and all the rest. Was the offer conditional on producing Garrick? Jack thought it best not to ask directly in case the answer was ‘yes’. Yet a straight refusal would burn a very useful, short-term bridge. He would keep Thirsk waiting until the fate of the theatre was clearer. If he joined Thirsk, he would be well paid and he could prevaricate on the Garrick issue until it was time to head back to Edinburgh. Then he remembered bitterly that Edinburgh was no longer an alternative. That bastard Digges was never going to take advantage of him again. He would have to make his way in Newcastle or move on. But where to? At least he was wanted here, even if the motives were ulterior.
‘Sir, I thank you for your offer,’ said Jack as he raised himself from the settle. ‘You have given me much to ponder. However, you will appreciate it is not a matter that I would want to make a hasty decision over. I do have other irons heating gently in the fire. Only yesterday, I received a letter from Mr Digges imploring me to return to the New Concert Hall, for the actor who replaced me is not of the calibre expected by the sophisticated Edinburgh public. I have also considered London. Though I have much to learn, I am sure David Garrick will find me a position at Drury Lane.’
‘I well understand, Mr Flyford,’ Thirsk put in hurriedly. He could see his trump card being lost. ‘I will not press you for an immediate answer. However,’ and here Thirsk rummaged in his low-hung coat pocket, ‘maybe this will show how serious I am in obtaining your services.’ He produced a small leather pouch. The jangle was unmistakable. ‘Thirty guineas.’
‘For me?’ Jack said incredulously. That was more than Digges had paid him in two years!
‘Let us say it is gift from one friend to another.’ Jack had never been willingly given money before, except for Digges’ pathetic offering the day he fled Edinburgh. He didn’t know how to respond. ‘Go on, take it. There will be plenty more from whence that came.’
Gingerly, Jack took the pouch and self-consciously slipped it into his own pocket. He was so taken aback that he left without saying another word.
XIII
Jack chucked the pouch up in the air and caught it again with an exaggerated flourish. A bribe! He’d never been bribed before. He positively flew up The Side. Halfway up the hill, he danced into Van Schip’s, the Dutch tailor that Courtney was forever talking about, with a view to getting himself measured for a fine new set of clothes. As luck would have it, the tailor was bemoaning the fact that he had just completed an order comprising a beautiful sky-blue jacket with deep golden cuffs that almost reached up to the elbows, a fancy embroidered satin waistcoat, two shirts, a pleated white linen stock, and two pairs of knee breeches for a gentleman involved in the importation of oranges, whom, he had just heard, had inconsiderately got himself drowned off the Azores. And, what’s more, the items hadn’t even been paid for. Jack was more than happy to purchase the whole lot, even if the breeches were a little on the tight side. The tailor was relieved to have offloaded the garments, and Jack was relieved of a large portion of Thirsk’s money. Then he commissioned the cobbler two doors up to make him a pair of black shoes with fashionably large, square silver buckles. Now Catherine Balmore would have to take a man of such elegance seriously.
At the top of the bank, he rounded Amen Corner and before him stood the church of St. Nicholas, the main centre of worship in the town. The buildings here were less claustrophobic and the wintry sun found gaps to shine through. It was the first bright day since his arrival, and it matched his mood. He sat on the steps outside the church and watched the world go by until his backside grew cold. As he stood up, the church door opened and out stepped Tyler Courtney. Jack hadn’t taken him for a religious person. He was about to hail him and wish him good fortune for his London adventure when he stopped himself. Courtney was followed out by another man. They were in deep and, judging by the frown on Courtney’s face, troubled conversation. The other could not have been a greater contrast from the immaculately attired actor. The shaggy, matted hair, the rough clothes, the worn shoes. Glancing up, the man caught Jack staring at them. The face was bearded, the nose crooked, and where the left eye had been was an empty socket; it was as though it had been scooped out by a spoon. The examination he gave Jack couldn’t be described as friendly. Jack instinctively turned tail and hurried up the Groat Market. He wondered why Courtney was consorting with such a lowlife. It certainly wasn’t his wigmaker.
On approaching Acorn’s house, Jack saw Bowser standing on the bottom step inhaling a pinch of snuff. ‘How are you today, Mr Flyford? Is the weather not pleasant?’ He jauntily snapped the gleaming snuffbox shut.
‘Very,’ replied Jack. Considering his problems, Bowser was almost carefree.
‘I’ve been speaking with Miss Acorn. She seems to be bearing up well.’
‘She has shown remarkable fortitude and courage beyond her years.’
‘Quite so.’ Bowser carefully placed the snuffbox in his jacket pocket. ‘’Tis fortuitous that we come across each other as I wanted to speak with you.’
Forever prey to a guilty conscience, Jack’s mind immediately flew to all the things which he might have done to upset Bowser. Thirsk? Surely
, not even Bowser could have found that out yet.
‘’Tis about the theatre. I’ll get straight to the nub. I’ve pledged to keep the theatre out of Thirsk’s hands and I want the company to continue the season. I’m sure it will succeed, though I believe there was trouble at both the performances of Hamlet.’ Jack wished he didn’t blush so readily whenever his disasters were alluded to. ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to thus far will stay loyal. Certainly Mrs Trump, Southby and Whitlock. Miss Balmore, of course.’ That would be a blow to Thirsk’s plans. Thirsk’s offer was suddenly less appealing. ‘And Mr Courtney will make a fine actor-manager.’
‘But I thought he was going to London,’ Jack blurted out.
Bowser gave him a sharp glance. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Em…,’ Jack mumbled. ‘I cannot remember. I just assumed.’
‘Though I haven’t spoken to Courtney directly, I’m confident he’ll continue at the theatre here. I’ll make him an offer he cannot refuse.’ He paused, then explained. ‘My pockets are deep and he’ll be rewarded most royally. I hope you will stay also. Do so, and I’ll be more generous than Acorn.’ Jack could get used to being in such demand. ‘I know Acorn has not paid you yet.’ That wasn’t true, though Jack was hardly going to explain the circumstances in which Acorn gave him his money. ‘This’ll tide you over.’ For the second time that morning, a leather pouch of sweetly clinking coins was being thrust into his hands. This time he didn’t hesitate in accepting.
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 7