Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  Numerous names sprang to Jack’s mind that fulfilled the first criterion. The latter? As he had been in Newcastle such a short time, the list could be a lot longer than he could compile. ‘Bowser?’ he found himself speaking out a passing thought.

  Bessie gave him a withering look. ‘You really do dislike the man. What could he possibly gain by my father’s death?’

  Jack bent down and picked up his glass again. The glass was warm from the heat of the fire. ‘You.’

  For the first time since entering the room, Bessie smiled. Coy it may have been, but definitely a smile. ‘Jack, I do believe you are a touch jealous.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Distractedly, Jack twirled the wine around in his glass.

  ‘He would not have to commit murder to gain me. Knowing my father, the promise of my hand was probably brought into his negotiations over the theatre. Once my father had set his mind on something, he would not let the little matter of his daughter’s happiness stand in his way.’

  ‘I have to say, Bessie, that your father was not a man that was easy to like or hold in high esteem. If he treated your feelings in such a cavalier fashion, why do you set such store in finding his murderer?’

  ‘He was neither an honourable man nor a good one. Yet he was the only person in this world that I had to cling to. He could have abandoned me many years ago when my mother died. He may have used me, but he always clothed and fed me. Though occasionally I went on the stage as a child, he never wanted me to make it my life. I know he wanted me to have a higher station. The theatre, he said, would drag me down. And if he married me off, he would have made sure that my husband could keep me in comfortable circumstances. He may not have loved me, for I do not think that he was capable of such a deep-felt emotion, but he cared for me in his own way. That is all I asked of him. For that alone, I feel it is beholden to me to unmask his murderer. If I do not, no one will. But with your assistance, I will succeed.’ There she goes again, dragging me in, thought Jack unhappily.

  Jack sipped his wine. Strong and warm. He watched Bessie brush away an imaginary loose thread from her dress. ‘I think I understand.’

  The business-like Bessie returned. ‘I am fairly well acquainted with my father’s dealings and I can only think that his death is connected with the theatre. It has either to be a rival or one of his own company. So I ask again: who has most to gain? I would say Mr Crichton Thirsk has. Would you not agree?’

  This was an awkward question. Jack had immediately thought of Thirsk. Now, since his meeting with him, he wasn’t at all sure that Acorn’s chief antagonist had had anything to do with his death. He was certainly a cool customer if he had. But he couldn’t explain that to Bessie because it would lead him to confessing that he had met with Thirsk. ‘On the face of it, he has much to profit by your father’s death.’

  ‘Of course he has,’ Bessie put in impatiently. ‘With my father gone, he would assume that no one stood in his way. The theatre would be his once more.’

  ‘Bowser appears to be spiking his cannon.’

  ‘Thirsk was not to know that. I see it this way. He had a public brawl with my father. Father wins; Thirsk is angry and humiliated. He returns, follows my father home and does the deed.’

  ‘Why has he not been arrested?’

  ‘Ha!’ Bessie stood up. ‘Do you think his high and mighty friends would let him fall when he has rid them of an ally of Bowser’s?’

  Jack supped thoughtfully as Bessie paced about the room. ‘There is only one flaw in your argument, Bessie.’

  She stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘You yourself said that whoever was in this room with your father, he must have known them well. After their fight, would your father walk in here, calm as you please, with Thirsk? I saw the hatred in his face when Thirsk confronted him in the theatre less than an hour before. I am sure your father would not have allowed Thirsk over the threshold. Remember, there were no raised voices.’

  ‘Maybe Thirsk tricked my father into thinking he wanted to make peace. And then when his chance came…’

  ‘And another point: after such a recent fight, would your father have turned his back on Thirsk? No. Thirsk is unlikely to be our man, though on the surface he had more reason than anyone in this town. However, we can make sure by discovering where he was when the murder took place. I suspect we will find that he was at the Moot Hall. I also suspect that Sheriff Ridley has already discovered Thirsk’s whereabouts and that is why he has made no move against him.’

  ‘The sheriff does not know the real time of the murder.’

  ‘I know. Which is why I must endeavour to ascertain where he was.’

  ‘So, if it is not Thirsk?’

  ‘Was your father cuckolding a husband or did he owe money?’ asked Jack to see if there was another avenue that might have been overlooked. He was uncomfortable with the idea that it might be one of his fellow actors.

  Bessie shook her head. ‘No to the first and, courtesy of Bowser, no to the second also.’

  ‘Then it has to be someone at the theatre.’

  Bessie seated herself, her dress rustling against the elegantly turned chair legs. Both sat in silence and waited for the other to speak and cast the first stone. ‘The doxy Balmore?’

  Jack’s angry glance flattened that suggestion.

  ‘That awful Trump woman?’

  ‘You seem to think the worst of any lady of your father’s acquaintance.’ He found her attitude infuriating and unreasonable.

  ‘I have little reason to like her. She has shown me no affection over the years that she has shared my father’s bed. What he found in her to amuse him, I fail to understand.’ Jack could see, though he wasn’t going to enlighten Bessie.

  ‘Why should Mrs Trump do such a thing?’

  ‘She was with my father for some considerable time. His whore.’ Jack was shocked at her forthright speech. ‘Without him, she was nothing. Then along comes cooing, simpering Balmore. You must have seen Trump’s fits of jealousy. I have heard her rant against Balmore many times these past few weeks.’

  ‘So have I. She has made it plain to all what she thinks of Miss Balmore. And your father has not been civil to her. I overheard…’ He stopped himself.

  Bessie picked up on his words quickly. ‘Overheard what?’

  Reluctantly, he explained. ‘A few days before his death, I heard your father and Mrs Trump arguing in the dressing room. It left nothing to the imagination. The cause of the exchange was Miss Balmore.’

  ‘’Tis her then. Love can turn to hate very quickly. In a fit of jealousy, she kills him.’

  ‘I cannot believe Mrs Trump is capable of such an act.’ Surely a woman who could master so many arts of lovemaking could not commit murder, reasoned Jack. Yet in his mind, he could see the case against her. ‘But at the funeral, she was the one who was most outwardly affected by the occasion.’

  ‘She is an actress, for goodness sake!’ Bessie snorted. ‘That was either an act or remorse.’

  The talk of Mrs Trump also dragged another name into Jack’s head. ‘Maybe Mrs Trump did not do the murder, yet still she was the cause of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There is someone who is much enamoured of Mrs Trump. And I believe he was dismayed at the way your father was treating her. Mr Southby.’

  ‘That bloated windbag!’ Bessie’s habit of belittling everybody was really grating on Jack. ‘He would not have had the energy to lift a candlestick.’

  Jack felt a pang of guilt at even mentioning Southby’s name as he had grown fond of his boundless cheeriness. A more unlikely murderer it was hard to imagine, but Jack found it difficult to dismiss the look of anger in Southby’s eyes when he mentioned how Acorn had misused his “divine Mrs Trump”. Would it be enough to push him into murder? Jack left the uncomfortable question unanswered.

  Silence fell again. This time it was Jack who broke it. ‘There is one we have overlooked.’

  ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘
Courtney. Tyler Courtney.’

  ‘That I cannot imagine.’ Jack detected a defensiveness in Bessie’s tone. ‘Mr Courtney is an honourable man. How can you think such a thing?’ Bessie was now quite animated. ‘Besides, he was my father’s friend.’

  ‘That is not what I have heard.’

  ‘Well, you have been listening to malicious gossiping.’ She was agitated now.

  ‘All I heard was that your father had some hold over Mr Courtney. Something that bound Courtney to him. From their past.’

  ‘What thing is this?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘’Tis nonsense. You should not listen to such lies.’ Jack was taken aback by her vehemence. It was like his defence of Catherine Balmore. Could it be that Bessie held a candle for Courtney?

  ‘Why are you so adamant about Courtney? What does he mean to you?’ he added accusingly.

  Bessie looked away. ‘I have known him all my life. He has been as an uncle to me.’ She turned back defiantly. ‘That is why I know he would never harm my father or cause him any hurt.’

  Jack realised there was nothing to be gained by pursuing the matter. He could see that he had pierced her armour. Maybe it was her strong sense of loyalty that had been challenged. He rose, and from the table, he took the silver jug and poured himself some more wine.

  ‘Courtney has bid us gather at the theatre tomorrow. It appears that Bowser has persuaded him to stay.’

  ‘That is good.’ Was that relief in her voice?

  ‘I will use the occasion to make discreet enquiries. I need to ascertain who was – and, more importantly, who was not – at the theatre during that half hour. Those who were there we can discount. Those not…’

  Bessie gathered up skirts and came to him. She placed her hand on his. ‘Jack, I thank you. I know your heart is not in this task. I know that you are doing it for me.’ He managed a manly shrug. Her hand slipped around his neck and she pulled his face to hers. Enquiries could wait.

  XVI

  They were all there seated on the benches. Mrs Trump sat next to Miss Puce, of whom Jack had seen little as she was forever suffering from one ailment or another. The red blotches on a pallid, haunted face did little to spoil her looks for, in truth, she had little to spoil. Though Miss Puce was now in her early thirties, Mrs Trump took a motherly interest in her health, and their main topic of conversation was the merits or otherwise of various apothecaries’ remedies. Mr Southby took his place immediately behind the ladies. He was reckoning on a long meeting as he had taken the precaution of bringing in two tankards of ale. Further along, Mr Whitlock and Mr Thrapp sat in silence while Angel Bright and Septimus Spong chatted leerily to Catherine Balmore. Jack was vexed because he had wanted to sit next to Catherine himself. Instead, he slumped down beside Southby, who offered him some cheap snuff which he had no difficulty in refusing. The last member of the group, ten-year-old Tommy Morrell, was balancing on the end of the stage, swinging his legs back and forth. Tommy was used for all the juvenile roles, particularly young girls.

  Tyler Courtney made his entrance from the side of the stage. He held up an elegant, lace-cuffed hand and called for silence.

  ‘Thank you for coming. I will come directly to the point. You will be wondering what is to happen to the theatre – and to you – as a result of the death of Thomas Acorn. I am here to reassure you all that the theatre will continue for the rest of the season.’ This prompted murmurs of approval and relief. ‘What is more, I will take on the role of manager as well as remaining principal actor.’ This announcement was also greeted favourably. Mr Whitlock even clapped. So here is one person who has gained from Acorn’s death, thought Jack. The theatre was now Courtney’s, albeit in the gift of Lazarus Bowser, and with it double prestige. Strangely, as Courtney continued to talk about the next two productions and the work that needed to be done to ensure their success after the disastrous Hamlet, he did not seem to be exalting in his triumph. Could it be that his conscience was weighed down by guilt? And if it was not him, who? One thing Jack was sure of, the murderer was here in the theatre right now. Yet glancing around, he could not see in his mind’s eye any of the assembled company committing such a crime, though some had good cause to do so. He conceded to himself that he had not studied human behaviour long enough to know what drives a person to murder. Love? Hate? Jealousy? Survival? Greed? What emotion was responsible for Acorn’s death?

  ‘We will begin with Fielding’s The Intriguing Chambermaid as planned,’ he heard Courtney say. ‘Very well. We will gather here once again tomorrow morn at eight of the clock.’ Without further ado, Courtney left the stage. The speech had been so short and sharp that Southby hadn’t even finished off his first tankard. After a few moments of silence, several people spoke at once. Their delight was obvious. Courtney was respected, if not loved. Working with him would be infinitely preferable to Acorn, who was neither respected nor loved, save by Mrs Trump.

  ‘I think this calls for a celebration,’ laughed Southby, smacking an ample thigh and giving Jack an exaggerated wink. ‘Will you join me, young Jack?’

  ‘I will presently. However, first I have someone I must speak with. If you will excuse me.’

  Jack made sure he left by the front entrance. He didn’t want to alert the murderer. Once outside, he made his way round to the back of the building. Close to the rear entrance was a roughly built shed that leant against the rear wall of the theatre. It functioned as a store for wood, which was used for scenery and general repairs. This was where the truculent Tunkle could usually be found. Southby had described Tunkle as the “eyes and ears of the theatre”. Jack glanced around. No one was in sight.

  ‘What are you deein’ here? ’Twas your bloody silly idea nearly got us killed the other neet.’ He was lolling on a small pile of wood. A flagon of porter lay discarded at his feet. Cantankerous and drunk. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  ‘I have come to apologise for the other night. I hope your arm is better.’

  Tunkle focused his blurred attention on his arm. ‘It’ll bloody mend, no thanks to you.’

  ‘That is good.’ How to proceed? Jack wasn’t used to wheedling out information. He noticed an unopened flagon on the bench by the door. ‘Would you like another drink? Shall I pass you that flagon?’ Tunkle nodded and drank greedily without offering a drop to Jack. Jack sat down on the bench uninvited.

  ‘Sad about Mr Acorn.’ Tunkle didn’t offer an opinion. Instead, he took another long swig. ‘No one seems to have the slightest notion as to who might have committed the murder. What do people around the theatre think?’

  ‘How the devil should I know?’

  ‘From what I hear, you know everything that goes on.’

  ‘Mebbees.’ His indifference was frustrating. Jack quickly decided on another tack.

  ‘I hope you do, because you could help me win a wager.’ Tunkle said nothing, though Jack noticed a stirring of interest. ‘I have five guineas riding on you knowing something.’ Tunkle’s eyes widened perceptibly at the sum mentioned. ‘Now, if I won my wager, I would deem it only proper that there was a guinea in it for you.’

  ‘An’ who might you be havin’ the wager wi’?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that. You might give me a false answer and go to this man and get a guinea out of him – of my money.’ Jack wasn’t sure of the logic, but it seemed to convince Tunkle.

  He waved his flagon in Jack’s direction. ‘Gan on then, ask us.’

  ‘It is like this. I was arguing with this fellow that it would be easy to identify the murderer. You remember that night how Mr Acorn had his fight with Thirsk?’ Tunkle gave him a glazed, pitying look. ‘Acorn then paid for the audience to have drinks while the orchestra played. Now during that time, Acorn left the theatre. What I say is that whoever he left with is the person who killed him. My trouble is that I cannot find anyone who saw Acorn leave.’

  ‘I did.’

  Jack’s heart missed a beat. Slowly he said, ’Who was he with?’
r />   ‘’Fraid you lost your wager.’ Tunkle almost raised a laugh. ‘He was by hissel’.’

  This piece of information was undoubtedly a blow. Yet it had to be someone from the theatre, for there would hardly have been time for Acorn to run into anyone else that night. Had Tunkle given him a name, then he would have seen out his obligation to Bessie and could take his leave of Newcastle while he still had Thirsk’s and Bowser’s money. He was genuinely downcast.

  ‘It would seem that I am five guineas the poorer.’ Tunkle gave him an unpleasant smirk. ‘And you have lost a guinea also.’ The smirk vanished.

  Tunkle pressed his lips to the flagon. Jack rose. He had gleaned nothing. He took a step towards the door.

  ‘Course, he could’ve met someone ootside.’ Jack stopped. Tunkle’s eyes narrowed maliciously. ‘Could’ve met you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack said with some alarm.

  ‘You left in haste afore Acorn.’

  Jack was rooted to the spot. He felt a flush of fear envelop him. ‘I… I was urgently required elsewhere.’ It was as feeble as it sounded.

  ‘So sez you. Sheriff Ridley might think different, like.’

  This was nightmarish. He had got the distinct impression that Sheriff Ridley did not trust or like him. A word from Tunkle, and the trouble could be serious. Jack fumbled in his pocket and pulled out one of Thirsk’s guineas and offered it to Tunkle, who just stared at the open palm. Jack panicked and produced two more. This time, Tunkle accepted. He might have been full of drink, but his faculties were all there.

  ‘Mebbees I should try this wi’ the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘The ones that wasn’t there either.’

  ‘You mean I was not the only one who left during that interval?’

  ‘Course you wasn’t. The fat one. He ganned oot the back.’

  ‘Mr Southby?’

  ‘Him. An’ that high an’ mighty Mr Courtney. That Trump woman an’ all. She slipped oot straight after him.’

  ‘After Courtney?’

  ‘Nah, the deed one.’