Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  ‘Courtney and Trump,’ Jack repeated to himself. ‘Did you see anyone else depart?’

  ‘Nah. Just you four… an’ the manager.’

  ‘What about Miss Balmore?’

  ‘Her wi’ the big titties? She was too busy rubbin’ ’em up against her dandy soldier fella.’

  ‘That is no way to talk about…’ Jack checked himself. He was furious at Tunkle’s lecherous tone yet thrilled that his precious Catherine had been proved innocent. Captain Hogg was there. Now he could allay Bessie’s ridiculous suspicions.

  ‘Tunkle, you must not breathe a word about our conversation to anyone.’ Tunkle held up his fist and rattled the coins. That was no guarantee. Jack was sure he would be back for more when the money ran out. He only prayed it was enough to keep Tunkle’s mouth shut while he was still in Newcastle.

  XVII

  Jack held the looking glass straight out in front of him. Then at various angles. He was pleased with the effect. Sky blue definitely suited him. He was sure the golden “round cuffs” would cause a pang of jealousy in Tyler Courtney, especially as the waistcoat gave his figure such shapely lines. Less stout, to be more exact. He shook his left wrist to give the ruffles an airing. They made his hands less stubby and awkward. He tipped the glass until his shoes came into view. The leather shone and the silver buckles positively dazzled. Once again he held the glass to his face. Did he need a wig? Yes, he should have thought of that, though he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of having his head shaved. But he had always hankered after one of the popular bag wigs; he especially liked the ones with the large, slightly curving roll of hair at each side. Never mind; Catherine would surely like what she saw – a man of sophistication. So would Bessie. She would be easily impressed. He laid down the glass on the table, straightened the pleated stock at his neck, fluffed out the extravagant lace ruffles of his shirt like plumage, checked his breeches were buttoned at the knee, then inelegantly tugged at his crotch – here, they were a trifle tight. At least the ladies would have something else to stare at.

  Jack searched the house for Bessie. To his surprise, he found her in the parlour sitting next to a large wooden chest in the corner.

  ‘Miss Acorn, what do you think?’ He twirled around, then gave a graceful bow in the manner Digges had taught him – low and expansive. Bessie stared blankly and said nothing.

  ‘Bessie, do you like my new clothes? Nothing but the best. They are from Van Schip’s.’

  ‘Most fine.’ The monotone reply vexed Jack. Why this show of indifference when she should be admiring his finery? If it wasn’t going to impress Bessie, then what chance Catherine? Then he noticed the chest was open.

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I have been looking for something in my father’s chest; I noticed the key was in the lock. He must have opened it the night he died.’

  Jack could see the chest was full of papers and documents. ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘A wooden box with a rounded top. Not very big.’

  ‘You have found it?’

  ‘No, it is gone.’ She agitatedly plucked at her skirt.

  ‘Did it contain anything important?’

  ‘Yes, important to my father.’

  ‘Maybe he put it in another place. At the theatre perhaps,’ he suggested helpfully.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘He always kept it in a secret compartment in his chest, which has travelled with us everywhere. Both the chest and the box were always locked. He was most particular on the matter.’

  ‘Are you thinking that whoever killed your father might have taken the box also?’ Her eyes answered his question. ‘Was there something in the box that was worth killing for?’

  Her reply was almost too quiet to be audible. ‘For one man possibly.’

  ‘Did you say “man”?’

  Bessie took the handkerchief she had been clutching in her lap and dabbed the corner of her eye. ‘There was a letter in the box that was most precious to…’ She was finding it difficult saying the name. ‘…Tyler Courtney.’

  ‘Ah, so is it this letter that gave your father a hold over him?’ Jack needed no reply. ‘Have you seen the contents?’

  ‘Yes. Without my father’s knowledge, of course. He always kept the key about his neck, but when he was ill once, it somehow fell into my possession.’

  ‘And the key just happened to slip into the lock! So tell me about the letter.’

  She started reluctantly. ‘It was written many years ago when father and Courtney were young actors together in Portsmouth. The writer of the letter was a young lady. She and Courtney were obviously very much in love. The letter was most indiscreet.’

  ‘Surely it is of no consequence now?’

  ‘The lady has married well. She is now Lady Lammondale.’

  The name was familiar to Jack, though in what connection he couldn’t remember. Bessie enlightened him.

  ‘Lady Lammondale is a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen. Can you imagine the scandal such a letter would cause? Her propriety called into question. And to have committed an indiscretion with a common play-actor. It would ruin her.’

  ‘Courtney must have loved her very deeply to avoid exposing her, even though it thwarted his ambitions.’

  Bessie stood up and walked over to the narrow window. Rivulets of condensation meandered down the thick glass. She let her finger follow the path of one of them before absently outlining the letters TC.

  ‘Many have wondered why Tyler Courtney has stayed with father so long. Now, with him dead and the letter gone, Courtney is as free as a bird. Yet, strangely, he has not flown south for the winter.’

  The letters on the glass were disfigured by fresh streams of water. Bessie didn’t take her eyes off the window pane.

  ‘I fear that he may be our murderer,’ said Jack as gently as he could. ‘I have discovered this morning that Courtney was not at the theatre when your father was killed.’

  Another thought occurred to Jack. What if Courtney had got someone else to commit the murder? He found it difficult to see the actor bashing anybody over the head with anything heavier than one of his lace handkerchiefs. That could explain Courtney’s extraordinary companion outside St. Nicholas’ Church. Now there was a man who wouldn’t lose any sleep over the odd bit of butchery.

  ‘Was Courtney the only one to leave the theatre?’ asked Bessie, who had now returned to the warmth of the fire.

  ‘No. Mrs Trump and Mr Southby were absent also.’

  A gleam of hope sprang into her eyes. ‘So it could still be one of those two.’

  ‘We cannot discount them.’

  ‘And Balmore?’

  ‘She was with Captain Hogg.’

  Bessie shrugged disappointedly. ‘What shall we do next?’

  ‘We will need to discover more before we go to Sheriff Ridley. I will make further enquiry as to Courtney’s whereabouts. Mrs Trump’s and Southby’s also. In fact, I go now to meet with Southby at the Queen’s Head. I will try to ascertain what his movements were.’

  ‘When you return, you will come to my chamber?’

  Jack smiled. ‘Of course. In these dangerous times, a lady needs protection.’

  He opened the door. ‘They will not impress her.’ He swung round. ‘The clothes. She only has eyes for rank.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack said defensively.

  ‘Your fine clothes will be wasted on Balmore.’

  ‘They were not bought for that purpose.’ The denial was too emphatic.

  ‘Then for what? I am astounded that you have the resources to purchase such garments. You arrived at our door with very little. And my father wouldn’t have given you more than what was needed to quit Newcastle.’

  ‘No, that’s true. It was… West Digges. West Digges dispatched money that he owed me, which I received three days since. And Bowser. I told you he gave me money also.’

  He could see she was sceptical, though she pressed the point no further. It was half true. She
would never forgive him if she found out that he had taken Thirsk’s thirty pieces of silver.

  XVIII

  He was there. The others were undoubtedly there, yet they appeared to inhabit another country. Their words sounded as though they were wrapped in thick woollen garments. His lines rushed around his head. He opened his parched mouth, the lips moved and they seemed to hear what he said, though he could not. He promised God that never again would he drink in Southby’s company. This time his decision was irrevocable.

  Jack’s head was still ringing from Bessie’s brusque interrogation of him an hour before. It hadn’t been easy, bent over a wooden bucket in which he had deposited most of last night’s drink.

  ‘So where was Southby that night?’

  A good question, and one that he had asked Southby in a more roundabout way after their fifth tankard. The only problem was that he couldn’t remember the answer, though he was positive one was given. He may have even enquired about Mrs Trump and Courtney. Whether Southby had enlightened him, he would never be sure, though, quite sensibly he thought, he had assured Bessie between vomits that once his head cleared he would remember the vital details. Bessie thought otherwise and stormed out of his bedchamber, slamming the door as she left. It had been like a crash of thunder booming in his brain.

  The interminable morning rehearsal ended, and not wanting to face Bessie’s wrath once more, Jack had remained at the theatre when the others had gone, curled up in one of the spectator boxes on the side of the stage, and had slipped into a heavy, dream-tormented sleep. He was woken by loud voices. For a few moments he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he saw Courtney leaning over the front of the box.

  ‘We would be most grateful, Mr Flyford, if you could spare us a few moments of your precious time to join the company.’

  The afternoon rehearsal was under way. Angel Bright took great delight in telling him that he had only been discovered when he had started to snore like an agitated pig. Jack was mortified that Catherine Balmore had heard him making such unedifying sounds. It would confirm her belief that he was nothing more than a common drunkard, especially following his drink-induced lunge at her magnificent chest. Ashamed, he felt he needed to change her false impression of him before it was cast in stone.

  Jack got his chance sooner than he had dared hope. At the end of the rehearsal, Courtney took him to one side and offered a few suggestions as to how he should play Slap. Fortunately, considering his condition, he only appeared in three short scenes; Courtney had quickly judged Jack’s meagre capabilities. On going to the dressing room, he found it deserted, with the exception of Catherine Balmore. His heart kicked wildly against his chest, followed by such a gut-wrenching attack of nerves that he was about to flee the room. Then Catherine smiled. It transfixed him.

  ‘I trust that you are recovered from your excursions of yesternight? You have not looked yourself today.’

  Jack had to lick his crusty lips before he could reply. ‘I am trying to tell my head that I am mending. Sadly, it does not agree.’

  Catherine tossed her dark, ringleted hair as she laughed. ‘If you are to drink, you should choose your companions more carefully. Mr Southby has a formidable capacity for ale.’

  ‘And much else besides. I must tell you, Miss Balmore, that I do not make a habit of strong drink.’ She raised an amused eyebrow. He panicked. She didn’t believe him. ‘Truly. The only reason I was with Mr Southby was to gain information from him.’

  ‘Information?’ she said with a quizzical grin.

  ‘Yes.’ He was not sure whether he should go on. Then again, this could be a golden opportunity to gain her confidence. Impart his knowledge, and they would be bound together by a shared secret. It would also provide him with a ready excuse to see her alone in the future.

  ‘Miss Balmore, can I trust you?’

  Her eyes twinkled with delight. ‘I am sure you can. Is it about unrequited love or some awful episode from your past?’

  ‘No, Miss Balmore, it is a far more serious matter.’ He stopped for effect. He then made a great play of making sure that no one was listening at the door. ‘The matter of which I speak is the murder of Mr Acorn.’

  Her smile was as quickly extinguished as a blown-out candle. Jack realised that the subject must be painful to her. ‘If you possess pertinent information, is it not a matter for the sheriff?’

  ‘It is not as simple as that. I need someone I can confide in. I am sure that I can in you, Miss Balmore.’

  ‘I am most flattered. If you think it will help, I will listen – and keep your secret.’ Jack was beginning to enjoy the situation.

  How best to proceed? ‘I had cause,’ he began tentatively, ‘to go back to Mr Acorn’s house after he had had his battle with Thirsk here at the theatre.’ He wasn’t going to divulge the reason to Catherine. He didn’t want to further ruin her already blemished view of him. ‘I was in an upstairs room when I heard Mr Acorn enter the house. He was not alone.’

  ‘You know who was with him?’

  ‘No. Though I have my suspicions.’ Jack sat down. The effort of standing and thinking at the same time was proving too much. ‘I heard someone leave. Then Miss Acorn, who was in another room… not the room I was in, you understand,’ he blustered, ‘went down the stairs. She found her father dead upon the floor. Her cries alerted me and I ran down to see what the trouble was.’

  ‘So what you are saying is that you were in the house when Mr Acorn was done to death.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you told the sheriff this?’

  He glanced uneasily at his feet. ‘No.’

  ‘Is this wise? Would it not be best to lay the facts before him?’ Jack was suddenly aware that Catherine’s hand was upon his knee. He realised the gesture was not flirtatious, more one of intimate concern. Her eyes caught his, and he knew how easy it would be to tell her everything.

  ‘The truth is, I have not confessed to the sheriff for fear that he points the finger of suspicion in my direction. I think he already believes I am guilty of the crime, or have some connection with it. If he knew I was in the house at the time, it would look black for me. Fortunately, he cannot prove it and will have difficulty doing so. I got Miss Acorn to say that the murder took place half an hour later than it actually did. That was to enable me to say that I was at the theatre at the time.’

  ‘You seem to have thought most quickly.’

  Jack took this as a compliment. ‘Aye. It also meant that Miss Acorn was not compromised.’ Here Jack turned away. ‘People might have misconstrued the situation – her and myself alone in the house.’

  ‘In separate rooms.’

  ‘Yes, as I have said.’

  ‘And there were no servants in the house?’

  ‘The cook had finished and gone home, and the maid had been given the evening off.’

  Catherine’s hand returned to her lap. ‘I appreciate your predicament,’ she said kindly. At least he was worming his way into her sympathies. Seated so close, Jack found her rose-petal scent intoxicating. Despite the numbness incurred by last night’s drink, his head was becoming frothily light.

  Jack decided to play his “honourable” card. ‘I asked Miss Acorn to lie on my behalf. Therefore, I feel it my duty to her to help catch the villain who killed a man I much admired and who gave me food, shelter and a theatre to play in. Miss Acorn has tried to dissuade me from this potentially dangerous quest. However, whatever the personal cost, I see it as a challenge from which I cannot waver. A terrible wrong has been perpetrated. I intend to right it.’

  ‘Fine words, Mr Flyford. I applaud you for your spirit.’

  Jack heard his heart thump once more. Had he struck a chord? In his excitement, he held her arm. ‘And I believe I know who is behind the murder.’ Realising he was touching her, he immediately let go.

  ‘Dare I ask who this person might be? Many think it must be Mr Thirsk.’

  ‘I thought so at first. Now I am sure it is not. I believe it is one
of our troupe.’

  ‘Surely not!’ This appeared an appalling suggestion.

  ‘I examined those with reasons to harm Mr Acorn. The names I came up with were Mrs Trump, Mr Southby and…,’ he paused for a moment, ‘Mr Courtney.’

  ‘Mr Courtney? That I cannot possibly believe.’

  Catherine was so innocent in many ways, thought Jack pleasantly. So trusting.

  ‘I am sorry to report that all three had cause to see the back of Mr Acorn. All three were also absent from the theatre at the time of the murder.’

  ‘I must admit, I do not remember seeing any of them, though I was engaged in conversation with Captain Hogg at the time.’

  ‘I know,’ Jack blurted out.

  ‘Ah,’ she said teasingly, ‘you were investigating my movements also.’

  Jack was flustered. ‘Of course not. How could anyone suspect you, Miss Balmore?’

  ‘When we are not in company, you may address me as Catherine.’

  He gulped. ‘Miss Bal… Catherine.’ The name sounded so beautiful when spoken aloud. A delicious tingle ran up his spine. ‘I only know because someone remarked that they had seen you with the captain.’

  ‘So what makes you think our three fellow-players are potential murderers?’

  Jack outlined his case against each one. Catherine listened intently until he had finished. ‘The story about Courtney’s letter has the ring of truth about it. I had a feeling all was not well betwixt them. If the letter is missing, only he would have reason to take it.’

  ‘That is the nub. You see the argument so clearly… Catherine.’

  ‘I also see that you must move carefully. If Courtney has killed once to protect his name, he may do so again if he thinks he is about to be unmasked.’

  That was an unnerving thought. He hadn’t been keen to take on this ridiculous task in the first place. Now his life might be in danger. That bloody girl Bessie, he cursed to himself.

  ‘If death awaits me, so be it. I must not flinch.’ He could see Catherine was impressed.

  ‘You will need all your courage, Jack.’ She had called him Jack! She had actually spoken his name. This was indeed a fortuitous meeting. A day never to be forgotten.