‘Talking to you has given me courage.’ Staring into those wide blue eyes, she really did make him feel brave.
‘Have you told anyone else of your suspicions?’
‘Only Miss Acorn.’
‘Though I am no authority on such matters, I think it would be advisable to keep your own counsel until you have gathered enough evidence to go to the sheriff.’
‘Catherine, your advice is sound. However, you can do me a service. If you hear or see anything that will help build my case, will you tell me?’
‘You may depend upon it.’ Catherine stood abruptly. ‘Now I must be gone, for I think the time must be late. It is almost dark in here.’ She laid a soft, cool hand upon his cheek. ‘Jack, take care. Trust no one.’
Was he in heaven?
XIX
‘Your most obedient servant, sir: I have not the honour of knowing you, sir.’
‘I believe you do not, sir; I ask your pardon, but I have a small writ against you.’
‘A writ against me!’
‘Don’t be uneasy, sir; it is only a trifle, sir; about two hundred pounds.’
‘What must I do, sir?’
‘Oh, sir! whatever you please; only pay the money, or give the bail, which you please.’
‘I can do neither of them this instant, and I expect company every minute. I suppose, sir, you’ll take my word till tomorrow morning?’
‘Oh, yes, sir: with all my heart. If you will be so good as to step to my house hard by, you shall be extremely well us’d, and I’ll take your word.’
‘Your house! ’sdeath, you rascal!’
‘Nay, sir, ’tis in vain to bully.’
‘Nay, then? – who’s there – my servants.’ Angel Bright and Septimus Spong entered on cue. Courtney as Valentine carried on: ‘Here, kick this fellow down the stairs.’
‘This is a rescue, remember that – a rescue sir: I’ll have the Lord Chief Justice’s warrant,’ shouted Jack in his role as Slap.
Jack was grabbed by Bright and Spong and hustled off amid loud cries of anguish and much exaggerated pulling and shoving. Courtney smacked his lips in annoyance. ‘Please, Mr Flyford, you overdo your exit. You will amuse the audience a great deal more if you protest a little less.’
Jack was pricked by the criticism. He thought he had given a particularly funny performance. What right had this man to belittle him in front of the other actors and the orchestra? This man who was never out of his thoughts because Jack was convinced he was the murderer.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said, sarcasm in his voice, ‘I’ll follow your instructions to the letter!’ Courtney flinched and stared hard at Jack while those around looked embarrassed. Jack immediately cursed himself for a fool. Had he unwittingly alerted Courtney to the fact that he knew about the missing correspondence from Lady Lammondale?
Courtney quickly regained his composure. ‘Miss Balmore, ’tis your scene next. Orchestra! Let us try and get the right notes for Spring’s a-coming this time.’
Jack slunk away to the passage outside the dressing room. He damned his pride and his over-eager tongue. Would Courtney realise that he suspected him? And what would he do if he did? The possible consequences of his faux pas were just too awful to contemplate.
It was a greatly troubled Jack who made his way down to the quayside. The first performance of The Intriguing Chambermaid the following night was the last thing on his mind. He drank some rough whisky in a gloomy tavern in the shadow of the section of town wall which ran along the edge of the quay, cutting off the harbour from the houses. The drink did not fortify his courage. He was getting himself too deeply into a matter that was no concern of his. Let the obnoxious Sheriff Ridley find the murderer. Bessie had no right to involve him. But however much he blustered to himself, his arguments rang hollow.
He pushed his way onto the street and wandered aimlessly in the dark. Light pierced the night from several windows and there were boisterous noises from the crowded taverns, but few people were wandering abroad. Not even the whores had ventured to their usual places of business up the chares, the narrow lanes that ran directly up from the waterfront. The icy north-eastern cold had returned.
Jack found himself walking slowly back up the hill. The street was quiet. He didn’t recognise it. The shapes of substantial houses loomed above him. Originally, they had been the homes of wealthy merchants who had long since moved up to the higher, more respectable parts of town. What was that? Were those footsteps he heard behind? He swung round. No. Yet there was no denying the prickles that danced warningly up his spine and into the base of his neck. He strode a few steps further. Now he was sure he wasn’t alone. He made out two figures standing in his way. Footpads? They were motionless. Jack checked himself. He tried to quell his rising panic. There must be an innocent explanation. He swivelled round. Two more dark figures appeared, cutting off his exit down the bank. They were certainly not here to protect him. Jack desperately glanced about him for a way out. Then, from the shadows, a low, menacing voice called out: ‘Get him now an’ dee it quick!’
Jack rushed down the hill and tried to burst through his faceless assailants. Strong arms clamped him, and then fists, knees and feet rained viciously in on his increasingly defenceless body. Before he blacked out, a streak of moonlight caught a face in a doorway. Then it was gone.
XX
Every movement made him wince. Every part of his body screamed out for the pain to be relieved. It was difficult to focus; he couldn’t see out of one eye at all. At first he did not know where he was, then he remembered. He was in the grand new infirmary that had been built just beyond the western wall of the town. The dour young Scots doctor had told him that. A young boy had apparently found him bleeding in the gutter in, ironically, Love Lane. Lucky to be alive was the doctor’s considered opinion. Shouldn’t mix with such bad sorts was the doctor’s unasked-for advice.
Jack turned his head. The stab of pain told him that wasn’t a good idea. The large, sparse walls gave the room an airy, if dismal, feel. The other inmates, in two long rows of rough wooden beds, spent their time either groaning or making no noise at all. One of them had been so quiet for so long that it was no surprise when his rigid body was carted out of the room.
The young doctor breezed in through the door and made straight for Jack’s bed. The permanent, disapproving glumness had vanished. He was positively beaming. ‘Flyford, I have a visitor for you.’ And with what passed as a wink, he added, ‘She’s a lady.’ Bessie, thank goodness, thought Jack. It will be good to see her again.
The aches that racked his battered body melted away when Catherine Balmore glided through the door. The beautiful, pale face screwed up in horror when she saw Jack’s badly beaten features. ‘Oh, Jack, how awful!’
‘He will mend soon enough, madam,’ put in the doctor, who still hovered near the bed.
‘That is good news. At first, I heard that you were dead, Jack.’
‘It was what…’ Jack couldn’t continue. It was too difficult to speak through his swollen lips.
‘I think it is best if he does not speak, dear lady.’ I wish that doctor would sling his hook, Jack thought irritably. ‘What the young man needs is rest.’
No I don’t, Jack protested mutely. I want Catherine to sit here for ever; talk to me, touch me, let her soft hands soothe my broken body.
‘Of course, doctor. I must not tire poor Jack.’ She leant down and kissed his forehead gently. ‘The others at the theatre were most concerned about you, especially Mr Southby. Mr Spong took your part in the play, which has been a great success and will run for an extra two performances. Mr Courtney is most…’ Catherine hesitated and looked at Jack and instantly knew what was going through his mind at the mention of that name. ‘He is most pleased,’ she finished quietly.
Jack was left remembering the parting, sympathetic smile while the doctor over-attentively ushered Catherine out of the ward. Suddenly, he was aware that the room was totally silent. Turning his head ever so sl
owly, he saw two rows of faces staring at him, many with envious grins. Jack lay back with a contented smirk and relived the kiss before falling asleep.
His next visitor, the following day, was Bessie. She was not happy to hear, via the doctor, that Catherine Balmore had already been to see him. Bessie’s manner was cool. She told Jack that she had been twice before when he had been unconscious, and had sat at his bedside. Yet it was that strumpet Balmore, who had shown little interest in his wellbeing before, who was the first to speak to him. Jack was annoyed at Bessie’s constant sniping at Catherine. Now he was too tired to put up any defence, and his mouth still hurt when he spoke. But he was still glad to see Bessie, and when she had got Catherine out of her system, she showed touching concern. He liked the thought of her sitting by his bed while his body fought for its life – an angel of mercy. As she said her farewells, she bent over and kissed him on his forehead as Catherine had done. Her breasts wavered close to his face. Though he hadn’t the strength to do so, Jack felt the urge to grab them. He knew he must be recovering.
A week later, he was well enough to return to Acorn’s house, just in time for Christmas. During that week, Bessie had come every day. Angel Bright, Septimus Spong and Mr Southby had also paid visits. Significantly, thought Jack, Courtney had not. Sadly, Catherine Balmore had not come again. Little wonder the doctor had returned to his usual morose self by the time Jack climbed gingerly into the hired carriage to take him back to Bessie.
There was time for one more parting lecture. Bad company, strong drink and low women must be avoided. Regular prayer and attendance at church – as long as it wasn’t too “High” – would lead him down the path to righteousness. Jack thanked him and promised he would try his best, though, he added with a straight face, it might be difficult to keep his hands off Miss Balmore’s two most obvious charms. The doctor’s face lit up like a beacon and he hurried off in embarrassed confusion.
XXI
It was a crisp, cold Christmas morning. The bells of the churches rang out. The streets were full of excited, drunken revellers. Happy faces could be seen everywhere. However, it wasn’t the birth of Jesus that was the cause of this explosion of goodwill; it was the news of another defeat of the enemy. Word of the Prussians’ victory over the Austrians at Leuthen in early December had reached the town. Everybody was feeling that little bit safer. From some of the more jingoistic shouts, one would have thought the war was over.
Bessie sat Jack in her father’s chair after placing the poker in the blazing fire, and ordered Hilda to fetch some wine for mulling. ‘And mind you spice it well.’ Only a sharp threat from Bessie galvanised the sulky girl. She wanted to be out celebrating with the rest of the town.
As Bessie left the room, Jack sat back and gazed into the flames as they leapt up the blackened chimney-back. Strangely, he felt he had come home. This was the nearest he had had to one since leaving Worcester. And it was only his sister who had made the canon’s large house feel like a home. He thought of Rachel now and her wasted life. He must get round to writing to her. She would be at the cathedral this morning watching their father assisting the bishop. He found he missed the cathedral with its reassuring sense of permanence. He remembered how, as a youngster, each Christmas he would go to the tomb of King John and forgive him for being a “bad” monarch. Now he thought that John was probably no worse than any of the others. The present George didn’t exactly sound like a barrel of laughs.
Bessie returned. She had something hidden behind her back. A girlish grin showed her excitement. ‘As this is Christmastide, I thought I would buy you a gift. I thought this would be a good thing to go with your extravagant clothes.’ With a dramatic flourish, she whisked out a wig. It was a “major” wig, one generally worn by the military. There was a centre parting like the old bob wigs and two corkscrew curls tied together at the nape of the neck, forming a double queue behind. Jack tried to smile. It was horrible. He knew instinctively it would accentuate the fatness of his face.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ Jack protested.
‘ I think ’twill be most becoming.’
‘Most,’ Jack added feebly.
The smile on Bessie’s face withered in disappointment. ‘Oh, Jack, do you not like it?’ She was almost pleading.
‘Bessie, it is a truly wonderful present.’ This reassured her. The broad smile returned. ‘You are the most thoughtful and generous of women.’
‘Let me put it on you.’ Which is what she did. She stepped back, reached forward to adjust it until she was satisfied, and then retreated two paces. ‘It makes you appear most pleasing.’
Hilda barged in carrying a tray with two mugs and a jug of wine. Bessie did not turn round as the girl grumpily put the tray down with a thump on the table. Jack noticed Hilda snigger when she spotted the new wig. ‘Is that all, miss?’
‘That is all, Hilda. You may go and see your relatives now.’ Bessie glanced round. ‘And what is so funny?’
Hilda bit her hand and managed to mumble, ‘Nowt.’
‘Well, be gone.’ And a moment later, she added, as though she were some years senior to Hilda, which was not the case, ‘Strange girl.’
Bloody meddlesome too, thought Jack as he remembered it was Hilda who had passed his Digges letter to Acorn, an action that had triggered off the events that nearly led to his death. And she had no right to laugh at him. But it only confirmed the fact that the wig appeared ludicrous. However, he couldn’t bring himself to upset Bessie, so he would humour her and surreptitiously lose it later.
Bessie took the poker out of the fire and let it fizz in the jug of wine until she was satisfied that the liquid was warm enough. Then she poured each of them a mug. The concoction felt rough and spicy to the throat, but once its warmth had spread through his body, Jack relaxed and even forgot he was wearing the wig.
‘Right,’ said Bessie in her best no-nonsense manner. ‘I did not want to speak of it in the Infirmary for fear of being overheard, but I want to know how you ended up in such an awful state.’
So Jack related the tale up to the point where he was attacked.
‘You said you saw the face of a man standing in the shadows.’
‘Yes. It was fleeting, but you do not easily forget a face like that.’
Bessie was sitting up in anticipation. ‘Well?’
‘It was the man I saw conversing with Courtney shortly after your father’s funeral. One eye. Evil looking bastard… sorry; forgive my strong language.’
Bessie was far from shocked. Conversely, she seemed momentarily distracted.
‘When I blurted out the word “letter” to Courtney at the rehearsal, it must have alerted him to the fact that I suspected him to be your father’s murderer. He then gets his filthy ruffians to follow me and, presumably, I was meant to be killed. Bessie, are you listening?’
‘I beg your pardon. It is just your wig…’
‘I am talking about people trying to kill me and you are worried about my wig! Does it appear ridiculous?’ said Jack as he hesitantly raised his hand to remove the offending object.
‘Please do not, I implore you. It is… so striking. It makes you so… so desirable,’ she purred.
Jack reluctantly withdrew his hand. ‘Bessie, can we get back to talking about Courtney? And I would be grateful if you would stop staring at this mop of false hair. It is most off-putting.’
Bessie had the grace to blush slightly. ‘So you believe that Courtney and this man are in league?’
‘I would have thought that it was obvious. Is it not curious that Courtney failed to pay a visit to the Infirmary? If he is innocent, surely he would have come to see how one of his leading performers was faring.’
‘Leading performers?’ Bessie put in with a mischievous grin.
‘Very well, one of his performers. The least he could have done was to check whether his cutthroats had done a decent job and ascertain whether I was going to die or not.’
‘So he is guilty for not visiting you and equall
y guilty if he had! As it happens, he did enquire.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr Courtney came round here the week past and asked after your health.’
‘The insolent…’
‘He seemed most concerned about your welfare. He was even wondering when you would be able to resume with the company. Plays need to be planned.’
‘Do you not see? It was an excuse to find out what condition I was in.’
‘Jack, please calm yourself. I know that the evidence appears to be pointing in his direction.’ Her voice softened. ‘But I cannot bring myself to believe that he was responsible for my father’s death. He had ample cause, that I cannot discount. After all, it was I who supplied you with the motive. Yet, after speaking to him, I believe he is incapable of such an act.’
‘Bessie, he might not be capable of doing it himself, but his blackguards are. The man who organised my attack might have killed your father on Courtney’s instructions.’
Bessie slowly shook her head. ‘Despite everything, Tyler Courtney is innocent. Of that I am convinced.’
She was going soft in the head. Or did she find Courtney attractive? He was old enough to be her father! Jack felt a little stab of jealousy. ‘Was my health the only reason for his visit?’
Bessie hesitated. ‘No… not exactly.’ So, Courtney had been paying her court while Jack was lying helpless in the hospital. This was adding insult to his considerable injuries. ‘He asked me if I would like to join the company.’
‘I thought your father had always set his face against such a prospect.’
‘He did… when he was alive. I know he always wanted me to enjoy a higher station in life and he worked hard to achieve that. And I obeyed him and stayed away from the theatre as he wished. Yet acting is in my blood. My mother was an actress before she died. That is why I am seriously considering Courtney’s request.’
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 11