Jack drank from his mug – the wine was going cold and the spices tasted bitter. ‘By all means consider the stage. What I do not countenance is you throwing in your lot with Courtney. Whatever your feelings for him, I will tell you now he is our murderer. That means my life is still in jeopardy – and for all I know, yours too.’ It suddenly struck him what he had said. He had just given himself an unpleasant jolt. Courtney, having failed once, would presumably get his henchman to have another go. Now he was out of the Infirmary, where there were numerous people wandering about, it could be done anywhere quiet. Even here in the house.
He realised that Bessie was saying something. ‘I had another visitor while you were in hospital.’
‘A visitor?’ Jack racked his brains as to who it could be.
‘Mr Thirsk.’
‘Thirsk? Why here?’
‘Why indeed! You point the finger at Courtney because he asked about your health. Well, I think Thirsk’s visit here was most suspicious.’
‘What reason did he give for calling?’ Jack asked guardedly.
‘That is what makes it all the more peculiar. He trumped up some ridiculous story about you having to pay him money back because you had broken your promise to join his horrible little theatre.’ Jack gave a muted groan of pain and held his side so he could divert his gaze from Bessie’s face. ‘I was most curt with him. I told him he should not tell such tales. I said you would never contemplate such a despicable course of action. I knew he only wanted to ascertain whether you were still alive.’
‘’Tis a strange story, certainly,’ Jack mumbled, once again feeling his side and making sure he made no contact with her eyes.
This time Bessie reacted. ‘Oh, Jack, are you still in distress?’ She came over to the chair and knelt before him. ‘And it is all my fault that you were attacked. ’Tis my doing that you are involved in this business. You are so brave, putting your life at risk for me.’
Jack gave a martyr’s shrug and patted her hair. To say anything would ruin the flow of her guilt and sympathy. Why shouldn’t he milk her approbation? He had been beaten black and blue on her behalf. She held his knees and gazed up at him through misty eyes. ‘I am so sorry. You will forgive me?’
A gracious nod did the trick, though he threw in a wince to confirm his suffering. She smiled with relief. Then her tone of voice completely changed. ‘Jack, that wig, it does… things to me.’ Her hand slid along his thigh until it reached the front of his breeches. Her fingers began to gently rub the material until she felt a reaction. ‘I think it is time for your other Christmas gift. So I do not cause you any pain, you just sit there and let me take care of everything.’ With that, she started to unbutton his breeches with nimble dexterity.
Maybe it wasn’t such a bad wig after all, decided Jack. He closed his eyes. ‘Bessie, be gentle with me.’
XXII
Over the next week, Jack’s recovery speeded up. The constant pain was replaced by a numb throbbing, which then receded to an occasional twinge. The puffiness of his face deflated until his features returned to their normal places. In fact, he felt right in body if not in mind. With little else to occupy him, the last week had given him time to reflect on the extraordinary events he had found himself caught up in. He was, of course, kept busy at night with the demands of Bessie, who now shared his bed (or to be exact, he shared hers) as they were virtually living as man and wife. Hilda, the maid, showed her obvious disapproval but said nothing, particularly after Bessie caught her in mid-gallop with the baker’s delivery boy in the pantry when the cook was out. Bessie herself had been most amorous, and each time they made love, she insisted Jack don his “major” wig. Jack couldn’t fathom the obsession, but was happy to oblige if only to get out of wearing the awful hairpiece outside the bedchamber. He had explained that he could never wear the wig in public because it would be a constant reminder of their frolics together and would, therefore, induce the hardening of his ardour. To his surprise, she believed him and accepted it without a murmur.
What troubled him was Courtney, whom, Jack began to imagine, was planning devious ways of murdering him. He hadn’t dared venture out for fear of being attacked. Even when hobbling round the house, he jumped at every creaking door or groaning floorboard. Yet he knew he must act before Courtney did. Bessie argued that he was wrong. Jack put it down to Bessie having a childhood crush on the handsome actor. Catherine would believe him. The thought of her brought pangs of sadness. He had not seen her for what seemed like a lifetime. Maybe Bessie was frightening her off.
After days of procrastination, Jack at last made the decision to go and see the odious Sheriff Ridley and place all he knew before him. As far as Jack was concerned, the evidence was building up against Mr Tyler Courtney: he wasn’t at the theatre at the time of the murder; he had a strong motive, the missing letter; and Jack’s reference to it had led to Courtney’s accomplices, the leader of whom he had seen with him, attempting to kill him. Even a nincompoop like Ridley could see that. He would seek an audience the very next day.
Courtney wasn’t the only person who was causing concern. Thirsk had once more called for his money, only to be sent away by a belligerent Bessie while Jack hid behind the parlour door. It was obvious that he was not going to give up. After the visit, Bessie was even more convinced of Thirsk’s guilt. Jack hadn’t the courage to disillusion her. He hoped fervently that Bessie would not insist they go to the sheriff together and accuse Thirsk. Then the truth would emerge. Virtually all his money (the remainder of Thirsk’s, and Bowser’s) had been stolen during the attack, so he couldn’t repay Thirsk even if he had wanted to. That was the last time he would carry large sums around with him – that’s if he ever got his hands on such an amount again.
Another vexation was the regular visits of Bowser, now a grizzled romantic. He brought Bessie gifts, paid her plodding compliments, and even refrained from taking snuff in her presence, though he would often bring out a beautiful snuffbox, always different, tap it and put it away. What most annoyed Jack was that Bessie did nothing to discourage him from returning. The opposite in fact. Her coy flirtatiousness only encouraged and emboldened him further. He was such a pig. No amount of money and fine clothes could cover up his ill manners, thought Jack snootily. Jack hated the thought that Bessie might pledge herself to this man for the rest of her life. He had now proposed twice. She deserved better. Not that Bowser was anything but pleasant to Jack. He was always enquiring as to his health. He fulminated against the vagabonds who set upon innocent people so that the streets were no longer safe. He said he would have words with the sheriff himself, not only about the attack on Jack, but also to see how the investigation into Acorn’s death was proceeding. He declared that it was a disgrace that no one had yet been arrested, especially as everyone in the town knew that it was the blackguard Thirsk. These opinions were expressed when Bessie was not in the room so as to spare her feelings. Jack described the one-eyed leader of the attackers on the off chance that Bowser knew this lowlife. After all, he must have mixed with many such people on his dubious way up to his present, elevated station. Bowser had narrowed his eyes thoughtfully before declaring that he did not know such a man, though he would put the word around. With that, he gave a conspiratorial wink and knowingly tapped his battered nose.
Bowser filled him in on the theatre. The Intriguing Chambermaid had been a roaring success. So was John Hume’s The Gentle Shepherd, which was on this week. He had heard that Thirsk was getting desperate, as few were attending the Moot Hall. His backers were running out of patience, Bowser said with undisguised relish. The field would soon be left open for Courtney and himself, he predicted confidently. ‘That’ll show Carr and his high-and-mighty acolytes not to try and get the better of Lazarus Bowser.’
Jack promised that two days hence he would return to the theatre, which seemed to please Bowser. Jack was torn. On the one hand, there was the threat from Courtney – though he was unlikely to try anything at the theatre himself – and o
n the other, the delightful prospect of seeing Catherine Balmore once more. He had come to the conclusion that he was fond of Bessie, but he was in love with Catherine. Even the unrequited kind had a certain romantic appeal.
If he was to return to the theatre the day after next (there was talk of rehearsals for A Comedy of Errors), he must seek out the sheriff.
XXIII
The room was cold and damp; the bench hard and unyielding. Not for the first time, Jack stood up, blew into his fingers to warm them, then wrapped his arms around his body. This he did gingerly so as not to hurt his healing ribs. He had been kept waiting for two hours and he was freezing.
When he was ushered into the room, he was met by a blazing fire, but not by Sheriff Ridley. The surly sheriff’s sergeant, Axwell, pointed to a chair at the other side of the large wooden table that served as his desk. The fire was on Axwell’s side of the table and little of the warmth reached Jack.
‘I had hoped to speak directly to Sheriff Ridley.’
Axwell remained seated, curled his mouth at one side and said unpleasantly, ‘You’ll have to speak to us instead, laddie.’ No “Mr Flyford”.
‘I do not think you understand. I have come to see the sheriff about the murder of Mr Acorn. I have vital information which I believe he must act upon immediately.’
The malevolent stare remained. Axwell’s dislike of Jack was as transparent as the sheriff’s. ‘Sheriff Ridley’s a busy man. Tell us what you know an’ I’ll decide whether he should be told.’
‘Look sergeant, it is of the utmost importance that I speak to the sheriff in person.’ Jack was becoming exasperated with this blockhead, whom he was sure would prove to be totally useless. ‘God, man, there is a life at stake!’
‘An’ whose life might that be then?’ Axwell said without enthusiasm.
‘Mine!’ Jack exploded.
Axwell pursed his thick lips and picked at a bulbous, unsightly mole above his right eyebrow. ‘Mebbees you’d better talk to us, for nobody else is gannin’ to listen, leastways the sheriff.’
So that was the choice – explain everything to this numbskull or run the risk of Courtney’s ruffians completing the job properly this time. Jack’s bowels told him it had to be the first option, however hopeless it seemed. So, as painstakingly as he could, in between theatrically blowing into his hands to indicate to the unsympathetic Axwell that he could do with some heat, he acquainted the sheriff’s sergeant with the facts as he saw them. Acorn had come in with someone he knew, the missing letter that gave a motive, Courtney absent from the theatre at the time of the murder, and then the attack on himself by an associate of Courtney’s. The evidence, Jack concluded triumphantly, was enough to put Courtney under lock and key until the Assizes.
Axwell didn’t speak for a full minute. Jack began to wonder whether he had even been listening. Then he said slowly, ‘So you don’t like Mr Courtney?’
‘What do you mean “like”? He has tried to have me killed. No, he is not one of my favourite people just at the moment.’
‘A number of folk have tried to get rid of us, but I don’t hold grudges.’ I’ll be the next on the list to try if he doesn’t shut up and do something sensible, thought Jack.
‘He’s a canny play-actor,’ carried on Axwell, oblivious to Jack’s infuriated scowl. ‘Seen him a few times mesel’ up there in the Bigg Market.’
‘I know he is a fine actor,’ Jack spluttered. ‘He is also a fine murderer, and that makes him dangerous. Do not let his mannequin looks deceive you. Now,’ and here Jack tried to keep calm, ‘are you going to get the sheriff to arrest him before you have to bury me alongside Acorn in St. Andrew’s churchyard?’
Axwell puckered his lips in a half smile. Jack’s hopes were raised, only to be immediately dashed. ‘Nah.’
‘No!’
‘That’s reet.’
This was too much. ‘I do not believe you are saying this after all I have told you. Why? Or is that too difficult a question for you to understand?’
Axwell let Jack’s insolence float over him. ‘For one simple reason, bonny lad.’ The endearment carried no warmth. ‘There’s a hole in your tale that’s as big as the Toon Moor. The time Miss Acorn sez the murder took place was near the half hour past eight o’clock. At that time, accordin’ to a great many witnesses, Mr Courtney was on the stage. I may not have your intelligence, but I find that difficult to explain. Until you supply us wi’ an answer, your story’s not worth an Aztec’s curse.’
‘Ah,’ said Jack. It was time to confess, and he could see by the nasty gleam in Axwell’s eyes that he would risk putting himself under suspicion. ‘There is a reason for that.’
‘An’ what might that be?’ Jack had the distinct impression he wasn’t going to receive a sympathetic hearing. However, he must continue to plough the furrow he had started.
‘Miss Acorn did not give you the correct time. The murder actually took place about half an hour earlier.’
‘So you’re sayin’ that Miss Acorn was lyin’ her pretty little heed off.’
Though Jack took exception to the “pretty little head” reference, he decided this was not the moment to make a fuss. ‘She did not tell the truth exactly. I must add that that was not her fault. I told her to give the incorrect time.’
The implication of this remark did not take long to sink in. ‘If you told her that, then you must’ve been there.’ Now Axwell was sitting up. He knew he was onto something at last. He had been frustrated by Ridley’s lack of effort in solving the case – it was plain that his superior had had no liking for Acorn. Ridley’s year in office as sheriff hadn’t too long to run, so the last thing he wanted was to get involved too deeply in an unpleasant murder. He would be glad to leave the problem to Edward Moseley, who would be sworn in as sheriff in the early months of 1758, and safely return to the council benches to wait his turn as mayor. He had quickly dismissed the business of the drowned woman in the Tyne as an accident, but Axwell hadn’t been so sure; and now a second body connected with the theatre made him think that maybe the dead actress hadn’t just fallen in the river. Unlike Ridley, Axwell was keen to find the murderer. His passage to sheriff’s sergeant had not been an easy one, and now he had achieved the position, he was ambitious enough to build on it. By catching the murderer of a figure in the public eye, he would establish for himself a reputation among the influential citizens of the town, unless – and here he had some nagging doubts – the murderer was one the people he was trying to impress (he knew Acorn had lost his popularity with his own paymasters). Personal pride also played a part. Though he had no crusading sense of justice, he did not like the thought that he was being outwitted, especially if it was by this lump of gibbering actor in front of him.
Like many, Axwell thought that Thirsk was the most obvious candidate. However, Ridley had warned him to steer clear of Thirsk for the moment. Thirsk had powerful friends who wanted him left alone – for as long as he remained useful. But Axwell had also harboured suspicions about Flyford. That first night, when Flyford had returned to Acorn’s house from the theatre, there had been something in his demeanour that had alerted him. Nothing solid, just a feeling. Now this young man was concocting a ridiculous story to throw suspicion onto a different party altogether. Surely he could have chosen a more believable suspect! Tyler Courtney was a popular man in the town. And from what Axwell had heard of Courtney, he was not the kind of person who would go around killing people; he had his doubts about whether Courtney would even have the strength to pick up a candlestick.
‘Yes,’ said Jack quietly. ‘I was there at the time of the murder.’
‘So you’ve come here to admit to the killin’ of Mr Thomas Acorn,’ Axwell said in a formal tone as though he were actually charging him.
‘Of course I bloody haven’t!’
‘What new yarn are you aboot to spin then?’
‘I will tell you the truth,’ replied Jack as sincerely as he could because he knew, to protect Bessie, he could not be tot
ally frank.
‘I’m listenin’.’ Axwell could already see the noose tightening around Flyford’s neck.
‘After the fight between Acorn and Thirsk at the theatre, I went back to Acorn’s house.’
‘Why?’ put in Axwell sharply.
‘To pack my possessions, for what they were worth. I had decided to return to Edinburgh the next day to rejoin the theatre there.’ Axwell didn’t even bother to ask for the reason why; he knew this to be a lie because he had discovered that Flyford had bought his passage to Barnard Castle, which was in completely the opposite direction. ‘When I was in my room, I heard Acorn enter with another person; they were talking, or at least Acorn was talking. A few minutes later, I heard the main door close. Miss Acorn must have gone down the stairs, seen the body and screamed. That brought me hurrying from my room to the parlour. I found Bessie… Miss Acorn,’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘slumped over her dead father.’
‘So why the lie aboot the time?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious. In the house when the murder was committed. It might be difficult to explain. It is damned difficult explaining it now.’
‘Surely not,’ – the sarcasm was thinly disguised – ‘after all, what reason would you have to kill Mr Acorn?’
‘Well, none.’ Axwell’s expression worried Jack. Surely the sergeant couldn’t possibly know about Acorn driving him out of town. Or could he? ‘Of course I did not have cause to kill him.’ The protest was too strong.
Axwell stood up, his chair scraping along the floor as he did so. On his feet, he was a large and intimidating figure. ‘Now, I’ll tell you a little tale, bonny lad, an’ see what you think of it.’
He began to pace the sparse room. ‘A young actor comes to the toon an’ is taken in by the manager of the local theatre company. This manager has a canny-lookin’ daughter. The young actor, as is typical of that kind of vagabond, beds the daughter behind his back.’ Jack tried to rise in protest; a strong arm shoved him back down. ‘The manager finds oot and demands he leaves. The young actor gans an’ books his place on a coach oot of toon to say…,’ Axwell paused as Jack shifted uncomfortably, ‘…say, Barnard Castle.’ This produced a nervous tug at the collar. Jack made a mental note never to book a coach using his real name again.
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 12