Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

Bloody Garrick! Would that cursed yarn he had spun continue to tie him in awkward knots? Acorn, Thirsk and now Bowser and Courtney.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to use your considerable influence and good offices to persuade Mr Garrick to venture north.’ It was voiced and phrased in such a way that the answer ‘no’ was out of the question.

  ‘I am sure he would be delighted. However, he is a famous man with many demands upon his time. A theatre to run, performances to give, society to please. Naturally, I will implore him, but it may be some time before he will be free of his commitments to make the journey north.’

  Bowser didn’t seem pleased. Men who make money and gain power and influence through it often lose touch with day-to-day realities because they have accumulated their wealth by acting decisively and making things happen quickly. They then assume that their minions can fulfil their requests just as swiftly, however impractical the task and the timing. Bowser was such a man. He expected Garrick to drop everything and rush north just because he willed it.

  The frown suddenly disappeared from Bowser’s knotted face. ‘Then I’ll help you persuade him to come soon.’ Jack’s heart stopped. He couldn’t cope with another threat of violence.

  Bowser rose and swayed as though standing on the deck of a lurching ship. He smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. This is it; please don’t hit me, Jack winced. Bowser approached his chair, and Jack instinctively ducked. Bowser unsteadily carried on past. Now he was out of sight behind the high back of Jack’s chair.

  Tentatively, Jack peered round. Bowser was facing him; he moved forward and stood over Jack. Uncurling his large hand, he brandished a bright object balanced on his palm. It was a gold and lapis lazuli, oval snuffbox. Enhancing the border of the lid and four delicate pilasters on the side, embedded in intricate filigree, were at least thirty breathtaking diamonds, which twinkled as they caught the light from the candles. ‘Is it not a wondrous sight?’

  ‘I am bedazzled, sir.’ And Jack was. There was no denying the exquisite craftsmanship that had gone into the artefact. What must it be worth? he wondered.

  ‘French,’ Bowser said with approval. ‘They’re good when it comes to indulgent trinkets.’

  What this had to do with Garrick, Jack couldn’t conceive.

  ‘Here, hold it,’ said Bowser pressing it upon him.

  Jack felt he had better make some remark. ‘It must be of great value.’

  ‘Oh it is. Worth more than you are likely to see in a lifetime.’ In his present financial circumstances, that wouldn’t be difficult. ‘It’s one of my best,’ and Bowser pointed to behind Jack’s chair. Jack stood up. The cupboard he had spotted when he had first entered the room was now open. Though it was difficult to make out in the poor light, it must have contained dozens of snuffboxes in every conceivable shape; most of them bejewelled, like the one Jack had in his hand.

  ‘You seem to have a fine collection.’

  ‘You won’t find better outside France,’ Bowser replied with pride.

  ‘I am surprised you do not display them so more people can behold their beauty.’

  Bowser scowled. ‘I trust no one. They’ll stay under lock and key.’

  Bowser went over to the cupboard, closed the door and turned the key, which he then slipped into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Where do you find all these beautiful snuffboxes?’

  Bowser slumped back into his seat. ‘Through my business contacts. Before the war started, I had many in France.’ He screwed up his eyes. ‘Now they steal my colliers and ask huge sums for their return. The sooner the war comes to an end, the sooner we men of trade can return to making a few honest pennies.’ Jack doubted if all Bowser’s pennies had come honestly. ‘’Tis the fault of the bloody politicos. They’ve misused their powers. Aye, and I’m not just talking about the lunatics in parliament. The ones that wield power round here are just as mad. But they’ll get their comeuppance soon, you’ll see.’ His tirade came to an end with an accurate spit into the midst of the fire, which hissed back.

  Bowser was indeed a strange man. Jack understood little of what he was talking about and he was still clutching the gold snuffbox. Bowser glanced towards him, his eyes shining as brightly as a zealous preacher’s. ‘Now, let me ask you this. Does your friend Garrick partake of snuff?’

  Jack hadn’t the slightest idea. ‘I know him to be most partial to the occasional pinch.’ He reckoned it was best to say anything to please Bowser.

  The merchant slapped his thigh in delight. ‘Capital! I knew he must be a man of sophistication like myself. So, you have the means to tempt him north.’

  Jack did not follow. ‘Sir, you have the better of me.’

  ‘There!’ Bowser pointed aggressively. ‘There in your bloody hand!’

  Jack gazed at the snuffbox he was holding. ‘You mean you want me to get this to Mr Garrick?’

  ‘Every man has his price. That is a gift from me.’ Bowser may have quaffed a great deal, but it didn’t stop him being businesslike. ‘I’m sure that with this little symbol of my esteem, promises of a further handsome payment and your influence, he will come swiftly. Next month would be ideal. You’ll see to it.’ The drink was not affecting him now. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’

  XXIX

  Jack left Bowser slumped in his chair by the fading fire. He put up with the drink-sodden snorts and snores for ten minutes before deciding he could slip away.

  The cold night air came as a jolt. A thick blanket of snow lay on the steps and what little he could see of the street. Wave after white-speckled wave swept down from the dark above and soon his hat and coat were covered. He tried to hurry on, his feet crunching deep footprints into the virgin snow. And he was carrying yet another worry with him – the snuffbox. What on earth was he going to do with it? As he had watched Bowser sleeping, it had crossed his mind to flit Newcastle the next day; London perhaps. There he could sell it; that would set him up nicely. He would have escaped Thirsk, Bowser, and Courtney and his murderous henchmen – and come out of it with a handsome profit. But one squint at Bowser’s portrait above the fireplace had changed his mind. Bowser had business connections in London and heaven only knows where else. He was the type to have him sought out. Jack would be forever glancing over his shoulder. One day or night he would be found and left dead in some alleyway, or floating in the Thames with his throat cut. He could try disappearing abroad. With the war on, that was even more dangerous. No, he would have to stick it out for a week or so. At least that would give him time to formulate a safer escape plan. However, that didn’t solve the immediate Thirsk problem.

  So preoccupied had he been that he suddenly realised he hadn’t turned right at the Pilgrim Gate, but had carried straight on. He found himself in the centre of the town. The snow flurries, now on blizzard scale, blinded him and he became totally disorientated. He took refuge in a shop doorway so he could find his bearings. Within a few minutes, the snow began to thin out and he prepared to venture back out into the street. He saw a man walking in his direction and was thinking of accosting him to ask the way back to Acorn’s when he froze. Though the man had a hat on and a coat pulled tight to his neck, there was no mistaking the eyes – or, to be more exact, eye. It was Courtney’s henchman. If he was spotted, he would be done for. He swung back into the doorway. His heart punched against his chest and his legs wobbled with fright. There was no way of escape.

  What made him think of it at that moment he never knew. It was a trick Digges had played on him once. With his back to the street, he crossed his arms so that his left hand rested under his right armpit, while the right hand was wrapped round the right side of his neck. His hands started to move, tease and pinch. With his head bent low, the effect Digges had created was one of a passionate embrace with an unseen woman. Much to Digges’ amusement, it had totally fooled Jack, causing him some embarrassment because he thought he’d walked in on his mentor kissing and canoodling with one of his many admirers.

  Jack could hear the
man’s feet thudding rhythmically through the crisp snow. He drew level and Jack felt faint. ‘Wastin’ your money, bonny lad,’ the harsh voice called. ‘Too bloody cold to get it up!’ It was followed by a coarse laugh.

  At that moment, Jack thought he was going to be sick. The muted footsteps carried on down the street. He leant his head against the door and gasped for breath. His whole body was shaking.

  He had never been so frightened in his life, so why did he find himself inexorably drawn after the man whom he knew had already tried to have him killed? Was it instinct that made Jack follow him – albeit at a safe distance? Was it the realisation that by identifying this man he could find the evidence to convict Courtney and therefore fulfil his promise to Bessie? Was it simple self-preservation? If this man was caught, he could get Axwell off his back and he needn’t fear for his life every time he stepped onto the street. Or was it the knowledge that a quick conclusion to the murder case would mean a swift exit from this town that was causing him so much grief? Afterwards, he mulled over the all these reasons as, lying in bed, he sweated nervously over his rashness. In Christ’s name, the man could have turned round at any stage, and that could have been the end of Jack Flyford. It was too early to depart this life; he was only just starting to discover its plentiful pleasures, even if its present complications were rather overshadowing them.

  He followed the man through a labyrinth of dark streets and left the town at Carpenter’s Tower. Jack realised he was in Sandgate because he recognised the huge, long, Dutch-looking frontage of the Keelman’s Hospital, though its most prominent feature, the impressive central clock tower, was lost to sight in the falling snow. Jack was worried that the man might see him in the open spaces in front of the hospital. Fortunately, he didn’t look back, and Jack saw him disappear into the higgledy-piggledy, hastily-built jumble of dwellings that housed Newcastle’s wretched poor and the hard, down-trodden, permanently blackened keelmen and their families. These slums were forever collapsing only to be quickly resurrected by unscrupulous builders who would once more stuff them full of people until they fell down again. Jack crept round the corner of a rickety wooden lean-to, and saw the silhouette of the man hesitate before the door of a tall, shabby building; the first of an uneven row of hovels. The man pushed the door open and was greeted by an apologetic flickering shaft of dingy light. Jack moved from behind the protection of the lean-to to get a better view. Then he suddenly pitched forward. There was a groan as Jack tried unsuccessfully to gain his footing. Flat on the ground, he rolled on his side – he had stumbled over a drunk who was completely covered in snow. The man in the doorway stopped. Jack buried his head in the snow like a child who thinks he can’t be seen because he himself cannot see.

  The man took a step out into the street. ‘Who’s there?’ he barked.

  This time, he knew he must react quickly. He raised his head slightly, making sure that his hat shielded his face and called: ‘Gi’ us a dwink,’ in his best drunken Geordie voice. ‘Me fwend an’ me wan a dwink.’

  The man remained still for a moment, though to Jack it seemed like minutes. ‘Miserable sots,’ the man uttered, and entered the building.

  Jack lay prone until the door closed. Then he stood up, dusted himself down and retreated to the corner of the lean-to. A candle was lit in a high upper room of the house. He decided to wait and see if the man was going to reappear.

  He tried to keep himself as warm as possible. The snow stopped. He expected silence, but now he could hear the noise of the Sandgate – dogs barking; yells of cold and hungry children; the cries of women, in pain, in fear, in fleeting pleasure; drink-fuelled singing in the distance; and, close by, the even snores of the snow-covered drunk. About thirty long minutes later, the light in the window went out. Jack tensed himself for the door reopening. It didn’t. Now he knew where the man lived. In the previous half-hour, he had made mental notes of useful landmarks so, come daylight, he could find the place again.

  XXX

  ‘What am I going to do with it?’ Jack asked.

  He was sitting up in Bessie’s bed the following evening, “major” wig askew after their latest tumble. Bessie was propped up next to him admiring Bowser’s snuffbox.

  ‘This is truly beautiful. He has shown me a number in his collection. Most have jewels on them like this one. Strange to waste expensive jewels on snuffboxes. I myself prefer the ones with the paintings on. Apparently there is a man called Le Sueur, or something of the like, who is famous for the miniature paintings on these boxes. So Bowser says. Such a delicate touch.’

  ‘Forget about the bloody paintings! I have got a tricky problem here. We are going to have to think of a way out of it.’

  Bessie held the snuffbox up to the candlelight to see the diamonds glint again. Without taking her eyes off the box, she said, ‘I suggest that you tell Bowser that you have sent it.’

  ‘That is rather obvious!’ Jack snapped irritably.

  ‘Listen. Compose a letter to Garrick as though you know him. Friend to friend. You are good at making things up, so that should be no problem. Then show it to Bowser; say it is a copy of the letter you dispatched to Garrick. That will convince him that you have acted immediately.’

  ‘That sounds good so far,’ Jack conceded cautiously.

  ‘Then when no reply comes, you can always say that the snuffbox was lost in transit.’

  ‘Will he believe that?’ Jack was dubious.

  ‘Better still, you could write a letter from Garrick, sent via you of course, thanking him for the snuffbox and stating he was most keen to come north and act with young Flyford, but that he will be detained in London until later in the year. At least that will give you time. You can then always write again later from Garrick and return the snuffbox saying he cannot spare the time et cetera.’

  ‘’Tis a marvellous plan. Bessie, you are the most devious and most delicious of women.’

  ‘Why, I thankee, sir,’ she bowed her head mockingly.

  That was one problem solved. Now, what about the other two more immediate ones? Jack found women, and Bessie and Catherine Balmore in particular, easy to confide in; which didn’t come naturally when conversing with men, not even Digges, though Jack himself had sat through many a tedious life story conferred on him. Men in taverns or coaches seemed to latch onto him and entrust him with their confidences. It was listening to one such in an Oxford alehouse after a seriously dull Natural Philosophy lecture that the idea of acting was first planted in his then straight-laced mind. Like a slow-burning fuse, his imagination was gradually fired. Discontent with his sterile studies fermented. Yet he now looked back with some envy at those docile days when viewed against his present predicament. Much as he wanted to, he could not confide his dealings with Thirsk to Bessie; she would never forgive his betrayal – though he had told Catherine that afternoon when he had caught her alone in the dressing room during the rehearsal.

  ‘Yes, Mr Thirsk did approach me to play in his company,’ she had said, smiling at the recollection. ‘He said he was lining up an exciting young actor of stature to play opposite myself.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Jack, fishing for compliments. He was most flattered at Thirsk’s description of himself.

  ‘A Mr Honeyway.’

  ‘Mr Honeyway!’ Jack spluttered

  ‘Why, do you know of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Though I have not heard of him either, Mr Thirsk said he would bring him north from Buxton.’

  Why, that scheming bastard! He had no intention of giving Jack the leading roles opposite Catherine. He would have strung him along until Garrick had turned up.

  ‘Anyway, I was not interested in the slightest in his proposal, though the rogue offered me sixty guineas.’

  Sixty guineas! That was twice what he had been given. ‘You did well to ignore him. A bad lot if you ask my opinion.’

  ‘From the fact that you ask me, I presume he also tried to entice you away from our company.’

&
nbsp; ‘He did indeed. I, too, was offered sixty guineas, but I laughed in his face. And I told him straight; I said that others, like your good self, would never succumb to his Spaniard’s gold.’

  ‘You talked to him in such forceful tones?’ she asked in delighted amazement.

  ‘Catherine, I could not begin to tell you how I sorted the fellow out. I confess my language was stern and sometimes colourful. I would not repeat many of the phrases I used so as not to sting your sweet ears. But I felt it was my business to state plain that, though our captain may have fallen overboard, we would not desert the ship. We had to up anchor and sail on to our destiny, whatever that might be.’ Jack realised he had strayed into seafaring gibberish, but Catherine appeared suitably impressed.

  ‘Bravo!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Bravo, Jack!’

  His chest swelled at her approval. ‘If I do not like a man and his methods, I will tell him so, be he the King himself!’

  ‘I would stop short of the King, for you do not want to lose that handsome head of yours.’ This was too good to be true – the more rubbish he spouted, the more flattering the compliments became. “Handsome head” indeed. Maybe there was still hope.

  Bessie handed back the snuffbox and Jack leant over and put it in the pocket of his coat, which had been hastily flung over the chair when he had stripped for action.

  ‘Is it wise to put it there?’

  ‘I will keep it about my person at all times. I cannot afford to lose it. When the time is right, I will send it back with a letter from Garrick as you suggest. He will be furious no doubt,’ Jack sighed. Hopefully, by then he would be well clear of Newcastle.

  Bessie snuggled up to him. He curled a protective arm round her and she laid her head upon his naked chest. ‘There is another matter that needs resolving.’

  She raised her head and squinted enquiringly at him.

  ‘You know that one-eyed man I saw Courtney in conversation with at St. Nicholas’…’ Bessie turned her head back as though this was something she didn’t want to hear. ‘…and the same man who stood in the shadow and gave the order to attack me?’