Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  ‘You cannot be sure that they are one and the same; you said yourself it was dark,’ she muttered unconvincingly into his chest.

  He ran his hand through the long strands of her hair. ‘Bessie, I am sure, for I saw him again last night after I had left Bowser’s house. I followed him to Sandgate and I know where his abode is.’

  Bessie sat up. ‘You followed this man! If he is as dangerous as you believe, surely that was an act of madness!’

  He was touched by her solicitude. ‘I was careful. But now that I have knowledge of his whereabouts, should I go to the loathsome Axwell with this information? He is convinced that I did the murder and that I am in league with Thirsk. Fortunately, Sheriff Ridley is taking little interest in the case or I would probably be incarcerated in New Gate Gaol at this moment.’

  ‘The trouble is that even if this man is arrested, he can deny your story,’ said Bessie voicing a reservation of his own.

  ‘I know. Yet I cannot just wait around for him to strike again. He might succeed next time!’

  She leant towards him, ran the tips of her fingers down his cheek and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘Then, my dearest, you have little choice in the matter. You must go to Axwell and hope that he will act, and that this man will confess.’

  ‘If he does, you realise it may be the end of Tyler Courtney?’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I know, I know. Though in my heart of hearts, I cannot believe that he is involved.’

  Jack needed no convincing. During his conversation that afternoon with Catherine, whom he regarded as his secular confessor, he had had time to mention his tracking down of Courtney’s man. It was only natural to do so as he was capitalising on the impression he had created with his fictional assertiveness over Thirsk. Again, Catherine had been taken by his bravery, though, touchingly, she had shown the same concern as Bessie. She had also advised an early visit to the authorities.

  ‘You take too many risks. Let the men of the law take the burden from you. I would not want to see you hurt once more. That would upset me.’ And yet again those eyes had drawn him in.

  He had enjoyed her pretty little speech and was about to tut-tut it in a manly way and say that danger meant nothing to him when he realised that Courtney was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Would you like to join us for the next scene?’

  As Jack followed Catherine and Courtney back to the stage, he wondered how long Courtney had been at the door and, more worryingly, how much of their conversation he had overheard.

  XXXI

  The rehearsal was a frustrating and nerve-racking experience for Jack. And it wasn’t because A Comedy of Errors was going to be performed for the mainly undiscerning citizens of Newcastle. He had decided to take Catherine’s and Bessie’s advice and go and see Axwell – he knew there was no chance of seeing the sheriff – and try and persuade him to act. What had added to the urgency of this thankless task was Courtney’s appearance at the dressing room door. If Courtney had overheard the conversation, he would take one of two courses of action. Firstly, get his man to kill Jack and do it quickly or, secondly, make sure the man got out of town before the law could lay hands on him.

  The rehearsal was going badly and therefore slowly. Jack was worried enough about meeting Axwell again without having to put off the evil moment because Miss Puce kept forgetting her words and the deaf Mr Thrapp kept missing his cues. Tempers boiled over. Courtney shouted at Miss Puce, who burst into tears. Mrs Trump came to her defence and bawled some unladylike obscenities at Courtney. Much to Jack’s irritation, Bessie joined in on Courtney’s behalf and made her feelings for Mrs Trump abundantly clear.

  Surprisingly, it was Mr Southby who restored order by stamping a large, podgy foot on the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, cease this unseemly squabbling. We have a performance to give tonight! Is this the best that we can do?’ The combatants fell into an embarrassed silence. ‘Besides, I have not had a single ale this day, so can we hurry up and finish?’ This brought light relief, though Jack could see that Southby was in earnest.

  It was after a courage-inducing drink that an uncertain Jack made his way down The Side to the Guildhall. The street was packed, and Jack kept shooting anxious glances in all directions just in case the one-eyed man was about. If he was desperate, he could strike at any moment. Then, on the opposite side of the street, he saw someone staring at him, or so it seemed. Jack hurried on, hugging the houses on his side. He almost choked when a hand grabbed his collar and hauled him back as he was in mid-stride. He was yanked into a narrow chare. Too panic-stricken to call out for help, he waited for the cold steel to rip through his flesh. Unceremoniously, he was swung round to face his assailant. The hulking figure of Hodsock stood menacingly over him.

  ‘Your two days are up. Mr Thirsk wants his money.’ At least he didn’t beat about the bush. In all the business of Courtney’s nasty, cyclopean friend, Jack had pushed Thirsk down his list of priorities. Now he had suddenly jumped to the top.

  ‘Honestly, I haven’t had time to raise the sum. Thirsk knows that.’

  Hodsock’s massive hand grabbed Jack about the neck, lifted him off his feet and pressed him back against the wall, where he hung as limply as an empty sack.

  ‘Methinks you didn’t hear what I said.’

  ‘I did,’ gasped Jack, who could hardly breathe.

  ‘Well?’ said Hodsock drawing his other arm back, his fist curling into the business-end of a cudgel.

  Jack, unable to speak, flapped his hands frantically like a flustered bird. He hoped Hodsock would read the sign and put him down. Hodsock momentarily looked puzzled, then released his grip. Jack slid down the wall into an awkward sitting position. He massaged his throat and fought for air.

  ‘Well?’ repeated the big man, who now lowered himself onto his haunches so a huge knee was inches from Jack’s face.

  Taking deep lungfuls of breath, Jack managed to say, ‘I do not have the money.’

  Hodsock’s fist smashed into the side of his head, sending him juddering along the wall. Pain seared through his body and he wanted to cry out. Hodsock’s giant hand wrenched his head back so he was once more looking straight into the massive, ugly face, which must have been hewn from granite.

  ‘Well?’ Jack had to admire his persistency even if the monosyllabic question was becoming rather repetitive.

  Jack held up a hand to restrain any further blows. ‘Wait.’ He could feel his left eye swelling and wetness on his upper lip. He wiped it off with his cuff; it was blood from his nose. ‘I have something for your master which is of much greater value than the sum I owe.’ Jack could see Hodsock was unconvinced. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out Bowser’s precious snuffbox. Uncertainly, he presented it to the big man.

  In Hodsock’s plate-like palm it appeared small but, as his eyes twinkled at the sight of the diamonds and the gold, even to this tough nut it was obvious that it was worth a great deal. ‘As I say, ’tis worth more than I owe. Let us say it is a gift from me to him.’

  Hodsock nodded approvingly and put the snuffbox in his pocket. Once more, a great hand reached for Jack’s neck. He automatically turned away to reduce the force of the blow. But it never came. Hodsock hauled Jack roughly to his feet and even started to dust him down. ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you.’

  One minute he’s altering my appearance and now he’s apologising, meek as a lamb! Not that Jack was about to quibble. Jack wiped his nose with his handkerchief. ‘Think nothing of it. It was a mere misunderstanding.’

  Hodsock gave Jack a shuddering slap on the shoulder. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he said cheerfully. And with another incredulous ‘a misunderstanding’, his bruising frame lumbered its way back into the throng.

  Jack gingerly touched the throbbing bump at the corner of his left eye. He had always believed that the world should live at peace with itself and he could never understand man’s obsession with violence. If you were stupid enough for that sort of thing, you could enlist in the army or navy a
nd engage an obvious enemy. He would never think of attacking anybody, yet since his arrival in Newcastle, through no fault of his own as far as he could see, the local thugs seemed to be going out of their way to knock the living daylights out of him. Did he have a personality problem? Or maybe this was how the inhabitants of the town whiled away their idle moments. And now he had to persuade another local oaf, Axwell, to make an arrest.

  XXXII

  Again Axwell kept Jack waiting. The thought of self-preservation was a strong enough adhesive for him to stick around. Whatever Axwell did, in here would be safer than out on the streets. At least Thirsk was off his back, though how he was going to explain the snuffbox’s permanent disappearance to Bowser, he had no idea. He only hoped that Thirsk and Bowser never met. Or if they did, were not civil enough to each other to offer one another snuff. The chances of that, fortunately, were remote.

  Axwell’s opening shot wasn’t encouraging. ‘Conscience playin’ you foul, bonny lad? Come to confess?’

  ‘No, I damn well have not,’ Jack answered hotly.

  ‘Methinks you’ll be wastin’ me time then.’

  ‘If you let me tell you, then maybe you will be able to judge and not pre-judge.’

  ‘Alreet. Sit doon.’

  Jack sat opposite Axwell in the same room they had conversed in before – so unproductively from Jack’s point of view. His head was still groggy from Hodsock’s hammer blow. He felt queasy, though his nerves were now steadier. Axwell’s annoying attitude had seen to that.

  ‘An’ how did you do that?’ Axwell asked with a sneer.

  ‘My face collided with someone’s fist.’

  ‘A lot of stray fists around this toon.’

  ‘Exactly. That is why I am here.’

  ‘Reportin’ another attack? Know who it is this time?’ Axwell’s mockery was beginning to niggle. Jack controlled his temper with an effort.

  ‘This,’ he said indicating the lump over his eye, which he realised with a sinking heart was bound to cause great mirth amongst the audience when they spotted it tonight, ‘was given to me by someone I am acquainted with, unfortunately. However, it is concerning the other attack that I am here. Remember the story I told you of Mr Courtney and the man at the church who was the leader of the gang who tried to do me in?’

  ‘I remember the remarkable tale.’

  ‘And I remember that you did not believe a word of it.’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Well, you will have to start believing me now. I know where to find Courtney’s unsavoury associate.’

  Axwell’s scepticism came to the fore. What was Flyford up to? Was he trying to put him off the scent? He should be so lucky! He had seen with his own eyes Flyford leaving an assignation with Thirsk. It had confirmed his suspicions, but he was not sure if he had enough evidence to make that idiot Ridley move against a man who was once well regarded by the sheriff’s cronies. Somehow, he had to nail Flyford; it was his only chance of getting to Thirsk.

  ‘Where will this man be found?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘I followed him to a house below the Keelman’s Hospital. I suggest you go there and arrest him.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘It seems a simple enough matter to me. At least interrogate him.’ Jack could see that Axwell was wavering. ‘If you do not, I will make a formal charge against him, and the sheriff will be forced to make you act.’

  ‘Alreet,’ said Axwell unhappily as he slowly got to his feet. He was reluctant to do anything because he was convinced that this was some carefully laid plan of Thirsk’s and Flyford’s to place the blame elsewhere. Yet if it was a trick, he’d rather it was played on him than the sheriff, who would be stupid enough to fall for it and let Thirsk and Flyford off the hook.

  Axwell opened the door and shouted, ‘Rickaby! Fetch us the pistol.’ Turning to Jack, he said unsmilingly, ‘Now Mr Flyford, if you please, take us to see your friend.’

  When Jack had difficulty finding the house, Axwell became even more suspicious – and Jack began to panic. Then he recognised the lean-to. ‘There it is!’ he called with relief. ‘That door yonder. And he went up to that room there,’ pointing to the upper window where he had seen the light coming from.

  Sensing a possible trap, Axwell tensed. ‘We better see if he’s in.’

  ‘I will just wait here,’ Jack suggested. The last thing he wanted was to confront the man, especially as he would probably put up some resistance. He couldn’t face yet another fight.

  ‘Nah. You come wi’ us. We won’t know if it’s him unless you can point him oot.’ Jack didn’t have time to argue as Axwell turned to Rickaby, whom Jack recognised as the uncompromising fellow who had barred his entrance to Acorn’s house after the murder. ‘Give us the pistol.’ Rickaby handed over the weapon. Jack didn’t like the look of it. It was the sort of unreliable piece that might go off of its own accord. ‘I’ll gan first, you follow,’ Axwell said, pointing the pistol alarmingly at Jack. ‘Rickaby, you take the rear.’ Not an ideal arrangement, thought Jack, as he would have happily volunteered to take Rickaby’s place at the back.

  They opened the door and entered. Two bare-footed urchins rushed out, shouting obscenities. Rickaby caught one of them across the head with the back of his hand and the child fell into the snow.

  They started to climb the rickety staircase, which creaked under every footstep. The walls were rough and cracked and damp, and the smell of stale urine was overwhelming. Jack wished he had armed himself with a bunch of sweet-smelling herbs. On the first landing, some sacking that formed a door was pulled back and two grimy-faced girls in ragged, stinking clothes peered out. One was gaunt and emaciated, with a flat breast peeping out of her loosely fitting dress. The other was fatter and pockmarked. ‘Fancy a fuck?’ the fatter one said, lifting her skirt to reveal blotched and bruised legs.

  Axwell waved the pistol at them and, amid a stream of abuse, the sack curtain was quickly pulled back over the doorway. Jack felt sick at the sight and once again reflected on what a sheltered upbringing he had had.

  At the top of the next flight of stairs, they had to shove their way past a man lying on the floor – the stench of liquor was unmistakable. Here, the roof sloped down into the eaves, and they had to stoop to reach the door at the end of the small landing. Axwell halted for a moment: the door was slightly ajar. He glanced back at the ashen-faced Jack. Rickaby gave a knowing grin and drew out a long, thin-bladed knife from his belt. Jack nervously looked around for any useful nooks he could dive into if any violence started. If someone was going to get stabbed or shot, it wasn’t going to be Gethsemane Flyford. (He could never forgive his father for naming him after a garden; when he took to the road, he had taken on the more laddish name of Jack. As he stood petrified between the two hard-nosed Novocastrians, he was quite willing to exchange the world of Jack for the tranquilly boring existence of Gethsemane.)

  Axwell knocked on the rotten door. There was no answer. He gently pushed the door and it swung open noisily. The sergeant stepped forward into the room. Jack stood rooted to the spot, Rickaby’s thick breath upon his neck as he craned over to see what was happening.

  ‘You can come in,’ Axwell called from within. Jack popped his head round the doorway. Axwell was on his haunches, bending over a body. ‘This him?’

  Jack thought the man might be lying in a drunken stupor until Axwell stood up. He tried to suppress the nausea that rushed from his stomach. The man had a bloodied slit which stretched from ear to ear. The cut was so deep that the head was tilted backwards as though it was about to fall off the lifeless torso. As well as the crescent-shaped line of congealed blood on the throat, there was more blood on the floor around the top half of the body. Jack recoiled at the grotesque, open-mouthed stare; the one wild eye popping out of the head seemed to follow his movements like those in an artfully painted portrait. It was too much for Jack, who vomited violently behind the door, the smell mingling with the other noxious odours that pervaded the b
uilding.

  Axwell waited until Jack had stopped retching before repeating his question. Jack dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief and nodded.

  ‘I know this un,’ said Axwell, totally unmoved by the gruesome scene. ‘They calls him Crindle. One of the devil’s own. I might have known him if you’d given a better description – like he’s got an eye missin’!’ Jack was feeling too ill to get miffed. ‘Alreet, Flyford, you can gan.’

  Jack was relieved that he could escape. However, he couldn’t leave without knowing what Axwell was going to do. ‘Will you act against Courtney now?’

  ‘Rather difficult, wouldn’t you say. Crindle’s not gannin’ to tell us much, now is he?’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Or mebbees that’s the way you wanted it.’

  ‘I am glad the bastard’s dead, but his death does not serve my purpose well if you still do not believe my story. If you could but see the matter as clearly as I do, you would realise that Courtney murdered Acorn. Then Courtney hired this man to get rid of me because he knew that I knew he was the killer. And now, to protect himself, he has done to death the only person who could implicate him in the murder.’

  ‘Somehow, I can’t see Mr Courtney’s dainty fingers slittin’ the throats of scum like Crindle.’

  Neither could Jack, yet he knew he must have done so.

  ‘Just gan home an’ I’ll talk to you later.’

  Out on the landing, Jack heard Axwell issuing an instruction to Rickaby. ‘You search the room an’ I’ll see if I can get our beloved sheriff doon here. I pray that he’s not just eaten.’

  XXXIII

  The first performance had gone very well. Not that Jack’s contribution had aided that success. As soon as his swollen eye had been spotted, it became the focal point of many shouted jests from the audience. Jack had hardly noticed, as the events of the day occupied his thoughts and he had only gone through the motions. Which was just as well because he could only see out of one eye and, without cocking his head from side to side like a demented chicken, quite often the other actors were only partly visible, if at all. Courtney had been pleased, though he pointedly remarked to Jack that if he was going to get into fights, could he do so after the last night and not before the first performance?