There was only one unnerving moment – when Bowser had paid them a visit. As Bessie had suggested, Jack showed a him copy of the letter to Garrick, which of course he hadn’t sent. Bowser was most pleased and predicted the snuffbox would have Garrick rushing north. It was more likely to have Thirsk rushing south to sell it, thought Jack. He hadn’t dared tell Bessie that the snuffbox was no longer in his possession.
It was after showing Bowser the letter that the merchant was suddenly afflicted with a twitching eye and a spasm which made his head jerk in the direction of the door. Then it dawned on Jack that Bowser wanted to be alone with Bessie and was sending the most unsubtle signals. On closing the door, Jack remembered the unsuitable advice he had given. He prayed that Bowser had been too in his cups to take it in. All the same, Jack decided it might be wise to stay within screaming distance in case Bessie needed rescuing.
He waited at the top of the stairs. If Bowser made a fool of himself, he would spike the loathsome merchant’s amorous gun. At least he could flit Newcastle with that satisfaction – and knowing Bowser would never see the snuffbox again.
The snuffbox was the main reason why he was now making plans for leaving the town. He knew it would have to be sooner rather than later. He would miss Bessie and, of course, the beautiful Catherine. But those two regrets carried no weight against a vengeful Bowser. London would be his ultimate destination. And why not? If he was ever going to make a name for himself, that was where he must do it. There were more theatres there, so, he reasoned, there would be more opportunities. It might take him a year or so to reach the capital, for there were other playhouses on the way. York was a possibility. Mr Tate Wilkinson was back there now and had a fine reputation, and the names of Digges and Acorn might carry some weight. Of course, York might be within Bowser’s reach, so Nottingham or Stamford might be safer havens. His thoughts were interrupted by a cry from within the parlour. It was Bessie’s voice.
‘Mr Bowser! What do you think you are doing?’
Jack descended the stairs. He heard Bowser say something, but the words were muffled.
‘Put it away, sir. ’Tis most unseemly.’ Her voice shook with alarm.
Jack reached the hallway just as the parlour door was flung open and Bessie came rushing out. She ran straight past him and up the stairs. He looked through the door and there stood Lazarus Bowser, his breeches round his ankles. His jacket covered his naked arse, but not his swiftly shrinking manhood. He caught Jack staring at him askance, and shot him a filthy glance. Slowly, he yanked up and buttoned his breeches before calmly walking out into the hall. ‘“Storm the main gate,” says you.’ He spat out the words. ‘See the humiliation it has led to.’
‘Ah, I did not say “storm the main gate”, if you remember,’ Jack said defensively. ‘I only said that it was the advice West Digges would have given.’
‘Sir, it was bad advice that you passed on – and I never forget a man who gives me bad advice.’
Jack wondered when the next coach to York was leaving. ‘I will have a word with Miss Acorn and plead your cause. I am sure she will not hold it against you.’ An unfortunate choice of words, perhaps.
‘I want no interference on your part,’ and he pushed Jack roughly aside. At the front door, he turned: ‘The only way you can make amends for this fiasco is to produce Garrick, and produce him quick!’
The door slammed shut.
The other event of any note was another trip to the Town Moor. This time it wasn’t to watch the militia going through their paces, but to see real soldiers from the Second Battalion of Bockland’s regiment shoot one of their own. William Bland was executed for desertion.
A huge crowd gathered, and though many agreed it wasn’t as much fun as a hanging, the general consensus was that it was a good show. Bland had writhed on the ground for a few moments before dying, which added to the entertainment. Brave but messy. A good combination. As the crowd dispersed, the common feeling was that with an invasion from France a disquieting possibility, our soldiers should not be allowed to shirk their responsibilities. Bland had died with head held high, but had only received what he deserved. It would help stiffen his former comrades’ resolve. The fact that Bland had been pressed into service against his will was conveniently ignored.
After his victories at Rossbach and Leuthen, the whole of the country was in the mood to celebrate the birthday of King Frederick of Prussia. To many, he was becoming a saviour after so many British setbacks. And nowhere in the kingdom did they enjoy an excuse to drink themselves into oblivion more than in Newcastle. Courtney decided that the theatre must do something special, and he hit upon the idea of a concert intermixed with Patriotic readings – by himself, of course. Jack was surprised that Courtney had been able to dream up such an inventive ploy until he spotted a notice of a suspiciously similar event being held by Crichton Thirsk’s company at the Moot Hall.
Though Jack was not involved, he went along, and the evening was a boisterous success. Courtney read brilliantly and whipped the audience into a frenzy with his rendition of Henry V’s speech at the gates of Harfleur. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead!’ brought the house down. The orchestra was just sober enough to play passably while Mrs Trump, surprisingly well, and Miss Balmore, enchantingly, though not quite as well, sang popular songs. Not that any of the men in the audience worried a fig about Miss Balmore’s lack of singing ability. They eagerly awaited the end of each rendition so that their yells of appreciation were rewarded with low-slung curtseys. Jack was enthralled. Catherine was so perfect of face and figure. As she warbled, he even pondered whether he should stay in Newcastle a little longer. Then he spotted Bowser in a box at the side of the stage. No, Newcastle’s theatrical nightlife would have to do without him.
At the end of the evening, Courtney made a short speech in which he damned the Frenchies and raised a tankard to toast that ‘most brave and honourable of monarchs. Frederick of Prussia will help our own beloved King George to crush those barbarians of France. We know God is with us. Lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the King of Prussia!’ He drained the tankard in one and tossed it into the cheering, stamping throng. Now it was off for a bloody good drink. As Jack had no money, he wisely chose Mr Southby as his companion around the taverns of the town.
As usual, Southby was excellent company. They were squeezed into a corner of a quayside tavern. It was the ideal spot for Southby, for he was within hailing distance of the landlord and fresh tankards could be easily passed. News was buzzing round the room that a French spy had been caught in South Shields, at the mouth of the river. ‘’Tis here in the newspaper,’ said an excited gentleman who thrust a copy of the Newcastle Journal at Southby. He pointed to the text. ‘He had been making observations and plans of the harbour.’
‘Hope they’ve clapped the blackguard in irons!’ Southby expressed forcefully, in keeping with the jingoistic mood of the night.
‘They are bringing him to New Gate Gaol.’ Then the man was distracted by another enquiry and left, clutching his newspaper, to spread the good news.
‘It is most worrying, this talk of invasion,’ Jack said, thinking that when he left Newcastle, it might be wise to head to a town far from any coast. The middle of Wales would probably be safest.
‘People panic easily. We are safe enough,’ Southby announced confidently. ‘It sounds as though King Louis has enough problems with our noble King of Prussia to mount an invasion of our fine country.’
Jack hoped he was right. ‘Anyway,’ Southby continued, ‘we have enough to worry about on our streets without bothering about a load of Frenchies marching along them. You appear to have had more than your fair share of bumps and bruises since your arrival. I myself have been robbed thrice. The Watch is about as useful as a fighting cock with one leg!’
Though Jack’s eye was no longer swollen, his memories were still painful.
‘What they need round here,’ Southby said warm
ing to his theme, ‘is what I read Mr Henry Fielding and his brother did in Westminster. Their detachment of thief-takers hunted down criminals and dragged ’em along to their Bow Street magistrate’s court for summary justice. Now, I believe, there are even more officers performing this duty; the whole scheme has been an outstanding success. No beating about the bush there. But here, the rule of law is still abominable.’
‘They could not catch a fish, let alone a criminal,’ agreed Jack.
‘Having said that, they have found Acorn’s murderer. That is something.’
‘I fear they have not found their man.’ Southby appeared startled. ‘But, unfortunately, that is no more a concern of mine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Southby, my friend, it is a long tale of which I weary. I say no more than I know who was responsible and that that person will never be brought to justice.’
‘Then that person is very lucky,’ said Southby, thoughtfully staring into his tankard. Then he took a massive swig. ‘Acorn is a man best forgot. More ale for me and my fine young companion, mine host!’ he bellowed across to the landlord.
He took out a battered snuffbox, pinched and sniffed. ‘Pardon me, Jack, have some.’ Jack refused and then changed his mind. The alcohol was taking effect. He didn’t like the stuff but felt he shouldn’t keep refusing the man who was paying for all his drinks. It made him sneeze loudly and Southby slapped him playfully on the back.
Jack had no idea what time he had staggered back home – in a funny sort of way that was how he had started to regard Acorn’s house. The streets had still been full of revellers. Bessie let him in – he remembered that only later – and helped him go straight to bed, in his own room. He had been incapable of doing anything else.
It must have been shortly before dawn when he suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, beads of sweat running down his forehead, eyes wide.
‘My God. He did it!’
XXXVI
Jack threw open Bessie’s door; rushed to where she lay; tripped over something, which spun across the floor; bumped his head against one of the four bedposts; and fell prostrate on top of her. She woke with a start and screamed in fright until she realised that it was him. His feet were wet – he had kicked over her chamber-pot. Not that it worried him, for he had important news to impart.
‘Bessie, I know. I know who killed your father.’
She was too disorientated by the dark and her sudden awakening to understand. ‘What are you saying?’
He took hold of her by the shoulders. ‘I know who killed your father,’ he repeated deliberately.
She rubbed her eyes. ‘You have already told me. Tyler Courtney.’
‘I was wrong.’
‘Who then?’
A light appeared at the door. ‘You alreet?’ It was Hilda with a candle. ‘I heard you scream but now I sees what caused it.’
‘It is all right, Hilda. Just a nightmare.’
Hilda looked at Jack. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘That is all. You may go.’ The mistress of the house was reasserting her authority.
‘D’you want us to light a candle or do you intend stayin’ in the dark?’ Her insinuation was clear.
‘You may light the candle.’ Hilda proceeded to do so.
Then, noticing the overturned chamber-pot, ‘S’pose you want us to mop up that piss an’ all.’
‘Leave it. It is good for the floor.’
‘What a waste! Could’ve done wi’ that for cleanin’ the clothes.’ She sighed heavily. ‘As I’m awake now, I might as well get on wi’ me duties,’ she huffed in her best put-upon voice. She left the room, leaving the door ajar.
Jack went to close it. ‘I do not know why you do not dismiss that girl. She is rude, disobedient… she is not even comely to look at.’
‘That is typical of a man! Besides, I would not want a comely maid in this house. She might distract you. Now, what was that about my father’s murderer?’
‘Where was I? Yes. It is Southby.’
Bessie pulled a face. ‘Southby! He has not the puff.’
‘He can raise a full tankard with great dexterity. No, I have a very good reason for knowing it is him. It was literally under my nose all the time.’
‘Stop this riddle. Tell me.’
‘The night we found your father, there was something about the parlour that struck me as odd. I was not sure what it was. With all the events that have taken place since, I forgot about it. That is until I was out with Southby last night. He offered me some snuff. Normally, I cannot abide it. However, to keep him quiet, I took a pinch. The smell is still with me now. Sweet but sickly. Cinnamon, I think. But that was it. The parlour. That strange, unfamiliar smell. That is what troubled me at the time. Southby must have been the one who came in with your father. During their conversation, he must have taken snuff.’
‘What you say rings true. And that bulbous clown killed my father because of his treatment of that awful Trump woman, whom he loves.’ The thought was almost too incredible to be true to Bessie’s way of thinking. She could never see the fascination Mrs Trump held for men, except for easy fornication. And surely Trump and Southby hadn’t done that. Couldn’t have.
‘It pains me to say these things about Southby, for he has become a friend.’
‘Humph!’ Bessie snorted impatiently. ‘He is nothing more than a drunkard and a dullard.’
‘You do him an injustice in that respect. However, he cannot be forgiven for murder, even if he thought his reason was honourable.’
Bessie gave him a withering look. ‘At least maybe now you will admit that you were wrong to besmirch Tyler Courtney’s good name. Have I not said from the outset that he could not have done the deed? But would you listen?’
Jack felt it was time to defend himself. ‘I had my reasons for suspecting him, as well you know. I regret misjudging him, but there is no need to berate me now. And may I be so bold as to point out, young lady, that it was at your request that I became embroiled in this sorry business.’ He was as much annoyed at her attitude as he was at himself for becoming obsessed with Courtney’s guilt.
‘Jack, I apologise. It was wrong of me to go on so.’ She sounded genuinely contrite.
‘Let us say no more about it.’ He was suddenly aware of how cold he was. He shivered.
‘Slip in beside me.’ He accepted the invitation. She yelped playfully when his ice-cold feet wriggled for warmth against hers. She laid a hand on his and squeezed it gently. ‘So what do we do about Southby?’
Jack watched their fingers intertwine. ‘I have no idea. It will be difficult to prove his guilt, especially as Sheriff Ridley has already told the world that the killer has been found, albeit conveniently dead.’
‘We know he was not in the theatre at the time – Tunkle told you that. And we have the fact about the snuff.’
‘I am afraid that you cannot hang someone on the evidence of a smell which has since disappeared. Anyway, neither the sheriff nor Axwell will pay much heed to my word.’
‘If Southby killed my father, then he must have taken the box and the letter, not Crindle. Yet Southby must have used Crindle to extract money from Courtney.’ She suddenly sat up excitedly. ‘It all fits perfectly. You told Southby about Crindle at the theatre. The conversation you thought Courtney overheard. Next thing you know, Crindle is dead, the box is planted to deflect suspicion and Southby is still in possession of the letter.’
Jack had to agree, but these sums, like the ones he did with his tutor as a boy, didn’t add up correctly. Everything Bessie said made sense except that it was Catherine he had spoken to at the theatre, not Southby as he had told her. Yet it must be Southby, a figure who was rapidly changing from genial companion into gruesome monster. Looking back at what little he remembered of their conversation last night, there was one remark that had stuck in his mind: “Then that person is very lucky.” Southby had made it when Jack had stated that he knew who was responsible and that the person would nev
er be brought to justice. Had Southby assumed that Jack realised it was he who had done the deed and believed that Jack was letting him off the hook? And what had he said about Acorn? Something about him being a man best forgot. Jack realised he had been so sure that Courtney was the culprit that he had completely dismissed Southby. Had it been because, deep down, he was jealous of the regard Bessie had for Courtney?
Another point occurred to him. Southby always had coin on him for his drinking and his gambling. That must come from the money he was extorting from Courtney. And did Courtney know who was bleeding him dry? Crindle did the threatening while Southby remained in the shadows. However, with the necessity of getting rid of Crindle, would Southby show his hand directly to Courtney or employ another dubious go-between? The one comfort Jack could take from the fact that Southby was the killer was that on his arrest, the money borrowed for the unsuccessful cockfight bet would no longer have to be paid back.
Jack had gone over these thoughts a hundred times as he waited to see Axwell. And Axwell was the last person on earth he wanted to visit at that moment. But here he was with the ever-sceptical sergeant sitting opposite him again. Jack had actually suggested he let sleeping dogs lie. Bessie had exploded like one of those huge cannon at Edinburgh Castle when, one drunken night with Digges and an officer from the garrison, they had loaded the weapon and set it off. The recoil had floored both Digges and himself. Fortunately, the cannonball had rolled harmlessly down the hill into the North Loch below. The officer had been sent home in disgrace for frightening the citizenry in the middle of the night. And, like the disgraced officer, Jack had been sent down the hill to the Guildhall.
‘Let us get this reet. You say that you was all wrong aboot Courtney. He’s now a victim, not a criminal.’
‘That is so. I misjudged him and for that I am most heartily sorry.’
‘An’ further, you say that the real murderer’s another player, Mr Southby. An’ it’s all to do wi’ snuff.’
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 18