‘Sergeant Axwell, I have explained my reasons for believing why Mr Southby is guilty. It pains me to do so for, in truth, he has been kind and generous to me since I arrived in Newcastle.’
‘You’re an odd’n, aren’t you?. Have you ever thought to pick up a quill an’ start to compose?’
‘No, why should I?’
‘For I’ve never met a man wi’ more imagination than you, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘So, what you are unsubtly saying is that you do not believe me – again?’
‘You’d be reet in thinkin’ that, aye.’
‘Well,’ said Jack rising from his uncomfortable chair, ‘I have done my duty. I have made known to you the facts. If you care to ignore them, then that is your prerogative. In many ways, I am relieved. I would not like to see Southby swing, even if he did think nothing of doing me personal injury. My conscience is clear. I will bid you a good day, Sergeant.’
Flyford certainly had a nerve – and persistence – thought Axwell. Maybe he was trying to point the finger in so many directions that he hoped he, Axwell, would lose sight of the real villains. He was still sure that Thirsk and Flyford were in it together. He prided himself on being too experienced an old dog to be put off the scent by this young pup.
‘An’ will I be seein’ you on the morrow wi’ a new murderer for us?’
‘Sergeant, your mockery is wasted. I will not be back.’
‘We’ll see,’ Axwell said, pushing back his chair. He stood and watched Jack cross to the door. ‘Oh, Mr Flyford, I hope you’re not plannin’ to leave the toon for a while.’
‘Why, I was thinking maybe I should seek work in less dangerous surroundings.’
‘Well, you better think again, bonny lad.’ Axwell had a knack of making that local endearment sound menacing. ‘Try an’ leave, an’ I’ll have you in New Gate before you can blink an eye.’
This was very disquieting. ‘Surely you cannot stop me. I have done nothing wrong. I have willingly helped you with your enquiries. I found you Crindle. Yet when I needed protection, I found none.’ Jack’s indignation was almost real.
‘If you try to leave, I’ll find a charge that’ll keep you here until I can prove you guilty of Acorn’s murder.’
‘I am afraid your threats do not frighten me.’ Jack’s bowels told him otherwise.
‘They should.’
‘If you want your murderer, Sergeant, arrest Mr Southby. You have the cause, the opportunity; now all you need is the confession. I am sure you have ingenious ways of extracting that.’ Then Jack hurried from the room before his nerve completely failed him.
XXXVII
The second tankard of porter steadied his trembling nerves. He never wanted to set eyes on Axwell again. He cursed Bessie for sending him. Now he was in even more trouble. If he hadn’t mentioned Southby to Bessie, he could have slipped out of Newcastle and made a fresh start elsewhere. Bessie might have been upset, but it would have been a small price to pay to escape this appalling town.
He had the sergeant doing his best to prove him guilty of a crime he did not commit. And potentially worse; if he stayed much longer, Bowser would want either Garrick or his snuffbox back, neither of which he could deliver. Would being locked up in New Gate Gaol be safer than falling into Bowser’s clutches? What a choice!
After the third porter, his tangled thoughts knitted together long enough to realise that the only quick solution was to prove to Axwell, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Southby was his man.
His first chance to do something about Southby did not arise until two days later. Rehearsals had started on The Relapse; or Virtue in Danger by Sir John Vanbrugh. Afterwards, Jack followed Southby in the late afternoon gloom. The snow had been washed away by rain, which had made the streets muddy. Jack splashed and squelched his way up New Gate Street at some distance behind the actor’s waddling figure. The direction puzzled Jack as he assumed that Southby would head straight for a tavern, where he would become ensconced for the evening. Jack had formulated no plan of attack, no clever stratagem which would wheedle a confession out of Southby. The only thought he’d had was to engage him in conversation and, hopefully, Southby would let something slip in an unguarded moment. It would mean a taxing night’s drinking, which he would suffer for the next day, but there appeared no other way.
Southby turned left into Low Friar Chare. To the right were the remains of an old monastery, one of the five that used to thrive within the medieval walls before Henry VIII’s Dissolution. Houses of varying styles and heights ran along the other side of the road, and it was at one of these that Southby stopped. Jack nipped out of sight into a doorway, for the deserted street offered no cover. The door was opened and Southby went inside. Jack walked past the house, an unremarkable stone building. It wasn’t Southby’s lodging – he was staying in a poky room high up in a miserable house in Middle Street near the Bigg Market.
At the end of the street, Jack hung around to see if Southby was going to emerge. This was a pleasant part of town, close to the West Wall. He stepped back to avoid being hit by a sedan and its two panting chairmen as they splattered past and came to a halt outside one of the more elegant houses. The rear chairman lifted the roof as a liveried servant rushed from the house and helped a well-dressed, elderly gentleman alight.
Rain began to plop into the pools in the pitted road. Jack decided there was nothing to be gained by getting drenched. Southby might be hours. The street was nearly dark as he re-passed the house that Southby had entered. There was a light in the first-floor window, which was slightly ajar. He heard the sound of laughter. He recognised Southby’s high-pitched, rattling chortle. Mixed with it was a coarser, deeper laugh. As Jack hurried on, he realised he knew that one too. There was no mistaking the throaty guffaws of Mrs Trump.
So Southby was on friendlier terms with Mrs Trump than he had thought. He had assumed from Southby’s references to Trump that he worshipped from afar. Yet paying her visits indicated that there might be more to the relationship than he had supposed. And if they did mean more to each other, it lent credence to Southby’s violent actions.
It also begged two questions: Was Mrs Trump involved? Could they have done the murder together?
XXXVIII
Why he wandered down to the quayside and onto the bridge, he wasn’t sure. Possibly it was because it was the brightest day for some time or perhaps it was because he had never ventured as far as the bridge in the weeks he had spent in the town. Or perhaps it was because he needed time to think. Bessie, though she had the grace to feel guilty for landing him in further trouble with Axwell, was pressing him to do something positive about Southby. But what?
The medieval bridge which spanned the Tyne was the umbilical cord that bound Newcastle to its smaller neighbour, Gateshead. Built upon the foundations of the Roman bridge of the original settlement of Pons Aelius, it had ancient houses precariously perched along its length. It also acted as the furthest upriver point for sea-going vessels; only small craft could negotiate the arches. The traffic on the bridge was brisk. A coach thundered past, scattering people, animals and produce in its wake. How Jack wished he could be on it!
He wandered to the midway point where there was a break in the houses, and watched the port going about its business. On the quayside: men calling and cursing as they loaded and unloaded their cargoes; grimy old tars swapping baccy and tales; expensively dressed merchants haggling over prices; dishevelled whores lining the wall waiting to ensnare new arrivals. On the river: ships jostling at their berths; sloops, sculls and other small craft dodging the traffic on business of their own; colliers bobbing impatiently awaiting the dust-encrusted keel boats, burdened with coal, to come through the arches from the staithes further up the Tyne. The colliers would then head for London, praying that they wouldn’t be intercepted by the French.
The houses rose steeply from the river until they reached the twin peaks of the town; the church of St Nicholas with its crown spire, the gift of a 15th-cen
tury merchant; and the castle that gave the town its name. Squat and battered, the latter was built by William II in Norman times to guard the river and subdue the local English population. Now it was no more than a symbol of protection. The town had outgrown it. Yet it might still have a role to play, thought Jack, if the French suddenly appeared on the river. With the bustling, everyday activity taking place before him, it was strange to think that there was a war on. Only watching the militia going through their paces or deserters being shot brought it home that they were all in danger.
‘Good day, Mr Flyford.’
Jack whirled round. He saw Hodsock and instinctively ducked. He felt a fool when he realised that it was Thirsk who stood before him, with Hodsock sprouting upwards from the actor-manager’s shoulder. Neither had made any movement. Thirsk’s face creased into a sympathetic smile.
‘Do not worry, Mr Flyford, Hodsock will not lay another hand on you.’
‘He has done enough harm already. The audience burst out laughing when they saw my swollen eye. I felt very stupid.’
‘I apologise. Hodsock, apologise also.’
‘I apologise,’ the big man grunted as though he were ripping meat from a large bone with his teeth.
‘There you are. Now I hope all is well between us.’
‘I do not really care what you hope.’ Jack was about to say more, but a warning glance from Hodsock quickly dissuaded him.
Thirsk seemed unperturbed. ‘I must thank you very much for your most generous recompense,’ and he brought out Bowser’s snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. ‘A truly exquisite gift. I will not enquire how you came by it.’ Jack’s face remained impassive. ‘It is certainly a remarkable exchange for what you owed me. I have had the snuffbox examined. The box is extremely valuable in its own right. However, it is the jewels that amount to a small fortune. Strange that so many fine baubles are attached to a snuffbox. Not that I am complaining. It is these bright things that have persuaded me to leave Newcastle. I realise that I have lost the battle with Courtney and Bowser. Their attractions are greater than mine. We had a very poor attendance at our Patriotic Evening. My backers have lost heart. Not that I need worry. Once I sell your wonderful snuffbox, I will be able to set myself up somewhere for years to come.’
‘I knew the wretched thing was valuable but I did not realise its true worth,’ said Jack incredulously.
‘Obviously not. Otherwise I doubt you would have given it to me.’ Thirsk craned his neck to eye Hodsock. ‘On the other hand…’
This was even worse news. If the snuffbox could fetch so much, then Bowser would be even more vengeful when both Garrick and the snuffbox failed to materialise. It occurred to Jack that he might try and snatch the trinket and run like hell, but he would have difficulty evading the immovable mountain barring his way. By the time he had dismissed the thought as impractical and physically dangerous, Thirsk had put the snuffbox back in his waistcoat pocket.
‘You say you are leaving town? When exactly do you plan to go?’
‘In a few minutes.’
Jack then noticed the trunk behind Hodsock. ‘Will you be allowed to leave?’
‘Why, who will want to stop me?’
‘Sergeant Axwell. Has he not spoken to you?’
‘Ah, the unpleasant sergeant. Yes, he did mention that he would like me to stay awhile in the town.’
‘He told me not to leave. He thinks that we are behind Acorn’s murder.’
‘Poor, deluded fellow. Unless he is right, in your case.’
‘No, he is not!’
‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ Thirsk said lightly. ‘For my part, I do not like to be caged. And no one of Axwell’s ilk is going to trap me here.’
‘How are you going to leave? He will have all the coaching inns watched.’
‘I know.’ A stage coach appeared at the Newcastle end of the bridge. ‘That is why I am going to board where it is least expected. Hodsock, stop the coach.’
Hodsock lumbered into the middle of the road and held up a hand the size of a capstan. The driver pulled hard on the reins and brought the fresh horses to a whinnying, impatient standstill.
‘What the blazes are you up to?’ the driver shouted furiously. When he had had time to inspect Hodsock’s bulk more closely, he quickly backed down. ‘Passenger, eh?’
Without a word, Hodsock picked up the large trunk as though it were no heavier than a footstool and heaved it onto the top of the coach. Then he swung up after it with surprising agility and squashed up alongside two servants.
‘Mr Flyford, I bid you farewell. First, I take this coach to Lancaster, then who knows? I sincerely hope that we never meet again because if you can find me, so can the original owner of this snuffbox,’ he said patting his waistcoat pocket. ‘And he might want it back!’
Thirsk was still laughing as he tipped his cocked hat and stepped into the coach. The driver roared, whipped the loose reins and the horses cantered off across the bridge and up the hill through Gateshead.
Thirsk damn well knew, thought Jack. He must have guessed that the snuffbox was Bowser’s. That was why he was fleeing Newcastle. If Jack had realised the value himself, he wouldn’t have hung around either. That was another mistake. To Thirsk, Axwell was an inconvenience; Bowser was the real danger. He wanted to cash in on the snuffbox before the merchant realised where it had gone. To sell it in Newcastle would alert Bowser straightaway. Thirsk also knew that the only other way he could find out who had the snuffbox was through Jack. And from experience, he didn’t think it would take Bowser long to extract the answer.
XXXIX
Even Catherine Balmore’s enquiry at the rehearsal the next morning as to his wellbeing failed to lift Jack’s depression. How could he have courted so much trouble in so short a time? He promised God that he would read the Bible that night and pray for forgiveness. He even harboured thoughts of reconciliation with his father; a cloistered existence around Worcester Cathedral now seemed rather appealing. If God extricated him from his present mess, he would seriously consider the quiet life in the church that his father had planned for him.
‘That is the glummest expression I have ever witnessed on a young man’s face.’ Southby puffed up his cheeks in mock despair. ‘What you need is to quaff large quantities of ale and enjoy some good company. I will pay for the former and provide the latter.’
Jack meekly followed Southby down the Bigg Market and into the Flesh Market, one of the finest meat emporia in the north. They had to push their way through the crush. The inconveniently narrow lanes were always packed on market days. The tavern itself was heaving with sweaty, thirsty butchers, heavy with the reek of the blood and entrails of freshly slaughtered animals. Southby explained his choice of watering hole: he was mightily hungry and this particular tavern served up the tastiest roast mutton and hasty pudding in the town. So as Jack took his place opposite Southby, he realised that fortune had dealt him a good hand at last. Instead of seeking out Southby, Southby had sought out him. Now he would have to take his chance.
‘You know,’ said Southby as he joyously dissected his mutton, ‘that man over there – the big, bald fellow – ate a live cock at Swalwell Hopping last summer. He consumed the feathers, the entrails, the lot.’
Jack pulled a face. ‘What an awful thing to do.’
‘Well, if a cock cannot fight, you might as well eat it,’ Southby reasoned with glee as a massive slice of meat disappeared between his thick lips.
‘It would have tasted better if he had waited for it to be cooked.’ It was a banal response, but Jack had spent the last half hour trying to turn the conversation in Acorn’s direction. No door had opened as Southby chatted on in his own jolly fashion. Most casually, too, considering the murders he had committed, thought Jack. His frustration grew. Suddenly, he realised he was coming straight out with it: ‘Did you kill Acorn?’
Southby stopped mid-chomp. His puffy eyes opened wide. Then he resumed his chewing until the meat was swallowed. He took a long
swig of ale then wiped his lips with a handkerchief he had tucked in the cuff of his coat. While he was doing all this, he never took his eyes off Jack. By the time he had finished, Jack realised what he had said and felt a deep embarrassment.
‘Yes. I killed Acorn.’
Southby’s frankness momentarily took Jack aback. As he didn’t elaborate, Jack felt he had to say something. ‘I am not sorry that Acorn is dead, but I am saddened that it turns out to be you that committed the murder.’
Now that Southby had confessed, Jack relaxed. Sitting there, large and flabby, he was not a threatening figure. His admission was apologetic. Jack’s confidence grew.
‘Are you still in possession of the letter?’
For a moment, Southby looked perplexed. ‘The letter? Ah, the letter. It is in a safe place.’
‘And when did you first suspect that I was a danger to you?’ The memory of that terrible beating was still unnervingly fresh.
‘Only the other day – in the tavern. When you said you knew the identity of the murderer.’
Why was he lying now? He had just admitted to the murder, so why not the beating?
‘Did you kill Crindle or did you get someone else to do it for you?’
‘Crindle? The man they say killed Acorn? What has he to do with me?’
‘Everything. Why deny the connection now?’
‘I will happily die for the murder of Thomas Acorn, for he was the very devil, but I will not swing for this other man. I had never heard of him until his name appeared in the Newcastle Journal. That is God’s truth.’
This was most baffling. Jack knew that Crindle and Acorn’s murderer were in league. Acorn’s box proved it. Yet from Southby’s tone, he realised the portly actor’s denial rang true.
‘But the connection is obvious. The letter and the box. They join you and Crindle.’
‘I said I have the letter. What has a box got to do with it?’
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 19