‘The letter was in the box!’ Was Southby deliberately trying to confuse him?
Southby paused. ‘You are right. The letter was in the box. This fellow must have stolen the box.’
‘You are a poor liar, Southby. Let me ask you another question.’ Southby was uncomfortable under this interrogation and turned his attention to another thick slice of meat. ‘How much money have you extorted from Tyler Courtney?’
This time Southby was totally bewildered. He put his meat back onto his platter. ‘I have had no financial dealings with Mr Courtney other than payment for my theatrical services. The same as you, I presume.’
‘Not those financial dealings; the ones you used Crindle for as your go-between.’
‘Young Jack, I have admitted to the murder. That should be enough to satisfy a judge and jury. It should be enough to satisfy you also. You talk of Crindle, Courtney and the Lord knows who else. Report me to the authorities but, until then, please let me finish this excellent mutton. Even the condemned man should enjoy one last hearty supper.’
‘Why are you so calm about admitting to the most serious crime a man can commit, yet reluctant to confess to lesser misdemeanours? Not that blackmail, grievous attack and a possible second murder are much lesser.’ Jack wasn’t sure about his grammar here.
‘If it makes you feel better and you will let me finish my meal in peace, I will confess to whatever you accuse me of.’
This was ridiculous. Was Southby playing some clever game? ‘Right, I will strike a bargain with you. I will let you finish your meal without further interruption or accusation if you will answer one more question.’
Southby seemed relieved. He nodded and then stuffed some more food into his mouth.
‘How did you kill Acorn?’
Southby dealt with his food before answering. ‘That is common knowledge. I hit him over the head with a candlestick.’
‘And where did you strike the blow?’
‘On his head, of course,’ he replied with rising exasperation.
‘At the front or from behind?’
Southby glanced at the remains of his meat. ‘I am not sure. I was angry, confused. I think I hit him on the side of the head.’
‘And the letter? Where was the letter?’
‘As you said, in the box.’
‘So where was the box?’
‘Oh, I do not know. It all happened so quickly. I think it was in his bureau.’ Southby shifted uneasily on the bench. ‘No more questions?’
‘No more questions.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that! May we have some more ale? And please, let us talk about other matters. I do not want to spend my last day of freedom cataloguing my grievous sins. Landlord!’
Jack sat back against the hard wooden bench and mentally kicked himself. I have got it wrong again! It’s not Southby either.
XL
Southby talked as though the gallows were hanging over someone else. Jack let him prattle on. He knew he was wrong about Southby. Fortunately, Axwell had paid no heed to his warnings about him. Now he was no nearer to discovering the identity of the murderer, or escaping the town that had become his prison. The walls that had been built to keep the Scots out were now keeping him in.
With a contented sigh, Southby pushed his platter aside and fumbled in his coat pocket. Out came his battered snuffbox. He took a large pinch, which made him snort. ‘I will not offer you any. I know you do not really like snuff, even of this high quality.’
Jack stared hard at the snuffbox. ‘That is what gave you away.’
Southby was mightily perplexed. ‘My snuffbox?’
‘No, the snuff. I recognised that sickly sweet smell in Acorn’s parlour the night he was killed.’
‘You would have had difficulty. I have only had this particular snuff a few days. It is far superior to my ordinary pinch. I cannot normally afford this fine blend of tobacco. ’Tis specially made.’
‘Where did you buy it?’
Southby gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘You cannot buy this.’
‘Then how did you come by it?’
‘I was given it.’
Though Jack still asked the question, he already knew the answer. ‘And who gave it to you?’
‘Mr Bowser. He is a connoisseur of snuff. He has his made in Sheffield to his own specifications. He is particularly fond of cinnamon-scented snuff. He was most generous. He knew I was partial to a pinch, so he gave me some.’
‘It cannot be… it just cannot.’
‘Oh I tell you true. It was only…’ Southby stopped. Slowly, he put the snuffbox on the table. ‘Now I believe I know what you are thinking.’
‘Bowser,’ Jack whispered in disbelief. ‘It cannot be Bowser. He had no reason to kill Acorn. Quite the contrary. I cannot make any sense of it.’
Suddenly, Southby snapped the snuffbox shut and put it back in his pocket. His face creased into a wide, flabby grin. ‘I am much relieved to hear it is not me.’
‘You?’ Jack’s thoughts returned to Southby. ‘I realised it was not you earlier. You did not know enough to have been the murderer. Acorn was hit on the back of the head and the box with the letter was not in the bureau because there is no bureau in the parlour.’
‘Ah, I did not lie well.’
‘Very badly.’
‘I wondered why you kept referring to a letter and a box. Are they important?’
‘Yes, but too complicated to explain at the present moment. Anyhow, why did you confess so readily to the murder?’
‘I thought someone else had done it. Someone I hold in great esteem.’
‘Mrs Trump?’
‘The delectable Mrs Trump. I would have gladly gone to the gallows to save her from death, especially for murdering such a loathsome creature as Acorn.’
‘A most honourable action, but one that would have been wasted as she did not do it either.’
Southby fingered the ample folds of saggy skin around his neck. ‘Then it would have been an empty gesture.’
‘What made you think it was her?’
‘After Acorn’s battle with Thirsk, and we had that musical interlude, I followed Mrs Trump from the theatre. I do not really know why. Maybe because I could sense she was agitated. Also,’ – and he coyly toyed with the rings on his fingers – ‘I had half a mind to ask her to marry me. Oh I know it sounds ridiculous, but I do admire her devotedly. Of course, my nerve failed me as it always does in affairs of the heart. Anyway, I thought she had gone out to get some air. Then I saw Acorn coming round the front of the theatre. I saw Mrs Trump accost him, but he brushed her aside most rudely. He appeared to be in a hurry. She went after him. Disappointed, I headed to the tavern opposite for a quick drink before returning to finish the play. Only later did I suspect it might have been her. She was the only one who showed genuine sorrow at his funeral. I thought it might be guilt. I assumed that she had followed him to his house and, in a fit of anger or pique, killed him for his rejection of her.’
‘Did you not ask her? It would have saved you a lot of unnecessary grief.’
‘One does not ask a lady such questions,’ he rebuked Jack. ‘Besides, by trying to protect her, I seemed to have established her innocence. In your eyes at least.’
‘Well, no one suspects Mrs Trump, so you have nothing to fear.’ Unless Axwell had changed his mind, though that was as likely as King George completing a sentence without a swear word in it.
‘That is worth another drink. Landlord! Replenish our tankards if you will.’
Jack was so bewildered by his discovery of Bowser that he even half suspected Southby again. By his own admission, given without a fight, he had cleverly drawn Jack in, feigned ignorance of Crindle and the letter to confuse him, then used his Mrs Trump story to establish his innocence. Yet to Jack, Southby was not a devious man. His approach to life was rumbustious and unsubtle. What he had said about Mrs Trump rang true.
‘And have you plucked up the courage to propose to Mrs Trump?’
<
br /> ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I paid her a visit at her lodgings the other afternoon. I managed to have some moments alone without her frail companion, Miss Puce. Fortunately, Miss Puce felt the approach of a headache and had to retire. Mrs Trump was greatly surprised, though I fancy rather flattered by my proposal. Not that I am a wonderful catch. No, no, I know I am no Adonis, but I can offer her things that no one else has ever given her before – true respect, total loyalty, and genuine affection. I think she understands that.’
‘Did she accept?’
Southby pursed his lips wistfully. ‘Not exactly. She said she was so caught unawares that she could not make an instant decision. She needs time to think. I am hopeful that she will come round to the idea.’
‘I am sure she will.’ Jack sincerely hoped she would.
XLI
Hilda, her usual moody self, carelessly laid the food and drink on the table. The beer in the pitcher spilled over the edge as the liquid ebbed and flowed until it settled.
‘That will be all for now, Hilda,’ said Bessie. Hilda retreated with a banging of the door.
Jack watched her go behind Bessie’s shoulder. If he had his way, that impudent hussy would be thrown out onto the streets. He sat at one end of the table, with Bessie at the other. They had to lean across to help themselves to the array of dishes set before them. There were pullets’ eggs, cold buttock beef, chicken stuffed with more eggs, ham, pheasant, and a selection of puddings. Jack poured Bessie some beer.
‘This is a veritable feast.’
‘It is a special meal for you, dear Jack. You have been so thoughtful over these past few weeks. I know you have suffered gravely, and now that horrid Axwell has put further pressure on you. I hope that this will take your mind off things awhile…and afterwards…’ Bessie ran her fingers seductively over the top of her breasts, which were pushing their delightful way out of her dress. ‘I promise you can have me any way you want.’
‘I will hold you to that.’
Jack’s carnal desires had landed him in the midden in which he was now wallowing, and yet he was still falling for the same old manoeuvres. He knew she wanted something out of him still. All he needed was an incentive, and she knew which one to put on offer. Only prison or a monastery would help save him from himself and, as things stood, the former appeared the most likely route to celibacy.
It didn’t take Bessie long to get round to the subject on her mind. ‘I saw you leave with Southby after the rehearsal.’
‘We went for a drink. What else?’
‘And what did you discover?’ She tried to keep her impatience at bay.
‘He admitted to killing your father.’
‘I knew it!’ she said, wringing her hands in excitement. Then she paused. ‘You mean he just told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we have him brought to justice?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because he did not do it. He thought Mrs Trump had committed the murder, so he wanted to take the honourable course and sacrifice himself for her. He loves her, you see.’
Bessie shivered. ‘How grotesque! What a pairing! It makes my stomach churn to even think about it.’
‘Sometimes you have no generosity of spirit, Bessie. You can see no good in anyone.’
Bessie ignored his observation. ‘So Mrs Trump killed my father.’
‘No. She is innocent also.’
‘They cannot all be innocent,’ she cried in frustration. ‘Someone delivered the blow that took my father away.’
‘Someone did, and now I am convinced I know his identity. Strangely, it is the one person we never really suspected.’
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Bowser. Lazarus Bowser.’
Bessie cocked her head as though she had missed what he’d said. Slowly, the name sank in. ‘That cannot be true. For what reason? Surely he had nothing against my father? How can you be sure?’ The questions gushed out like water from a fissured dam.
‘I do not have the faintest idea why he should kill your father. However, I am sure. It was the cinnamon-scented snuff. The reason I thought it was Southby was because he had the same. The trouble is that Bowser only gave it to Southby a few days ago. Southby did not have it at the time of the murder. The snuff I smelt that night is specially made for Bowser to his own particular specifications. None of our suspects take snuff, except Southby.’
‘Could he not be lying?’
‘He could about the snuff, but he obviously had no idea about the existence of Lady Lammondale’s letter and where it was taken from. He did not even know what part of your father’s head he was supposed to have hit. No, the one thing I did glean today was that Southby is not our man – and Bowser is.’
‘I am afraid it is difficult to comprehend. He has no motive. Jack, you must be mistaken.’
‘I am right. The problem is that I cannot prove it. I cannot even supply a reason for it. There must be something we have overlooked, something that has been staring us in the face. Could it be a matter concerning their business relationship?’
‘I think not. They had been partners too short a time to have had a serious disagreement.’
‘Could it have been to do with you?’
‘How so?’
‘Maybe your father was not agreeable to the idea of Bowser marrying you. Bowser may have raised the matter. Or he might have passed a coarse remark about you that enraged your father.’
‘Even if he had, my father was too much the pragmatist to take umbrage. Bowser’s money was too important to him. Though I now know Bowser can be lewd; I could not believe his outrageous behaviour on his last visit. Just pulled his breeches down and muttered something about “storming the main gate.” I will never know what possessed him.’
Jack took a guilty bite of his pheasant and avoided catching her eye.
‘He is an old lecher. I will allow him some slapping and some tickling, but not what he was so ardent about. Anyway, I prefer a young lecher like yourself. Come here.’
Jack obediently walked to the other end of the table, tossing away his pheasant leg. Bessie rose to meet him and planted a kiss upon his lips. ‘Why do you not take what was denied Bowser?’
They kissed with lusting passion. He pushed her against the table and she eased herself back, knocking plates from the surface, so she could lie flat. She pulled her skirts up. Nothing but expectant young thighs. She had either anticipated such an event or had deliberately manufactured it. Whatever, he needed no further invitation.
Hilda burst in without knocking. There was her mistress, stretched out on the table, legs in the air, groaning loudly, food all over the floor, and the dislikeable Flyford, in an upright position, rutting away for all he was worth.
Jack looked up in horror. ‘Bugger off, Hilda,’ he panted. ‘Can’t you see your mistress has not finished her main course yet?’
‘I can see that,’ she replied tartly.
‘Don’t stop, Jack, don’t stop,’ Bessie moaned beneath him.
‘Hilda, give us two more minutes. I cannot last longer.’
‘I’ll tell him to wait.’
‘Oh, Jack, faster!’
‘Who to wait?’ said Jack slowing.
‘That sergeant. Sergeant Axwell.’
Jack stopped abruptly.
‘Don’t stop now!’ Bessie screamed at him.
‘Who does he want to see?’ Jack gasped.
‘You. Sez he wants a few words.’
‘Jack!’ Bessie demanded.
‘Tell Axwell I am coming.’
‘I hope Miss Acorn is alreet?’ Axwell said a few minutes later in the privacy of the parlour. ‘Sounded in some pain.’
‘Something in the food disagreed with her,’ Jack replied dismissively.
Axwell raised his eyebrows knowingly. Jack hoped he and Bessie wouldn’t become the talk of the taverns.
‘Anyway, Sergeant, it is very good of you to enquire
after Miss Acorn’s health, but I am sure that this is not the purpose of your visit.’
‘Nah. I’ve come to ask you where Thirsk is. He’s disappeared, like.’
‘Why should I know where he is? Despite your idiotic theories, I have no connection with the man.’
‘Strange thing to say considerin’ I’ve seen the two of you together.’
Jack’s heart fluttered. Had he been spotted on the bridge with Thirsk? ‘Where?’
‘You’ve had meetin’s wi’ him. In taverns doon on the quayside.’
‘Those. There is nothing suspicious in them. He wanted me to join him at the Moot Hall. He made me an offer which, though I reflected on it, I declined.’ With Bessie out of earshot, he could safely make the admission. ‘I felt I owed loyalty to Mr Acorn’s company. After all, he was the one who engaged me.’
Axwell’s permanent expression of disbelief wavered. ‘So you say you know nowt aboot Thirsk’s vanishin’ trick?’
‘Sergeant, why should I? Once I had turned him down, he was no longer interested in me.’
Axwell fell silent. Both were standing during the conversation and as the silence grew, Jack felt increasingly awkward. He sought sanctuary in a seat by the fire. Axwell, without embarrassment, watched him. Such quiet scrutiny was unnerving. At last he spoke. ‘I cannot fathom you.’
Relieved that Axwell had at last opened his mouth, Jack responded: ‘I am a straightforward fellow. I mean no one any harm. Yet due to circumstances beyond my control, I find that I am the subject of your suspicion. You are wrong about me.’
‘I don’t know. Mind, I’ve given some thought to what you said last time. Aboot Mr Southby. He could be connected to Thirsk. An’ if he’s sweet on Mrs Trump, well then?’
Jack braced himself. ‘Sergeant, I know you are not going to thank me, but Mr Southby is not your man.’
‘But you said…’
‘I know what I said,’ Jack put in hurriedly. ‘I said I thought it was Southby. Before that, I said it was Courtney. Well, I was wrong on both counts. It just seems to be a habit I have got into.’
‘You play a funny game for sure.’ The sarcasm returned. ‘So who do you think it is then? Or have you run oot of folk to point the finger at?’
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 20